Fortune's Fool

by Albert A. Bell

  With my mind still reeling from the revelation that I owned a piece of property in Comum which was now a pile of ashes, I paused before I asked my next question. “Do you think the attack on you last night and the burning of your…our taberna had any connection to these messages?”

  “Oh, I know it did, sir.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She touched her face. “The man that beat me, sir, he wore a skull mask.”

  I felt like I had turned a corner and found not one but two pathways before me. How many unexpected twists would I encounter in this maze? “But why would he attack you like this—try to kill you, in fact? You’ve never had any threats before, have you?”

  Her eyes laid an accusation on me. “No, sir. I’m sure it has to do with the questions you’ve been asking, about something that happened twenty years ago.” She yawned and grimaced from the effort.

  “Do you want me to get the doctor? He can give you something to help you sleep.”

  She shook her head. “I just need to close my eyes. We can talk some more later.”

  * * *

  I walked out on the balcony, almost reeling, and leaned against the wall of the building. Tacitus took my arm, led me through the room and closed the door.

  “I know you’re shocked,” he said. “We need to talk where she can’t hear us.”

  “Could anything she’s said be true?” I held my head in my hands because it seemed to be spinning. “From what I’ve learned in the last few days, I wonder if I know anything about my father. Was he involved in something that led to the murder of the person buried in the wall of his house?”

  “No, I’m sure he wasn’t.”

  Tacitus was saying what a friend should say, but I wasn’t sure I believed him. “Then why is she making these outlandish claims? How could my father have kept his ownership of that taberna a secret from my mother and everyone else in his household? There’s no record of it in his accounts.”

  “She’s just trying to get you on her side, Gaius. She faces serious charges of being involved in a kidnapping and a murder. And who knows what other ‘jobs’ she’s recruited men for over the past ten years. I wonder if we could compile a list of serious crimes committed in the past, say five years, and compare it to the times when Lutulla got these messages.”

  Tacitus’ face brightened as he had another idea. “You know, she could be the one behind it. This outrageous story about bags of money and anonymous notes and men in masks could be nothing but an attempt to cover her tracks.”

  I shook my head. “Livia and others have seen the men in masks, and we found a bag of gold coins on Publius Aurelius.”

  “But they don’t know who was giving them orders.” He poked me in the chest. “I’ll bet it was Lutulla herself. She could have set the fire and hit herself.”

  “You saw her face. Nobody could inflict such bad wounds on herself.”

  “Soldiers have injured themselves to get out of service.”

  “Broken ribs? A broken arm? Coughing up blood?”

  “Maybe she went farther than she intended. One of my fatherin-law’s men once became so frightened that he drove a spear through his foot and left himself lame. Agricola had him flogged and assigned him to cleaning up stables.”

  “But Lutulla was unconscious when I found her.”

  Tacitus gave a derisive snort. “Pretending to be unconscious is one of the easiest acts in the world. I’ve done it many a time to avoid having to say anything when a…partner is leaving the next morning.”

  “You’re being absurd. She could have died in that fire.”

  “Rot! I’ll bet, if somebody hadn’t gotten to her pretty soon, she would have miraculously recovered and scrambled out that window. That’s why she was lying there and not somewhere farther inside the building.”

  I leaned against the wall. “She must have some proof of what she’s said.”

  “She’ll probably just say it was all destroyed in the fire.” The corner of Tacitus’ mouth turned up. “Another possibility has just occurred to me. Maybe men are being recruited to do things that don’t get reported to the authorities.”

  “What—”

  “Lutulla said some of the men wouldn’t accept a second job. I can think of some things no man would do a second time. By the gods, I’ve done some of them.”

  “You mean—”

  “Yes, my dear Gaius, playing the catamite, Ganymede to some wealthy man’s Zeus—some man who cannot risk having his identity revealed.”

  “Such…activities aren’t against the law.”

  “But if a man cares about his position in society—or perhaps in his own household—he will want to keep his predilections as secret as possible. She said he sometimes hires more than one man at a time.” Tacitus shrugged, as if to say that nothing more needed to be said.

  “No, you must be wrong. We know that Aurelius and Doricles and another man were hired to kidnap Livia.”

  “We have no idea what other men have been anonymously hired to do over the years.”

  “Well, we have to go back in there and see what Lutulla has to tell us.” I reached for the door.

  The owner of the inn appeared on the stairs. “Is everything all right, sirs?” he asked.

  “We’re about to go back in. Do you need something?”

  “I’m concerned, sir, that my man you sent with the message hasn’t returned.”

  “Oh, the doctor said your man would come back later with Romatius. The doctor traveled by himself on Romatius’ fastest horse.”

  “I see.” He still looked dubious. “Thank you, sir.”

  Lutulla had propped herself up in the bed and washed her face. With the soot removed, I could see how badly she had been beaten. Both eyes were turning purple. Tacitus’ theory about hitting herself was patently ridiculous. The left eye was almost closed. She was holding a wet cloth up to it. Her left cheek had a couple of long gashes on it, most likely made by the ring of the person who beat her—a right-handed person.

  “You said you had some things to tell me,” I began.

  “Yes, sir. And to show you.”

  “All right. I’m listening.”

  “You’d better sit down, sir. You’ll probably not believe what you’re about to hear.”

  “I know I won’t,” Tacitus said.

  * * *

  I awoke from an uneasy sleep to find Julia sitting by my bed. She took my hand and smoothed my hair, like a mother comforting her child.

  “I’m so sorry, Aurora,” she said. “As soon as I heard that you’d been injured, I was afraid it meant exactly this.” That was enough to start my tears.

  “What if…what if I can’t ever have a baby?”

  “Oh, losing a baby doesn’t mean you can’t have another. This happened only because you were hit. How are you feeling?”

  I showed her the bruise, which was quite large by now.

  “How did it happen that you were close enough to that villain for him to hit you like this?”

  “What did Gaius tell you?”

  “His note said he had killed one of the kidnappers and captured another.”

  “That’s the story he’s going to put out, but I did it.” Her eyes opened wider and wider as I told her the story.

  “And you hadn’t told Gaius about the child?”

  “No. I just couldn’t find the words, and he’s been so worried about Livia, as he should be. But I can’t have Gaius’ baby. I mean, I mustn’t. What would Livia do?”

  “You’re right. She’d probably demand that Gaius sell you to someone who would take you to Armenia or Lusitania. But you do have a husband now. If you get pregnant again, everyone can assume the child is his.”

  “Livia would never believe it.” I bit my tongue to keep from telling Julia that Felix was a eunuch. I had promised him that much. “So how can I keep from getting pregnant?”

  “Well, the most obvious answer to that question is not to couple with Gaius. Failing that, there are, shal
l we say, various ways of coupling.”

  I could feel myself blushing.

  “It looks like you’ve tried at least some of them. There’s no substitute for the real thing, though, is there?”

  I knew I was turning as deep a red as the stripe on Gaius’ tunic.

  “One of my servant women swears by a method that she claims a doctor recommended. Immediately after the completion of the act, she squats down and sneezes three times.”

  I laughed out loud. “That would certainly kill the mood.”

  “All I can say is, she’s never been with child.”

  “I can’t imagine myself doing that.”

  Julia turned serious. “There is something that could help. The sap from a plant called silphium has been used by women for ages. You take a sip of it up to two days after coupling and you will not get with child.”

  “Where can I get some of that?”

  “It has become increasingly difficult to find in the past few years.”

  “So it’s expensive.”

  “I believe it is, but I know a place where we can probably get you some.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll pay for it. Right now, though, I need to let Felix come in and see you. He’s been very solicitous the whole way down here.”

  I had completely forgotten about my husband. “Must you?”

  “He needs to know the truth if he’s to help you propagate a lie.”

  “Of course.” I turned my head to the wall.

  * * *

  Lutulla beckoned me to sit down again beside her bed. Tacitus leaned in the doorway leading out to the little balcony, from where he could see the ruins of the taberna.

  “What do you have to say?” I asked Lutulla.

  “I need to start with the worst of it,” she replied, “because it will explain all the rest.” She sighed deeply and winced at the pain in her ribs. “You see, I was your father’s lover.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said without emotion, although by now I was ready to believe almost anything someone told me about my father. Tacitus shook his head.

  “I’ll tell you the story,” Lutulla said, “then I’ll show you the proof, from your father’s own hand. Believe it or not, I was once a young, pretty girl. I met your father when I was working in a taberna on the other side of town. He wasn’t married then.”

  “You say that as though it exonerates both of you.”

  “Love needs no defense, sir. It will happen where it must happen. I had no expectations of your father. I knew he loved me, but a man of his class can’t burden himself with a woman of my class.”

  I was finding it difficult to breathe. She might as well be talking about Aurora and me. Did she know about Aurora? How could she?

  “He married your mother,” Lutulla went on, “as he should have, but he continued to love me. We had a child, a daughter. She was such a darling”—her voice broke—“but she died of a fever before her fourth birthday. Your father doted on her, even called her Caecilia.”

  I gasped. For a man of my father’s class to give his family name to a child who was not born to his wife was a bold declaration. “Did my mother know about this child?”

  “I imagine she did, sir. I’ve never met her—never had reason to—but I’m terrible sorry for any pain I’ve caused her.”

  “She lost a daughter as well,” I said, “shortly after her birth.”

  Lutulla coughed up some blood. “I didn’t know that. Her name was Caecilia as well, I assume.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Your father made plans to build a temple on the edge of town, dedicated to Rome and Augustus in Caecilia’s name.”

  “But he never finished it.”

  “No, sir, he died before he could. I always thought it was my daughter he would be honoring. Now I don’t know.”

  But now I knew why my mother had reacted the way she did when I suggested that we ought to finish the temple. She must have known about Lutulla’s daughter. If I decided to finish the building, I would certainly wait until after she died.

  “Temples cost money,” I said. “And it takes money to build and operate a taberna. The expenses for the temple are in my father’s accounts, though there’s no mention of dedicating it in anyone’s name.”

  “No, sir. It was just to be a temple to Rome and Augustus. He planned to put Caecilia’s name on it right at the end of the construction.”

  Whichever Caecilia he had in mind. “There’s nothing in any of his records to show that he ever spent a denarius on the taberna, either to build it or to maintain it.”

  “Sir, all I know is that he paid for the building eighteen years ago. After that, twice a year I received enough money to keep the place going. I asked your father once where he got that kind of money. He said it was interest on an investment he had made.”

  “Did my father bring the money to you?”

  “No, sir. That’s the odd thing. He told me to go out to Caecilia’s temple—and I’m sorry, but that’s how I’ve always thought of it—and I would find three bags of money hidden under the main floor. I was to go out there on the evenings before the spring equinox and the autumn equinox. Not at any other time. I did as he told me, and the money was always there, in bags sealed with that skull seal.”

  “Even after he died?”

  “Yes, sir. He told me that, if anything happened to him, one of the documents he gave me would guarantee that the money would always be there.”

  Tacitus straightened up. “Didn’t you ever try to find out who was leaving the money?”

  Lutulla turned her head with an effort. “No, sir. Gaius Pliny’s father said it would cost me my life if I did.”

  I sat back, trying to make sense of what I was hearing. What sort of investment could my father have been involved in that was so secretive someone would kill to prevent anyone knowing about it?

  “You mentioned a document. What is it and where is it?”

  “Buried, along with some others that you need to see.” Lutulla lay back on the bed and sighed with the exertion. “Go to the courtyard behind the taberna. There’s a fountain in the center.”

  “Yes, I saw it when we had lunch there. It has that lovely statue of a little girl with a pail—” I stopped and Lutulla read the question on my face.

  “Yes, sir. She’s the very image of my daughter. Your sister, if I may be so bold.”

  When I could speak again, I said, “Once I’ve gone to the fountain, what do I do?”

  “Count four paving stones due north from the fountain. Raise the fourth stone on the right and you’ll find a leather pouch. It should answer your questions. Your father told me to give the things in it to you, if the need arose. I asked him how I was supposed to know if the need had arose. He just said I would know.” She patted my hand. “Now, sir, if you don’t mind, the doctor said he has something that will make me sleep. I’d like that very much.”

  Tacitus called Romatius’ freedman into the room. Before he administered his potion, I told Lutulla, “Once I have a better understanding of what’s involved here, we’ll think about rebuilding the taberna.”

  * * *

  Tacitus and I picked our way through the smoldering rubble and into the courtyard of my ruined taberna. Even after the rain, I could feel the warmth through my sandals. The courtyard was paved with straight rows of squared limestone, not the cheaper tufa stone I probably would have used. My father, it seemed, had spared no expense in providing for his mistress. We stopped beside the fountain.

  “Which side is north?” Tacitus asked. “When I can’t see the sun like this, I always have trouble figuring that out.”

  I pointed in the right direction but didn’t move. “Let me think about this for a moment, please.”

  “What is there to think about?” Tacitus said. “Four paving stones…” Then he followed my gaze. “Oh. Sure, take as much time as you need.” He stepped away from me.

  The fountain was a rectangle, three f
eet across and six feet long, built of limestone blocks, coming up to my waist. On the south end of it, on top of the wall, sat a large block with a face carved in it. Water came out through a pipe protruding from the mouth. On the west side at the south end was placed a life-sized bronze statue of a little girl, in a sitting position with her feet in the water, reaching toward the stream of water with her bucket. When I ate lunch here I had barely noticed the statue. Now I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

  I studied the statue from across the fountain, then walked around and stood beside it. It was a fine piece of work, from the delicate strands of hair to the glee on the child’s face, down to her graceful limbs. I put a hand on her arm and could imagine her playing in this very spot. Why had my father commemorated this child in such lavish fashion but done nothing for the daughter that my mother lost shortly after her birth when I was four years old?

  When my father died I was too young to deliver his eulogy. Now I wondered what I might have said. I couldn’t praise him for being involved in some shadowy business which might have led to a murder. Nor could I spell out the details of his intimate relationship with a serving girl which led to the birth of a child. Would I reveal how he hid money from his family so he could build a business for that woman? In sum, could I say anything I would want to engrave on his tombstone?

  In the past few days I had learned that both my father and my uncle—my adoptive father—had children by women other than their wives. My father’s daughter died, and I had not been able to locate my uncle’s son. Yesterday my servant Aurora lost the child I would have had by her, while saving the life of my wife, who had sworn she would never give me a child. Fortune seemed to be having a grand laugh at my expense as some sort of vicious cycle took another turn.

  I kissed my sister on the top of her head and turned north, hoping to find something that would help me make sense of all this.

  Tacitus had already stepped off the four paving stones. “There’s a problem, though,” he said. “There are two rows of stones. Depending on which way you’re facing, either one of these could be the fourth stone on the right. Why didn’t she tell us which one?”