“Septimus, sober up. I need your help.”
Septimus tried to focus on him.
“What is it?”
“I had to get Julia out of her sister’s house in a hurry and I brought her here. She’s in your bedroom.”
That seemed to get through; Septimus blinked rapidly several times and said, “Here?” as his father walked into the atrium behind them.
“We came in through your window,” Marcus added in a low tone, then looked up and smiled warmly at Senator Gracchus. “Good evening again, sir.”
“Come to us for a nightcap, son? Why don’t you join me inside?”
“Sorry, sir, I can’t. There was just something I forgot to tell Septimus. I’ll be brief.”
The Senator nodded and left the hall. Septimus shot Marcus a look which indicated that he was fully sober now.
“Are you telling me she’s in my bedroom?” Septimus hissed, drawing Marcus to one side.
“Yes.”
Septimus closed his eyes. “If my father knew he would have apoplexy.”
“Would he recognize her?”
“Let’s not test his memory. Even when dead drunk he has an eye for a pretty girl. Come on.” The two men hurried down the side passage which led to Septimus’ bedroom as he said, “I can’t believe you brought her here, Marcus. Do you want to get us all arrested for sacreligium ?”
“What else was I supposed to do? That old servant at the Sejanus house was about to barge into the bedroom when we were in there. I had to get her out and your house was next door.”
“What do you plan to do with her?”
“Julia’s litter is waiting in the street by the Sejanus estate. I have to get her down there and make it look like she just left her sister’s house.”
“Why didn’t you just bring her to the litter when you left Larthia’s house?”
“She has no shoes.”
Septimus stopped short in front of his bedroom door. “What did you say?”
“We left in a hurry, there wasn’t time to get her sandals. They’re under the bed in her sister’s room.”
“So now I have to find her shoes too?”
“The Vestals are closely watched, Septimus. Someone will notice if she returns to the Atrium barefoot. Livia Versalia doesn’t miss anything.”
Septimus opened the door to his room, and his expression changed from annoyance to compassion when he saw the small form huddled on his bed. Julia started up in alarm, then relaxed as she recognized her visitors.
Septimus went to the table near the window and got a candle, lighting it from a torch on the portico. He came back in and sat by Julia on the bed and said, “So how are you, little lady?”
Julia smiled wanly. “All right.”
Septimus looked at Marcus, standing next to them. “I’ll have to give this friend of mine some lessons concerning how to treat a lady. Dragging you around barefoot in the rain doesn’t seem very gentlemanly to me.”
“It wasn’t Marcus’ fault.”
“Dulcetta, you must be in love,” Septimus said dryly, patting her hand with his free one. “Now let me see what I can do about lifting a pair of sandals from my mother’s room.”
Marcus embraced Julia as Septimus left. “Are you really all right?” he asked. She felt so chilled, as if the close call had penetrated to her very bones.
“Yes.”
“Septimus will be back shortly and then I’ll take you down to your litter.”
She nodded.
He stroked her hair. “It will all be different in the future,” he said soothingly. “We’ll go some place where we can be together and won’t have to hide it.”
She clutched him desperately, silently, as if she wanted to believe him but couldn’t quite manage the feat.
Septimus returned, a pair of leather sandals dangling from his hand.
“My mother was sleeping, she has so many shoes I don’t think she’ll miss these. Terentia’s would probably fit better but she’s staying in Herculaneum and I’m afraid she took all of her clothes with her.”
Julia accepted the shoes and put them on, tying the laces around her ankles.
“They’re very like the ones I had. No one should notice the difference,” she said. She stood and shook out her stola, rearranging her palla and then the diploidion over it. “Do I look acceptable?” she asked.
“You look beautiful,” Marcus replied. He held out his hand and she took it. They went to the window and he lifted her over the sill. “I’ll leave by the door and come around and get you,” he said. “Just wait here.”
Julia flattened herself against the wall of the portico, glancing up at the clouds scudding across the barely visible moon, then back at the man inside the house.
“Hurry,” she said.
“Do you think I can leave without saying goodbye to your father?” Marcus asked Septimus as they went into the hall. “I don’t want to leave her there long.”
“I’ll make your excuses. He’s too far gone in wine to care much about anything,” Septimus replied, as they walked into the atrium and stopped by the front door.
Marcus put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Thank you, Septimus. I don’t know what else to say.”
Septimus shook his head. “Be careful. You’re playing a dangerous game.”
Marcus took a step, and Septimus added, “She’s lovely, Marcus. As I’ve said before, in a way I envy you.”
Marcus glanced back at him gratefully, and then went out the door.
Septimus turned to the servant who had just appeared and said, “Castor, another cup of wine. I’ll be rejoining the Senator in the tablinum.”
Septimus sent his mental good wishes to the fugitive pair as he went back inside to see his father.
* * *
“He’ll be all right,” Paris said to Larthia. “He’s young and healthy, he’ll be up and around in two days. There will be some scarring on his back, though.”
“But no permanent damage?” Larthia said anxiously.
“Except to his beauty,” Paris replied dryly. “I’ve given him some extract of foxglove for the pain, and I’ll leave you more to be administered twice a day.”
“You’re very free with that potion, doctor, you gave some to my sister too. Isn’t it poison?” Larthia asked, looking at the vial suspiciously.
“Only in higher doses, then it can stop the heart. Just make sure he doesn’t drink all of it at once.” Paris capped the large bottle of the liquid and slipped it back into his pouch, taking out a small clay pot and setting it on the bed.
“And what is that?” Larthia asked.
“Crushed oak leaves. The green sap prevents infection. Tell the person tending him to wash the wounds thoroughly with Nestor’s soap and clear water three times a day, and then apply this salve to the cuts.”
“I’ll be tending him,” Larthia said.
Paris raised his brows. “I see. Well, then, listen carefully. Once the scabs start to form discontinue the use of this salve and apply butter to the wounds, keep them moist at all times. That will minimize the scarring, but as I said, he will have some, it can’t be avoided.”
“Butter?”
“Yes, you know, skim the cream off cow’s milk and then churn it...”
“I know what butter is, doctor, I don’t think I have any. I’ll have to send Menander to the market.”
“Send him to the Parthian section. They’re sure to have it, they eat it in Persia.”
“Eat it?” Larthia said, gagging.
“Yes, as a condiment, and they heat it to clarify it and then use it in cooking.”
Larthia made a disgusted face. “Can he be moved?” she inquired, nodding at Verrix.
“Where?”
“To my room. There’s a cross breeze there, I thought the fresh air would be better for him.”
“Tomorrow or the next day, as soon as he can walk, I don’t see why not.” Paris stood back from the bed and surveyed Larthia curiously.
“Lady
Sejana, there’s something I don’t understand,” he said. “You seem very concerned about this slave’s welfare, but didn’t you give the order to have him flogged?”
“It was a misunderstanding, doctor. My orders were not interpreted correctly.”
Paris nodded. “I was very surprised to hear that I was to be tending a man who had been flogged. I didn’t think it was the practice in your house to flog the servants.”
“It is not,” Larthia said shortly. “Is there anything else I should know in order to take care of him?”
“Just watch him for signs of infection: fever, suppuration of the wounds. If he seems hot to the touch, confused in his mind, or the flesh around the abrasions becomes raised and purpled, swollen, call me back. Otherwise, just let him sleep as much as he wants and proceed as I have already directed.”
Larthia nodded.
“I doubt you will have any problems with him, he looks like a very hale specimen. How old is he?”
Larthia shrugged. “Twenty-six, twenty-eight.”
“From Gaul?”
She nodded.
“They’re very sturdy,” the doctor said reassuringly, closing the flap of his pouch.
“How much do I owe you?” Larthia asked.
Paris thought about it. “Six sesterces,” he said.
Larthia took a gold denarius out of the coin purse at her waist and pressed it into his hand.
Paris looked down at it in shock. She had given him more than twelve times the sum he’d requested. He was well known for his keen interest in money, but even he had to protest this largesse.
“It’s too much,” he said. “I did very little...”
“Keep it,” Larthia said. “What you did was very important to me.”
Paris closed his fingers around the coin.
“One more thing,” Larthia said. “Please keep this incident to yourself. I wouldn’t want anyone to think...”
Paris held up his hand. “Say no more, Lady Sejana. In my profession, I have seen and heard everything. I will tell no one how you feel about this man.”
Larthia felt the hot color come up in her face, but made no reply.
“Good evening, Lady Sejana. Call me again if you need me, any time.”
Larthia didn’t walk him to the door.
She sat in a chair next to the bed where Verrix lay and stayed there for the rest of the night.
* * *
“I don’t want any more of that,” Verrix said crossly, as Larthia held another dose of medicine to his lips.
“The doctor said...” Larthia began.
Verrix turned his head. “I don’t care what the doctor said. It’s making me sleep all the time, and I want to talk to you.”
“You’ll feel better.”
“I feel fine. Sit down.”
Larthia sat in the chair next to his bed. He had been recovering for three days, and during that time had refused to move to her room, refused to stay in bed, and was now refusing to take his medicine. His wounds had healed to a mass of scabs on his back. They itched furiously and were coated with a rancid grease which seeped through his clothes and stained the bed.
Not surprisingly, he was in a bad mood.
“When this first happened, were you here in the room with me?” he demanded.
“Of course. I called Paris.”
“Before that. I remember your being here, but I’m not sure if I was dreaming.” He was watching her closely.
Larthia shifted uncomfortably.
“Maybe you were,” she said.
“Did you say anything to me?”
“I told you not to talk, that I knew what had happened, and that I was getting the doctor.”
“Did you touch me?”
She knew what he wanted her to say. But now that he was awake and kicking and back to his old formidable self she couldn’t admit what had occurred when he was half conscious and she was worried, her guard down.
“You were trying to get up, I held you back,” Larthia replied obliquely.
“I remember...” His voice trailed off as Menander appeared in the doorway and said, “I have summoned Nestor to the tablinum as you requested, mistress.”
Larthia rose immediately, glad of the excuse to escape the interrogation.
“I’ll check in on you later,” she said to Verrix, leaving him to look after her as she swept out of the room.
Nestor was staring at the floor as she entered the parlor. Even when she stood before him he was unable to meet her eyes.
“You overstepped your authority in an inexcusable fashion with Verrix, Nestor,” Larthia said to him sternly. “I would never have authorized such a punishment, you know I am not in favor of brutal methods to extract obedience from servants. Since my husband died and left me in charge of his affairs there has never been a flogging of a slave in this house.”
“But mistress...”
Larthia held up her hand. “I have left you alone for several days to think about what you did, and I see you are unrepentant. You have been suspicious of Verrix since he came and ordering his beating was your way of dealing with your resentment.”
“He seems to have an undue influence over you,” Nestor said primly. “I am not the only one who has noticed it. Many of the servants have remarked on your partiality toward him.”
“That is my concern, Nestor, not yours! You are relieved of all duties and confined to your room in the dormitory. Menander will take over for you in the house until I have decided what to do with you. That is all.”
The old man didn’t move; he seemed frozen to the spot. Larthia saw that he was shaking and she took pity on him. Old servants were often discarded by heartless masters when they could no longer perform up to standard; the fate they met when passed on to lesser houses, or even the streets, was not kind. Perhaps that’s why Nestor was so threatened by Verrix from the first day he arrived. Verrix was obviously intelligent and capable, his job kept him close to their mutual mistress. Nestor feared replacement by a younger, more able man.
“It’s all right, Nestor,” Larthia added in a gentler tone. “Nothing will happen to you. I just need time to think about all of this. I must be mismanaging this house if such a thing could happen under my roof. I will talk with you and share my thoughts when I have formulated them.”
Nestor bowed his head and fled, clearly relieved.
Larthia sat on her couch and wondered what she was going to do about Nestor, Verrix, Julia’s forbidden liaison, and the shambles her own life had become.
* * *
Julia knelt before her clothes chest and rummaged inside it, finally extracting the garment she sought.
“Here it is,” she said to Margo. “I knew it was in here.” She handed Margo the gold bordered suffibulum, used only once a year on the first of March.
Margo examined it closely. “It should be steamed, I’ll give it to the wardrober.” She folded the veil on a side table and said, “You’ll need the purple embroidered stola too. Where is it?”
Julia pointed to the tunic on a chair. The two women were preparing for the New Year’s celebration to take place the next day. The ceremony involved the annual ritual of extinguishing and relighting the sacred fire of Vesta. In the time of the Etruscan kings, the fire was rekindled by the friction of dry sticks; now it was rekindled by the sun’s ray’s brought to a focus by a concave mirror. If the fire went out long ago, when it was the focal point of village life and needed to start the home fires of the locals, the negligent Vestal was scourged. But in Julia’s time, when the fire was symbolic and supervised constantly, it failed only when doused on the sacred hearth by the Chief Vestal and rekindled before the watchful eyes of the Roman people on New Year’s Day.
Julia’s special clothes were part of the tradition. Livia Versalia performed the kindling by herself, but the rest of the Vestals dressed in the ancient robes and looked on as witnesses. The ceremony’s humble origins could barely be remembered by the average citizen who saw it, but it was a beloved pass
age into each new year, the unifying ritual of the Roman state.
“Whose sandals are these?” Margo asked, turning to Julia with Lady Gracchus’ shoes in her hand.
“My sister Larthia’s,” Julia lied smoothly. “It was raining when I went to her house and I ruined my shoes. She gave me those to wear.”
“You should have brought yours back,” Margo said, scowling. “They might have been salvageable. The Roman people bear the cost of your wardrobe, you must not be wasteful.”
Julia smiled to herself. Margo had lived in the Atrium so long she was beginning to sound like Livia Versalia. Margo’s Swiss origins had been obscured by long years of Roman service.
“Why were you so late the other night?” Margo asked. “Livia was asking about you.”
“The doctor took a long time.”
“Does he think you’re improving?”
“He seems to find me better.”
“Do you feel better?”
Julia nodded.
“Good. Then the physician’s visits won’t have to last much longer. I’ve always thought I should go along on them anyway, but you know Livia, she finds some busy work for me to do here when you’re gone.”
Julia did know Livia; the Chief Vestal regarded Margo’s time as hers. Livia preferred to see the slave occupied with domestic chores rather than exchanging gossip with the Sejanus servants while Julia visited her sister. Julia thanked fate that this was so; if Margo had received permission to go with Julia the ruse of consulting the doctor would have been rendered useless. Margo would not be content to remain in the street with the litter, like the bearers. She would want to lounge inside the house, watching every move Julia made, just like the nosy mother she was in all but nature.
Seeing Marcus would have been impossible, and seeing Marcus was all Julia lived for these days.
The next nundina seemed an age away. Julia longed for her lover. She lay awake at night and remembered the strength of his body, the tenderness of his touch, and the hunger would begin again, a hunger which knew no outlet but Marcus. She was restless, sleepless, thinner; Margo, who watched her the way a timekeeper watched a sundial, knew that something had altered but couldn’t imagine what it was. Julia saw this, and tried to make the servant think that it was her “illness” which had caused the sea change. That’s why Margo questioned her so closely about her visits to Paris. The slave was looking for signs of improvement in her condition and could find none.
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