Pandora's Boy

by Lindsey Davis

  Chryse sat up, now more animated. “Oh, our Clodia could be a little madam! She always knew what she had to have, and it was generally not what was best for her. I suppose you will ask me, did she always get her way? Too often, I’m afraid. She wasn’t spoiled, not utterly, but she ruled the roost, especially after her brother went to the legions, leaving her as the queen bee.” Chryse was obviously caught between her own love for Clodia, wanting to indulge her when it was harmless, and a natural fear of letting her run riot.

  I had two younger sisters who were around Clodia’s age, so this all seemed normal to me. They wore everyone out with their crackpot wants and lack of judgment; they had no sense of danger. My parents were just hoping to survive the teen years with Julia and Favonia, fending off disaster long enough for them to become more mature.

  “I get the impression,” I broached carefully, “Clodia’s father may have been strict and slightly distant…” Chryse did not disagree. “What about her mother? Was she more lenient?”

  “They spent much more time together—as you would expect of a mother and her growing daughter, her only one—but there could be tussles. She is a good mother. Sentia Lucretia never let Clodia get away with anything bad or crazy.”

  I blew out my cheeks as if thoroughly perplexed. “I shall have to ask you about that love-potion then.”

  For the first time, the maid stiffened.

  “Sorry, Chryse,” I insisted gently. “But you must tell me what you know.” She was still resistant. “Everything,” I stressed. “I need you to do this for Clodia.”

  “I don’t know anything about it,” Chryse maintained. “Everybody asked me already, and I told them, I never saw anything like that.”

  I believed she was lying, but it would not help to say so. For some time we sat in silence. It can wear a witness down. Not on this occasion.

  I thought about my husband. Faustus was expert in letting long pauses work. I slumped in my chair, remembering his austere approach to interviews like this, wondering where he was, missing him. I had grown used to us discussing my inquiries, so how was I to conduct this case alone? That was how I had worked for years, yet as soon as I met him, I took a conscious decision that sharing my investigations with Faustus was better.

  I pulled my thoughts back. “So, Chryse, you say you knew nothing at all about anyone buying or using a love-potion?”

  “No one ever talked of it in front of me. Clodia never confided anything.”

  “Could that have been because she knew you would disapprove?”

  “Yes, she knew I did.” I saw Chryse half close her eyes, as if to disguise her thoughts. “Her mother knew what I thought too.” That sounded as if she believed Sentia Lucretia could have had some involvement with the hypothetical potion.

  This most discreet of servants let no comment color her tone. If she found fault with her owners, little showed. Since I needed to staff my own home, I wondered where one could find such loyal beings.

  I stopped pressing her about the love-potion. Instead I asked, “Were you born into this household, Chryse?”

  “Not this one. The master’s mother, Marcia Sentilla, gave me when they needed a nurse for Clodia.” A slave could be handed on like that.

  “I expect you were pleased to look after two young children … How do you get on with Sentia Lucretia?”

  “I have a lot of respect for her.”

  “Well, that brings me to the grandmothers … They disagree, I gather? They disagree bitterly, it’s said. Is this new since Clodia died, or was there always antagonism?”

  “It flared up worse over Clodia. The master’s mother—”

  “Name of?”

  “Volumnia Paulla. She and Marcia Sentilla wanted different ways of running the household or bringing up the children. The master and mistress had their work cut out, keeping the two old ones out of it, though things were never so bad as they are now. When we lost our girl there was a massive row about the love-potion—”

  “That’s the love-potion you knew nothing about?” I reminded her, teasingly.

  Unsmiling, Chryse carried on: “I think Volumnia Paulla got it into her head that Marcia Sentilla had lured Clodia into doing it.”

  “Was Clodia close to Marcia Sentilla?”

  “She saw a lot of both her grans. Pretty girl, only granddaughter, they both had plenty of time on their hands; it was natural.”

  “Did they vie for her affections?”

  “No need. She was affectionate to them equally.” I wondered. All I had heard of Clodia led me to suspect that when she wanted something, she had played her two grannies off against one another—and probably her mother too.

  “The rumor is, after she died the old ladies even came to blows?” Laia Gratiana had told me this happened “in the atrium,” which was yet another error on her part, because this apartment had no atrium.

  Chryse reluctantly described the event. The two women were angry; their exchange began with raised voices, but developed into exasperated pushing and shoving. During this, Dorotheus, the lanky slave, happened to be knocked over. Chryse was sure it had happened accidentally. She made it sound as if he was merely passing and got in the way.

  “Were you there?”

  “No, I heard it going on, so I kept my head down … The rest of us pieced together what had happened, afterward. Dorotheus falling over was an accident.”

  “That may be so.” I acted as if I accepted her version. “But your master is now suing his mother-in-law for compensation because Dorotheus has a broken arm—which I have seen for myself in a sling today. That goes a long way to explaining why Sentia Lucretia, your mistress, is so badly estranged from her husband that she felt it necessary to leave home.” Since Chryse was silent, I added, “I shall have to ask her.”

  Obvious lines of battle had been drawn in this household, yet there must still be communication because Chryse volunteered in an amicable fashion that she would take me to find her mistress at her mother’s house.

  I had pushed Chryse herself to the limit, at least for the time being. I did not want to set her against me. She had tired of being interrogated and I myself was starting to wilt; talking to new witnesses might revive me. I willingly agreed to Chryse’s suggestion.

  VIII

  While I waited for Chryse to collect her stole from indoors, Volumnius Firmus popped his head out of a window. Clearly he had been taking an interest, though he was far enough from where we had been sitting; I hoped he had not overheard exactly what had been said.

  I told him I was going to see his wife next. I mentioned that this was all going to take time, and I would have to stay somewhere. As I did so, the slave Dorotheus brought me my advance fee. He too must have been watching us discreetly, as he knew I was ready to make a move. He volunteered that there was a free room two stories up in this building, which I now learned belonged to the family in its entirety. They rented out what they did not use themselves.

  I noted that. Nice apartments in a well-maintained building would be a money-spinner. There was plenty of cash in this family. With an unexplained death, that can be relevant.

  I was not sure Volumnius Firmus really welcomed the slave’s idea, though I saw that staff here were not cowed; they could weigh in with suggestions. Volumnius instructed Dorotheus to collect the key and check all was in order, then I could see the room on my return. I pointed out cheerily that free accommodation would minimize my expenses. That at least was well received.

  Chryse reappeared, ready to escort me.

  As we walked I discovered that the other grandmother, his own mother, lived with Volumnius Firmus, as she had done since his father died. That was when Firmus inherited his current building. From when he moved in with his family, his mother had occupied her own suite, at one corner of the first-floor balcony. Sharing a property like this is common enough, though it can lead to problems.

  I would have to interview Volumnia Paulla later. I cursed, because it would give time for mother and son to co
nfer. I would have preferred to get in first.

  Why did Firmus not mention his mother’s proximity before? All was not quite open in this family. If I needed to tease out even the most banal information, what more important facts were being concealed?

  *

  The in-laws lived down by the Temple of Quirinus, reputedly the oldest temple in Rome. Doric columns surrounded the shrine in a positive forest, double rows of them along every side. Like most monuments, it must have been rebuilt after fires, but retained an ancient character that suited a shrine to Rome’s founder Romulus, after he was mysteriously deified and “taken up into the sky in a cloud.” That was one way to dispose of a ruler whose time had passed; I could not see us being relieved of Domitian so usefully.

  Romulus and his brother Remus were depicted on the pediment taking the auguries, with no indication that one twin would subsequently murder the other. Still, Domitian was reputed to have killed Titus to gain power, yet he paid lip-service to his brother’s memory. Fratricide was a very Roman crime.

  This was just one of many temples on the Quirinal, a hill possessing a quiet atmosphere that I found very different from the alleys I knew on the Aventine. These streets were kept cleaner, stray dogs and crying children were at a minimum and occasional highly discreet covered litters passed us, carried on the brawny shoulders of well-dressed, well-matched slaves.

  Wealthy people lived here. Less wealthy ones from lower down the social scale clustered close, hoping to acquire class by mingling with their prominent neighbors. Those neighbors kept to themselves. The elite would not stop their litters to lean out through the heavy curtains and pass the time of day. The go-getters would not be invited round for a tisane.

  Marcia Sentilla had an apartment on the ground floor of a tenement, but she lived deep within a very private court, which was hung about with shady curtains of greenery. A janitor vetted visitors to the building, then her own supercilious porter vetted us again before we were admitted to her smart home. She had a more contained living space than her son-in-law, a high-rent niche. Her rooms were much more richly draped, painted in expensive colors. Her apartment breathed exclusivity.

  Chryse waited only to introduce me, then left. I knew that Marcia Sentilla had once owned her, but they exchanged only a bare greeting. Was the maid intimidated because the mother-in-law was known for violent behavior toward slaves? Several waiting-women floated up when I arrived, unnecessary hangers-on given that Marcia Sentilla was in her own home. I took note: none of these women showed any sign of being battered. They flitted around quite protectively until their mistress dismissed them, which she did calmly enough. Perhaps knocking over Dorotheus had indeed been accidental.

  Once I was left alone with the mistress, her manner to me was simply austere. While she agreed to see me, and she never refused to cooperate, Clodia’s forbidding grandmama made no bones about it: she disapproved of Volumnius Firmus hiring me. Though I was being subjected to unfriendly scrutiny, I pressed on and said a few words about my investigation. “I have really come to meet your daughter but, since you and I have this chance to speak in private first, is there anything you can tell me?”

  “Certainly not.”

  Marcia Sentilla was a bony, thin-faced woman, dressed in a similar overdone style to her furnishings. Status mattered here. She went veiled even in private, showing her bereavement as formally as possible. Otherwise she was well kept and ornamented. The weight of her jewelry looked likely to bruise her scrawny bust. She was steeped in a heavy, oily perfume that verged on the unpleasant. I guessed it was the musty jollop she had used all her life; for me, it had been in the bottle too long.

  The woman carried the air of a soul who had suffered. It had to be a pose. She must always have enjoyed comfort, indulgence and leisure. Had her pained expression begun only recently, when they lost Clodia, or had the martyred matriarch always tried to imply that she deserved better from life? It would have been difficult for her son-in-law.

  I knew from Chryse that Marcia Sentilla was widowed. She had been left well off, so too her daughter; the dowry that Volumnius Firmus supposedly refused to give back must have been substantial.

  Though I remained polite, I insisted that I needed to see Sentia Lucretia. “I understand this may be awkward, madam, but it is all for the sake of your granddaughter. What I hope to achieve is clarity. Knowing what really happened must be of benefit to everyone.”

  Tightening her mouth as if I were imposing disgracefully, Marcia Sentilla nevertheless led me herself to her daughter. On the way she did speak, at least about her fellow grandmother. “Far be it from me to criticize, young woman, but I hope you have not let Volumnia Paulla influence you. For many years I tried to make her my friend, but she pushed me aside. The woman had an impossible husband and now lives with her impossible son. One should feel sorry for her really. She has so much to put up with. All the men in that family are a trial. The boy is no better. Just remember to make allowances,” she concluded patronizingly.

  I said I was grateful for the warning though I had not met Volumnia Paulla yet. Marcia Sentilla gave me a look, as if I was remiss. “That’s a pity,” she sniffed. “I was intending to ask you what she said about me.”

  The current feud seemed all-important. I wondered if Clodia had been used as a push-and-pull device between the battling grandmothers.

  *

  We found Sentia Lucretia alone in a tiny garden, a square place like a lightwell. The tall building rose around it for five or six stories, though the rooms above had small windows so there was no feeling of being overlooked. Creepers and ferns made this an unexpectedly secluded nook. It was after midday. I could hear people clearing their lunches, making me acutely aware that I was unlikely to get any.

  Clodia’s mother simply sat. Lost in her grief, she clutched a stole tightly around her, as if she would never feel warm again. Sunlight shone higher up, but down here it made a few dappled patterns but failed to warm the shade. This was the worst place for her, but she had come to be alone. She was slim, like her mother. Her face looked gaunt and gray. I recognized her kind of grief: since she had lost her child everything happened around her while she stayed in a haze, not even weeping, unable to comprehend what was happening. At first she failed to notice us.

  With a curt gesture toward the motionless figure, her mother implied that, now I had seen the situation, I should leave Sentia Lucretia in her misery. I pretended to miss the hints.

  Approaching gently, I stopped in front of the unhappy mother, dropped down on my haunches, took both her hands in mine. I kept my voice low, speaking kindly. “My name is Flavia Albia. I was asked to come by Laia Gratiana, who I believe is your friend. She thinks I may be able to help discover what happened to Clodia. I am so sorry for your loss.”

  To my surprise, and perhaps that of her flinty mother, Sentia Lucretia shook off her trance. “Yes, I know dear Laia from our little group at the Temple of Ceres.” Her voice was steady, though sounded light and high, too young for her age. “It is so kind of her to help. She told me about you. Thank you for coming. I must thank her for persuading you.”

  I said I was sure Laia needed no thanks. I was polite. It was the first time I had ever heard anybody call her a kind woman.

  Perhaps I caught a faint flicker in my companion’s eyes as if she guessed my true feelings about Laia Gratiana. If she shared them, it was too soon to ask.

  Her eyes were exceptionally dark brown, darker than her mother’s. Those eyes might have been passed on to her own daughter, giving me my first pictorial image of Clodia Volumnia. If correct, it made the young girl at last seem real to me. With those eyes, as the maid had said, Clodia would have been a pretty thing.

  I released her mother’s hands and stood up again, before my knees began complaining. Childhood rickets had not helped me.

  Sentia Lucretia also stood. After brushing a fallen leaf from her skirts, she took us all indoors to talk. Her mother glared, but made no attempt to advise against my i
nterview. We went to a salon. The waiting staff were shooed out, though unfortunately the mother stayed. Belatedly, I was given an offer of refreshments, but it was so vague I was obviously meant to tell them not to trouble. They have that wonderful feature in Latin, “a question expecting the answer ‘No.’”

  I kept everything low-key. There was no point stirring up resentment.

  I briefly summarized the story I had heard so far, though did not yet broach the issue of the love-potion. Marcia Sentilla contributed nothing, even though from her manner earlier I had expected her to interfere. Sentia Lucretia agreed the gist. I remembered that Chryse had said she was a good mother, a woman for whom the maid had a lot of respect. Despite her grief, she spoke up straightforwardly.

  For some time, her mother discussed how wonderful Clodia had been. Her sweet nature and loving character, her promise, her amusing wit, loyalty, devotion to household management, her daily diligence at loom-weaving …

  I knew from Chryse that this loom was kept for show.

  “She sounds delightful. Such a tragedy. Tell me this, then, Sentia Lucretia. Were you in the house that evening?”

  “No, Mother and I were visiting friends we have through the Bona Dea.” Another cult. The Good Goddess is an ancient women-only religious mystery. Once a year the participants shut their husbands out of the bedroom, then shoals of them gather to consume quantities of an “herbal posset.” I had a grandmother who belonged, though Helena Justina calls them wicked old drunks and refuses to join. “I ought to have stayed with Clodia,” Sentia said, blaming herself. “I should never have left her on her own when she was suffering such heartache.”

  I now learned from Sentia the extent of Clodia’s distress at her father rejecting Numerius Cestinus. Clodia had been unable to accept it. Her mother had feared she would never be reconciled. Even her grandmother, who had been watching us in baleful silence, unbent enough to agree.

  “That means the difficult point must be addressed,” I said, addressing both women. “Forgive me, but I have to.” My apology was a formality; they must have been expecting this. “It has been suggested that on the night she died, Clodia swallowed something. Her father is convinced of it.”