Pandora's Boy

by Lindsey Davis

  I tried a precise question. “Yes or no, please: was Numerius at Fabulo’s with the others, on the night that Clodia died?” Seeing them look blank, I went through the ritual of explaining the thermopolium.

  “Oh, that sounds lovely! Dear, we ought to try it one day.”

  The mother might gush, but Dear had a look as if he might have heard of Fabulo’s; he at least sensed that it was not for them.

  Any waiter worth employing, certainly the smoothies at palaces of food snobbery, would sum up this couple on sight; all tables would immediately become fully booked for the next three weeks. Otherwise, the Cestii would ask the sweating chef for rustic food that wasn’t on the elegant international menu, complain that there was no Celtic mead or Egyptian beer, then spend hours at the table for which many were queueing. When the bill was thrust in front of them, they would study it minutely, query the cover charge, then leave one copper as a tip.

  I said I believed it was very difficult to get in.

  Iucundus winked at me. He could just turn up; the staff would fawn on him. If need be, they would give him someone else’s booking, claiming to the other customer that there had been a mix-up. Unprecedented stylus slip. No one could imagine how it had happened …

  “So, I repeat: was your son there?”

  “Oh, yes, I think Numerius went. No, I am absolutely sure of it.” At last, progress. “I seem to recall he mentioned they had had to wait for several weeks in a long booking queue. Cluvius was organizing. He loves leadership. They were all very excited when a date was allotted to them. They had been looking forward to their supper there most eagerly.” The mother seemed impressed; the father humphed. “I expect you want to know whether Numerius talked about it afterward. Well, he did describe the menu, which I cannot altogether remember, though I think he said he ordered flamingo tongues, while various dishes were, of course, served up communally. They were in a private dining room, just a merry group of them. Numerius had made a great fuss about taking his own napkin—it had to be meticulously laundered and folded just right. They like to do things very formally, it’s so grown-up…”

  I saw the father curl his lip. He might say little, but he listened; he had a good understanding of the louche crowd his son ran with.

  “The worst thing was,” the mother bumbled on, “that napkin got lost on the night somehow…” I wondered if that was a clue I should note, or simply the rambling of an obsessive mother who had no idea what was significant in life?

  “So who else went?” I shot in.

  “They had had to draw lots, because only nine could go. Three to a couch. Three couches. They have a friend who was very hurt that he had to be left out, but someone else they knew had been included unexpectedly…” She went all vague on me for a moment. “A real triclinium. I am not sure how they arranged the seating plan.” At home, the Cestii probably squatted on rough-hewn stools. Maybe the gruff father whittled them, in his free time from being surly.

  I jumped in. “Did that make it awkward when Clodia Volumnia turned up? I assume she was uninvited?”

  “No, she certainly was not chosen. Numerius told me, in fact, Cluvius had arranged the lottery to ensure her name was left out. She was too young for such an occasion.”

  “And they didn’t want her?” I probed. Numerius’ sweet-natured mother was reluctant to admit this sad truth. “But we know she came,” I said. “So again, was there a problem with your son?”

  His mother looked wide-eyed and confused. “I don’t know why you say that, Flavia Albia.”

  “They were in love—or at least she was. The romance had been banned by her father. Indeed, perhaps you supported Volumnius?” There was no reaction; if anything, these innocents looked puzzled I had made the suggestion. “Clodia was in anguish at her father forbidding a relationship, and perhaps your son also?”

  “My son is very dutiful and obedient. He accepted how things had to be. He moved on.”

  “New girl already?” He was a fast worker! If Clodia felt jilted, however, it might explain why she would plan to send Numerius a love-potion; did she try to reverse his feelings back to her? Though I still could not see why she would drink the magic draft herself. “Clodia had not let go,” I pointed out. “Her family tells me Clodia was distraught. I presume she left home that night specifically to see Numerius? Maybe to plead with him?”

  “Oh, no!”

  I was astonished. “Why do you say that? How can you be so definite?”

  “Because,” said the mother of Numerius Cestinus, “she knew our son wants someone else. He came home from dinner at that restaurant that very evening and asked Papa to make the necessary moves with the young woman’s family. Didn’t he, dear?”

  Papa looked sullen. “Moves” were not in his character. I could tell Dear had not yet done anything about this, which I felt was more out of stubbornness than laziness. Certainly he was heading for trouble at home over his inactivity.

  “Did Clodia know in advance about this new love interest, or did she learn the truth that evening? Was it a shock?” Might the girl have gone home feeling betrayed, then even tried to commit suicide?

  “According to my son,” claimed his mother rather stiffly, “there was no difficulty. And whatever took Clodia Volumnia to that eating-house, Numerius says her friends all made her feel welcome so she had a lovely time with them.”

  Any young man was bound to say that. Quizzed by his mother, once she knew what had happened to Clodia, Numerius would fudge the truth. Or at least, his mother (who was brighter than she sometimes seemed, and very protective) would tell me he did. Just because a family believed in Stoic principles did not mean their values included truth and honesty. Stoics have to lie a lot—if only when telling our murderous Emperor that no, Divine Domitian, they are not Stoics. They do this all the time, to avoid being exiled or executed.

  “Who is the new young lady? Was she at Fabulo’s too?”

  “She is called Anicia.”

  What? Anicia? She was the young woman who, according to her girlfriends, had behaved badly after stealing Vincentius from Redempta. Redempta and Sabinilla had seemed oblivious to any Numerius complication. They thought Anicia was now with Vincentius.

  On the other hand, if Numerius was a ruthless player, it explained why Cluvius admiringly called him “the big man.”

  “Point her out, please.”

  “Third from the end on the far bench.”

  Nothing woolly about that. Numerius had a better mother than I thought. The plait-lady had made sure she identified the threatening young madam with claws in her boy.

  I said I would have a word with her.

  “Please do tell us what you think.”

  Tell me, the mother meant. I will manage his father if I have to. Then I will deal with our son …

  It could be fortunate that her boy was, she had assured me, very dutiful and obedient. Numerius might think he had clinched this marriage and put arrangements in hand, but I reckoned he had a way to go yet. Apart from the fact he appeared to have a rival in the absent Vincentius, his father had a stubborn streak and his mother was not quite as woolly as she looked. I personally did not rate Anicia’s chances with the home-brewed-beer Cestius family.

  XVII

  The feast was ending. Volumnius had gone indoors. I noticed his wife and mother-in-law were invited to his mother’s rooms; even if Volumnia Paulla’s hospitality was forced, she made it look cordial. Caterers started clearing the tables. The neighbors took it as a hint to mop up the last platters.

  The boys left first. The threesome stood up to make a move, as if sloping off to find more wine somewhere else. Even Cluvius was not hijacking the maternal litter for this bar crawl, but stayed tight with his friends. Both he and Granius wore shifty expressions; each raised an arm to their parents, then slithered away like weasels. Parents tutted, but nobody chased after them.

  The girls stayed. Redempta had been signaled by her mother and aunt that she had to leave with them. That aunt knew how
to point a finger. She could have trained boar hounds. The rest clustered with Redempta, from solidarity and to share more gossip. Glancing around first to check whether they could get away with it, they began retrieving jewelry from their bags then sneaking it on. Eight bangles per arm was average, five necklace chains the norm. Sabinilla openly brought out a hand mirror and applied kohl.

  I could smell newly applied heady perfume. We had come a long way from when Vespasian, the down-to-earth Emperor, said he would prefer a courtier to stink of garlic rather than pomade.

  I slipped closer, as if collecting my stole from where I had been sitting earlier. The girls chattered on blithely. “Ummidia, are you definitely going to that hunky sword trainer?”

  “Actually, yes. I know I said I wouldn’t keep it up but I think I’ll stay with him.” Ummidia was the skinniest and quietest. This made her the least equipped to play at gladiating, but women often take athletics classes to annoy the masculine establishment, especially if they are bored by epic poetry and find political thought too hard. After a moment the trainee added, “He has a nice grip!” Wrapped up in themselves, these girls showed little sense of humor, though they could toss around innuendo like toasted nuts.

  “Are you…”

  “No. Not really. That is, I haven’t decided.”

  “Whether?”

  “I thought I would. But now I’m considering.”

  “Are you going through the moves?”

  “Fencing?”

  “Absolutely. Are you actually enjoying that?”

  “I think so. I’m not sure absolutely. Lunging and parrying … it’s just I’m not sure if it’s right for me.”

  Juno. They were pretending to take no notice of me, but they might have seen me sigh.

  I had been intending a soft approach. Stuff that.

  I sat myself down with these loose-brained ninnies, laid a note-tablet on the table with a sharp crack, opened it at a clean waxed page, grasped my stylus. “I am Flavia Albia.”

  They knew how to blank me.

  I wasn’t having that. “I am glad I found you here today. You must have heard what I have been asked to do. It will be easier if you help me now; otherwise interviews will have to be conducted at your homes, with your parents present. We can still do that if you prefer…? Good. So wise. Now tell me, please, which of you and which of your men friends were at Fabulo’s thermopolium the night Clodia Volumnia died?”

  None of them answered.

  I snapped that it was a straightforward question. All I wanted was a list.

  Sabinilla spat onto the palette where she was mixing her sooty paste. “Us four, and the boys who just left,” she said offhandedly, still practicing a wide-eyed look into her hand mirror.

  I wrote it down, with swift stylus strokes. “Redempta, Sabinilla, Anicia, Ummidia. Then, Cluvius, who organized the booking, Granius, Popilius. Also Numerius, who was too shy to come today.”

  They giggled at “shy.” Irony was not their language.

  Ummidia had opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something, but she closed it.

  “A full formal dinner,” I mused thoughtfully, expecting them to point out that the list was one short. Maybe they couldn’t add up. This must make keeping track of their boyfriends hard. “Then you got stuck with Clodia.”

  “The thing is,” Ummidia volunteered, suddenly earnest, though I thought she was faking it, “we were used to handling Clodia. We had known her a long time. She wasn’t supposed to be there, but she just didn’t get it.”

  “No room for her?”

  Ummidia shrugged.

  “When she wanted something, that was it. We squeezed her in, though.” Anicia pouted, giving most of her attention to the mirror, which had been passed to her.

  “That was very sweet of you. What kind of mood was she in? Was she in a bad state, or happy?”

  “Happy.”

  “Not tearful about losing Numerius Cestinus?”

  “That was all settled and done.”

  “Why had she come, then?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Excited to have legged it from home?”

  “She didn’t want to be left out of a party.”

  “Spirited, then! Or you could call it risk-taking … Was she always absconding?”

  “What do you think?” sneered Sabinilla.

  “I suspect her parents often had no idea where their dear little Clodia was.”

  Redempta leaned right across the table toward me. Her heavy breasts flattened against the board while her necklaces clunked. She said forcefully, “Well, lucky for her, Clodia had us looking out for her!”

  “Lucky indeed. Excuse me,” I broached pleasantly, “but in a standard triclinium, three by three by three, there would have been one space left on the couches anyway. You have only given me eight names. Apparently, you have a friend called Vincentius; was he there?”

  “Poor thing lost out in the lottery! When we told him, he had such a face on.” Anicia, who was supposed to have paired up with Vincentius, nevertheless found this funny.

  “So who made the ninth body?” Not a flicker of guilt or disquiet showed. They were all accustomed to lying, certainly to their parents, possibly to one another.

  “Oh, that’s right,” murmured Sabinilla offhandedly. “Another boy was there.”

  I took it calmly. “Who?”

  Sabinilla blinked. “Trebo.” A quick glance flicked between the others, enough to tell me “Trebo” was a blatantly invented name.

  I did not bother to quibble. If I was patient, someone else would give the game away. “Help me to understand what happened. Although I am sure you didn’t welcome the arrival of an out-of-place youngster, you let Clodia stay?”

  “She was a sweet child. We liked to be kind to her,” Redempta claimed. Her aunt and mother were waiting for me to finish the interview; perhaps she hoped they could lip-read. “So yes, we let her stay.” Cluvius had told me they packed her off home.

  “Even though it could be thought she came to cause trouble with Numerius?”

  Heavy sighs. “No, they were fine.”

  “Did she remain until the end of the meal?” They gave me the heaving shoulders that with them often passed for replies. “How did she get there in the first place? Had she come on foot by herself? And later, how did she get home?”

  “We never saw her arrive.” Redempta, perhaps the strongest, self-righteously distanced them from potential criticism.

  “A couple of the boys took her home.” Anicia, the most quick-witted, saw how bad it would look if they had let a fifteen-year-old face the dark streets alone.

  “Which boys?”

  “Granius and…” this time Redempta did falter fractionally “… Popilius.”

  I let her see I had noted the hesitation. “Popilius?” Once more, I thought Ummidia, the quiet one who did swordplay, wanted to say something yet again she refrained from comment. “Did you all go straight home after eating? How did the rest of you travel?”

  “Safely,” Sabinilla enjoyed saying. “Our careful parents always insist on sending slaves out with us. We girls had litters. We stick in pairs. The rule is, whoever has borrowed her mother’s litter, takes the other girl home first. Some of the boys had bodyguards, I think.”

  “Juno, the street outside Fabulo’s must have been packed,” I commented. I reckoned the slaves who were with the boys were probably sent not for protection but to stop them getting into fist fights with innocent passers-by. Aggressive young drunks are a menace on the streets at night. “Don’t the neighbors complain about traffic congestion and noise?”

  Redempta and Anicia looked shocked by this question. Ummidia was too busy using Sabinilla’s mirror and kohl compact. Sabinilla answered, practicing a flirt with her newly blackened eyes. “I expect they do, but it’s not ours to worry about, is it?”

  “I imagine the aediles have to negotiate with the restaurant management to minimize nuisance.” I was thinking of my own aedile. The Quirinal
lay outside his area, or I would have heard moans about Fabulo’s. The cost of fines for running a disruptive thermopolium would hike up customers’ bills, but if the bill was being sent to their parents, which of these would care, or even know? “I don’t expect you thought about it at the time.”

  “No,” Anicia agreed, implying I too should not bother with this.

  “So, diners spill out into the street, full of wine and cheeriness, all unaware of how loudly they are shouting. For me, that can be helpful, in fact. All I have to do is ask around…” I gave these posturing girls a threat now: “There may be some agitated neighbor who monitors what happens. You may not see them, but they are there behind their shutters, watching obsessively. People look for outrages to make complaints about. I expect if I toddle along there, I can find a witness for that night—possibly one with detailed notes scrawled on a tablet. Complainants can be meticulous … Tell me, were people in your own party drunk when you left?”

  Ummidia, who now had the hand mirror, laid it in front of her on the table, staring at me.

  I began to regret interviewing this quartet together. They synchronized their responses. They posed; they pouted. They watched for each next question from me as if it was a challenge, then put on a public show, like pantomime dancers expecting applause for each new turn.

  “No more drunk than normal.” Anicia took back the kohl palette and tiny spatula. She added more to her already laden eyelids. “We try not to create a public commotion. We are considerate.”

  I wondered. Would their parents ground them if there were too many complaints? “So,” I asked finally, “did anything happen that evening that I ought to be told about?”

  All I received were more surly looks, with more disinterested shoulder lifts.

  I asked one new question suddenly: did they know anything about a love-potion Clodia had acquired? They showed no surprise, but all briskly told me no.