“The maddest aspect,” said Vincentius, “is that he is aware of another author, Herennius Senecio, already composing a panegyric at the request of Priscus’ widow. She has given Senecio full access to private diaries and letters. But Cestius is the kind of menace who knows there is an official biographer yet must do his own version anyway.”
“Won’t Cestius be at a disadvantage, without the background material?”
“Oh it just gave him more space for his own crackpot theories!”
I could not help smiling.
“Of course,” the young man continued, “Domitian must have his eye on Herennius Senecio. My prof says a show trial could be in the offing. Even for us to study the Cestius version carried risk.” Vincentius frowned, looking cautious, though I could tell he was attracted by the danger. Well, he was twenty, with no responsibilities, so he thought himself untouchable. “We were told to be very discreet. It was to teach us how to spot harmful content we could prosecute, or otherwise how to assess a risky case we should avoid defending.”
“If the subject is too sensitive?”
“In case scandal damages our careers. We looked at the scroll in camera with our tutor, then had to hand it back. I don’t know how the prof came by it. The biography was never published openly. Despite suppressing it, Cestius is very lucky not to have been in court.”
“It could still happen!” I was an informer. Discussing all this with me could be more dangerous than Vincentius seemed to grasp. He still needed guidance. This was Domitian’s Rome: I could turn him in. “Does your professor advise his students to go into contract law instead?”
“Actually, he says the best money is in matrimonial, or wills!”
We laughed. “Who is this wily mentor?” He named a man I had heard of, a certain Mamillianus. I knew of him because he was my father’s other suggested contact, the one who had been out when I tried to consult him the night I met Iucundus.
I said my uncle had studied with Minas of Karystos in Athens, which did seem to impress. Vincentius cannot have known that Minas was a hopeless drunk.
He seemed to like the idea of Athens. Perhaps it was one of the places where his father lived away from home, “managing investments.”
I had been thinking. “Vincentius, I had not expected a conversation like this with you. You have shed light on why Volumnius Firmus was so opposed to the Cestii, and I thank you.”
Vincentius nodded, then told me more: “Volumnius learned about the unwise biography when he was asked to arbitrate for old Cestius in a drainage dispute. It was an absolutely normal quarrel with a neighbor after he caused flooding to a farm. Could have happened to anyone. But Cestius, who believed he had a very winnable case, had to admit he wanted private arbitration because he was reluctant to sue in open court, lest his authorship came up. A good barrister would have mentioned it to blacken his character—I would have done! Arbitration, which is conducted in private, protected him.”
“This is all very interesting, thank you again, Vincentius.” He handed me the last loose pear. I set the final basket back in place. “And now, young man, I do need to ask you about that night at Fabulo’s.”
“I suppose you do.” He looked crestfallen, as if his diversion plan had failed. Then he perked up. “Sadly, I cannot help you, Flavia Albia. We drew lots that evening, and I lost. So I had no place on the couches. I did not attend the dinner.”
I already knew this from the girls at the Nine Day Feast. I liked the way Vincentius himself produced the alibi. Gentle but telling. Almost sad to have to disappoint me. This young man would make a dramatic advocate.
I told him that, but I wondered aloud why his family had chosen the legal profession for him. Vincentius admitted straight away, with a tolerant laugh, that they hoped when any of them were in trouble in future, he could defend them.
Was he referring to Pandora? It sounded as if he meant the rest of the family. I noted that Vincentius said “when,” not “if,” relatives appeared in court, from which I drew my own conclusions.
I had enjoyed my conversation but it gave me a chill. There are worse offenses than writing political biographies. Something murky applied to Vincentius and I was afraid I recognized it. I had been an informer long enough to know the stench of criminal activity.
XXV
Vincentius said he had to go. He was meeting his friends. He had promised to give Granius advice on his love life.
“Turbulent?”
“He has confused feelings. He always wants to go after girls who won’t look at him because they are with someone else.”
“Safety measure,” I suggested. “Saves having to do anything real about it. You are wiser?”
“I am a brother to him.”
“I meant, what about your own heart?” I asked, returning to this deliberately. “You have romantic history with Redempta but someone said you and Anicia are close?”
“Really?” Sabinilla had said so, though Vincentius seemed surprised to hear it. What was going on here? Anicia was supposed to be after Numerius—or at least he wanted her, his parents believed … “Yes, she’s a nice girl, worth a fling!”
I was starting to think none of this was serious. It cast an intriguing light on Clodia Volumnia, with her supposed passion for Numerius. How did the fickle members of the group, with their constantly fluid relationships, view Clodia’s intensity and heartache? And had she learned from them to let go and move on elsewhere?
I parted from Pandora’s boy. Though I checked, I saw no sign of his family’s enforcers. Tangling with gangsters, if I was right about that, made me nervous. I used all my street craft to make sure nobody was following me.
It was growing late. I walked quietly but somewhat quickly back to the street where the Volumnii lived. Not yet ready to enter their building, I wanted to dwell on all I had learned today somewhere more private. I chose the street bar where I had been before. It had empty seats outside again. The same stray dog turned up. She sat down beside me, looking hopeful. I growled.
While I waited for a server to show up, I checked my surroundings. Workshops and local showrooms had been open this evening, though most were reaching the end of the day’s activities. I could see the Egyptian closing his lettuce booth. After fastening shutters in front of his produce, he called out something, then strolled off. The assistant appeared, and threw a cloth over Min’s statue, which was too large to be lifted indoors. It took several goes before he managed to arrange the cloth so it discreetly veiled the god’s extended attribute.
A waiter, fairly pleasant, interposed himself. By the time I finished ordering my small glass of wine and saucer of snacks-of-the-day, the lettuce-selling fellow had walked over to the bar.
“Mind if I sit here?”
“Push off!” I retorted. “I am a married woman.”
“That’s all right,” he answered calmly. He sat, signaling to the waiter that he would have the same as I had ordered. “I am a married man.”
“I hope you’re better than the one I got,” I commented, as if to a new acquaintance. “Mine ran off. Not a word to anyone. People have suggested the swine is suffering from memory loss. They say he must have started a new life, without even knowing why he went or where he came from.”
“You think that’s rubbish?”
“You’re a bright bird, lettuce man!”
We fell silent while the waiter brought a tray with our orders. He must have sensed an atmosphere; instead of hurrying up, he laid things out with precise movements, making the arrangement on the table even and tidy. He decided my snack saucer was fuller than the other, so he picked a few out with his fingers and leveled up.
The dog, who was fawn in color with a pointy snout, licked her lips. Tiberius and I both ignored her. We stayed silent. Neither of us touched the snacks or our drinks.
The waiter could not leave us alone. Now he brought us a little twinkly lamp. He lit it with a spill, as if conducting a religious ceremony.
*
Once
we were finally by ourselves, Tiberius Manlius lifted his hand (the one with the scar where I once stabbed him). He placed it deliberately over my own, which happened to be on the table. I did not resist. Nor did I respond.
“I seem to have made a mess of this!” he apologized, making his voice humble. “I want to explain.”
“You do that, legate!”
“You rejected the job, because it came through Laia Gratiana. But I thought it was intriguing. I knew you would brood, because of her, so I came across to have a look around. It seemed a clever idea to be incognito.”
“How was I supposed to know?”
“I thought you would guess.”
“Ha!”
“Once I fathomed a few things, I did go home to consult, but you had left by then. I came back and reinstated myself with the Egyptian. He lets me pretend to be working there. I talk to his customers, hoping to discover information.”
I controlled my breathing. New brides should not flare up, however much provocation is thrown at them. He thinks you’re sweet. You need to cling on to that as long as possible. “I thought I might never see you again.” I kept my voice quite reasonable, in the circumstances.
“I am very sorry.”
“How the hell,” I scoffed, breaking out into passion, “am I supposed to work out the way your peculiar mind works, Faustus?”
He raised my hand, still tight in his, and kissed it gently. “You will get used to me.”
“No, I think I shall divorce you.”
He nodded sadly. “I accept that you have grounds, my darling.”
He knew. The swine knew: I was on the verge of weeping with joy because I had found him, in his right mind, only just across the street from where I myself was living.
“Albiola.” Nobody else called me that. It always worked.
“Did you know anything about lettuce?”
“I do now!”
“Have you found anything out for the inquiry?” Finally I was showing the full extent of my anger. “From idiot customers who want aphrodisiac salad leaves?”
“No. They only talk about sex. Have you?”
“Lots!”
“Maybe,” suggested Tiberius, sensing he was safe, “we could now discuss your findings over a quiet drink at this neighborhood hostelry?”
“Maybe,” I agreed, making it plain I had not softened. “But the investigation is mine. You keep out of my way. You and I do not know one another; we have met here by chance. I am only sitting with you because you are a public menace who won’t take a hint when a respectable woman tries to get rid of you.”
We shall see! said his look—though he did not speak the words out loud.
The waiter came out to see if we had had a fight. Like any seducer who thought he was on a promise, Tiberius gave a slick turn of the head to indicate our small drinks should be turned into large ones and to keep them coming.
“Is this your dog?” the waiter asked.
“No,” I said.
“Does she know that?” Tiberius asked me, smiling.
“She knows. Don’t look at her.”
He leaned down and whispered to the creature. He said I seemed cantankerous but was tolerant and loving, the sweetest woman in the world. His advice was to sit tight. The dog who was not my dog laid her soft muzzle on his knee, but took it off when I glared at her.
We sat for an hour while I ran over my findings, working out for myself what it could all mean. Tiberius listened. Occasionally he suggested something, though he knew it was best to let me lead. Forgiveness is not easily bought.
*
When I had finished, one of us said cheerily, “Your place or mine?”
He only had a ledge above the lettuce booth, so although the bed in the borrowed room was narrow, we chose mine.
XXVI
Next morning the slave Dorotheus was making sure he swept round the courtyard. When he ran into me, he was bursting to tell me that I had been seen taking a man to my room. I pretended to hear the news pleasantly. “Yes, I like to bring rough sleepers back and give them a bed for the night,” I told him. “You noticed! It’s good to know someone is monitoring who comes and goes!”
Tiberius, who was in a good mood, had followed me down. Dressed in his street disguise, with several days’ stubble, he looked little better than a vagrant himself. His raggedy brown tunic was one I knew Dromo had refused to wear. My scruffed-up husband gave Dorotheus a very small tip and winked at him. “A woman has needs!” he remarked confidentially, using his normal cultured voice. The slave looked confused. He was like an athlete at the starting blocks, ready to scamper upstairs and report all this to his master.
We went out to breakfast. After our evidence catch-up yesterday, Tiberius had tried to mull over Clodia Volumnia’s friends, unable to grasp their tangled relationships. I had drawn him a chart. It did not help. Even I could not identify for certain which were the nine who had drawn lots successfully for places at the meal in Fabulo’s. I could still only identify eight.
I mentioned that Iucundus had promised to take me there. Tiberius looked envious. I could have asked if I might bring my husband, but although I was in a good mood myself this morning, he was not totally forgiven for worrying me. “You don’t have anything smart to wear, darling.”
“The Egyptian has an errand boy. I’ll send him to get my aedile’s kit from Dromo.”
“Isn’t the errand boy constantly needed for taking urgent supplies of Min’s aphrodisiac leaves to customers?”
“Let them wait! There is too much fornication going on around here,” said Tiberius, who spent last night happily engaged in it.
*
Today I decided to try again to visit Mamillianus, Father’s other contact, especially now I knew he was Vincentius’ professor. However, the man was still elusive. Once more I was denied entry, though this time the slaves at his apartment were more helpful. Maybe their master had given them new orders. Perhaps Falco’s name had something to do with it.
Anyway, the staff still swore Mamillianus never received visitors at home. They were well trained, so therefore discreet, but told me that despite his importance he was unusually private. I could not tell from what they said whether he was tetchy by nature or suspicious of strangers. Any legal expert dealt with human faults, so that might make him paranoid that people coming in might soil his couches or steal his silverware—which was only the half of it.
This time the slaves did let slip that Mamillianus gave lessons in the Gardens of Sallust. If I could find him there, he might consent to speak to me. Now that Vincentius had admitted their tutorials sometimes included seditious material, I thought Mamillianus was wise. In the gardens only trees would overhear.
Tiberius came with me. Dedu, the lettuce-seller, gave him time off. It was a quiet morning at Min’s.
I was always fascinated how my husband could achieve this kind of easy-going relationship. He was the first to admit he had grown up rich and indulged; yet people at all levels of society took to him. Not only had he persuaded Dedu to pretend Tiberius worked at the booth, but the “work” seemed completely flexible. Dedu did not pay Tiberius for his supposed assistance, though as far as I could see Tiberius did not pay Dedu for playing host either. Somehow he had gained the right to hang about when it suited him, or bunk off at will.
“You’re utterly feckless. I wouldn’t employ you! Is Dedu actually Egyptian?”
“No, he’s from Tarentum.”
“So why act foreign?”
“To help people trust Min’s lettuce and its legendary potency.”
“Eating lettuce seems to do the trick,” I said, referring to last night.
“Nothing to do with eating it. I only sell the stuff!” Tiberius claimed.
*
The Gardens of Sallust were in the north of the city, sited in a deep valley between the Quirinal and Pincian Hills. These pleasure grounds exemplified the early era of the Empire, when notables could accompany a general on campaign then come home
magnificently rich, boasting a fine reputation, keen on exotic culture and with loot to pay for it.
According to Tiberius, Sallustius Crispus was a Sabine middle-ranker who managed to have a classic career: good education and misspent youth; wobbled politically until he ended up close to Julius Caesar; awarded a governorship for questionable reasons; notorious for oppressing the natives and plundering his province; retired to write history. As a writer, Sallust collected and invented words, which made him sound more likeable. His chief fame was his garden.
Like those other golden bastards, Lucullus and Maecenas, Sallust used his cash to take over a large swathe of land. He kicked out any paupers who had the bad luck to live there, created these beautiful pleasure grounds, saw them as his visible achievement in life, then in death was buried there. His name would last. Better to be remembered for topiary and neologisms than battle. Especially as any battle may be a defeat, but good topiary is always a triumph over nature.
The Gardens of Sallust had fallen into the hands of the Imperial family. Nice things tend to have that fate. This became a favorite spot for Vespasian, who used the grounds as an informal office. The Gardens had always been magnanimously open to the public. It is a clever move to have the mob wandering through groves admiring plants, rather than standing in bars plotting. Yet in this gorgeous place was the dichotomy of Rome. Everything here—walks, fountains, flower beds, kiosks, statues, enormous vases, obelisks—was ours but only to look at; the heritage belonged to our rulers. They let us in so we could marvel at their riches. We could share this peaceful elegance so, through it, we would feel their power.
Tiberius, who held traditional views that I did not disturb, breathed the fresh air gently. To a narrow-eyed social outsider like me, this seemed an apt place for a tutor to bring charges as he introduced them to the work of revolutionists. I sympathized with the Stoic philosophy. Imperial gardens made me want to throw rocks at statues.
Tiberius caught my eye; I saw a smile. He knew when I was feeling rebellious. It did not worry him. I liked him for that. I say he was traditional, yet I knew he had unusual bravery. He would take a stand where most conventional folk would go home and hide.
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