Pandora's Boy

by Lindsey Davis

  “This potion,” I said, “originated with your mother-in-law, but I believe she had nothing to do with Clodia Volumnia obtaining it. Nor was Pandora ever aware of what happened with it next.”

  “Nothing happened.” Veronica was firm, almost derisive.

  “How can you know?” She clammed up, so I explained myself: “It’s obvious. Vincentius is so often out and about that anything sent here for him would be handed in to you. It’s clear you never told him. I need to know what you did with it, Veronica.”

  His mother remained adamantine. “I have nothing to say.”

  “It’s better you do. Yes, something was sold to the girl, but your mother-in-law can say it was harmless, not intended as magic; through your taking charge of it, nothing dangerous was done. On that basis, nobody is going to accuse anyone of a crime. The girl’s parents believe she drank this supposed potion; I simply want to tell them it was not in her possession when she died.”

  Veronica showed no reaction, though at least she did not scream abuse and close the door on me.

  It seemed thankless, but I kept going. “I suspect there may be no love lost between you and Pandora, though there must be respect; you both care very much for Vincentius. I want you to help me. I don’t believe Pandora will object, since it will show the Rabirius family in a good light, as decent members of the community. This is my request. Please come tomorrow, when I plan to explain Clodia’s death to her family. You are a mother; she had a mother—show some compassion. Then let me say this: whatever Clodia Volumnia was, whatever she did in her short, sometimes foolish life, her final actions were because of what she felt for Vincentius. Veronica, you might not have liked her, indeed I suspect you would have loathed her, but please help me to show what happened to a girl who genuinely loved your son.”

  At that point Vincentius’ mother did close the door on me. She had not agreed to cooperate, but neither had she refused me outright.

  LVI

  Tiberius had booked me space at the ancient Temple of Salus. She is the patroness of public health, a goddess who presides over the welfare of the people of Rome. I could see this remit suited my public-spirited husband. The welfare aspect ought to appeal to the unhappy Volumnius family too, though I was not hopeful they would go along with it. As well as her benevolence toward the nation as a whole, a busy task, Salus also guards every individual. I was going to need her myself today.

  Her main temple, which has very ancient origins, stands above a city gate that takes its name from it, the Porta Salutaris in the old Servian walls. This is where the Street of the High Lanes starts to climb. Set on the Quirinal bluff, the sanctuary is windswept; perched at the top of a steep approach, you need stamina to reach it on the city side, though from the tops, if you are there already, it is easier.

  When Tiberius and I first arrived, I stepped into the cella to lay an offering respectfully in thanks to the goddess for hosting us.

  Salus, or Hygeia, is the daughter of Aesculapius, the founder of medicine. Like him, her attribute is a snake, a very large fat creature, rearing up on its tail. Salus, a big-boned girl with a fancy topknot, held out a patera, a shallow dish of food, which she offered to the coiling snake. Elsewhere, I had seen a statue where Salus wound the snake around her sturdy arm, gripped its head and dipped its snout into the dish, like an exasperated mother attempting to wean an annoying child. This goddess used a more enticing technique, though she did remind me of Thalia, my little brother’s birth mother, a statuesque circus performer whose tame reptiles—like her scared men—generally did what they were told. We would be in good hands with Salus.

  A circle of chairs had been placed for us in the outer sanctuary. I arrived in time to reorganize the chairs into a horseshoe, so I could stand at the front by the altar and be in command. This is the secret of a well-run event of any kind. First check your room. Only accept a setting out of doors if you will not be deafened by street cries nor dive-bombed by pigeons. Put the audience in the shade, lest they fall asleep. Position yourself where you can dominate.

  “Have an escape route!” chivvied Tiberius, at that point not taking things seriously.

  “Be able to direct people with weak bladders to the nearest facility,” I added (after finding out from the temple staff where it was).

  “You have done this before!”

  “A few times.”

  You may think it might be easier to assemble witnesses and suspects in the quiet of a library, the kind of location my father prefers on such occasions. He was old school; I like to be adventurous. I had assessed these people in advance. I had little faith in their attention spans, especially if there were hot-sausage sellers wandering about colonnades with trays. Libraries have other temptations. I didn’t want anyone sneaking off to read a book.

  *

  The previous evening I had made preparations, inviting my list of attendees. I felt like a medium arranging a seance, discovering as much as I could in advance, using associates where needed. I had, for instance, re-read not only my own case notes but the review we had obtained from Scorpus. That gave me one new idea. He was to bring certain witnesses, if necessary using force. Although we were not allowed to hold the meeting inside the temple, it had been agreed that a small number of key witnesses could be secreted within the cella, under the control of Scorpus. I had selected three. Tiberius was lurking near me so he could signal up to Scorpus in the porch when each was to be produced.

  The rest turned up like a concert audience, in their own time, dressed as if for a court levee. They were lucky it was me presiding, not Domitian. They greeted each other with meaningless kisses, gossiped, glanced at me, muttered under their voices, then some went to Clodia’s parents as they had done at her Nine Day Feast, with more hugs and expressions of sympathy. Part of it was a deliberate public display. They took their seats as directed.

  Paris, Iucundus’ runabout, was helping me. I had visited him yesterday, to inquire how things were and when the funeral was to be; I found him completely lost without his master, desperate for things to do, so I asked him to come and help out. He had taken round the invitations for me and was now acting as an usher. It was going well. As we watched, I discussed with Tiberius in an undertone whether to offer Paris a position working for us at home.

  One curious thing Paris had told me yesterday: men had arrived at Iucundus’ apartment; it caused momentary terror, but they turned out to be from the olive oil consortium. Pressure was still being put on them by one of the failed purchasers. All they wanted was to hand back the money Iucundus had paid for Fabulo’s and make Paris tear up the contract.

  “Did you agree?”

  “None of us wanted to run a restaurant. We would be too upset anyway, now he is gone. It was his dream, not ours. So I accepted the cash. The oil men said Old Rabirius will now have the place after all. Apparently he is gloating that he has snatched it from his rivals … Did I do right, Flavia Albia?”

  “You haven’t lost financially and the place is off your hands. I think you did.”

  *

  Almost everyone I needed was now here. Close to me, by the altar, I reserved seats for the special witnesses. We positioned the Volumnius family opposite me, at the center of the horseshoe, placing Clodia’s parents side by side, with her grandmothers together too. All the women were still in formal mourning white. On my instructions, they had brought their two slaves, Chryse and Dorotheus.

  Sentia Lucretia came toward me; she placed a lump of stone on the altar, still attempting to bring Clodia back as she had done at the seance by channeling her daughter’s spirit through this broken-off piece of the family tomb. Volumnius Firmus stomped over angrily to take a look. I said I could give him the name of a good stone-restorer.

  Along one arm of the horseshoe sat the group of young friends, with their parents opposite. Missing were Redempta and her father, who had already gone to the country, plus Sabinilla, whose stepmother whispered to me that the girl was still unwell. That did not sound good.
The stepmother arrived with a handsome older man, who looked at me with such interest that Tiberius came up and stared him down. This was Sabinilla’s supposed father—though it seemed Popilius’ father might have known better.

  Most of the rest were here, shimmering with jewelry amid the reek of clashing perfumes. Vincentius was supposed to be coming, but apparently intended to make a late entrance. His mother was one of my hidden witnesses. She had assured me he had set off from home at the same time as she did, although he was walking.

  I placed my own note-tablets on the altar, ready for reference, while small tots of a simple sweetened drink were being taken round.

  “That is the closest we shall have to ritual,” I said informally. Then, as everyone stilled while they were drinking, I immediately began.

  “I am Flavia Albia, a private investigator, and my role is to examine the death of Clodia for Volumnius Firmus and the family.” They might all be warring, but on my watch they were to be joined in their sorrow whether they liked it or not. So far, though sitting in a close line, the relatives were studiously ignoring each other.

  I sipped my own drink, then wished I hadn’t as the honey stuck my lips together.

  “This is strangely like a seance, so it may feel familiar to some of you. There will be no mystic instruments or magic tricks today, however. The tools of my trade are methodical inquiry, reasoning, memory and persistence. However, at the risk of sounding like a medium after all, the evidence I collect can be vague or misleading, so I may still need your help to understand what is important.”

  I was speaking slowly, with pauses between sentences. It sounded as though I was devising my script as I said it, though it was mainly preplanned. I was gazing around, watching for reactions. Even though they were silent, simple shifts in how people sat, nervous smiles or nods would give me clues.

  “For me, this has been a difficult inquiry, involving even the murder of a family friend. We are on the Quirinal, with its famous breezes and fine air quality, its ancient links to health and welfare. I found a very different aspect. To focus our minds on why we are here, I shall begin by remembering Clodia Volumnia. To do that, first I shall read out, with her father’s permission, the memorial to her:

  ‘If anyone cares to add his grief to ours, here let him stand and let him weep. Her unhappy parents have laid to rest their one and only daughter whom they cherished while the Fates allowed it. Now she is torn away from home. Her too-young bones are a little pinch of ash. May the earth lie light upon her.’”

  I saw eye-dabbing, not all staged. It was to be hoped the lash dyes Pandora sold these women were waterproof.

  I took up a note-tablet. “And now I want to share with you how Volumnius Firmus first described Clodia to me: ‘A happy soul with many friends, she was bright and affectionate with everyone, and destined for a wonderful adulthood.’ As I worked on the mystery of her sudden passing, inevitably I found a more complicated picture; fifteen-year-old girls are intricate creatures, full of confusion even to themselves. What always came across was her vibrancy, her enjoyment of life even when life was not going as she wanted.” I paused, sternly surveying my audience. “That matters because one question I had to ask was, did Clodia end her life herself? No, I do not believe it.”

  I put down the tablet, simply a piece of stagecraft, marking a caesura.

  “Why do I think so? At the time Clodia died, she was in love, not even her first experience. Young love, unrequited love, is full of anguish. Yet she was by no means despairing. Far from it. She was actively seeking her hero. We may think the young man concerned—Vincentius Theo—was unsuitable for several reasons, certainly too mature for one so young. Known locally as Pandora’s boy, he is talented, handsome, good-natured, full of charm; Clodia became extremely determined. There has been talk of a love-potion, and I can say, such a love-potion did exist.”

  This raised a stir. Directly in front of me Volumnius Firmus rounded on his wife and her mother, while Chryse looked furtive. Before the parents could start an argument, I carried on: “Most people try to ignore the idea of witchcraft. It is illegal. That is enough for us, especially when coupled with the ridiculous rituals we hear of in occult practices. But those who are struggling against seemingly insurmountable problems will try anything. People in love, seeking to ensnare the object of their affections or to destroy a rival, women unable to conceive a child or those who have conceived and are reluctant to carry the baby, men with impotence problems, all implore witches for help. And, of course, very young girls, who lack experience of the world, are highly susceptible.”

  Again, there was a murmur among the audience. I addressed the nursemaid loudly. “Chryse, the truth now, please. We are past the time for lying.” I quickly related what Meröe told me about Clodia being brought for manicures, while Chryse had to wait out of sight and hearing. I said I knew Clodia had acquired an unguentarium containing a substance that she believed would bind Vincentius to her. “Were you aware that she did this?”

  Chryse did not speak, but miserably nodded.

  “You never found it?”

  “I never even saw it. When we went home, she must have been holding it tight, wrapped in her stole. Nothing would stop her when she chose to be secretive.”

  I toughened up. “Such potions are terrible things, Chryse—Help me in my predicament. Make him lie awake thinking of me, make him sleepless with his every thought of me, bind him, bring him, drag him by the hair and hands and feet and entrails to me…” Do not ask how I knew these things, but I had been young with an unrequited passion once. I could have told Clodia Volumnia not to waste her dreams on worthless passion. “Presumably when Clodia died, you never even looked for this gruesome concoction—because by then you knew, didn’t you, Chryse, that you had already taken it on Clodia’s instructions and delivered it to Vincentius?”

  “No! No! I never did, she never asked me, I would not have done it, I would have told her mother.”

  Chryse had jumped to her feet, so disturbed by my accusation she was almost incoherent. A well-padded figure, full of genuine care for her charge and clear loyalty to the family, she was not faking this. She appealed to Sentia Lucretia to support her claim of honesty. She appealed to me to retract my unfair claim. All eyes were upon her—all except mine. I was watching someone else.

  “Thank you. Sit down, Chryse.”

  “You have to believe me!”

  “I do believe you. Chryse, please sit down.”

  Covering her face with her hands, Chryse slowly took her seat again. She was shaking. At least I saw her master’s mother pat her, though as a consoling gesture it was vague; Volumnia Paulla was mainly staring my way.

  “Thank you. I am sorry to put you through that, but I want to be sure about things. I need to talk to someone else now. Dorotheus!” I sprang this on the other slave. “Stand up.”

  The lanky man, his arm still in its sling, dragged himself upright. Volumnius Firmus, who had accepted me interrogating Chryse, looked more indignant now.

  “Dorotheus, I am sure there is no need for you to look so apprehensive.” This made him worry. “You too work for the family. You have been close to the children for a long time; from when he was seven years old, you were the personal slave of Volumnius Auctus, right up until he went to the army in Africa, am I right?” He forced a feeble nod. “So, what did you do then, Dorotheus? When you no longer had him to look after? Did you just hang around doing menial jobs like sweeping the courtyard? It has been clear to me you are the eyes and ears of your master, Volumnius Firmus, which is the role of a faithful slave and I do not quibble. But, Dorotheus, I think you do more than that.”

  He hung his head, as if he knew what must be coming. Firmus had settled back in his seat, staring at the slave intently. Sentia Lucretia, who must be afraid of what I could say about Auctus, sat bolt upright, pretending not to understand; her gaunt mother glared at me on principle.

  “Dorotheus, I think, and I say this from observation, you are
a willing slave, and one who can be relied on for a discreet task. Now let us consider this idea: I suggest that little Clodia, who was so good at getting her own way, would sometimes ask you to run secret errands for her. So I say it was you Clodia dispatched with the glass bottle that she wanted to have delivered to her beloved Vincentius. You took it for her, you gave it in at the house where Vincentius lives with his mother Veronica, didn’t you?”

  “Tell the truth!” commanded his master, Firmus.

  “All right,” admitted Dorotheus. He sounded offhand: why was a fuss being made?

  “Thank you.” I would not let him off easily. So much trouble could have been avoided if he had owned up earlier. Dorotheus slumped back down into his seat. “And I presume,” I said quietly but in a clear voice, “I am not the only person who worked this out, am I? One, at least, of Clodia’s grandmothers—possibly both—charged you with involvement in their darling’s misguided actions. Isn’t that, Dorotheus, how your arm was broken?”

  Dorotheus mumbled that he could not say. I chose not to force him. Nor did I punish the grandmothers by making them admit their shame. I reckoned one must have tried to batter the truth out of him, knocking him to the ground in the process. The other perhaps weighed in to defend him; equally, she may have helped interrogate him.

  “Well, that is a family matter,” I said (looking hard at Firmus). “I recommend you would do better not to make it the subject of a public court case.”

  I gathered back my audience. “Everyone, listen, please. I want to show that Clodia did not drink the love-potion herself, so that was not how she died. It is a simple question, simply answered. Let us not place the burden of truth on a slave. So I now call an independent witness.”

  I signaled to Tiberius, who gave the nod to Scorpus. He produced Veronica, leading her down the temple steps to where I stood. She was smart, though compared to most of the women here plainly clad, in very long black, with no jewelry apart from small boat-shaped gold earrings and a rather solid wedding ring. Her manner was that of a bitter woman who had led a hard life.