Master and God

by Lindsey Davis

  Lost? Oh, be reasonable! thought Gaius tetchily. He had noticed the city surveyor had sent a representative; in that practical department they would need a discreet mark on their charts, for whenever the old embankment had to be maintained. Even the priests would want to avoid the bad omen of turning up a skeleton, supposing they ever had to bury another culprit.

  The black-covered litter with the anonymous occupant had already gone, heading out of Rome. The priests removed themselves from the scene promptly. Off for a stiff drink in one of those putrid pontiffs’ fancy dining rooms, no doubt. The chief of them, the Flamen Dialis, was bound by a ridiculous system of prohibitive rules for his daily life, but presumably nothing barred him from a very strong restorative after he had buried a woman alive. His wife, the Chief Priestess, would have known Cornelia well, so he might be going home to a very frosty atmosphere.

  The Praetorians remained discreetly at the lonely scene. They would deter any rescue; none was attempted. They would observe whether the goddess Vesta resurrected the virgin who had been consecrated to her for so many years, as a sign that Cornelia was innocent. As Gaius expected, all the gods chose to abandon her.

  A small detachment guarded the Campus Sceleratus for days. Since normal funeral ceremonies were forbidden, anyone who attempted to lay flowers or tributes was prevented; not many tried. Vestals might be honoured women, but they were haughty and self-important, therefore more revered than loved. Veiled elderly women of all ranks appeared occasionally and were persuaded to go home. A few passers-by came up to make enquiries, though nobody wanted to gossip with Praetorians. No one wanted to attract their attention. People were afraid it might get them arrested.

  The Guards’ task was grim but at least when the watch changed, the Camp was nearby. Details marched to and fro quietly, and since their own parade ground was immediately the other side of the Colline Gate, they were virtually at home and often their abnormal duties went unnoticed by the public.

  Vinius Clodianus attended the scene as much as possible. When he was desperate for rest, he slept at the Camp. He ate and bathed there. He visited his office daily to check correspondence. He made no move to go into the city, even when by any standards he had the right to be off duty.

  It was a draining vigil. The soldiers were well able to imagine what was happening underground.

  Eventually there could no longer be any hope of life. Without being required to check the tomb, the guard was quietly stood down. Clodianus returned to his office where he wrote a short, clear report, should anybody want it, to state that the dismal episode had passed off without incident.

  He took himself to the Praetorian baths, where he scraped himself over and over again with a strigil as if it was he who had been defiled. He sat in the steam in the hot room trying to cleanse his spirit. Inertia claimed him for a while, but eventually he pulled himself out of that.

  Then will you be coming home?

  I will.

  When Gaius walked into the apartment, Lucilla took in quickly that he had bathed and changed. He was in a white tunic that looked old and comfortable, with a civilian belt, and apparently unarmed. The back of his head was wet, since tough men rarely towel-dry their hair. They claim you cannot catch a cold that way, and are always surprised when they do.

  ‘Is it finished?’

  He merely grunted.

  ‘Do you want anything?’

  A shake of the head, only just short of annoyance. He went into his room, closing the doors. Their rules forbade her to follow.

  Lucilla addressed the dog clearly, so Gaius had to hear: ‘Bad grumpy Master! Anyone would think I had married him!’

  No sound came from inside the room, but perhaps he was grinning.

  Despite his refusal, she prepared him food: a segment of loaf, filled with sliced cooked meat and gherkins; half a cup of wine; a full beaker of water; figs in a saucer. With this snack on a small tray, she knocked firmly and, without waiting for permission, entered his sanctum.

  Gaius was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head down, completely slumped. Lucilla walked around him and placed the tray on a small table he had recently bought, marble, one leg shaped like a dolphin. The dog, who recognised a food tray, came in eagerly, claws scratching the wooden floorboards.

  ‘No, leave Master. Let him settle. Come on out; you are going to see Glyke.’

  Before she left, she brushed one hand briefly over Gaius’ clean, springy hair. ‘Ignore me then! I could dance off in a huff. But I’m just going to the baths, Gaius.’

  He had not moved. He was taut, morose, a man who had come in from his work, still worked up over a project he had hated. But that was temporary. Gaius would soon be himself again. Lucilla was tolerating this mood because she understood him; equally, he was allowing her to manage him because she had that understanding. They knew each other inside out, like people who already lived together.

  When the front door had closed behind her, Gaius raised his head, letting the silence of the apartment seep into him. His movements were slow, yet relaxed. He ate the bread and meat, though left the wine, also the figs, but gradually drained the whole beaker of water. Then he lay on his bed resting, while he waited for Lucilla to come home to him.

  There were two tacticians in their relationship. Now Lucilla not only left the watchdog with Glyke and Calliste in the shop, but made arrangements for the girls to forestall her clients tomorrow morning. They exchanged looks; she ignored that.

  She went through the baths hurriedly: warm room, hot steam, cold plunge. She strigilled the oil off for herself, talked to no one and refused the masseuse.

  Back at the apartment, all was quiet. No sound came from Gaius, though he had evidently been about. It was late enough to need light in the corridor so he had placed a pottery oil lamp on the shelf in front of the Lares. Lucilla lit another lamp, which she took to her room. She left the door open. Other than that she made no overtures to Gaius. The next move was up to him.

  When he appeared in the doorway, it was the first time, to Lucilla’s knowledge, he had ever seen her bedroom. Gaius smiled slightly, entering her private place. She watched him look around, inspecting everything. In his room, the bed was close against the wall, but Lucilla had hers positioned centrally, with purple and black striped rugs either side. There were rather good cupboards, with panelled doors, curved legs and pointed pedestals. A folding stool, composed of slats, sat in front of a side-table where she kept her personal cosmetics, pins, perfumes, combs and ornaments. The window shutters were half open. For his own reasons, Gaius went and closed them.

  She had not tidied specially. Things were neat but casual. Her clothes from today were piled on a chest, except a light undertunic she was still modestly wearing. She was lying on her bed, barefoot, ankles crossed, hands folded at her waist, as if she had just spent a long time thinking. She was lying on her hair too, its vibrant chestnut length well combed, but simply tied on the nape of her neck with a snaggle of blue ribbon. It was the first time for many years Gaius had seen her as she was, with neither face paints nor jewellery, and her hair only one tug away from flowing out freely.

  He too was now clad only in an unbleached undertunic, and shoeless. Seeing his bare feet for the first time, Lucilla rather liked them: the well-kept feet of a soldier who regularly practice-marched twenty miles and could not afford to get blisters. The tension had drained out of him, though he still looked weary. He tipped his head on one side and gave her a soft look while he said, ‘I would really like your company.’

  Lucilla nodded.

  Gaius came to the free side of her bed. He lay down alongside her, mimicking her pose with hands demurely folded. Neither was quite sure of the other, yet nothing seemed to need explaining.

  Lucilla’s bed possessed only one pillow. She had most of it. Masterful, Gaius pulled more to his side. Lucilla hoiked it back. Gaius reprised his tug. Lucilla gave in and angled her head towards him, so they were sharing.

  ‘Come here,’
said Gaius. ‘Come properly.’

  ‘Properly’ meant tucked up against his side with his arm around her and her head on his shoulder, nuzzling his neck, absorbing his warmth and his familiar scent. He had put back the weight and muscle he had lost as a prisoner. His ribs, hip and thigh were solid to lie against; the clasp of his arm, though casual, was strong.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

  ‘You were upset.’

  ‘No, I mean sorry about everything.’

  Lucilla hugged him closer. Then she stretched up, turned his face towards her with one palm, and kissed him quietly. Gaius was welcoming, though seemed restrained.

  Had he never recovered? Was he incapable? She feared the worst. He read her thoughts: ‘I don’t know. I never tried. I only wanted you.’

  Despite years of hairdressing gossip, Lucilla realised she had no idea how to deal with this. One false move could be fatal, she guessed. She let him lead.

  ‘Too tired.’ Gaius shelved the issue. ‘Here is my plan: we will lie here like this, cosy and comforting. In due course we’ll sleep. When we wake, we’ll do it.’

  Lucilla teased him: ‘Does everything in your life have to have an agenda?’

  ‘Nothing beats it,’ Gaius assured her gravely. He ticked off items: ‘Opening remarks. Snuggle. Sleep. Love you. Any other business

  …’

  Lucilla accepted it, settling against him as if this had been her place for years. His hand struggled under the neck of her tunic, not exploring, not sensual, simply seeking her shoulder’s bare skin. She curled her own hand lightly around his wrist. It was the touch of ownership, on both sides. They lay together, relieved, relaxed, contented, resting.

  Time passed. They did not sleep. Neither could bear to lose the intensity of this companionship.

  Gaius moved. It seemed more than a readjustment for comfort, and at Lucilla’s small murmur, he gathered her so they could kiss again. His lips tasting hers were positive; some decision had been reached. Her heartbeats speeded. Still mouth to mouth, Gaius rolled them, so Lucilla was in the position that would always be her favourite, feeling his weight on her. He was tender, appreciative, leisurely but purposeful. She had no doubt where he was taking them.

  As a master logistician, Gaius removed his clothes and hers, somehow without spoiling the moment. Taking his time, he positioned Lucilla and himself as he wanted them to be. ‘Never fear. The omens are promising.’

  ‘Omens?’ She kept it light. ‘You went to a priest, Gaius?’

  She felt him shudder; he had had enough priests at the Campus Sceleratus to last him a lifetime. ‘You sent me to a doctor.’

  ‘ Sent you?’

  ‘I’m obedient. Take the auguries yourself.’ He moved Lucilla’s hand down so she could see there was no problem now. She heard him gasp and felt him tense as she touched him. Neither could bear to wait.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  They gasped slightly, as they always would, at the moment they joined together. An exquisite welcome, which they would never take for granted.

  On that first return to each other, they made love as their ancestors the old Romans must have done, when the man came in weary from ploughing and the woman who tended his hearth welcomed him in their rustic bed before they slept. Nothing fancy, nothing too drawn out. The straightforward unashamed pleasure of two people who would share life as long as they were allowed to do so.

  There would be other times to be adventurous, for more extended passion, for raucousness and ribaldry. This was the uncomplicated, intimate communion of a couple who liked to end their day by expressing their love.

  27

  Light altered subtly throughout the apartment, although it was still dark. Outside, a bird began to trill a piercing and joyous soaraway song that suited Lucilla’s waking mood. The last few delivery carts trundled away into the distance, trying to beat the daylight curfew when wheeled vehicles had to leave the streets. The earliest workers were out in Plum Street, visiting the food shop on their way to menial jobs. Their voices came loud, seeming thoughtless, as if they had to be up and about, so why not others?

  Inside, everywhere lay still.

  Gaius, beside her, had curled on his side, facing away in such deep slumber that at one point Lucilla had wrapped herself around him, pressing against his back to listen to his lungs as if she needed to check he was still alive. She knew without asking, he had not slept so well for years; some long-held grief had slid away last night, to give place to healing.

  He sensed she had woken. Dragging himself from unconsciousness just enough, he struggled over towards her, flung arms around her, hauled her into his embrace, then sank back into further sleep. His warm palm was spread against her head, his fingers had run into her hair.

  Lucilla held him, shaking and overwhelmed with gratitude for what she now had. Gaius roused enough to make a small protest at her emotion, his fingertips stroking her temple until she too was soothed and began to sleep again.

  He came awake soon afterwards. He lay on watch, as the morning sun grew in strength to flood through gaps in the shutters, while street-sweepers came and went in Plum Street, then shoppers and people on business occupied the neighbourhood. For half an hour schoolchildren clamoured uninhibitedly on their way to lessons. Then the voices were less shrill. After a while, Gaius drowsed gently, waiting until Lucilla awoke so they could spend their day together.

  He was a happy man. It went beyond the morning bonhomie of any fellow who had screwed a girl he liked. He knew their lives had altered fundamentally. Still, he would have to exert himself to hang on to this — fight off all the other bastards, keep her permanently sweet — he was looking forward to the process. When she stirred, he greeted her with kisses, unable to stop smiling.

  At first they lay in silence, foreheads together, blissfully lost in their reconciliation. As they gazed like soulful doves, Lucilla realised she rarely thought of Gaius as one-eyed. She knew him so well she would read his expression, tell his thoughts, just as if he had two eyes to communicate like anybody else. Whether he was handsome or hideous did not matter either. All she loved came from his character.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Your action list got abandoned!’

  ‘Perfectly decent action list,’ declared Gaius. ‘I shall complete it.’ Lucilla smiled and Gaius enjoyed her benevolence like a dog lapping gravy. ‘Any agenda of mine,’ he offered, at his most cheerful, ‘always receives systematic treatment, item by item, as steered by a man who knows the lazy, incompetent bastards he is forced to deal with

  … Listen, sweetie, this is important stuff; stop tickling my balls for a moment — ’

  ‘Can you not be fondled and talk nonsense at the same time?’

  ‘Can’t concentrate. I am not a demigod… So: in my office there is an agreed programme, but other activity may be authorised, if I decide it necessary. Loving you last night was a special exercise. The agenda remains active. I will work through the damned thing. Clear?’

  ‘Perfectly. When does it start?’

  ‘About two heartbeats from now.’

  Then Gaius fulfilled his agenda in an orderly manner — with passion, inventiveness and the energy of a man who had had a thoroughly good night’s sleep.

  Later, they let half a morning go by, talking and teasing and languidly exploiting their first real chance to spend time together, with no pressure to do anything.

  While they were still in bed, Lucilla could not resist asking, ‘You said something outside the theatre that time, but you were angry — Was it true?’

  ‘This is what a grammarian would call “a question expecting the answer yes”. Let’s not play games. You know I love you.’

  Thinking of his dogged pursuit, how could Lucilla doubt it? She lay gazing up at the old wooden ceiling. ‘And are you going to ask me?’

  Gaius folded her hand into his, linking fingers. ‘You will tell me when you want to.’

  ‘That sound
s as if you think you already know.’

  ‘So am I very conceited?’

  ‘Not really. Just a trained observer.’

  Gaius had found the end of the blue ribbon; remarkably, its knot was still intact. Inevitably, he pulled it. He spread Lucilla’s shining hair, loosening it around her head, tenderly laying strands upon her shoulders.

  ‘Ironic,’ she concluded ruefully. ‘I devote my life to doing women’s hair, to make them attractive to their men — and all the time, what men really like best is hair worn long and loose, without adornment — ’

  ‘On a pillow!’ exclaimed Gaius enthusiastically.

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘Breakfast.’ Gaius pulled himself upright and sat on the edge of the bed, stretching what he must know was an impressive torso. ‘I have to get up. Traditionally, the boy in a family goes out for breakfast rolls.’

  Are we a family? ‘I meant-’

  ‘I know.’ Gaius stopped her. ‘I am not letting you get away this time.’ He rolled back and hung over her. He knew how uncertain Lucilla’s life had been, and how determined he himself was to avoid any more stupid mistakes. ‘Let’s get it over with. You need to know I am a permanent fixture; I need to know that if I nip off for a pee, you won’t disappear on me.’

  ‘Tell me what you want, Gaius.’

  ‘What do you think, love? I’ve been mooning after you so long, it’s all pretty obvious to me.’

  ‘No guesswork. Too many of my clients have come to grief through relying on presumption.’

  ‘You want a written agreement?’ Lucilla was amused to hear he sounded as if, had he had a waxed tablet here in the bed, he would have jotted contract notes. ‘Whatever you will agree to,’ Gaius said. ‘Whatever you choose to call it. I won’t push my luck; you made it clear, you think I’m a bad bet for marriage and I don’t blame you.. Just be my girl, Lucilla. Be kind, and let me be loving to you. When work permits, we shall be together. One bed, one hearth, one table — one bloody dog, who already thinks he owns us both. One life, one set of dreams.’