Nemesis - Falco 20

by Lindsey Davis

  ‘Well, he knew you were honest!’ said Maia, laughing a little. She had faith in me. I had never felt certain just how she regarded Pa. We were the two youngest in our family, long-time allies against the others; she was my favourite and held me in great affection. She had worked with my father because he had paid her, at a time when she had been desperate financially. Newly widowed then - - it was about three years ago - she appreciated being in a family business during that hard period. She needed the security. Pa, to do him justice, offered it. He railed against having a woman interfering yet he let her do much as she wanted as his office manager. He recognised how good she was at organisation. He also liked having one of his own privy to his secrets, rather than a hired hand or a slave. That was why he let Junia run Flora’s Caupona too, even though her attitude upset half the customers. And that, I suppose, was why he landed me with his will.

  I pulled it out. I held the tied and sealed tablets nervously between both hands, making no attempt to pull the strings undone. ‘So tell me about this, Maia.’ Maia just sniffed. ‘He rewrote it last week? Why was that?’

  ‘One of his whims. He sent for the lawyer straight after that drama-dealer, Thalia, came to see him at the Saepta.’

  ‘Thalia?’ That was unexpected.

  ‘You know the creature, I believe? She wears the shortest skirts in the Empire.’

  ‘And frolics suggestively with wild beasts.’

  ‘Who is this? Should I know her?’ Sitting on the end of Maia’s couch, his long legs crossed and his hands behind his head, Petronius showed himself keen for gossip. Maia kicked him, and he massaged the bare soles of her tired feet for her; neither really seemed aware they were doing it.

  I shrugged. ‘Have Helena and I not mentioned her? She’s a circus and theatre manager. Runs actors and musicians - does rather well. Her speciality is exotic animal acts. I do mean exotic! Her indecent dance with a python would make your eyes water.’

  A gleam came into Petro’s eyes. ‘I’d like to see that! But Marcus, my boy, I thought you gave up your fancy girlfriends!’

  ‘Oh I have; honest, legate! No, no; she’s a family friend. Thalia’s a good sort, though I hate her pesky snake, Jason. I could have done without her travelling to Alexandria with my damned father. She came to buy lions. Pa cadged a free ride on her ship. I believe that was the first time they met, and I can’t imagine they would have any business together back in Rome.’

  ‘Oh, they were close!’ Maia snorted. ‘They rushed into a closet with the door closed and there was some ghastly giggling. I did not take in a galley tray of almond fancies.’ She looked prudish. ‘When they emerged, Thalia seemed extremely happy with the outcome and our father positively glowed - the revolting way he did when some busty fifteen-year-old barmaid gave him a free drink.’

  Petronius winced. I just looked rueful. ‘Thalia’s a woman of the world, Maia, with her own money; she can’t have been scrounging. What she likes from men, insofar as she likes them for anything, is purely physical … What did Geminus say?’

  ‘Nothing. I could see he was bursting to make some grand pronouncement,’ Maia replied, ‘but the Thalia woman glared at him and for once he held his tongue. Immediately she left, the lawyer was booked, however. Next day Geminus went into a huddle with him. He couldn’t resist letting on he was playing with his will. Since he was dying to tell me the details, I refused to show any curiosity.’

  Like Maia, I hated to be manipulated into feeling any interest. I was exhausted. I decided I would have dinner here, sleep at the villa, then rise early to go home to Helena. I tossed the will on to a low table. ‘It will keep.’

  ‘My bet is, that will be a whole year’s work and twice as much trouble,’ Petronius warned.

  ‘Well, I’ll give it proper attention tomorrow. The timing must be a coincidence, Maia. I can’t imagine Thalia’s visit was connected.’

  Then Maia exclaimed, ‘Oh, Marcus. You can be such an innocent!’

  After Maia and Petronius left, the slaves found me something to eat and somewhere to sleep. I had to stop them putting me in my father’s room. Assuming his legal identity was bad enough. I drew the line at his bed.

  Food revived me. Pa always ate well. The excellent panpipe-player whootled gently for me too. I was ready to be irritated, but it was quite relaxing. He seemed surprised when I congratulated him on his arpeggios. It looked as if he was hanging around in case I required other services - not that my father would have stood for that. I dismissed the musician without rancour. Who knows what kind of debauched household he originally came from?

  Then, of course, I did what you or anyone else would have done: I opened up the tablets.

  IV

  My life changed for ever at that moment.

  My father’s will was quite short and surprisingly simple. There were no outrageous clauses. It was a routine family testament.

  ‘I, Marcus Didius Favonius, have made a will and command my sons to be my heirs.’

  So it was legally proper, but well out of date. Despite all the talk of revisions, this had been written long before he died - - twenty years ago, to be precise. It was soon after my father returned to Rome from Capua, where he had originally fled with his girlfriend when he left home, and when he set up again as an auctioneer here, trading under the new name of Geminus. Flora, the girlfriend, never had children. At that time ‘my sons’ meant my brother and me. Festus later died in Judaea. Clearly Pa, who had been close to him, had never been able to face writing him out.

  The customary seven witnesses had signed. They ought to be present again when the will was opened, but to Hades with that. Some names were vaguely familiar, business contacts, men of my father’s age. I knew that at least two had died in the intervening period. A couple came to the funeral.

  As was customary, the tablet named some people who might have had a claim but specifically disinherited them as main heirs: Pa chose to dispense with the equal treatment that the law would have given his four surviving daughters if, say, he had died intestate. I could see why he had never made my sisters aware this would happen. Their reaction would be vicious. The bastard must have imagined with enjoyment my discomfiture when I had to pass on the news.

  He left no instructions about making any slaves free. They too would be disappointed, though executors can be flexible. They were bound to know that, so they would continue canvassing me. I would take my time over making decisions.

  Next came a list of specific annuities to be paid out: quite a high figure to Mother, which surprised and pleased me. There were smaller sums for my sisters, so they had not been ignored completely. It was usually assumed married daughters had received their share of the family loot in their dowries. (What dowries? I could hear them all shriek.) Nothing had been done for Marina who, well after the will was made, became my brother’s lover and mother of a child who was presumed to be fathered by Festus. An enormous sum was earmarked for Flora, Pa’s mistress of two decades, though since she had died that no longer counted. I would keep quiet about it; there was no point upsetting Ma. After that, the rest went to the specified heirs: ‘my sons’. So with Festus dead, everything else my father had owned would come to me.

  I was seriously shocked. It was completely unexpected. Unless I uncovered enormous debts - - and I reckoned Pa was too canny for that - then he had bequeathed me a substantial amount.

  I tried to stay calm, but I was human. I began to reckon up mentally. My father had never owned much land - not land in the traditional Roman sense of rolling fields that could be ploughed and grazed and tended by battalions of rural workers, not land that counted formally towards social status. But this was a grand house in a splendid location, and he had owned another, even bigger villa on the coast below Ostia. I only discovered his place at Ostia last year, so there might be further properties he kept secret. The two I knew about were well staffed - - and house-trained slaves were valuable in themselves. Above all, these houses were furnished expensively -crammed to the r
afters with wonderful goods. I knew Pa kept instant-access funds in a chest bolted into the wall at the Saepta Julia and he had more money with a Forum banker; his cash flow rose and fell with the ups and downs of self-employment, much as my own did. However, throughout his life, his real investments followed his real interest: art and antiques.

  I looked around. This was merely a bedroom for casual visitors. It was lightly furnished, compared with the areas Pa used himself. Even so, the bed I was lolling on had intricate bronze fittings, a well-upholstered mattress supported on decent webbing, a striking wool coverlet and tasselled pillows. There was a heavy folding stool in the room, like a magistrate’s. An old Eastern carpet hung on one wall on a runner that had gilded finials. On a shelf - - which was grey-veined marble, with polished onyx ends - - stood a row of ancient south Italian vases that would sell for a figure big enough to feed a family for a year.

  This was one unimportant room. Multiply it by all the other rooms in at least two large houses, plus whatever stock was crammed into various warehouses and the treasures currently on display at Pa’s office in the Saepta … I began to feel light-headed.

  Complete upheaval faced me. Nothing in my life could ever be as I had expected: neither my life, nor the lives of my wife and my children. If this will was genuine, and it was the latest version, and if my brother Festus really had died in the desert (which was undeniable, because I had spoken to people who saw it happen), then I would be able to live without anxiety for the rest of my days. I could give my daughters dowries lavish enough to secure them consuls, if they wanted idiots as husbands. I could stop being an informer. I need never work again. I could waste my life being a benefactor of out-of-the-way temples and playing at patron to dim-witted poets.

  My father had not just made me his legal representative. He had left me a great fortune.

  V

  The morning after the funeral I returned home at first light. After only a few hours’ sleep I felt drained. My house still lay quiet. I crawled on to a couch in a spare room, unwilling to disturb Helena. It was still barely a day since her labour and loss. But by then she had been told about my father, so was on the alert. Just as she always heard my return from late-night surveillances, Helena roused herself and found me. I felt her drop a coverlet over me, then she slid under it too. She was still distraught over the baby, but now the greater need was to comfort me. Our love held strong. Extra trouble brought us back close. For a time we lay side by side, holding hands. Too soon, the dog snuffled in and found us, then we began the slow slide back to normality.

  When I told Helena she had married better than she thought and might be about to acquire a stupendous dress allowance, she sighed. ‘He never mentioned his intentions, but I always suspected it. When you raged at him, I think Geminus enjoyed secretly knowing that one day he would give you all this. Because you are a realist you would accept his generosity … He loved you, Marcus. He was very proud of you.’

  ‘It’s too much.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘I can say no to it.’

  ‘Legally.’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘You won’t. Just say yes, then give it away if you feel that way later.’

  ‘It will ruin my life.’

  ‘Your life is in your own hands, just as it always was. You won’t change,’ Helena said. ‘You need to work. It is what you enjoy: grappling with puzzles that no one else will undertake and righting society’s wrongs. Don’t become a man of leisure; you’ll go mad - - and you’ll drive the rest of us crazy.’

  I pretended to think she just wanted reasons to pack me out of the house every morning as before. But she knew that I accepted she was right.

  During the nine days of mourning, Helena and I told everyone that ‘in the style of the divine Emperor Augustus and his unparalleled wife Livia’, we would not be seen in public. Platitudes always work. Nobody considered that we regarded Augustus and Livia as two-faced, double-dealing, power-mad manipulators.

  After the nine days, we could both just about face people again. Helena Justina was beside me at the feast, when I returned to the Janiculan.

  I knew what the funeral feast would be like. I thought the day would hold no surprises. Even more hangers-on managed to bring themselves up the hill than had struggled there for the cremation. Free food, free drink, and the chance to hear or pass on gossip, brought fools out in flocks. Relatives we had forgotten were ours somehow turned up. Mother’s brothers, Fabius and Junius, who were rarely seen together because they feuded so tenaciously, both came all the way from the Campagna; at least they brought root vegetables as presents, unlike the other shiftless guests. If they had ulterior motives they were too dumb to say. I thought Fabius and Junius were simply acknowledging the end of an era that only they and Ma now remembered.

  I had primed my more reliable nephews - restless Gaius, overweight Cornelius, sensible Marius - - to pass among the throng, muttering that there were far more debts than anticipated and that I might refuse to be the heir … It held off some of the graspers from overt begging.

  Together Helena and I went through the motions of hosting the banquet. Stuffing merrily, people were no trouble. As the long meal drew to a close, I watched the tall and stately Helena Justina pass among the guests with my secretary, Katutis, at her shoulder. He was new. I had acquired a trained Egyptian scribe at just the right moment. He was thrilled to have deaths in the family; it provided more work than I found for him normally. While Helena prised out people’s names, Katutis busily wrote them all down in level Greek script in case I needed to know later. I was nervous that some of Pa’s dubious business arrangements might jump up and bite. Helena had also pointed out several women who looked like off-duty barmaids, flaunting their best outfits and seemingly unaware that mourning women should leave off their jewellery. These blowsy, bulging dames might just be good-hearted old friends of my social papa; perhaps they adored him as a lovable rogue who left good tips by his empty winecup. Or they could have deeper motives. Helena was collecting their data along with details of all those old men who felt no need to explain who they were, as they called me Young Marcus and tapped their bulbous red noses as if we shared enormous secrets.

  As we went about our duties, Helena murmured, ‘I have said we are hoping for a mention in the Daily Gazette society column: Seen at a banquet in his elegant Janiculan villa to celebrate the life of much-admired man-about-the-Forum, Marcus Didius Favonius, were the following persons of note … Now watch the would-be persons of note rush up to help Katutis spell their names right.’

  ‘I don’t want Pa in the news.’

  ‘No, darling. Why alert the tax authorities?’ Helena’s voice was thin, but she was regaining her sense of humour. Inheritance tax is five per cent, paid into the Treasury’s military fund. The army was going to like me a lot.

  I had used my mourning period for the traditional purpose of starting to inventory the legacy. For most people nine days is enough to cover this formality; I had barely tickled the edge.

  Supposedly incommunicado, I had worked like a bath-house stoker among Pa’s many possessions. I set aside the least desirable items to sell to pay the tax. I also established with Gornia that we would auction some stuff that would either fail to sell, or sell for a disappointing amount; this would show picky officials that my inventory valuations were blamelessly modest. A citizen is obliged to pay his taxes, but may adopt any legal measures to minimise the damage. I knew all about that. I had been Vespasian’s Census fixer. I investigated every variation of fiscal fraud and tax-dodging - and I now planned to use my experience. Pa would expect it.

  I had had an interesting chat with a treasury official about whether, if I sold goods at auction, I must pay the one per cent auction tax on top of the five per cent for inheritance; you can guess his answer.

  ‘Thalia is here; have you seen her, Marcus?’

  ‘I glimpsed her.’ She was lurking at the far end of a table, looking more wrapped up and respectable
than usual. ‘Nice of her to hang back and not bother us.’ In fact her demure behaviour had set up anxiety.

  ‘I shall have a word!’ Helena declared, making me oddly apprehensive.

  As she paraded through the guests, Helena identified the surviving witnesses to Father’s will: four of those shaky old fellows who had grasped my hand interminably. I made sure they each had a drink poured from the special amphora of Falernian, which probably shortened their lives by several months; it flowed like rich olive oil and was dangerously potent. Their presence allowed me to read out the will formally. I pretended the contents came as news to me; nobody was fooled. A restrained silence fell. My sisters heard their fates without making a public scene, but assumed foreboding expressions. Ma was too heavily veiled for anyone to see her reaction. She had seemed quiet all day, as if losing the old devil at last had knocked all the spirit out of her.

  Soon afterwards, people began to leave. Helena told me it was because I was viewed as tight-fisted. ‘Everybody is whispering that things would have been very different - - they mean, more money for them - if Festus had survived.’

  That suited me. But many just went because the food and drink were running out. There had been plenty. Some of it was going home in people’s pockets. Anyone who brought their own napkin made sure they took it away laden.

  ‘I swear there were some “grieving friends” who came with little baskets specially,’ I complained to Maia. Then I noticed her basket.

  ‘Marcus, darling, I’m family. Any leftover egg-and-anchovy tart is mine!’ She backed down slightly. ‘You don’t want waste, do you?’

  Helena had identified my father’s lawyer. Once we were freed from saying farewells in the portico, she brought him to me indoors.

  He was surprisingly young, twenty-five or so. He introduced himself as Septimus Parvo. His accent was decent, though not screamingly aristocratic; it sounded as if he had learned how to speak from an elocution teacher, after a plebeian upbringing. His dress was neat, his manner polite. He told me he avoided cut-throat court cases at the Basilica Julia, instead working as a backstreet family lawyer.