The Gods Help Those

by Albert A. Bell

  Pompeia’s house is on the other side of the Caelian Hill. She and Livia had come over here in Pompeia’s litter, which was gone now. Mine is smaller. It can be carried by four men. I hated to send any of my servants out on such a useless errand, but if it would get Livia out of my house, I had to do it. I would send a different group than the ones who had accompanied me to the warehouse; they had been subjected to enough of this miserable weather for one day.

  “Let’s get everyone inside, out of the rain,” I said, “and I’ll take care of it. We need dry clothes and something to eat.”

  Mother seemed to notice my wet tunic for the first time. “Why, yes. You look like you fell into a puddle. And, Cornelius Tacitus, you must have been rolling around in the mud.”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  We found a clean tunic that would fit Tacitus, although one without the stripe, and he and I, after washing up, sat down in my library to drink some warm broth, eat some bread and cheese, and talk over the day’s events.

  “I’m not sure which is more surprising,” Tacitus said, “the collapse of your warehouse, the death of our putative equestrian friend, or Regulus’ generosity.”

  “The first is a natural phenomenon, the second is a mystery I hope to solve, but the last is absolutely inexplicable. Regulus doesn’t do anything without some motive that leads to a benefit for himself.”

  “Does his interest in the baby strike you as odd?”

  I dipped a piece of bread in my broth. “Exceedingly. I wasn’t about to let him get the child into his house, but I don’t understand what some cast-off infant means to him.”

  “If the child is a castoff.” Tacitus swirled his broth around in the cup before taking another sip. “One or two of those people in the warehouse could be his parents.”

  “But why was he hidden under those blankets?”

  “That is only one of several questions you have to answer, my friend. What do you intend to do about the child?”

  “I’ll let him stay here as a kind of guest for the time being, I suppose. I don’t believe his chances of survival are very good. You saw how small he is. He can’t be more than a month or two old and hasn’t been well cared for, I would say.”

  “So many children in Rome die in infancy,” Tacitus said quietly. “We seem to hear of another one every day, and that’s just among the people we know.”

  I knew he was thinking of the child his wife, Julia, had lost at birth. My own mother lost a child in the same way when I was too young to understand what had happened. “It’s always been that way, sadly. Remember Cornelia, mother of the Gracchi. She had twelve children, and only three survived.”

  Tacitus clapped me on the shoulder. “Yes, my friend, but those children didn’t have Aurora to care for them. You couldn’t see her face when we dragged her out of that water. She wouldn’t even let me take the baby from her to make it easier to pull her out.”

  “But it’s not her baby.”

  “Gaius, she lost a child and now she’s found one. I strongly suspect that he’ll be hers—and therefore yours—for as long as you live. Whatever you do, don’t let her name it.”

  I snorted. “It’s my house. I’ll have something to say about what happens to the child, don’t you think?”

  He shook his head. “Not if you’re smart.”

  “But we don’t know anything about the child. Is he slave or free?”

  “Such cases don’t come up every day,” Tacitus said, “but in the ones I’m familiar with, where a child’s status is uncertain the law tends to favor freedom. Better to mistakenly free the child of a slave than enslave the child of a free man. This might even be the child of the stranger with the stripe. If I were arguing this case, I would point out that none of the people in that building showed any signs of slave status—no brands, no manacles, no marks from a whip. The woman who survived has hands that show no sign of heavy work.”

  “I hope she’ll recover enough to help us sort this out—and soon. The disfigured mouth, the lack of a signet ring, and the tattered stripe are most puzzling. Someone who wears the equestrian stripe is certain to have a signet.”

  Tacitus took a sip of his broth. “Whoever killed him must have stolen it when they sewed his lips together. Having a man’s signet would allow someone to falsify documents. You use your uncle’s ring. If you weren’t the upstanding person that you are, you could put that seal on letters that purport to come from him. Petronius went so far as to break his signet ring before he committed suicide to keep Nero from using it to incriminate people. We all worry about that.”

  I chuckled. “Leave it to you to bring in a historical example.”

  “You mentioned Cornelia and her children.”

  “Well, yes, I guess I did.”

  “That’s what history is for, isn’t it—to teach us what to do and what not to do?”

  “I thought it was to help us get to sleep at night by providing such boring reading.”

  Tacitus sat back, obviously offended by my jab at his favorite type of book. “Perhaps I should write some history, just to show you how interesting it can be.”

  “You’re an orator, not a historian, and a fine one.” He seemed mollified.

  We fell silent for a moment, until an idea occurred to me. “This may be outlandish, but what if the man was being held for ransom by the others in the warehouse? They might have taken his ring to send to his family as proof that they had him.”

  “That’s certainly been known to happen,” Tacitus said, “but he wasn’t restrained in any way. And none of them had a signet of any kind.”

  “Perhaps there’s another person involved, someone who wasn’t in the warehouse when it collapsed. Maybe he was out trying to collect ransom.”

  “But, if they were hoping for ransom, why was the man killed?”

  My shoulders slumped as I felt the weight of these questions pressing down on me. “I want to go back to the warehouse, if there’s anything left of it. We didn’t get a chance to examine the place thoroughly. But the first thing I have to do is find out what’s in his mouth.”

  When I opened the door of the library I almost ran into Pompeia, standing with one hand raised, ready to knock. She is short and heavyset, like my wife. Livia has learned to soften her appearance by wearing lighter colors and less makeup. Pompeia, unfortunately, must use a mason’s trowel to paint her face and favors bold colors like the scarlet stola she was wearing now.

  “My lady, what can I do for you?” I asked.

  “Gaius, I…I think I should go back to my house, to be with Livia. She was so upset when she left here.”

  I tried not to show my pleasure. “Yes, that sounds like a good idea. I’m sorry that my concern over this matter distresses her so much.”

  “Before I leave, could I talk to you?” She glanced at Tacitus and at the door. “In private?”

  Tacitus nodded to her and headed for the garden. “Let me know when you’re ready to go back to the warehouse,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Why are you going down there?” Pompeia asked as we entered the library and I closed the door behind us.

  “I want to look the place over once more, before it all falls into the Tiber. If I’m to understand what happened to that man, I need to know as much as possible about the place where it happened.”

  “Well, the warehouse is one thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

  I knew it wasn’t the building but her investment in it that concerned her. “I assure you that you will get your money back. It may take me a couple of days to raise the full amount, but you will have it.”

  “I have every confidence in you, Gaius. The money does mean a lot to me, I must admit. I’m not a wealthy woman, and I was looking forward to earning some interest on that investment.”

  “I was anticipating about a twenty-five-percent return,” I said. “I will pay you that in addition to returning your money.”

  Pompeia drew in a quick breath and put her hand over he
r bosom. “That would be wonderful! Thank you, Gaius. But how can you afford it?” She sat down at the table where Tacitus and I had just been sitting.

  “You needn’t worry about that.” I sat down across from her, already trying to calculate where I could draw together seventy-five thousand sesterces in only two days. “You said the money was one thing you wanted to talk about. What else is on your mind?”

  Pompeia folded her hands on the table in front of her and sighed heavily. “It’s Livia. I’m worried about her.”

  I sat back in surprise. “Is she ill?”

  “Not that I know of. I worry about her because she’s so unhappy, and I don’t know what I can do to make her feel better.”

  “I’m sorry that I, as her husband, have not been able to make her happy.” I almost choked on the words.

  “It’s not your fault. She recently confided in me about how her first husband treated her, what he demanded of her and inflicted on her.” Pompeia kept her eyes down, and her voice softened, showing her trouble in talking about a difficult subject. “When I arranged that marriage, I had no idea Liburnius was such a monster.” She looked up at me. “Has she said anything to you about it?”

  “Enough that I understand…and sympathize. I hope you know that I would never treat her—or any woman—in such a fashion.”

  Pompeia took my hands in hers. “Dear boy, of course you would never be capable of such a thing. Poor Livia has had so much misfortune in her life. She adored her father, and he doted on her. When he died, it was a great loss to her, greater than it was for me, I think. I don’t believe she’s ever fully recovered from it. And perhaps I haven’t been as kind and understanding a mother as I should have been.”

  If I ever needed an example of an understatement, there it was. Everyone had seen Pompeia criticize Livia harshly and compare her—always unfavorably—to her younger sister, the child of Pompeia’s second husband. “It’s difficult for me to console her. I assume she said something to you about the conditions she has imposed on our marriage as a result of her experience with Liburnius.”

  “Yes, and I’m sorry. I know your mother desperately wants a grandchild, and Livia is unwilling to do her duty. That must disappoint you, too, even though she’s no great beauty, and that’s the gods’ own truth. I wouldn’t blame you if you divorced her and found someone else. You would be within your legal rights.”

  “We’re young, and we have time. Anything could happen.” I had to pretend that I didn’t know my mother was dying. From Pompeia’s expression I could see that she knew, but my mother must have told her not to say anything to me. “I have no intention of divorcing Livia. I would not embarrass her or you.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that,” Pompeia said.

  It wasn’t that I would not divorce Livia. I could not. She had threatened to spread calumnies about Aurora and me if I did so. I could not risk letting her embarrass my family—my mother in particular—like that. Divorcing her would also impose a heavy financial penalty on me because I would have to return her dowry, which I had invested.

  I stood, signaling an end to the conversation. “I need to get back down to the warehouse.”

  Pompeia stood and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “Your mother is quite enchanted with this baby you’ve pulled out of the Tiber. As soon as the nurse was finished feeding him, Plinia insisted on holding him until he fell asleep. I think she and your girl Aurora are going to have to learn to share him.”

  “Your girl” was the kindest thing Pompeia had ever said about Aurora, whom she blames for the difficulties in my marriage to Livia. Although Pompeia, who has twice been widowed, is my mother’s cousin, I had little contact with her while I was growing up. During those years she preferred to live on her estate at Narnia, north of Rome, and my mother and I moved around with my uncle. My relationship with Pompeia has always felt…wintry. Maybe, I thought, this was the beginning of a new season.

  The rain was letting up as Tacitus and I crossed the garden to the storage room where we had stashed the man with the equestrian stripe. I was carrying a knife to cut the threads that had been sewn through his lips. Tacitus had sent a servant to his house to fetch a clean tunic. His wife, Julia, had brought it herself. She and Aurora, who are about the same age, have become friends, in spite of the differences in their social status, and Julia wanted to hear about Aurora’s harrowing escape and see the baby she had saved. Julia lost a child right after its birth two years ago. She and Tacitus have not yet been able to have another.

  We couldn’t help but hear the chatter of the women who had gathered around the baby, as though they had nothing else to do. The foundling had immediately become the center of attention for my mother and all the other women in my house. Merione’s nursing of him had to take place in the exhedra, where there was enough room for everyone to watch and be out of the rain.

  “It amuses me,” Tacitus said, “to see how women go into ecstasies over a baby, even one that’s not their own.”

  “Wasn’t it Xenophon who said that the gods gave women a stronger attraction to children than men have, because it’s up to the women to raise them?”

  “I suppose there’s a lot of truth to that.” Tacitus sounded wistful.

  “Do you still think about the child you and Julia lost?”

  “Once in a while, especially, like today, when I see another baby and see how Julia reacts. What about you? Do you think about Aurora’s child?”

  “Probably not as much as you do about Julia’s.” I wanted to word my answer carefully. “Remember, I only found out about the child at the moment when Aurora had the miscarriage. There was no anticipation, no build-up of expectations. It was all very unreal to me. I know the experience has changed her, though. Her mood is often like this weather.”

  Tacitus looked up at the clouds. “Women are like that anyway, aren’t they? I believe it was Semonides who said their moods change like the sea, from peaceful and calm to stormy, without any warning.”

  “Aurora has never been that unpredictable, but I’ve definitely noticed a change. At times she seems to sink within herself.”

  “Julia was that way when our baby died. For a month she hardly got out of bed. Give Aurora time. She won’t ever be the same, but she will become more like her old self. It has taken me some time to accept the loss, too, as I’m sure it has you.”

  I tested the blade of the knife on my thumb as I thought about my response. “I grieved the loss of the child, of course, but his birth and survival would have brought us enormous complications, unlike the joy you and Julia would have experienced. I try to focus on work and business.”

  I had assigned Aurora’s husband, Felix, to watch the door of the storage room. He stood as we approached. There probably wasn’t any reason to post a guard on a dead man, but in the last few years I’ve learned to expect the unexpected—even a dead man can disappear—and to try to take precautions.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  “Yes, my lord.” Felix smiled. “He’s a very quiet fellow. He raises a stench, but he is quiet.”

  “I certainly hope so.” Tacitus knew what I meant, but Felix looked at me as though I was babbling. I felt some relief when I opened the door and saw the man lying where we had put him. As I pulled back the blanket covering him, the smell made my eyes water. Tacitus stayed close to me, but Felix retreated to the doorway. I resolved to act quickly. I sent Felix to get a bucket to catch whatever fell out of this man’s mouth.

  “Now,” I said, cutting the threads and touching the man as little as possible, “let’s see what’s puffing his cheeks out. Whatever it is, it’s hard.”

  People like Regulus, who enjoy flaunting their wealth, like to present their dinner guests with animals stuffed with all sorts of unexpected items—a roast boar crammed full of live chicks, for instance. I’m not sure what I’d expected to find now, but it wasn’t the denarii and the maggots that began dropping out of the man’s mouth. I didn’t want to touch the small silve
r coins, so I let them plop into the bucket.

  “Get me a bag of some kind,” I told Felix, “and something to clean these things off with. Some water and some wine, I think.”

  By the time Felix returned with a bowl of water mixed with wine, a cloth, and a leather bag, the cascade of coins had stopped. A few more maggots crawled around his mouth. I could tell that some coins were still lodged in the back of the man’s mouth and throat, so I pried them out with my knife. Without being told, Felix gathered them up, dropped them in the water and wine, and wiped them with the cloth. As he placed them in the bag we counted them.

  “Thirty denarii,” Tacitus said as we finished. “Are you sure that’s all?”

  Expressing silent apologies, I probed around in the man’s mouth with my knife. “That’s all.”

  “Thirty denarii?” Tacitus jingled the coins in the little bag. “Why thirty and why denarii? It’s a piddling sum.”

  Felix had stepped closer to the door, showing signs of revulsion at the smell that permeated the small room and at the sight of the maggots. “It’s more than enough, my lord, to pay Charon for the soul’s passage across the river Styx, although I think the old boatman might demand more for this stinking cargo.” He disappeared and we heard him vomiting.

  “It is an odd sum,” I said, trying not to step on the wriggling maggots that had fallen to the floor. “The myths say that Charon expects only one small coin in a dead man’s mouth. Thirty denarii is more like a month’s wages for a laborer.”

  “But hardly significant for a man wearing the equestrian stripe.”

  The man’s open mouth allowed another vent for the stench of his rotting body to escape. I threw the blanket back over him and Tacitus and I escaped into the garden, where we found Felix leaning against a tree.

  “I’m sorry, my lord. I couldn’t help myself.” He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. “I’ll clean this up immediately.”