Graveyard of the Hesperides (19 page)

Not only Tiberius, but all his workforce ought to be at the house now. I had a sudden inkling that he had looked discreetly through a grille, could not bear to face the brother-in-law, so told the workmen to stay quiet while he hid inside … “Are our doors beautifully painted now?” I asked serenely. “Tiberius has gone to endless trouble choosing the color scheme…”

“That's hardly the point,” Antistius growled.

Until now I had not felt domestic, but I found myself hoping these visitors had not touched our doors while they were wet and permanently smudged them with fingermarks. It would be sickening to remember Antistius every time I got out my door key.

Nevertheless, I knew what I must do. I smiled as if I meant it, gushing how thrilled we would be to go to the sought-after concert by the extremely famous cithara player. I can be charming. My mother taught me. If you can act, it is easy, at least with people who have never met you before.

Luckily we were all distracted then. I had misjudged Trypho, our night watchman, when I assumed he had not been on guard. Now he hove into view, limping down the street, with blood all over him. Ignoring my future relatives with a fine sense of who mattered, he told me that he had found an intruder wrecking the works, so he had beaten up the man, then chased him off.

“What did he look like? Will you know him again, Trypho?”

“He'll have a smashed nose. You bet I will.”

“Good. Come and be mopped up. Fania Faustina, do please excuse me while I attend to this emergency in your brother's absence…”

It would have been good to think my new in-laws were impressed by the competence and composure of the bride who was joining their family. But they just made it an excuse to scamper into their litter, then order its bearers to hare off.

 

XXXI

It is generally accepted that the cithara is an extremely demanding instrument. To most people that means it is difficult to play. Even those who adore its softly stroked strings in the hands of a skilled performer may find themselves in a situation where enduring the music is hard. I mean, when dragged to a concert by people you don't know.

At least a promised couple can sit together and discreetly hold hands. If Tiberius began dozing, I could squeeze his paw to keep him more or less awake. If my head lolled upon his shoulder, he could shake me upright.

It started not too badly, as we were preoccupied by disrupting everyone else while we took our seats. Originally we were even joined by Uncle Tullius; his niece and family did not omit inviting their host. However, Tullius took one horrified look at the stairs we were to climb, then beetled off to buy himself another ticket; he ensconced himself among the business community in their excellent seats lower down and we never saw him again all night. Everyone else was slightly relieved.

Fania Faustina thought my sisters were lovely. Her husband too was giving them the eye. Julia and Favonia pretended not to have noticed, though there would be a lot of giggling back at home in private. For now, their whispered discussion was all about ghastly young men in the audience.

My mother clearly felt Tiberius' Aunt Valeria was sensible and not half as tricky as she had been painted. Shawled up and reeking of liniment, Valeria knew when to fetter her bile; she could play the sweet old lady, she just didn't believe in doing it. She had managed to win my parents' good opinion so tomorrow she could shuttle to their house. She did foolishly say she could only stomach a little light gruel for breakfast, to which Mother responded gaily that mornings were casual at our house. Auntie Valeria was welcome to visit the kitchen and brew up her own gruel just the way she liked it.

My father loudly said they had no room for anyone else. They did, but the three small boys were whiny and Falco prides himself on intolerance. It had been claimed the little boy in-laws were keen to meet my brother Postumus. That was before someone told their parents he had just been sent home in disgrace after a foray into the Circus of Gaius and Nero while in the custody of his birth mother, a snake dancer. His visit had ended abruptly when he involved himself in the escape of a lion, a fire, an accidental death, financial strife and several divorces. He was a lonesome child, who liked adventures.

Our side made jokey comparisons between the ancient Theater of Marcellus, the concert venue, and the circus that Postumus had supposedly burned down. Postumus maintained it had only been a little fire and was all the lion's fault. Fania Faustina and Antistius expressed alarm, while we all smiled mysteriously.

My weird little brother was to be in charge of their precious boys in my bridal procession. They would carry flaming torches, a tradition that could so easily go wrong. Postumus assessed his proposed team with cold unfathomable eyes. That was how he looked at everyone, though the Antistii seemed worried that their innocent heirs were being consigned to a maniacal tyrant. They missed the point. My brother, who was twelve but had grand ideas, believed the wedding was for his personal glory. He intended to run the torchlit walk smoothly, to reflect well on him. If the three whiners failed to meet his standards, they were out.

Plectrum-wielding intervened, thank you divine Apollo of the golden hair and lovely sandals.

The cithara music was amazingly beautiful and transporting, or so said the commentator who introduced the repertoire. Many of the audience did assume attitudes of being carried away by rapture. Not our lot. Most were still muttering in undertones, unaware that the concert had started.

I smiled at Tiberius. He smiled at me.

Gazing up at the theater's fine architecture as announcers told us we would be treated to the poignant Phrygian and mournful Hypodorian modes, I drifted into my own reverie. My relatives settled down, after other members of the audience clucked reproaches.

We were in one of the largest theaters in the world, at least it had been until the Emperor Vespasian created the Flavian Amphitheater to outshine them all. Coolly clad in travertine, it had ancient grandeur, with elegant arches on each of three classic pillared tiers and its upper level decorated with huge marble theater masks. The building was fitted with the usual ramps and tunnels that enabled spectators to leave the theater rapidly, though of course one was expected to remain in one's seat during the performance or be deemed a barbarian. The stone seats were surprisingly comfortable, especially if you had the forethought to bring a cushion.

Vespasian had restored the stage, which had been damaged in the civil war that brought him to power. The stage fronted the river; our seats were a long way from it. We were right at the top, which was why we could be seated men and women together, because the Antistii had inadvertently bought tickets for the women's and slaves' tier. For an intimate musical evening to hear a delicate instrument, this was not good. We could never see the player's skillful hands, and despite generally excellent acoustics, we could not hear even the manly and stirring Dorian mode that is supposed to inspire soldiers going into battle.

I don't think so. How can an army be fired up by the gentle twiddles of a one-man harp? Have no musicologists ever seen, let alone heard, the racket of a legion marching?

The cithara maestro's hands slithered on his seven strings—or more than seven when he deftly changed instruments to demonstrate what a sterling virtuoso he was. I thought I liked music, but I had never been trained to understand it. Although my father inherited a panpipes player from Grandpa, we rarely had other instruments or singing in our house. We dealt in ideas, expressed with words. That could be colorful enough. Grandpa's panpipes player ran away, feeling unappreciated.

Struggling to hear the faint and far-off beauteous improvisations gave me plenty of time to reflect. Ignoring my relatives, both old and new, I realized I was seeing another aspect of Rome from the street life around the Ten Traders. Here we had monumental imperial architecture, refined entertainment, a boisterous family group on the eve of a wedding. We were well-fed, well-off people enjoying a leisure experience, or at least enjoying it in theory. Our young were full of hope and privilege. Our old were cared for and brought among us, even those who made it plain they would rather be somewhere else, sipping gruel.

Stertinius received loud applause, which woke up anyone who had dozed off. At the interval Aunt Valeria admitted she was tone-deaf; also, the three little boys were bored, so they all went home. Tiberius was obliged to go down and help find them transport. Luckily litter-bearers do form a queue outside at the midway point of concerts because they know there will always be people who have had enough. Even the fabulous Stertinius could not please everyone.

Those of our party who lacked an excuse to leave were able to spread ourselves on the narrow upper-tier seats. Antistius tried to get to sit with my sisters, but Father deftly outmaneuvered him, claiming this was a rare opportunity for a fond old papa to enjoy the company of his girls. Julia and Favonia rolled their eyes, but knew exactly what their watchful parent was doing.

My mother closed her eyes and seemed to pay close attention to the gorgeous cithara. She had wrapped an affectionate arm around Postumus, which stopped him getting up and wandering off, as he liked to do. I watched how Helena Justina handled this whole stressful situation. With a vague smile, Mother let chaos carry on, provided there was no bloodshed or hysteria—or not too much. She was a good wife and mother but would not be overwhelmed by others' clamorous demands; she subtly detached herself mentally. Helena led her chosen life. I made a note to do the same.

My father saw me observing her so thoughtfully. As was our habit, I winked at him before he could get in first and wink at me. Tiberius noticed that.

The fabulous Stertinius treated us to a lengthy set in sensual Hypolydian. Good little bride that I was, for the benefit of my in-laws, I managed to appear entranced.

 

28 August

Five days before the Kalends of September (a.d. V Kal. Sept.)

Three days before the wedding of Tiberius Manlius Faustus and Flavia Albia

 

XXXII

Tiberius and I scuttled off from the concert, claiming we had to rush back to the Garden of the Hesperides. I had gone to the Aventine before the concert to tell him of the damage and to pick up a formal outfit from my apartment. I would have seen for myself the famous newly painted front doors, but a protective cover hid the porch. I never saw inside the house either; I could not concentrate on frescoes. Later, I warned myself that many a new wife has a bad shock on discovering her man's taste in art.

At the end of the evening, before our relatives could suggest following the concert with a getting-to-know-you nightcap, we floated our “Hesperides emergency” excuse, and then, unknown to anyone else, we fled up the Aventine and stayed at Fountain Court that night.

“I know my brother-in-law quite well enough already!” grouched Tiberius. He realized I too had had enough of Antistius. Our agreeing over such idiots reminded me of my parents. They would put on a polite face in public, then later see who could devise the most killing insults. I would have started to teach Tiberius to play that game, but so far I was pretending to be a sweet wife, the peacemaker in our home.

Tiberius was perhaps not fooled.

*   *   *

Next day we woke at first light. We had breakfast at the Stargazer, our usual haunt, then made our way over to the Argiletum while decent shopkeepers were still emptying out water buckets to wash the pavement and sweeping off their frontages. Scents of new bread and fresh flowers filled the air.

Yesterday, after I told him about the damage, Tiberius had been thoroughly depressed, though as was his way he held back from exploding until he had seen it. He had sent a message from the aediles' office to ask the Third Cohort to exercise that slippery commodity “extra vigilance.” This was to apply both at the bar and also at Mucky Mule Mews where burglars had been chased off. The security measures Tiberius requested meant that, certainly at the Hesperides, a few members of the vigiles sat outside all night. In their eyes, they were making their presence felt to keep an aedile happy. If anyone had been so foolish as to try a new invasion of the premises, they would probably just have said hello.

When we arrived in the morning they had gone. However, there was a draftboard drawn on the pavement, lots of crumbs and an empty amphora to prove we had had protection last night. An extremely sordid pigeon was gobbling the crumbs. We shooed him away despondently.

Tiberius found Trypho in the courtyard with Serenus, hammering the benches back together. Having proper seats to sit on and moan was their priority. Reinstating the works could wait until the others arrived. In fact, I knew it would wait until they had arrived, taken a gloomy look around, discussed what had happened in endless, ponderous detail and then gone out to buy breakfast to take their minds off the calamity.

I watched how Tiberius tackled this. The spoliation clearly made him furious but he wasted no time complaining. Looking pale (which could be the after-effect of an evening spent with relatives), he surveyed the scene. He jumped on spoil heaps, clambered into what remained of the trench, prodded, kicked the ruined concrete, tossed timber aside. Then he fetched out a note tablet and quietly began making a list of what could be salvaged, what had to be rebuilt and the order in which his men should tackle everything. He was set-faced, yet a practical man who simply began repairs. Larcius arrived. Tiberius handed him the list. The foreman read it, then nodded his approval.

Trypho's bruises were coloring up well. We said he looked like a painted Greek temple. Tiberius quizzed him about the man he had taken on. According to Trypho it was a giant with leather wrist guards, an urban Hercules. “That's appropriate,” I said, indicating the bar's signboard. Trypho stared blankly.

At that point, I had no doubt that the perpetrators of the Hesperides damage were Menendra's surly bodyguards. It seemed logical. I would have liked to link them to the attempted break-in at Mucky Mule Mews but nobody had seen those burglars close up. Still, both attacks were so obvious it was stupid, so perhaps that in itself showed a connection.