by AM Kirkby
***
She'd taken a villa up in the Alban hills, some time ago. It was pacified country, and had been for some time – since before she'd come to Rome with Tarquinius; but it hadn't been completely divided up and built over, as so much of the countryside nearer Rome had been. There was a touch of wildness to it, still.
Tarquinius had had some kind of an idea about retiring from politics, and taking up the life of – what, she wasn't quite sure; not quite a farmer, as he proposed not to do the work himself, nor a chieftain as he might have been in the old days, but a sort of overlord of a peaceable estate, living from his own production. The vineyard had been laid out before he died, and she had a couple of slaves look after it, bringing in hands from the nearby village for the vintage; when she stayed here, she brought her own servants, if she were going to entertain, or hired in a girl from the local village. (If she'd been in Etruria, she would have hired a young man; but this was Latium still, and Latin men never quite understood these things.) The Latin girls were sometimes rough, but there was one advantage to using them; they were completely ignorant of the identities of the guests, the King of Rome and a Faliscan spy looking just the same to them, so if she ever wanted to be able to hold a discreet council with total deniability, she would draft them in, rather than bringing her own maids. There would be a girl coming over this evening; and one of the old women from the village, who was a deft cook, but never came out of the kitchen.
The only remnant of the productive gardens on which Tarquinius had expended such thought was the set of skeps under the trees. Tanaquil had let the vegetable gardens return to grass; she wasn't here often enough to justify the work that was needed. Hemlock had invaded the meadow; you had to be careful not to mistake it for the fennel that grew wild here too, that flavoured many of the dishes her cook came up with. But the bees flourished with little care; and there was always honey for the kitchen, and enough left over to make mead over the winter. They were strange things, bees, she thought; little furry bodies that weighed nothing, that launched themselves into the clear air and foraged miles around, and you could always hear them, that low insistent buzz, quite different from the noise of flies' wings rasping or the vapid wet fluttering of moths. Here on the terrace there were a few bees hovering on the rosemary flowers; there would be more in the meadows, scattering widely in their search.
It made her smile to think of their tiny city-states; the Myrmidons, the little hoplite troops that issued out of the hive on their king's command, the neat architecture of their cities. They played for high stakes, those bees; out of all the royal brood, only one survived the slaughter. And then the whole city would be destroyed anyway, all the bees killed at the end of the year; you couldn't get the honey without ripping the hive apart.
She heard the sound of boots on the floor, echoing in the empty house.
"I'm here," she called. "On the terrace."
Manius had come alone, as she'd asked, obedient as he always was. He'd even grown his hair a little, in an attempt at Etruscan style, and thrown a purple tebenna over his shoulders. (Was that an innocent gesture, the rich colour, like his red, pointed-toed boots? Or had he worn purple as a king to his crowning?)
"It's not so easy to find, this house of yours," he said, taking her hands in his.
"It's not intended to be. I don't want the whole of Rome thinking they can turn up and be housed and fed."
"Particularly tonight."
She swung his hands a couple of times, and smiled at him. "Particularly tonight. Come, let's walk in the gardens."
They walked down to the end of the paved path, where there was a view across the valley below, and she showed him where the cattle went down to the ford to drink, and where the road he'd taken wound up the flanks of the hill.
"It doesn't seem as steep from here," he said.
"Nothing ever does, when you see it from above," she answered.
Out here there was solitude; she hadn't even brought her dogs, they were quite alone, the two of them, above the world, in the long green afternoon of early summer. You could live in retirement here. "This is how we should live our lives now," he said; "leave politics to the young people."
"And Servius."
"Well, and Servius maybe, but live like this; simply, quietly, without care."
She laughed, but gently. There was no point hurting him.
Dinner was lamb roasted with rosemary, and a stew of fruit, and barley bread; simple, but good, and with a sweet and thick wine that was nearly brown with long ageing. She'd had water heated in the kitchen and brought in great jugs to the chamber, for bathing; she would always remember the look in his eyes when he realised she really was going to sleep with him.
Manius surprised her with his elegance, his tenderness, his confidence; she'd expected him to be diffident, as he was in politics, always taking a lead from his superior. He was skilled at leading her without seeming to, holding himself back, but he took what he wanted; and for a moment she had second thoughts. Life with him could be good, here in the villa in the hills. He'd always been a friend; he could be more. They could pass the evenings together...
But she knew she could never give up; Rome always called. And she knew, if you ever fell from a stallion's back before it was well and truly broken, it would turn and trample you. There could never be retirement for her; she would last only a week, maybe only a day, before men came after her, with swords in their hands and regret in their eyes.
They woke early, in the misty hush of dawn, the air damp and cold, and she drew Manius to her to feel his warmth. The servants had gone as soon as dinner had been cleared; she warmed the remains of the wine in the embers of the fire, and they drank it sitting with the blankets tented around them, and ate honey cakes.
"I have to get back to Rome," he said.
She nodded.
"I'll be back as soon as I can get things settled. There's not much." He sighed. "I sometimes think I don't have much to show for my life. A few books, a few pieces of furniture, more pieces of armour than I really need; a rented house, no wife, no children... where did my life go?" And then he smiled, and kissed her just beneath the ear, almost clumsily, and said, "but it's all different now," and she let herself believe it, while she was still in his arms.
He didn't leave, after all, till after noon, having taken a meal of bread and goat's cheese and green olives with her. She sent him off with a flask of the sweet spiced wine.
"It gets hot in these upland woods," she said, "and you don't feel it, and the heatstroke comes suddenly. Sometimes it kills. So make sure you drink."
He smiled. She knew that smile; guileless, a smile that said they understood each other now, there were no more secrets. How little he knew. How little any man knew of a woman. He kissed her before he went, and when his horse reached the end of the gardens, he turned and waved, floating a kiss on the air.
She went to the end of the gardens, and looked down into the valley, and waited till she could see the dust rising from the road that rounded the headwaters of the stream. She could not see Manius, could hardly see the grey track of the road against the vegetation that covered the slopes below the villa, but she followed the dust cloud with her eyes till it thinned and dissipated in the still air.