I brought out my note-tablet so Volumnius could provide the necessary background information. Responding to my prompts, he claimed they were not a rich family, although to me their living style spoke otherwise. He was at home in the day, too, so he did not work. Apparently there was inherited money, estate income. He claimed their country farms were small, their holdings of city property modest. I reckoned he was playing this down; I decided the dead girl would have been a catch. If she had been wrongfully killed, that could be relevant.
He and his wife had married in their youth, living first elsewhere then here on the Quirinal for the past ten years. That was a good record in Rome, where death or divorce often intervened sooner. Clodia Volumnia was their only daughter. They also had a son, six years older; he was away, serving in a legion in North Africa. Of his own accord Volumnius said that his daughter had been a lively character, while his son was a struggler. ‘He does his best; he tries. He’s a well-meaning youngster, very athletic. He loves the army.’
So Volumnius Junior was not the sharpest knife in the cutlery box. The African provinces were stable, at least when Domitian did not exterminate a tribe (‘I have forbidden the Nasomones to exist’). The posting would not call for high-flyers. Not a war zone: Nasomones somewhat quiet these days; Garamantes nervously remembering the Nasomones … Plenty of desert hunting and gladiators to keep an athletic boy happy. Members of my family had travelled in Tripolitania; they tended to sniff at it.
The man spoke of his son defensively, failing to hide underlying regrets. I remembered my mother once telling me that being adopted in my teens should reassure me: my parents chose me, knowing they liked me. Natural parents can find it difficult, yet must pretend. So Volumnius made a valiant effort but I saw his disappointments. His daughter’s death probably made him think more about his son. The son must be sole heir now. He did not sound a promising custodian.
Had he been here, I might have wondered if the brother wanted the sister out of the way to clear his own path to the family wealth. But engineering a murder from Tripolitania seemed unlikely. Especially if the young man found things a challenge.
‘Please tell me what you can about your daughter. I apologise; I know it must be painful.’
Volumnius had an encomium prepared. Clodia was a happy soul, had many friends, bright and affectionate with everyone, destined for a wonderful adulthood. ‘I suppose all parents would say that of their child,’ he admitted with hangdog honesty. I could not tell if she was his princess to the same degree beforehand, or whether these boasts swelled after he lost her. Was an ordinary girl now being set on a pedestal?
Clodia and her brother had had a basic education from a home tutor. Volumnius had stopped paying for that when Junior went abroad; for the girl, her father said, it seemed unnecessary.
My hackles rose. ‘She was not scholarly?’ My disapproval was rooted in how my sisters and I were brought up by Falco and Helena.
He looked surprised. ‘She was a diligent pupil. She would have ably run her own household one day. Are you suggesting something?’
‘Only that my mother strongly believes in educating women, because we take the lead in bringing up children.’ Helena Justina says any man who is willing to have his children raised by a ninny ought to be castrated before he can father any. By fifteen, Helena would have expected Clodia to love reading and be fluent with a stylus. Presumably that was not the case here. Nor, I suspected, would Clodia’s mother, the wife I had yet to meet, match up to Helena’s high standards – not if people believed she might use love-potions.
‘Of course!’ Volumnius agreed weakly, as if it was how he felt he had to respond. A man like that – and I encountered so many – does not argue issues with anyone female.
He should have known what he was getting. When Laia Gratiana recommended me, she was bound to have told him my mother was a senator’s daughter. Volumnius Firmus would never contest what such a woman said, though I could see it would not change his hidebound attitude.
I guessed if there had never been a home tutor for his son, Clodia would have been illiterate. I deplored curtailing her education because teaching her sense might have meant she was alive today, assuming she really was killed by a love-potion. I did not say it. Mother had done her best with me: I was generally gentle on the bereaved. I didn’t believe in being soft, but I knew how to do it.
‘Tell me what happened.’
Clodia had never been ill; she simply went to bed one evening as normal and was dead in the morning.
‘A terrible shock for you!’
‘It was so unexpected, nobody could believe it was real.’
‘I am so sorry … Did anyone sleep in her room, a slave, perhaps?’
‘No, she reckoned she was too grown-up to need it. My wife agreed to it. Girls like their privacy.’
They like secrets too, I thought. What were Clodia’s? Who knows what she got up to on her own or what daft dreams she harboured?
‘So, who found her?’
‘Her old nursemaid, Chryse.’
I said I would need to talk to Chryse.
‘And I suppose,’ Volumnius brought out heavily, ‘you will ask why my wife and I fell into such disagreement afterwards?’
‘Yes, please. I understand this is sensitive, but I am anxious not to tread on any toes … It must be weighing heavily. Tell me your side, in your own words.’
‘It’s a painful situation … I don’t know how to cope … You want me to tell you about the boy?’ he asked, temporarily putting off the question of his wife. ‘The boy Clodia liked?’
‘In view of the love-potion idea. You say Clodia had a lot of friends: was this boy one of them?’
‘He runs in the same circle. My daughter took a fancy to him, but I could not entertain it as a match.’
I kept my tone level: ‘It will be best if you can be frank about why. Was there something about him you disliked?’
‘I find all my daughter’s chosen friends rather shallow. Perhaps,’ said Volumnius, trying to sound reasonable, ‘this is a generation difference. Human behaviour. They are young, still much too carefree for my taste. They are also privileged, so they lack application; perhaps they will improve. But I had to make the decision on practical grounds. The boy belongs to the wrong sort of family.’
‘Wrong in what way?’ At this question, Volumnius looked cagey. ‘Financially,’ I suggested, helping him out. That is the usual issue when a stern father chops off a love affair. Volumnius did not deny it, though his expression closed in a way that niggled me; I would have to follow this up.
‘She had a girlish crush,’ he said. ‘I did not want her to be hurt. Nor did I wish her to mislead the young man. I acted as soon as I knew what was happening. I put a stop to it.’
For some reason, my own father’s voice chortled into my mind. I suppose if I say don’t do this, it will only make you all the more keen?
‘But was your wife sympathetic?’ I thought it best to broach the subject.
‘That’s the nub. Sentia Lucretia, my wife, was encouraging our daughter …’
Volumnius paused, so I interjected gently, ‘Behind your back?’
He confirmed it with a jerk of the head. It sounded as if until recently they had had a good marriage. Now he was trying to be fair to the wife, or at least holding back open criticism. This made a change. I had known clients who were in dispute to denounce their partners with vicious abandon.
I moved on. ‘So, when Clodia died, you believed she had taken, or at the very least considered taking, a supposedly magic drink. You thought she had been lured into this by her mother. And perhaps her grandmother?’
‘There had been a lot of whispering. Every time I walked into a room, I seemed to interrupt some secret conclave.’
‘This is obviously important. Volumnius Firmus, I do need you to explain what made you suspect they were discussing love-potions.’
‘Simple. I had heard crazy talk of it.’
‘Your womenfolk
mentioned such a thing in front of you? Here in the house?’
‘No.’ He looked tetchy. ‘No, I came upon them in one of their huddles, then when I asked what was going on they admitted that was what they were discussing; my wife’s mother passed it off as a joke.’
‘Were they covering up something else? Was it a joke?’
‘My mother-in-law?’ Volumnius Firmus scoffed. ‘You will see when you meet her, joking is out of character. Once I appeared, they all quickly shut up. They knew what I would think. I despise such lunacy. My foolish daughter was being led astray. They ought to have known better. That kind of thing is fake; it is a waste of money, dangerous, it damages reputations. I find it utter stupidity. Don’t you?’ he demanded, so I nodded.
I liked this man enough to believe he not only worried about his own reputation; with a young girl to marry off, any thoughtful father would try to protect hers too. Families he might choose for Clodia, good families, would reject a girl who was known to toy with mystic drinks. Spells are the province of wicked mothers-in-law in myths, not innocent brides in decent Roman life.
I put to him my puzzlement, as first expressed by Tiberius when we were talking to Laia: why Clodia would swallow an elixir herself if she already loved the boy. What was the point? Volumnius said he had no idea, I had better ask her mother. That gave me a useful excuse to ascertain where the mother was living, though I quizzed him further: ‘I am a little confused. Are you saying that even though they had discussed acquiring a love-potion, your wife Sentia Lucretia refuses to believe any such thing might be involved in Clodia’s death?’
‘She and my mother-in-law deny any potion existed. Now she asserts they would never have dreamed of it. I fear they are covering up what happened; I said so. My wife declared our daughter’s death was my fault; she called me a cruel father. The woman’s mad!’ Volumnius stormed suddenly, ditching restraint. Now he became a short, angry man who was practically jumping up and down with unhappiness. ‘Who the hell knows what Sentia Lucretia believes? I doubt she knows her own mind.’ He checked himself. ‘She was distraught. She had to blame someone, so she blamed me.’ That would have sounded sympathetic – a relic of a marriage that was once sound – had he not now been so angry. He rounded on me: ‘Do you believe a person can die of a broken heart?’
‘I think it unlikely.’
‘Impossible! Of course it is. Preposterous.’
He was raging, but he was right, so I said, ‘In my experience, even immature young women know in their hearts that the devastating loss of a boyfriend is one stage in growing up. Girls can be more sensible than they seem. Whatever their pain, they will come to accept the boy has gone. Then they know there will be others.’
Yet that pain can be terrible. As a young girl, I had lost a man I set my heart on. Betrayed by my so-called friend, I had felt suicidal. The effects were lasting. To this day I felt reluctant to trust people, especially men. I married someone else but he died young, so I lost faith again. Tiberius had done well to break through all that.
‘Clodia was very immature; she almost enjoyed hysterics,’ Volumnius grumbled, as he calmed down. ‘The other women relished a drama too. Their constant attention made her worse. If everyone had simply said it was unfortunate, but it was unavoidable and normal, we could all have made progress. I was going to buy a big present to help her get over it. She would soon have forgotten.’
I wasn’t so sure. ‘Did Clodia know about this intended gift?’
‘Not from me. I had no idea what to get,’ her father confided miserably. ‘One decision over a new puppy or a necklace could have made such a difference … I had asked her mother to think of something suitable, but she hadn’t yet told me.’
This was a sweet, pathetic glimpse of ordinary family life. I sighed.
‘Well then, who is this boy Clodia hankered after?’
I noticed a slight hesitation. ‘Numerius Cestinus.’ Was Volumnius aware I had seen him pause? He added in a brisker tone: ‘His family are the Cestii, descended from people who made good in transport, comfortably off and leisured. His father is an amateur historian, I believe. I know them, though we are not close.’
‘Had they approached you about marriage?’
‘No. It had never been raised formally. I let it be known through the usual channels – business contacts – that I would not enter into negotiations.’
‘I see. And thinking about Clodia, did she have a particular girlfriend, one she would have confided in?’
‘Possibly one in the group, but I don’t know …’ Volumnius looked ill at ease; perhaps he had distanced himself when his daughter was prattling at home about her friends, especially since he described them as shallow. In one way he appeared controlling, yet I reckoned he had come to realise he had no real idea of his child’s social life. He had lost Clodia without really knowing her. Now it was too late.
He wanted a break. He stood up. ‘You have my permission to request names from the maid, Chryse. If there is nothing else you need to ask me now, I am still grieving. I tire easily. Let me take you to see Chryse now.’
‘Thank you.’
This was direct, verging on abrupt. Still, on the surface he was being helpful. I would probably want to come back to him with more detailed questions eventually, but I was ready to accept being passed on to another witness.
He could have asked a slave to take me, but this man was trying to steer the investigation himself.
7
Maids come in many variants. Almost always they are slaves. Some are browbeaten, half-starved souls in skimpy clothes who lead terrible lives. Chryse was the better sort, reinforcing my impression that the Volumnii were a decent family.
She was about forty, neat, placid and well-padded, someone I would trust to look after children. I met her in a room off the main corridor, where she was working at a loom, though when I commented on this traditional occupation she pulled a face. Volumnius had made a sketchy introduction then vanished, so the maid could be honest. ‘We really keep a loom to look good! Everybody’s tunics are bought, of course. But I need to be busy with something. The mistress isn’t here, and my little one’s gone—’ She checked herself, overcome.
‘There, there … So, the mistress left you behind when she went to her mother’s?’ I asked because normally female slaves are closer to the wife in a household.
‘She didn’t take anyone. The master wouldn’t let her.’ Chryse spoke with the barest hint of criticism, being careful in front of a stranger. It was unclear whether she thought Sentia Lucretia would be coming back. I nodded, indicating that I had a fair idea of how things were. I would gain the maid’s trust before I tried to wheedle out secrets.
I explained more about who I was, and that the master had given permission for me to talk freely to her. The first thing I ascertained was factual: since the death had occurred some days before, the funeral had already been held. In larger houses, those with an atrium, a corpse may be displayed on a bier for mourners. This is not to my taste, but Romans are a traditional people. I had seen it done.
The Volumnii did not formally display bodies or invite viewings. Clodia had been quickly cremated and her ashes deposited. I was disappointed. Funerals can be useful for watching suspects.
‘We are holding the Nine Day Feast for her,’ offered Chryse. ‘Tomorrow. Here.’
That would be useful. I made a note to be there.
Before we settled down properly, I asked to see where Clodia died. It turned out to be a waste of time. In some families a bedroom is kept for years exactly as it was, a lost relative’s shrine, especially in the case of a child. The Volumnii were different: they had cleared out everything that might remind them of their daughter. Such speed was not unknown. I rarely find it odd. It can be a sign of very deep grief, feelings so raw people cannot face them.
‘I had to pack up all her poor belongings.’ Chryse went hoarse for a moment, wiping away a tear, but she kept control. Once again, she made no complaint. She had f
ound the task hard, but accepted whatever the parents wanted. ‘I did keep a few little treasures hidden away, in case they ever change their minds … Or I can get them out again to look at by myself sometimes, when I want to think about her.’
I might ask to see the things later, but for now it could wait. However, the tidied room was a menace. Clothes, childhood toys, bangles, glass scent bottles, pictures or cushions could have given me a sense of the girl; besides, if this small bedroom was a crime scene then any clues had been lost too. Everything was spotless.
Hmm. The room had been cleaned so thoroughly that I wondered about it. Not looking at the maid, I asked her quietly, ‘Did you have to clear up vomit?’
When the vigiles came, someone, and most likely it was Chryse, told Scorpus that there had been none. A young girl’s nursemaid in this kind of family would protect her charge even in death, hiding any unpleasantness. Had Clodia been alive and feeling unwell, Chryse would have whisked her away somewhere private, whispering comfort, exactly as would happen at home with my own young sisters when they were sick; my mother or a kindly slave would put their head over a bowl and signal for other people to keep out of the way.
So on the morning in question Scorpus had been called in by Volumnius to inspect the body, and I could imagine his brusque approach. For him, the existence or otherwise of vomit would be a key forensic point, one he was used to, but he might well have seemed uncouth. Now I had come along, a different person asking the sensitive question in a different way.
I waited, standing as if lost in thought. The bed was now tightly covered with a plain sheet and no pillows, like one in a military hospital during a quiet period, awaiting future patients. Chryse stood alongside me, initially saying nothing. After a while she pursed her lips. Although she continued to say nothing, she nodded her head twice.
Pandora's Boy: Flavia Albia 6 (Falco: The New Generation) Page 4