“Certainly, my lord.”
I was relieved to hear her address us properly in the presence of other servants. And I was glad to get another chance to hear her tell the whole story. People don’t always tell a story the same way twice, even when they’re telling the truth, and the differences can be revealing. I decided not to intervene in the conversation so I could appraise it more objectively, like a juror in a trial instead of one of the advocates.
“I was on my way back to Rome,” Aurora began, “after my lord Gaius Pliny and I…had a disagreement in Ostia, just before you and he sailed to Naples to help the lady Aurelia. It wasn’t long after dark and I was thinking about stopping for the night when I heard a woman calling for help in some trees beside the road.”
“Do you know just where you were?” Tacitus asked.
“I was only a short distance, my lord, to the west of the point where the side road joins the Ostian Way. I could see the lights from the taberna.”
Tacitus nodded.
“When I stopped I found a woman and her son. The boy was ill, leaning against a tree. The woman said no one else would stop to help them. I put the two of them on my horse and walked beside them to the taberna.”
I couldn’t help but recall the story Jacob had told us briefly about the Samaritan. When we had time, I’d have to ask him to give the full account.
“You’re certain the boy was her son?” Tacitus asked.
“She said he was, my lord. I had no reason to doubt her.”
“What were their names?”
“She said her name was Crispina, my lord, and the boy’s name was Clodius.”
Tacitus snorted. “Common enough names. But go on.”
“Well, my lord, I stayed with them for a couple of days and bought food for them. My lord Gaius Pliny gives me money occasionally to meet unexpected expenses.”
I was glad Tacitus didn’t press that issue in front of my other servants. I give them all small sums now and then, to encourage good service and to discourage them from stealing from me, but none of them get as much as Aurora.
“Did she explain why they were out there like that?” Tacitus asked.
“She said she was looking for her husband, my lord.”
“What’s his name and why was she looking for him?”
“His name is Publius Clodius Popilius, my lord. She said he went to Rome on business and she hadn’t heard from him in over a month.”
A tradesman’s cart passed us, with his tools and pans rattling. Aurora’s horse whinnied and shook his head, fighting the reins, but she brought him back under control, tightening the muscles in her legs to keep her on the animal.
What would it be like to have those legs…? No, I couldn’t allow myself such thoughts.
“He’s a bit high-strung,” she said, patting his neck and cooing to him. “That’s the kind I like to ride.”
I have always envied her mastery of horses. She told me she started riding ponies in North Africa when she was five, before she and her mother became slaves.
When she had stilled the animal, Tacitus resumed his interrogation. “Did she say what kind of business her husband was on?”
“Not specifically, my lord. Just that he was looking for someone to invest in a plan that he was sure would make them rich. There was no one around them who had enough money.”
“Where did they live?”
“Somewhere along the coast, between Ostia and Laurentum, was the best I could gather, my lord.”
“Why were she and the boy on foot?”
“She said she had set out with the boy and some supplies on a mule, my lord, but the animal went lame a few miles outside of Ostia, so they left it.”
“And all of this happened while Gaius Pliny and I were in Naples?”
“Yes, my lord. Once the boy seemed to be getting better and the woman was calmer, I told her to wait to hear from me and I returned to Rome. I didn’t want my lord Gaius Pliny to think I had run away. I hoped he would be willing to help the woman find her husband.”
“And, being the magnanimous fellow he is, he of course agreed.” Tacitus gave me a mock salute.
“Yes, my lord, except for the delay to assist his mother-in-law in court.” She shot me a glance that I had no trouble reading.
“Future mother-in-law,” I said. “What else could I do?” I suddenly wondered if Clodius Popilius had found himself in such an intolerable situation that he could see no solution except to run away. Perhaps he didn’t want to be married to this woman any more than I wanted to be married to Livilla. I wondered how long I could endure it and how far away I could get—how far Aurora and I could get.
“There’s the place.” Tacitus pointed ahead of us as the settlement came into view, to my enormous relief.
“Yes, my lord. It’s the one on the right,” Aurora said. “The innkeeper’s name is Marinthus.”
“I wish we knew the names of the men who are following us,” I said. “And don’t turn around.”
Tacitus and Aurora both forced themselves to look straight ahead.
“Do you have eyes in the back of your head?” Tacitus asked.
“I noticed them out of the corner of my eye while I had my head turned, listening to you two talk. They’re the ones on donkeys.”
“What makes you think they’re following us, my lord?” Aurora asked.
“We’re moving at a leisurely pace. People keep going past us, but these two have kept the same distance behind us since I first noticed them.”
“Gaius Pliny,” Tacitus said in exasperation, “donkeys aren’t the swiftest beasts on four legs.”
“Several have passed us, my lord,” Aurora pointed out.
“Well, then, perhaps those fellows are just waiting to fall on us,” Tacitus said. “Out here in the open, two of them against us with four guards. Next you’ll be telling me that Regulus sent them.”
The way he put it, it did sound ridiculous. “They won’t attack us, but they may send word to someone who will attack at some more opportune time.” I took one more glance over my shoulder, and I couldn’t shake the idea that everyone else on the road when we started had passed us or turned off.
* * *
When I traveled this road a few days ago, I wasn’t sure I would even return to Rome. Gaius was so angry at me and wouldn’t say what I needed to hear. If he marries Livilla, I will have to ask him to send me away, to another of his estates. My only alternative would be to run away.
I was so upset with him that I almost did that on my trip back from Ostia. As I rode along this very road, I could see the Tiber on my left. Once across it, I knew, I could make my way north, over the Alps, across the Danube, and into Germany. North is the only direction in which one can find freedom from Rome. Even Spartacus knew that. The poor man almost made it, but Pompey got in his way, just like Pompeia’s daughter—well, that’s what I was thinking as I rode. Did I really want to go back to Rome? All I had to do was cross the Tiber.
But the current was too strong for my horse to swim. At one point I spotted a man with a boat tied up. I offered him money to ferry me across the river. When he said he would take me for free, I saw the look in his eye, even though it was already dark, and heard the threat in his voice, so I turned and rode away. Shortly after that I ran into Crispina and her son. I hope I did the right thing by helping them. Our meeting seemed so fortuitous. Gaius had every right to be angry at me, but I did come home. I’m counting on him, now that he has calmed down, to be willing to assist them. Crispina seems desperate—almost frantic—to find her husband.
* * *
We pulled our horses to a stop in front of a two-story building that appeared to be in better repair than most tabernae, with a fresh coat of whitewash and a minimum of graffiti. The shutters on the windows on the second floor were painted red. By contrast, the other taberna across the road did not appear to have been painted in years. First, though, the owner would have to cover the cracks in the plaster.
Several
of the other people on the road also stopped, some at the taberna where we were going, others across the road. A few, including the two men I thought were following us, merely went down to the banks of a stream that flowed into the Tiber just beyond the taberna. Refreshment could be found there at no cost, as well as a place to relive oneself. We dismounted and handed the reins to my freedmen. I moved to help Aurora down, but before I could get to her she slid off her horse gracefully—I don’t think she could do it any other way—and straightened her tunic.
Marinthus’ establishment sat only ten or so paces from the Tiber, with a terrace behind it where customers could sit and look over the river. Marinthus had built a small dock to try to pick up business from the traffic on the river as well as on the road. With the sailing season almost at its end, the river was thick with barges and small boats. The track worn by animals pulling barges up the river cut across the path leading from the taberna to the shore.
I walked around the building, pretending to be stretching my legs, and taking in my surroundings. Of the people who stopped when we did, the two men I thought were following us seemed to be especially interested in our activities. Both looked to be about forty. One was a dark-haired man about my height with a scar over his right eye, the other a bit taller and heavier but with no distinguishing marks. While they drank and relieved themselves, at least one of them always had us in view.
The interior of the taberna was painted a creamy almost-white, with a motif of vines and animal life, brightening an otherwise dark room. Like any such establishment, its walls bore the scribbling of its patrons and the records of their debts and boasts of victories in various board games. One, prominently displayed to catch the eye as customers came in, announced DRUSILLA FELLAT, accompanied by an illustration of a woman on her knees in front of a man performing the act and the going rate for it.
“I’m surprised he hasn’t painted over that,” I said.
“He told me that she paid him to let her put it up,” Aurora said.
As we entered, Marinthus called a greeting to us from behind the counter he was wiping. He was a man about my mother’s age and as tall as Tacitus. He still had a full head of hair, although it was going gray. Some childhood disease had pockmarked the pale skin on his face. His build was that of a gladiator going to seed.
“Well, there she is,” he said brightly. “And she’s brought company. My son will be quite glad to see you again, young lady.”
I do not mark my slaves, nor do I require them to wear a bracelet or collar that would identify them as slaves. This man had obviously taken Aurora for a free woman and she had not corrected his error. I would have to caution her. The penalty for a slave who pretends to be free is severe, but I decided to let it stand for now. Aurora and I approached the counter while Tacitus wandered around the room, examining the graffiti. He claims he can learn more about the true nature of a place from this gibberish than from official inscriptions.
“Yes, indeed,” Marinthus went on, stirring something in one of the pots that was heating on the counter. “Theodorus has talked about nothing else the last few days.”
Blushing, Aurora drew me aside and put her head close to mine. “I assure you, Gaius, nothing happened between us. The bathhouse was closed, so on my first night here I was washing off in that stream that feeds into the Tiber. The son chanced on me, but that was all. It was dark. He didn’t see…much.”
Whatever he saw, I thought, he’s a lucky bastard. As children, Aurora and I used to swim together, until my mother demanded that my uncle put a stop to the practice when we were nine. I had not seen her unclothed since then.
I turned back to Marinthus. “We’ve come to see about the woman and child that my…this lady left here a few days ago.”
“I hoped you would be back,” he said. “But the woman and the boy are gone.”
“Gone?” Aurora said. “When?” She glanced at the door, as though she could still stop them.
“They left yesterday, just about this time.”
“How? Did they go with someone?”
“They got into a raeda.” He paused and put a hand to his chin. “At least, the woman did. Come to think on it, I didn’t see the boy get in. He must have already been in it before I looked out the door.”
“Was there anyone with her?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. A man.”
“Did you know him?”
“No, sir. He was a pretty ordinary-looking fellow, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him before. We do get a constant stream of people through here, you know. Not what you might call regular customers, people I would recognize.”
“Did the woman appear to be getting in of her own will?” I asked.
“Why, yes, sir. The man with her looked like he was assisting her, not forcing her.”
“If they had her son already in the raeda,” Aurora said, “she would have to get in. Did you see anyone else?”
“Only the driver.”
“Did you know him?” I asked.
“Why, I guess I did. It was my brother-in-law, Justus. He owns the taberna and the livery place across the road. Somebody must have hired him to drive them.”
“Did the raeda come back?”
“Yes, not long after midday.”
“But the woman and the child weren’t in it?” I asked.
“No, sir. Haven’t seen ’em since.” Marinthus finished wiping the counter and moved to a table. I noticed he walked with a limp and a grimace, as though his left hip caused him pain.
Aurora stepped closer to him, like a client pressing her case. “Weren’t you concerned about them?”
“Didn’t see reason to be concerned. Their room was paid up for several more days, thanks to your generosity, lady, and they’d left their belongings. I figured they’d be back.”
“Did your brother-in-law tell you where he took them?” I asked.
“Him and me don’t have much to say to one another. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“Where are their things?”
Marinthus drew himself up, offended. “Right where they left them, sir. Since their room is paid up for several more days, I’ve not bothered anything. If they’re not back by tomorrow, I have every right to take whatever they left.”
“I paid for the room,” Aurora said. “I believe I have the right to whatever’s been left in it.” That brought a snort from Tacitus, loud enough to be heard across the room—his wordless commentary on how much freedom I allowed her.
“Yes, you did,” Marinthus said. “And you said you would pay for any other expenses. I’ve kept a record right here.” He pointed to a tally on the wall behind the counter, under the name Crispina. “Help yourself to whatever’s in the room, as soon as you pay up. Not that those scraps and rags will bring you any profit.”
If he hadn’t been through their belongings, I wondered, how did he know they were just scraps and rags? Aurora looked at me with a question in her eyes and I paid the sum.
“Thank you, sir,” Marinthus said, taking up a brush to scrub off the writing.
“Excuse me,” Tacitus called from the other side of the room. “What is this?” He pointed to a spot on the wall behind a table. Marinthus threw his cleaning cloth over his shoulder as he and I joined Tacitus.
“I’m going to look at their room,” Aurora said. “I’ll be back shortly.” Her face showed how upset she was by what she’d heard from Marinthus. She started up a set of stairs to the right of the main entrance.
The innkeeper and I looked at what Tacitus had found. It was five lines in a square, scratched into the plaster:
R O T A S
O P E R A
T E N E T
A R E P O
S A T O R
“Oh, yes, sir,” Marinthus said. “Somebody marked that on the wall a couple of months ago. I decided to leave it because I was so puzzled by it. And it amuses my customers. I’ve known many of them to buy an extra round so they can think about it a bit longer.”
&
nbsp; “Do you have any idea what it means?” Tacitus asked.
“None, sir. I offer twenty sesterces to anyone who can decipher it.”
“A tidy sum.”
“I offer that much because I’ll never have to pay it.”
“All the words are Latin,” Tacitus said, “except AREPO. I’ve never seen that word before. Is it supposed to be someone’s name? The plowman Arepo holds the wheels diligently?”
“That’s been suggested, sir, but no one’s ever known a fellow named Arepo. At least he’s never stopped by here.”
“Gaius Pliny, you’ve used codes and ciphers, haven’t you?” Tacitus said. “What do you make of it?”
As children, Aurora and I devised a simple code that we still use if we need to communicate in writing. My uncle encouraged our interest in ciphers, but this was unlike anything I’d ever seen. “Well, there are twenty-five letters in all,” I said, “but only eight different letters are used. R, O, A, E, and T are each used four times. S and P are each used twice. N is used only once. That strikes me as curious.”
“Yes, sir, people have noticed that,” Marinthus said. “And you can read it across in either direction as well as up and down. It reads the same, no matter which direction. You can even read one line right to left and the next left to right and so on, like an ox plowing a field. Or one line down and the next up and so on. Doesn’t matter. It still reads the same.”
“If you read the lines diagonally,” I said, drawing my finger over the figure, “you have all consonants or all vowels. But that just creates gibberish.”
“As if the whole thing isn’t gibberish,” Tacitus said.
I could understand why someone might want to linger over a drink and delve into the puzzle. I was determined to unearth something about it that no one had seen before. “The word TENET is embedded in the center,” I observed, “no matter how you read it. ‘He holds’ or ‘it holds’ and it seems to hold the puzzle together, to be the framework on which it’s built. If you draw a line connecting the T’s, it makes a square within the square.” I traced the diamond with my finger.
The Eyes of Aurora Page 4