When we were far enough away from the taberna, Aurora said, “That mentula of a magistrate’s not going to do anything, is he?”
I looked down to cover my smile at hearing a rare vulgarity from her lips. “No. Not that it really matters at this point. We’ve gotten all the information we’re likely to get from the villa and the woman’s body and the neighbors.”
“What we need to find is a witness,” Aurora said.
“That would be a big help. But Crispina is the only person we know for certain was there, and that may have been her body.”
“If it wasn’t, then we need to find her. That’s the simplest, most obvious solution.”
“It’s certainly the most obvious,” I said, “but the simplest? The woman has disappeared. We don’t know if she’s still alive, or if Crispina was actually her name. We don’t even know if she wanted to disappear. Perhaps whoever took her out to the villa carried her away from there after…whatever happened.”
*
During the ride back to Rome Aurora was the model of a servant’s decorum toward her master. If anything, she overdid the “my lord” when she spoke to me. I wondered if we would be able to conceal this new development in our relationship from others in the household. Even more, I wondered if I would ever get to spend another entire night with her.
I did not want to be sneaking around, hiding from my mother and, eventually, from my wife. At least we didn’t have to encounter either of them for a while. We would have time to settle in to this new development in our relationship. My mother we wouldn’t see until the Saturnalia, two months from now. Livilla would expect to see me much sooner than that. I would delay that meeting as long as possible, and I’d make sure Aurora wasn’t there whenever it happened.
We dismounted when we entered the city gate and walked the horses to my door. I sent my freedmen to return the horses we had hired for the trip. Aurora and I stood unseen in the recess created by the covered vestibulum, not yet knocking on the door. We both knew that, as soon as that door opened, the special moment we’d shared would come to an end. Since no one could see us from the street or from inside the house, we kissed one more time, long and deep.
Demetrius answered my knock and welcomed me back home. Aurora stayed the proper distance behind me as we entered the atrium. No sooner had Demetrius closed the door than I heard a woman ask, “Is that Gaius?”
I gasped. My mother was here! Coming toward me across the atrium!
VII
Unsmiling, my mother stopped in front of me but did not give me the kiss on the cheek I would normally expect.
“Mother. What…what are you doing here?”
“I live here. At least I hope I still do.”
“But you’re supposed to be in Misenum. Why aren’t you in Misenum?” I addressed her but turned to glare at Demetrius, who could only shrug.
“Because I don’t want to go there.” She looked from me to Aurora and back again, exhaling a sharp breath. “Humph! Well, I know what you two have been up to.”
I heard Aurora take a quick breath behind me.
“Mother, how—”
“Don’t think I can’t see it on your faces. It’s more of that…scary business, isn’t it?” She fluttered one hand toward us. “Since you were children, you’ve sneaked around and pried into people’s affairs. And you have this smirk on your faces, like a couple of conspirators who think they’ve got everyone else fooled.”
“Mother—” That seemed to be the only thing I could think to say.
“My lady,” Aurora cut in, “forgive me. Your son has done nothing to cause you any concern. He is the model of a Roman gentleman. Always.”
Mother looked her up and down. “More’s the pity that you’re not the model of a Roman slave. But then your mother never was, so why should I expect any more of you?”
“I’m sorry to be such a disappointment to you, my lady.” Aurora lowered her head and clasped her hands in front of her. “And I thank you for your patience with me.”
All I could give thanks for was that, at that moment, Mother knew she was talking to Aurora, not Monica.
“Just go on to your room,” Mother said to Aurora, who looked at me for a nod of approval and made her way to the stairs. Mother watched until she was out of sight, then turned toward the back of the house with the satisfied air of someone who has taken care of a bit of trouble.
Demetrius edged up to me. “I’m sorry, my lord, that I wasn’t able to carry out your orders. The only way I could have sent your mother to Misenum would have been to tie her up and throw her into a wagon, as you suggested.”
“Well, you know I didn’t mean that literally.”
“Yes, my lord. But she seemed so anxious about the prospect of the trip that I decided to wait until you returned to see if it really was your wish to upset her that badly.”
Of course it wasn’t, but if she found out what had happened at Marinthus’ taberna, she would be ready to banish me to Misenum and sell Aurora to a brothel.
* * *
I can’t believe it happened. I guess I was brazen, but it seemed the time had come. We were away from here, in a place where we could be alone and where we will never be again. I didn’t think through or plan what I might do. I wouldn’t have approached him if he was already married.
He knew some things, from other women he’s been with, that I hadn’t expected, but he seemed satisfied, to put it mildly. I wonder how I compare to other women he has coupled with. I have no basis for comparison with other men, just what I’ve heard other servant women talk about and what I’ve read in poets like Ovid. I thought the experience was wonderful—from the first time he kissed my breasts to that moment of ultimate satisfaction!—but I don’t know if it was as wonderful as it should have been or could have been.
My mother always said I thought too much and asked too many questions. But I have no one to ask about this. I can’t go to other women in the house and say, I’ve slept with our master and it felt like this. Is that what it should have felt like? He did this and that. Should he have done something else? Something more? Did he do something he shouldn’t have? Could I have done something more?
I need to read Ovid again, especially the third book of the Ars Amatoria, but I’ll have to get the copy out of our library without anyone noticing.
* * *
“We’re so pleased you could join us tonight, Gaius,” Pompeia Celerina said for at least the third time since we began eating. “I wish we could have eaten outside, but with the rain and as chilly as it is…”
“Well, this is the next best thing,” I said. “These frescoes make me feel like we’re outside.” The walls of their triclinium were covered with trees, birds, and fruit in vivid colors—some of the most garish artwork I’d ever seen, as overdone as Pompeia’s makeup. “I’m going to take a chance and say that you suggested the design.”
“Why, yes, I did,” Pompeia said, nodding her head with satisfaction. “Thank you. This was all painted shortly before my husband died. I’m sorry you never met him.”
“As am I. And I’m sorry it’s been so difficult to find an evening that was convenient for both of us.”
“We know your days and evenings are filled,” Pompeia purred, “what with all your clients and the demands on your time. If you help them as much as you helped us, I wonder that you ever have any free time.”
“Will I have this much trouble arranging a dinner—or anything else—with you after we’re married?” Livilla said, trying for a suggestive lift of an eyebrow which her youth and innocence only made ludicrous.
“We’ll be able to manage a couple of evenings a month, I’m sure.” I hoped my smile gave both women the impression that I was joking. They did laugh, but not much.
“Oh, you’re terrible sometimes,” Pompeia said with a wave of her jewel-laden hand.
For the last three days, since my return from Marinthus’ taberna, it had taken some of my most resolute evading and cleverest lying to delay this
dinner. I had extended invitations to each of the sons of Sextus Tabellius but learned nothing that would help me identify the murdered woman or find her killer. I did encourage them to move forward on selling their father’s villa. Once they heard what had happened there, they became eager to get the place off their hands before someone accused them of being involved. But a place with a reputation like that would be hard to sell. They were glad to hear of Lentulus’ interest.
On another evening Tacitus invited me to dinner. I took Aurora to attend me. It was our first evening out from under my mother’s nose since the night at Marinthus’ taberna and all the more frustrating because we could do nothing but look at one another, and even that we had to do with the utmost caution.
Eventually, though, I had to give in to the inevitable. Pompeia wanted just the three of us to dine, so we could get better acquainted and discuss plans for the wedding. After the experience Aurora and I had in the taberna, I was more determined than ever that there would be no wedding, but, like a deer being driven toward the nets, I could see no way to escape the trap that was closing around me. And I felt the same panic rising in me that I had seen in the eyes of deer when I was hunting.
We were halfway through the main course—a particularly tasty roast pork—when Pompeia’s steward entered the triclinium. “My lady, forgive me. There is a message for Gaius Pliny. I was told that it’s urgent.”
I looked at Pompeia apologetically. “I made it clear to my household I was not to be disturbed this evening.” I was truly puzzled and worried, but I hesitated to take the note that the steward thrust toward me.
“Certainly you must see what it is,” Pompeia said. Meaning, I knew, that she couldn’t find out what it was until I opened it.
The man handed me a folded piece of papyrus, sealed only with a thumbprint in the wax—Aurora’s device. I tried to keep my face impassive, but my eagerness showed in the speed with which I broke the seal.
“What is it?” Livilla asked as I opened the note. “I hope your mother’s not ill.”
“No, she’s not.” The message was short: Crispina is here. Please come at once. Aurora had written in Latin instead of taking the time to write in the simple code that we typically use and had signed the first three letters of her name.
“I’m sorry, but an emergency has come up at home. I have to leave. I promise you that we will get together again in the next few days. The meal was superb.” I sat up to put on my sandals. When I did, Livilla picked up the note.
“Aur. That’s Aurora, isn’t it?”
“Well…yes.”
Her soft, childlike face hardened into a dark scowl. “So I have to beg and plead for days to get you to come to dinner, but she writes one line and you drop everything to rush to her.”
I tried to take her hand, but she pulled away. “My dear Livilla, you don’t understand. This woman, Crispina, may know something about a murder that I’m investigating, a brutal murder. I know this is rude, but—”
“Rude? It’s absolutely insulting.” Livilla gathered her gown around her and ran out of the triclinium without another word. Her mother, however, more than made up for that dearth.
“Gaius Pliny, you are exhausting my patience,” Pompeia said, heaving her bulk off the couch and gathering momentum toward me, like a boulder rolling downhill. Several servants hovered around her, like pebbles being drawn along in the landslide. “Your mother warned me about this girl. She’s afraid she might seduce you away from my daughter. I told her I believed you were a man of higher character than that, but now I’m not so sure.”
As she drew another breath, like a storm god preparing to continue the onslaught, I bowed and said, “My lady, with all due respect, I don’t have time to listen to this blather.”
*
Since it was raining, I had come to Pompeia’s house on the Caelian Hill in my litter. The bearers were being fed in the kitchen and weren’t ready for my departure. I knew I could make better time on foot anyway, so I told the slave who was guarding the litter to come along when they finished eating. Pulling my sword from its hiding place in the litter, I ran most of the way home, not even thinking that I was alone in the streets of Rome—dressed for dinner, no less. Fortunately, the weather was too foul even for the cutthroats who usually control the city at night.
When I turned the last corner before arriving at my house, I ran into a small group of men. We all brandished weapons before someone said, “Wait! It’s Gaius Pliny.”
“Tacitus?” I peered into the rain. “What are you doing here?”
“The same thing as you, I imagine. Answering a summons from Aurora.”
I caught my breath. “I’m glad you’re here. It will save having to repeat what we hear from Crispina.”
“And, who knows, I might ask a helpful question or two.”
“You have been known to do that. I won’t deny it.”
As the door of my house came into sight, Tacitus drew back and looked at me. “Are you all right, Gaius Pliny?”
“Of course. I’m soaked to the skin and winded and have just insulted my bride-to-be and my future mother-in-law, but otherwise I’m quite fine. Why do you ask?”
“Since our trip out to Marinthus’ taberna you seem…different somehow.”
Because I knew he would eventually say something, I had rehearsed a response. “It’s the murder of that girl. I can’t get it off my mind. I still see her whenever I close my eyes.”
“Hmm.” He sounded like a man considering whether to call someone’s bet. “After you were at dinner last night, Julia said she noticed something different about the way you and Aurora looked at each other.”
Damn! Were we that obvious? “Well, you know Aurora’s taken a deep interest in Crispina, too. We share that concern.”
Tacitus still looked dubious. In the past he’d told me that he could see Aurora’s affection for me and urged me to…couple with her. I’d told him that I would never force myself on a servant woman. While there had been no force involved, I couldn’t bring myself to tell Tacitus what had happened. Not yet. When, or if, I might tell him, I didn’t know.
“I’m certain I’ll feel better when we talk to Crispina. She’s the witness we’ve been waiting for.” I pounded on my door.
Aurora was waiting in the atrium, holding a cloth for me to dry off, but I would have to get past my mother, with the ever-present Naomi beside her. Everyone was huddled around the edges of the atrium, to get out of the rain that was blowing through the compluvium.
“What is the meaning of this, Gaius?” my mother demanded. “You’re not due home for another couple of hours. And why has Monica let some strange, haggard woman and her filthy child come into the house?”
The mention of the child surprised—and relieved—me. At least the boy was still alive. “Aurora did exactly what I wanted her to do, Mother. I need to talk to this woman right away.” I walked around her and asked Aurora, “Where is she?”
“I put her in the library, my lord. Clodius is with Hashep and Dakla. I wanted to give them something to eat, but your mother wouldn’t let me.” Her expression said what her words could not.
“We don’t feed every beggar who comes to our door with a child in tow,” Mother said, raising her chin and trying to get back in front of me. “As it is, you give far too much to your clients.”
“Naomi, get something for this woman to eat at once,” I ordered. “Some of whatever you had for dinner will be fine. Bring it to the library. Make sure the boy is fed, too.” I turned to Aurora and Tacitus. “Now, let’s see what she can tell us.” We left my mother working her jaw, like a fish gasping on the shore.
“What is Crispina doing here?” I asked Aurora as we crossed the atrium. Instead of handing me the cloth, she dried my arms and hair as we walked. I realized it was too intimate a gesture, especially in my mother’s sight, but I didn’t stop her. The touch of her hand sent a warmth coursing through me that knocked off the October chill.
“She is hiding from
her husband, my lord, contrary to what she first told me. When I was with her, she heard me mention your name, so she came to Rome and found your house. She didn’t know where else she might go and be safe, she said.”
“Is her son all right?”
“He seems to be, my lord. The girls are entertaining him.”
Hashep and Dakla are the daughters of my steward Demetrius and his Egyptian wife, Siwa. They have perfectly good Greek names, but we have always called them by their Egyptian ones. They are nine and seven.
“I guess he’s in good hands,” I said. “We should talk to him at some point, though. He‘s been through a horrible experience.”
Crispina was sitting on a scribe’s bench in the library, with her head lying on her arms on the table. One hand clutched a small bag, the valuable one Aurora had been looking for in the taberna, I assumed. Her clothes were dirty and tattered. When she looked up at me, I saw an attractive woman with a scar on her left cheek and a hint of madness in her eyes, or possibly just extreme hunger. We would soon find out. And I hoped we would find out who the murdered girl was.
“This is my master, Gaius Pliny,” Aurora told her.
“He’s the one you talked about,” Crispina said. “The one who’s going to marry the skinny little girl?”
Aurora turned an alluring shade of red. “Yes, he is. And this is his friend, Cornelius Tacitus. They can help you.”
Crispina shook her head. “I don’t think anybody can help me, sirs, but thank you for tryin’.” Her speech was that of a woman with little, if any, education.
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