The Grove of the Caesars

by Lindsey Davis

  To deter me from buzzing off by myself, Larcius thought of something: “Flavia Albia, I don’t suppose you want to look at something peculiar the lads dug up?”

  The pressure was on. I dutifully gave in and stayed longer. I even pretended that seeing some mystery unearthed from a damp grotto was the best offer I had had since my husband left.

  VII

  It was a dirty bundle of old scrolls.

  “Normally you find me human bones,” I complained. “Much more thrilling. I shall never forget the time you dug out six skeletons.” We all winced. “Plus a bar landlord’s dog.”

  “Oh, go on, try to be more excited!” Larcius was being ironic; he seemed to sympathise with my lack of interest. Held between his grimy hands were several tattered items, still rolled up. As buried treasure, they were unappealing. “We can just chuck them out if you think so, Albia. They would already have gone on a bonfire but they are so damp and mouldy they will never burn.”

  I pulled the knowing face of a woman who understood that when men curate a bonfire, they want it to look spectacular. Whatever blaze they build is a measure of their masculinity. I could accept that this collection would never make good kindling, though I was minded to tell them to persevere. Nevertheless, I paused. “Larcius, you don’t normally make a fuss about finds.”

  “Just seemed a bit funny.”

  “Since the grotto’s decline, I imagine this cave has been used for nefarious purposes quite often. Lovers. Crooks. Young boys doing hideous things, while telling filthy jokes … This bundle looks to me like some very careful degenerate’s private stash of bum-wipes.”

  “Oh yes, there were signs of lavatory use!” Larcius agreed. “We trod carefully when we first got started. But plenty of ferns were growing around in the rocks, nature’s own for shit-cleaning. I don’t think this papyrus was here for hygiene purposes.”

  I didn’t suppose people who came to a cave would be that fussy in any case. “Let’s not be prejudiced, Larcius. There may be an explanation: people do use gardens to work in. Some high-minded scholarly person might have been visiting this quiet spot to read and do correspondence, so this could be his private library.”

  “Well, he’s lost it now!” cackled Serenus. “We’ve got it.”

  “True. But you could put his scrolls on one side in case he comes to ask for them back,” I suggested.

  The men stood around looking helpless.

  I tried again to be sensible. “What made you think these old things might be special?”

  Larcius gave it fair consideration. “Well, Albia. They weren’t strewn on the ground, like all the other mess we found. These were laid in a hole. Someone had specially dug it out, made a neat job, set the scrolls there in a line, then backfilled nicely.”

  I tipped my head on one side. I saw their point. “They brought a spade. Sounds deliberate. Might it be a votive deposit, made to honour the nymphs of the sacred Grove?” We all sniggered. “I never heard of nymphs being great readers, though perhaps there are quiet times during their tree-fondling…” None of us believed it. “All right. Never mind nymphs. It seems more likely someone interred these things for a reason and is intending to come back for them. Where did you find them?” They showed me a place to one side of the cave, close to the overhung entrance. “Was there any form of marker at the spot?”

  Now everyone looked shifty. Larcius said there might have been a stone or stick, but since they had not expected to find anything, it must have been thrown aside during the work. The men glared sternly at Sparsus. This was their customary reaction when anything went wrong on site.

  “You should of told me to look,” he muttered, on the defensive.

  “Always look. Look, before you start to demolish!” intoned Larcius, an instructional talisman like Don’t step off your ladder until you reach the ground.

  Sparsus refused to be blamed. “It wasn’t me. Why do I always cop for it? I’m getting my mother to come and have a word with you lot!”

  The others turned away, uttering loud stage groans. So, the apprentice’s mother had a way with words and was no stranger to the crew. Sparsus was biddable and good-natured; I was happy he had somebody defending him.

  I volunteered that if they didn’t want to shove the scrolls in a fissure so their owner could reclaim them, I would take them home with me. With Tiberius away, I might welcome light reading material. However, when I gingerly unravelled the beginning of one, its frontispiece had Greek lettering with long words of an abstract intellectual kind. I can read Greek if I have to, but at that I lost interest even more.

  Trypho was grateful not to have to stay overnight at this isolated spot. Encouraging a quick departure, he considerately wrapped the filthy finds in a napkin from their picnic basket. Normally used to keep around their loaf, the cloth looked cleanish. This gave some protection to my satchel when they rammed the scrolls into it.

  Barley looked up with a small tail wag. The bundle’s mustiness made her hopeful it contained a well-aged marrowbone. “I see that look, doggie. I’ll get you one at the meat market.”

  Collecting up tools and barrows, we set off away from the Grove and across the gardens. The men escorted me all the way back to the Sublician Bridge.

  “You don’t want to go wandering by yourself in the Transtiberina,” Serenus admonished me, as we crossed the river. “There’s no need for you to bother coming to see us, anyway. We’ll check in with you when we need to.”

  “Or at least bring that runabout with you,” added Larcius. The clerk of works knew what I was like. I would come if I wanted to. “That Paris.”

  I held off from saying I could handle match-salesgirls or leather-workers without Paris. I might give any sailors a wide berth, but the immigrants would not faze me. Trypho patted Barley goodbye, telling her to look after me. Then they turned up the Marble Embankment, going to collect the order for Fullo’s Nook, while I was allowed to make my own way home up the Aventine.

  VIII

  On my way, I stopped off at Prisca’s baths. I tried leaving Barley to guard my clothes, though she was too preoccupied with her new bone from the Forum Boarium. She liked to lie in the clothes-manger while she waited in the changing room, but I refused to lift her up today. I had no spare garments with me and didn’t want what I had on to end up covered with blood and bone splinters.

  From what I said about Fania Faustina, Prisca reckoned Tiberius would be away at Fidenae for several days. “He’ll have to comfort her. Sounds as if the ratty husband is no use. Pamper yourself while yours is off. Take your time,” she advised, hoping to sell me beauty products. Without him, I wasn’t in the mood. Knowing me of old, Prisca bounced off sulkily to some other client.

  Once clean, I would have opted for a massage but Serena was not working today. Instead, before going home I took myself over the Aventine to see Uncle Tullius in his quietly elegant house above the Lavernal Gate. Heavily built and dogmatic, he was a typical Rome businessman. He was suspicious of me and I didn’t trust him, but we had buried our differences; we shared enough affection for Tiberius to coexist.

  I knew Tullius had never had much to do with Fania, but she was his sister’s daughter. At our wedding, he had been polite to her, though he ignored Antistius and he openly drew the line at their whiny boys. A lifelong bachelor, now in his sixties and rooted in his way of life, Tullius avoided children. But he went so far as to thank me for telling him, then even asked to be kept informed. I would wait a long time to be served visitor snacks at that house, so I went home.

  There, things were quieter than I had feared. A nicknackaroony platter of tasties appeared as I entered, magically followed by a restorative cordial in my favourite glass.

  Gratus had found out that the dancing boys were called Primulus and Galanthus. “Primrose and Snowdrop!” I chortled. “Want to change them to Vilis and Impurus?”

  “Unlikely to help. My system,” Gratus suggested grimly, “will be to separate our two little spring flowers whenever possible
. Then they may get up to mischief but won’t worsen the problem by giving each other ideas. If you go out, madam, please take one with you. If it is not too much trouble,” he decided to add.

  I meekly agreed to be lumbered. The disadvantage of a smooth steward was that as well as beguiling everyone else he could win me around too.

  Not much happened that evening. It was too soon to hear anything from Tiberius. I decided that, even if the news was good, he would probably stay a few days to settle his old aunt and his sister.

  Disconsolate, I cleared out my work satchel. I took a bored look at the bundle of scrolls. Rooting through ancient Greek philosophy is not a job for when you are tired, even though I found many of them had at least been translated into Latin. To be frank, after a day in which my husband had left and horrible youths had been dumped on me, after long walks and much dealing with men in dusty tunics, I could not be bothered with the ideas of an obscure old fellow from Miletus who was struggling to define Chaos.

  Hell! Refute him, Flavia Albia. I knew all about chaos. It happened in my house on a daily basis. The five elements of it are: mismatched people, the aftereffects of a party, an absent master, a weary mistress and newcomers being picky.

  That night I went to bed early.

  IX

  Whatever my sisters had passed on about Tiberius and Fania must have been so vague that my father was sent up to our house next morning to learn the true story. He took one look at Primulus and Galanthus, then said even breakfast at the Stargazer would be preferable to eating rolls with a pair of Palace catamites.

  As a family we owned the Stargazer. Tiberius and I had even carried out some of our courting there. My father’s sister Junia, who managed the spider-infested place, thought anybody could run a caupona and deemed herself especially good at it; Junia had no idea about food and was equally bad with people. Still, she was family. First Grandfather and now Father felt it would cause more trouble to stop her than to let her carry on.

  I believe rude people said the Stargazer was the lousiest bar on the Aventine. That’s unkind. The Winged Pig once caused an epidemic in which seven people died, whereas the worst anyone picked up at our place was colic and a black depression. Well, I picked up my husband there, though I had reason to think he had noticed me first and would have made his presence felt anyway.

  I agreed to go, but before we set off, I showed Falco the dirty scrolls. He sneered, dismissing them as rubbish. With an auctioneer, you always need to decide whether his verdict can be trusted, or if he knows this is special and secretly intends to profit. I asked if he thought he could sell them. He boasted that now he was in charge, instead of my wide-eyed grandfather, the Didius auction house could sell anything.

  At the Stargazer, I spent some time laughing over this with Junillus, my cousin the caupona waiter; we agreed that my father and our grandfather were as devious as one another. Junillus, who was deaf, mimed that if they weren’t his relations, who owned the snack bar anyway, he would double-check their payment because they were bound to diddle him.

  Father snarled, “Do not expect a tip, you rascal.” With his good-natured silent grin, Junillus mouthed back that he never had tips from family members anyway.

  Later, as Pa and I desperately chewed on the hard bread crusts my cousin served us, Falco backed off slightly. He was willing to put the scrolls into auction, but they must first be sorted into sets and catalogued. He had no time, so I would have to get my hands dirty. In case I felt they might have literary merit, he told me the name of an expert the auction house sometimes consulted.

  After I had answered through a mouthful of olives, oh, thank you for letting me do your work, Father dear, I asked to borrow Patchy, the auction-house donkey. I wanted Paris, my runabout, to ride out to Fidenae and report back what was going on. Father said no. I did a teenage whine of “I hate you” and “Mother would let me.” He growled all right then, as we had both known he would. I won’t say my father was scared of my mother. Helena Justina was the elder sister of brothers. Falco grew up with five sisters, four older than him. When they first met, Helena must have treated him like Aulus and Quintus; he played along because being scoffed at and bossed felt natural.

  Actually, he once told me that meeting Helena Justina “was like coming home.” She chuckled at this but looked misty-eyed. My parents were the most romantic people I had ever known.

  * * *

  I went back to my house. I helped Dromo pack a few more things for his master, then told Paris to take him to the Saepta Julia and collect Patchy; he and Dromo could both ride on the donkey to Fidenae. The runabout was sensible, but I prescribed a route. Paris should then come back, bringing news from Tiberius. Depending on how long Tiberius wanted to stay with his sister, I would send Paris on further trips. Dromo could stay there. It meant one less worrisome boy in the house.

  I was at a loose end, so I threw the excavated scrolls on a table and sorted through them. Some were in Greek, others were Latin translations. They were an unappealing clutch. I had never heard of a philosopher called Epitynchanus the Dialectician. He had a whole set of theories, elaborating his vision of the cosmos; skimmed over fast, they all seemed stratospherically unlikely. Even Philadespoticus of Skopelos was new to me; he had one fragment, which did not make me wish for more. I could not help viewing these works as an auctioneer’s daughter: somebody might buy them—if he or she wanted a library containing all the books in the world. I would never bid, not even to get a cheap present for my husband; I didn’t want him reading twaddle like this aloud to me. Tiberius liked to share; he would love to amaze me with such barminess.

  Nevertheless, somebody had buried these scrolls for a purpose. Having them checked out seemed a good idea. I whistled up Barley, but she was lying half out of her kennel, still manically gnawing the marrowbone I had bought her yesterday, and would not budge. To please Gratus, I split Galanthus off from Primulus and took him with me. I could have made him carry the scroll bundle, but I was hoping he would run away.

  He lacked the gumption to escape. In fact, as I watched him sashay along on his little dancer’s feet, I reached the conclusion that during his short life as a Palace slave, he had never developed any independence. Gratus had handed him over to me, complaining the boys were lazy. They could answer back, but that was all. I deduced that Galanthus and his brother really had a lot to learn. Degenerate dancing, with its sinuous moves and enticing gestures, made them seem experienced, yet in many ways even Dromo knew more. On their own, they would be helpless.

  I wasted no time thinking it was sad. I had once looked after a puppy that had been tied up alone in a shack all its short life; I had to teach it how to play. I felt more sympathy with that creature than with the dancing boys. The puppy asked nothing of me; the boys saw my family as prey.

  We walked down to the end of the Circus, around the Palatine on the meat market side, then towards the Forum Romanum. We were in the Vicus Tuscus, a well-trodden throughway that had a busy commercial life.

  “Stay close, Galanthus.” I decided not to mention that this street was famous for men selling themselves. His beauty and long hair were attracting attention. Galanthus found this normal; fortunately, he made no response when anyone called out to him. At one point he did start to chassé instead of walking straight, but I gave him my look. Albia’s death stare, my family call it. He stopped.

  My father’s directions were so casual, I could not find the stall he had mentioned. Since we were close to the baths run by Glaucus, I went to ask him.

  Old Glaucus had trained my father so that Falco could handle himself in a fight when he had to. Now Young Glaucus, a massive ex-Olympian, still kept Father fit and also set me an exercise routine to overcome weak muscles and bones after my deprived childhood in Britain. As soon as he saw me, he moaned that I had been neglecting my workouts, so he grabbed me for a session. At the same time, he eyeballed Galanthus.

  I anticipated. “Imperial gift. Isn’t he pretty? We have a matched pair. If
they were vases they would be more valuable.”

  “Shame they aren’t!” scoffed Glaucus. “You could hide them at the back of a shelf.” He let Galanthus posture around with some weights while I was put through stretching, pushing and balancing. I only did it because he was right: it worked.

  Glaucus worried over me in the same way that his father used to worry over mine. He knew I sometimes ventured into dangerous situations in my work. While I was not supposed to engage in any form of combat, he wanted me to be able to slip out of trouble safely. The gentlest of men, he had taught me to be aware of what other people were planning, to duck, to dodge, to pull people off balance using their own weight—and, if absolutely stuck, to use the trick that athletes in Greek pankration keep as a last resort. Pankration is a filthy sport. It has almost no rules. Gouging your opponent’s eyes is not allowed, though that never stops participants. “You have to claim they cheated first, Albia.”

  “What do they say about that?”

  “If you poke them hard enough in the eyeball, they are in too much pain to speak.”

  “I thought a woman is supposed to knee an attacker in the balls?”

  “That’s what he’ll expect. While he’s guarding his jewellery, just blind him,” instructed Glaucus, cheerily.

  I explained about the scroll expert. “Pa told me to find someone called Mysticus, here in the Vicus Tuscus. Apparently, it’s been a haunt of scroll-sellers since Horace was flogging off elegant odes.”

  Glaucus nodded. Many athletes are so obsessed with their sport they have no idea what goes on around them. This low-profile gym was lodged at the back of the Temple of Castor, only ten steps from the Forum although few outsiders noticed it. Clients here were business professionals, not self-absorbed bodybuilding show-offs. Young Glaucus tried to make his place discreet, while he kept aware of what happened outside so he could forestall problems. No thieves got in. No busybodies made complaints. He rarely mixed with his neighbours, but he knew who they were.