The Grove of the Caesars

by Lindsey Davis

  “Mysticus. He used to offer scrolls by the Temple of Janus. He laid out a table. There’s a good footfall in the vicus, but he never appeared to sell much. He must have made a living, though, because he was at it for years. I hadn’t seen him for a while. Then about six months ago someone told me he had passed away.”

  “Father can’t know that. I’ll have to tell him. Was Mysticus old?”

  Glaucus paused to stop Galanthus swinging weights too wildly. He gave him a feather-stuffed ball to pat instead. The boy looked disgusted, but Glaucus’s large size and quiet authority quelled him. He could easily have rolled up the dancer and let clients use him as a balance ball.

  “Mysticus? Probably not old,” he said in due course. “He was one of those weather-beaten chaps who turn out to be further from retirement than you might think. I believe he had quite a young family, so that was sad. Everyone who knew him said he died too soon.”

  “What got him?”

  “Usual story.” While we talked, Glaucus was still watching Galanthus fooling about. “A short illness, then he died in his sleep. But if you want advice about some scrolls, Albia, the business has been kept going. Someone inherited the stock and premises. It was never only the table outdoors by the Temple of Janus. There’s a hole-in-the-wall quite near you, at the foot of the Aventine. You should find it to your liking. It’s now in the hands of a woman, I believe.”

  As soon as I’d stopped Galanthus spraying exercise oils about, and made him apologise, we went to see her.

  X

  The scroll shop was dangerously close to the corn dole station, so although no free grain was being handed out to the public today, beggars were hanging around the corner. I rebuffed them cheerily.

  I found the shop, tucked in behind. I made Galanthus wait outside, telling him to squat on the kerb. He moaned that he was exhausted; I scoffed that that was because he had been mucking about. I could see he was used to answering back, but not to put-downs aimed at him.

  Glaucus had underestimated the size of this place, mainly because for him no building counted unless it housed a Greek-style palaestra in handsome colonnades. This was so close to the Circus starting-gates that the race-day racket would deafen customers as they browsed. There was a counter at the front where purchases could be arranged, if it ever happened. Customers could wander through.

  Inside there were book cupboards, like those in libraries, where stock lay ends-out in pigeonholes. Labels dangled off. A couple of stools had been supplied, perhaps for staff, but the regulars took them as if by right. Some clearly intended to stay all day; they looked annoyed when my enquiries disturbed their reading. I had already discovered when working in libraries that the pursuit of knowledge does not include acquiring tolerance. Those researching ideal human behaviour are the rudest men on earth.

  The ones I saw here looked grubby and peculiar, misfits who came for a free read. They were unrolling samples vaguely, as if waiting for a chance to tuck scrolls under their tunics and make off. I felt guilty that distracting the manager with my questions might aid pilfering. Still, to judge by the customers, failure to buy would be nothing new.

  There seemed to be an area at the back where I could see work on scrolls being carried out, though it was not a full-scale scriptorium, so I guessed they offered repairs more often than copying. Papyrus is durable; if it’s handled right, it lasts for years. But rough treatment has left many a scroll with its batons ripped off or tattered on its long edges, like the ones I was carrying.

  A woman was the front-of-house representative, presumably the person who had taken over. She was a few years older than me, though with small, mimsy features, untouched by the stresses of life. She was ordinary-looking, neat enough in her long tunic, though its green dye was fading in streaks and her red stole, with bleary pink patches, was not a good pairing. Her hair had been pinned in a tufty roll; it looked ready to uncoil at any moment. She wore neither jewellery nor cosmetics. My maid would have had no time for her.

  Suza despaired of me too, but today she had managed to pounce. An informer normally looks rougher than their suspects, but I was over-tidy for this shop. My own hair was securely fixed with long bone pins that had fancy heads. Suza had chosen my oatmeal tunic to contrast subtly with a browner wrap. I had on seed-pearl earrings that I brazenly enjoyed wearing. Here, I felt like a piece of patisserie with very rare cherries that had strayed into a stokers’ chophouse.

  Tuccia seemed unfazed, even when I admitted I was not a prospective customer. I told her my name, mentioning my father. She knew who he was and even managed not to call him a “lovable rogue.” I explained our need for advice about goods that had come to us with no provenance. Afterwards I realised I had sounded like a family member from the auction house; I had not mentioned my informing work.

  When I fetched out the scrolls, Tuccia did look surprised. I talked them up as best I could. “I am sorry, they are a bit dirty. They were dug out of an abandoned cave.” I had brushed off some of the earth at home, but I shook them to loosen any that remained.

  Still in silence, Tuccia unrolled the frontispiece of one, using her index finger gingerly. She was reading the author’s name and the subject matter.

  I admitted that there was a chance these had been stolen from a library by a slave who had hidden them in a hole, then done a runner.

  “Or a furious wife in the throes of a bad divorce,” suggested Tuccia, looking up with a sudden giggle. It was the kind of thing I would say myself. “From an old swine who loves his books more than his marriage! The desperate woman did this because she knew it was one way to make him absolutely furious.”

  At which point I happily grinned with her.

  Tuccia unrolled more of that scroll, spreading the papyrus along her counter, then smoothing it gently with her small fingers. A love of documents was evident. She seemed to be examining its colour, which, away from the end, was much cleaner than on the outside. I said it was pale as new straw. “Or a healthy urine sample!” As Tuccia pursed her lips in thought, I pointed out the author: “Epitynchanus the Dialectician. An original in Greek though most of the rest we found seem to be copies in Latin translation.”

  She nodded. “Known as a Controversialist,” she told me. “So I always think he cannot have had many friends.”

  I received the information with a smile. “Some people love an argument … Clearly you are better-read than I am, but I see no point in pretending I was enthralled when I dipped in.” I brandished one of the other scrolls. “Nor, from a quick glance, would I want to waste lamp oil on the verbiage of Philadespoticus of Skopelos.”

  Tuccia stifled a burst of laughter. “Philadespoticus! Not everybody’s taste.”

  “Lucky this is only a fragment. He’s excruciating. These writers are old fellows?”

  “The famous School of Miletus. Thales, Anaximander and Anaximenes were its founding intellects.”

  “Very pre-Socratic!” I can talk the talk.

  “These are the ‘materialists,’” explained Tuccia. “They believe all things that exist are derived from one primal substance.”

  “Hot air?” I supposed, still determined to be satirical. “Anyone from Miletus with a long Greek beard can join the club? Who started this babble?”

  Tuccia answered gravely, though I could still see a wry twinkle: “Thales came first, and his choice for the ethereal medium was water. I myself like Anaximenes, who suggests air as the beginning of matter.” Her manner had become respectful. “We sell a lot of him—his ideas are very popular with my customers. Anaximenes tells us that when air becomes finer, it turns into fire, or when it condenses, it is first wind, then cloud, then water, then earth, then stone.”

  “Holy erudition!” I grunted. “I gather, Tuccia, you actually read your stock?”

  “I need to know what to recommend.”

  “I admire your dedication. So, you can talk up the well known Milesians, but how about my scroll scribblers, Epitynchanus and Philadespoticus—have you st
udied those ancient authors?”

  She looked guarded. “Good men, I am sure, Flavia Albia, and no doubt with very plush Greek beards.”

  “But?”

  “Rather hard to read,” Tuccia concluded sadly.

  Just as I thought. Unlike Tuccia, I felt no need to admire masters of tedium. In representing the Didius auction house only one thing mattered: “So, if ‘hard to read’ means they haven’t attracted fans, my thought as an auctioneer’s daughter is: has their work almost vanished? Are their scrolls extremely rare—so therefore highly sought after? Will people at an auction pay through the nose for these grubby pieces?”

  Tuccia answered with stylish simplicity. “You should make a killing,” was her sweet reply.

  Larcius had nearly tossed out these beauties and I still despised them. But now I saw why Father used the Mysticus emporium for expert advice.

  XI

  Tuccia decided it was time we moved deeper into the shop. Laying a finger to her lips, she led me to the back workshop area. It was more private, away from customers.

  As we reached the benches where slaves were hunched over tools, she cried out to them cheerily, “Somebody found some buried scrolls!” I heard warning in her tone; I took it as a hint to them that a tricky renovation task might be looming. They managed not to wince in anticipation but a couple left their work and collected politely to look.

  Tuccia cleared a space and laid out my offerings. “See—the highly esteemed Epitynchanus the Dialectician! What customer asks for him nowadays, or when did we last see his outpourings on sale? And here’s a substantial fragment of Philadespoticus of Skopelos, whose opus was thought entirely lost. How tasty is that?”

  “You never told me the Skopolan opus had vanished!” I reproved her, though gently.

  “I would have.” Tuccia was unapologetic. “We never expected anyone to bring in an original Philadespoticus, did we?” she marvelled with her staff, as if it was an in-joke. They looked diffident, nodding slowly. “The handwriting style is right for the period…” Tuccia picked up a few other scrolls to check. “These others are Latinised but they do appear to come from ancient sources … Primarily, it’s the Philadespoticus I like…”

  Father’s training took over. While auctions are fine occasions for testing the market, if it’s ever possible, you should grab an on-the-spot deal. Clients want to believe that bidding ensures the best possible price, but when you yourself possess the goods, don’t waste time; take cash in hand. For one thing, that way you don’t pay sales tax. You’re not going to volunteer it, are you? “If this fragment is unique,” I suggested swiftly, “do you want to make me a private offer?”

  I thought Tuccia jumped slightly.

  One of her slaves, a crusty elderly character who was holding a gluepot, broke into a grin. He hid it, but another said, “Go on, Tuccia! This is a previously unknown work!” It was obvious teasing.

  Tuccia pulled her blotchy red stole with its washed-out dye tighter around her, almost writhing in her awkwardness. I tried fellow-feeling: “Don’t let them rag you! You’re a young woman in a family firm. These fellows think they know everything, but I can tell you have mastered your subject.”

  “It is a tricky market. I am wary of making mistakes.” Tuccia excused herself.

  It seemed the moment to ask about the history of the business. “My father used to deal with Mysticus and believes he is still alive. Can you tell me what happened to him?”

  Tuccia seemed more comfortable with this question. She looked solemn, but answered easily, not allowing the scribes to muscle in: “It was sad. The poor man had a short illness. He seemed to be rallying, but then without warning, just as he was getting well, he was found dead in bed.” It was the same story Glaucus told me. I could tell that plenty of people had asked, probably all surprised to hear that Mysticus was gone: Tuccia’s answer was well-practised. “Vague questions were asked about the drains, but nothing came of it.” Vague questions about drains never work; people just sniff and wander off.

  “Did he have family?” Politeness requires you to drag out every gloomy detail.

  Tuccia shook her head. “None to speak of.”

  The slave with the gluepot suddenly turned away to resume what he had been doing, as if he couldn’t bear to remember. He had light, fading hair and not much to say for himself. He was probably a good worker.

  I asked the one who remained near. “Mysticus seems to have been a popular figure. Did you like your old master?”

  This one had a pointed nose set in a forward-pushing face, so when he turned sideways his profile was almost an isosceles triangle. He had previously been using small tools to smooth down papyrus wrinkles and snippers to cut out bad tears; once he had done that, he pieced in more papyrus, ready for gaps in the written work to be filled. An ink-stained scribe, hunched over on a stool, was already working on another scroll, carefully replacing missing words. He used a half-unravelled one to copy from.

  “Mysticus was good to work with,” the mender told me. “And knowledgeable. This was his life. He loved what he did—the interface with customers, making suggestions, finding things he thought they would enjoy. He would be out in all weathers in the Vicus Tuscus, busily chatting about what he had taken to the stall. All the collectors adored him. His regulars knew he would go out of his way for them. If they wanted something unusual, he went to any lengths to hunt it down for them.”

  “Still, Tuccia seems to have made herself very familiar with what you stock.” She was standing right beside us; I felt I should give her some credit.

  “Oh yes, our Tuccia knows how to carry it off!” He grinned, teasing her again.

  “Careful, Tartus!” Tuccia warned him quietly.

  I liked the way she was standing up to the staff, despite their strong loyalty to her predecessor. Was there real tension? Probably not. No doubt they accepted she was a permanent fixture now. “Did you work here before, Tuccia? How did you come into the business?”

  “I was a relative, his cousin’s daughter. I had known the shop since my childhood—I worked here if Mysticus was short-handed. Afterwards, his wife wasn’t interested in the shop. I just naturally moved in.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Quietly disappeared. We think she went home to her own people. Too distressed to stay in Rome. She was a country girl, so there was nothing to keep her.”

  Still making conversation, I said it was good that the business had been able to continue. But I needed to press Tuccia about the excavated scrolls, so I went back to discussing them.

  She told me she thought that if we put them into auction, on a good day, with specialist dealers in the crowd, they would sell. She could tell Father which dealers to invite; Mysticus used to give him that kind of steer. Otherwise, she herself would be happy to buy them for a low price on spec, keeping them until the right customer came by. She had contacts who might show interest.

  Before she would make an offer herself, she wanted to do more research; once she was sure of the scrolls’ exact rarity, she would have more idea of demand. She asked if I would consider leaving them with her, but I became protective and chose to keep them myself. Father never lets goods go off the premises before a sale, not unless he thinks they are such utter rubbish he hopes they won’t come back.

  These scrolls, it seemed, had value. I rewrapped them and put them safe in my satchel, before taking my leave.

  XII

  I called up Galanthus, who had been lolling against a wall, half asleep. People were good-naturedly stepping around him. If I could have trusted him, I would have sent him home, but I was certainly not setting him loose alone on the Aventine; he would never find his way. He was a slave. It was not his fault no one had taught him life skills. I had been brought up to take responsibility for people like him.

  Yes, he was a slave, so I had to listen to the ungrateful lummox moaning again, because I now walked over to the Saepta Julia to tell Father about Mysticus. After the triumph, which h
ad started close by, the Saepta was settling down again. We found it unusually quiet. Not seeing Falco at his ground-floor antiques showroom, I hauled Galanthus with me upstairs to the office.

  This sanctum, overloaded with a gallimaufry of real specials and complete tat, had always been a seedy refuge for my male relatives. It made a discreet snug in which to entertain favoured clients, serving tots of fortified peppermint tea to weaken their resistance, while expensive goods were paraded. Perhaps these bazaar tactics sometimes worked, but mostly the Didius boys just hid out there.

  Father was missing. He had gone to view items he hoped to grab for an estate sale. These can be mixed opportunities. Heirs talk up the stuff, accountants talk it down again. Long-treasured items turn out to be worthless, while other things hidden at the back of a cupboard may be priceless rarities. Falco usually went to make sure for himself. He also enjoyed poking around strangers’ houses.

  Gornia, the ancient head porter, was left in charge. Now papery to look at and so frail a breeze could have knocked him over, other members of staff had put him outside on a daybed on the balcony that ran around the upstairs interior. They had wrapped him in a blanket so thoroughly I told him he looked like a swathed Egyptian mummy.

  “Yes, I’m waiting to die!” Gornia could still pipe up with the wit that had made him an unexpected hit at auctions. “But I’ll go when I’m ready and the lads are fetching Xero’s pies. I’m hanging on today, in case they bring pork-and-pickle.”

  “Eat one of those and you’ll go off pop this very afternoon!” I joked back. “Last I heard, Xero was using up a pig that was slaughtered in Campania a year ago. He claims he got a special deal because the scratchings had gone a bit mouldy.”