“That’s disgusting,” said Mamercus, scowling.
“I agree. But it’s also life,” said Scaurus.
“What happened to Servilia Gnaea? And her mother?”
“Oh, they’ve survived, of course. They live very modestly in Gnaeus Caepio’s house, which Caepio the consul and then in turn his son did permit the two women to keep. Not legally, just as a domicile. When the will of the last Quintus Caepio is probated—I am in the middle of that task now—the house will be documented in it. As you know, everything Caepio had with the exception of lavish dowries for his two girls goes to the little boy, Caepio of the red hair, ha ha! Much to my surprise, I was named sole executor! I had thought someone like Philippus would be named, but I ought to have known better. No Caepio ever lived who did not cultivate his fortune assiduously. Our recently deceased Caepio must have decided that if Philippus or Varius were executor, too much might go missing. A wise decision! Philippus would have behaved like a pig in acorns.”
“All this is fascinating, Marcus Aemilius,” said Mamercus, experiencing the stirrings of an interest in genealogy, “but I am as yet unenlightened.”
“Patience, patience, Mamercus, I’m getting there!” said Scaurus.
“I imagine, by the way,” said Mamercus, remembering what his brother Drusus had said, “that one of the reasons you were appointed executor was due to my brother, Drusus. He had, it seemed, certain information about Caepio that he threatened to disclose if Caepio didn’t leave his children properly cared for in his will. It may be that Drusus stipulated the executor. Caepio was very much afraid of whatever information Drusus had.”
“The Gold of Tolosa again,” said Scaurus complacently. “It has to be, you know. My investigations into Caepio’s affairs, though only two or three days old, are already fascinating. So much money! The two girls have been left dowries of two hundred talents each—yet that doesn’t even begin to reach the limits of what they could have inherited, even under the lex Voconia. Red-haired Young Caepio is the richest man in Rome.”
“Please, Marcus Aemilius! Finish the story!”
“Oh, yes, yes! The impatience of youth! Under our laws, given that the beneficiary is a minor, I am obliged to take into my consideration even such petty things as the house in which Servilia Gnaea—now aged seventeen—and her mother Porcia Liciniana still live. Now I have no idea what kind of man red-haired Young Caepio will turn out to be, and I have no wish to leave my own son testamentary headaches. It is not impossible that Young Caepio on reaching manhood will demand to know why I went on allowing Servilia Gnaea and her mother to live rent-free in that house. The original ownership by the time that Young Caepio is a man will be so far in the past that he may never know it. Legally, it is his house.”
“I do see where you’re going, Marcus Aemilius,” said Mamercus. “Go on, do! I’m fascinated.”
Scaurus leaned forward. “I would suggest, Mamercus, that you offer Servilia Gnaea—not her mother!—a job. The poor girl has absolutely no dowry. It has taken all of her slender inheritance to afford her and her mother comfortable living in the fifteen years since the father died. The Porcii Liciniani are not in any position to help, I add. Or will not help, which amounts to the same thing. Between our first talk and this one, I popped round to see Servilia Gnaea and Porcia Liciniana, ostensibly as the executor of Caepio’s will. And after I had explained my own predicament, they became quite frantic as to what the future might hold for them. I explained, you see, that I thought I must sell the house so that its lack of earning rent over the past fifteen years need not appear in the estate accounts.”
“That’s clever enough and devious enough to allow you to qualify for the job of High Chamberlain to King Ptolemy of Egypt,” said Mamercus, laughing.
“True!” said Scaurus, and drew a breath. “Servilia Gnaea is now seventeen, as I have said. That means she will reach normal marriageable age in about a year’s time. But, alas, she is not a beauty. In fact she’s extremely plain, poor thing. Without a dowry—and she has no dowry—she’ll never get a husband of remotely her own class. Her mother is a true Cato Licinianus, not impressed by the idea of a rich but vulgar knight or a rich but bucolic farmer for her daughter. However, needs must when there is no dowry!”
How convoluted he is! thought Mamercus, looking attentive.
“What I suggest you do is this, Mamercus. Having received a worrisome visit from me already, the ladies will be in a mood to listen to you. I suggest that you propose that Servilia Gnaea—and her mother, but only as her guest!—accept a commission from you to look after the six children of Marcus Livius Drusus. Live in Drusus’s house. Enjoy a generous allowance for upkeep, living expenses, and maintenance. On the condition that Servilia Gnaea remains single until the last child is well and truly of age. The last child is Young Cato, now three. Three from sixteen is thirteen. Therefore Servilia Gnaea will have to remain single for the next thirteen to fourteen years. That would make her about thirty when her contract with you is worked out. Not an impossible age for marriage! Particularly if you offer to present her with a dowry the same size as the dowries of her young cousins—the two girls she will be looking after—when she finishes her task. The Caepio fortune can well afford to donate her two hundred talents, Mamercus, believe me. And to make absolutely sure—I am, after all, no longer a young man—I will peel off those two hundred talents now, and invest them in Servilia Gnaea’s name. In trust until her thirty-first birthday. Provided she has acquitted herself to your and my satisfaction.”
A wicked grin spread across Scaurus’s face. “She is not pretty, Mamercus! But I guarantee that when Servilia Gnaea turns thirty-one she will find herself able to pick and choose between a dozen hopeful men of her own class. Two hundred talents are irresistible!” He fiddled with his pen for a moment, then looked directly into Mamercus’s eyes, his own beautiful orbs stern. “I am not a young man. And I am the only Scaurus left among the Aemilii. I have a young wife, a daughter just turned eleven, and a son five years old. I am now the sole executor of Rome’s greatest private fortune. Should anything happen to me before my son is mature, to whom do I trust the fortunes of my own loved ones, and the fortunes of those three Servilian children? You and I are the joint executors of Drusus’s estate, which means we share the care of the three Porcian children already. Would you be willing to act as trustee and executor for me and mine after my death? You are a Livius by birth, but an Aemilius by adoption. I would rest easier, Mamercus, if you said yes to me. I need the reassurance of an honest man at my back.”
Mamercus did not hesitate. “I say yes, Marcus Aemilius.”
Which concluded their discussion. From Scaurus’s house Mamercus went immediately to see Servilia Gnaea and her mother. They lived in an excellent location on the Circus Maximus side of the Palatine, but Mamercus was quick to note that, while Caepio might have permitted the ladies to live in the place, he had not been generous with funds for its upkeep. The paint on the stuccoed walls was flaking badly and the atrium ceiling was marred by several huge patches of damp and mildew; in one corner the leak was evidently so bad that the plaster had fallen away, exposing the hair and slats beneath. The murals had once been very attractive, but time and neglect had both faded and obscured them. However, a glance into the peristyle-garden while he waited to be received indicated that the ladies were not lazy, for it was carefully kept, full of flowers, minus weeds.
He had asked to see both of them, and both of them came, Porcia more curious than anything else. Of course she knew he was married; no noble Roman mother with a daughter needing a husband left any youngish man of her own class uninvestigated.
Both women were dark, Servilia Gnaea darker than her mother, however. And plainer, despite the fact that the mother had a true Catonian nose, hugely aquiline, whereas the daughter’s nose was small: For one thing, Servilia Gnaea suffered dreadfully from acne; her eyes were set too close together and were slightly piggy, and her mouth was un-fashionably wide and thin-lipped. The m
other looked very proud and haughty. The daughter simply looked dour; she had that humorless kind of character flatness which had the power to daunt many a more courageous man than Mamercus, who did not lack courage in the least.
“We are related, Mamercus Aemilius,” said the mother graciously. “My grandmother was Aemilia Tertia, daughter of Paullus.”
“Of course,’’ said Mamercus, and sat where indicated.
“We are also related through the Livii,” she pursued as she sat on a couch opposite him, her daughter beside her mumchance.
“I know,” said Mamercus, finding it difficult to think of a good way to introduce the reason for his call.
“What do you want?” asked Porcia, solving his dilemma bluntly.
So he stated his case with equal bluntness; Mamercus was not a man of easy words, for all that his mother had been a Cornelia of the Scipiones. Porcia and Servilia Gnaea sat and listened most attentively, but without giving away their thoughts.
“You would require us to live in the house of Marcus Livius Drusus for the next thirteen to fourteen years, is that right?” asked Porcia when he finished.
“Yes.”
“After which my daughter, dowered with two hundred talents, would be free to marry?”
“Yes.”
“And what about me?”
Mamercus blinked. He always thought of mothers continuing to live in the house of the paterfamilias—but of course that was this house, which Scaurus intended to sell.
And it would be a brave man who asked this particular mother-in-law to live with him! thought Mamercus, smiling inwardly.
“Would you be willing to accept the life tenancy of a seaside villa at Misenum or Cumae, together with a competency adequate for the needs of a retired lady?” he asked.
“I would,” said Porcia instantly.
“Then if all this is agreed to by legal and binding contract, may I assume both of you are willing to take on this burden, look after the children?”
“You may.” Porcia looked down her amazing nose. “Have the children a pedagogue?”
“No. The oldest boy is just about ten years old, and has been going to school. Young Caepio is not yet seven, and Young Cato only three,” said Mamercus.
“Nevertheless, Mamercus Aemilius, I think it vitally important that you find a good man to live in as tutor to all six children,” announced Porcia. “We will have no male in the house. While this is not a danger physically, for the children’s sake I feel there must be a man of authority who does not have slave status resident in the house. A pedagogue would be ideal.”
“You are absolutely correct, Porcia. I shall see to it at once,” said Mamercus, taking his leave.
“We will come tomorrow,” said Porcia, escorting him out.
“So soon? I’m very pleased, but don’t you have things to do, things to arrange?”
“My daughter and I own nothing, Mamercus Aemilius, beyond some clothes. Even the servants here belong to the estate of Quintus Servilius Caepio.’’ She held open the door. “Good day. And thank you, Mamercus Aemilius. You have rescued us from worse penury.”
Well, thought Mamercus as he hastened to the establishment in the Basilica Sempronia where he expected to find a pedagogue for sale, I’m glad I’m not one of those six poor children! Still, it will be a better life for them than living with my Claudia!
“We have quite a few suitable men on our books, Mamercus Aemilius,” said Lucius Duronius Postumus, the owner of one of Rome’s two best agencies for pedagogues.
“What’s the going price for a superior pedagogue these days?” Mamercus asked, never having had this particular duty to do before.
Duronius pursed his lips. “Anywhere between one hundred and three hundred thousand sesterces—even more if the product is the very best anywhere.”
“Phew!” whistled Mamercus. “Cato the Censor would not have been amused!”
“Cato the Censor was a parsimonious old fart,” said Duronius. “Even in his day, a good pedagogue cost a lot more than a miserable six thousand.”
“But I’m buying a tutor for three of his direct descendants!”
“Take it or leave it,” said Duronius, looking bored.
Mamercus stifled a sigh. Looking after these six children was proving to be an expensive business! “Oh, all right, all right, I suppose I’ll have to take it. When can I see the candidates?”
“Since I board all my readily marketable slaves within Rome, I’ll send them round to your house in the morning. What’s your absolute upper limit?”
“I don’t know! What’s a few more hundred thousand sesterces?” cried Mamercus, throwing his hands in the air. “Do your worst, Duronius! But if you send me a dunce or a cuckoo, I’ll castrate you with great pleasure!”
He did not mention to Duronius that he planned to free the man he bought; that would only have increased the price even more. No, whoever it was would be manumitted privately and taken into Mamercus’s own clientele. Which meant whoever it was could liberate himself no more easily from his employment than if he had still been a slave. A freedman client belonged to his ex-master.
In the end there was only one suitable man—and of course he was the most expensive. Duronius knew his business. Given that there would be two adult women in the house without a paterfamilias to supervise them, the tutor had to be of great moral integrity as well as a pleasant, understanding man. The successful candidate was named Sarpedon, and he hailed from Lycia in the south of the Roman Asia Province. Like most of his kind, he had sold himself voluntarily into slavery, deeming his chances of a comfortable, well-fed old age considerably better if he spent the years between in service to a Roman of high degree. Either he would earn his freedom, or he would be looked after. So he had taken himself off to the Smyrna offices of Lucius Duronius Postumius, and been accepted. This would be his first post—that is, his first time of purchase. He was twenty-five years old, extremely well read in both Greek and Latin; his spoken Greek was the purest Attic, and his spoken Latin so good he might have been a genuine Roman. But none of that was responsible for his getting the job. He got the job because he was appallingly ugly—so short he came only to Mamercus’s chest, thin to the point of emaciation, and badly scarred from a fire in his childhood. His voice, however, was beautiful, and out of his maimed face there looked two very lovely, kind eyes. When informed he was to be freed immediately and that his name would henceforth be Mamercus Aemilius Sarpedon, he knew himself the most fortunate of men; his wage would be much higher and his citizenship Roman. One day he would be able to retire to his home town of Xanthus and live like a potentate.
“It’s an expensive exercise,” said Mamercus to Scaurus as he dropped a roll of paper on Scaurus’s desk. “And, I warn you, as executor for the Servilius Caepio side of things, you’re not going to get off any lighter than the two of us are as Drusus’s executors. Here’s the bill so far. I suggest we split it down the middle between the two estates.”
Scaurus picked up the paper and unfurled it. “Tutor... Four hundred thousand?”
“You go and talk to Duronius!” snapped Mamercus. “I’ve done all the work, you’ve issued all the directives! There are going to be two Roman noblewomen in that house whose virtue has to be ensured, so there can be no handsome tutors living there as well. The new pedagogue is repellently ugly.”
Scaurus giggled. “All right, all right, I’ll take your word for it! Ye gods, what prices we endure today!” He perused further. “Dowry for Servilia Gnaea, two hundred talents— well, I can’t grizzle about that, can I, when I suggested it? House expenses per annum not including repairs and maintenance, one hundred thousand sesterces... Yes, that’s modest enough ... Da da, da dee... Villa at Misenum or Cumae? What on earth for?”
“For Porcia, when Servilia Gnaea is free to marry.”
“Oh, merda! I never thought of that! Of course you’re right. No husband would take her on as well as marry a lump like Servilia Gnaea... Yes, yes, you’ve got a deal! We’ll
split it right down the middle.”
They grinned at each other. Scaurus got to his feet. “A cup of wine, Mamercus, I think! What a pity your wife wouldn’t co-operate! It would have saved both of us—in our capacity as executors of the estates—a great deal of money.”
“Since it isn’t coming out of our own purses and the estates can well afford to bear the cost, Marcus Aemilius, why should we care? Domestic peace is worth any price.” He took the wine. “I’m leaving Rome in any case. It’s time I did my military duty.”
“I understand,” said Scaurus, sitting down again.
“Until my mother died I had thought it my principal duty to stay in Rome and help her with the children. She hadn’t been well since Drusus died. Broke her heart. But now the children are properly organized, I’ve no excuse. So I’m going.”
“Who to?”
“Lucius Cornelius Sulla.”
“Good choice,” said Scaurus, nodding. “He’s the coming man.”
“Do you think so? Isn’t he a little old?”
“So was Gaius Marius. And face it, Mamercus—who else is there? Rome is thin of great men at the moment. If it wasn’t for Gaius Marius we wouldn’t have one victory under our belts—and as he rightly says in his report, it was very Pyrrhic at that. He won. But Lupus had lost in a far worse way the day before.”
“True. I’m disappointed in Lucius Julius, however. I would have deemed him capable of great things.”
“He’s too highly strung, Mamercus.”
“I hear the Senate is now calling this the Marsic War.”
“Yes, the Marsic War is how it will go down in the history books, it seems.” Scaurus looked impish. “After all, you know, we can’t call it the Italian War! That would send everyone in Rome into a flat panic—they might think we were actually fighting all of Italy! And the Marsi did send us a formal declaration of war. By calling it the Marsic War, it looks smaller, less important.”
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