Fortune's Fool

by Albert A. Bell

  I could tell that people were pressing their ears to the door. “They’re expecting to hear something soon.”

  Felix glared at the door. “Well, I guess they’ll have to be disappointed.”

  “Not necessarily. Come here.” I took his hand and we stood next to the door. “Just don‘t look at me,” I whispered. “You’ll make me laugh.”

  Starting slowly at first, I began to moan, remembering Gaius’ hands on my body, his lips on my neck. Felix’s eyes brightened as he followed my lead and made a few appropriate noises.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, Felix. Yes! Yes!”

  Outside, the crowd cheered.

  Felix smothered a laugh. “That will certainly give them something to talk about.”

  And it will give Gaius something to think about, damn him.

  * * *

  As Tacitus and I drew close to the villa, we saw three wagons approaching from the south, from the direction of the town of Comum. The first two were an open style of raeda, with leather curtains that could be drawn against bad weather. On both wagons the lower half was painted blood red and the posts that supported the roof were a yellow that did not exist anywhere in nature—two garish colors that Pompeia Celerina favored. The third was a closed raeda.

  “Are you expecting company?” Tacitus asked.

  “It’s Livia and her mother,” I said with a groan. “Damn them! I thought I had another day.”

  “Do you have any other vineyards that need inspecting? Somewhere in Greece, perhaps?”

  I glared at him with my mouth screwed up.

  “You have to greet them, Gaius. You have no choice.”

  “I’m getting very tired of hearing that. I’m a free man. I’m supposed to have choices.”

  “No one but the emperor is really free,” Tacitus reminded me with a tired philosophical commonplace. “And then only if you believe there are no gods waiting to exact retribution for his numerous crimes.”

  “Yes. As Ovid says, ‘Gods are convenient to have, so let us concede their existence.’”

  We reached the front of the house at the same time as the wagons. I dismounted and went to help Livia and her mother out of the first wagon. They were accompanied by a few favorite servant women. The rest of their retinue rode in the second wagon. The third, I was sure, held their baggage.

  “Welcome to Comum, ladies,” I said, trying to inject civility into my voice, since I couldn’t quite manage warmth. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow at the earliest, so I’m afraid things may not be entirely ready for you.”

  “Oh, we’ll manage.” Pompeia dropped her considerable bulk to the ground with a grunt and offered me a hug and a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. She wore a blue gown and had her hair done up in the style of women of the Flavian court, with crimped curls piled up high toward the front of her head. Given her size and the color of her gown, the effect was like waves on the ocean. “We got far enough yesterday that we just decided to push on and finish the trip today, rather than make another stop.”

  Livia’s hair was done in a simpler style, pulled back into a bun on her neck. She wore a soft green gown, with gold bracelets on each arm and a brooch pinned over her heart. In a rare moment of tenderness she had told me that her father gave it to her. He was the only person who ever loved me, she said. Standing in the wagon as though not certain she would get out, she looked down her nose at the villa. “How old is this place?”

  “My grandfather built it,” I said, “during the time of the deified Augustus.”

  “It’s a nice place,” Pompeia said. “I visited here when I was a girl.” My mother and Pompeia are cousins. Her family’s home was south of Comum, but she and her brother sold it after their parents’ deaths. She claims to prefer the sophistication of Rome, but she’s just a pretentious snob.

  “It’s ancient then,” Livia said, wrinkling her nose.

  “My father did some work on it. It’s smaller than my other houses, but quite comfortable,” I assured her.

  “And the servants have finally learned not to scratch their bottoms in our presence,” Tacitus said over my shoulder.

  “Hmpf,” was all Pompeia said. Livia just gathered her cloak around her and reluctantly stepped down from the raeda.

  My mother, Julia, and several servants emerged from the house, laughing about something.

  “Pompeia dear, how lovely to see you,” Mother said, stepping forward. “I hope the trip wasn’t too tiring for you.”

  “Aren’t all trips tiring?” Pompeia said, embracing my mother and kissing her lightly on the cheek, a gesture which my mother returned.

  “Well, you’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

  The noise from the servants in the garden drifted out to us.

  “What’s going on?” Livia’s simple question sounded like an accusation.

  “Oh, Gaius arranged a marriage for Aurora,” Mother said. “We’ve just finished celebrating it. If we’d known you were arriving today, we could have waited.”

  Livia questioned me just by the tilt of her head and the arching of an eyebrow.

  “We’ll talk later,” I said abruptly. “You thought Aurora ought to get married. Now she is.”

  “Who is her husband?”

  Before I could repeat my admonition that we talk later, my mother said, “His name is Felix. He’s a servant from our house at Tuscany.”

  “Is that where Aurora will be living now?” Livia asked with a hint of hope in her voice.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Mother said. “What is your plan, Gaius?”

  “Yes,” Livia echoed, “what is your plan, Gaius?”

  It’s odd how the same words, spoken by two different people one right after the other, can convey simple curiosity on the one hand and a direct challenge on the other. And it all depends on the meaning of “is,” or at least the emphasis given to that little word.

  “My plan is that Felix will come to Rome with us. He’ll be in charge of buying supplies for the house there. Arcturus, who does that job now, is getting old.”

  “And how old is Felix?” Livia asked.

  I shrugged, trying to show my indifference, but my mother spoke up. “He’s older than I am. That’s all I know. Isn’t he at least fifty, Gaius?”

  The curl of Livia’s lip let me know that, when we did talk later, it would not be a pleasant conversation, and probably not a short one.

  Julia stepped up beside my mother and extended a hand to Pompeia. “There’s food set out in the garden. You must be famished after your trip.”

  Pompeia needed no other encouragement. Given her girth, I doubt she has ever been anywhere close to famished.

  “Perhaps we can still extend our good wishes to the happy couple,” Livia said.

  As we passed through the small atrium Livia’s eyes rolled at the frescoes which, I had to admit, were badly dated. The place had last been painted when my father was a young man, probably early in the reign of Claudius. The only time I had suggested repainting, my mother had strongly objected. The decorations had been done shortly after she married my father and she was loath to change them.

  “You can’t receive many clients in here,” Livia said.

  “I save a lot of money that way.”

  “But people can’t see how important you are.”

  “Around here, everybody who needs to know does, and nobody cares.” That lack of pretension was one of the great charms of Comum.

  As we entered the garden the servants moved away from the door of Aurora’s room, still laughing and making noises and gestures like a couple engaged in love-making. Our presence put a damper on their fun, as I was glad to see. I wanted to play out this scene without an audience.

  “Back to work, everyone,” I ordered. They shuffled off to their various tasks, with a few backward glances.

  “Bring them out here,” Livia said. “I’d like to offer my congratulations.”

  “Do we really need to disturb them right now?” Tacitus asked.


  Livia drew herself up. “As mistress of any house which belongs to my husband, I have a right to know who will be working in it.”

  “Of course you do,” my mother said. She knocked on the door. “Aurora, you and Felix come out here for a moment.”

  The door opened and Aurora and Felix emerged sheepishly, smiling at one another. Aurora had unpinned her hair and shaken it loose. All I could think about was Ovid’s line about reaching across the table at a dinner party to claim his mistress from her husband. I had a momentary fear that Felix had lied to me, as Aurora looked into his eyes with adoration.

  “Here’s the blushing bride,” Livia said, taking Aurora’s chin in her hand and turning her head back and forth. “Perhaps your new husband can nip a bit off your other ear, to even things out.”

  Aurora flushed, but in anger. The tip of her right earlobe had been cut off when she was almost killed in one of our recent misadventures.

  Livia patted—almost slapped—Aurora’s cheek, then turned to Felix. “And you’re Felix.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Livia had not yet been to my estate in Tuscany, so Felix had never met her. Even though he had no idea who she was, her dress and arrogant manner made it clear how he should address her.

  “You do look as happy as your name implies.”

  “I am, my lady. This is a joyous day.” He took Aurora’s hand.

  “I’m Livia, wife of Gaius Pliny.”

  Felix bowed his head. “I’m honored to meet you, my lady. And may I offer you belated congratulations on your marriage and the utmost good fortune.”

  “I suppose you may, and I’ll return the same.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “How old are you, Felix?” Livia touched his shoulders and felt the muscles of his arms.

  “I’m fifty-three, my lady.”

  Livia sneered at me. “That’s no surprise. Have you been married before, Felix?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Aurora had not met my eyes yet. She leaned close to Felix, her shoulder touching his. I would have to tell her not to overplay her role.

  “Was she a servant in this house?” Livia asked.

  “Her name was Delia, my lady, another servant in my lord Pliny’s household, and I mean your husband’s uncle.”

  “So that was some time ago. Did you have any children?”

  “My wife gave birth to a son, my lady.”

  I silently applauded Felix for his logical dexterity. He must have practiced saying something like that to divert attention from his castration. It stopped Livia for a moment, the way a charging animal is stunned when it hits an unseen net.

  I took Livia by the arm before she could lower her horns for another charge at the obstacle. “Will you come with me, please?”

  Livia followed me to the far corner of the garden, as far from the others as we could get. “What more do you want?” I said, lowering my voice.

  She answered me in an angry whisper. “I’m still not sure that this is a real marriage and not a sham.”

  “You mean, like ours?” I gave her an opportunity to reply and her mouth moved, but what could she say? “You wanted Aurora married. She is married.”

  “But can someone that old even service her?”

  “His wife had a child.” I was as careful in arranging my words as Felix had been.

  “Years ago. That doesn’t mean he can still—”

  “You heard the servants. It sounds like Aurora was…serviced quite well. Or do you want them to perform in front of you, like Tiberius’ sexual acrobats on the isle of Capri?”

  “Well! You don’t have to—”

  “Aurora is married, as you…requested, and before you arrived in Comum, as you requested. I don’t want to hear another word on the subject.”

  III

  As the blessings of health and fortune have a beginning, so they must also find an end. Everything rises but to fall, and increases but to decay.

  —Sallust

  Our conversation was interrupted by Livia’s servants bringing the women’s trunks and bags into the garden. No wonder the four horses pulling the closed raeda had been straining so hard.

  “Take the lady Livia’s things to her husband’s room,” my mother said, pointing the way.

  “Let me look at the room first,” Livia said. Everyone came to a halt as she poked her head into my room, then pronounced her judgment. “It’s much too small for two people. What other rooms do you have?” She directed the question to my steward, a freedman named Decimus, who looked to me in consternation.

  “There are two rooms on the other side of the garden,” I said, “which are not currently in use. Perhaps you’ll find them more satisfactory.”

  Livia gathered up her gown like a woman does when she’s afraid she might step in something disgusting. “Let’s take a look.”

  As Decimus led her and Pompeia across the garden, my mother edged closer to me.

  “Aren’t you going to share a room?”

  “Apparently not.” We had slept in the same room a few times since our marriage—even in the same bed on two occasions when we absolutely could not avoid doing so—but neither of us preferred that arrangement.

  “But, Gaius, you’re husband and wife.”

  “Mother, many couples have their own individual quarters. You know that.”

  She lowered her voice to a sharp whisper. “Yes, many childless couples. Pompeia and I didn’t arrange this marriage so you and Livia could wave to one another across the garden.”

  “Then you should talk to Livia. As you saw, this is her choice, not mine.”

  Mother pointed across the garden. “Are they going to take those two rooms?”

  The rooms Livia and Pompeia were looking at were separated by a stretch of blank wall where an opening used to lead to a vegetable garden. My father had walled up the space some years ago.

  “What’s wrong with them?” I asked.

  “The servants here told Naomi that they sometimes hear strange noises in those rooms. Things even fall off the shelves for no reason.”

  Perhaps something will land on Livia’s head, I thought.

  “There’s always an explanation for that sort of thing,” I said. “Something probably was done incorrectly when that opening was closed up, so the stone work is shifting.”

  * * *

  While the women got unpacked and got their servants settled, I retired to the library, where I wished I could spend the rest of the day, if not the rest of the time we were on this estate. Tacitus and Julia had gone to “bathe” and everyone knew by now to let them have the bath to themselves for the next hour.

  I paused at the door of the library, letting my soul—whatever that is—soak in the calm. I had asked Phineas to sort and arrange the books. The scribe who had had charge of the library until his recent death had become careless toward the end of his life, as his mind began to leave him. Even if I didn’t come here often, I wanted the library to be useful, and I hoped we might hit on some rarity, a bit of Ennius or Naevius perhaps. Looking over the piles of scrolls on several different tables, I asked him to tell me what he had done so far.

  “Well, my lord, this table is the Greek books.” He waved his hand over the table closest to us. “Those two tables are the Latin books, and that far table is personal correspondence and business documents.”

  “Have you found anything of unusual interest?”

  “No, my lord. I’m afraid your father did not have your, and your uncle’s, exquisite and wide-ranging taste in books. Judging from what I’ve seen so far, the collection is quite pedestrian, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. And, even if you won’t forgive me, it’s still quite pedestrian.”

  Phineas is three years older than I am. He still bears resentment about the destruction of Jerusalem fifteen years ago, where he and his mother, Naomi, were captured, but he does such excellent work that I can tolerate a certain degree of abrasiveness in his personality. My mother has reminded me that he and I have more in
common than we might realize. Our mothers both lost daughters before we were born. We were both raised by an uncle whom we lost tragically. We’ve both been known by other names—my uncle named him Peleus and his mother Niobe because he didn’t like the sound of their Jewish names. A few years ago my mother insisted that we respect them enough to call them by their real names.

  “As you can see, my lord, I’m about halfway through.” He raised a hand toward the boxes of scrolls lining the back wall of the room. “I’ve still got that section to clean out.”

  “I’ll take a look at it.” Anything to pass some time and stay away from everybody for a while.

  “I would appreciate the help, my lord. None of your people here has shown much aptitude for this kind of work, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s a pity. Is there anyone in my familia in Rome who could do it?”

  Phineas didn’t have to think long at all. “Xenobia, my lord, has shown a keen interest.”

  “That blond girl I’ve seen you working with?”

  “Yes, my lord. I’ve been teaching her. She’s even picking up the Tironian notation.”

  I smiled to myself. “I thought there was some connection between you two.” It was obvious Xenobia was more interested in him than in the scrolls.

  He blushed. “She’s an apt pupil, my lord. Nothing more.”

  “Pssht. I’m not blind. The attraction between you two lights up the library. I’m surprised the scrolls don’t catch fire.”

  His back stiffened. “She’s not Jewish, my lord. I could never hurt my mother by taking a Gentile as my wife.”

  In this brief moment we’d found two more points of similarity: Phineas and I both respected—or feared—our mothers too much to hurt them, and he was also in love with a girl he could never have. Fortune makes fools of us all. I touched the Tyche ring. Do we build temples to this most fickle of goddesses to seek her favor or just to keep her away from us? Does anyone get what they want? Or do we have to figure out, after we have something, that we want it? Tacitus didn’t particularly want to marry Julia but now he’s falling so madly in love with her that he sports with her in the bath like most men enjoy their mistresses.