Vespasian had restored the stage, which had been damaged in the civil war that brought him to power. The stage fronted the river; our seats were a long way from it. We were right at the top, which was why we could be seated men and women together, because the Antistii had inadvertently bought tickets for the women’s and slaves’ tier. For an intimate musical evening to hear a delicate instrument, this was not good. We could never see the player’s skillful hands, and despite generally excellent acoustics, we could not hear even the manly and stirring Dorian mode that is supposed to inspire soldiers going into battle.
I don’t think so. How can an army be fired up by the gentle twiddles of a one-man harp? Have no musicologists ever seen, let alone heard, the racket of a legion marching?
The cithara maestro’s hands slithered on his seven strings—or more than seven when he deftly changed instruments to demonstrate what a sterling virtuoso he was. I thought I liked music, but I had never been trained to understand it. Although my father inherited a panpipes player from Grandpa, we rarely had other instruments or singing in our house. We dealt in ideas, expressed with words. That could be colorful enough. Grandpa’s panpipes player ran away, feeling unappreciated.
Struggling to hear the faint and far-off beauteous improvisations gave me plenty of time to reflect. Ignoring my relatives, both old and new, I realized I was seeing another aspect of Rome from the street life around the Ten Traders. Here we had monumental imperial architecture, refined entertainment, a boisterous family group on the eve of a wedding. We were well-fed, well-off people enjoying a leisure experience, or at least enjoying it in theory. Our young were full of hope and privilege. Our old were cared for and brought among us, even those who made it plain they would rather be somewhere else, sipping gruel.
Stertinius received loud applause, which woke up anyone who had dozed off. At the interval Aunt Valeria admitted she was tone-deaf; also, the three little boys were bored, so they all went home. Tiberius was obliged to go down and help find them transport. Luckily litter-bearers do form a queue outside at the midway point of concerts because they know there will always be people who have had enough. Even the fabulous Stertinius could not please everyone.
Those of our party who lacked an excuse to leave were able to spread ourselves on the narrow upper-tier seats. Antistius tried to get to sit with my sisters, but Father deftly outmaneuvered him, claiming this was a rare opportunity for a fond old papa to enjoy the company of his girls. Julia and Favonia rolled their eyes, but knew exactly what their watchful parent was doing.
My mother closed her eyes and seemed to pay close attention to the gorgeous cithara. She had wrapped an affectionate arm around Postumus, which stopped him getting up and wandering off, as he liked to do. I watched how Helena Justina handled this whole stressful situation. With a vague smile, Mother let chaos carry on, provided there was no bloodshed or hysteria—or not too much. She was a good wife and mother but would not be overwhelmed by others’ clamorous demands; she subtly detached herself mentally. Helena led her chosen life. I made a note to do the same.
My father saw me observing her so thoughtfully. As was our habit, I winked at him before he could get in first and wink at me. Tiberius noticed that.
The fabulous Stertinius treated us to a lengthy set in sensual Hypolydian. Good little bride that I was, for the benefit of my in-laws, I managed to appear entranced.
28 August
Five days before the Kalends of September (a.d. V Kal. Sept.)
Three days before the wedding of Tiberius Manlius Faustus and Flavia Albia
XXXII
Tiberius and I scuttled off from the concert, claiming we had to rush back to the Garden of the Hesperides. I had gone to the Aventine before the concert to tell him of the damage and to pick up a formal outfit from my apartment. I would have seen for myself the famous newly painted front doors, but a protective cover hid the porch. I never saw inside the house either; I could not concentrate on frescoes. Later, I warned myself that many a new wife has a bad shock on discovering her man’s taste in art.
At the end of the evening, before our relatives could suggest following the concert with a getting-to-know-you nightcap, we floated our “Hesperides emergency” excuse, and then, unknown to anyone else, we fled up the Aventine and stayed at Fountain Court that night.
“I know my brother-in-law quite well enough already!” grouched Tiberius. He realized I too had had enough of Antistius. Our agreeing over such idiots reminded me of my parents. They would put on a polite face in public, then later see who could devise the most killing insults. I would have started to teach Tiberius to play that game, but so far I was pretending to be a sweet wife, the peacemaker in our home.
Tiberius was perhaps not fooled.
*
Next day we woke at first light. We had breakfast at the Stargazer, our usual haunt, then made our way over to the Argiletum while decent shopkeepers were still emptying out water buckets to wash the pavement and sweeping off their frontages. Scents of new bread and fresh flowers filled the air.
Yesterday, after I told him about the damage, Tiberius had been thoroughly depressed, though as was his way he held back from exploding until he had seen it. He had sent a message from the aediles’ office to ask the Third Cohort to exercise that slippery commodity “extra vigilance.” This was to apply both at the bar and also at Mucky Mule Mews where burglars had been chased off. The security measures Tiberius requested meant that, certainly at the Hesperides, a few members of the vigiles sat outside all night. In their eyes, they were making their presence felt to keep an aedile happy. If anyone had been so foolish as to try a new invasion of the premises, they would probably just have said hello.
When we arrived in the morning they had gone. However, there was a draftboard drawn on the pavement, lots of crumbs and an empty amphora to prove we had had protection last night. An extremely sordid pigeon was gobbling the crumbs. We shooed him away despondently.
Tiberius found Trypho in the courtyard with Serenus, hammering the benches back together. Having proper seats to sit on and moan was their priority. Reinstating the works could wait until the others arrived. In fact, I knew it would wait until they had arrived, taken a gloomy look around, discussed what had happened in endless, ponderous detail and then gone out to buy breakfast to take their minds off the calamity.
I watched how Tiberius tackled this. The spoliation clearly made him furious but he wasted no time complaining. Looking pale (which could be the after-effect of an evening spent with relatives), he surveyed the scene. He jumped on spoil heaps, clambered into what remained of the trench, prodded, kicked the ruined concrete, tossed timber aside. Then he fetched out a note tablet and quietly began making a list of what could be salvaged, what had to be rebuilt and the order in which his men should tackle everything. He was set-faced, yet a practical man who simply began repairs. Larcius arrived. Tiberius handed him the list. The foreman read it, then nodded his approval.
Trypho’s bruises were coloring up well. We said he looked like a painted Greek temple. Tiberius quizzed him about the man he had taken on. According to Trypho it was a giant with leather wrist guards, an urban Hercules. “That’s appropriate,” I said, indicating the bar’s signboard. Trypho stared blankly.
At that point, I had no doubt that the perpetrators of the Hesperides damage were Menendra’s surly bodyguards. It seemed logical. I would have liked to link them to the attempted breakin at Mucky Mule Mews but nobody had seen those burglars close up. Still, both attacks were so obvious it was stupid, so perhaps that in itself showed a connection.
Logic can let you down. As we set about tidying up the site, with me helping, Macer turned up with a group of his men, dragging along Menendra’s heavies for Trypho to identify. To my surprise, he said neither of them looked like the man he had found damaging the works. Besides, neither had the nose damage he had inflicted.
Macer decided that since the pair had been arrested, he would keep them in custody anyway. “My
torturer has nothing else to do today, so he can put in a spot of practice with his weights and chains, maybe do some red-hot pokerwork. There must be something these lags will confess to. We’ll see.”
Now I looked closely, the prisoners were both burly and cauliflower-eared. That could be because they had a history of fights, or else they had brawling wives who owned particularly weighty frying pans.
As they slumped in the arms of their captors, it looked as if they had already been softened up with a few vigiles rib-thumps. I marched up and asked what they did for Menendra. I had a fair idea, but would have liked to know what job description they gave publicly. One made a feeble attempt of muttering “Who?” When I pointed out I had seen them all together yesterday, the other just spat on the ground. He made sure to avoid me. Even so, one of the vigiles gave him a great shake. “Naughty!”
“It’s all right,” I returned in my mildest tone. “Some people cannot help being barbarians. I expect these came to Rome to get civilized. The etiquette lessons are simply not working.”
“Where do you think they hail from?” Tiberius asked Macer.
“Some cesspit in the east. I could send them back to swim in their home dung, but to save the expense I’d rather wheel them out for the lions.”
In the arena, criminals who felt too nervous of the big cats were indeed placed on little wheeled trolleys and pushed forward. An uncle of mine had that happen. It made a good story at Saturnalia, provided his children weren’t listening.
“My quota for the amphitheater is a bit low this month,” Macer continued. “I could use a higher tally to impress my tribune. I get a free ticket if I send enough lowlifes to the beasts.”
Perhaps he was joking to worry the prisoners but he sounded as if he meant it. I still thought these men had been involved in the attempted breakin, yet they were clearly exonerated from smashing up the bar. I told Macer to have the old couple and their son from Mucky Mule Mews take a look at them.
“You don’t want to waste helpful witnesses, Macer.” Of course neither they nor their son had really seen the burglars but we were all bluffing. To the enforcers, I said, “If you tell me what you went to look for in that burglary, I will intercede for your release.” No use. “I see you’re too frightened of Menendra and not scared enough of me!”
“They will learn!” scoffed Tiberius cheerily.
He went back to attend to his site, so I followed. Not knowing what else I could do next on my inquiry, I decided at least my presence would boost his morale. To my surprise he suddenly took me in his arms. “Don’t worry,” he urged, as if he thought I was afraid life with him might always involve pillage and property-wrecking.
I helped where I could. I can carry a bucket. While we were sorting out the mess, his brother-in-law appeared on-site again. Until Antistius came, we had been making good progress. Larcius had hired in a couple of extra bodies, wide-chested jolly laborers who set to with picks as if demolishing ruined concrete was their idea of a picnic on the beach. Our usual men cleared the rest of the site. Tiberius had been off with Sparsus for more materials; when I joked that “going to buy materials” was a good old builders’ excuse, he cheered up enough to smile and aim a spank at me. (He missed. I saw it coming.) Then to spoil our day, we had our visitation.
Antistius hinted again that what happened here was caused by Tiberius somehow failing to exercise control. Viewing Tiberius as an amateur, the swine was sneering today as much as yesterday.
We were lumbered with him. He had escorted Aunt Valeria to my parents’ house this morning, which had let him shed his wife and children. Fania had taken the boys to the imperial menagerie. I disapproved. In our family my mother would choose expeditions, but normally my father tagged along. We would all be disappointed if he could not come with us; only significant business ever stopped him.
Antistius had no excuse. Here he was, bringing his youngsters to the city for the first time, yet he preferred to slither off to annoy other people. He started to give us pompous theories about what the workmen should or should not be doing; they shot looks at Tiberius, who washed his hands in a bucket of water, then hauled Antistius out of the bar to let them get on.
I suggested we take morning refreshments at one of the open bars. Antistius selected the Brown Toad. We advised against it. He ignored us. This unpleasant place was the last Tiberius and I would have chosen, but Antistius overruled us, despite our experience as locals. Exchanging a glance, we gave in and let him choose.
“You two never have much to say for yourselves!” he commented. That became even truer when he started to interrogate Tiberius about his financial tussles with Uncle Tullius.
I kept well out of that. I knew how much the current strain over money upset Tiberius. It had almost led to complete estrangement after twenty years of harmonious living. Having met Tullius Icilius, I guessed what he must think of Antistius. He would loathe an idiot stranger taking interest in his close-guarded financial affairs. The alacrity with which he had left us at the concert last night was an indication. He went his own way and didn’t care whom he offended.
The Brown Toad had dusty counters and a smell. Two tables were in the street, which was strictly illegal. We took one. At the other sat a group of women whose occupation anyone could guess. Most had barely three stitches holding together their tunics’ side-seams. I could see snake bracelets. None had beakers in front of them. They were not girlfriends out for a gossip; they were waiting for custom.
While the men talked family business, I concentrated on ordering what passed for snacks from a tired waitress who had not wanted to start serving this early. In a short tunic and bare feet, she had a button nose and a fine line in lethargy. I could not suppose she owned the bar, though if there was a landlord he never showed his face.
“I would like to know,” boomed Antistius, “whether Tullius has any money in his hands that rightly belongs to my wife?”
Tiberius had already told me that he had been very fond of his sister when they were growing up. He missed her after they were taken in by different relatives. He was sorry she married a man he could not stand, preventing Tiberius from visiting her. “Nothing of Fania’s is managed by Uncle Tullius.”
“You certain?”
“Fania is well provided for, as you must know.”
“Main attraction when I married her!” bragged Antistius. Not the best way to impress her brother. Tiberius would rather she was valued as a good woman and loyal homemaker. She certainly was a dedicated mother; few of us could have loved those unhappy sons.
It was obvious Tiberius distrusted Antistius. The couple must have had the usual dowry. If Fania had inherited any other family property, Tiberius could have ensured her husband never heard about it. When their grandfather and parents died, legacies might have slyly remained not even with Tullius as Antistius suspected, but quietly looked after for Fania Faustina by her fond elder brother. If so, I wondered if she knew? Would it suit her that something of her own was squirreled away?
Up to a point I liked what I had seen of her, even though her husband infected her with his self-importance. If ever they reached a crisis, she would feel she had to stick with her marriage because of the three boys. I would never have done it; I would send Antistius a notice of divorce, encouraging him to exercise his paternal right to custody of the tiresome trio. Fania was trying to give her boys her ameliorating influence. It was pointless. They would grow up like Antistius.
The waitress brought what I had ordered, dumping a tray on our table. I placed beakers in front of everyone, then began pouring the drink I had asked for—posca, honeyed wine vinegar infused with herbs. Not enough herbs, I could immediately tell.
“Good gods, this is peasant fare! Army rations. I’d rather have wine!” Antistius declared. “We men should have ordered. Your girl has no idea, Faustus.”
“You can order what you want,” Tiberius replied calmly. “I have to work this afternoon. Albia knows that.”
Antistius jum
ped up and went to the counter, intent on finding something that suited him better; he clearly had not drunk much wine in Roman bars. With luck, he might actually pay for his own hooch. While he was away from us, I shuffled along the bench, nearer to Tiberius. He brushed my cheek briefly with a forefinger. I patted his thigh.
I noticed that Antistius took advantage of speaking alone with the waitress. He pretended he was asking for directions to the facilities; he probably believed he was discreet, but I was sure he asked how much it would cost to go upstairs with her. Her reply was loud enough for us to hear. “Sorry, I don’t have time.”
I was intrigued that she did have a choice. It is all too easy to assume bar girls are forced to accommodate their customers whether they like it or not.
As Antistius rejoined us, I decided he really believed himself a perfect husband. He would never have done this in their home district, where Fania might hear about it. But in Rome it meant nothing. This was one of the city thrills a man could sample, just as his children were visiting the emperor’s exotic animals and Fania had had her cithara concert.
Tiberius looked furious and disgusted. I made a moue to say there was no point in him saying anything.
The waitress went and spoke to the women at the other table. When she brought Antistius his wine flagon, she leaned over and told him, “I can fix you up with one of the Macedonian girls, if you want, sir.”
Antistius barely bothered to look sheepish. But as Tiberius scowled on his sister’s behalf, he did decline.
Graveyard of the Hesperides Page 15