“Didius didn’t share much of his work with me. He preferred to be alone in here.”
“But presumably he kept copies of everything? The documents he produced for his customers?”
“Yes, I think he did, the important ones anyway. He was often asked to, in case the original should be damaged or go missing. Some of his customers liked to take copies of the originals on long journeys abroad. I believe he kept them all in that chest over there.”
She pointed to a plain metal strongbox chained to a ring against the wall. Lucrio went over to inspect it and beckoned Hortensia.
“The lock is broken,” he muttered, lifting the lid to show her. Inside was a pile of beautifully bound tablets and rolls which to judge by their jumbled arrangement and creased corners had been violently rifled through. Hortensia picked them up one by one, examining each of the labels, and then finally shook her head.
“It’s not here. They must have taken it, knowing a second copy could incriminate them.”
Pernilla asked exactly what it was they were looking for. Hortensia hesitated, one hand fiddling with a spare fold of her drab mantle in unconscious imitation of her father’s famous habit.
“Your husband did some work for consul Pompey, didn’t he?”
“Why yes. Pompey was his most important patron of course. But what has that to do with anything?”
“I think that the men who killed your husband were looking for something to do with your husband’s work for the consul and I believe they found it. I am not saying Pompey himself was responsible of course,” added Hortensia, seeing the shock on Pernilla’s face. “But I do need to find out exactly what was in the document they took. Is there anywhere he could have kept any more copies of his work? In particular, of any wills he was asked to scribe?”
Pernilla was wide-eyed with distress. The old wooden door in the corner of the room creaked slightly and they all turned quickly. But it was only the little brown-eyed girl, Laelia, who padded over to her mother and pressed her cheek against her stomach, clinging to Pernilla’s tunic and peering curiously up at Hortensia and Lucrio. Pernilla stroked her daughter’s hair with one hand and made a hopeless gesture of despair with the other.
“I don’t know what to tell you. As I said, Didius did not share much of his work with me. Now you tell me that he may have been killed because of it. It doesn’t seem real, any of it.”
Her eyes wandered around the room and came to rest sadly on the section of the workbench that was most worn and smeared with ink stains. “As for more copies, no, I don’t think so. I know that he was usually asked to be present at the sealing of wills and he would often make a spare copy while he was there. Sometimes he was late returning because he was asked to stay and drink a toast with the signatories, who would then put their names to the additional copy as well. But as far as I know, he kept everything in that chest and I don’t believe he would have made any other copies without the knowledge of his patron – that would be quite wrong.”
“What about the people he met during his work? After all, your husband was employed by some very important men. Is there anywhere he might have kept a record of the witnesses to the wills he created?”
Pernilla shook her head doubtfully and Hortensia felt as though the gate to her last avenue of enquiry was being shut in her face when she was afforded a faint glimmer of hope. “Unless there was something in his commentaries,” concluded Pernilla.
“Commentaries?” asked Hortensia in surprise.
Pernilla nodded, a reminiscent smile creeping into her eyes.
“Dear Didius, he was quite a vain man. I shouldn’t say that of my husband, I know. What I mean is that he was very proud to work for men such as Pompey and he liked to keep a record of his commissions. I believe great men of state keep similar accounts of their various achievements. Sometimes I found him in here, reading through it as he sipped his evening drink, a proud little smile on his face. I think he hoped to pass it on to Laelia, as a reminder of all of the great men her father had worked for.”
“Can I see it?” asked Hortensia eagerly.
“You could if I knew where it was,” confessed Pernilla. “I didn’t even think of it until just now. It must be in this room somewhere.”
They began to search but there was little furniture and few obvious hiding places. Hortensia and Pernilla sorted through the scattered sheaves of parchment on the floor while Lucrio investigated the tall cupboard in the corner which appeared to contain little more than empty inkwells and broken stili. The little girl Laelia meanwhile had detached herself from her mother and went to sit underneath the workbench. From this vantage point she watched the adults intently as they became increasingly frustrated with their lack of success.
“Nothing. These are all drafts of letters and legal documents. Are you sure it couldn’t be in the house somewhere?” asked Hortensia in desperation.
A sudden loud knocking noise made them all jump and turn around in surprise. Laelia beamed hesitantly, pleased to find herself the subject of their collective scrutiny, and rapped her knuckles again on the underside of the workbench.
“Not now, darling,” admonished her mother. “Mama will play games later.”
But the knocking started up as soon as the visitors began scouring the room again, becoming louder and increasingly persistent, until they were forced to pay attention. Laelia beamed conspiratorially at Lucrio, showing a mouthful of half-grown teeth, and beckoned him over.
“I think you’ve made a conquest there, Lucrio.” Hortensia smiled in spite of her disappointment with the outcome of their failed expedition.
Crawling obligingly underneath the workbench, Lucrio sat down alongside Laelia on the floor and laid flat one of his hands which the little girl thumped her fist into with a spluttering giggle of pleasure. Then she pointed at the bottom of the workbench and knocked on it again. Lucrio put his own hand up and knocked as well. Understanding dawned on him, and he looked at Laelia, pointing upwards with one finger in wordless interrogation. Laelia nodded and reaching up, she pushed a little finger against a weakened patch of wood next to one of the bench legs. She couldn’t quite press hard enough though and Lucrio added his weight too. Immediately, the panel of wood dropped down and a hollow opening was revealed in the underside of the bench.
Lucrio gave a long, low whistle. “Clever Papa,” he murmured. Laelia nodded solemnly and then the gleeful grin creased her cheeks once more.
“What is it?” asked Hortensia, crouching down to have a look and squealing with excitement when she saw the hiding place. “Is there anything in there?”
Lucrio reached up and felt around before withdrawing an assortment of items – a beautiful ivory-bladed pen, a jar of wine containing a few inches of liquid which by its rich blood-red hue was clearly of an excellent vintage, and a canister of brown leather.
“That’s it!” exclaimed Pernilla in some excitement. “I remember, he used to put it away in that case when he had finished adding to it.”
Lucrio dipped his fingers inside and extracted a very thick document, bound with a piece of linen. He handed it to Hortensia, who unraveled it eagerly across the ink-spattered floor and began to read, tracing the writing down each column with one finger as she knelt. Laelia, who now appeared to regard Hortensia with almost as much fascination as Lucrio, sat up and peered over Hortensia’s shoulder as if she too were reading along.
“This is where the entries for this year begin – see here where he’s headed it, In the consulship of Pompey Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus. But Pompey’s will would have been made last year so we want the previous year’s consuls … here we are, it’s this column – In the consulship of Publius Lentulus Sura and Gaius Aufidius Orestes. She squinted at the tiny, elegant handwriting and soon jabbed her finger excitedly at a point near the bottom of the roll.
“Here it is! The Kalends of December. Today I attended the Villa Pompeius on the Caelian Hill and served as actuarius for Pompey Magnus in the matter of his will.
Also present – yes! The names are all here! You marvelous man, Didius Flavius, may the gods keep you in Elysium! Now we shall see who else is involved in this.”
Hortensia bent her head. “Also present were seven very distinguished witnesses who in due course signed their hand to my work. Senator Gnaeus Lucilius Albinus …” Hortensia stopped and her brow furrowed.
“I’ve heard that name recently, but where?”
She pondered a moment longer before returning her attention to the roll in her hand and continuing to read aloud. “Former consul Marcus Aurelius Cotta …yes, I know that name, Papa introduced him to me at a party once … Gaius Julius Caesar … I’m not too sure about him. Look, Lucrio! Tiberius Dolabella! Well that explains why he knew there was another copy of the will, he was there when it was made. I wonder why he turned against Pompey? Maybe he’s just in it for the money. You said Crassus was paying him a huge amount.”
She looked down and continued reading. “The Pontifex Maximus Metellus Pius – now that’s interesting! Maybe that’s why he was so willing to call Helena’s death a suicide? He was co-commander with Pompey against Sertorius, I remember Caecilius telling us. But there was some sort of rivalry over who would claim the victory … That’s five anyway … Marcus Licinius Crassus – so he’s a witness too! Well, I suppose he had just been elected to serve as consul alongside Pompey when this will was drawn up.”
There was one name left on the list. Lucrio and Pernilla waited.
“That’s six,” said Lucrio. “Whose is the last name?”
Hortensia went very still before haltingly reading it out.
“Quintus Hortensius Hortalus.”
She looked up to find Lucrio watching her and gave an unsteady little laugh.
XXIV
“ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, DOMINA?”
They were walking back down the Aventine Hill, having left Pernilla with a promise of answers about her husband’s death and placated Laelia with an assurance that Lucrio would come to visit her again. Hortensia was quiet and preoccupied, a flush in her pale cheeks. But she lifted her head at Lucrio’s question and directed a defiant look at him.
“Of course. So Papa witnessed the will. He’s an important man, he witnesses many wills. That doesn’t mean he knows what Crassus and Tiberius are planning.”
There was a long pause.
“I think perhaps he does know, domina.”
Hortensia stopped and stared at Lucrio. “What are you talking about?”
“I am sorry I did not tell you before. Perhaps I should have but I did not want you to be … you see, when I was at the house of Tiberius and Crassus, I heard them mention your father’s name. They talked about him as if … as if he knew what was going to happen.”
There were two bright spots of color in Hortensia’s cheeks now.
“Tell me what you heard. Tell me exactly.”
“Crassus asked Tiberius if he had spoken to your father. I admit I did not hear everything that was said. But Tiberius seemed to be saying that your father would not agree to something and this made Crassus angry. He said … if they had to do it without him, they would.” Lucrio paused. “He also said they had letters which would be embarrassing to your father and which they would use to expose him if they needed to … I’m sorry, domina. I hoped perhaps that if he realized you knew something, it would be enough to persuade him to take a step back and protect himself. To protect you.”
He expected her to be angry, to tell him he had misheard or even that he was making it up. But instead, after frowning at him for several long moments, a dawning smile of realization spread across Hortensia’s face.
“Of course! Lucilius Albinus!”
Lucrio blinked.
“I beg your pardon, domina?”
“Don’t you see?” Hortensia’s eyes were bright with fervent zeal. “He’s a witness to the will too! I knew I’d heard his name before. He’s the one who Caepio told me was a witness for Pompey at his trial, and he’s the senator who was found dead in his bath! I remember them talking about it at Servilia’s dinner party when we were still at Laurentum. Everyone said it was a suicide but I’d wager you a million sesterces Crassus and Tiberius killed him because he wouldn’t join them …”
She broke off and the smile left her eyes. “Which means Papa is in terrible danger too if they’ve realized he won’t give them his support. Oh if only I knew what …”
She began to pace about, then stopped and looked distractedly at their surroundings.
“I need somewhere to think,” she said abruptly. “Somewhere out of the sun.”
There was a low-roofed taberna nearby, its shuttered doors open onto the street. A mange-ridden dog was sleeping by the threshold, pointedly ignoring the pedestrians passing right in front of his nose. The walls behind the dog were scrawled with crude graffiti and a dirty wooden sign depicting a bunch of vine leaves was hanging from its hinges above the entrance. Lucrio peered through the door uncertainly.
“I don’t think you should go in there, domina. It isn’t a place for the likes of you.”
“I told you, I need somewhere to work all of this out and I need some kind of refreshment too,” said Hortensia petulantly. “There’s hardly anyone in there and it’s not as though anyone is going to recognize me. I look destitute in these clothes.”
Lucrio raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
One of the dozing dog’s ears flickered as they went inside. It was a dark, low-ceilinged room, fetid and reeking of wine and sweat. A platter of congealed chicken wings lay untouched on the serving counter, which was presided over by a pot-bellied proprietor in a greasy apron. The hour was not advanced and only two of the tables were occupied, one by a group of elderly men playing a game of knucklebones, another by a jowly craftsman sitting on his own, carefully painting what looked like crude wooden figurines of Diana, her ill-defined fingers occupied in stringing a bow. A disproportionately large hunting dog peeped out from behind one of her legs. Hortensia recalled seeing a stall further down the hill where these and other such clumsy cultic souvenirs were being sold.
The only other person in the taberna was a woman on a stool beside the serving counter. She was considerably older than Hortensia, with sallow skin and deep lines in her cheeks, and she was wearing a man’s toga, dark in color, which was slipping just enough to reveal a protruding collarbone. Hortensia was a little puzzled by the hostility in the woman’s expression, but decided to ignore it and allowed Lucrio to shepherd her over to the small table in the corner of the taberna next to the man painting figurines while he went back to the serving counter. While she waited, Hortensia tried to ignore the curious glances of the men playing knucklebones in the corner. She suddenly noticed another man slumped at a table just to the right of the entrance. His eyes were cloudy with drink but it was obvious he was staring at her and as soon as he knew he had her attention, he made an obscene gesture with his fingers and nodded encouragingly to her. Hortensia gasped and averted her eyes quickly, feeling hot outrage rushing to her cheeks. She was now wishing she had never suggested coming in here. But then Lucrio returned carrying two tankards and sat down in front of her, blocking her view of the rest of the room.
“What is it?” asked Hortensia cautiously as Lucrio placed one of the tankards in front of her.
“Best you don’t know. But I wouldn’t drink their wine.”
Hortensia sniffed and then took a sip, scrunching her face up in immediate disgust.
“Urgh, Lucrio what is that?”
“Fermented goat urine,” he answered with the ghost of a smile. Hortensia stared at him slack-jawed as he drained his own cup. He laughed at her expression.
“It’s called posca, domina. An old soldier’s drink. A little sour wine, water and herbs.”
“It’s revolting.”
“But refreshing,” he grinned.
Hortensia took another small sip, wrinkling up her nose as she did so. The men in the corner had now resumed their game of knucklebones and the dru
nkard at the counter was leering at the woman sitting by the serving counter, who seemed to accept without demur the fumbling creep of his hands around her waist. Hortensia began to tap her fingernail against the rough clay of the tankard.
“Let’s think about what we know so far.”
“We? You forget, domina, I am only here to ensure you come to no harm. If it were up to me, I would already have played my part.”
“That’s not very helpful and I’ve already explained why you can’t go after Tiberius Dolabella until I say so. So you might as well help me. As I was saying … there is one thing we know now at least. Didius Flavius obviously wouldn’t do the job for Tiberius and Crassus. So they killed him and made sure they took Didius’s copy of Pompey’s will so that it couldn’t incriminate them. But that leaves us with another question. Who made the will which is currently in the temple archive?”
Lucrio drew his finger around the rim of his own tankard, idly watching the delicate movements of the craftsman’s brush.
“A forger,” he supplied eventually. Hortensia looked questioningly at him. “Perhaps you are looking at this the wrong way, domina. Maybe they never expected Didius to help them. Maybe the copy of the will was what they wanted in the first place. So that a forger in their pay could use it to create the new one.”
Hortensia nodded slowly.
“Yes. That makes sense. They couldn’t rely on Didius not to betray them to Pompey. But could a forger really produce something that would fool the Senate? He would have to reproduce not just Didius Flavius’s writing, remember, but the witnesses’ signatures too – well enough to fool those who know them well – and then he would also have to create counterfeits of the seven different seals to bind the will, one for each witness.”
Rivals of the Republic Page 16