His honour was on a sun terrace, which at least had the sprawling untidiness most sun terraces achieve. Its occupants had been murmuring politely, though when I shuffled out into the sunshine they seized on the excuse and stopped. After a hard day trying to stay awake in the courthouse, Rufus was relaxing at full stretch with a large goblet clasped to his chest: a hopeful sign.
He had with him a thin noblewoman who must be his sister, and another lass. They were positioned at a wicker table which held the inevitable pastry plate. The magistrate’s sister picked at the sweetmeats spasmodically, while her visitor cheerfully tucked in. It was Helena Justina. She did me the supreme honour of letting my arrival put her off her food.
Unavoidable: as soon as you say goodbye forever, you trip over the lady wherever you go. So now mine was on a Herculaneum sun terrace, licking ground almonds off her fingers, with a tantalizing smear of honey on her chin which I would have enjoyed licking off for her myself.
She was wearing white, which was how I liked her, and she stayed very quiet, which was not. She ignored me, though I refused to be demoralized by that.
The illustrious Sextus Aemilius Rufus Clemens, son of Sextus, grandson of Gaius, of the Falerna voting tribe; tribune, aedile, honorary priest of the Augustales, and currently ranking praetor, leaned around the back of his day bed; I stiffened. I was being greeted by a good-quality copy of a Praxiteles Apollo. If I stood him on a plinth with his clothes off and a thoughtful expression, Geminus would buy him like a shot. A classic face; assertive intelligence; painfully fair colouring in a rare, superb combination with extremely dark brown eyes. Helena Justina’s friend was so good-looking I wanted to spit on him and see if any of the artistry washed off.
He had taken a fast run at public life. I put him not far beyond thirty. In five years he would be commanding a legion in one of the better provinces, and make consul easily in ten. Since he lived with his sister I guessed he was a bachelor, though it had not held him back in collecting votes. The reason he stayed single was probably being spoiled for choice.
He picked up my pass from a small silver table, read it, then surveyed me with limpidly dark eyes as I approached. ‘Didius Falco? Welcome to Herculaneum!’ He gave me a frank, open smile like a man who dealt honestly, though I supposed he was no better than all the rest. ‘I gather someone has a shocked little donkey who will never be the same again… So what exactly is the name of your ox?’
‘Spot!’ I declared stoutly. He smiled. I smiled. The friendliness would never last. ‘My nephew and I,’ I insisted, sticking up for us, ‘have spent a humiliating morning and we intend filing a claim for wrongful arrest. Nero was one of the few Emperors who managed to avoid the honour of being decreed divine.’
‘He’s sacred in Campania, Falco; he wed a local girl!’ ‘Pigswill! Didn’t Poppaea Sabina come to grief when he kicked her in the stomach during a pregnancy?
‘A domestic tiff which good Campanian prefer to forget!’ Herculaneum’s golden magistrate grinned at me, with an attractive flash of teeth. ‘I agree. Blasphemy seems a trumped-up charge. Suppose I ask instead about your unorthodox deliveries of lead?’ His apologetic tone was upsetting. I prefer blunter questions, accompanied by a soldier’s knee in my soft extremities.
‘Problem, sir? How can I help?’
‘There have been,’ Rufus offered, with a gentleness that made my liver curl, ‘complaints.’
‘Oh I don’t understand that, sir!’ I protested in outrage. ‘It’s top-quality stock from Britain, and we make every effort to ensure all our installations have good workmanship to match!’
‘It’s not your customers who complain,’ Rufus stated. ‘It’s those with official franchises who are being undercut.’
‘Tough,’ I said. I was losing a battle I could not control; tiring work.
The magistrate shrugged. ‘Any more of this lead?’ ‘No sir; that’s the last.’
‘Good. You can pick up your ox from the livery stables, but unless you show me proof of ownership, I have to confiscate the lead.’
For a man with a handsome profile, his business acumen was admirably sharp.
Now that he had pinched my samples, we became best friends. He waved me to a stool and made free with the wine he was drinking himself: a clean-flowing vintage my expert friend Petronius would admire.
‘Very generous of you, sir - are the ladies joining us?’
His two refined companions had kept aloof, though we knew they were listening. Rufus veiled his eyes, entrusting me with a hint of male conspiracy, as they deigned to squirm sideways towards us, chinking their bangles to indicate the inconvenience.
‘My sister Aemilia Fausta -‘ I gave her a solemn bow; her friend looked wise to it. ‘Helena Justina you know, I believe. She has been telling us what she thinks of you-‘
‘Oh he’s a typical man!’ scoffed Helena wittily, unable to miss this chance. ‘He has dreadful friends, silly habits, and his antics make me laugh!’
Rufus shot me a bright, curious glance; I gravely asserted, ‘The daughter of Camillus Verus is someone I hold in the highest esteem!’ It sounded unreliable; the truth so often does.
Helena grumbled something under her breath, so Rufus laughed. He rolled up his napkin and threw it at her; she biffed it back with the easy informality of old family friends. I could imagine their adolescence shared in long summer holidays here, swimming and boating and picnicking. Sailing to Surrentum. Trips to Capreae. Baiae. Lake Avernus.
Stolen kisses in the Sybil’s Cave at Cumae . I pictured the effect such a glorious hunk of glowing masculinity must have had on Helena Justina while she was a growing girl.
Perhaps he still did.
The rough wine at the jailhouse plus the smooth wine on the sun terrace were filling me with a pleasant sense of irresponsibility. I beamed at the ladies, then sat back in the sunshine enjoying my drink.
‘You work for Vespasian,’ the magistrate broached. ‘So what brings you here?’ He was playing the innocent, well-mannered host, while swiftly ascertaining my interest in his patch.
Banking on Helena’s good judgement in sending me here, I said, ‘The Emperor wants to find a senator called Crispus. He is somewhere in this area, though people seem reluctant to admit to seeing him-‘
‘Oh, I’ve seen him!’
‘You never told me that!’ For the first time, the magistrate’s sister spoke: a sharp, almost petulant voice.
Rufus looked at her. ‘No,’ he said; his tone was quarrelsome, though without apology. I remembered Helena saying Aemilia Fausta had wanted to marry Crispus, but he had declined to complete the contract. Crispus backing out could look like an insult to her family; her brother was bound to disapprove of her continuing interest. He turned back to me. ‘Aufidius Crispus contacted me recently; we met at the baths at Stabiae.’
‘Any particular reason for him getting in touch?’
‘No,’ said the magistrate levelly. ‘Nothing particular.’ Well; nothing a spruce young aristocrat would tell a hangdog like me.
‘Special friend of yours, sir?’
‘A friend; not special.’
I gave him a gracious smile. ‘I don’t mean to pry. I know he has a connection with your family. Marriages planned between persons of rank are public events.’
I sympathized actually; I had sisters myself. Besides, I was feeling hot, and on the verge of getting drunk again.
He stiffened, then acknowledged it. ‘My sister had a disappointment there. We shall have to find her new interests to compensate. Aemilia Fausta was hoping to take up music this summer, though I’m afraid I have failed to find a harp teacher so far .
‘Bad luck!’ I murmured innocently.
‘I’ve heard you are a man of many talents, Falco. I don’t suppose you play?’ Rufus had confiscated my livelihood. He must have deduced how badly I needed to find another one.
I took a thoughtful look at his sister, then tried to avoid revealing the pessimism I felt.
Aemilia Fausta
carried a defeated expression no one could blame her for; it must be sorry work being the fairly ordinary sister of a fabulously handsome artefact who attracted all the attention wherever they went. She matched their house - antique and undisturbed, like an old, aloof Greek statue which had gathered dust in a viewing gallery for many years. The knack of giving pleasure had passed her by through no fault of her own. She was given to wearing robes the colour of second-rate gemstones - the grubby yellow of tourmaline or that sour, olivine green which jewellers know as peridot. Her complexion looked sickly, beneath a varnish of cosmetics that crinkled in the heat like a puppet’s mask. Even here, on a high balcony where a pleasant breeze was rising off the sea, no hair on her sleek, pale head wafted out of place and she would evidently be annoyed if it tried. Her hair was the wrong shade of honey to be interesting.
For all that she was a young woman. Too old to remain single without a good reason, yet twenty-five at most. Her brother had cornered the family share of bone structure, but she must be educated and rich, and unlike her friend Helena she could be taken out in public without demolishing every plate of almond cakes that strayed within her reach. If she ever risked a smile she might be modestly attractive to a man in the right mood. Blow that dust off her, chase her about in the fresh air, pinch her in cheeky places until she jumped and squeaked a bit - something marginally tasty might be made of the noble Aemilia.
Helena Justina was looking daggers of disapproval, so I piped up at once that I would be happy to take the job.
XLIV
I had better things to do than hang about in the hope of a word with a woman whose only word would be ‘goodbye’. I hoofed off back to the jail to free Larius. I took him to a cookshop, then he and I rescued Petro’s disgraced ox. Nero had made friends with the hones and mules at the stable. He was like a child at a party; he did not want to go home.
‘He looks tired,’ commented Larius, as we butted the brute outside so we could harness him.
‘Well he might!’
I set Larius on the road back to Oplontis with the cart. Since no man wants his apprentice around while he’s teaching a lady the harp, I agreed that my nephew could take himself off painting walls. I stressed it was a temporary arrangement; Larius nodded unconvincingly.
As a harp tutor I lived in the magistrate’s house. It saved on rent. Yet I grew to dread its cold, unlived-in smell. Doorways which I would have left open to show life going on in family rooms were grimly sealed with curtains. All the couches had sharp edges looking for a shin to bark. By day there was always a riot in the kitchen and at night there were never enough lamps. Rufus usually ate out; he must have noticed that his cook couldn’t cook.
I armed myself for action with some musical manuscripts I found in the town. Aemilius Rufus had been right when he said the Emperor Nero still commanded loyalty here. Within a week of his suicide all the shops in Rome had swept their shelves clear of Caesarly tunelets and sent them out to the markets for wrapping fish. But there were plenty in Campania. For a beginner, Nero’s tosh seemed ideal. His compositions were stupendously long, which gave Fausta plenty of practice; they were slow, which was good for her confidence; and without being unpatriotic, they were simplicity to play.
A lyre would have been easier, but with typical obstinacy Aemilia Fausta had set herself the professional challenge of a titian. It was a lovely thing; it had a deep resonance box decorated with mother-of-pearl, then the sides swept up into elegant horns, with an ivory crosspiece to take the seven strings. How well I could play the cithara is a question I’ll leave blank (though when I was in the army I did own a flute with which I managed to create a fair amount of annoyance). Aemilia Fausta was not wanting to run away from home to join a pantomime band; for showing off to drunks at dinner parties, I reckoned I could get her up to scratch. And it would hardly be the last time a teacher had bumbled through a lesson on the basis of some hasty reading up the night before.
The noble lady did possess the sceptical strain I would expect in a friend of Helena’s. She once asked me whether I had played much.
‘Madam, music lessons are like making love; the point is not how well I can do it, but whether I can bring out the best in you!’ She had no sense of humour. Her owly eyes stared at me anxiously.
Teachers who can play well are pretty self-involved. She needed someone like me; gentle hands, a sensitive nature - and able to explain in simple language where the lady I was with was going wrong. As I said: like love.
‘Are you married, Falco?’ she asked. Most of them do. I gave her my innocent bachelor’s smile.
Once that had been clarified, Aemilia Fausta trundled on through her latest Imperial air, while I footled around with a forthcoming lecture on diatonic scales. (A subject on which I admit I could not expound with much fluency.)
We had our lessons indoors. Not to annoy the neighbours. (They never paid for tickets. Why give them a free treat?) A lady’s maid sat in with us, for propriety, which at least allowed me to eye up the maid improperly during boring passages.
‘You seem to have cracked this one, madam. Try it again, leaving out the repeats…
At that point the maid, who was sewing the sides of a tunic, gave a cry as she upset her pot of pins. She went down on her knees to pick them up so I scrambled round on the floor to help. People who go to the theatre may suppose the maid would take this chance to slip me a note. She wasn’t in a coinedy, so she didn’t; and I was not surprised. I live in the real world. Where, believe me, ladies’ maids very rarely hand private informers secret notes.
Still, the knees she was down on were lusciously dimpled, she had fluttery black eyelashes and slender little hands-so I had no objection to spending a few moments with her on the floor. Aemilia Fausta played her harp more vigorously. The maid and I managed to find most of her pins.
When I got up, the noble lady dismissed her maid.
‘Alone at last!’ I cried gaily. Fausta humphed. I stopped her in mid chord and lifted the harp away with an air of suggestive, tender concern which was part of my stock in trade. She looked alarmed. I gazed deliberately into her eyes (which were, to be frank, not the best eyes I ever gazed into in the line of work). ‘Aemilia Fausta, I must ask, why do you always look so sad?’
I knew perfectly well. The magistrate’s sister spent too much time dreaming bitterly of lost opportunities. She lacked confidence; probably always had. What really annoyed me was the way she let her dresses paint her twenty-year-old features with a forty-year-old face. For all the silver hand mirrors in her well-stocked bower, she could never have looked at herself properly.
‘I’m happy to listen,’ I encouraged smoothly. My pupil allowed herself a poignant sigh which was more promising.
‘The fellow is not worth it if he brings you such unhappiness… Will you talk about it?
‘No,’ she said. My usual measure of success.
I sat quietly, looking snubbed, then pointedly offered the harp again. She took it, but made no move to play. ‘Happens to everyone,’ I assured her. “The ones who hang around are deplorable dogs, while those you want won’t look at you!’
‘That’s what my brother says.’
‘So what’s our hero’s name?
‘Lucius.’ Keeping me in suspense while she pretended to misunderstand my question almost made her smile. I braced myself for those heavy layers of red ochre to crack, but her normal spiky melancholia took charge. It is Aufidius Crispus. As you well know!’
I ignored the indignation, and let her settle down. ‘So what went wrong? I asked.
‘We were to be married. He seemed to be delaying for a long time. Even I had to accept the delay would be permanent.’
‘These things happen. If he was unsure-‘
‘I do understand all the arguments!’ she declared in a light, too rapid voice.
‘I’m sure you do! But life’s too short for suffering-‘
Aemilia Fausta gazed at me, with the dark, tired eyes of a woman who h
ad been unnecessarily miserable most of her life. I really do hate to see a woman as sad as that.
‘Let me help ease your troubles, madam.’ I gave her a long, sad, significant look. She scoffed wryly, under no misapprehensions about her own allure.
Then I dropped into the silence, do you know where Crispus is?
Any sensible woman would have brained me with the harp.
There was no need for drama; I could see she really did not know the yachtsman’s whereabouts.
I don’t. I wish I did! If you find him, will you tell me? she pleaded.
‘No.’
‘I have to see him-‘
‘You have to forget him! Play your harp, lady!’
The lady played her harp.
She was still playing, and there was still a slight atmosphere which a stranger might misinterpret, when a cheery voice cried, ‘I’ll see myself in! and Helena Justina arrived.
I was demonstrating fingering. The best way to do that is to sit beside your pupil on a double seat, and put both arms round her.
‘Ooh, lovely! Don’t stop!’ cooed Helena in a facetious tone which nearly made me choke. Aemilia Fausta played on stolidly.
It was a warm day so I and my pupil were casually clad in a few light drapes of nothing much. For my musical role I always adopted a laurel wreath; it tended to slide down over one eye when I bent towards my pupil (as a harp teacher has to). Helena Justina was sensibly wrapped in several layers, though with a rather odd sunhat on (it looked like a folded cabbage). She let the contrast between herself and us speak a lot.
She leaned on a marble pediment oozing queenly distaste. ‘I never knew you were musical, Falco!’
‘I come from a long line of self-taught struminers and squeakers. But actually this is not my instrument.’
‘Let me guess - panpipes?’ she mocked derisively.
Feeling left out, Aemilia Fausta twanged into her rather stately version of a whirling Bacchic dance.
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