Pandora's Boy

by Lindsey Davis

  “Of course!” Volumnius agreed weakly, as if it was how he felt he had to respond. A man like that—and I encountered so many—does not argue issues with anyone female.

  He should have known what he was getting. When Laia Gratiana recommended me, she was bound to have told him my mother was a senator’s daughter. Volumnius Firmus would never contest what such a woman said, though I could see it would not change his hidebound attitude.

  I guessed if there had never been a home tutor for his son, Clodia would have been illiterate. I deplored curtailing her education because teaching her sense might have meant she was alive today, assuming she really was killed by a love-potion. I did not say it. Mother had done her best with me: I was generally gentle on the bereaved. I didn’t believe in being soft, but I knew how to do it.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Clodia had never been ill; she simply went to bed one evening as normal and was dead in the morning.

  “A terrible shock for you!”

  “It was so unexpected, nobody could believe it was real.”

  “I am so sorry … Did anyone sleep in her room, a slave, perhaps?”

  “No, she reckoned she was too grown-up to need it. My wife agreed to it. Girls like their privacy.”

  They like secrets too, I thought. What were Clodia’s? Who knows what she got up to on her own or what daft dreams she harbored?

  “So, who found her?”

  “Her old nursemaid, Chryse.”

  I said I would need to talk to Chryse.

  “And I suppose,” Volumnius brought out heavily, “you will ask why my wife and I fell into such disagreement afterward?”

  “Yes, please. I understand this is sensitive, but I am anxious not to tread on any toes … It must be weighing heavily. Tell me your side, in your own words.”

  “It’s a painful situation … I don’t know how to cope … You want me to tell you about the boy?” he asked, temporarily putting off the question of his wife. “The boy Clodia liked?”

  “In view of the love-potion idea. You say Clodia had a lot of friends: was this boy one of them?”

  “He runs in the same circle. My daughter took a fancy to him, but I could not entertain it as a match.”

  I kept my tone level: “It will be best if you can be frank about why. Was there something about him you disliked?”

  “I find all my daughter’s chosen friends rather shallow. Perhaps,” said Volumnius, trying to sound reasonable, “this is a generation difference. Human behavior. They are young, still much too carefree for my taste. They are also privileged, so they lack application; perhaps they will improve. But I had to make the decision on practical grounds. The boy belongs to the wrong sort of family.”

  “Wrong in what way?” At this question, Volumnius looked cagey. “Financially,” I suggested, helping him out. That is the usual issue when a stern father chops off a love affair. Volumnius did not deny it, though his expression closed in a way that niggled me; I would have to follow this up.

  “She had a girlish crush,” he said. “I did not want her to be hurt. Nor did I wish her to mislead the young man. I acted as soon as I knew what was happening. I put a stop to it.”

  For some reason, my own father’s voice chortled into my mind. I suppose if I say don’t do this, it will only make you all the more keen?

  “But was your wife sympathetic?” I thought it best to broach the subject.

  “That’s the nub. Sentia Lucretia, my wife, was encouraging our daughter…”

  Volumnius paused, so I interjected gently, “Behind your back?”

  He confirmed it with a jerk of the head. It sounded as if until recently they had had a good marriage. Now he was trying to be fair to the wife, or at least holding back open criticism. This made a change. I had known clients who were in dispute to denounce their partners with vicious abandon.

  I moved on. “So, when Clodia died, you believed she had taken, or at the very least considered taking, a supposedly magic drink. You thought she had been lured into this by her mother. And perhaps her grandmother?”

  “There had been a lot of whispering. Every time I walked into a room, I seemed to interrupt some secret conclave.”

  “This is obviously important. Volumnius Firmus, I do need you to explain what made you suspect they were discussing love-potions.”

  “Simple. I had heard crazy talk of it.”

  “Your womenfolk mentioned such a thing in front of you? Here in the house?”

  “No.” He looked tetchy. “No, I came upon them in one of their huddles, then when I asked what was going on they admitted that was what they were discussing; my wife’s mother passed it off as a joke.”

  “Were they covering up something else? Was it a joke?”

  “My mother-in-law?” Volumnius Firmus scoffed. “You will see when you meet her, joking is out of character. Once I appeared, they all quickly shut up. They knew what I would think. I despise such lunacy. My foolish daughter was being led astray. They ought to have known better. That kind of thing is fake; it is a waste of money, dangerous, it damages reputations. I find it utter stupidity. Don’t you?” he demanded, so I nodded.

  I liked this man enough to believe he not only worried about his own reputation; with a young girl to marry off, any thoughtful father would try to protect hers too. Families he might choose for Clodia, good families, would reject a girl who was known to toy with mystic drinks. Spells are the province of wicked mothers-in-law in myths, not innocent brides in decent Roman life.

  I put to him my puzzlement, as first expressed by Tiberius when we were talking to Laia: why Clodia would swallow an elixir herself if she already loved the boy. What was the point? Volumnius said he had no idea, I had better ask her mother. That gave me a useful excuse to ascertain where the mother was living, though I quizzed him further: “I am a little confused. Are you saying that even though they had discussed acquiring a love-potion, your wife Sentia Lucretia refuses to believe any such thing might be involved in Clodia’s death?”

  “She and my mother-in-law deny any potion existed. Now she asserts they would never have dreamed of it. I fear they are covering up what happened; I said so. My wife declared our daughter’s death was my fault; she called me a cruel father. The woman’s mad!” Volumnius stormed suddenly, ditching restraint. Now he became a short, angry man who was practically jumping up and down with unhappiness. “Who the hell knows what Sentia Lucretia believes? I doubt she knows her own mind.” He checked himself. “She was distraught. She had to blame someone, so she blamed me.” That would have sounded sympathetic—a relic of a marriage that was once sound—had he not now been so angry. He rounded on me: “Do you believe a person can die of a broken heart?”

  “I think it unlikely.”

  “Impossible! Of course it is. Preposterous.”

  He was raging, but he was right, so I said, “In my experience, even immature young women know in their hearts that the devastating loss of a boyfriend is one stage in growing up. Girls can be more sensible than they seem. Whatever their pain, they will come to accept the boy has gone. Then they know there will be others.”

  Yet that pain can be terrible. As a young girl, I had lost a man I set my heart on. Betrayed by my so-called friend, I had felt suicidal. The effects were lasting. To this day I felt reluctant to trust people, especially men. I married someone else but he died young, so I lost faith again. Tiberius had done well to break through all that.

  “Clodia was very immature; she almost enjoyed hysterics,” Volumnius grumbled, as he calmed down. “The other women relished a drama too. Their constant attention made her worse. If everyone had simply said it was unfortunate, but it was unavoidable and normal, we could all have made progress. I was going to buy a big present to help her get over it. She would soon have forgotten.”

  I wasn’t so sure. “Did Clodia know about this intended gift?”

  “Not from me. I had no idea what to get,” her father confided miserably. “One decision over a
new puppy or a necklace could have made such a difference … I had asked her mother to think of something suitable, but she hadn’t yet told me.”

  This was a sweet, pathetic glimpse of ordinary family life. I sighed.

  “Well then, who is this boy Clodia hankered after?”

  I noticed a slight hesitation. “Numerius Cestinus.” Was Volumnius aware I had seen him pause? He added in a brisker tone: “His family are the Cestii, descended from people who made good in transport, comfortably off and leisured. His father is an amateur historian, I believe. I know them, though we are not close.”

  “Had they approached you about marriage?”

  “No. It had never been raised formally. I let it be known through the usual channels—business contacts—that I would not enter into negotiations.”

  “I see. And thinking about Clodia, did she have a particular girlfriend, one she would have confided in?”

  “Possibly one in the group, but I don’t know…” Volumnius looked ill at ease; perhaps he had distanced himself when his daughter was prattling at home about her friends, especially since he described them as shallow. In one way he appeared controlling, yet I reckoned he had come to realize he had no real idea of his child’s social life. He had lost Clodia without really knowing her. Now it was too late.

  He wanted a break. He stood up. “You have my permission to request names from the maid, Chryse. If there is nothing else you need to ask me now, I am still grieving. I tire easily. Let me take you to see Chryse now.”

  “Thank you.”

  This was direct, verging on abrupt. Still, on the surface he was being helpful. I would probably want to come back to him with more detailed questions eventually, but I was ready to accept being passed on to another witness.

  He could have asked a slave to take me, but this man was trying to steer the investigation himself.

  VII

  Maids come in many variants. Almost always they are slaves. Some are browbeaten, half-starved souls in skimpy clothes who lead terrible lives. Chryse was the better sort, reinforcing my impression that the Volumnii were a decent family.

  She was about forty, neat, placid and well padded, someone I would trust to look after children. I met her in a room off the main corridor, where she was working at a loom, though when I commented on this traditional occupation she pulled a face. Volumnius had made a sketchy introduction then vanished, so the maid could be honest. “We really keep a loom to look good! Everybody’s tunics are bought, of course. But I need to be busy with something. The mistress isn’t here, and my little one’s gone—” She checked herself, overcome.

  “There, there … So, the mistress left you behind when she went to her mother’s?” I asked because normally female slaves are closer to the wife in a household.

  “She didn’t take anyone. The master wouldn’t let her.” Chryse spoke with the barest hint of criticism, being careful in front of a stranger. It was unclear whether she thought Sentia Lucretia would be coming back. I nodded, indicating that I had a fair idea of how things were. I would gain the maid’s trust before I tried to wheedle out secrets.

  I explained more about who I was, and that the master had given permission for me to talk freely to her. The first thing I ascertained was factual: since the death had occurred some days before, the funeral had already been held. In larger houses, those with an atrium, a corpse may be displayed on a bier for mourners. This is not to my taste, but Romans are a traditional people. I had seen it done.

  The Volumnii did not formally display bodies or invite viewings. Clodia had been quickly cremated and her ashes deposited. I was disappointed. Funerals can be useful for watching suspects.

  “We are holding the Nine Day Feast for her,” offered Chryse. “Tomorrow. Here.”

  That would be useful. I made a note to be there.

  Before we settled down properly, I asked to see where Clodia died. It turned out to be a waste of time. In some families a bedroom is kept for years exactly as it was, a lost relative’s shrine, especially in the case of a child. The Volumnii were different: they had cleared out everything that might remind them of their daughter. Such speed was not unknown. I rarely find it odd. It can be a sign of very deep grief, feelings so raw people cannot face them.

  “I had to pack up all her poor belongings.” Chryse went hoarse for a moment, wiping away a tear, but she kept control. Once again, she made no complaint. She had found the task hard, but accepted whatever the parents wanted. “I did keep a few little treasures hidden away, in case they ever change their minds … Or I can get them out again to look at by myself sometimes, when I want to think about her.”

  I might ask to see the things later, but for now it could wait. However, the tidied room was a menace. Clothes, childhood toys, bangles, glass scent bottles, pictures or cushions could have given me a sense of the girl; besides, if this small bedroom was a crime scene then any clues had been lost too. Everything was spotless.

  Hmm. The room had been cleaned so thoroughly that I wondered about it. Not looking at the maid, I asked her quietly, “Did you have to clear up vomit?”

  When the vigiles came, someone, and most likely it was Chryse, told Scorpus that there had been none. A young girl’s nursemaid in this kind of family would protect her charge even in death, hiding any unpleasantness. Had Clodia been alive and feeling unwell, Chryse would have whisked her away somewhere private, whispering comfort, exactly as would happen at home with my own young sisters when they were sick; my mother or a kindly slave would put their head over a bowl and signal for other people to keep out of the way.

  So on the morning in question Scorpus had been called in by Volumnius to inspect the body, and I could imagine his brusque approach. For him, the existence or otherwise of vomit would be a key forensic point, one he was used to, but he might well have seemed uncouth. Now I had come along, a different person asking the sensitive question in a different way.

  I waited, standing as if lost in thought. The bed was now tightly covered with a plain sheet and no pillows, like one in a military hospital during a quiet period, awaiting future patients. Chryse stood alongside me, initially saying nothing. After a while she pursed her lips. Although she continued to say nothing, she nodded her head twice.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I am sorry I had to ask, but it could be important.”

  Vomiting, perhaps with diarrhea, would indicate that on the night she died Clodia Volumnia might have ingested poison. So, this was my first day and already I had made a breakthrough. Treading more gently than the vigiles, I had discovered something they had missed.

  *

  Time for more detailed questioning. Chryse suggested we talk where there was less chance of interruption. She took me out of doors to the balcony. I checked that we were not by any open shutters where someone could eavesdrop from indoors. We sat on casual wicker chairs. As I put the maid at ease, she told me this was where the mistress took afternoon refreshments, or members of the family gathered for evening drinks and conversation. You could see other people coming and going in the courtyard below, yet it was private.

  “I want you to be frank, Chryse. I am not here to cause trouble, but to find out the truth. I know you loved Clodia dearly. If anyone harmed her, they ought to be brought to account. We owe it to her memory. I know losing her has caused discord between her parents too. Perhaps knowing what really happened may help them.”

  “Ask me what you want then.”

  Now that the maid was settled and comfortable with me, I began more intimate probing. “How long had you looked after Clodia, Chryse?”

  “Ever since she was a toddler. When she began to try and grab at things with her tiny hands, they brought me in to keep her out of mischief.”

  “So you were very close to her?”

  “I was.” Chryse wavered, but managed not to cry.

  “And what about her brother?”

  “I took care of him when he was very young, though less as he grew older. When he was seven, th
ey gave him his own slave boy. He was a bit of a clinger, but he had to grow up. We stayed very affectionate. If he walked in now, he would give me a hug and shed a tear on my shoulder for our girl.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Volumnius Auctus—Publius.”

  “Did Publius and Clodia get on together?”

  Chryse pursed her lips in that way she had. “There were the usual squabbles, nothing extreme. They were close. Good friends. He is a good lad; he will honestly be very upset we have lost her. I don’t like to think of him hearing this news when he is so far away from us in a foreign desert.”

  “He will be surrounded by comrades—they ought to take care of him…” Smooth talk; I knew it could be a far hope. Still, he was twenty-one now. Chryse was right, he must grow up. “Does he like the army?” I was just making conversation; the father had already told me his son enjoyed military service. Since Junior was abroad, he would not affect my inquiry, but background information on siblings never does any harm.

  “He likes most things. He is very easy-going.”

  “And does the army like him?”

  To my surprise, Chryse hesitated. Seeming to have taken to me, she dropped her voice in order to confide. “Not specially. My guess is, he won’t make a career of it—which will mean that the master has to think up something else to do with him.”

  “Really?” Again I had that sense of this young man being criticized. Those close to him saw him as difficult. No one said Publius was a wastrel, so maybe he was merely restless, uncertain what he wanted. That would make him an amiable young man, one who went where he was sent, but who would not stick to it: the perennial problem. “Was Clodia a similar character?”