Chryse, the trustworthy, capable maid, exhibited an uncharacteristic wobble. Her lip trembled. She hung her head.
I kept my voice quiet. “Let me tell you what I think. If there was a love-potion, it was never meant for Numerius Cestinus. Forget that. Clodia wanted to put a spell on Vincentius.”
Chryse maintained she could not say. She had never heard of anything like it. She never saw such a thing in Clodia’s room.
She said this in a way that convinced me I had asked exactly the right question.
In my work, I had to be careful about interviewing slaves without their masters’ knowledge. To some extent I could pass off a grilling as casual chat, but Chryse was beginning to look uneasy so I stopped. If I needed more I would ask permission.
As I ended the interview I asked one more question: “You knew the people Clodia and her brother ran about with. Was there a boy among them by the name of Trebo?”
“Not that I heard.”
*
I went to see the grandmother.
Volumnia Paulla, the roly-poly one, was at home in her comfortable rooms. I had guessed she would be. She was bound to become breathless if she tried to go out, so she stayed in and nibbled more honeyed fruit fancies, worsening her condition.
I still counted as trade. The mistress’s sweet biscuits were whisked away and a salver of their dry oatmeal things came out instead. Volumnia Paulla let me eat them all. As soon as I moved on, she could get back to her own treats in private. I was still depressed after losing Iucundus, so I just made the inferior fare my breakfast.
News of the cruel death had reached here. Volumnia Paulla, who had only met him at the Nine Day Feast, could have nothing useful to tell me, so I cut through her need to gossip. I would not have dear Iucundus dwelt on like a salacious item in the Daily Gazette. In any case, after my fight with my father, I could not face more argument. I especially hate having to make conversation on news subjects with women whose hidebound men have not allowed them to learn logic.
I treated the grandmother to the same list of Clodia’s faults that I had given Chryse, then drew the same conclusion that the girl might have wanted to use magic to entrap Vincentius. This finally made sense of the love-potion idea. Volumnia Paulla smugly reminded me she and her angry son had blamed the potion all along. Nothing would budge their opinion that Clodia’s mother and other grandmother had connived at it, probably removing any evidence after Clodia died. I was supposed to prove it.
I could see a suggestion coming that my commission looked unrewarding and might be terminated. Luckily, mention of Sentia Lucretia and Marcia Sentilla enabled a change of subject. Volumnia Paulla launched herself, like a ship down a slipway, into a furious tirade about the divorce and compensation claim that Firmus was embroiled in.
His wife and mother-in-law were resisting a settlement. They had refused arbitration on the grounds that, since Firmus was known for skilled mediation, they would be disadvantaged. They were poor innocent women with no knowledge of legal procedures. Wailing how unfair this was, they were, however, seeking recourse in the courts. Terms for the divorce and a suit about the slave’s broken arm were both being handled by a top-flight lawyer who lived locally; the mother-in-law was paying. She had hired a man called Mamillianus.
This took some digesting. As far as I could gather, the women had chosen him because his house by the Temple of Jupiter the Victor made them neighbors. They knew his wife, Statia. That did make sense: they and she went to the same beauty therapist, who was of course Pandora.
Was there a woman on the Quirinal who did not own a pot of Pandora’s wild vine complexion cream? (Probably sitting on a shelf while she never found time to apply the stuff…)
*
Volumnia Paulla and I were still chewing over the unreasonable litigants when a slave brought in an urgent messenger from Laia Gratiana. This unhappy go-between had been going all around the building, asking for me. “She wants you to know, Flavia Albia, the Pandora meeting—”
“Face-pack party!” I cried firmly to Volumnia Paulla. I glared at the maid to shut up.
She carried on, a stolid wench. I could tell she was crushed under Laia’s thumb. Luckily she never said “seance.” “It is this evening. Laia Gratiana will call for you. She says, be ready. If you’re not here, she will not wait. She won’t want to miss anything.”
“No indeed!” I agreed warmly. Volumnia Paulla was looking far too curious. To camouflage what was going on, I waffled: “Laia and I share a keen interest in skin exfoliants. We have been trying to secure an appointment for a private demonstration of a new high-kudos noisette corrector; it is paired with a luxe primer that we are promised will impart a natural inner bloom. Well, this is affordable luxury, isn’t it? Volumnia Paulla, thank you for your time. Now I must dash…”
XLVIII
What does the modern woman wear to a seance? Where are the handbooks to give us instructions? Some little number that will look good in a graveyard. No rattling necklaces. A light smear of lupin-seed balsam, to avert the evil eye …
First, put on something dull that will not make your husband ask, “Where do you think you are going in that fancy get-up?” Add a good veil to hide your face in case the vigiles burst in to arrest people. My choice was limited, in any case; I had to be Laia’s dowdy companion.
“Walk behind me! Keep quiet and don’t stare.” Juno, the rancid cow was enjoying herself. (I allowed myself to be in character as a bitching maid…) I needed her for this, but I would have liked to “accidentally” stick a hairpin in her.
“Yes, mistress!”
Laia herself thought attendees should dress up and have their hair done professionally. She was in glittering white, with one of those gold jewelry sets that have shoulder brooches, from which chains cross upon the bust. For the right effect, it needed a real bust. Wishful thinking, Laia!
I was delighted to hear our gathering was not to be in a graveyard. I was amazed to learn it was to be at a temple. What idiot thought that up?
Laia Gratiana, the religious cult queen, that was who. Laia let everyone know, subtly, that she had used her connections to book this venue. She had to be subtle, lest word of magic practices leaked out. The poor thing had a dilemma. Even though she instinctively claimed credit, this was one event where she was less keen than usual for public recognition.
Our group met at the shrine called the Old Capitol, older than the big temple on the Capitol, which itself is of extreme antiquity. While not defunct, this one was now so rarely used, the near-empty interior had an appropriate mustiness. It echoed. Pigeons had colonized the ceiling. I saw parts that I thought Tiberius would want to shore up with safety props. It was, of course, extremely dark inside.
Chairs had been hired, as if this was a light-verse recital. A couple of rows were set out in a circle. Mere maids, such as I, could remain in an outer ring, standing. Visible yet invisible beings, we were there in case somebody’s mistress needed a blow on a handkerchief, which would have to be passed to her. One good thing about Laia was she never seemed the kind who required tweaks of her impeccable hair and she was much too efficient to drop anything. Even a fart, I thought wickedly.
The attendees had arrived furtively in well-clad dribs and beautifully shod drabs, peering from chairs and litters then emerging like rats. I only recognized a couple, though Laia greeted others. Clodia’s mother and grandmother came together, after most of the rest had gathered. By this time the aura of expensive perfumery would have knocked the spots off a leopard. There was more bling than at a boxer’s retirement benefit. If a parure had three rows of filigree chain plus huge oriental pearls, it was for them.
Pandora arrived last. Carrying props in a wicker basket, she entered the temple with the air of a neighborhood widow who had slipped out to buy a few radishes. As she came in, most of the other women were craning their necks, trying to get a proper look at her teetering high-heeled shoes. She was probably the most expensively got-up medium in Rome.
&
nbsp; I noticed that Laia gave Pandora a nod.
Pretending to help Laia find a chair, I hissed, “How come you know her? Do you use her products?”
“I have no need of beauty treatments.” Even Laia could tell how this sounded. It was a true boast, though. I had always seethed at her perfect white skin. One day it would save the undertaker any touching up when he embalmed her. “When my brother agreed her lease on his warehouse, Rubria Theodosia sent me some complimentary pots, that is all. I don’t think I have even used them.” I bet! “Now get to the back with the slaves, Flavia; they are starting.”
*
Pandora settled herself at the center of the space. She took her time getting comfortable on a padded stool. With a formal gesture, she placed a fine black scarf on her head, arranging two folds down upon her shoulders. It took a few moments because of her high curly topknot. The contrast between her fashionable dress and her ordinary manners was extraordinary. As a style it was crude, but she carried it off.
I noticed that while she delayed, she was carefully scanning her audience.
Something had been lit in a perfume-burner; a sweetly insidious odor vied with the women’s fancy scents. It reminded me of kyphi, an evening incense I had encountered in Egypt. It helps lung diseases and, if drunk, brings a quiet sleep with vivid dreams.
There were assistants. Unobtrusive wraiths carried in a gently steaming tureen, with cups for the participants to drink from. I gingerly took one to try. It was syrupy and thick; I identified barley, honey, herbs and either milk or cheese—a drug as classic as Circe. This was at least better than a cauldron of bats’ eyes and corpse intestines. I really could not have faced a jollop whose main ingredient was cold blood.
The temple doors banged closed. We all jumped.
A few tiny oil lamps around the perimeter provided weak pools of light. Even when our eyes grew accustomed, we maids stood in deep gloom while the ladies on their seats crowded in a close circle, almost hidden from each other in the darkness. Pandora had her own lamp, showing her face. Her assistants were setting up in front of her a wooden tripod, upon which they fixed a large round metal disc like a banquet serving table, but covered with symbols. Objects were handed to Pandora: black stones, a wheel, a gong, a bronze hand adorned with more magic symbols.
Pandora spoke: “Welcome, ladies.”
They murmured obedient replies.
The assistants, who were Meröe and Kalmis, encouraged the women to take off their shoes; one or two required their maids to help them do this, though not Laia. Meröe and Kalmis then walked slowly around the seated circle, sprinkling all the women with water. “From the black stagnant river of Avernus,” Pandora intoned.
It could have been. She might have sent someone all the way down to Cumae, to the sulfurous lake of the Underworld—though a there-and-back trip would surely take a week. Or they might simply have dipped a pitcher into a street fountain.
The attendants stepped away, melting into the outer darkness. There, I thought, they could be up to anything. As one of them passed by a lamp, I spotted her holding a weird musical instrument, a rhombus; this is a flat wooded slat with a pointed end, on a long twisted cord, used in ancient Greek rituals. Both must have had these bullroarers, which they began whirling around themselves horizontally. Strange modulated sounds filled the temple, their pitch rising and falling as the girls controlled how they moved the instruments or varied the length of the cords.
“Those who die before their time unleash enormous power at their parting. Their spirits can turn into demons of vengeance. The dead resent being disturbed. But I shall see whether anyone will come. All they need is a channel, a vessel to enter. Let us hold hands and I shall call…”
As the whirring background sounds worked on people’s imaginations, Pandora waited for a time, then she began to make abrupt clucks, sighs and groans. Soon she expanded her repertoire with smacking lips, followed by disturbing hisses.
Once she began the full seance, I understood what she was doing. She did everything slowly. This allowed her time to watch people’s reactions. She gave the impression she had a real desire to help, sincerely believing in her own powers. She must have trained herself to spot clues she could home in on, something as simple as a wedding ring, a significant piece of jewelry or a clutched item that had been dear to a person who was now dead. Even without such aids, she knew how to read faces or interpret gestures.
First we had the disclaimer: any message Pandora received from the world of spirits could be vague, she said, so she might need help to understand what was coming through. Next came the invitation to become a subject, its range cast as widely as possible: “I sense an older figure in somebody’s life, with whom there have been disagreements…” That could have applied to anyone there; Hades, it was me, arguing yesterday with Falco! “Does anyone have a connection with somebody called Gaia?… Or is it Galeria…? Or Galatea…?”
A woman whose late sister had been called Grittia eagerly offered herself as first victim.
“You are very independent-minded,” Pandora flattered her, “though you often feel troubled by whether you are doing the right thing. You tend to be a calm person, yet when somebody lets you down you can experience deep inner anger. You need changes in your life, but are beset by many constraints. Do people misunderstand you?”
Grittia’s sister nodded and was hooked into cooperating. We learned that Grittia had died last year, while her sister was taking a vacation even though she knew Grittia was ill. Pandora might have informed us of this, which would have been impressive, but before she could even receive a suitable spirit message the sister herself volunteered the story. The talkative woman blamed herself, had been anxiously dwelling on it, but was soon reassured that Grittia’s spirit was telling Pandora she forgave her. Weeping with relief, the woman resumed her seat.
You may think this was a kindly way to help a sufferer. And I might retort that any warm-hearted friend could have told her the same thing.
Keyed up for trickery, I saw that Kalmis had stopped whirling her rhombus; she knelt down in shadow, right behind Pandora, where it looked as if she was keeping quite motionless so as not to disturb the seance. In fact, she sometimes spoke very quietly. What a gift to a psychic: an audience of women whose personal lives had been intimately revealed during manicures and facials. They were now so intent on listening to Pandora that they never heard the hints being murmured by her hidden assistant. Secrets they had shared during beauty treatments were now being used to work on them.
The problems these women wanted help with were what my clients often brought to me: their health, their wealth, their relationships. Pandora drew out gnawing anxieties over illnesses and debts. She knew of stillborn babies, drowned grandfathers, runaway sons and problematic daughters. If she made a mistake, she corrected herself without faltering, “No, of course, your dear mother is still alive, but as you say she broke her leg in Beneventum and might easily have passed away … that is what she is telling me, and am I hearing that her leg is mended now?”
If I had been a different person, I could have asked Pandora to contact someone for me, people who had been lost in a faraway province during a time of fire and bloodshed. She might have worked out that I meant my missing birth-parents; then I would have been told nonsense, with the Boudiccan Revolt providing lurid material.
Whoever my birth family was, no cheap fake in Rome would invent a fate and utter words for them. Any solver of mysteries knows there are some questions that will never be answered, maybe never should be.
“Does anyone here know somebody called Titus? Do you? A father, can it be, a husband, or a friend of yours?”
“No.” Oops, she had picked out an awkward one.
“No, I thought not. But you will do soon. I am sensing that someone called Titus is going to be very important in your life soon … Are you looking for a new partner? Do I sense that? Are you ready to meet someone who will treat you in the way that you deserve?”
W
as there a woman who would not welcome a better man in her life? A younger model, more enthusiastic in bed, and not averse to paying for new shoes? Not me, of course: I was a new bride. I was stuck with my Tiberius. A name very similar to Titus, had I been credulous.
Desperate for a break from this tosh, I stepped outside for air.
XLIX
Another maid had crept out before me. We introduced ourselves.
“I’m Albia. I came with Laia Gratiana, just temporary, thank the gods. Her usual, Venusia, couldn’t be here. Laid up with gout,” I invented merrily.
“She’ll be kicking herself. Oh, no—too painful! I’m Vestis. With Statia, Mamillianus’ wife.”
I giggled. “Some of the girls think she doesn’t exist, or he keeps her locked in a bucket store.”
“Oh, sometimes she plucks up her courage and makes a bolt for it.”
“Which is she?”
“Over on the far side from the door. All teeth and tits. Which is yours?”
“The blonde sitting near her. Thin, snobbish and grudge-bearing.”
“You could do Pandora’s job—I sense you despise most people, but you have good bones…”
“I bet I could. I love your face powder.”
“It’s ‘hint of a tint’; I pinched it from her.”
“It’s lovely on you. How come your Statia sneaked out for a twirl today?”
“Himself had to rush to the vigiles. He’s on a retainer for some regular clients who call him out at all hours. They must pay him well—when they say jump, he leapfrogs. Some men have been taken in, and he has to get them out. He was grumpy, even more so than normal, because he said this time the men really didn’t do it, so putting them in custody is an atrocious liberty. Some rivals organized the crime.”
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