The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection

by Lawrence, Caroline

  ‘Flavia!’ Her father clenched his jaw. ‘I want you to take Nubia and go to the baths right now. There’s something I need to discuss with you . . .’he glanced at Cartilia again, ‘and I refuse to talk to you when you’re in such a filthy state.’

  With a sigh of relief, Nubia descended into the circular pool full of hot water.

  ‘. . . he might as well have called me a liar,’ Flavia was saying behind her. ‘He’s never spoken to me like that before.’

  Nubia nodded and walked to the deepest part. The water in the caldarium of the Baths of Thetis was hot and milky green and smelt of lavender oil. It was wonderful. She sat on the underwater marble shelf and let the steaming water come up to her chin. Then she closed her eyes to let the delicious warmth sink in.

  Flavia imitated her father’s voice. ‘I’m sure Nubia would say whatever you told her to!’

  Nubia opened her eyes and looked at Flavia, also neck deep in the pool. Flavia’s face was quite pink and one or two strands of light brown hair had come unpinned and clung to her neck.

  ‘And he called you a slave! When will he get it through his head that I set you free?’

  Nubia closed her eyes again. She knew that when Flavia was upset it was best just to let her talk.

  ‘At least he doesn’t treat you like a slave. If he did, I would . . . well, I wouldn’t take it!’ Flavia paused for a moment and Nubia heard the soothing slap of water against the marble edge of the bath.

  ‘And who was that woman anyway?’ muttered Flavia.

  Presently, two fat matrons came down the steps into the pool and the water level rose noticeably.

  ‘Come on,’ grumbled Flavia. ‘Let’s go to the hot rooms.’

  Nubia pushed through the warm water and carefully followed Flavia up the slippery marble steps. Even though the air in the caldarium was warm, her wet body immediately felt cool. She slipped her feet into the wooden bath clogs. Then, taking up her towel, she hurried into the laconicum after Flavia.

  That was better. The laconicum was her favourite room of the baths. It was small and smelled of pine. She liked it when it was so hot and dry she could hardly breathe. It reminded her of the purifying heat of the desert. These past few weeks, sitting in the laconicum or the sudatorium was the only time she felt really warm.

  Flavia couldn’t take the intense heat of the laconicum, so presently they moved on to the sudatorium. Nubia didn’t mind. The sudatorium was hot, too, and steamy. She led Flavia up the tiered marble seats to the one nearest the top: the hottest. She sat and relaxed against the warm marble wall. She wanted to stay here for a long, long time.

  ‘Pater was fine this morning,’ continued Flavia. ‘But when we came back – after the bird chased us – it was as if he’d changed. He looked like pater, but he was acting like someone else! It made me think of how Jupiter disguised himself as Amphitryon . . .’

  Nubia frowned. Then nodded as she understood the reference.

  Hercules.

  In lessons yesterday, Aristo had begun to tell them how Jupiter had disguised himself as Hercules’ father, Amphitryon, so that he could spend the night with Hercules’ mother. Nine months later Hercules had been born. Nubia sighed. Sometimes she found the Greek myths utterly mystifying.

  ‘Maybe,’ breathed Flavia, ‘. . . maybe Cartilia is a venefica and has bewitched pater.’

  ‘What is veiny fig?’

  ‘A venefica is a sorceress who uses potions to enchant people: a witch,’ said Flavia, then added, ‘I’ll bet she’s enchanted pater.’ There was a long pause and then Flavia said in a small voice. ‘I wonder what he wants to talk to me about . . .’

  ‘Flavia,’ said the sea captain Marcus Flavius Geminus. ‘Come here.’

  Flavia went to her father. He stood in the atrium before the household shrine. Flavia had put on her best blue shift and grey leather ankle boots. She wore a dove-grey palla round her shoulders and although her hair was still damp from the baths, she had pinned it up in a simple knot.

  For a moment the two of them stood looking at the shrine. It was a wooden cupboard with doors at the front. Inside were the death masks of the Geminus family ancestors. On top of this cupboard were two small marble columns, topped by a wooden pediment and roof, to make it look like a miniature temple.

  When she was younger the lararium had seemed huge to her. Now she was as tall as it was. Flavia saw the offerings of the day: a honey cake and a small hyacinth-scented candle. Painted on the wooden back panel of the shrine was a man with a toga draped over his head, the representation of the Geminus family genius. Flavia knew the genius protected the continuity of the family line. The household lares either side of him were shown as windswept young men in fluttering tunics who poured out offerings of wine and grain. Flavia saw the familiar clay statuettes of Castor and Pollux, and of Vesta. At their feet coiled a bronze snake – the protective spirit of the house.

  Once, when she was little, her father had found her playing with the sacred images, making up a story in which Castor and Pollux were fighting off the snake who was trying to bite Vesta. Her father had told her they were not toys, but important protectors of the house and family.

  Some families worshipped daily at their household shrines. Before his shipwreck, Flavia’s father had occasionally lit a candle at the beginning of the day, and made sure the food offering was fresh. But since his return he had become more observant. Now he lit a stick of incense and bowed his head for a moment in prayer.

  Presently he turned to her. ‘Flavia. Do you know the meaning of the word “piety”?’

  ‘Um, I think so. Aeneas was pious. That meant he was . . . um . . . dutiful.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Being pious means honouring the gods, your family and the household spirits.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I know I haven’t been the best father to you. I’ve been away a lot recently. You’ve had Alma to feed you, Caudex to protect you and Aristo to educate you . . . but you’ve obviously felt the absence of a father’s discipline. You are very independent and,’ he glanced down at her, ‘strong-willed.’

  Flavia nodded and swallowed.

  Her father took the wooden statuette of Castor from the lararium and examined it. ‘You have disobeyed my orders on several occasions, sometimes endangering your life. And lately you’ve been running wild. Today was a clear example of that.’

  Flavia hung her head.

  ‘I love you very much, Flavia. Perhaps too much. I’ve allowed you to make all sorts of decisions without any reference to me, even though I am the paterfamilias: the head of this family.’ He sighed. ‘For example, three months ago you set your new slave-girl free on your own initiative—’

  ‘—but Pollius Felix said—’

  ‘—I do not want to hear that name again!’ her father shouted, and Flavia recoiled at the vehemence in his voice. ‘We can’t finish one day without you mentioning him. Felix may be a rich and powerful patron, but he is not your father. I am!’

  Tears stung Flavia’s eyes. Her father hardly ever shouted at her.

  He put Castor back and turned to look at her. ‘Flavia, I am trying to raise you up to be a pious young woman. But you run all over Ostia with a Jew, a beggar-boy and a slave-girl, claiming to see giant birds, claiming to solve mysteries, claiming to be some sort of detective! It has to stop.’

  ‘What?’ Flavia’s eyes widened in horror. ‘What has to stop?’

  ‘I like to think I’m a modern man. I’ve let you wear a bulla, arranged for you to be educated, entrusted you with a certain measure of independence. But recently I’ve been criticised for raising you too much like a boy and it seems . . . well, it seems that my critics may have some reason.’

  ‘Who?’ said Flavia. ‘Who criticises you?’

  He turned to look down at her. For a terrible moment he seemed like a stranger and Flavia wondered again if someone had bewitched him.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said her father, ‘I’m afraid that from now on I must forbid you to
leave the house for any reason, unless you have my express permission.’

  Flavia opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

  ‘I’ve also been thinking,’ said her father, putting his hands on her shoulders, ‘that it’s time we started planning your betrothal. You will soon be of marriageable age and I believe . . .’ For the first time during their interview he smiled at her: ‘I believe I’ve found a suitable husband for you.’

  ‘A husband?’ gasped Flavia. ‘But pater! ‘I’m only ten years old.’

  Her father’s smile faded. ‘This would just be a betrothal. I wouldn’t expect you to marry him for five or six years yet.’

  Flavia tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry.

  ‘He’s a senator’s son,’ said her father. ‘Of very good birth. Lives in Rome.’

  Now Flavia was trembling.

  ‘Apparently he’s very studious,’ continued her father. ‘He loves books as much as you do. And he’s your age.’

  ‘My age!’ wailed Flavia. ‘No, pater! Don’t make me marry a baby.’

  ‘Flavia! This would be an excellent match for you. Besides, it’s your duty to marry. And to have children. It’s . . . it’s piety!’

  ‘No. I can’t.’ Her heart was banging against her ribs. ‘I won’t marry him!’

  Her father sighed. ‘Then we’ll find someone different. Someone older.’

  ‘No! I don’t want to marry anybody!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m never going to get married!’

  ‘Flavia, you’re my last burning coal. If you don’t marry and have children you’ll be snuffing out your descendants. You’ll be snuffing out my descendants.’ He gestured at the lararium. ‘You’ll be dishonouring our family genius!’

  Flavia swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry pater, but I can’t,’ she whispered. ‘I love someone I can’t have, so I’m never, ever getting married.’

  The look on her father’s face was not one of anger. It was one of stunned amazement.

  Blinking back tears, Flavia ran out of the atrium and up the stairs to her bedroom.

  Jonathan put down the clay doll of a woman he had been examining and picked up one of a gladiator.

  He and Lupus were shopping in Ostia’s main forum. The market was busy. Ostia’s population halved during the months when sailing was impossible. But today it seemed that all the remaining twenty thousand inhabitants were taking advantage of a lull in the rain to buy gifts for the Saturnalia. Men were buying silver, women were buying pickled fruit, slaves and poor people were buying the cheapest gift: candles. And everyone was buying sigilla, the dolls which were the traditional gift of the mid-winter festival.

  ‘Hey!’ cried Jonathan, and Lupus started guiltily. He’d been lifting the tunic of a girl doll to see what she looked like underneath.

  But Jonathan wasn’t looking at Lupus. He was examining some sigilla at another stall. ‘Look at these ones. They’re animals. And they’re made of wood, not clay.’

  Lupus put down the sigillum he’d been examining and pushed past a soldier to see.

  ‘Look!’ cried Jonathan. ‘It’s the man-eating bird!’

  The stall-keeper laughed. ‘That’s an ostrich. They don’t eat meat. Rumour is one’s running around Diana’s Grove, outside the Laurentum Gate.’

  ‘So that’s what it was. Hey!’ Jonathan turned to Lupus. ‘We should buy this for Nubia.’

  Lupus nodded and reached into his coin purse. Jonathan put a hand on his arm.

  ‘Don’t use your own money,’ he said, then lowered his voice. ‘Father gave me fifty sestercii to buy presents for everyone. For Flavia, Nubia and Miriam. And you, too, of course. Which one do you like? The wolf? Now what shall we get for Flavia?’

  Suddenly Lupus grabbed Jonathan’s belt and pulled the older boy after him.

  ‘Watch it!’ said a man in a yellow tunic as Lupus shoved past him.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Jonathan said to the man, and to Lupus: ‘What is it?’ Lupus pointed to the sigilla at the next stall. These were also wooden. And painted. Lupus held one up and Jonathan caught his breath. The small jointed doll wore a purple toga and gold wreath. It looked just like the Emperor Titus, whom Jonathan had met two months before.

  ‘Don’t touch!’ said a voice. ‘The Emperor costs two hundred sestercii. That’s real gold leaf on the wreath.’

  ‘These are amazing!’ said Jonathan, taking the Emperor doll from Lupus and carefully replacing it. He looked up at the merchant, a young man in his late teens with hair so fair it was almost white. ‘Did you paint them?’

  ‘No,’ said the young man. ‘A friend of my father’s. He sells them up in Rome. He let me bring some to sell here in Ostia. They’re images of real people, you know.’

  Lupus tugged Jonathan’s tunic and pointed excitedly to a painted doll of a stout bald man.

  ‘That’s admiral Pliny,’ said the young man. ‘He died last summer but he used to live around here. He came to our stall in Rome once or twice.’

  ‘We knew him,’ murmured Jonathan, and picked up another figure he recognised: Titus’s younger brother Domitian. He felt a jab in the ribs and scowled. ‘What is it now, Lupus?’

  Lupus held up one of the dolls.

  Jonathan took it wide-eyed, then looked at Lupus.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ he whispered. ‘Is it him?’

  Lupus grinned and nodded.

  ‘Shall we buy it for Flavia?’ he said.

  Lupus nodded again.

  ‘How much is this one?’ asked Jonathan casually.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know who that is. He’s only wearing a toga. No gold leaf. Not a senator. Probably a poet. Or somebody’s patron. I can let you have it for forty sestercii.’

  Jonathan nodded and reached for his coin purse. ‘We’ll take – ouch! That was my foot, Lupus!’

  Lupus elbowed Jonathan aside and held up both hands.

  ‘Ten?’ said the young man to Lupus. ‘Don’t make me laugh. I couldn’t sell it for less than thirty.’

  A quarter of an hour later the boys left the stall with five dolls: a wolf for Lupus, a gladiator for Jonathan, an ostrich for Nubia, a woman with a removable bead necklace for Miriam – and the man in the toga for Flavia.

  Lupus had negotiated the lot for fifty sestercii.

  ‘Sorry I can’t tell you more about the man in the toga,’ Peromidus the stallholder called after them. ‘I’ve no idea who he is.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Jonathan grinned at Lupus and added under his breath: ‘We do.’

  Nubia was patting Flavia’s back when she heard four hollow taps on the bedroom wall.

  It was their signal to open the secret passage between their two houses.

  Nubia pulled Flavia’s bed away from the wall and began to pull out the loose bricks. Bricks were disappearing from the other side, too.

  Scuto and Nipur sniffed the growing gap and wagged their tails.

  ‘Hey!’ came Jonathan’s voice. ‘Is Flavia crying?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nubia. ‘Her father is telling her to get married. And no more being a detective.’

  ‘What?’ Jonathan’s voice was still muffled. ‘Why?’

  Nubia pulled another brick out. ‘He says she must be dutiful Roman girl and sit inside. And she mustn’t be running all over Ostia with a Jew, a beggar-boy and a slave-girl!’

  ‘Poor Flavia!’ came Jonathan’s voice.

  Presently a hand holding a wax tablet appeared. On it Lupus had written:

  I’M NOT A BEGGAR

  I’M A SHIPOWNER!

  Finally the breach was big enough for Tigris and the boys to wiggle through. They sat on Flavia’s bed, beside Nubia, and the wooden frame creaked alarmingly. Flavia’s face was still pressed into the pillow. Outside, it had started to rain again.

  ‘Your father says you can’t go out any more?’ said Jonathan. ‘Don’t worry, Flavia. You’ll think of something. You always do.’

  Flavia rolled over on her back and looked up at them wit
h red and swollen eyes.

  ‘Want to hear a joke, Flavia?’ said Jonathan brightly.

  Flavia blinked at him, then nodded.

  ‘How many detectives does it take to light an oil-lamp?’

  Flavia shook her head.

  ‘Four!’ cried Jonathan. ‘One to solve the mystery of how to light it, and three to . . . um . . . do what she says!’

  Nobody laughed, but Flavia sat up.

  ‘OK, it’s not a very good joke but . . . What I’m trying to say is that we can still solve mysteries. You can be the brains and we’ll do the legwork.’

  ‘No,’ sniffed Flavia, wiping her nose on her arm. ‘You don’t understand. I’m a terrible daughter. I’ve disappointed pater and now I’ll never be a detective again.’

  ‘Flavia,’ said Jonathan. ‘Lupus and I bought you a present for the Saturnalia, but I think you need it now.’ He glanced at Lupus who nodded and disappeared back through the hole in the wall. ‘It might cheer you up,’ said Jonathan.

  Lupus reappeared through the gap. In his hand he held a wooden sigillum of a man wearing a toga.

  ‘Look,’ said Jonathan with a grin, handing the figure to Flavia.

  Flavia took the figure and stared at it in wonder.

  Nubia looked too. She saw the blue tunic and white toga, the hair which might have been grey or white-blond, the dots of black paint for the eyes.

  Flavia looked up at Jonathan, open-mouthed.

  ‘It’s a little doll of the Patron. Of Publius Pollius Felix,’ said Jonathan. ‘Isn’t it good?’

  ‘Oh Jonathan!’ Flavia hugged the little doll tightly. ‘It’s wonderful.’ And she burst into tears.

  Flavia must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew, Nubia was gently shaking her awake.

  ‘Flavia,’ said Nubia, ‘Aristo is safely back. He was not eaten by a lion.’

  ‘Good,’ mumbled Flavia, and pulled the blanket up to her chin. The bed was warm and cosy. ‘What time is it? Have I been asleep?’

  ‘Yes. It is almost time for the betrothal feast. You must get dressed.’

  Flavia blinked up at her window. She could tell from the light in the room that it was early afternoon.