by Jodi Taylor
‘We intend to locate Caesar’s villa, apparently just outside of Rome, in the Transtiberina area. You all have maps – please familiarise yourselves with the layout of the city.
‘Now, I’ll be going in as a Roman matron of impeccable antecedents. Roman society is heavily patriarchal, but a well-dressed lady, accompanied by an impressive retinue, will command immense respect. Sadly, however, instead of an impressive retinue, my escort will consist of Dr Peterson and Miss Van Owen, with Major Guthrie and Mr Markham to keep us safe.’
A word about Roman names would perhaps be useful at this point. Roman men typically have three names: their personal name, their tribal name, and their family name, which is the equivalent of a surname. Hence, with Gaius Julius Caesar, Gaius is his first name, Julius is his tribal name – he belongs to the Julian tribe – and Caesar is his family name. Women have only two names. They’re named for their tribe – hence Julius Caesar’s daughter would be named Julia. I was Rupilia Euphemia – a name that, as well as sounding like a musical vegetable, simply oozed impeccable lineage. Van Owen was Sempronia Tertulla. Her protests had been ignored. Peterson as (nominal) head of the household rejoiced in Decimus Aelius Sura. The security section, being well below the salt, was making do with just one name apiece. Major Guthrie was Otho and Markham was Pullus. He’d already commented that since he appeared to have only one name at St Mary’s, it was appropriate that he should have only one name here, as well. Major Guthrie, as usual, had nothing to say.
Dr Dowson stirred. ‘I think most of you already speak Latin, but I’ve put together an Idiot’s Guide for refresher purposes, plus, I’m available for private conjugation should anyone feel the need.’
Markham blinked. ‘Is that even legal?’
I fixed them all with a stern eye. ‘Roman society sets great store by respectability and so it goes without saying that we will all be on our best behaviour.’
There was a bit of a dubious silence.
Mrs Enderby pulled her scratchpad towards her, smiled sweetly at Markham, and enquired brightly whether he would be togate.
‘Certainly not,’ he said with great dignity. ‘Church of England.’
Mrs Enderby took a great deal of time and trouble over our wardrobe. Peterson wore a thick, cream tunic, heavily embroidered with a gold key pattern around the neckline and hem. He was also issued a piece of fabric about the same general size and weight as the county of Rushfordshire.
‘Your toga,’ announced Mrs Enderby a little breathlessly, depositing this thickly folded garment in his outstretched arms. He sagged a little. ‘You’ll need to practise the folds. Make sure you drape it over the correct arm.’
Muttering, he was led away for toga lessons.
Van Owen and I, as highborn Roman women, would wear elegantly draped tunics of pale green and pale blue respectively, ostensibly fastened with golden fibulae, but actually sewn firmly together for safety. As a married woman, I wore a coloured stola over the top of that, and we would both be wrapped in an all-encompassing palla to shield us from prying eyes. As with Peterson, there was a huge amount of fabric to manage. The palla should be draped over your left shoulder, around the back, under your right arm, and then back across the front of the body and carried over the left arm. Try it with a bed sheet sometime. Which is what we spent hours doing, practising climbing up and down stairs, getting through doors without mishap, and walking elegantly without falling flat on our faces.
Markham and Guthrie wore simple tunics and heavy-duty boots. I knew they would both be armed, but Roman tunics finish at knee level, so I really didn’t want to speculate as to where they would be keeping their weapons.
We assembled outside Pod Three and gave each other the once-over for wristwatches, recently acquired tattoos, and the like. A crowd of people hung over the gallery, clapping and cheering.
We filed into the pod. Peterson and Leon Farrell checked over the co-ordinates, while the rest of us stowed our gear.
‘Good luck, everyone,’ said Leon. He smiled at me and shook my hand as he always did when others were present. His hand was very warm and strong. I took a moment to smile back. Everyone else looked at the ceiling, the floor, their feet, whatever. Then he was gone.
Peterson closed the door behind him, checked the console one last time, and looked at me for confirmation.
‘In your own time, Dr Peterson.’
And the world went white.
We landed on the northern side of a small square, which was surrounded by blank brick walls. The early morning sun cast long purple shadows across the dust. It would be warm later on, but at this time of year there was still a bit of a nip in the air. Early though it was, a few market traders were assembling, setting up their stalls and generally bustling around. No one paid us any attention.
Guthrie, Markham, and Peterson disappeared to hire a carrying-chair. No respectable Roman lady walked the streets. Since they were men, this simple task would take at least three of them. Peterson to do the talking, Guthrie to loom menacingly during the financial negotiations, and Markham to get himself into trouble.
Van Owen and I made ourselves a cup of tea, put our fashionably shod feet up on the console, and patiently awaited events.
They returned about an hour or so later with a huge, cumbersome, old-fashioned, wooden affair. To keep the weight down, the sides weren’t solid, but swathed in yards of faded, dark red fabric, slightly worn through in parts. It looked like a recent reject from a gentleman’s establishment (maybe his mother had died) and as such was perfect for our purpose. This was exactly the sort of conveyance in which a Roman matron would have herself carried around town. The four chairmen looked reasonably hale and hearty and, most importantly, sober.
We climbed awkwardly inside. We can research and practise and prepare until we’re blue in the face, but the fact remains – we never quite fit in. We’re amonolous – anony – out of our own time – and in many small ways it always shows.
However, we were in and reasonably comfortable. We pulled the curtains closed to preserve our modesty and Peterson instructed the chairmen to take us to the residence of Gaius Julius Caesar. The chair was a doubly good idea, not only giving credence to our story, but also taking us directly to our destination without us having to spend hours asking around and wandering the streets of Rome.
The chairmen lifted the chair almost simultaneously – presumably it was too early in the morning for them to be properly drunk – and with only a couple of lurches, we set off.
I swear, I could have crawled there more quickly. On one leg. Blindfolded. Or maybe they were taking us there via Carthage. I would have suspected they were padding their fee, but the streets were steep, rough, and increasingly crowded. The sun climbed higher. What would be a pleasant day to spend lolling in the shade of a fig tree, drinking wine and bullying your slaves, would be nowhere near as pleasant for the four sweating chairmen of the apocalypse. I personally would want to deliver my passengers as quickly as possible, collect my fee, and stagger into the nearest caupona to recover.
The truth was that Rome was a busy place and we moved at a snail’s pace because of it. Our colleagues outside might have had to walk, but at least they could freely look around. Van Owen and I, bundled up inside our cloth-covered sweatbox, had to content ourselves with peering occasionally through a chink in the curtains and trying not to suffocate in the musty, hot gloom.
Eventually, however, after seemingly endless lurching, we arrived. Either that or one or more of our carriers had passed out. However, there was no shouting or screaming – always a good sign – and the chair was lowered to the ground with only a slight bump. Van Owen sighed and straightened her tiara – again.
I pulled my palla around me as protection against the bright sunshine and the contaminating glances of the hoi polloi, and with as much dignity as we could muster, we disembarked.
Peterson paid the chairmen a small sum and instructed them to wait. Because we never meant to go in. As we all strove to ma
ke clear to Dr Bairstow in our subsequent reports – we never meant to go in, sir. We didn’t think they’d let us in, even if we wanted to. Which we didn’t. The plan was that we would stand around outside, mingling with those around us, identify those coming and going, hopefully catch a glimpse of mighty Caesar himself, judge the mood of the crowd, and return to the pod. Maybe doing it all again tomorrow until we had what we wanted. Honestly, Dr Bairstow, we never meant to go in.
I stood in the warm sunshine and under the guise of adjusting the graceful folds of my costume, took surreptitious stock of our surroundings. Guthrie and Markham were checking out the crowds – and crowds there were, milling around all over the street, hoping to gain entrance eventually and present their petitions. Van Owen and Peterson were listening to what was being said and trying to put names to faces, and I was scanning the property.
It looked a nice little piece of real estate. I saw a smallish villa with its entrance set back a little way between two flanking shops – a leather worker on one side and a wine-seller on the other. Given the rough nature of the neighbourhood – this was far from being the best address in town – Caesar’s affection for his first wife and her property must have been considerable.
The villa’s wooden doors were thrown open as a gesture of hospitality, but two enormous, shaven-headed, surly-looking door wardens sat at each side, arms folded, ready to deal with potential troublemakers. They were big and they were solid and looked about as light-hearted as scrofula.
I knew the property had come to Caesar through his first wife, Cornelia Cinna. By all accounts, she was the love of his life. He married again after her death – in fact, his current wife, Calpurnia Pisonis was his third, but he’d never left this villa, bringing all his wives here. Not simultaneously, obviously. And now, obviously not a man who knew when to stop, he’d installed his mistress as well.
I felt a certain sympathy for Calpurnia Pisonis, living in the shadow of the first wife and now having to share her home with the most flamboyant and famous woman in the ancient world. Every man has a mistress, but they’re usually installed in a discreet set of rooms in a discreet part of town. He does not brazenly hold court with her as all Rome traipses in and out, ostensibly to pay their respects, but in reality, of course, to have a good gawk, suss out what’s going on, and report back to their wives. Which, admittedly was exactly why we were here as well, but we were carrying out important historical research, not just being nosey. An important distinction. However, as is so often the case with St Mary’s, events were about to spiral out of our control.
Because we never meant to go in…
We stood in a tight little group, causing no trouble at all and not attracting attention in any way, when a body slipped out from behind the door wardens and approached us. We agreed afterwards that it was probably because we had women in our party – the throng outside was exclusively male. And, quite honestly, if you didn’t know us, you would have agreed we were the last word in Roman respectability.
Seeing a man draw near, I stepped behind Peterson. Never speak if you can get a man to do it for you. It also serves as a useful basis for recriminations afterwards when it all goes pear-shaped.
Anyway, he was a shortish man and stockily built. Greek I suspected, especially with that beard. He carried a tablet and stylus and I decided he was a secretary, as many Greek slaves often are.
He was enquiring, quite civilly, as to our business this morning.
Peterson took a chance.
‘I am Decimus Aelius Sura. This is Rupilia Euphemia. We have recently returned to Rome from the country and wish to pay our respects to the lady of the house, Calpurnia Pisonis. However, should this not be convenient, we can call another day.’
Plainly not expecting to be granted access, he was already stepping backwards, but the Greek had other ideas. He spoke briefly and gestured towards the open doorway. Apparently, we were being invited to step inside to pay our respects to the lady of the house, and which lady of the house that would be remained to be seen.
‘Exciting, isn’t it?’ said Peterson, softly, offering me his arm as we were escorted past the door wardens, neither of whom looked particularly impressed by us. Scylla on one hand and Charybdis on the other.
Van Owen fell in quietly behind me and Guthrie and Markham brought up the rear. I made sure to walk slowly, leaning heavily on an ebony cane that could so easily become a weapon, should the need arise.
We advanced with dignity through the vestibule and paused in the entrance to the atrium. I remembered I was a highborn Roman matriarch and didn’t gape, but it was a close thing.
Appearances, as I am continually learning, can be deceptive. This small villa, so nondescript from the outside, was beautifully appointed and decorated with taste and style.
Ahead of me, the traditional small pool with fountain bubbled cheerfully, to cool and refresh during the hot summer months. Around the edges of the atrium, doors opened into small offices – alae – in which I could see clerks and scribes bustling back and forth. Caesar was an important man – soon to be even more important if his plans succeeded (which they wouldn’t), and his clerical infrastructure was already in place.
A small shrine venerating the household gods stood in a niche on the right-hand wall. Frescos of running lions decorated the walls. The paint looked fresh. I wondered if these decorations dated from his first wife’s time and were simply renewed every couple of years.
The place was packed. Groups of men stood around, discussing politics, finance, and their favoured chariot teams: all the things men talk about. You could easily substitute football for gladiators and business suits for togas; nothing changes.
With a polite murmur, our guide disappeared. I squinted at the floor mosaics, trying to trace a line of superb leaping dolphins around the outside of the floor and then craned my neck to admire the view through the atrium across to the peristyle garden. Even this was crowded, with more groups of men sitting on benches and standing on flowerbeds, crushing the delicate plants even before they had time to flower.
I wondered how Calpurnia felt about this invasion of her privacy. Her house, the traditional setting for a Roman woman, was certainly no longer her home. The foreign woman had seen to that. Left to herself she might well have been happy playing hostess to her famous husband’s parties, running his affairs during his long absences, working quietly behind the scenes for his good. This was a matron’s accepted role, but now he stood, one foot poised, ready to rule the known world as Dictator Perpetuo of Rome. A king in everything but name. However, a king needs a queen and she must surely know that that queen would never be her. How did she feel?
I was about to find out.
The Greek was returning and he was not alone.
‘Bloody hell,’ whispered Peterson. ‘Talk about stepping into the lions’ den.’
He was right. Dr Bairstow was going to go ballistic. Except for one or two notable exceptions, we usually try to keep our heads down. We don’t mix with the great and good. We linger discreetly in the background, observing, documenting, and surviving.
On the other hand, no one here was armed. The gathering was purely social with everyone busy eating and drinking at their host’s expense. Caesar wasn’t here. Cleopatra wasn’t here. We’d meet Calpurnia, compliment her on her lovely home, and withdraw. What could go wrong?
Where to begin?
Calpurnia Pisonis was very much younger than I’d expected. On the other hand, everyone is beginning to look young to me. She wore a beautiful peplos in a warm dove colour, embroidered with birds and flowers. The colour suited her perfectly, complementing her grey eyes and light brown hair. In fact, the word soft could have been invented just to describe her. Soft hair, soft eyes, soft lips, soft colouring. She stood before us, smiling gently, her head tilted to one side as her Greek secretary whispered our names behind her.
‘Rupilia Euphemia! I heard you had returned to Rome after your stay in the country. How pleasant to see you again.�
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I inclined my head graciously. She couldn’t possibly know me. Was she just exercising her undoubted social skills? I suspected something else. I suspected she was very fed up with being ignored in her own home. None of these people here today were anything to do with her. But now, suddenly, here we were, unexceptional guests of impeccable lineage who had called to see her – Calpurnia Pisonis – a person in her own right.
I couldn’t blame her. She had ten or fifteen men trampling her garden, twice that number cluttering up the atrium, ten times that number besieging her front door, and her household slaves were going frantic trying to serve refreshments to everyone … I was suddenly thoughtful, but that was for later. Concentrate on the now.
And concentrate we did, because before I could say a word, two enormous black men, oiled, glistening, and clad in leopard skins, strode into the atrium and took up a position in the tabulinum – the open office area between the atrium and the garden. Another two Nubians transported a huge golden chair. No – not a chair – a throne. If the over-ornate and tasteless decorations themselves weren’t a big enough clue, then the carved arms representing golden sphinxes gave the game way. The cushions were of gold and Egyptian lapis lazuli blue. There were a lot of them and they were probably needed. I’ve never sat on a throne myself, but they all look hideously uncomfortable to me. I’m obviously not cut out to be a princess. Stick a pea in my bed and far from having a bruised princess, you’d just have a squashed pea.
All around us, voices died in mid-sentence. Beside me, Peterson groped for my hand and squeezed. He was the calmest man I knew – not difficult at St Mary’s where the word volatile doesn’t even begin to describe most of us – and for him, this was the equivalent of screaming hysterics.
Cleopatra was coming!
Glancing at our hostess, I could see she was less than entranced at the imminent arrival of supposedly the most beautiful woman in the world, and this was where it all started to go wrong.