The chamberlain looks at the maid.
‘Two nights ago, Mistress,’ the maid says.
‘And her child died last night?’
The chamberlain and the maid look at the ground. Livia, still at my side, speaks up. ‘Yes, Mistress. Unfortunately.’
‘Any why didn’t anyone tell me?’
‘We did not want to scare you, Mistress,’ the chamberlain says, ‘to worry unnecessarily.’
‘We know deaths come in threes,’ the maid says.
‘How is she doing?’ I ask.
‘How is who doing?’ The chamberlain is already bored of this conversation.
‘It’s the second baby she’s lost,’ the maid says, knowing who I meant. She leaves it at that.
Poor Pandora. I can’t imagine what that is like, to lose your child so quickly after giving birth, after finally meeting the person you’ve carried for nine months. I understand why no one told me. The last thing a new mother should hear of is the death of an infant.
‘Our family will take care of any necessary arrangements. Yes?’
The chamberlain bows. ‘Of course, Mistress. However, the local undertaker, Pinarius, is particularly expensive.’
The name nags for a moment.
Then suddenly I feel a jolt. It moves through me like lightning.
Pinarius is the name of the man who tried on several occasions to meet with me in Baiae and then died the day before my wedding.
‘Did you say Pinarius?’ I think of the bloated corpse on the Baiae pier. ‘What does he look like? Is he an older man, black hair and black beard?’
‘You have described the father, Mistress,’ the chamberlain says. ‘I was referring to the son, Sextus Pinarius. He studied under his father for years, until he took over the family business late last year.’
‘What happened to his father?’
The chamberlain shrugs. What does he care?
‘I wish to be taken to the undertaker. Now.’
The chamberlain’s wide, disingenuous smile returns. I am interfering with the orderly workings of his household. ‘It’s late, Mistress, and the sun is close to setting. The roads are dangerous after dark.’
‘He’s right, Mistress,’ Livia says. ‘There is no reason to risk going tonight. He will be there tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow morning then,’ I say. ‘First thing.’
The chamberlain continues to smile. ‘I can draw a map.’
To the Batavian, I say, ‘Tomorrow morning you will escort me to this undertaker’s home. Find two Praetorians to bring with us. Have the horses ready.’
The Batavian nods.
The chamberlain says, ‘May I ask, Mistress, what your interest is in this undertaker?’
‘I have a few questions for him. That is all.’
I look for Livia, to ask her to come. She spoke with the undertaker after all. But – although she had been standing beside me only a moment ago – she has disappeared.
‘Strange,’ I say, ‘I wonder where Livia’s gone?’
*
The undertaker’s home is a small hovel on the outskirts of town. We arrive on horseback. A woman sees us approaching and runs inside. A younger man, dressed in black, steps out of the hovel. When we are close enough, I can tell he recognizes me. He wants to run – he looks for a means of escape – but thinks better of it. There is nowhere to go.
‘Are you Sextus Pinarius?’ I ask after we’ve come to a stop outside. ‘Son of Plinius Pinarius, the undertaker?’
The man looks dejected.
‘Why would you come now?’ His voice is more sad than accusatory.
‘You wished I had come earlier?’
‘We tried to speak with you. For a month we tried.’ He shakes his head.
‘Was your father the undertaker who tried to speak with me in Baiae?’
The undertaker looks at the men I am with.
‘You fear for your safety?’
He nods.
I dismount and walk toward him. I point at his hovel. ‘What if we go inside and speak alone.’
‘Mistress, I—’ one of the Praetorians tries to voice his concern, but I cut him off with a wave of my hand.
‘It’s fine; soldier,’ I say. ‘We are all friends here.’
The undertaker relents. I follow him inside his home. The bedroom, kitchen and dining room are packed into one room. Despite its poor quality, he or his wife takes pride in it. It is swept and clean.
He invites me to sit after dusting off a chair.
‘What is it you want to know, Mistress?’
‘Everything,’ I say. ‘Start from the beginning.’
One year earlier,
eight weeks before the eruption of Vesuvius . . .
24 June
Reate, Italy
The undertaker, Plinius Pinarius, stares at the corpse.
My first deity, he thinks.
The body is laid out on a couch, naked and recently bathed.
No, ‘scrubbed’ is the better word, Pinarius thinks, given the effort required; given the diarrhoea that plagued him near the end and caked to his skin like Campanian cement.
It often happens this way. As the master’s fate becomes clear, his death all but certain, his slaves become lazier, less doting. Tasks are shirked. Particularly those charged with the master’s toilette. They begin to dream of their new master, one who is younger, his bowels more intact. And then, once the great man has breathed his last, the dried shit caked to his arse is the undertaker’s problem.
Such is the life of the undertaker.
There is good news, however. There are no signs of decay, and the summer’s heat has yet to reach the hills of Reate. Thank the gods. Perhaps, Pinarius thinks, we will be able to deliver the corpse to Rome without a legion of hungry dogs marching at our heels.
Pinarius’s son, Sextus, is on his knees, slowly removing bottles of unguents from a case. He removes them in the wrong order, crocus oil after rose water, rather than the other way around. The error is of no consequence. Only Pinarius can see it; only Pinarius is bothered by it. Still, it nags. He’d hoped Sextus was ready to handle the dead on his own, which he will need to do before finally taking over the family business. But the boy lacks the necessary rigour. Pinarius stares at the body stretched out on the couch. He thinks: did you have to deal with this, a disappointing son?
The corpse has the large belly and swollen, gout riddled ankles of a rich man – and there were none richer. But he also has the miserable look of a man who fought an illness, gaunt cheeks and flesh that hangs loosely around his bones, skin that is meant for a larger, healthier body. His hair is white and receding, his square chin like a slab of marble.
For a god, Pinarius thinks, he looks remarkably human.
Sextus pours infused oil into the open hands of two slaves, who then rub their anointed hands across the corpse’s loose skin.
Sextus opens the dead man’s mouth. He uses a cloth, so as not to let the pollution of death infect his hand. Inside, there is a gold aureus, worth a small fortune, about one hundred sesterces. Sextus delves in his pocket and pulls out a single dusty silver coin. This is an old undertaker’s trick: switching out the coin in a rich man’s mouth, after his family wastes valuable gold on the ferryman, when any coin will do.
It is usually harmless.
Usually.
Pinarius grabs Sextus by the elbow. Sextus turns back, searching for an explanation. This is the boy’s problem, Pinarius thinks. Everything must be explained.
‘Not this time,’ Pinarius whispers. ‘You don’t take money from the gods. Not unless you want a curse to follow us home.’
The slaves continue to rub oil onto the dead man’s skin, but their eyes drift up; they note every word.
Sextus closes the god’s mouth and pockets the silver coin.
They finish in silence. A maid brings an expensive silk tunic for her master, and a magistrate’s robe, white with a broad purple stripe. The slaves slowly dress the corpse; then the
y unfurl a coverlet over the body, and drop garlands and flowers on top. Pinarius hands the maid a branch of cypress to pin to the front door of the house to warn of the dead man inside.
The chamberlain is waiting in the atrium. Sextus hands him an invoice and the man’s eyes widen.
‘This is very expensive.’
‘The price includes our travelling from Rome and back again,’ Sextus says defensively.
Sextus is too quick to forget our value, Pinarius thinks. No one wants to deal with the dead. This is true of anyone, no matter how rich or powerful the family. A dead man’s household will pay what you tell them to pay.
Pinarius explains to the chamberlain that if the price is too high, they would be happy to leave the body here. ‘It would be what? Another day or so before you found another undertaker? By the time you get the body to Rome, it will stink like a latrine, and the funeral will be a miserable affair. But you might save a few denarii.’
The chamberlain frowns. It’s not his money after all. He forces a smile and says, ‘Very well.’
The doors across the atrium swing open and two soldiers rush into the room. The man leading the way is in his fortieth year. Handsome, though balding, and with a stout build, like a pleb working the docks. The second is the physical opposite of his companion, skinny as a grape vine, with thick white hair and a matching beard.
‘Am I too late?’ the first soldier asks.
The chamberlain – who was fine a moment ago – now looks as though he has lost the love of his life. ‘I’m so sorry, Master Titus,’ he says. ‘He’s gone.’
That name, Pinarius thinks, where do I know that name . . .
When it dawns on him who has just barged into the atrium, he quickly removes his green cap and falls to his knees. Sextus watches his father, but remains on his feet. Pinarius swats his cap against his legs. ‘To your knees, boy.’
The interaction between father and son is lost on the soldiers. Having learned the emperor is dead, they care not for the embarrassment of an undertaker and his understudy son.
‘Where is he?’
The white-haired soldier grabs his companion by the arm. ‘We’ve got to get you back to Rome, Titus. You need the troops to swear loyalty as soon as possible. You need the Senate to—’
‘Enough has been put in place already, Virgilius. We have time. I will say goodbye to my father.’
The chamberlain calls for a maid and she takes the two soldiers to the room where the emperor is temporarily interred. Once they’re gone, the chamberlain’s face is again untroubled.
He says, ‘before you go, we have another body for you to see to.’
Pinarius is slow to rise. He can feel his age in his aching knees.
‘Another body?’ Pinarius asks. ‘You’ve not had much luck here, have you?’
The chamberlain is indifferent. ‘He’s only a freedman, so he doesn’t need the full treatment. But he was one of the emperor’s favourites, so we can’t just toss him into the woods.’
‘What happened?’
The chamberlain shrugs. ‘He got sick. He died.’
He leads the undertaker and his son outside, to the stables, where a corpse is lying on top of a bed of hay. The lamplight is weak, but Pinarius can see the freedman has the same gaunt face his patron had, and there is the same stink of dried shit.
‘Can you get him finished by morning?’ the chamberlain asks.
Sextus pinches his nose, kneels and inspects the corpse. ‘Yes. I’d say so.’
‘Good. I’ll leave you to it.’
After the chamberlain leaves, Sextus looks up from the dead freedman and says, ‘Do you think they died of the same illness, Father?’
‘It’s not for us to say.’
‘But look.’ Using a cloth, Sextus opens up the freedman’s eyes. ‘His eyes are as red as his patron’s. And the diarrhoea. Perhaps it was the same illness. Perhaps they ate the same—’
Pinarius swats Sextus on the shoulder. ‘Shut up, boy!’
What is wrong with him? Pinarius thinks. What is he trying to get us mixed up in?
‘Focus on your task,’ Pinarius says. ‘And keep your mouth shut.’
They have loaded the cargo by dawn. The freedman’s corpse is in their wagon. The other is placed in a cart built for a king, painted purple and gold, harnessed to a team of four white horses. Pinarius wonders how much a horse like that would cost. More than I’ve made in a lifetime, he thinks.
Sextus and the slaves are on the other side of the wagon. They’re arguing in whispers.
‘What’s this all about then?’ Pinarius asks as he appears from behind the wagon and surprises them.
‘Nothing, Master,’ one of the slaves says. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Out with it,’ Pinarius says.
The slaves cast their eyes at the ground. Sextus raises his gaze to the treeline.
Pinarius notices something in Sextus’s hand. It looks like a roll of papyrus.
‘What’s that?’
‘We found it,’ Sextus says.
Pinarius sighs. ‘Where?’
‘On . . . the freedman.’
‘I thought I’d made myself clear. This is not a family we are going to steal from.’ Pinarius swipes the papyrus from Sextus. ‘We are going to put this back.’
‘Father,’ Sextus says. ‘Look at it. We can’t simply throw it back into the stables.’
Pinarius turns the papyrus over and see what must be the Flavian seal.
The Imperial seal.
‘It’s a letter,’ Sextus says. ‘From the emperor, I think. Before he died.’
Pinarius’s stomach turns. The papyrus feels as heavy as a thousand pounds in his hand.
‘We’ll give it to the chamberlain and tell him the truth,’ Pinarius says. ‘That we found it on the freedman.’
‘But Father,’ Sextus says, ‘the seal is broken.’
Pinarius holds up the letter. Sextus is right. The seal is broken. ‘Did you do this?’
‘No,’ Sextus says.
Pinarius knows his son is lying, but it doesn’t matter now.
‘Jupiter’s fucking arse.’
‘Father,’ Sextus says, ‘this could be an opportunity. We can make a fortune from this letter. Open it up. You’ll see it is addressed to the emperor’s daughter, the Augusta. She will reward us for delivering the letter to her. I know it.’
With the seal broken, the letter easily unrolls. Other than two Latin names, it’s in Greek. Pinarius doesn’t speak Greek – none of them do. But it’s clearly written to the Augusta. Her name – Domitilla – is there plain as day. There is another Latin name as well, in the body of the letter: Cocceius Nerva. A name Pinarius does not know.
‘This could change our life, Father,’ Sextus pleads. ‘The Augusta has been known to grant fortunes to those she thinks worthy. She will be grateful if we deliver this letter. But if we hand it to the chamberlain – you’ve seen what he’s like. The seal is broken. He could have us punished rather than reward us.’
This damn boy, Pinarius thinks, he’s never been content with our family’s trade; he’s always on the hunt for something more, for some way out.
But he’s right, Pinarius thinks. They can’t return the letter to the chamberlain. They must destroy the letter or try to make a profit from it. And perhaps something good could come from this. Fortuna willing.
Pinarius stuffs the letter inside his cloak.
Sextus grins, victorious.
‘We’ll get it translated first,’ Pinarius says, ‘before we do anything with it.’
‘A most prudent course, Father. In Rome, we are likely to find any number of translators.’
‘Check the harnesses on the ox,’ Pinarius says, ‘and, by gods, let’s be away from this estate.’
1 July
The Suburra, Rome
Deep in the Suburra, the beating heart of Rome’s underbelly, Plinius Pinarius is pacing the length of the tiny apartment.
‘Are you finished yet?�
� Sextus asks impatiently.
The translator is an ancient, white-haired Greek with a tiny head. He frowns and looks up from his work. He has been staring through a glass pitcher to magnify the letters on the page and translating each word onto a wax tablet. The effort has been laborious.
‘Don’t rush me, please,’ the translator snaps. ‘You are not paying me enough to rush.’
‘Patience, cousin,’ Cornelius says. ‘Patience. Let the man finish his work.’
Cornelius is Pinarius’s nephew and a native to Rome. His worldview is shaped by geography. He believes himself to be sophisticated and cosmopolitan because he was born and raised in Rome, and his uncle and nephew to be rustic and unsophisticated because they were not. Sextus has always looked up to Cornelius. And it was Sextus who insisted on bringing Cornelius aboard when they arrived in Rome two days ago. Cornelius’s eyes had lit up at the chance to make a profit. ‘A letter from the emperor himself!’ he’d said. But, as far as Pinarius is concerned, Cornelius has already become more of a burden than a help. It was his idea to use this this old Greek fellow, who appears to be so out of practice that he is somehow having trouble translating his native language.
The Greek turns back to his work.
Does he have any clue yet whose letter he is translating? Pinarius thinks. He doesn’t seem to.
He’s the third translator Cornelius found. The first read the letter and thought it was a prank. The second, after he’d read the letter, looked as though he’d seen a ghost. He handed it back and politely said he wanted nothing to do with them or their letter. ‘My advice,’ the man had said, ‘throw your letter into the Tiber.’ He refused to say why.
The Greek finishes and looks over the Latin translation etched into the wax tablet; he scratches his bald head. ‘Where did you say you got this?’
‘We are not paying you to talk,’ Sextus says, taking the wax tablet.
Pinarius snaps his fingers and Sextus, the dutiful son, hands the letter to his father. Pinarius sits down to read. Sextus and Cornelius read over his shoulder.
Cornelius finishes first. ‘Fucking hell,’ he says as he collapses into a nearby chair.
Pinarius reads it once, then a second time.
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