“Don’t worry. It’s a perfectly natural reaction. I don’t feel so well myself. Why don’t you go sit down until you feel better? Thank you for your help.”
With a hand on his stomach Felix headed for his room. Tacitus and I proceeded to my library, where we found Phineas copying a scroll.
“Would you like me to leave, my lord?” he asked.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said as I emptied the bag of coins onto a table and spread them out. Tacitus and I sat down and leaned over the table. “Do you see any pattern?” I asked.
“They’re all denarii, so they’re all silver. Those are the only common factors I can see.” He moved them around to form groups. “A number of them have Vespasian’s head on the front; a couple have Titus’. The rest of them are Domitian’s coins.”
“That’s what you’d expect from any random group of coins these days, isn’t it? Domitian’s our current princeps. Titus was in power for only a couple of years. Vespasian had ten years, so he put a lot of money into circulation.” I turned the coins over. “Is there any common feature on the reverse sides?”
Tacitus ran his hand over the coins, picking up a few for closer examination. “None that I can see. Maybe the common feature is just that they’re all denarii.”
“And thus all silver, no gold or bronze. It would have been easier to put this amount of money in his mouth if you used a few aurei.”
“So the sum may not be as important as the individual pieces, the thirty.”
“But what does ‘thirty’ mean? The man was obviously older than thirty.”
“Thirty days in a month?” Tacitus suggested.
“Some months have thirty days, others don’t.”
“Excuse me, my lord,” Phineas said. “I couldn’t help overhearing. There is a passage in one of our holy books that says, if an ox gores a slave, the owner of the ox must pay thirty pieces of silver to the owner of the slave.”
I cocked my head. “How is that relevant? This man wasn’t a slave.” Phineas, like most Jews I’ve known, thinks there is some line, some saying, in their holy books, that applies to any situation. They’re worse than Romans who open a scroll of the Aeneid, close their eyes, put a finger on a line and chart the course of their day by whatever they read there.
“No, my lord,” Phineas countered. “Perhaps he wasn’t a slave. But he was gored, in a manner of speaking.”
“What do you think of Phineas’ explanation of the thirty denarii?” Tacitus asked as we walked down the Esquiline.
“I don’t see how it can ‘explain’ anything. That man wasn’t a Jewish slave.”
“We don’t know who he was, do we? He had no signet ring, and we both know he could have stolen the tunic. And the number of silver coins in his mouth must mean something.”
“Perhaps we should have counted the number of maggots as well.”
The watchmen were still on duty outside the warehouses when we arrived. The man who had come to summon me that morning greeted us and asked if there was anything he could do for us.
“We just want to look at the damage in my warehouse,” I said. “We were in rather a hurry earlier.”
“Certainly, sir. Go right ahead.”
“Is the centurion here?” I said. “I’d like to ask him a couple of questions.”
“No, sir, he’s not here right now. He and a detachment of men are farther downriver.”
“Well, perhaps you can tell me what I need to know. You’re Macronius, as I recall.”
“Yes, sir.” He nodded once, obviously pleased that I had remembered his name.
“It’s not so much a question, Macronius, as just wanting to hear an account of what happened this morning before I arrived.”
He placed a hand on the belt holding his scabbard and sword. “I suppose I could tell you that, sir, as well as anyone. I am second in command.”
“I would appreciate any information you can give me.”
Macronius straightened his shoulders. “Well, sir, when we saw how heavy the rain was at dawn, the captain said we should check the warehouses along here. Because of the bend of the river and the way the island turns the river toward the bank, the current can get strong at this point.”
“I wish I’d thought about that before I bought this place.”
“Yes, sir. It is a shame about your loss.”
“Thank you. So you sent men to notify the owners of property along here?”
“Well, first we looked in each of the warehouses. In this kind of weather we do find people taking shelter, like the ones in your place.”
“Did you find anyone else?”
“Two men in that place on the other side of yours. We rousted them out and sent them along.”
I immediately wondered if they could have seen or heard anything that went on in my warehouse, but we would never be able to find them. “And then you came to notify me?”
“Well, sir, first the centurion himself went to speak to Marcus Regulus.”
I looked at Tacitus and could see that he was as surprised—and concerned—as I was.
“Your centurion went to Regulus first?” Tacitus said.
“Yes, sir. When he got back, he sent me and a couple of men to Gaius Pliny’s house and three more men to the fellow that owns the next warehouse beyond Regulus’. I’m afraid I don’t recall his name.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Let me make sure I understand. Who went into my warehouse and saw the people who were in there?”
“The centurion, myself, and two other men,” Macronius said, pointing to two of the men standing behind him. “We saw the ones who were huddled together right away because there was a bit of light coming in there, what with the roof being collapsed. Then the centurion noticed that other fella, the one with the stripe. It was darker over where he was, and he was sitting up against the wall.”
“How did you decide that they were dead?” Tacitus asked.
Macronius looked at him as though he’d never heard such a stupid question. “Well, sir, we poke ’em with a sword, maybe a gentle tap with a boot. If they don’t move or say anything, they must be dead.”
“Or they may just be unconscious,” I said, “as that one woman was.”
Macronius shrugged. “Sometimes we make mistakes, sir. We all do. That’s what makes us human, not gods.”
Gods have been known to make mistakes. Just look at the hippopotamus. “Who checked on the man with the stripe?”
“The centurion did, sir, seeing that he was a gentleman, a narrow-striper like yourself.”
“Did the centurion poke him or kick him?”
“No, sir, not that I saw. He got down on one knee and checked to see if he was breathing. Like I say, it was dark over there, and I was paying more attention to the others.”
“Did you notice if the centurion took anything off the man’s body?”
Macronius drew himself up, as though deeply offended. “Centurion’s no thief, sir. Me and my men aren’t thieves neither.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“If that’s all, sir, we’ve got rounds to make. The rain may be letting up, but we’ve still got to look after things.” He saluted and turned back to his men, who followed him upstream.
Tacitus and I entered the remains of my warehouse before we said anything. The rain had stopped, but water still dripped from broken beams and stood in puddles on the floor.
“I saw the look on your face,” Tacitus said. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking. The centurion could have removed that man’s signet ring.”
“But why? And, the bigger question, why did he go straight to Regulus’ house after that, before he notified me?”
Tacitus and I both fell into our own thoughts as we walked back to my house. We were taking a circuitous route along the base of the Viminal Hill, to avoid the Subura. I was pulled back into the world around me when we passed a house with signs of mourning on the door and Tacitus prodded me with an elbow.
“
That’s Lucullus’ house, isn’t it?” Tacitus said.
“Yes.”
“Julia and I were visiting her parents at their villa when Lucullus was killed. Do you know anything about it?”
“Just that Lucullus was scheduled to hold a consulship in January. Domitian was going to be his colleague at the beginning of the year.”
Tacitus’ eyebrows went up. “That’s quite an honor.”
“Or a disgrace, depending on how you look at it.”
“Yes. How does Lucullus rate such treatment?”
“He’s the cousin of Regulus’ wife.”
“So it could be an honor or a disgrace.”
I laughed. “I suppose so. He’d been living in Syria for some time, probably doing Regulus’ dirty work over there. Regulus persuaded Domitian to give him the consulship, so Lucullus moved his household to Rome and bought that house. He would have become a member of the Senate after his consulship, of course.”
“And they think it was one of his slaves who killed him?”
“So I’ve heard. Domitian showed his ‘clemency’ by not executing the rest of the slaves in the house.”
Roman law requires that, if a slave kills his or her master, the entire household must be executed. The reasoning—if it can be called that—is that the other slaves should have protected the master. It’s an ancient law, rarely enforced, but a ruler can make himself appear kind by invoking it and then setting it aside.
“I haven’t heard that they’ve captured anyone yet,” Tacitus said.
I waved a hand. “Oh, the culprit’s probably across the Alps by now.”
Tacitus raised an eyebrow. “Or he could be right under our feet. You know there are probably half as many people living beneath us, in the sewers and tunnels, as there are living around us. They come out after dark, like bats rising out of their caves.”
“That’s true.” The city’s sewers are so large and extensive that Vespasian once surveyed them, riding in an ox-drawn wagon. “But my only concern right now is with the people we found in my warehouse.”
IV
It’s amazing how much excitement the arrival of a baby creates in a house, even a half-starved, cast-off, naked baby. Our steward, Demetrius, and his wife have two daughters; the younger is eight. It has been that long since there was an infant among our servants. Some masters encourage “breeding” among their slaves, just as if they were cattle. Gaius doesn’t do that. He doesn’t put any prohibition on coupling among his slaves—some are even married to one another—but he has told me he’s glad there haven’t been any children from those unions. A servant with children to care for, he says, finds it difficult to keep up with her work.
I dried off the crying baby and wrapped him in a blanket before handing him to Merione. I thought we would just stay in my room, but Plinia, Naomi, and so many other women in the house wanted to see him—and Julia had come all the way from her house—that Merione had to nurse him in the exhedra so there would be enough room for the “audience.” She obviously enjoyed the attention, just like a performer on the stage. All I could do was sit there and watch with Julia and the rest of them while she unfastened the brooch on her shoulder, lowered her gown and put him to her ample breast.
Julia and I linked arms. “He’s quite small, isn’t he?” she said in a low voice.
“He’s probably been hungry for a few days. He even tried to nurse on me when we were in Regulus’ litter.” I hadn’t pushed him away. The sensation of him sucking on my breast had sent an ache all the way through me.
When he was finished and falling asleep in Merione’s arms, Plinia took him. She and Naomi cooed over him as the other women crowded around them. Naomi started to hand him back to Merione when I reached for him.
“I’ll take him.”
Merione tried to reach over me. “I’m the nurse,” she said sharply. “The baby is my responsibility.”
“You’re the wet nurse.” I clutched the child to me. “You don’t even belong in this house. You were sent here to feed him. You’ve done that, and I thank you. I’ll take care of him until you’re needed again.”
Naomi pulled the child away from me, rocking him gently. “This reminds me of a story in one of our holy books,” she said. I rolled my eyes, but, with Plinia’s blessing, Naomi continued. “There once was a wise king over Israel. His name was Solomon. Two women, who lived in the same house, came before him. They had both had babies. One of the children died. That child’s mother was trying to claim that the living child was hers. No one had been able to settle the dispute. Solomon said, ‘We’ll cut the child in half and give half to each woman.’ One of the women immediately said, ‘No, give him to her.’ Solomon knew then who the real mother was.”
“I don’t see your point,” I said. “I know I’m not his mother, but she isn’t either. I found him and saved him from drowning in the Tiber.”
“That’s not quite how we heard the story,” Naomi said. “I believe Gaius Pliny had something to do with it.”
I blushed. Several of the other women around us giggled behind their hands. “Yes, of course, but I found him. He wouldn’t even be alive if it weren’t for me.”
Merione took a step toward me, with her hands cupping her breasts. “And these tits are going to keep him alive. Can you do that?”
Plinia stepped between us. “Stop it, both of you! Gaius will be very unhappy to hear of such discord in his house. Aurora, you did a very brave thing, but you have duties in this household. Merione is here just to take care of this child. We must let her do that. It’s what is best for him.”
Merione smirked at me and reached to take the baby from Naomi.
“Oh, my,” Naomi chuckled. “We’re going to need something dry to wrap him in.” She unwrapped the blanket I had put around him, which was now quite wet, and her brow furrowed. “Hasn’t anyone noticed that he’s circumcised?”
Julia was waiting for us in the atrium when we returned from the ruins of my warehouse. She took Tacitus by the arm. “Tacitus dear, Gaius Pliny, come quickly. You must see this.”
She refused to answer any questions as we hurried across the garden to the exhedra, where we found Naomi holding the lost baby amid a crowd of my servant women and the ones Julia had brought with her.
“It looks like your servants have declared a holiday,” Tacitus said.
“What is going on?” I asked my mother. “Don’t these women have work to do?”
Mother ignored my question and guided me to stand beside Naomi, who started to stand, but my mother put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right.” She unfolded the blanket in which the baby was wrapped and pointed to his tiny genitals. “Look, Gaius. Look at that.”
Tacitus stood behind me, gawking over my shoulder, which is easy for him to do because he’s a head taller than I am. I’ve seen a few circumcised men in the baths, but most Jews are embarrassed to be seen there because of their disfigurement. They bathe at home in private.
“Why would anyone do that to a baby?” Tacitus asked.
“It’s the mark of our covenant with God, my lord,” Naomi said.
“Your god must have quite the sense of humor,” Tacitus said. “What do women have cut off?”
“Nothing, my lord.”
“Of course, you women always get the easy part.”
“Give birth to a child, my lord, and then tell me that.” Her place as my mother’s friend has given her too much liberty. I would have to say something to Mother in private.
“Does this necessarily mean the child is a Jew?” I asked, just to steer the conversation somewhere else.
My mother took the baby from Naomi. “I believe he is. We’ve sent Phineas to their synagogue to ask their priest to come over here. They should arrive shortly.”
Phineas is a few years older than I am and—though I’ve never thought much about it—must also be circumcised. The synagogue to which they belong, and which my mother has occasionally attended, is in the Subura, the most dangerous part o
f Rome, at the foot of the Esquiline behind the Forum. I can’t stop my mother from going there; all I can do is insist that she be accompanied by a large enough number of servants to insure her safety.
“We thought our rabbi, Malachi, might know something about this child, my lord,” Naomi said.
“What is a rabbi?” Tacitus asked.
“A teacher, my lord. We no longer have priests since the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem. Our priests made sacrifices, and the only place where they could sacrifice was the temple. Once you Romans destroyed the temple, there could be no sacrifices and thus no need for priests. Our gatherings in the synagogues are led by rabbis, learned men who study our holy books, but they are not priests.”
“I’ve met this Malachi,” I said. “He seems an honorable man.”
Malachi had helped me and some of my clients and servants escape from an ambush a couple of years ago when, out of necessity, we were passing through the Subura on our way to the Forum. His Greek was somewhat limited and he spoke no Latin, but with Phineas to assist us we ought to be able to find out if he knew anything about the baby.
While we waited for Phineas to return with Malachi I asked for something to eat. The rain had finally let up, but the clouds still hung low and heavy, threatening to resume the deluge at any moment. Tacitus and Julia decided they needed to return home while they could do so without getting soaked again. From the expression on Julia’s face, I suspected that being around the baby had awakened some urge in her to have her own child. I promised I would send word immediately if Malachi gave us any helpful information.
“I’ll be back later,” Tacitus assured me, “although probably somewhat drained of energy.” Julia blushed and laughed.
I closed the door to my room and wished I was at my house at Laurentum. Because this house is in the middle of the city, I have no space to expand it as I’ve done at Laurentum. There I was able to build a suite of rooms for myself, apart from the main house and connected to it only by a long portico. Those rooms provide a sanctuary from the constant noise of a large household. Their only disadvantage is that Aurora’s room isn’t immediately next to mine.
The Gods Help Those Page 5