I had not yet finished adorning public monuments. I do like to be thorough. I amused myself creating other anonymous works of art on behalf of Sextus Vibius. Faustus had not asked me for poster mischief, but he was an innocent. I played rough. The campaign was ending and we needed to turn screws. I discovered wall art came naturally to me.
Have a drink with Dillius, but be careful, he’ll want several!
Arulenus Crescens is the aedile for us, says the guild of good-time boys.
But he doesn’t pay up! sighs the eunuch Veronillus.
All the Forum purse-snatchers are supporting Trebonius Fulvo.
Some vicious rumour-monger had written Marinus misses his wife – or does he just miss thumping her? I scrubbed that out and chalked instead the subtly suggestive, Salvius Gratus is getting married: does his new wife know what I know about him? Dodge the fallout from that, supremely pompous brother of most annoying Laia!
I nearly put up Ennius is too fond of his mother but even I declined that one. It was the really polite way of phrasing a really scurrilous insult, but I knew my own mama would be disappointed in me. A good mother’s influence can be very far-reaching. Almost as far-reaching as that of a bad mother, as Ennius Verecundus and his sisters, the four stroppy Julias, undoubtedly had cause to know.
I strolled along to read the Daily Gazette. It told us the usual censored crud: news of far-fetched military victories by Our Master and God in Pannonia, celebrity births and scandalous elopements, relieved only by some wag denouncing on an unofficial pillar the absence of good poetry, worded as if advertising for a lost kitten: Last seen mewing plaintively in the Minervan Games, when shall our hearts be lightened again by cunningly wrought epithets, when thrilled by sweetly scampering meter – all is now flea-ridden flattery and squeaking drivel framed for tyrants. Someone must have listened to one of the Emperor’s praise-your-Master-and-win-a-prize-from-him competitions. This crtitic was so angry about literary standards, he was risking the order to commit judicial suicide. Whoever he was, I could rule out any candidates for magistracies, and that went from plebeian aedile right up to consul.
Feeling surly about public life (hardly an unusual mood for me), I returned to the Gazette. In the individual notices at the end, I saw that the Callistus family had formally announced their head of household’s death. No details of the attack on him were provided. In place of a funeral, they said a memorial would take place tonight, at a mausoleum on the Via Appia. I decided to go home, rest up for the afternoon, then join them for the ceremony. I could take Valens’s rings to give to them there.
52
I spent that afternoon alone in my own apartment. I did a lot of thinking. It was the best kind: when your body lies at rest, good ideas flow into your brain unprompted.
Afterwards, I had the usual outfit dilemma, trying to decide whether the Callisti would favour white or black clothes for funerals. Whoever you ask will always argue about what is supposed to be traditional. I guessed the women would consider white more fashionable (and flattering), while the men would deem dark colours more appropriate on a sombre occasion.
I went in white. I owned no tunics that would qualify as brown or black. The nearest I had was the colour of damson juice and that had spangles on its hem. I had sewn them on myself so could easily unpick them, but why lose good decoration? Since my white gown had once been criticised as too gauzy, I wore a thick under-tunic, so I would be extremely hot. I sent down to the Saepta and borrowed Patchy again.
It was the most crowded funeral I had been to. Half the Tiber must have been empty of boats and boatmen that evening. Everyone who worked on the water must have known Callistus Valens at least slightly and many thought enough of him to trek out to his memorial. With no body to burn, the function was at least short. It took the form of a funeral feast, to celebrate a man for whom admiration and affection flowed freely.
In the sweet haze of meats being barbecued, I hunted for Primus, determined to give back his father’s rings in time for them to be placed in the urn. In fact Primus and Secundus decided to keep one each. They thanked me, Secundus saying it would help to have these memorabilia. The brothers seemed to be friends again. They told me how the funeral director had been so thoughtful he had even included a finger in the ashes urn, symbolically saved for separate burial as is sometimes done.
‘Yes, Fundanus is a kindly man!’ I agreed gravely. ‘No formality is too much trouble.’
A sacrifice had been made on a portable altar. It stood outside a small moss-covered private tomb, decorated with carved ships and oars. Valens’s sons and nephew placed the green glass urn inside in a columbarium compartment, with prayers and brief speeches. Demountable seats and couches rapidly appeared and everyone sat down for a decent tuck-in.
They were a sensible family. Even their smart wives were moving around the company today, making the right noises, letting serious old cronies of Valens bore them silly with reminiscences, comforting anyone who wept. I thought it a shame Volusius Firmus had been prevented from standing as aedile: from the way he was talking to people here, he would have worked hard. Who knows? He might even have been honest.
The young daughter of Callistus Primus, Julia Valentina, was carefully handing round dishes of funeral meats. After she served me, I said to her father, ‘You brought her up well, I can see.’
‘We’re proud of her.’ As usual he cut off further discussion, making an excuse to go and greet someone. Undeterred, I sat down for the meal alongside Julia Laurentina, so I could ask her about the girl.
Laurentina kept a hand on her pregnant belly, fingers spread, to tell the world she was entering the sacred role of motherhood. The fact it was supposed to be a secret made no difference. I politely asked after her health and condition; she recounted the history of three children she had lost, before or soon after birth, then claimed she was being wise this time, while tearing into a charred leg of some funeral roast and washing it down with herb-infused wine.
I picked at a wheat cake. It was flavoured with cinnamon, very delicate. ‘Young Julia Valentina served me this. She is so very shy and sweet, a credit to her upbringing. I can tell how fond of her you all are … Will you tell me about her? I know her parents are divorced.’
Mellowed by drinking toasts to her dead father-in-law, Laurentina shot me an astute glance, but started without much of a struggle. ‘The marriage failed pretty well instantly. My niece was born after the divorce. Her father claimed her, as you see, though her mother engaged in a bitter battle to recover the child.’
I was startled. ‘Good heavens. That sounds as if Primus snatched the baby.’
‘No, I did!’
‘What?’
Julia Laurentina looked amused by my shock. ‘I had volunteered to be with my sister during her pregnancy and at the birth. Is that what you came digging for?’
It took a moment for her choice of words to strike me. ‘Valentina’s mother is your sister?’ Which one was this?
‘Julia Optata. Surely you knew?’
‘Actually, no.’ I was even more surprised. All I knew was that Sextus Vibius was polite in public to Primus; Faustus had said they had some connection, which he, culpably, never specified. Thanks for nothing, Aedile. That Sextus had a stepdaughter at the Callistus house might have been useful to know.