“We tried to find my brother at his new house, where we had been assured he was, but nobody answered when we called,” said his sister, sounding peevish.
“Well, that’s builders for you.” I shrugged.
“We were definitely informed he would be there,” her husband complained, in high irritation. “I don’t know how long we stood in the street banging at the doors.”
Not only Tiberius, but all his workforce ought to be at the house now. I had a sudden inkling that he had looked discreetly through a grille, could not bear to face the brother-in-law, so told the workmen to stay quiet while he hid inside … “Are our doors beautifully painted now?” I asked serenely. “Tiberius has gone to endless trouble choosing the color scheme…”
“That’s hardly the point,” Antistius growled.
Until now I had not felt domestic, but I found myself hoping these visitors had not touched our doors while they were wet and permanently smudged them with fingermarks. It would be sickening to remember Antistius every time I got out my door key.
Nevertheless, I knew what I must do. I smiled as if I meant it, gushing how thrilled we would be to go to the sought-after concert by the extremely famous cithara player. I can be charming. My mother taught me. If you can act, it is easy, at least with people who have never met you before.
Luckily we were all distracted then. I had misjudged Trypho, our night watchman, when I assumed he had not been on guard. Now he hove into view, limping down the street, with blood all over him. Ignoring my future relatives with a fine sense of who mattered, he told me that he had found an intruder wrecking the works, so he had beaten up the man, then chased him off.
“What did he look like? Will you know him again, Trypho?”
“He’ll have a smashed nose. You bet I will.”
“Good. Come and be mopped up. Fania Faustina, do please excuse me while I attend to this emergency in your brother’s absence…”
It would have been good to think my new in-laws were impressed by the competence and composure of the bride who was joining their family. But they just made it an excuse to scamper into their litter, then order its bearers to hare off.
XXXI
It is generally accepted that the cithara is an extremely demanding instrument. To most people that means it is difficult to play. Even those who adore its softly stroked strings in the hands of a skilled performer may find themselves in a situation where enduring the music is hard. I mean, when dragged to a concert by people you don’t know.
At least a promised couple can sit together and discreetly hold hands. If Tiberius began dozing, I could squeeze his paw to keep him more or less awake. If my head lolled upon his shoulder, he could shake me upright.
It started not too badly, as we were preoccupied by disrupting everyone else while we took our seats. Originally we were even joined by Uncle Tullius; his niece and family did not omit inviting their host. However, Tullius took one horrified look at the stairs we were to climb, then beetled off to buy himself another ticket; he ensconced himself among the business community in their excellent seats lower down and we never saw him again all night. Everyone else was slightly relieved.
Fania Faustina thought my sisters were lovely. Her husband too was giving them the eye. Julia and Favonia pretended not to have noticed, though there would be a lot of giggling back at home in private. For now, their whispered discussion was all about ghastly young men in the audience.
My mother clearly felt Tiberius’ Aunt Valeria was sensible and not half as tricky as she had been painted. Shawled up and reeking of liniment, Valeria knew when to fetter her bile; she could play the sweet old lady, she just didn’t believe in doing it. She had managed to win my parents’ good opinion so tomorrow she could shuttle to their house. She did foolishly say she could only stomach a little light gruel for breakfast, to which Mother responded gaily that mornings were casual at our house. Auntie Valeria was welcome to visit the kitchen and brew up her own gruel just the way she liked it.
My father loudly said they had no room for anyone else. They did, but the three small boys were whiny and Falco prides himself on intolerance. It had been claimed the little boy in-laws were keen to meet my brother Postumus. That was before someone told their parents he had just been sent home in disgrace after a foray into the Circus of Gaius and Nero while in the custody of his birth mother, a snake dancer. His visit had ended abruptly when he involved himself in the escape of a lion, a fire, an accidental death, financial strife and several divorces. He was a lonesome child, who liked adventures.
Our side made jokey comparisons between the ancient Theater of Marcellus, the concert venue, and the circus that Postumus had supposedly burned down. Postumus maintained it had only been a little fire and was all the lion’s fault. Fania Faustina and Antistius expressed alarm, while we all smiled mysteriously.
My weird little brother was to be in charge of their precious boys in my bridal procession. They would carry flaming torches, a tradition that could so easily go wrong. Postumus assessed his proposed team with cold unfathomable eyes. That was how he looked at everyone, though the Antistii seemed worried that their innocent heirs were being consigned to a maniacal tyrant. They missed the point. My brother, who was twelve but had grand ideas, believed the wedding was for his personal glory. He intended to run the torchlit walk smoothly, to reflect well on him. If the three whiners failed to meet his standards, they were out.
Plectrum-wielding intervened, thank you divine Apollo of the golden hair and lovely sandals.
The cithara music was amazingly beautiful and transporting, or so said the commentator who introduced the repertoire. Many of the audience did assume attitudes of being carried away by rapture. Not our lot. Most were still muttering in undertones, unaware that the concert had started.
I smiled at Tiberius. He smiled at me.
Gazing up at the theater’s fine architecture as announcers told us we would be treated to the poignant Phrygian and mournful Hypodorian modes, I drifted into my own reverie. My relatives settled down, after other members of the audience clucked reproaches.
We were in one of the largest theaters in the world, at least it had been until the Emperor Vespasian created the Flavian Amphitheater to outshine them all. Coolly clad in travertine, it had ancient grandeur, with elegant arches on each of three classic pillared tiers and its upper level decorated with huge marble theater masks. The building was fitted with the usual ramps and tunnels that enabled spectators to leave the theater rapidly, though of course one was expected to remain in one’s seat during the performance or be deemed a barbarian. The stone seats were surprisingly comfortable, especially if you had the forethought to bring a cushion.
Vespasian had restored the stage, which had been damaged in the civil war that brought him to power. The stage fronted the river; our seats were a long way from it. We were right at the top, which was why we could be seated men and women together, because the Antistii had inadvertently bought tickets for the women’s and slaves’ tier. For an intimate musical evening to hear a delicate instrument, this was not good. We could never see the player’s skillful hands, and despite generally excellent acoustics, we could not hear even the manly and stirring Dorian mode that is supposed to inspire soldiers going into battle.
I don’t think so. How can an army be fired up by the gentle twiddles of a one-man harp? Have no musicologists ever seen, let alone heard, the racket of a legion marching?