The cithara maestro’s hands slithered on his seven strings-or more than seven when he deftly changed instruments to demonstrate what a sterling virtuoso he was. I thought I liked music, but I had never been trained to understand it. Although my father inherited a panpipes player from Grandpa, we rarely had other instruments or singing in our house. We dealt in ideas, expressed with words. That could be colorful enough. Grandpa’s panpipes player ran away, feeling unappreciated.
Struggling to hear the faint and far-off beauteous improvisations gave me plenty of time to reflect. Ignoring my relatives, both old and new, I realized I was seeing another aspect of Rome from the street life around the Ten Traders. Here we had monumental imperial architecture, refined entertainment, a boisterous family group on the eve of a wedding. We were well-fed, well-off people enjoying a leisure experience, or at least enjoying it in theory. Our young were full of hope and privilege. Our old were cared for and brought among us, even those who made it plain they would rather be somewhere else, sipping gruel.
Stertinius received loud applause, which woke up anyone who had dozed off. At the interval Aunt Valeria admitted she was tone-deaf; also, the three little boys were bored, so they all went home. Tiberius was obliged to go down and help find them transport. Luckily litter-bearers do form a queue outside at the midway point of concerts because they know there will always be people who have had enough. Even the fabulous Stertinius could not please everyone.
Those of our party who lacked an excuse to leave were able to spread ourselves on the narrow upper-tier seats. Antistius tried to get to sit with my sisters, but Father deftly outmaneuvered him, claiming this was a rare opportunity for a fond old papa to enjoy the company of his girls. Julia and Favonia rolled their eyes, but knew exactly what their watchful parent was doing.
My mother closed her eyes and seemed to pay close attention to the gorgeous cithara. She had wrapped an affectionate arm around Postumus, which stopped him getting up and wandering off, as he liked to do. I watched how Helena Justina handled this whole stressful situation. With a vague smile, Mother let chaos carry on, provided there was no bloodshed or hysteria-or not too much. She was a good wife and mother but would not be overwhelmed by others’ clamorous demands; she subtly detached herself mentally. Helena led her chosen life. I made a note to do the same.
My father saw me observing her so thoughtfully. As was our habit, I winked at him before he could get in first and wink at me. Tiberius noticed that.
The fabulous Stertinius treated us to a lengthy set in sensual Hypolydian. Good little bride that I was, for the benefit of my in-laws, I managed to appear entranced.
28 August
Five days before the Kalends of September (a.d. V Kal. Sept.)
Three days before the wedding of Tiberius Manlius Faustus and Flavia Albia
XXXII
Tiberius and I scuttled off from the concert, claiming we had to rush back to the Garden of the Hesperides. I had gone to the Aventine before the concert to tell him of the damage and to pick up a formal outfit from my apartment. I would have seen for myself the famous newly painted front doors, but a protective cover hid the porch. I never saw inside the house either; I could not concentrate on frescoes. Later, I warned myself that many a new wife has a bad shock on discovering her man’s taste in art.
At the end of the evening, before our relatives could suggest following the concert with a getting-to-know-you nightcap, we floated our “Hesperides emergency” excuse, and then, unknown to anyone else, we fled up the Aventine and stayed at Fountain Court that night.
“I know my brother-in-law quite well enough already!” grouched Tiberius. He realized I too had had enough of Antistius. Our agreeing over such idiots reminded me of my parents. They would put on a polite face in public, then later see who could devise the most killing insults. I would have started to teach Tiberius to play that game, but so far I was pretending to be a sweet wife, the peacemaker in our home.
Tiberius was perhaps not fooled.
Next day we woke at first light. We had breakfast at the Stargazer, our usual haunt, then made our way over to the Argiletum while decent shopkeepers were still emptying out water buckets to wash the pavement and sweeping off their frontages. Scents of new bread and fresh flowers filled the air.
Yesterday, after I told him about the damage, Tiberius had been thoroughly depressed, though as was his way he held back from exploding until he had seen it. He had sent a message from the aediles’ office to ask the Third Cohort to exercise that slippery commodity “extra vigilance.” This was to apply both at the bar and also at Mucky Mule Mews where burglars had been chased off. The security measures Tiberius requested meant that, certainly at the Hesperides, a few members of the vigiles sat outside all night. In their eyes, they were making their presence felt to keep an aedile happy. If anyone had been so foolish as to try a new invasion of the premises, they would probably just have said hello.
When we arrived in the morning they had gone. However, there was a draftboard drawn on the pavement, lots of crumbs and an empty amphora to prove we had had protection last night. An extremely sordid pigeon was gobbling the crumbs. We shooed him away despondently.
Tiberius found Trypho in the courtyard with Serenus, hammering the benches back together. Having proper seats to sit on and moan was their priority. Reinstating the works could wait until the others arrived. In fact, I knew it would wait until they had arrived, taken a gloomy look around, discussed what had happened in endless, ponderous detail and then gone out to buy breakfast to take their minds off the calamity.
I watched how Tiberius tackled this. The spoliation clearly made him furious but he wasted no time complaining. Looking pale (which could be the after-effect of an evening spent with relatives), he surveyed the scene. He jumped on spoil heaps, clambered into what remained of the trench, prodded, kicked the ruined concrete, tossed timber aside. Then he fetched out a note tablet and quietly began making a list of what could be salvaged, what had to be rebuilt and the order in which his men should tackle everything. He was set-faced, yet a practical man who simply began repairs. Larcius arrived. Tiberius handed him the list. The foreman read it, then nodded his approval.
Trypho’s bruises were coloring up well. We said he looked like a painted Greek temple. Tiberius quizzed him about the man he had taken on. According to Trypho it was a giant with leather wrist guards, an urban Hercules. “That’s appropriate,” I said, indicating the bar’s signboard. Trypho stared blankly.
At that point, I had no doubt that the perpetrators of the Hesperides damage were Menendra’s surly bodyguards. It seemed logical. I would have liked to link them to the attempted break-in at Mucky Mule Mews but nobody had seen those burglars close up. Still, both attacks were so obvious it was stupid, so perhaps that in itself showed a connection.
Logic can let you down. As we set about tidying up the site, with me helping, Macer turned up with a group of his men, dragging along Menendra’s heavies for Trypho to identify. To my surprise, he said neither of them looked like the man he had found damaging the works. Besides, neither had the nose damage he had inflicted.
Macer decided that since the pair had been arrested, he would keep them in custody anyway. “My torturer has nothing else to do today, so he can put in a spot of practice with his weights and chains, maybe do some red-hot pokerwork. There must be something these lags will confess to. We’ll see.”
Now I looked closely, the prisoners were both burly and cauliflower-eared. That could be because they had a history of fights, or else they had brawling wives who owned particularly weighty frying pans.