So Annia would hardly be talking about that Fortunatus. There were, no doubt, many others. There has been a fashion recently for newly created citizens to choose their own Roman names, instead of necessarily taking their master’s, the Emperor’s and a nickname, as I had done. It prevents the world from being full of men called Julius, and having a Marcus Aurelius Something-or-other at the end of every street — though I wonder how the great and the famous react to finding their almost-namesakes everywhere. This was some racing enthusiast, probably, or would-be charioteer, naming himself after his favourite hero.
‘I am a stranger in the city, madam citizen. Who is this other Lividius Fortunatus? I’m afraid I do not know the man you are talking about.’
I had begun to think that Annia Augusta had exhausted her ability to surprise me, but I was wrong.
‘Of course you do,’ she said sharply. ‘That is the very man I mean. Lividius Fortunatus, the racing charioteer. Oh, don’t stare at me in that disbelieving slack-jawed fashion. I am perfectly serious. I don’t know how he did it, but I’d wager a thousand denarii that he murdered my son. And that, my dear citizen, is what I want you to prove.’
Chapter Four
I stared at her. It had already become clear to me that Annia Augusta was eccentric. It had not occurred to me till now that she might actually be mad. Lividius Fortunatus? Public idol, golden champion of the circuit, with managers of every team outbidding each other in offering him fat fees to transfer to their colour? A murdering thief? The woman might as well have suggested that she was a racing charioteer herself.
Annia seemed to read my thoughts. ‘You don’t believe me. Oh, don’t bother to deny the fact. I can see what you’re thinking. I’m an old woman and I learned long ago to read men’s minds in their faces. That is why I don’t trust Lividius Fortunatus. But you don’t believe me. You think I am a foolish, tiresome old goose who suffers from delusions.’
It was, in fact, almost exactly what I had been thinking — although the word ‘goose’ had not been part of it. However, I could hardly tell her that. I began to murmur something deprecating like ‘The courts would need more evidence, madam. .’ but Annia was not to be appeased.
She snorted. ‘Well, so much for Pertinax’s clever thinker! If you come here with your mind already made up you’ll never arrive at the truth.’
What did the woman suppose? That I would make an instant arrest based on her distrust of a man’s face?
‘Madam,’ I said carefully, ‘it is precisely in order to arrive at the truth that I must weigh your accusations carefully, and judge the facts for myself. I can scarcely decide that the man is guilty simply because you tell me he is. It seems unlikely, don’t you think, that a rich man like Lividius Fortunatus — however much he desired your daughter-in-law — would trouble to steal money and documents about the sale of corn?’
Annia flushed an angry red. ‘No doubt he took the money to make everyone suppose that theft was the motive,’ she said impatiently. ‘It would not have been difficult. Fulvia must know where Monnius kept the keys — he never could keep anything from her. And she would tell Fortunatus. It seems to me an obvious deduction.’
It seemed much less than obvious to me, and my doubts must have shown in my face, because after a moment Annia went on in an affronted tone, ‘I assure you, citizen, Fortunatus is quite capable of something like this. You don’t know the man as I do.’
‘I don’t know him at all,’ I agreed mildly, ‘except by reputation. I have no preconceptions. Perhaps that is why the governor called on me.’ I looked around helplessly, wishing that I could at least have started on the refreshments: not that I particularly wanted them, but the diversion would provide some sort of relief from the full blast of Annia Augusta’s personality. In vain. There was still no sign of the maidservant with the promised stool.
‘Lividius Fortunatus is a conniving wretch,’ Annia said. ‘Even you must know of his reputation with women. I warned my son that he should never have offered him hospitality, but of course he wouldn’t listen. Where Fulvia was concerned he couldn’t see beyond the end of his nose. He was absolutely besotted with that woman, though it was obvious to everyone else what was happening, even if her poor stupid husband couldn’t see it. If he had listened to me. .’ She began elaborating on the advice she had given her son before his marriage. The recital had the momentum of a downhill cart, and once Annia had started down this track I could see it would be difficult to stop her. Yet there was much more I needed to know.
‘Fulvia is Monnius’ wife?’ I said, as soon as Annia drew breath. I knew the answer already, of course, but I was hoping to slow that imaginary cart. I almost succeeded, for a moment.
Annia sniffed. ‘His widow now,’ she said grimly. ‘Though much good it will do her! Filius inherits everything of importance — more work for me in the end, but that doesn’t matter. We’ll manage. Except that Fulvia will make a legal fuss, no doubt. I always said no good would come of that marriage.’
I made another attempt. ‘Ah yes,’ I said. ‘The will. The money goes to. . Filius, I think you said? He is a relative? A brother?’ From Annia’s words, she clearly hoped to have some control of the money.
‘A relative, certainly, but not a brother, no.’ She pursed her lips again, and glanced at me triumphantly. ‘Filius is his son.’
‘His son! But surely. .’ I broke off, aware that what I was about to say sounded indecorous. Surely I’d heard that Monnius had been married for only a few months? And then a solution occurred to me. ‘Adopted, perhaps?’ It is not uncommon for childless or unmarried wealthy men to adopt an heir to ensure that their estates do not entirely disappear into the imperial coffers. Since Monnius was so much older than his wife, some such provision would have been a sensible precaution — though of course if there had been children of the marriage there would have had to be a new will.
Annia was staring at me again, as though I were the eccentric one. ‘Adopted? Nonsense. Filius is his natural son. By his first wife — his real wife — the one he ignominiously got rid of in order to marry that stupid Fulvia.’
‘Monnius had been married before?’ I interrupted.
It was as stupid a question as it was possible to ask, given what Annia had just been saying to me, but to my surprise she made no unflattering comment. Instead she folded her hands and lips and heaved a great disapproving sigh. ‘Indeed he had. And to a proper sort of woman, too. Neat, clean, respectable and respectful. Not like that creature he divorced her for — full of her own ideas and importance, and interested in nothing but jewellery and clothes. Always prinking and preening in front of her mirrors, and wanting perfumes and fine silks from the markets. I could see from the start what sort of woman she was. It’s not as if she even brought much dowry with her. But would he listen to his mother? No! He was determined to have Fulvia — just because she flashed her eyes and legs at him once at a banquet-’
‘Good morning, citizen.’ A soft, musical, delightfully modulated voice came from somewhere behind me. ‘I regret that I was not informed of your arrival sooner. Please pardon my late appearance — welcome to my house.’
I turned. A woman was standing at one of the inner doorways, attended by two young pages. From her words, her sombre dress, and the poisonous glance which Annia gave her, this was clearly Fulvia, the woman whom Monnius had braved his mother’s wrath to wed. A single glance was enough to tell me why he had thought the prize worth the penalty.