She was in the prime of marriageable womanhood — perhaps sixteen or seventeen — and strikingly beautiful, even in the drab colours and costume of ritual grief. Not virginal in the tall, pale, aquiline Roman fashion, but with the kind of shapely, dimpled, and bold-featured beauty which, offered at the slave market, would make any brothel-keeper in the province start loosening his purse-strings. She moved, too, with the kind of supple grace which somehow suggested a hired dancing girl rather than a respectable Roman matron.
I remembered Annia’s earlier words about flashing her legs at a banquet, and for a moment I almost wondered. But of course there was no question of that. If Fulvia had really ever been an entertainer, Monnius would not have needed to trouble himself with marriage; he would simply have purchased her and that would have been that. This girl was clearly too well born for that. Yet there was something of the dancing girl about her and she had not brought ‘much dowry’ with her.
No wonder Annia disapproved.
I made the due obeisance and stole another look at the widow. She was dressed conventionally enough, in a simple dark-coloured stola, with a soft black drape covering her hair as befitted a woman in mourning, but she still radiated enough physical femininity to make me remember that I was a man — even if an ageing one. The stola was made of rustling stuff — demure, but just sufficiently high cut at the hem to reveal a perfection of ankle, and just low cut enough at the throat to hint at the soft milk-white swell of the breasts below. A woven girdle cord of soft black silk artlessly emphasised the waist. Curls of blonde hair escaped enticingly from under the dark hood, and as she raised her blue-green eyes to meet mine I saw that they had been carefully outlined with kohl, now smudged (not unbecomingly) with weeping.
Beside me Annia Augusta almost hissed with suppressed fury.
But Monnius’ wife was at least a match for his mother. This was, at least until the will was read, her house and she emphasised the point again. She paid not the slightest attention to Annia as she said sweetly, ‘Twice welcome, citizen,’ and extended both hands towards me.
I gasped. Her left arm, until then hidden by the folds of her cape, was heavily bandaged. The stark whiteness of the linen bindings was almost shocking against the supple darkness of her dress — except where, I noticed, there was on the outside of the upper arm a dark red stain that was more shocking still.
‘Lady. .’ I began awkwardly. ‘I am sorry to find you hurt.’ I gestured towards the damaged limb, but she brushed my concern aside with a brave little smile.
‘It is nothing, citizen. Deep enough — but I was fortunate. When I consider. .’ She shook her head. ‘Even now I cannot believe it. If it were not for my faithful slaves. .’ Her teeth, I noticed, were small and uneven, like a child’s. Somehow that flaw in her beauty made her seem more appealing than ever.
‘Your slaves!’ Annia Augusta said with a sniff, interposing herself between us. ‘I only wish they were a little more efficient. We are still awaiting the arrival of a stool, so that this citizen can have his refreshment. I sent one of those useless slaves of yours to fetch one, some little time ago, but there is no sign of it.’ She clasped her stout hands self-righteously across her chest and glared at her daughter-in-law. ‘If I had been permitted to bring my own servants with me, we shouldn’t have had this trouble, I promise you. They knew their duty. But I have no say in anything. No doubt that is the problem — someone has countermanded my orders!’
‘Not I, Annia Augusta, I assure you,’ Fulvia said drily, with a glance at me which suggested that the older woman was imagining things as usual. She turned to the young pages. ‘Go, boys, and see what you can discover about a stool.’
But it seemed that Annia Augusta was right, after all, although not in the way she imagined. Hardly had the slave-boys left the room when they were back again, each carrying a stool, and followed by a thin sallow woman, all in black, with a plain, pinched face and an anxious expression. She bobbed me a greeting but her eyes were only for my older companion.
‘Oh, Annia Augusta, good madam.’ She was still almost bobbing in her anxiety to explain herself, although by her clothes and the handsome necklace round her neck, this lady was a citizen and not the apologetic servant she appeared. ‘This is my doing. Which stool was it that you wanted? The one with the ivory inlay, or the gilded wood? I couldn’t decide. In the end I had them bring you both. .’
I looked from Fulvia to Annia, and from Annia to the newcomer, who was still wringing her hands in apology.
It was Fulvia who spoke. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Citizen, I see that you have not met Lydia. My husband’s former wife.’
To say that I goggled would be an understatement. When a Roman divorces his wife he sends her back to her family (if she is not to be punished for unfaithfulness) and generally expects her not to darken his doors again. Yet here was Lydia, only a few hours after Monnius’ death, in his house, already wearing mourning, and agitating the servants about stools. ‘His former wife?’ I found myself saying. ‘How. .?’
Fulvia Honoria gave me a strange wry smile. ‘You see, citizen, Lydia lives in the house — or at least in the annexe, which amounts to very much the same thing. Annia Augusta brought her here three months ago, after her brother, her legal guardian, died. Together with that wretched Filius of hers. Monnius fought against it, naturally, but he had a duty to the child, and Annia claimed she needed a companion.’ She showed those small uneven teeth again.
‘Of course. .’ Annia began, but Fulvia ignored her.
‘An uncomfortable situation, do you not think, citizen? For all of us? I do not think even Lydia was keen, but of course she does everything my mother-in-law tells her, and where else did she have to go? Annia Augusta can be hard to resist when she puts her mind to something. Even Monnius gave way in the end, otherwise she would have made his life unbearable.’
Her voice was composed, and she was still smiling, although she was beginning to look strained, and she moved her hand to her arm as if her wound was troubling her. She was still dignified.
The wretched Lydia, however, had clapped her skinny hands to her skinny face and was rocking to and fro in misery, muttering, ‘Fulvia, no! By sweet Mercury, you must not say these things!’ Annia had gone red, and was puffing herself up like an outraged turkey, and even the servants — although not daring to move another muscle — were exchanging horrified looks from the corners of their eyes.
And I? I did the only thing a man could do, in the circumstances. I gestured to the slave with the inlaid stool, as imperiously as I could. He hastened to set it down by the table and I installed myself upon it, importantly, signalling to the boy to pour some wine.
It had the desired effect. At this demonstration of masculine authority, the women seemed to recollect themselves and stood back.
‘Thank you for this hospitality,’ I said, with what I hoped was a dignified smile. ‘Now I am sure there are a hundred preparations to be made in this household, as there always are after a death. I do not wish to keep you from your unhappy tasks. If, perhaps, you could send my own slave to attend me, and continue to lend me one of your own? I am sure with the body to attend to, and the funeral meats to prepare. .?’
I saw the women glance at one another. They were about to begin bickering again, I realised with alarm. Probably about whose responsibility it was to organise the rites. I went on, hurriedly, ‘Otherwise, please ignore me. Call the funeral arrangers by all means. I will try to intrude as little as possible. Expect that I should like to see the body before the anointers begin, and I shall want to speak to everyone, one at a time. Starting with you, perhaps, Fulvia, since as his widow you must begin the lament. Unless his son is old enough. .?’