By that time Fulmina had begun to have her dreams, all of which featured this foundling child. Clodius was allowed only the barest details of what these portended and even then he was tempted to scoff, but he knew his wife to be a great believer in such things. Then she got together with Drisia, the local soothsayer. Clodius could not stand the woman, a filthy wretch, of uncertain age, who seemed never to wash. To him, being upwind of her was like standing too close to a legionary latrine and since he made no effort to keep this opinion to himself, his distaste was heartily reciprocated. He made a vain attempt to bar her from entering the hut, only to find himself ordered out with scant courtesy, forced to observe proceedings through a crack in the wall.
Drisia made a potion of herbs, mixed with some rough wine. This she rolled around her mouth, with her eyes closed, emitting a low moaning sound. Then she spat it onto the beaten earth of the floor where it formed globules in the dust. Both women leant forward to examine the pattern this created, with Drisia pointing to various shapes. He could see Fulmina nodding, and later, though she refused to tell him what the soothsayer had prophesied, she insisted that the eagle charm had some kind of magical powers to affect the child’s future. To Clodius it was all nonsense; that charm, in his eyes, had power all right; the money it would fetch could change his life.
Drisia came again the next day, employing the whole range of her soothsayer’s art. Bones were cast on the ground, the way they fell carefully inspected; various wild animals and birds were cut open and their entrails examined. Fulmina became totally attached to her little ‘eagle’ and any suggestion that he, or his gold charm would have to go, was met with a furious tirade and the threat of eviction for Clodius himself, this while the burden of the extra mouth to feed forced him to find some proper work. He began to curse the day he had found the boy.
Five leagues to the north the young midwife Marcia had engaged in the same quest. She too could find no information about the baby born on the Feast of Lupercalia; still had no idea of the identity of the strange lady who had given birth that night. Time, as the days lengthened into months, stilled her enquiries, though every year on the Feast of Lupercalia she would cast her mind back to that night, wondering about the name of that stern-faced patrician who could look so gentle when his gaze fell upon his young wife. And what about that effeminate Greek, Cholon, the name spat out in one unguarded moment by his master? Which direction did they take, after the slave took her home? When she returned to the villa, looking for clues, it was deserted and devoid of any evidence of their occupancy. Most of all Marcia ached to know where they had ridden to, immediately after the birth. Where did they go to expose the child, a journey that had kept them away until well after dawn broke the following day?
CHAPTER SEVEN
The house of Lucius Falerius Nerva was, once more, full of people. They stood, in groups, around the waterless fountain and burning braziers in the spacious atrium, their conversation setting up a steady buzz as they discussed the events of the previous two days; Tiberius Livonius cut down along with four companions garbed in his robes as a priest of the Cult of Lupercalia. This had led to serious rioting, as the people he represented, the poor and needy, poured out of their slums screaming for retribution, thus giving the patrician party an excuse to respond with their armed retainers, which in turn led to the massacre of Livonius’s adherents. Over three hundred had died as the patricians egged on their supporters to kill their political enemies.
Yet their deaths paled beside the effect of the initial assassination. The murder of a plebeian tribune, a hero to the dispossessed, whose person was held to be inviolate, was a heinous crime. All Rome was agog to know the names of the assailants, though few seemed to doubt that the author of the attack was the owner of this house. An angry crowd, defying the danger of another massacre, as well as the orders of the lictors to disperse, had gathered outside to yell obscenities. Those lictors, whose task it was to maintain civil order, were forced to mount guard at the gate. The noise swelled as the outer door swung open to admit another caller, and the room fell silent as Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus entered. A collective sigh rose from the throats of those with a slim chance of an interview with Lucius, for their prospects were so diminished as to have almost disappeared. Everyone else knew that the mere presence of this man would considerably extend the time they had to wait; Aulus would be admitted to the great man’s study just as soon as the host was appraised of his arrival.
Properly clad in his senatorial toga, with one fold acting as a cowl to cover his head, Aulus took up position on his own, at a point far away from the entrance to the study. Several men bowed in his direction, indicating that many a conversation was open to him. While courteously returning the bows, Aulus held himself aloof. Likewise those clients of Lucius, who would also wish to avail themselves of Aulus’s largesse, he being one of the richest men in Rome, were kept at bay by the look in his eye, which was not one to invite an approach. Lucius’s steward, ushering an elderly knight out of the study, failed to see Aulus and was just about to indicate that another man should proceed through the door when a hurried whisper made him spin round. It was like a scene from a comedy by Plautus. The steward’s hand shot to his mouth in a most unprofessional manner and he rushed into the study to tell his master. Seconds lengthened into a full minute before he returned, which had already heightened the tension, but when the fellow ignored Aulus, and indicated that the original supplicant should go through, the air became charged. For quite some time no one could speak; they just stared at Aulus to see what he would do.
The object of their curiosity did not even flick a black eyebrow; there was no reaction at all to this obvious slight, even though, inwardly, he was troubled. Aulus had come with three objects in mind; to celebrate a birth, to mourn a death and to expunge the dread that what the mob protested outside, that Lucius had been responsible for the assassination of Tiberius Livonius, was true. Ruminating in turn on all three, he stared back at his inquisitive audience as if daring one of them to mention what had just taken place; to state the level of the insult that had just been very publicly delivered. No one did and soon the conversation resumed, if anything louder than before, as the gathering tried to make sense of this unexpected shift in the political wind.
In the jumble of thoughts that coursed through Aulus’s mind the sight of the child he had exposed kept cropping up, unbidden, a bundle of white placed on the cold earth. He had avoided looking at it too closely, staying mounted on a horse suddenly skittish, not wishing to be haunted by the physical image, but all that meant was that he transposed, instead, the infant faces of his own two sons. Much as he tried to concentrate on the forthcoming meeting with Lucius, which was now bound to be difficult, he could not erase the memory of watching Cholon lay down the sleeping infant with a gentility that was at odds with what was intended. On a clear moonlit night the trees had sighed in the gentle wind, as if in sorrow. As he had gazed at the outline of the distant mountains, with the ghostly outline of an extinct volcano, Aulus had felt the chill in the air as the clear sky sucked what little heat the day had produced out of the earth, the chill that would ensure a slow but painless death.