The Ides of April (26 page)

Apart from the usual reluctance to allow me indoors, the situation at Laia’s apartment did not favour casual visitors today. During the Cerialia it was a custom in plebeian high society to issue dinner invitations to other swanks. Laia Gratiana and her brother were to host a large dinner party that evening, so the entrance was full of flustered slaves wielding long poles to sweep spiders’ webs from the ceiling and plaster cornices, while others sponged the floor at the same time, causing everyone to be at risk of falling off stepladders, slipping on the wet marble, or having a pole land on their heads. Meanwhile a bunch of effete contractors were mincing around with dining-room decorations and having a quarrel with a steward about their bill.

When somebody screamed, ‘Who sat on the poppies and the wheat-ear crowns?’ I thought it time to leave.

It was the wrong time of year for poppies. Even wheat, that other traditional symbol of Ceres, would be at planting stage, not harvest. The items must be fakes.

The professional decorators (‘thematic banquet designers’ as they called themselves) had had an exciting idea of using snakes, like the twin serpents that pulled Ceres’ chariot as she searched for Proserpina, her kidnapped daughter. Nobody of taste and social standing wants live snakes in their lovely home, so fake ones had been created by a tousle-haired young man who enjoyed crafts.

Oh dear.

Nevertheless I made an attempt to talk to him, helping him lay out his structures, which I admired politely because I knew he would be desperate for approval and nobody else would have troubled. We had a conversation about making the display floats for military triumphs. We talked about the Cerialia chariot, which would have even larger snakes. I asked about his hopes for the future. I wrote down his name on a note tablet in case I could ever put a commission his way. At least, I said that was the reason.

Then I told him I myself felt a little rebuffed and a great deal frustrated because of the Venusia problem. And he told me he had overheard somebody mention that she had gone to Aricia, where there was an ancient shrine to Ceres.

Too far to travel, unfortunately. Still, it might be handy to know.

I needed to be cheered up by seeing Andronicus. I badly wanted to be chased around a small room by a man with a determined gleam in his eye.

I went to the aedile’s office, but a public slave who was very slowly picking up leaves in the courtyard told me nobody was there. I left the slave collecting his leaves individually, then placing them in a bucket one by one as if they were very thin-shelled eggs.

I could ask for Andronicus at the aedile’s house. He was a free citizen. His friends could call round. I had never been closely involved with a freedman before, but surely that was one point of being freed? A freedman’s friend might have to go in through a side entrance, but visiting him was surely possible . . .

I decided against. Manlius Faustus remained an unknown quantity and I felt diffident about straying too close. But the idea was tempting. Worm my way into somebody’s house? I tried not to imagine members of my family urging me
to do it. Hades, I had been trained to take that kind of risk as an informer.

I
met him. Io Saturnalia!

That light frame and his thick, swept-back hair gave me a pang. Andronicus came jauntily along the Street of the Armilustrium, swinging a small glass flagon on a leather string from his left wrist. It looked like a bath-oil jar. I met him as I returned homewards in a grumpy mood, which instantly lightened. He conducted a farce about pretending he couldn’t remember knowing me. I lapped it up, overjoyed by his happy silliness.

We then kissed cheeks, with extreme formality, to respect our position in public on a main street. His breath felt warm and tantalising on my face. He nuzzled around me, not touching, just growling under his breath with suppressed desire. It drove me wild, as he intended.

We walked.

He had lost his beard. The effect was not too striking because it had been so light-coloured, never hiding his features; to begin with, I didn’t even notice the difference, but he was conscious of it. They had had a cull of facial hair, he said. Even though the rites of Ceres were famously Greek, Faustus had ordered patriotic Roman clean-shaven chins all round. A barber had even been specially brought in to scrape everyone.

‘Even Tiberius?’

‘Even the bristly kitchenmaid. Albia, you wouldn’t recognise Tiberius.’

Andronicus said that Manlius Faustus expected everyone in his household to be spruced up every evening, to attend as a group whatever festival ceremonies he organised. They were all on show. There could be no skiving.

‘Dutiful support?’

‘Showing off how rich he is by the size of his retinue!’ complained my friend. ‘Most of the others are stupidly thrilled because he hands out free tickets. Of course he does. If an aedile can’t pack the Circus seats with his own people cheering him, what’s the point of the job? I’d like to bunk off and see you sometime, but any absence will be noted and reported to him by some mean spy in the cringing entourage.’

‘Don’t get into trouble on my account, Andronicus.’

‘You are so sweet!’

Not sweet; diplomatic. Andronicus’ well-being mattered and I had some self-interest. I did not want Manlius Faustus to decide I was luring one of his staff away from proper duties. I had not even met this man, yet I felt we had a prickly relationship.

I told Andronicus how pleased I was to have found him by chance today. Perhaps foolishly, I mentioned how I had toyed with visiting his home and asking to see him. As usual, my mischievous friend immediately picked up this rash suggestion. He said the aedile’s house was close nearby, so he would take me there at once and show me round.

Of course it could be a bad idea. And I fell for it.

Why do I take such risks? Well, if nothing else, my Aventine granny would have been proud of me. As I said in connection with Salvidia’s funeral, Junilla Tacita seized any
opportunity to inspect her neighbour’s houses. An aedile’s home? Thrills! She would expect me to check the sheets for moth holes and run a finger along shelves, looking for dust.

I
n Rome, the homes of the great are as well-protected from intrusion as it is possible to be. They have high walls, no windows on the exterior, the most hostile door porters in the world, and often troops of taciturn guards from strange overseas provinces, in charge of snarling dogs who also don’t respond to Latin – or not unless someone orders ‘Kill!’ They all know that one. In daylight at least, these houses are also notoriously chock-a-block with inquisitive outsiders, invited in for a look around by members of the staff. In a house of this status, everyone thinks they are a cheeky slave in a play. Kitchen hands’ out-of-work brothers-in-law lounge around the storerooms, pinching commodities. Maids’ giggling friends come and try out the beds, still warm from members of the family. Factotums are pitifully keen to ingratiate themselves with people they drink with at fish restaurants on Fridays. Even the snootiest stewards love a chance to impress; fine fellows who claim to have been trained in etiquette at some minor villa owned by a relation of Julius Caesar’s can easily be inveigled into showing off to total strangers the mansion where they work. It’s a sad fact that only when a hardworking informer has a genuine reason to call at one of these places does entry seem difficult.

Manlius Faustus and his uncle were bound to have forbidden casual visits. But I knew they were probably resigned to it happening.

They lived on the western side of the Hill, close to the main bank of warehouses they owned. They were in the triangle of large properties that lay to the west of the Street of the Plane Trees, so they were close to Laia Gratiana and Marcia Balbilla; it was clearly an enclave of plebeian aristocracy. Tullius owned half a block of typical urban mansion, of some grandeur, with an atrium just inside the main door, beyond which your eyes were drawn to an enclosed garden. A typical formal vista. Sightlines developed to impress.

All the public rooms were placed directly beside the entrance. People came here on business, probably on a daily basis. Only the few who were permitted close intimacy with the masters would ever penetrate as far as private snugs and bedrooms. I sensed that plenty of those existed, off discreet downstairs corridors and upstairs on a second floor. In a city where most people lived crammed against other people’s halitosis and smelly armpits, the lucky occupants here had space.

Andronicus marched straight in through the double front doors, which opened at the top of a couple of marble steps, each tread adorned with standard rose trees in matching urns. An elderly porter, who had probably lived there for years, put out his head from a cubicle; he looked surprised, but made no objection to me being brought indoors by the archivist. Perhaps he thought I had come about ink supplies, though I doubt it.

Just inside the atrium was a lararium, a family shrine against a wall, with signs that the household gods were tended daily with offerings. The flowers and wheat cakes looked fresh. ‘Tullius,’ said Andronicus. I nodded; it would not be the first time a man who showed casual disrespect to women gave heavy reverence to the gods. As head of the household, he would make the offerings himself. He would call himself ‘an old-fashioned traditionalist’. I bet if I met him I would want to thrust his old-fashioned attitudes down his old-fashioned throat before he had time to say what a pretty little backside I had, and feverishly make a grab for it. I hoped we would not run into him.

I was led around the main areas, feeling nervous. There was an inside dining room, with convenient kitchen areas to the right-hand side of the garden. Salons with seating and a few display cases for statuettes lay on another side, along with a small library; there was no time for me to pull out scrolls and see what authors they read. Everywhere was decorated with wall frescos that had been painted in the not too distant past, as if they had a routine maintenance programme. I suppose I expected pornographic scenes, though if they existed I saw none. It was all minor myths, stylised architectural views and pleasant garlands, well executed but in unexciting colour schemes.

Where the aedile lived with his uncle was neat, and not particularly ostentatious. You could tell they had money, but the money was used with a light hand, so the place had simple elegance. I was surprised by its calm atmosphere. This house was well run, in a casual way that I found rather remarkable. Even though I was uninvited, I soon felt comfortable. The easygoing mood did not fit the antagonism I had witnessed between Andronicus and Tiberius, or the sharp way Andronicus spoke about the aedile and his uncle; still, that shows how human nature can fester, even in a good environment.

Andronicus had asked a serving boy to bring us refreshments in the garden. As a family freedman, he could order himself snacks; as his guest, I just kept trying to look as if I had come about stationery and Andronicus was trying to persuade me to give them a bulk discount. We established ourselves on a bench, with a little portable table carrying man-size cups and miniature dishes, as if we owned the house.

I never ascertained if Tullius was on the premises. The young master definitely was at home, I was told. After his late night running the festival, the aedile was still dead asleep in his bedroom; given that he had more to do this evening and for several nights to follow, nobody was disturbing him. To know he was so close gave me an odd feeling, though Andronicus seemed unfazed by any thought that Faustus might emerge, yawning.

It is always intriguing to see someone at home when you have only met them outside before. Here, Andronicus was the most relaxed I had ever known him. He lost that spiky, restless edge. Occasionally a slave would pass, giving him a nod and a quiet greeting. He returned it, seeming on good terms with all of them.

I was pleased. I liked to know he could be like this.

Soon we were talking avidly. Naturally our conversation turned to the aedile, when I made it plain I felt shy being in his house without his knowledge or permission. ‘So does he always lie in until lunchtime? Is he exhausted by organising the festival?’

‘In fairness, the Cerialia has meant a lot of work for him.’ It was probably the first time Andronicus had ever shown such understanding when talking about Faustus. ‘He has never been used to working hard. It matters so much to him that he comes out of it well, and he has been a bit off-colour.’

‘Nerves?’

‘Not him. But he is desperate to look brilliant.’

‘So what was it like last night?’

‘Oh you know, the usual. A lot of parading in white, hymns, torches, complicated rituals performed inaudibly on special altars.’

‘Fun with the gods.’

‘Fannying with the female college – they bag most of the ceremonies. Unless they want to be Vestal Virgins, women have no other chance to be domineering priestesses.’

‘Laia Gratiana loves it?’

‘And behaves as if she leads the cult – since she is currently single, she’s deluding herself. The chief priestess of Ceres is always a wife, and fertile, to enhance the myth of everything in abundance. Having twins is good – triplets is better; triplets who all survived the birth is a clincher.’

‘Though somewhat rare! That’s the old biddy we saw the other night in the temple?’

‘The same. “A mature woman from a good family”, or rather, a bad-tempered old bat who can’t remember her lines in the ceremonies because her wellborn brain is going. Gratiana always pushes forwards to help her, but last night was demoted among the ranks all prancing like ancient Greeks.’

I had been to this kind of festival. ‘Give a cult devotee a big flaming torch and she’ll just adore pointing it at something in a ritual manner.’

Andronicus did a hilarious mime for me. ‘Terrible posing and slow-motion solemnity.
Really
embarrassing dances by young people who had been made to dress up in fake Hellenic costumes. Horrible little playlets, with truly gruesome dialogue.’