A Bitter Chill (9 page)

I agreed wholeheartedly, but I’m not quite stupid. Even a handsome and fanciable man can’t talk me into making death threats to a customer. Instead I said, “She can’t force Plautius to change his will, though, can she? Nobody can. When all’s said and done, he’s the head of the family, and he can do as he likes.”

“In theory, yes. In practice, I only hope so. You must have noticed what a prize bully Sempronia is.”

“But even in the short time I was with Lord Plautius, I got the impression that he’s more than a match for her.”

“You’re a shrewd judge. I think you’re right. Sometime though, when he’s really unwell and in a lot of pain, he might give way to her just to get a bit of peace.”

“Is his illness serious?”

He nodded. “I’m afraid it is. He can’t last much longer. That’s why this whole business about changing his will is more than just a philosophical debate. It’s becoming urgent. It’s divided the household into two camps.”

“How do you mean?”

“Some of our people are scared that he’ll change his will, and they might want to make sure he never does.”

“The runaway son for one, presumably.”

“I suppose so, though he’s been away from home some time, and may not realise just how ill his father is now. I was thinking more of the Weasel. He gets his freedom under the old will, but under the new one he’s bequeathed to Sempronia. She’d never release him, he’s far too useful to her.”

They deserve each other, I thought, but kept the observation to myself.

Timaeus poured more wine. “But there are other people who’d do better out of the new will, and they might wait until he’s signed and sealed it, and then want to put him out of the way before he changed his mind yet again. Margarita’s the obvious example there. She would get
her
freedom under the new will, as long as she’d agree to leave Sempronia’s household. They want her out of Priscus’ reach, so he’ll forget about her and marry some high-class girl whose father will help him get into the Senate. Under the old will, she’s bequeathed to Horatius, of all things. He’s always fancied her, randy old goat.” He sipped his drink. “See what I mean about two camps?”

Oh yes, I saw all right. And which camp are you in, Timaeus, I wondered?

It was as if he heard my unspoken question. “I’m not in the running for a legacy under any will, in case you’re wondering.”

“Our grandmother used to say, if you want a long life, don’t put the doctor in your will.”

He smiled. “A wise woman. Plautius said much the same to me the other day when he and Sempronia and Horatius were having one of their endless discussions about legacies. ‘You may as well know you’ll get no bequest from me, whether I die now or in ten years’ time.’”

I stared into the fire for a while, pondering how seriously to take all this talk about wills and secret enemies. One thing I had to take seriously though. If Plautius came to harm while he was staying at the Oak Tree, it would of course be a tragedy for him, but it would be a complete disaster for us. “Look, Timaeus, I can be discreet, I think you’ve already decided that for yourself. If you know of a definite threat to Plautius, I wish you’d tell me about it. I’ve a duty to protect him, and I need to be forewarned. If anything happens to him while he’s under my roof….”

“Yes, I see that, but it’s difficult.” He sat staring into his beaker for what seemed like an hour. I tried to be patient, listening to the crackling fire, the wind rattling the shutters, and voices drifting faintly in from the kitchen next door. But I realised he was so deep in thought, he’d forgotten I was there.

“These alterations to the will—have they been put in writing yet?” I asked, by way of reminding him of my existence.

He looked up at me, shaking his head. “It’s just talk, endless arguing, and various sets of notes, but nothing formal yet. I hear most of it, because Plautius is involved, and I’m either in his room, or very near it.”

The door from the kitchen opened with a bang, and Albia came through almost at a run, and slammed it behind her. “Pour me some wine, Relia, for the gods’ sake, before they all drive me mad! Oh—I’m sorry, Timaeus, I didn’t realise you were here.”

He smiled. “They’re driving me mad too. I’ve escaped for a little while. Here, let me pour you some.”

She took it gratefully, and flopped onto the bench opposite to ours.

Timaeus turned to me. “Thank you for your company, Aurelia. I’d better be getting back to his lordship.”

“Look in for a drink any time you feel like a chat.”

“I will. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Good night to you both.”

As he left, Albia looked up from her wine. “Sorry if I’ve interrupted something. I needed to get away from the kitchen.”

“What’s up? Guests getting you down?”

“A bit. That horrible Diogenes is a real weasel.”

“Timaeus, on the other hand, is rather good company.”

This should have provoked some teasing, but she stared dumbly into the fire.

“Albia, what’s wrong?” I went to sit next to her, and put my arm round her. “Has something upset you?”

“I’m just tired. I’ll be all right.” Indeed she was looking exhausted, and I thought, despite her earlier optimism, she’s finding Sempronia’s party hard work. But Albia’s never been afraid of hard work, so there must be something more.

“What is it?” I asked. “I can probably help, but not if you don’t tell me.”

“It’s that slimy Diogenes. He keeps coming in and out of the kitchen, saying he’s under Sempronia’s orders to supervise his lordship’s meals, but Timaeus insists that nobody but him should touch any of the food that’s going to the sick room. They’ve had a couple of arguments, and Timaeus has won so far. I’m delighted to see him send the Weasel off with a flea in his ear, but the atmosphere is awful. It’s upsetting Cook, and you know how grumpy he gets.”

“Come on, you can always manage Cook’s temperaments when you have to. They’re certainly not worth getting into a state over. Has something else happened? Or is it your time of the month, making you tense?”

“Don’t be silly,” she retorted. “Oh, sorry, I shouldn’t snap at you. Take no notice, it’s nothing. I’m just worn out, and disappointed because I was looking forward to a holiday. Pour me some more wine, would you? That’s what I need. And tell me why Plautius wanted to see you.”

I handed her the wine and told her about my meeting with the old man. “If Plautius wants me to report to him first, that must mean he’s planning some course of action that he knows Sempronia won’t approve of. I’m in between Scylla and Charybdis, and I don’t like it one bit.”

Albia nodded. “Not a comfortable position, caught between those two. Remember that old joke of our grandmother’s: what’s the military term for someone who stands between two armies, trying to stop them fighting?”

“A corpse,” I answered.

We both stared into the fire for a space, till Albia broke the silence. “Margarita has told me a bit more about this runaway son of theirs. All he wants is to live his own life in his own way, not have to conform to what his family expects. Not much to ask, is it?”

“It doesn’t work like that though, with these rich political families.”

She looked at me gravely. “Relia, I realise you’d no choice but to agree that we’d help them search for their son. But….”

“But we don’t need to be too energetic about it?” I smiled. “Just what I’ve been thinking. We’ll go through the motions, ask around a bit, send out a few messages, but this isn’t our quarrel, after all. If we don’t find any trace of him, then Plautius and Sempronia will just have to admit defeat and go home.”

“Let’s hope so. The sooner they’re on the road back to Londinium, the better.”

“There’s something to be said for not being born into a rich and powerful senatorial family, isn’t there? At least we Aurelii can marry whoever we like.” I picked up my mug. “Here’s to freedom to choose a good husband. Here’s to your marriage. It won’t be long now, and then you and Candidus will live happy ever after.”

To my astonishment Albia thumped her beaker down on the table and almost shouted, “Relia, how can you be so blind?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t you see? It’s staring us in the face!” She was really shouting now. “I thought I could keep it to myself somehow, but I can’t. I
can’t!
Haven’t you realised yet?”

“What in the gods’ name are you on about?”

“Their son! When I was talking to Margarita, I suddenly understood. I’ve worked out who he is. We know him. Gods, it’s a disaster! What are we going to do?” She burst into tears.

“We
know
him?” I stared at her, appalled. “You mean…
merda,
Albia, it can’t be!”

“Yes,” she answered miserably. “Their runaway son is my Candidus.
I’m
the girl they won’t allow him to marry!”

C
HAPTER
VI

Have you ever been strolling on a sunny hillside and suddenly fallen down into a deep dark cave? Or wandered along by the sea and felt your feet sinking into a quicksand? Then you may have some idea of what Albia experienced that night.

It took a couple of hours and several more beakers of wine to calm her down. I realised why she’d seemed so tired and downcast, from the effort of holding her emotions firmly in check. Now she’d released them, they bolted like scared horses, and she went from anger to misery to panic and back again, as she faced the appalling fact that the man she thought she was marrying had as much chance of getting his parents’ consent as a frog of becoming Caesar. Without their consent he couldn’t marry her, however much he wanted to. It was a harsh law, but still law, and there was no getting round it.

“How could he lie to me like this?” she demanded over and over. “He said there’d be no serious problem about his parents agreeing to the wedding. He did tell me they wanted him to marry some rich girl down in Londinium, that was the main reason he’d run away from home. But he said that was just their snobbery, and he’d be able to persuade them that we were right for each other. Oh, how
could
he? He must have known in his heart how they’d react!”

I was sad for her misery and I shared her anger. Candidus had been at best naïve, at worst downright deceitful. But I did my best to comfort her. “He was hoping against hope, I imagine. He loves you, and he can’t bear the thought that his parents won’t approve. So he’s convinced himself he can win them round, because he desperately wants to. Maybe he can, at that. He’s a persuasive talker, isn’t he?”

“Talk’s not enough!” she retorted. “I doubt if he or anybody can persuade Sempronia to do something if she doesn’t want to.”

I couldn’t disagree. “I must admit she was adamant when she was reading out his letter and telling me about the situation. I have the feeling Plautius might be more sympathetic though.”

“But Candidus should have been honest with me! His parents aren’t just too snobbish to have me in their family, they’ve actually got someone else lined up for him, some senator’s daughter with powerful relatives in Italia. Margarita told me. His parents and hers have agreed everything, and they’re talking about drawing up a marriage contract and ordering Candidus to marry her. Plautius has the legal right, as head of the family.”

“Perhaps Candidus doesn’t know things have gone that far. And anyway, Plautius may have legal right on his side, but Candidus loves you, you know he does.”

“I thought I knew it.”

“You do know it, Albia. He’ll simply refuse to marry the other girl.”

“But without his father’s approval,
we
can’t be married.”

“You can still live together as man and wife—lots of couples do. Nobody can stop you doing that.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Perhaps that’s what Candidus had been planning, if they were denied a marriage ceremony to give everything the seal of legality. Or perhaps he’d decided that they could go through a full wedding, telling everyone their parents consented to the match but couldn’t be present themselves. That wouldn’t have made the thing legal, but after all, Brigantia is a long way from Londinium, and he wouldn’t be the first man to have run away from home to marry. He’d have counted on the fact that his parents would remain at a safe distance, so the matter of their approval wouldn’t be challenged.

“The important thing,” I said, “is that he loves you, and you love him. You’d be prepared to live with him even without a formal marriage, wouldn’t you? I know you’d be disappointed not to have a wedding ceremony, but you could still be together.”

She thought about it. “I
would
be disappointed. But yes, if it’s the only way, of course we can just set up house together. Oh, but then what about the children? If we aren’t married, they’ll be illegitimate, which means they can’t be Roman citizens without a special dispensation!” She buried her head in her hands.

We kept going over and over the same facts, as if by repeating them often enough we could change them. But the longer we discussed it, the worse the situation seemed to be. If Albia was right, and she was certain she was, then she and Candidus were set on a collision course with Sempronia, like galleys racing across the water to ram one another into wreckage. However we tried to delay the hour when she discovered where her Decimus was, and the identity of his sweetheart, we couldn’t prevent her finding out eventually, and the resulting explosion would rival Vesuvius erupting over Pompeii.

What would Sempronia do, besides ranting and roaring like a lioness with belly-ache? We’d joked, well half-joked, that she could get the Oak Tree shut down if we didn’t give her good service. Was she vindictive enough to try to close it down because her son wanted to marry its housekeeper? If first impressions were anything to go by, she was.

And then there was the whole question of Lucius, his public disgrace, his private arrangement that the Governor would reinstate him once he’d completed his assignment. Sempronia boasted of her kinship with the Governor, but how close were they in fact? Could she persuade him to make my brother’s disgrace permanent?