The Chariots of Calyx (5 page)

‘People?’ She sounded as if she had never mentioned a person in her life.

‘This . . .’ I searched for the name, ‘Filius, did you call him? And Lividius Fortunatus, who is he? The only Lividius Fortunatus I have ever heard of is a racing driver in the circus.’

I said it with a suppressed smile. That Lividius Fortunatus was known to every man in the province. Drivers of racing chariots may be of humble origin – indeed many of them begin as slaves – but those who survive the training soon earn enough to acquire their freedom, and the successful ones are among the most highly paid men in the Empire, even if they are still tied by contracts to their teams. ‘Living like a driver of the Blues’ has become a synonym for conspicuous extravagance – and there are few drivers more successful than Fortunatus.

Even here in Britannia, that young hero of the circuit was rumoured to be paid more gold for a single race than a successful wool-trader might make in a lifetime. And it was not just the money. Young women (and sometimes nubile young men) were said to haunt his dressing rooms, to throw themselves at their idol’s feet (or any other part of his anatomy). Rich men fêted him, poets praised him and vendors of his favourite wine and olives would not only give him samples of their wares, they would sometimes pay the charioteer handsomely to be seen consuming them in public.

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.’

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.

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.