Modesta watched them go, clutching the pitcher against her skinny chest. ‘What a lovely lady. Shame about her slave.’ She giggled. ‘And what a funny little page they seem to have. You would think he’d never carried water in his life.’
‘Quite possibly he hasn’t,’ I told her, with a smile. Talking to Secunda made me feel benevolent. ‘They only got him from the market yesterday. Sold by his parents to buy food, I understand.’
‘No wonder he hardly knows where to begin!’ Suddenly she creased her brow at me. ‘I wonder if they tried to sell him in Glevum market once before? I’ve got the oddest feeling that I’ve seen that boy somewhere – though for the life of me I couldn’t tell you where. Perhaps it is simply that he looks like someone else. That must be what it is! You would not forget that haircut and those knobbly white knees!’
I found that I was standing very still. ‘Who is it that the slave reminds you of?’ I said, almost fearing what she might reply. ‘It wasn’t the mistress of this house, by any chance?’ That at least, would make a kind of sense – and explain the mystery of Secunda’s past. I added, ‘I can see no such resemblance myself.’
To my relief the slave-girl only laughed. ‘That lovely lady? Not a bit of it. Someone in our household, or in Glevum, I am sure,’ she said. ‘And not my master or the lady Cyra, certainly. Perhaps the chief steward or possibly the nurse, or maybe even . . .,’ She broke off, laughing, ‘I don’t know why I’m bothering to tell you all of this. It’s nonsense, anyway. How could a pauper from Corinium have anything to do with my master’s slaves at home? Anyway, it was just a brief impression, I only got a glimpse.’ She glanced towards the barn. ‘But now, forgive me, citizen – I must take this water back. Fiscus will be angry and I’m more afraid of him than I’ve ever been of any of the usual stewards at my master’s house.’
‘Tell him that it’s my fault because I kept you here,’ I said, although I did not have much conviction that it would help her cause. ‘In the meantime, I should go myself and conclude my business in the house.’ I looked up at the sky. How long would it take those slaves to eat some bread and cheese? I made a calculation. ‘When the shadow of that oak tree meets that flagstone there, I shall be ready. Come and get me then. In the meantime, enjoy your little meal.’
She nodded and went hastening back into the barn, carrying the brimming pitcher on her head. There was no doubt that she was used to doing it.
I was feeling very thoughtful as I went back to the house. Muta was waiting and she let me in, and when I reached the central room I found Paulina there, scribbling a picture on a piece of slate, while Servus crouched down on a stool and watched her work.
He sprang up when he saw me and murmured, ‘Citizen!’ It was the first time that I’d heard him utter any word at all and I realized that my unspoken theory had been wrong again. This child had no impediment of speech, beyond the terror that was clearly in his eyes and which was evident by the tremor in the syllables. Like all such young pageboys he had a fluting tone, but there was no stutter and he spoke quite well.
He saw me looking and he backed away from me until he stood with his back against the wall. I wondered where he had learned that defensive strategy. I said, quite kindly, ‘Will you go and find your mistress and tell her I am here?’ He looked panicked and bewildered and he did not move. I tried again. ‘Find Secunda for me. Tell her I am here. Or Paulinus if that is easier.’ It had not occurred to me, until I said the words aloud, that I should – of course – have asked first for the master of the house.
This time he nodded and edged slowly to the door although he didn’t for a moment take his eyes from me. Meanwhile Paulina scratched away with her chunk of chalk-stone, happily oblivious to the pair of us. Once or twice she even put it in her mouth.
I did not feel that the pageboy kept a proper watch on her, certainly he hadn’t since I was in the room. I decided I would have to mention it to his mistress when she came. It was just as Modesta said about the water-jug – it was evident that Servus had a lot to learn. At the moment he had no idea at all of what was expected of a household slave.
I looked at him again. What else was it that Modesta said? That he had reminded her of someone she had seen before. And then, like a mosaic, all the little fragments settled into place. It was hardly credible. But it must be the solution. How could I find out? As he turned away to lift the latch and push open the door he had his back to me.
‘Lavinia!’ I called softly, and Servus whirled around.
‘What is it, citizen?’ And then I knew for sure.
TWENTY-FOUR
S
he realized immediately that she’d betrayed herself. Without another word she flung open the door and launched herself – not into the interior of the house, as she had meant, but into the arms of Secunda who was in the act of entering the room.
‘What is it little one?’ she murmured soothingly.
The child looked up at her beseechingly. ‘He knows! He’s found us out. He called me by my name.’
I saw the look of sorrow cross the lovely brow. ‘Very well. You take Paulina and go in there to play. I will deal with this. I promise faithfully no harm will come to you.’
The look the child gave her was an adoring one. Paulina was not delighted to be made to stop her scribbling on the slate, and at first she sat protesting in her silent way – kicking her feet and refusing to be dragged – but Secunda called the maid and the child was led away, still looking furious but no longer struggling. I found myself again alone with the lady of the house.
‘I might have guessed that you would work it out,’ she said, giving me the rueful smile that tore my heart. ‘That is Lavinia, of course. What gave us away?’
‘I asked myself why you should be so keen to keep your slave from meeting servants from the Glevum house,’ I said. ‘Especially when Modesta said that there was something slightly familiar about the page. It occurred to me that there is little difference between a boy and girl, except the clothes and haircut, when they are as young as that. What one mostly sees is just the hairstyle and the differing tunic length. But of course it’s possible to shorten both these things. Once I’d had the wit to question it . . .’ I left the words unfinished, quite ashamed of how long it had taken me to question anything.
Secunda nodded, still remarkably unruffled. ‘The hair was a problem, it was a striking red and of course she had always worn it long. We cut it off as short as possible, and tried to colour it.’
‘With lampblack?’ I said, understanding as I spoke. ‘I noticed that the scalp seemed very stained.’ I should have seen the significance of that – I had been told the colour of Lavinia’s hair.
‘Lampblack and writing ink. We rubbed some on the hands and knees as well – although she hated that – and dressed her in a tattered tunic that we purchased yesterday. It was enough to delude the casual eye and the land-slaves here and very shortly we were going to go to Gaul where it was unlikely that anyone would come and hunt for us. But it seems we did not manage to disguise the truth from you.’ Her cool grey eyes met mine and I saw great sadness in them. ‘I do not expect you to condone what we have done, but at least you know no harm has come to her.’
‘Except that her father will disown her now. She has dishonoured him and she can’t go home again.’
There was little furniture in here beyond the stools but Secunda signalled that I should sit on one, while she sank down on the other with her accustomed grace. ‘You call that misfortune, citizen? I fear Lavinia might think otherwise. Her paterfamilias has never been particularly kind. How do you think he would treat her after this?’
I thought of the way the so-called slave had backed against the wall, and how the nurse had claimed they had a private code for moments when Lavinius threatened punishment. How many whippings had she endured in Lavinia’s stead, I asked myself – and did not care to answer. Whipping-slaves were commonplace in many Roman homes, though more usually they were reserved for sons. Lavinius, however, had no son to whip. I said, ‘But what will become of her, now she has no home?’
‘She had a home here, citizen, until you came along. We would have cared for her. So it is up to you. Will you betray us to Lavinius, or not?’
‘But what about her mother? She will be ill with grief!’
‘If you are referring to Cyra, citizen – who was it, do you think, who made this possible? Who pressed and pleaded that Lavinia should spend the night in Corinium with her cousin – and at a lodging-house – and not at the chief priest’s residence as one might expect?’
It had occurred to me before that this arrangement was a bit unusual, but since all the parties had seemed entirely content, I thought no more of it. ‘So with Cyra’s collusion, Audelia arranged that you two should also spend the night at the same place and take the girl away?’
She looked embarrassed but said steadily, ‘That is effectively the case.’
‘But why? Surely the Vestal Virgin’s life would have been excellent? It would have removed her from Lavinius’s power: she would have been cared for all her life and indeed, retired with a pension and a dowry to her name. Why would Cyra interfere with that? Wouldn’t any mother want that for her child?’
Secunda dropped her eyes. ‘Not every mother’s child would qualify.’
I stared at her. What did she mean by that? But Secunda merely fiddled with her stola-folds and said nothing further. I searched my brain. Cyra had explained the criteria to me: two living parents, both of patrician birth and physical and mental perfection of all kinds – all of which Lavinia had been judged to have, as well as a useful dowry which had avoided the entrance lottery. So what was I missing? Then I recalled Secunda’s words when I mentioned Lavinia’s mother. ‘If you are referring to Cyra . . .’ she had said. Was it possible?
‘Cyra was not Lavinia’s mother after all? Or was Lavinius not her father?’
She raised her eyes and smiled. ‘Neither of those things. Poor Cyra’s infant turned out to be a son – and boy-children in our family never seem to live. My father and my grandfather were both of them convinced that it was some sort of curse on us, and that it could only be removed by offering the girls to be Vestal Virgins, if they qualified.’
‘As you did not,’ I countered, but she did not rise to that.
‘As Cyra didn’t, citizen. And when she gave birth to yet another son, and it began to show the signs that all the others had – swelling up and screaming when he got a bruise, or if they got the slightest cut they almost bled to death – she knew at once that it would not survive. And what’s more, that since she’d failed again, she was likely to be instantly divorced and thrown onto the mercy of her distant relatives. Not a pleasant prospect when you’re no longer young – and she had very little money of her own, scarcely a dowry that was worthy of the name. So she found a stratagem. Lavinius of course had not been near her since the birth, so when the child was brought to him for him to pick it up – and thereby officially accept it as his own . . .’
‘She substituted someone else’s child?’ I finished. And then: ‘It was the nurse’s? Of course – the hair was red!’
‘Naturally, citizen? Who else could it have been? The wet nurse who was acting as attendant at the birth had very recently had a child herself – I think it was arranged between them in advance. If Cyra’s child had been a living girl, then well and good, it would be presented to Lavinius and all would be exactly as it appeared to be . . .’
‘If, however, it proved to be a son and sickly – as it was very like to be – then the promised substitution would be made? Especially since you tell me that he actually died. But why would the nursemaid agree to such a thing?’
‘Cyra had promised her a comfortable home and her infant the best upbringing that money could provide – and since the woman was a widow with no money of her own, naturally it seemed a wonderful exchange. What was there for her precious child otherwise? This way she would even have the chance to tend the child and watch it all its life . . .’
‘Until Lavinius decided that his daughter should join the Vestal house?’ I said.
‘Exactly, citizen. You can imagine what a turmoil that decision caused. You know how strict the rules for choosing Vestals are – and what the consequence would be if anyone infringed them knowingly. The omens would be simply terrible. And whatever Lavinius might or might not know, one cannot keep this kind of secret from the gods.’
I looked at her but she was clearly not in jest. ‘You believe in such a curse?’
‘Remember, citizen, our family history – the boy-children who always die in agony. What else is it but a kind of punishment? My grandfather was right. To defy the goddess by offering a girl who did not begin to meet the foremost rule was almost begging for a further curse. The nurse was terrified and Cyra even more, because she feared that if Lavinia was sent off to the shrine the slave would tell her master and the truth would be revealed. After all the child had the colouring of a Silurian slave, rather than a patrician Roman family, though it seems that Lavinius never thought to question that. So between them, they got in touch with me – Cyra writes a good deal better than her husband knows and always managed to find a public courier in town who would deliver her messages to me – and we hatched this little—’
Whatever she was going to say, the words died on her lips as Muta came stumbling frantically from the inner room, making painful strangled noises in her throat. She grasped her mistress by the stola and tugged at her, in a way that no normal household slave would ever dare to do. It was evident that she wanted her to come, and urgently.
‘What is it, Muta?’ Secunda was already following, and – since there was clearly some emergency – I came along as well, through a little anteroom, which led out to the rear and where querns and bowls and sweeping-brooms were stored, into a little sleeping room beyond.