Rosemary Rowe - The Chariots of Calyx

She laughed aloud. ‘It is even less of a coincidence than you suppose, citizen. A second chain of that pattern would not be hard to find. You can thank Annia Augusta for that. When Monnius first gave the ornament to me — a gift for Janus’ feast last year — his mother first pretended to admire it, and then persuaded him that she must have one exactly like it made for her.’

One of Jove’s thunderbolts could not have surprised me more. ‘Great Jupiter! Monnius was murdered with his mother’s chain?’

‘Not necessarily. Annia, in turn, presented one to Lydia — so that she would not feel “excluded” from the family. It was done as an insult to me, of course. Monnius was a fool to agree to her demands in the first place.’ A small flush of anger rose to her cheeks as she spoke, making her look more beautiful than ever. ‘I was so furious that I almost insisted he bought one for the servant-girls — he had made the pattern so commonplace. I would not have Lydia and Annia Augusta preening themselves in copies of his presents to me, as if they stood equally in his esteem. I told him so. He blustered and squirmed, as he always did, but he admitted he was wrong in the end. He bought me a very pretty ring as an apology.’

Between his wife and Annia Augusta, I thought, Monnius sometimes had as little freedom as I did, for all his riches. I, at least, had only one patron to please. ‘Then there were at least two other necklaces in the household exactly like your own?’

‘They are not as fine as this one, but they are all of the same pattern.’ With the help of one of the pages, she swung herself round so that she was sitting on the side of the bed facing away from me. She passed the casket to the slave, who put it on the shelf, while the other boy put down his fan and came hurrying over with a pair of embroidered slippers. ‘That is one reason why I rarely wear my own version of the ornament.’

‘But you were wearing it last night?’

‘I was.’ She extended one slim stockinged foot, and the page knelt down and reverently fitted a slipper on to it. Fulvia extended the other leg, and went on addressing me. ‘The silversmith who made it was present at the banquet and Monnius felt it would be a compliment to him. If I was entertaining at his table, he always liked to choose the things I wore.’

I tore my mind away from the picture this created. ‘The other women did not wear their necklaces?’

She waved the page away and got to her feet. ‘If they did, citizen, then no one saw them do it. They were not invited to the feast. They had their meal in private, in Annia’s annexe.’ She smoothed down the folds of her stola and arranged the veil more neatly over her hair as she spoke, then took up the silken girdle and tied it deftly with her undamaged hand. ‘Annia has a small triclinium of her own, there, where she can recline in comfort and take her meals — with Lydia if she wishes. Monnius prefers male company when he dines — or did prefer it, perhaps I should say. Though he was never averse to a little feminine entertainment.’

So, I thought, Fulvia Honoria had subtle ways of gaining her revenge. I could just imagine Annia Augusta’s rage at being banished to her lonely annexe, with only whining Lydia for company, while her daughter-in-law attended the banquet among the wine, warmth and laughter, singing — and no doubt dancing — in a beguiling manner for her husband and his guests. I pictured Annia’s outraged face and could not resist a smile.

Fulvia misinterpreted my amusement, and came round the bed to face me. ‘Citizen, you must not think too harshly of my husband. My servant Prisca has a savage tongue, and she saw only the worst side of him. Monnius had many qualities.’ She was standing close to me now, looking earnestly up into my face. ‘He could be generous, when he was sober; he was shrewd and he was rich. I wanted for nothing, and although he could be bestial in bed he made few other demands on me — apart from being decorative, and singing and dancing for his friends at intervals. It was a small price to pay. He allowed me to visit friends, go the theatre and the public baths, and attend the chariot races too. How many other wives can say the same?’

She smelled of lavender and roses. I tried to ignore it, and concentrate on what she was saying. There was truth in that too. Many wealthy Roman matrons lead a pitiful life, at least to my Celtic eyes — largely shut away from friends and family, and subject to the whim of their husbands, who are also their legal guardians. Of course, within the household it may be different, and situations like this one, where women hold much power behind the scenes, cannot be as uncommon as they seem to outsiders. If I could find my Gwellia, I thought, I would allow my wife to do anything she desired, only to have her by my side again. Except, perhaps, to share her bed with chariot-drivers.

Thinking of Gwellia seemed to break the spell. I took a step backwards. ‘I must not delay you longer, lady,’ I said. ‘The anointers will be finished with the body by this time.’

She extended one hand to me. ‘Then farewell for the moment, citizen,’ she said softly. ‘Send Prisca to me as you go. I need her help to prepare myself for the lament.’

I bowed briefly over her fingers, and then took my leave. Prisca was waiting outside the room, and as I emerged she flashed me an outraged look. ‘Your slaves are waiting for you in the librarium , citizen,’ she said shortly, indicating the last room off the lobby with a wave of her hand. ‘I sent them in there. They were getting in the way of the undertakers, and people coming in and out of my master’s room.’ Without waiting for a word from me she scuttled back to her mistress and closed the door.

The door of the study was half ajar, and Junio and Superbus were waiting for me. I glanced around the room. It was not unlike the cubiculum I had just left, except that it was smaller and there was no entry to the garden, only a small translucent window on the outer wall made of thin sheets of horn. It was sparsely furnished with a large writing table and a pair of stools, and a few shelves laden with all the paraphernalia of record-keeping: wax tablets, vellum scrolls, folded bark letter-forms and iron-nibbed sticks for writing, jars of soot, oil and octopus ink mixture; and a huge brass-bound chest, upon which Junio was perching.

He jumped up as soon as I approached. ‘Ah, master, there you are at last. I have told Superbus that you wish him to go into the city and find Eppaticus. He is waiting for your orders.’

I guessed from Junio’s tone that Superbus had not welcomed the news. He was looking more disdainful than ever, and without Junio I might have hesitated to send him on my errand after all. However, as Triumvir Pompey once famously said, the die was now cast. ‘Splendid,’ I said with a heartiness I did not feel. ‘I’d like you to find out where Eppaticus lives, at least.’

Superbus gave me a stare as though I had invited him personally to deliver those chamber pots to the weavers. ‘Citizen,’ he said, with a slight bow, ‘if those are your orders, I will do my best. Though I am not at all clear as to how I should proceed. Londinium is a very large city, and I do not know the man. I have few dealings with Celts.’

If I had been hesitating, the tone in which he pronounced the last word resolved my doubts. ‘Oh, just go out and ask a few questions in the street, Superbus. This man was a giant with an unusual hairstyle, and he galloped away from here at high speed on a horse. Someone must have noticed him. You could begin by asking the two slaves who gave chase, for instance. They must have seen at least the direction he took.’

He seemed to think about that for a moment, and then he said ponderously, ‘And perhaps I should speak to the doorkeeper too, citizen?’