Lindsey Davis - Enemies at Home

In theory it was four members, but I knew I was the only person here who gave a thought to the battered door porter.

There were grand tombs in this necropolis, though we had gathered by a simpler brick and tile tomb. The ashes were deposited in an urn in a multiple columbarium where the remains of Aviola and his bride already stood in a cubbyhole, among flowers that had only half withered since they were placed there as offerings. At one point, I noticed that Valerius Simplicianus stood alone in front of the larger, more expensive urn that contained his father’s ashes; he raised his hands, praying quietly. If he had been away in Campania with his mother, he must have missed his father’s funeral. I was pleased to see that even an effete playboy could honour his father. His mother noticed too; Galla turned away, hiding her face in her stole, as if even she was surprised and moved to tears.

Graecina announced she had ordered a large inscription for Polycarpus. She insisted on reciting everything it would say (it was currently with the stone-cutter) and describing alternative wordings that she had considered. She was losing her grip on her emotions. As she laboured, Galla Simplicia went up and hugged her, to rescue the situation. Unable to continue, the widow broke down in floods of tears. Galla’s younger daughter and I distracted the two little children; they came to us willingly then simply clung to our skirts in misery.

While we all waited, I gazed around the wider scene. Bodies cannot be buried inside the city boundary, so you always have that contrast between the tragic intimacy of the funeral and normal life as it continues nearby. The Via Praenestina was a busy road. As we gathered, many travellers passed on the highway, some on foot, some riding mules or donkeys. Some gawped, yet others seemed quite unaware of what we were doing. Commercial carts were already starting to gather, waiting to be let into Rome when the wheeled vehicle curfew lifted that evening. Occasionally, drivers jumped down to stretch their legs, staring at us curiously. One even relieved himself in full view during the oration.

The necropolis was as mixed as they always are, with grandiose monuments for millionaire families lining the main road, but humbler tombs packed in among them. And because people liked to live in the countryside, yet as close as possible to the city for convenience, there were the usual villas backing up against the tombs, built so close they were almost part of the cemetery. They were handsome, spacious places, some no doubt owned by imperial freedmen and women, or simply homes to people who wanted a pleasant rural situation, with guaranteed quiet neighbours.

I knew that when the Gardens of Maecenas were first created, bodies from the old graveyard had been dug up and reburied here. Broken into higgledy-piggledy pieces by inconsiderate workmen, those long dead bones would have worried me if I lived here. But people can overlook a lot, to gain covetable property.

Eventually Graecina stopped weeping, exhausted. Her considerate patroness released her, mopped her up, then invited us all to light refreshments back at the apartment.

The two chairs in the garden courtyard had been joined by more. I was starting to feel obsessed by whether anyone would ever put any of this seating away again. With Polycarpus gone, who was there to insist on it?

In a room off one of the porticos stood tables with a buffet. It was informal; if Graecina followed tradition (if she could afford to), there would be a proper feast on the ninth day. Tonight, people took up their own bowls then servers helped them to their choice from grand platters. Light, fragrant food was provided, substantial enough for anyone who was hungry after several hours at the cremation (me, for instance) but not too heavy for mourners who were suffering emotionally. When you grieve, it is so easy to get heartburn.

It was all organised by Sextus Simplicius’ steward, the competent Gratus. Nobody seemed to realise the irony that Polycarpus had been on the verge of losing his own position to the absent Onesimus, and of supplanting this same pleasant Gratus.

His presence as supervisor, bringing staff from the Simplicius home, made me ponder. When the mourners had been served and he could relax, I approached and asked quietly, ‘Gratus, tell me: was it your staff that Aviola and Mucia borrowed for their dinner on the night they died?’

He confirmed it — and he had been on the premises with them, just as he was here today. Even though Polycarpus was in overall charge, Gratus never let their slaves go out to another house without being in attendance too. ‘Just in case.’

I drew him aside, to another portico. No one could overhear. I had a bowl in one hand and kept nibbling, so it looked as if our conversation was casual. ‘I wish I had asked you before. Will you tell me anything you remember about that evening?’

Gratus kept an eye on his staff, but he was nevertheless accommodating to me. He was taller and more refined in looks than Polycarpus, with a tanned Italian face: deep cheek creases, eyebrows that crooked in an upturned ‘v’, and a small gap between his front teeth. The slaves were in the usual plain material and neutral colours, but he wore a finer white tunic, with narrow over-the-shoulder braid in red.

He told me it had been a normal early supper. His master Simplicius had attended, together with the other man Aviola had chosen as an executor.

‘Galla would not have been invited,’ I speculated. ‘Even when couples have been divorced on what they claim are “amicable terms”, that’s fake. It is a rare second marriage where the new bride plays hostess to her predecessor — well, not unless the new one wants to gloat that she is already expecting triplets and has really superb wedding presents to show off … Galla was in Campania anyway, tightening her grip on that splendid villa.’

I was watching Galla’s daughter, Simplicia. She had been indoors and found a box of old toys, with which she was amusing Graecina’s children, kneeling down on the ground with them like a friendly aunt. I heard her say they could play with all the toys now, and choose one thing each to keep. This worked magically. Each child grabbed its favourite at once, though the boy looked as if he might risk trying for two.

Gratus saw me looking. ‘Nice girl. The best of the family.’

‘Close to her father?’ After her brother had prayed at the tomb, I had seen this one touch the urn surreptitiously, as if she could not bear it but wanted to show Aviola her remembrance.

‘More than the other two. She was only a toddler at the time of the divorce; he seemed to want to make up to her, and always favoured her a little.’

‘Gratus, I have the impression Aviola’s children stayed in Campania with their mother. Were they not invited to their father’s wedding?’

‘I believe they were invited, but Galla was difficult. Aviola wanted her out of the villa, so she punished him by withholding his son. Valerius did not come. Aviola kept grumbling about it bitterly. Even the day he died he was still upset. Mucia Lucilia was trying to look understanding, but it had made her twitchy.’

I scoffed. ‘If Galla really was anxious about Aviola changing towards the children, this was surely a bad move on her part. What about the girls?’

‘The daughters, being married women, were in Rome. They did come to the wedding ceremony, bringing their husbands, and also attended the feast immediately afterwards. The farewell party on the second night was a meal for special friends.’

‘Aviola’s friends? What about Mucia’s?’

‘In fact they had most of their friends in common. They were both part of a circle of people who had known each other and socialised for a long time.’