Lindsey Davis - Enemies at Home

He ambled off, but that was because I added sharply, ‘Get lost, Cosmus!’

Simplicia dropped onto a stool and momentarily covered her face with her hands as if things were all too much.

I sat down with her. ‘Do you mind if we talk?’

Simplicia raised her head, rocking the cradle absent-mindedly with one narrow foot, perhaps unconsciously reclaiming the heirloom. I said what I wanted to ask was delicate and I particularly hoped to spare her mother. That gave the daughter an excuse to speak frankly, if she needed one.

‘Can you tell me about your father’s relationship with Myla?’

Her mouth tightened and she gazed fixedly at a pot on the hearth. ‘She was there, she was available, he slept with her.’ Her voice was tight; it obviously rankled. I waited. ‘There was never anything to it, other than he was the master and she was his slave.’

I reassured her quietly. ‘This happens everywhere.’ As the young woman remained frowning and silent, I went on, ‘I am not condoning it, but men who own slaves, and women too, presume that is what the slaves are there for. A condition of slavery is to be used for sexual purposes. Masters have the right to do it. Slaves have no right to say no.’

Simplicia relaxed, heaving a large sigh. ‘She accepted it. My father was head of the household so she thought it made her better than the rest.’

‘He only slept with Myla?’

‘He was a man of habit.’

‘Excuse me if this is painful, but did it have any bearing on why your parents divorced all those years ago?’

‘None at all. My mother would not have stood for it, but that is irrelevant, Flavia Albia. It happened later.’

I nodded. I could see the situation. Aviola liked things easy. Set up a routine, so he did not have to think about it: answered his correspondence, ate his supper, had intercourse with his usual slave. All matter-of-fact, because he was the master and he owned the slave to provide whatever he needed: offer a napkin, hand him ripe fruit, lie down on her back — or her front, or stand up, or kneel for him. He did not even bother to go out and buy someone beautiful or skilled in exotic practices. He used the house girl.

It was more than possible his father had used Myla’s mother the same way.

So, when he wanted relief, Valerius Aviola called Myla in, screwed her, then dismissed her. He wouldn’t have made conversation. He would dislike her offering endearments. If she was moody because of her period, he could give her a slap if he wanted. When she was too pregnant, he could go out and have himself professionally serviced, then he could openly complain about the cost.

It makes you wonder why anybody gets married. The man never had to remember her birthday or listen to her endlessly dissecting what some inane friend of hers said yesterday.

To spare Simplicia, I myself established basic facts: Aviola and Galla were divorced for many years. After they split, he started to sleep with Myla. It was a regular occurrence and she bore him children. He did not formally acknowledge the children. They were sold elsewhere while young. Myla had said she had borne ‘several’ and they were now ‘gone’. Then one day Aviola chose to remarry. It had no implications for him, but was bound to affect her. Superfluous, she lost her special position. She was supposed to return to being a bowl-bringer and pot-watcher.

I decided not to offend Simplicia by trying to probe what kind of person her father was. Hardly the worst sexual predator. People he knew spoke of Mucia and him as a likeable couple. He must have possessed some charm. Mucia wanted the full joys of marriage with him.

I reckoned that his ex-wife and children knew what went on but were able to ignore it. Whenever the children saw him, he may have been discreet. But it was his right. They too had to put up with it. From his point of view it was perfectly acceptable, much better than, say, adultery with someone they knew socially. Sex with a slave did not count.

For Myla it did count but who cared about that?

‘Inevitably your father’s new marriage meant change. You said your mother would not have permitted a liaison − nor would Mucia Lucilia, I imagine. Your mother and Mucia had been friends; I imagine they were women of a like mind. We can say, when your father married, Myla had no further use and was a menace to his new wife?’

‘Exactly!’

‘But Myla would not accept her demotion?’

‘She was being very difficult.’ That would be the problem a wife had to address. She could not have a slave undermining her position. A slave who made demands or harboured expectations. Mucia Lucilia may have been surreptitious with her redecoration plans in the apartment, but for her Myla had to go. Hermes, Mucia’s freedman, claimed she was always diplomatic, but I wondered.

‘Mucia Lucilia saw what had been going on.’ I wondered if Galla even warned her about it. ‘Mucia was no meek young bride, but a woman who knew she had to pre-empt trouble. She insisted that Myla be sold? I am guessing your father agreed, yet found it hard to tell Myla? I expect he wanted Polycarpus to break the bad news.’

‘No.’ Simplicia was quiet. ‘He told her. My father had made it plain to Myla what was to happen.’

You could see that as decent honesty — or a cold attitude.

‘Did Myla believe him?’

‘Not really. The woman is impossible … Yes, Flavia Albia, she was upset. We all knew that, and we are not vicious; we understood. She was verna, born to a slave of ours long ago; she had never been anywhere else and was terrified. I do not blame her feelings, yet she should have seen the position, her own position, my father’s, my new stepmother’s. If she had behaved modestly, shown she was willing to carry out her duties as a general maid, it might have been feasible to keep her in one of our houses. Instead, she was rude, she was belligerent-’

‘And she was carrying another child,’ I said. ‘Did your father, more than reasonably some would say, agree nothing should happen until this baby was born?’

‘He was a decent man.’ His daughter fought a sudden rush of tears.

She was a decent girl — even though she had just evicted her baby half-sister from the family cradle for having the bad fortune to be born to a slave.

A change in the activity out in the courtyard signalled that people were leaving. Simplicia stood up and went to rejoin her relatives. She said no farewell to me, simply inclined her head and walked out. In a way, this chit of nineteen treated me with less respect than she gave her father’s slave.

It was a familiar experience. I might be a free citizen, a widow and ten years her senior, but I worked. For many people that put me down at the level of bar staff and public entertainers. To girls like Simplicia, I was practically illegal.

I, too, returned to the courtyard. Most people had gone and the last stragglers were disappearing. Gratus had everything swept up, put away, taken out to a mule in no time. His staff carried off food hampers and baskets of tableware. He came and said goodbye to me.

‘These were here — shall I leave them out or put them indoors?’

He meant the two chairs. I said he could leave them. I had lost any sense of responsibility towards this apartment and its contents. ‘You are very observant, Gratus. The ungrateful Simplicii don’t deserve you. If I can think of anyone I know who needs a good steward, I shall put in a word on your behalf.’

I could try leaning on my parents; they collected waifs, though they probably had enough already. Another possibility might be Manlius Faustus, though his uncle, who ran their household, was a slightly unknown quantity. Uncle Tullius had bought Dromo, for one thing.