Lindsey Davis - Graveyard of the Hesperides

My father loudly said they had no room for anyone else. They did, but the three small boys were whiny and Falco prides himself on intolerance. It had been claimed the little boy in-laws were keen to meet my brother Postumus. That was before someone told their parents he had just been sent home in disgrace after a foray into the Circus of Gaius and Nero while in the custody of his birth mother, a snake dancer. His visit had ended abruptly when he involved himself in the escape of a lion, a fire, an accidental death, financial strife and several divorces. He was a lonesome child, who liked adventures.

Our side made jokey comparisons between the ancient Theater of Marcellus, the concert venue, and the circus that Postumus had supposedly burned down. Postumus maintained it had only been a little fire and was all the lion’s fault. Fania Faustina and Antistius expressed alarm, while we all smiled mysteriously.

My weird little brother was to be in charge of their precious boys in my bridal procession. They would carry flaming torches, a tradition that could so easily go wrong. Postumus assessed his proposed team with cold unfathomable eyes. That was how he looked at everyone, though the Antistii seemed worried that their innocent heirs were being consigned to a maniacal tyrant. They missed the point. My brother, who was twelve but had grand ideas, believed the wedding was for his personal glory. He intended to run the torchlit walk smoothly, to reflect well on him. If the three whiners failed to meet his standards, they were out.

Plectrum-wielding intervened, thank you divine Apollo of the golden hair and lovely sandals.

The cithara music was amazingly beautiful and transporting, or so said the commentator who introduced the repertoire. Many of the audience did assume attitudes of being carried away by rapture. Not our lot. Most were still muttering in undertones, unaware that the concert had started.

I smiled at Tiberius. He smiled at me.

Gazing up at the theater’s fine architecture as announcers told us we would be treated to the poignant Phrygian and mournful Hypodorian modes, I drifted into my own reverie. My relatives settled down, after other members of the audience clucked reproaches.

We were in one of the largest theaters in the world, at least it had been until the Emperor Vespasian created the Flavian Amphitheater to outshine them all. Coolly clad in travertine, it had ancient grandeur, with elegant arches on each of three classic pillared tiers and its upper level decorated with huge marble theater masks. The building was fitted with the usual ramps and tunnels that enabled spectators to leave the theater rapidly, though of course one was expected to remain in one’s seat during the performance or be deemed a barbarian. The stone seats were surprisingly comfortable, especially if you had the forethought to bring a cushion.

Vespasian had restored the stage, which had been damaged in the civil war that brought him to power. The stage fronted the river; our seats were a long way from it. We were right at the top, which was why we could be seated men and women together, because the Antistii had inadvertently bought tickets for the women’s and slaves’ tier. For an intimate musical evening to hear a delicate instrument, this was not good. We could never see the player’s skillful hands, and despite generally excellent acoustics, we could not hear even the manly and stirring Dorian mode that is supposed to inspire soldiers going into battle.

I don’t think so. How can an army be fired up by the gentle twiddles of a one-man harp? Have no musicologists ever seen, let alone heard, the racket of a legion marching?

The cithara maestro’s hands slithered on his seven strings-or more than seven when he deftly changed instruments to demonstrate what a sterling virtuoso he was. I thought I liked music, but I had never been trained to understand it. Although my father inherited a panpipes player from Grandpa, we rarely had other instruments or singing in our house. We dealt in ideas, expressed with words. That could be colorful enough. Grandpa’s panpipes player ran away, feeling unappreciated.

Struggling to hear the faint and far-off beauteous improvisations gave me plenty of time to reflect. Ignoring my relatives, both old and new, I realized I was seeing another aspect of Rome from the street life around the Ten Traders. Here we had monumental imperial architecture, refined entertainment, a boisterous family group on the eve of a wedding. We were well-fed, well-off people enjoying a leisure experience, or at least enjoying it in theory. Our young were full of hope and privilege. Our old were cared for and brought among us, even those who made it plain they would rather be somewhere else, sipping gruel.

Stertinius received loud applause, which woke up anyone who had dozed off. At the interval Aunt Valeria admitted she was tone-deaf; also, the three little boys were bored, so they all went home. Tiberius was obliged to go down and help find them transport. Luckily litter-bearers do form a queue outside at the midway point of concerts because they know there will always be people who have had enough. Even the fabulous Stertinius could not please everyone.

Those of our party who lacked an excuse to leave were able to spread ourselves on the narrow upper-tier seats. Antistius tried to get to sit with my sisters, but Father deftly outmaneuvered him, claiming this was a rare opportunity for a fond old papa to enjoy the company of his girls. Julia and Favonia rolled their eyes, but knew exactly what their watchful parent was doing.

My mother closed her eyes and seemed to pay close attention to the gorgeous cithara. She had wrapped an affectionate arm around Postumus, which stopped him getting up and wandering off, as he liked to do. I watched how Helena Justina handled this whole stressful situation. With a vague smile, Mother let chaos carry on, provided there was no bloodshed or hysteria-or not too much. She was a good wife and mother but would not be overwhelmed by others’ clamorous demands; she subtly detached herself mentally. Helena led her chosen life. I made a note to do the same.

My father saw me observing her so thoughtfully. As was our habit, I winked at him before he could get in first and wink at me. Tiberius noticed that.

The fabulous Stertinius treated us to a lengthy set in sensual Hypolydian. Good little bride that I was, for the benefit of my in-laws, I managed to appear entranced.

28 August

Five days before the Kalends of September (a.d. V Kal. Sept.)

Three days before the wedding of Tiberius Manlius Faustus and Flavia Albia

Tiberius and I scuttled off from the concert, claiming we had to rush back to the Garden of the Hesperides. I had gone to the Aventine before the concert to tell him of the damage and to pick up a formal outfit from my apartment. I would have seen for myself the famous newly painted front doors, but a protective cover hid the porch. I never saw inside the house either; I could not concentrate on frescoes. Later, I warned myself that many a new wife has a bad shock on discovering her man’s taste in art.

At the end of the evening, before our relatives could suggest following the concert with a getting-to-know-you nightcap, we floated our “Hesperides emergency” excuse, and then, unknown to anyone else, we fled up the Aventine and stayed at Fountain Court that night.

“I know my brother-in-law quite well enough already!” grouched Tiberius. He realized I too had had enough of Antistius. Our agreeing over such idiots reminded me of my parents. They would put on a polite face in public, then later see who could devise the most killing insults. I would have started to teach Tiberius to play that game, but so far I was pretending to be a sweet wife, the peacemaker in our home.