Lindsey Davis - Graveyard of the Hesperides

“So what was the problem, Trypho?”

“The dead dog, it seemed. Apparently, that one they unearthed was the grandmother of the man’s own pets. He didn’t like the story of the boot, so maybe that was it. He definitely took something I said a bit badly. He’s coming back with a price for the smashed counters today. Maybe you can soothe him,” suggested Trypho hopefully, looking at me.

So that was to be my job. I married the firm’s owner, then every time his workmen upset someone-Juno, they were builders; how often was that going to happen?-I would be the emissary they sent in. I made another mental note: our very clean Iberian kitchen maid had to be taught to bake must cake with a honey glaze, so I always had treats for peacemaking.

“How do you mean, ‘he took something a bit badly?’ What exactly am I in for, Trypho?”

“I don’t know. He seemed to grow very agitated; he said he wanted to talk to you. It’s not my fault!”

“No, I suppose it’s not. Gavius is very fond of dogs; perhaps he wants to know whose boot killed Pudgy … He could have come and found me last evening if he wanted to talk.”

“He said darkly that he wanted to think things through. When he left here, he went over the road to the Brown Toad for a drink, though I saw him leave soon afterward.”

Trypho scuttled off to sleep. He left looking guilty. Tiberius thanked me in advance for my help with Gavius, twinkling more than usual. “The woman’s touch!” he murmured, subtly satirical.

While we were waiting for the marble-seller, we had another surprise visit from our wedding planners. They had no idea of helping busy people by making an appointment.

Julia and Favonia arrived in Mother’s carrying chair, with Katutis obligingly trudging behind. Shrieking that they had something highly urgent to discuss in massive secrecy, they jumped out, grabbed me and rushed me away from Tiberius. I was told I could buy them refreshments while we talked. “We don’t have any money.” I could have guessed that. I managed to steer them past the Brown Toad, and sat them down outside the Medusa. Katutis very sensibly went on his own to the Romulus.

They stared at the Brown Toad. Antistius had described our visit. Presumably he left out the part where he tried to buy a bunk-up from the waitress and was offered Macedonian delight instead.

“How come you’ve been talking to the brother-in-law?”

“They came last night. Mother thought she ought to give them dinner.” I noted that she had kindly not invited us. “No, she said you and Tiberius needed time on your own.”

“Mother is always right.”

“That’s what she says.”

I summoned olive bowls and whatever could be provided that approximated to mint tea.

“May we have just a teensy snail shell of honey with it, if it’s not too much trouble, please?”

“And possibly might I have mine in a glass, not a cup?”

Dear gods, these two were the daughters of an informer who ran an auction house, yet they had no idea.

While we waited the long time this outrageous novelty took to prepare (the chef actually popped out to have a look at us, with a sour expression), my sisters discussed the artistic merits of the painted gorgon’s-head bar sign. Despite the stated urgency of their mission, they endlessly discussed the Medusa’s wild snake hairstyle, which reminded them we were all to have a specially hired beautician to primp us fashionably on the wedding day. Although they conceded I must take precedence, they begged to be with her first. “I know you’re the bride, of course you are, but it’s hardly worth bothering. Anything she does for you will be hidden beneath the saffron veil-”

“Hidden and flattened. Something absolutely needs to be done with Mother; she’s so hopeless with hair and she’s the matron of honor. The woman can then just fit you in. Albia darling, you do see?”

I saw. My day was really theirs.

“Tiberius will think you are gorgeous; he’ll be so surprised you turned up, he’ll be up there in heaven, slurping ambrosia on Mount Olympus.”

“Tiberius does not slurp. I wouldn’t marry a man who cannot eat nicely. Mother must have told you its importance. Otherwise, it’s the fast route to divorce because your husband is so irritating … I agreed to have this wedding. Tiberius knows I will be there.”

They wavered. My certainty was alien to these butterflies. They wanted everything to go right-yet they loved frightening themselves with pointless panic over what might go wrong.

Their refreshments came. As usual, they received exactly what they had asked for, delivered without comment. No wonder they never had any idea they were too demanding.

“So, Toodles and Floodles, what’s urgent?”

For a moment they looked blank. “Oh dear gods, Albia, it’s absolutely terrible. We have forgotten the most important thing-we have to go shopping instantly!”

“I can’t.”

“You must!”

“Why?”

“This could have been such a disaster. Listen-we still have to organize bride-and-groom presents!”

What?

“You know you and Tiberius have to give gifts to each other. Everyone will be s hocked if you don’t. What are you getting Tiberius?”

“His best present ever: me.”

“Don’t joke. We thought of an amazing thing you absolutely must give him: how about a gold torque?”

I sighed, but only to myself. In the fifteen years I had lived as one of the Didii I had become used to gifts with some perceived tribal connection. Anything British, Gallic, Belgic or German, or from anywhere the people looked goggle-eyed in their ethnic art, was deemed especially appropriate for me. Sometimes I pointed out that I wanted to forget mystic Britannia, scene of my tragic childhood. That made no difference.

My sisters were staring at me with new uncertainty. Julia had the most sensitivity. “Oh no! You don’t think Tiberius is a torque man?”

“I am sure. He is very traditional.”

“Father has a torque.”

I huffed. “It was a gift from a crazy king. Does Falco wear it? No, he has placed it around the neck of his bust of the Emperor Vespasian in his study. Don’t you remember the fuss, because the necklace got bent in the process?”

“Well what instead? We spent ages and ages thinking up that idea. It seemed so perfect.”

“Time spent in thought is never wasted, darlings … Do you know what Tiberius intends to give me?”

“He claims it is a surprise. We bet he hasn’t organized anything.”

“He will.” I would not waste energy hoping for earrings; his last gift to me was a stone bench. Exactly what I wanted at the time, and we were not even lovers then. Mind you, it was glaringly obvious we would be.

“So, what for him? Albia. Albia, Albia, choose something!”

It came to me of its own accord. When I was ill recently, while he nursed me, he had sometimes read, either to himself when I was sleeping or out loud to entertain me. Horace, he liked. I remembered parts of Juvenal. Cicero’s brother on how to win votes in elections. We were close to the Argiletum, supposed home to many scroll-sellers, which would be convenient for the purchase. “I shall give him a book.”

The girls were entranced. “ Oh-love poems! You are brilliant. That is such a good wheeze.”

“No. Favonia, settle down and listen to me. Love poetry is either about love miserably denied, or a dead spouse, or it’s too pornographic so Tiberius couldn’t show people what he received. And on the whole it’s terrible to read.”

They groaned. “So what then?”

“He likes to know everything. I shall give him Pliny’s Natural History . That purports to contain all the world’s knowledge.”