Lindsey Davis - Graveyard of the Hesperides

“No, her two men were leery. She asked someone else to do it, but they messed up. After that I arrived back and said she needn’t bother.”

“Who first told you we had found the bones and made you come back? Was it Liberalis?”

She spat again. “Another idiot!”

“That bar attracts them … What happened to the children?”

Rufia admitted she took them. “They’ve grown up lovely. My boy’s an accountant for the filthy rich; the girl is a musician. Respectable-she doesn’t take her clothes off or go with the customers. She could have won a prize at the Neapolis Games, if they still held them.” They ended after Vesuvius erupted. “Of course she’s that age now-boy-mad. I gave them good lives, Flavia Albia. I made up for everything.”

“Neapolis is where you went?” I deduced.

She agreed she had settled there in a discreet property; she ran a list of very high-class prostitutes that rich men in the expensive Bay of Naples villas could order for their beach parties. Exclusive call girls. “Clean. Well-groomed. Lovely manners. Sophisticated services.”

“I suppose you are good at it?”

“The best. They love me. I take good care of them.”

Yes, that was the Rufia I had heard about.

I considered trying to arrest her-difficult on my own. She watched me weigh up options, sneering at my helplessness. “I did nothing. I killed no one. All you can ever say against me is I knew the truth but never spoke of what I saw. I shall deny that.”

I would nevertheless have passed the story to the vigiles, but she caught me with her final thrust: she was now a good mother to two young people whose lives I would destroy if they lost her. Still too young to fend for themselves in respectable ways, they would be orphans at the mercy of a sordid world. Did Rufia know my own history? That was possible, if she had been talking to the Macedonians. I had spoken to them of my own horrible childhood. I could not wish that fate on anyone else, anyone who might instead be given a normal life, as I had been.

I do think Rufia knew. Certainly at the end she must have seen it in my face. On my wedding day, with my heart full of gratitude to Falco and Helena who gave me a second chance in life, Rhodina’s innocent, living orphans had a claim that surpassed even obtaining justice for the dead. If the vigiles or anyone else worked out how Rufia was involved, she would have to take her chances. I myself would make no further move against her.

We had finished. I accepted this was as much as I would ever know.

We went out together through the decastyle gabled porch, across one enclosure to the second, where her carrying chair now stood alongside another. Poor Tiberius must have read my message. My bridegroom had sent transport to fetch me back to him.

We parted. As the splashing bearers cursed and hurried home through the wet, deserted streets, in the privacy of the carrying chair I gave way to long-ago sorrows and I wept.

People were already gathering outside the house. Everyone loves a torchlit procession with obscene jokes and songs. I was glad to see a small crowd, despite the weather. For us, making a racket on the Aventine was the whole point of today. It was just about fine still but heavily overcast and thunder growled, further along the Tiber.

I rushed in. I fled upstairs. While I was drying off as best I could and re-dressing in my bridal clothes, Tiberius came. He was cradling a wine cup. “Tiberius Manlius, dear heart, you look like a desperate man whose wife has left him.”

“During the wedding-the ignominy!”

“I am sorry.” I truly was.

“Well, you came back.” The gray eyes were quiet. “Is this how our life will be?”

“Not if I can help it … Next time you can come along.”

“I appreciate that … Well, I knew who I was marrying. When I read Prisca’s message, I saw you had no alternative. I would have followed, but I felt at least one of us ought to be here for our guests!” The reproach was muted. “Come here.” He straightened my half-dead garland, then took hold of me and kissed me, letting me know how glad he was to see me. “So did Rufia tell all?”

“Yes, except I could not persuade her to admit who carried out the killings. Forget it,” I said, holding that dear man’s face between my hands, smiling tenderly for him. “Let us go down for our procession.”

“Ready?”

“All yours, husband.”

“Hmm. I hope nothing else happens,” he replied, rather warmly.

Some of the guests had never noticed me missing. They had had all the food and drink they could take. To amuse them further during the afternoon, my father had hired the fabulous Stertinius.

“I don’t think we needed to hear him twice!” blared Antistius. He was jealous that my parents had, apparently without effort, managed to secure a private concert from this sought-after virtuoso.

Fania Faustina and Antistius must once have had a wedding like ours. Perhaps they were equally full of hope at the time-yet this week he had thought nothing of asking a Rome waitress for paid sex. For a wild moment I thought, There is no way you can know . However sure of each other Tiberius and I felt at this moment, anything could happen …

You have to have faith.

“Albiola!” murmured Tiberius, as if he knew what I was thinking.

Then he and I were swept up and put in a private room, where the fabulous Stertinius improvised on his cithara especially for us. My mother had devised this.

Close to, this time we could watch his hands, feel his emotion, hear every fine note. He played almost as if it was for his own pleasure, yet allowing us an intimate share in his skill. The music seemed to reverberate right through us, carrying us into rhapsody. For the first time that day we had private time together, sitting in silence, holding hands. Our souls emptied, then filled up with love. Stertinius was enjoying his own talent and mastery. Sometimes he tossed off shimmers of notes almost arrogantly, then he pulled back into meticulous, skillful patterns. After that he would turn to us with a half smile, deliberately serenading us as the bridal couple with his exquisite music.

When he finished we emerged, stunned, for our procession. It started to rain again. Well, of course. However, the resourceful men of my family had spent hours that afternoon making a large canopy. Supported on four poles, it would be carried over me, to protect me on my journey to my new home. They explained proudly that they had even put taller poles at the front, so when water collected on the roof it would run backward and cascade off safely behind me.

The front doors were opened just as the determined drizzle started. Gathered outside were many friends and colleagues. Some, like the victimarii, had left earlier but returned for the procession. There were Tiberius’ workmen, people I knew in Fountain Court, Rodan, our horrible porter at the Eagle Building, members of the vigiles.

Those taking part in the procession itself were bossily marshalled by my father and Uncle Petro. My cousin Marius, Maia’s son, was playing his flute. A marriage hymn was sung, rather raggedly. The bridegroom took me with a show of force from Mother’s arms (those Sabine women have so much to answer for).

“Try harder, Albia, you’re not struggling enough!”

“Oh, just take her!” cried Mother, shoving me into his grasp. I felt like a wool sack in a shepherds’ dispute.

I was led under my canopy, a dry haven. Behind me Julia Junilla Laeitana bore the damned distaff and spindle. My brother Postumus was trying to control the naughty nephews; at least they would not set anywhere on fire, not in this rain. Two of the little boys, who had been eating something sticky, took my hands, while one in front brandished the torch.