Lindsey Davis - Graveyard of the Hesperides

“Hawthorn, I hope?”

“No, oleander. Closest we could find.”

Tiberius set off first. I felt a momentary pang, not wanting to be parted from him. He was distributing to the crowd nuts, sweetmeats and sesame cakes, which Dromo had in a sack on his handcart. Dromo, I heard afterward, kept back as many cakes as possible, which he then hoarded.

I too began walking, amidst cheers and wild laughter. Walking fast at first, because everyone wanted to get out of the rain. Soon slowing as I had to climb the steep stairs to the Aventine summit.

Along the route, rude songs called the Fescennine verses were sung; they would have been much ruder if anybody had known the words. Improvising feebly, the crowd also shouted the ancient marriage cry, or since it is “obscure,” they simply shouted. Once up the hill, I dutifully dropped a coin as an offering to the crossroad gods, if they could ever find it in that enormous puddle.

The Aventine is extremely steep, especially on the cliff side. You just try it, wearing a very long, soaking wet skirt and new saffron shoes you are trying to keep out of puddles. After we climbed the Stairs of Cassius, we turned past the Temple of Juno the Queen (hail, goddess of matrimony). That took us in a detour down the Street of the Armilustrium, until we passed around the back of the Temple of Liberty and into the Vicus Altus, by definition a high point on the hill. We came out in Lesser Laurel Street, turning left briefly so we could make a show at the Temple of Ceres.

There, others of the aedilate had assembled to cheer on their colleague. I was breathless, though my mood remained buoyant as I saw Laia Gratiana, my austere predecessor, standing on the steps of the temple, where she ran a religious cult. “Wave to the lady!” My small attendants stuck their tongues out. I blew her a kiss; we were all girls together now-officially the two wives of Manlius Faustus.

As we turned about in front of the temple, thunder was approaching Rome, rolling downriver, while the rain began beating down harder. I kept walking valiantly until older members of the party demanded a breather. Everyone had hair plastered to their heads, including my sisters and Aunt Valeria, whose pin curls had all unwound.

Even my canopy started leaking. Waiting impatiently, with water running off my garland’s herbs and down my neck, I chatted to the workmen who had volunteered to bear the canopy poles. I grinned at the night watchman. “You look a bit sick, Trypho. Too many titbits?”

“I’m just thinking what a narrow escape I had when the site got busted. He could have cut my throat.”

Shaking water off my saffron veil, I wrenched back my concentration. “Who could?”

“That one in the crowd over there. One of the fellows who sacrificed your sheep. That Erastus.”

Well, thank you, gods.

There I was, with my two midget attendants guarding me like jailers, all eyes upon me. White tunic, flame-colored veil, saffron shoes, drooping headdress. At last the truth came to me, but I was stuck

Horrified, I looked at them. They looked at me. They were no longer perfect: Erastus must have used the transvestites’ skin potion that morning to cover up his birthmark, plus serious bruises and a black eye; now the rain had washed off his disguise, letting Trypho recognize him.

Erastus regularly used knives. All of them used knives. They were allowed to take them everywhere. They were experts in the quiet kill. Quick and slick … So that was it. These were “the boys” Old Thales, or more likely Rufia, commissioned to kill the Egyptians. Locals, younger then but up for anything, open to cash offers for their specialist skills. Costus owned a farm- “Sent it to a farm. The pigs ate it…” He had not come to the wedding; did he realize the game was up? Had he gone on the run? Or was he innocent but now realized how his men had gone moonlighting ten years ago? The three victimarii had slit the throats of Julius Ptolomais and his four colleagues, presumably Rhodina’s as well.

And Erastus must have killed Gavius. Erastus was one of Prisca’s grandchildren, a cousin of Gavius. If Erastus knocked, Gavius would let him in, as one of the family.

They saw that I had realized. They started to move away from us. Surreptitiously, then faster.

There was nothing I could do. Someone else would have to hunt them down, later. I would not abandon my bridegroom a second time. He was tolerant, but a wise wife knows not to push too hard. Ahead of me, Tiberius reappeared, coming back to see what had delayed the procession. I had seen him set off, the happiest participant, waving, smiling, tossing his nuts and cakes to people, showing the world he was my proud, joyful new husband. He was looking toward me in inquiry. Somehow I shook off a clinging child and waved, frantically pointing at the victimarii. He understood. He began running toward them.

Lightning flashed around the Aventine tops, almost simultaneously with the thunder. Then, the sky burst with the loudest roar I have ever heard. Rain poured down on us. As a full storm broke right above our heads, a huge flash lit the streets on the heights.

At the corner of the Vicus Altus, the three victimarii were caught in the open, helpless. Tiberius was very close to them. The lightning struck earth right where they were. I covered my face, but looked again at once to see four bodies lying on the ground.

When my first husband died in an accident, I was alone at home. At least at your wedding your whole family is there to swoop in and hold you. “Don’t worry, pet. Father and Petro are going. No, Albia, stay here.” No use. I was running, running to him.

My father raised an arm. One of the prone bodies moved. Tiberius was still alive. He was being stood up, bolstered, sent back to lead the procession. Despite their differences, his uncle Tullius was there, one arm around him, virtually dragging him along. Marius ran to help. Tiberius looked completely confused, unaware of his surroundings, unsure what was happening.

Uncle Petro stopped me. “Later. People are with the lad. Don’t look at these, don’t upset yourself.” The culprits were already dead. Petro was conducting checks, but his head kept shaking. Their knives drew the heat, Father told me afterward; they died of burns.

I congratulated my uncle quickly: “You can be proud. Those men killed the missing Egyptians you were asked to trace in the year of the Amphitheater. Your scroll provided names.”

He was thrilled. “Go on now. Enjoy your procession. You’re a good girl, Falco’s eldest, and your fellow is not bad at all. He’s just a bit singed. You and he deserve a decent bash. Only you could arrange one with three people going up in smoke…” Agreed. Only me. Three dead. Bridegroom struck by lightning. We would never live it down.

“You go on, girl.”

So, under my canopy, I set off once more for my new home.

When we reached Lesser Laurel Street, I saw that our porch, once propped up on scaffold poles, had been reinstated and handsomely painted in shades of cream and dark red, with wonderful paneling and trellised woodwork, beautiful mock-marble pillars. I had been warned that indoors still had bare plaster, but the elegant front doors were an indication of the lifestyle Tiberius was intending for us. I was now desperate to see him.

The doors were flung open to greet me. Bemused and in shock, held upright between his uncle and my cousin, Tiberius anxiously tried to welcome me. I shushed him as I wound the smart doorposts with bands of wool, a supposed symbol of my future household occupation. I quickly anointed the door with oil and fat, emblems of plenty, wincing at the mess on the new paint. Petro and Father turned up in time to carry me in carefully, using a vigiles’ lift, while Julia and Favonia grabbed my feet to make sure I did not accidentally kick a doorpost; we had to avoid any bad omen such as a slip of the foot.