This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, companies,
institutions, organizations, or incidents is entirely coincidental.

The interior design and the cover design of this book are intended for and limited to the publisher’s first print edition of the book and related marketing display purposes. All
other use of those designs without the publisher’s permission is prohibited.

Copyright © 2017 by Albert A. Bell, Jr.
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 987-1-56474-809-6

A Perseverance Press Book
Published by John Daniel & Company
A division of Daniel & Daniel, Publishers, Inc.
Post Office Box 2790
McKinleyville, California 95519
www.danielpublishing.com/perseverance

Distributed by SCB Distributors (800) 729-6423

Book design: Eric Larson, Studio E Books, Santa Barbara
www.studio-e-books.com

Cover painting: “Fortune’s Fool” © by Chi Meredith
Egg tempera on panel
www.sites.google.com/site/meredithchiartist

library of congress cataloging-in-publication data
Names: Bell, Albert A., 1945- author.
Title: Fortune’s fool : a sixth case from the notebooks of Pliny the Younger / by Albert A. Bell, Jr.
Description: McKinleyville, California : John Daniel & Company, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016046131 | ISBN [first printed edition]9781564745873 (pbk. : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Pliny, the Younger—Fiction. | Tacitus, Cornelius—Fiction. | Family secrets—Rome—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Historical fiction. | Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3552.E485 F68 2017 | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016046131

Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

Epilogue

Cast of Characters

Glossary of Terms

Author’s Note

About the Author

I

Fortune makes fools of those she favors too much.

—Horace

You’re going to make me get married?” My servant Aurora, usually so gentle with horses, drew hers to such an abrupt stop that he stumbled. She jerked the reins and turned him to face me. “Why?”

We were out for a ride along the shore of Lake Comum, at the foot of the Alps. My mother had asked me to bring my familia here, to the smallest of my villas, one which I inherited from my natural father. We hadn’t been here in several years, and I knew she thought she was coming to see, for one last time, the place where she began her married life and to say good-bye to people she has known most of her life. She appears to be in good health, but the disease that I’m not supposed to know she has—a karkinos in her breast—is a death sentence, whether it takes a few months or a couple of years to be carried out. My great fear is that she might have come back here to end her life where it began.

This was where I was born and lived until my father died, when I was quite young. The house sits on a small rise on the peninsula ten miles north of the town of Comum, giving it an unequaled view down the length of the narrow lake and up into the mountains. At this time of year, on a perfect morning in mid-July, no place in Italy is cooler or more lush. Aurora had been quiet, as though she had something on her mind.

“Answer me, Gaius. Why are you making me get married?” Aurora gripped the long reins tightly, as though she was thinking about slapping me with them.

My horse whinnied and shook his head as I reined him in. He had been fighting me for control since we rode out of the stable. “Livia says I have to. I’ve put her off for several months, but she’s given me an ultimatum. Her exact words were, ‘Either have that girl married before I come to Comum or get rid of her.’”

“‘That girl’? Does she even know my name?”

“I assure you, she knows it well enough to curse it.”

“And you feel you have to do everything Livia tells you to?” She put a defiant hand on her hip.

“She is my wife.”

Aurora snorted derisively. “We both know what that means.”

“It means nothing except that I have to keep peace with her, for your sake as well as mine.”

“Gaius, why don’t you just divorce her?” The pain she showed on her face was as profound as what I felt. “You only married her to please your mother. You don’t love her and she doesn’t love you. When you got married she seemed to accept our relationship, as long as we didn’t flaunt it.”

“She seems to feel that I am doing exactly that.”

“How?”

I patted my horse’s neck, trying to calm him, the way I’ve seen Aurora settle an animal down. My touch had little effect, but then I know how different—how wonderful—it feels to have her hands on any part of one’s body. Something magical passes through those hands into whatever she’s touching. “You have to understand. We’ve been married for barely six months. If I were to embarrass her by divorcing her like that, there’s no telling what sort of revenge she would—”

“Do you still think she killed her first husband?”

Fortunately there was no one in sight at the moment. Still, careless words have an uncanny knack for worming themselves into the wrong ears. “Be careful what you say. I have no way of knowing what happened to the man, but nothing would surprise me, given the fits of rage I’ve seen from her. At the very least I’m sure Livia would spread stories about us—you and me—and cause my mother great distress. That I will not allow, so I cannot divorce her, at least as long as my mother is alive.”

“You know I could never wish her death.” Aurora’s face darkened. As beautiful as she is—with her olive complexion, long brown hair, and dark eyes—she can also be alarming when she gets angry. I think it’s her Punic heritage, the visage that enabled Hannibal to terrify us Romans for nearly twenty years. “Gaius, you’re a brave man. I’ve seen you stand up to all kinds of danger. And yet you cower before these two women like a…”

“I believe ‘coward’ is the word you’re searching for. Or perhaps ‘craven coward,’ just for the alliteration. I truly would rather face a man with a sword in his hand. Then I could judge what my opponent was capable of and have some idea of how to counter his blows. I once saw a fox gnaw off one of its legs to get out of a trap. In the last few months I have come to understand that degree of desperation.”

Aurora let out a long breath. “So I’m to be sacrificed, like Iphigenia on the altar at Aulis. Why now?”

“Livia and her mother are coming up here. They’ll arrive in a day or two.”

“Oh, wonderful!” She threw her head back, as if raising a protest to the gods, or looking to be whisked away, the way some versions of the story say Iphigenia was, to be replaced by a deer. “This was such a pleasant holiday. I should have known it was too good to last.”

Her reaction was precisely why I had decided to break this news to her while we were away from the house. There was no way to make it sound good. She was right. We had been enjoying ourselves for the last five days. My friend Tacitus and his wife, Julia, had come up with us, stopping over for a few days on their way to Tacitus’ estate in Transalpine Gaul. They know the nature of my relationship with Aurora and are happy with it, so we can all relax and enjoy one another’s company, as long as my mother isn’t in the room.

At times Julia even seems to forget that Aurora is a slave. They sit in the garden, talking and laughing with their heads together, like the women in a Tanagra figurine. Julia isn’t as well-educated as Aurora—not even as intelligent, I suspect—but the experience of losing a child before birth almost two years ago has given her a different type of wisdom and maturity to complement her lively personality. If I were to let myself, I could imagine what it would be like to be married to Aurora and have Tacitus and Julia as our closest friends.

But I can’t let myself.

Clicking her tongue, Aurora tapped her horse’s sides with her heels and we resumed our ride, now turning back to the villa. I wasn’t ready to go back, but it was clearly futile to hope for any more pleasant conversation today, or some time alone in the woods. I hadn’t really expected any intimacy, knowing what I had to tell her. She looked out over the deep blue of the lake and the houses lining the opposite shore. Without turning back to me, she said, “So, who is to be my husband? He won’t be a happy man. I’ll guarantee you that, and I doubt you will be, either.”

I reached over and put a hand on her arm. “Please, let me explain. I’ve got the perfect solution to this problem.”

“Perfect” might have been too optimistic a word, but I did believe I had found an answer to our dilemma that would satisfy Livia and not impose too great a burden on Aurora.

I’ve never admitted to Livia that I’ve coupled with Aurora, but I’ve never denied it. She hasn’t asked, just assumed, correctly. Merely to satisfy Livia, I wasn’t going to marry Aurora to some young, virile man in my household. But, if I married her to my oldest, doddering, gray-haired slave, Livia would see through the subterfuge at once. Although our own marriage might be a sexless sham, at her insistence, she would never let me get away with putting Aurora into a similar relationship.

“Which of us should be wearing the Tyche ring now?” Aurora asked. When we were children we had found the ring—bearing an image of the goddess Tyche, or Fortune—in a cave near my house at Laurentum. Now we passed it back and forth between us, depending on who most needed the luck it was supposed to represent. At the moment it was on a leather strap around my neck.

“I think I’m going to need a good deal more fortune than you are over the next couple of days.”

“Don’t let Livia get her hands on the strap. She might strangle you with it. No, wait, a blow on the head is more her style, isn’t it?”

“I wish you would stop talking like that. There’s no evidence she did anything to her first husband.”

“But you think she did.”

I couldn’t deny that, and I couldn’t squelch my fear that she might harm Aurora, so we rode in silence for a while. We arrived back at the villa as several people were stepping out of a raeda.

“You said Livia wasn’t due to arrive for a couple of days,” Aurora said, not trying in the least to suppress her annoyance.

“That’s not Livia. Come and meet your husband.”

* * *

The people getting out of the raeda were servants from my estate in Tuscany. I had ordered several of them—three men and four women—to be moved up here permanently. And the moves were justified. This house at Comum, I now realized, was not being run efficiently. The income was adequate, but I didn’t understand why it wasn’t making more money. I had paid too little attention to it, and the familia here had gotten lazy. I thought these people from Tuscany had talents that would inject life into this place, but there was one man for whom I had a special assignment.

“Ooh, I hope it’s him,” Aurora said, pointing to a tall, blond Gallic fellow who was helping one of the young women down from the raeda. His name was Brennus, and I had brought him here to oversee the vines and wine-making on the estate. He had a most remarkable nose.

“I thought you were angry about this.”

Aurora gave me a mock-serious expression. “Well, if I’m to be forced to bed down with some man I don’t know, maybe I should make the most of my chance. You can think about that while you’re not doing whatever it is you don’t do with your wife.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” I said as we dismounted. “Or your gown either.”

Her shoulders sagged. “I was only teasing, Gaius. You don’t have to talk to me like I’m some whore.”

“I’m sorry,” I said in little more than a whisper, hiding my face against my horse’s shoulder. “I’m truly sorry. I hate having to do this. I hate being married to Livia. I hate that my mother is dying. And, most of all, I hate that I can’t be with you.”

Aurora stepped closer. The anguish and the love on her face told me that she wanted to embrace me, and I wanted her to, but it couldn’t happen, not with all those people around.

“My lord,” my scribe Phineas said, drawing closer to us and raising a hand to interrupt us, “these are the people you sent for.”

“You’ve made good time to get here early in the afternoon.”

“Last night we stayed with your friend Caninius Rufus, my lord, as you suggested we do. I pushed us yesterday so we wouldn’t have too many miles today. Caninius was most gracious and sent you this.” Phineas handed me a sealed note.

“It is still a bit of a trek from his house.” I had brought Phineas with me on this trip because this house doesn’t have a scribe of his caliber and also to accompany his mother, Naomi, my mother’s most valued companion. In spite of his youth—he’s only a couple of years older than I am—I had placed him in charge of the trip to Tuscany because I knew I could trust him with any task.

“Thank you, Phineas. Please get the others settled and send Felix to my room.”

“Certainly, my lord. Will you need anything else?”

“No. You can get back to sorting those papers in the library.”

“Yes, my lord.” He started toward the house, obviously happier to be set to a task involving ink and papyrus, especially old papyrus. The small library on this estate has been neglected for years, and the estate’s elderly scribe had recently died. I had assigned Phineas the task of getting the library in order and picking out someone who could be trusted to maintain it.

I turned to Aurora. “You need to find something to do until I send for you. Put on a nice gown and that necklace of your mother’s that looks so good on you.”

“I thought I was about to meet my husband.”

“I need to talk to him first. He doesn’t know yet that he’s going to be your husband.”

* * *

Felix had lived on my uncle’s estate in Tuscany since before I was born. I knew little about him because he made himself so inconspicuous. Although he was about fifty, he looked younger, with barely any gray in his hair. The only sign of his age was that he had begun to gain weight in recent years. Working under the steward in the house, his primary responsibility was to keep track of our food and other household supplies and to procure things as needed. I knew he had done one other important task for my uncle. That was why I had chosen him to play the role of Aurora’s husband.

He knocked on my door and I told him to enter. “Close the door behind you.” I wished I could leave the door open. The rooms in this old-fashioned house are particularly small. It makes them easier to heat in winter, which is colder here than in Rome, but oppressive to someone, like me, who dislikes confined spaces. The frescoes were done in a dark, heavy style, popular some years ago, which only added to the gloom.

“Yes, my lord.” He was tentative, uncertain, as he had every right to be, looking around as though trying to comprehend where he was and why he was here. A slave who has served as long and as well as Felix has in one position would not be summarily moved somewhere else without a serious reason.

“Welcome to Comum,” I said, remaining seated at my writing table, crammed into a corner of the room.

“Thank you, my lord, but, if I may be so bold as to ask…why am I…here?” His intonation on the word “here” made clear his instant dislike for the place. I could sympathize. This villa was older and much smaller than the one in Tuscany. Because I seldom come here, I haven’t spent any money on updating or remodeling it. Even though I was born here and am fond of the area, the house itself doesn’t appeal to me the way several of my other estates do. In fact, it has an ominous feel to it, like the story I’ve heard of a house in Athens that was haunted by the ghost of a man who’d been murdered and stuffed down an abandoned well in the garden.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “you won’t be here long.”

Instead of consoling him, that statement caused his eyebrows to rise and his breathing to quicken. “My lord, am I to be sold? Have I done something to displease you?”

“No, not at all.” I held out my hand to calm him. “I want you to do something else for me—a different task but, I think, a not unfamiliar one.”

“And what would that be, my lord? All I’ve ever done in your household, and your uncle’s before you, is watch over your stores.”

I touched the pointed end of my stylus to my lip, as though warming it so I could write something. “That’s not entirely true. At one time you were married to my uncle’s servant, Delia.”

He nodded, his eyes growing wary. “Yes, my lord, I was. She was a sweet girl.”

“She had a child, didn’t she?”

“Yes, my lord.” He looked down.

“And it wasn’t yours, was it?”

“No, my lord,” he said without looking up.

I tapped my stylus on the table. “Delia, I assume, was my uncle’s lover. Am I correct to think that the child was his?”

“As far as I know, it was, my lord.” He studied his feet as though he had never seen them before.

“So my uncle married her to you to divert someone’s attention from his affair.”

“Yes, my lord. His wife’s. She strongly disapproved of his affair with Delia, as I suppose any wife would.”

Was that statement as insolent as it seemed to be? But I had to let the comment go because I needed his help. I was beginning to wonder if the Stoic doctrine of a recurring cycle of events might not be true. I had almost forgotten that my uncle had ever been married, to a woman named Tullia. It lasted less than a year, and nothing was ever said about it in our family. If only that part of the story could be repeated in my own life. I could endure another six months with Livia if I knew there would be an end to it after that and the whole fiasco could be forgotten.

“And that was…thirty-five years ago?”

“Yes, my lord. As soon as Delia realized she was pregnant, your uncle married her to me. I was eighteen at the time. Delia was a year younger.”

“Was there any particular reason he chose you?”

Instead of answering the question, Felix raised his tunic. He was wearing a loincloth, unusual for a man who wasn’t doing hard work, but not unheard of. He lowered the cloth enough for me to see that he had been castrated. I couldn’t help but recoil from the sight.

“When was that done?”

“When I was sixteen, my lord.” He shivered at the memory and I motioned for him to cover himself again.

“Did my uncle do it?” I had never heard of my uncle doing such an unspeakable thing to a servant. Enough owners, wanting male servants whom they could trust around their wives, have done it that Domitian recently issued an edict against the practice.

“No, my lord. It was done by my previous owner.”

“Why?” Before I put any man in close proximity to Aurora, I had to know his full story, and there was apparently more to Felix’s story than I had suspected.

“My owner’s daughter got pregnant. I was not the father, my lord,” he added quickly. “But another servant in the house was. The girl accused me, and her lover swore that he had heard me boasting about it. He even said I told him about a mole on her body in a place that only a lover would see. He, of course, had seen it. My master…did this to me and made his daughter watch.” His voice caught and he paused. “He swore he would do the same, or worse, to any man who touched her. Once I had recovered, he sold me to your uncle.”

I ran my fingers on the edge of the table while I considered this astounding development in my plan. “Men who have been castrated are sometimes still able to couple, even if they can no longer father a child.”

“Sadly, my lord, I am not one of those.”

I tried not to show my relief. “So my uncle knew you would not be able to couple with Delia.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Does anyone else in the household know you’ve been castrated?”

“I don’t think so, my lord.” He seemed to be trying to decide what to do with his hands. He clasped them in front of him, then lowered them to his sides. “It’s not something one boasts about. I act as though I’m overly modest and that’s why I wear a loincloth and prefer to bathe alone. There’s a rumor that I’m a Jew, ashamed of my circumcision. I’d rather be teased about that than about…this.”

“Your voice isn’t unusually high.”

“No, my lord. For that I am thankful.”

“So Delia’s child really was my uncle’s?” That would confirm what I had learned over the past few months as I considered who among my servants would make a suitable—that is, safe—husband for Aurora. I had a cousin I’d never heard of.

“I’m sure he was, my lord, although your uncle never acknowledged the boy. I raised him as my son until your uncle emancipated him and found him a place as an apprentice with a goldsmith in Comum.”

“What was the boy’s name?”

“He was called Marcus Delius, my lord.”

Another point confirmed. I had seen one reference to that name in a letter. “Where is he now?”

“I don’t know, my lord. I was told that he ran away.”

That would have made him no better than a fugitive slave. Although he had been freed, Delius still had an obligation to my uncle and to the goldsmith who was feeding him and training him for a respectable profession. “When did that happen?”

“Not long after he was apprenticed, my lord. Twenty years ago.”

I was barely four at the time. I could not recall ever having heard the name Marcus Delius until I was looking through some of my uncle’s letters and notes earlier this summer. When I saw the name and guessed his relationship to me, I felt some impulse to know more about him. As the only surviving child of an only child, I have no circle of relatives, so even a bastard cousin piques my curiosity. But if no one had seen or heard of him in twenty years, it seemed unlikely that I would ever learn anything. It would be like trying to track an animal days after it has passed through a forest and the trail has grown cold or been washed away.

“What else do you know about him?”

“Just that he was a difficult lad, my lord. His mother died when he was eight. After that, there was little anyone could do with him. He ran roughshod over the other children in the household—even older ones—and you could never get the truth out of him. He took great delight in sneaking up on people. He had no respect for me as his father. Sometimes I felt he had guessed the truth. I think your uncle freed him just to be rid of him.”

“Or to remove evidence of his indiscretion.”

“That could well be, my lord. But that was the last anyone in our house heard of him or spoke of him.”

I paused to think what I was going to say next. Although I had known from two comments in my uncle’s letters that Felix was married to Delia, I hadn’t been able to learn why he was picked to play the role of her husband. I thought it must have been because my uncle believed he could count on the man to restrain himself and be content to pretend to be a husband or that he had hung some dire threat over his head, like the sword of Damocles. As it turned out, the blade had been hung a bit lower, but it meant that Felix was the best possible candidate for the role of Aurora’s husband.

“My lord, you said I wasn’t going to stay here. Do you have some task for me? At my age I hope it’s one I will be able to carry out.”

“Yes, and I don’t think you’ll find it onerous.” I paused and took a breath before saying the words that would commit me. “I want you to marry my slave Aurora.”

Other than blinking a couple of times, he showed no surprise. “Is she pregnant, my lord?”

“No, she’s not. But otherwise the situation is the same as the one my uncle faced.”

“May I ask if you love her, my lord?”

I slapped the stylus on the desk and Felix stepped back as much as the small room allowed. “No, you may not. That is most impertinent.”

My outburst didn’t faze him. “If you do love her, my lord, then the situation is not the same as your uncle’s.”

I stood without moving any closer to him, but Felix, who was somewhat taller than I am, leaned back anyway. “What do you mean?” I demanded.

“Your uncle did not love Delia, my lord. He treated her well and was affectionate to her, but she told me that he did not love her. He had told her so himself. She was not to expect love from him, he said. It broke her heart. More than that, it broke her will to live when she became ill.”

I was surprised to hear that. From what I had seen of my uncle with Aurora’s mother, Monica, I would have said that he loved her. He grieved deeply when she died. But this was not a conversation I wanted to be having with a slave.

“You understand your role then.”

“Yes, my lord. Your uncle made it clear that I was not to touch my ‘wife’ except to show a bit of affection in front of others—holding hands, a peck on the cheek perhaps. I assume those rules will apply in this case.”

“Yes, but don’t overdo it.” It galled me to think of any man being allowed even that degree of intimacy with the woman I love.

“Will we be sharing a room?”

The question stopped me for a moment. “I’ll have to work all that out, but I suppose you will.” Livia wouldn’t stand for any other arrangement, I was sure, even though we do not share a room ourselves.

“So your wife will think it’s a real marriage?” His tone was more kind than accusatory.

“That is my hope.”

“When will this marriage begin, my lord?”

I sat back down at the writing table and picked up my stylus. “This afternoon.” When something is inevitable, there’s no point in delaying it. The dread is usually worse than the actuality.

He nodded his understanding. “Will I have any other duties in the house, my lord?”

“Yes, you’ll be doing in Rome what you were doing in Tuscany. My man in Rome is sixty. Keeping supplies in order for such a large house is starting to wear on him.”

“I’d best work with him for a while, my lord. It will take me a month or two to get acquainted with the people you buy from and to see who’s cheating you.”

I looked up at him in surprise. “Why do you think someone is cheating me?”

“Did the sun rise this morning, my lord? As surely as that, merchants are always cheating you. There’s a reason why Hermes is the god of travelers, merchants, and thieves. It’s merely a question of how much cheating your servants allow or are aware of, and how deeply they’re involved in it.”

“How much cheating goes on at my estate in Tuscany?” That estate has always been the most profitable of my properties.

Felix straightened his shoulders, like a soldier coming to attention. “Only the little bit that I simply cannot ferret out, my lord. There’s always that little bit, no matter how diligent one is.”

* * *

“Aurora dear, may I come in?” Julia’s voice sounded from the other side of my door. I was too angry to have company at the moment, but I couldn’t refuse her. Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to be able to say no, even to Gaius. Not that he’s ever forced me to do anything I didn’t want to—until today.

“Yes, my lady.”

I stood as she entered my room and closed the door. She’s shorter than I am, as most women are, with a round, fair face and the impish smile of a child who’s always planning some mischief. She was carrying something in a bag.

“First of all,” she said, “let’s have none of that ‘my lady’ business when there’s no one else around. We’re friends and we have to get you ready for your wedding. Gaius is telling everyone it will take place today.”

“Today?”

“Yes, in a few hours, I think.”

“Damn him!”

Julia twisted up her mouth as though she had tasted something sour. “Aurora, you know I won’t tell anyone anything you say, but you need to be careful how you talk about him. You never know who might be listening.”

I had crossed the boundary between servant and friend. “Yes, of course, I’m sorry.”

“Now, you want to look your best for your wedding, don’t you?”

“I don’t even know who I’m being married to. Why would I want to look my best for him?” I folded my arms over my chest. I knew I looked and sounded like a petulant child, but I was hurt, deeply hurt. Gaius should have told me. It was as simple as that.

Julia touched my hair. “It’s not your husband you’re trying to impress, silly girl. We’re going to make Gaius Pliny regret he ever decided to do this.”

I stamped my foot and could hardly keep from crying. “Why did he do it, Julia? Why can’t he stand up to Livia and his mother? Tell them to—”

“You should count yourself lucky that he doesn’t.” Julia hugged me for a moment, then sat me down. “That shows you he’s a man who cares about those around him and how they feel.”

“What about how I feel?”

“Gaius knows how you feel. And you know he loves you. You two have told each other that, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then trust what he’s told you. Men like him and Tacitus don’t always have a choice about what they do. What Gaius is arranging is his best option in this situation. If he didn’t find you a husband, he’d have to send you somewhere else. This way, he is actually standing up to Livia. She wants you gone, but he’s keeping you here, where he wants you to be.”

I sighed heavily. I hadn’t seen the situation in those terms. “I guess you’re right. But what am I supposed to do tonight? Am I to couple with my ‘husband’?”

Julia looked at me, with her head cocked, like I was the stupidest person she had ever met. “Do you honestly think Gaius is going to put you in a room with a man without making it clear to him that he’s never to touch you? If he could find a eunuch for the job, I’m sure that’s who would be your husband.”

I laughed in spite of myself.

“That’s the spirit. All you’ll have to worry about is how much he snores or farts in his sleep.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Of course I am. I assure you, it’s not going to be easy for Gaius to marry you to another man, even if it’s only a pretense. And, by the time we’re done here, he’s going to be on his knees begging your forgiveness.”

Opening her bag, she pulled out a white tunic—the traditional bride’s dress. Motioning for me to stand, she held it up against my cheek.

“This was my wedding gown. I added the filigree. With my pale skin, I would rather have worn something darker, but it will look stunning on you. I let down the hem.”

“Wait. You brought your wedding dress? Did you know Gaius was going to do this?”

“Oh, well…he said…something about it.”

“He told you and Tacitus before you left Rome but didn’t tell me?” My voice was rising, just like my anger.

The look of surprise on Julia’s face seemed genuine. “He didn’t tell you?”

“Not until this morning.”

Julia held the dress away from me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

“Oh, that man!”

“Don’t get yourself worked up. You don’t need a lot of distress now.”

“You mean, distress like being forced to marry some man I’ve never met.” I sighed and tried to calm down.

Julia patted my belly. “Have you told Gaius yet?”

“No.” I put my hand over hers. “I was going to tell him this morning, when he asked me to go riding with him. But then he told me about this marriage.”

“So you’ve told me—”

“Only after you suspected.”

“But you admitted it. And yet you’re angry at Gaius for not telling you something important.”

It wasn’t fair of her to inject logic into the conversation. “You haven’t said anything to Tacitus, have you?”

Julia gave a quick shake of her head. “No. I promised you I wouldn’t. But a man has every right to know when a woman is carrying his child.”

“Because it’s his property, I know, just like I’m his property, to be married off whenever he sees fit.”

“Aurora, you know Gaius doesn’t think of you that way.”

Before I could say anything—and what could I say? I sounded ridiculous to myself—we heard a knock on the door. A woman’s voice that I didn’t recognize said, “My lord Pliny would like to speak with Aurora.”

Julia, who was standing closer to the door, opened it just a crack and said, “He’ll have to wait. We’re getting her ready for her wedding. He wants her to get married, so that’s what we’re doing.”

* * *

I finally had a few moments to open the note from Caninius Rufus that Phineas had handed me. Caninius is a fine poet, and we’ve known one another since childhood. This note was short, but not pleasant to read. He was writing a poem in which he wanted to make an allusion to the eruption of Vesuvius and the death of my uncle almost six years ago. “Would you mind,” he asked, “describing what you saw? I know those memories are painful, but I hope enough time has passed that you can think back on them more calmly now.”

I dropped the note onto my writing table. Fortune had spared my mother and me from that catastrophe. Now it seemed determined to keep the memory in front of me.

II

The man who has planned badly, if fortune is on his side, may have a stroke of luck, but his plan was a bad one nonetheless.

—Herodotus

Tacitus, my mother, Naomi, and a few other servants gathered in the garden that afternoon for the wedding of Felix and Aurora. A bride is supposed to be accompanied by a woman who has been married only once and whose husband is still living. Even though this wasn’t a formal wedding, Julia, in that role, came out of Aurora’s room with her and stood beside her.

Everyone in the garden held their breath as Aurora walked along the winding path, past the fountain, and came to a stop in front of me. I couldn’t look at her, partly because she was more beautiful than I’d ever seen her—her hair swept up and pinned in a way that made me ache to kiss her neck, makeup applied with just the right touch—and partly because I thought she was going to bore a hole through me with her eyes. The rest of her face betrayed no emotion, but I had never seen such anger in her eyes. I fixed my gaze on Julia, who had more than her usual half smile playing on her lips.

As Aurora took her place beside Felix and nodded to acknowledge him, my mother patted her on the arm and said something to her, but so softly I couldn’t hear her. Aurora smiled modestly in return and kissed my mother on the cheek. The second best thing that has happened to me in the last six months is that my mother’s animosity to Aurora—which had its roots in her resentment of the relationship between Aurora’s mother and my uncle—has softened.

Slaves cannot legally marry in the sense that free persons can, but I do allow my servants to establish what amounts to marital relationships, which I recognize as binding. I also allow them to make wills, something very few masters do, and I act as executor of those wills when the time comes. Since a marriage between slaves is not legally binding, we did not engage in the offerings and oaths that solemnize a marriage. The way Aurora was dressed surprised me—the white gown and orange veil with matching shoes and the knotted belt around her waist. She could not have known in advance to procure the traditional dress for a bride—the tunica recta.

Then I understood Julia’s smile and Aurora’s anger and knew that I had made a serious mistake in not saying something to Aurora earlier.

Felix and Aurora held one another’s right hands in the traditional manner, but we made no sacrifices and invoked no gods. Aurora would not say to her husband the age-old vow, “Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia.” She had said that to me during the Saturnalia when we went to the cave where we had found the Tyche ring. The words had no legal effect, of course, unlike when Livia said them a few days later in the atrium of my house in Rome, but they meant more to me than all the pomp associated with my wedding to Livia.

She had dropped thinly veiled hints—threats, to be more precise—about not wanting Aurora present at our wedding. I had refused to comply. As a member of my household, I had pointed out, she had an obligation to be there. Her absence would cause more comment than her presence. Because of her own good sense and her pain over what was happening, Aurora had remained on the edge of the crowd. I was certainly aware of her, but I’m not sure Livia noticed. At least she never said anything, and if Livia is unhappy about something, she lets me know about it, quickly and loudly.

I realized everyone was looking at me in anticipation. I couldn’t put it off any longer.

“I’ve called you here today,” I said, “to acknowledge that…Felix and Aurora are…husband and wife.” I had never had to work so hard to force words out of my mouth, even though I knew they had no meaning. I could feel Tacitus trying to hold me up with his eyes as I said a few more innocuous platitudes. I like to write my speeches down and revise them for possible publication. These words I wanted to be utterly forgotten. The only thing that enabled me to proceed with the ceremony was my awareness of Felix’s secret and my knowledge that not even Aurora knew it. “Let’s join in congratulating them and wishing them every happiness,” I concluded.

Tacitus stepped forward. “Good fortune for the newlyweds,” he said. “A cheer for Felix and Aurora. Talassio!”

The others joined him in the traditional shout for a newly married couple, so ancient that no one knows anymore what it means.

* * *

I couldn’t eat, but while the others enjoyed a meal in the garden, another bed was moved into Aurora’s room. Then it was time to accompany the couple to their quarters with obscene jokes and ribald songs, a part of Rome’s wedding traditions, regardless of the couple’s class or wishes, that I particularly despise. It was the one thing Livia and I agreed on at our wedding but could do nothing about. We sat on opposite sides of my room after the wedding until the noise subsided outside the door. I had stashed several of Musonius Rufus’ treatises under the bed before the ceremony, so I had something to do. Like Socrates, Musonius won’t write anything himself, but his students and friends take down his teachings and circulate them among a small group. While I read, keeping my voice down, Livia just sat and fumed. Stoic philosophy held no charm for her, as I had hoped when I selected those books.

My mother ran her arm through mine. “You’ve done the right thing, Gaius. And she looked absolutely beautiful.”

“Well, I hope everyone else is happy with the arrangements.” I turned my back to the celebration and fixed my gaze on one of the columns on the other side of the garden. It was cracked and no longer straight.

“I’m sure we all are. I wish you could be, too.” The way she patted my arm told me she understood more than she was saying.

Even though I knew now that none of the crude suggestions would be carried out in Aurora’s room, I couldn’t stand to listen to any more of the buffoonery. Stepping away from my mother, I told Tacitus, “I’m going to inspect the vineyards.”

“I’ll ride with you.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder.

I nodded. “I would appreciate that.”

The servant who oversaw the stables on this estate went by the name Barbatus, because of his affectation of a beard. I didn’t know his real name. He claimed to be descended from a Gallic prince captured by Julius Caesar. Even as a child, I had never much liked the man because of his habit of stroking his beard and because he talked so much, always asking so many questions about where I was riding to. I could never seem to find the nerve to tell him it was none of his business. All I could do was keep my answers as brief and uninformative as possible.

Time had not changed his mannerisms or made him any less annoying. When I requested horses for Tacitus and me, he asked, “Where will you be riding, my lord?”

“Away from here. Why does it matter?”

“Some horses are better for distance, my lord,” he said with studied indifference. “Others can give you speed. If I know where you’re going, I can give you the best horse for your ride.”

“We’re going out to the vineyards,” I said.

“I see. Should I be expecting you back at any particular time, my lord?”

“Why does that matter?”

“I just want to be sure someone is here to assist you, my lord.”

“We’re perfectly capable of dismounting and unharnessing the horses by ourselves. Just see to your business and don’t worry about us.”

Barbatus stroked his beard. “As you wish, my lord.” He brought two horses from the stalls and helped us mount.

“He’s an inquisitive fellow, isn’t he?” Tacitus said as we turned toward the vineyards. “I’d expect that sort of nosiness from a female slave, not a stable hand.”

“He’s always been like that. I should give him the benefit of the doubt, I suppose. Perhaps he’s just being solicitous of my welfare.”

“Or perhaps he’s one of Regulus’ spies and wants to know your every move.”

I groaned. “This day is bad enough. Don’t start—”

“Sorry. That was an ill-advised attempt at humor. The man’s obviously just a congenial blabbermouth. Forget I said anything.”

We rode in silence—companionable on Tacitus’ part, morose on mine—out to the vineyards on the east side of the estate. Lake Comum is long and slender, splitting into two branches, like a capital Greek upsilon (Y), only inverted, from a Roman point of view. The house sits halfway up the peninsula. The mountains rise quickly on either side of the lake. We dismounted, tied the horses to a tree, and walked among the vines.

“How did you settle on Felix?” Tacitus asked. “I know you were thinking about this problem back in the spring, but I’ve seen so little of you the last couple of months, I feel like I’ve missed an important part of the story.”

I held a vine in my hand, rubbing the leaf between my fingers with no interest whatsoever. “I had Phineas compile a list of all of my male servants—slaves and freedmen—over the age of forty. Then I eliminated those who were already married. I narrowed the list down to the oldest ones who might pass Livia’s inspection. I kept coming back to Felix because of his age and because he was married years ago to one of my uncle’s mistresses.”

“So he should understand how the game is played,” Tacitus said.

“After talking with him, I’m sure he does.”

“But do you think you can trust him absolutely? Aurora is a stunningly beautiful woman. Even as much as I respect our friendship, I’m not sure you could trust me with her.”

“It doesn’t matter. He turned out to be the best choice for a reason I never could have anticipated.” I paused.

“Well, come on, man. Out with it! Does he prefer other men? Is that it?”

“No. Even better, actually. I found out just before the wedding that he’s a eunuch. Castrated when he was sixteen and completely unable to couple.”

“A eunuch?” Tacitus doubled over with laughter. “By the gods, it’s like a comic play. Does Aurora know?”

“I didn’t get a chance to tell her. She’s hardly speaking to me.”

“Oh, that’s even better. I would love to know how that conversation goes when they’re alone together for the first time.”

“Damn you!” I turned on him abruptly and shook my fist in his face. “This is no joke. I don’t care if he is a eunuch. I wouldn’t care if he was blind into the bargain. I cannot stand to think that another man can go into a room with her and close the door.” I had to pause to keep my voice from breaking. “Did you see how beautiful she looked? Like Hesiod said of Pandora, ‘a face like a deathless goddess.’”

Tacitus covered my fist with his larger hand and pushed it back. “She’s always beautiful, but as spectacularly gorgeous as she was today—that was Julia’s doing, not a bunch of gods. My wife is adept at that sort of thing. She may not be able to parse a line of the Aeneid, but she knows what color eye shadow a girl should wear and exactly how much. The outfit Aurora was wearing was what Julia wore at our wedding.”

“I suspected as much. She just brought out what was already there.” I put my hand to my head, which was aching. “Oh, dear gods! That dress means Aurora knows that I told you and Julia well ahead of time what I was planning but didn’t tell her until the last minute.”

Tacitus’ shoulders slumped and he shook his head. “Gaius, to be so intelligent, you can do some stupid things when it comes to women. You don’t understand how they think unless they’ve killed somebody.”

That point I couldn’t argue. “I rue the day I ever came up with this scheme.”

“It’s the only choice you had.”

“I know, but that doesn’t make it any more palatable.”

“You need to take your mind off the whole business. It doesn’t really change anything between you and Aurora.” Tacitus took me by the shoulders and turned me toward the vines. “I know you didn’t actually come out here to inspect your vineyards, but as long as we’re here, we might as well.”

I took another leaf between my fingers. “They remind me of the filigree on Aurora’s wedding dress.”

Tacitus sighed. “You’re hopeless, my friend. You should remember Horace’s advice in one of his poems: ‘Xanthis, don’t be ashamed of love for your serving-girl.’”

“Xanthis was Greek, not a Roman of the equestrian class. I’ll bet he wasn’t married.” But Tacitus was right. What hope did I have? Certainly none of ever being truly happy. The best I could do was to distract myself by devoting full attention to running my estates and keeping up my literary work. As Cicero said, “If you have a garden and a library, you have all you need.” At the moment I would have been willing to debate that claim with him and was confident I would have run him off the Rostra. I wondered if he had a favorite girl aside from his wife.

“Your vineyard isn’t exactly impressive,” Tacitus said, drawing me back to the harsh light of reality. “Didn’t your uncle write about grapes and the best places to grow each variety?”

“He did, extensively. But this property belonged to my father, not my uncle.” Tacitus was right, though. Nothing about the vineyards, or anything else on the estate, suggested prosperity. “This estate produces less income than any of my other properties.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

“That’s why I’m bringing in some people from Tuscany to look things over. I’ve not spent enough time here in the last five years to know just what’s going on. I’ve been paying more attention to my place at Misenum in the aftermath of Vesuvius.”

“Whatever profits you’re making here,” Tacitus said, “they certainly aren’t coming from your vineyards.” He plucked a grape and squeezed it between his fingers. “It ought to be a lot plumper by this time of the summer. You grow more olives and wheat on your other estates, don’t you?”

I nodded. “But, considering how pathetic the plants in this vineyard look, I should reread what my uncle says about vines in his Natural History. If I can’t improve the output here, I should switch to growing something more suited to the land and more profitable… You may have noticed the tall, blond fellow I brought up here.”

“Yes. I thought I was going to have to restrain Julia when she saw him.”

“His name is Brennus. He’s quite good with vines, and his sensitive nose is the most remarkable I’ve ever seen in a human being.”

“He’ll have his work cut out for him here.”

We walked among the vines, studying drainage and the angle of light. “You inherited this property from your father,” Tacitus said, “but your mother and uncle also grew up around here, didn’t they?”

“Yes, my uncle’s family owned the estate on the lake at the foot of this property. That’s where he and my mother grew up. He sold it not long after she got married. I’ve made an offer to buy it back. I’d like to have access to the lake.”

“Why? You can’t stand to be on a boat.”

“But I enjoy looking at the water and listening to the rhythm of it. That’s why I like my estate at Laurentum so much. I’ve been so involved in restoring my property around Naples that I’ve neglected other places. I want to correct that oversight and some others. Did you know that my father started work on a temple to Rome and Augustus outside Comum?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“He never finished it before he died, and he left no funds for the work. I want to look into finishing it.”

“If you could let Domitian think he’s the Augustus you have in mind, it wouldn’t hurt.”

“I’ll make it clear that I mean the first one. Domitian can’t publicly object to that.”

“I suppose not.” Tacitus looked up at the sun and said, “We’d better be getting back.”

“Must we?”

“Do you plan to live out here like some savage? What was it Aristotle said, ‘Anyone who finds delight in solitude is either a wild beast or a god’?”

I folded my arms across my chest and put my chin in my hand, the classic pose for statues of orators and philosophers musing over something. “Or the husband of a shrew like Livia.”

“When is she due to arrive?”

Tacitus might as well have thrown a pail of cold water in my face. “Tomorrow or the next day. They went to Narnia first, to drop off Livilla at their house there. For obvious reasons, she doesn’t want to be around me.”

“Do you think Livilla’s told her sister what she knows about you and Aurora?”

“If she had, I would probably be a dead man by now.”

“Just like Livia’s first husband.”

“We have no way of knowing what happened,” I reminded him, although Livia had stopped just short of admitting to me that she killed the poor man. I took her all-but-confession as a veiled warning.

“I wonder why a woman would do that, when divorce is so easy.”

“An ex-wife has to endure all the whispering, and she doesn’t get anything but her dowry back. A childless widow gets sympathy and everything her husband had. And Liburnius had a lot of everything.”

“So do you, my friend. So do you.”

What he said was true. My father’s estate and my uncle’s together had made me one of the wealthiest men of my age in Rome. But now I was wondering why my uncle had left my adoption to his will. He wasn’t the only man to do so. Julius Caesar had adopted his grandnephew, Octavian, in his will, but he also named Brutus a guardian of any son he might have. Had my uncle, like Caesar, hoped to have a son? Considering his age and his lack of a wife, he hadn’t been trying very hard. Or was he hoping to find his illegitimate son, Marcus Delius, and recognize him?

* * *

I was surprised and a little relieved when I walked out into the garden and saw who my “husband” was to be. I don’t know Felix well, but I had met him on visits to Gaius’ estate in Tuscany. When we were children, he used to let Gaius and me explore the storerooms in the house and usually had some small treat for us. All I knew about him was that he seemed to be a nice man who kept to himself. He had an air of resignation—even of sadness—about him, which I sometimes feel when I’m around older servants.

But, no matter how nice he might be, I still didn’t want to share a room with him. When he closed the door, I scooted across the bed, as far away from him as I could get. For reassurance I touched the knife I had strapped to my thigh, a knife Gaius gave me, with his dolphin seal embossed on the handle. Julia had gasped when she saw it while she was helping me dress, but I wouldn’t take it off.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, dear,” Felix said, sitting down on the far end of the second bed and making no movement toward me. Because of that bed there wasn’t much floor space left. “I know I’m not really your husband. I couldn’t be, even if I were lucky enough for this to be a real marriage.”

“What do you mean? What did Gaius…Pliny say to you?” Gaius had sent someone to ask to talk to me before the wedding, but Julia sent back word that we were too busy preparing for the ceremony. Maybe that hadn’t been such a good idea.

Felix shook his head. “It’s what I said to him. It’s something you should know, but I hope I can rely on your discretion not to tell anyone else.”

“Of course you can.” I could hear the crowd of servants outside the door, still wishing us well and singing every bawdy song they knew to encourage us.

“All right then.” He paused for a moment, as though gathering his courage. “You see, my first owner…castrated me when I was sixteen.”

I could see on his face how hard it had been for him to admit that. That look stirred up a twinge of sympathy. “Why…why did he do that?” Castration could be punishment for…things I hated to think about.

“For something I was accused of but did not do. That’s all you need to know.”

I could make a guess. Probably something involving his owner’s wife or daughter. “Did Gaius Pliny know this when he sent for you?”

“No. He knew I had been married a long time ago to his uncle’s earlier mistress—meaning no insult to your mother—and he assumed I knew how to play that role. He didn’t know his uncle chose me because I would be unable to couple with her.”

I relaxed enough to move closer to him, but not too close. “Felix, I’m so sorry, but do you mind if I say I’m relieved?”

“I wouldn’t take advantage of you, even if I could. You know that. You’ve known me since you were a child. I’ve been treated well by this family and I will repay that kindness by doing what’s expected of me.”

“Does anyone else know about…your condition?”

“No. I’ve tried hard to keep it a secret.”

I could tell that people were pressing their ears to the door. “They’re expecting to hear something soon.”

Felix glared at the door. “Well, I guess they’ll have to be disappointed.”

“Not necessarily. Come here.” I took his hand and we stood next to the door. “Just don‘t look at me,” I whispered. “You’ll make me laugh.”

Starting slowly at first, I began to moan, remembering Gaius’ hands on my body, his lips on my neck. Felix’s eyes brightened as he followed my lead and made a few appropriate noises.

“Oh, yes. Yes, Felix. Yes! Yes!”

Outside, the crowd cheered.

Felix smothered a laugh. “That will certainly give them something to talk about.”

And it will give Gaius something to think about, damn him.

* * *

As Tacitus and I drew close to the villa, we saw three wagons approaching from the south, from the direction of the town of Comum. The first two were an open style of raeda, with leather curtains that could be drawn against bad weather. On both wagons the lower half was painted blood red and the posts that supported the roof were a yellow that did not exist anywhere in nature—two garish colors that Pompeia Celerina favored. The third was a closed raeda.

“Are you expecting company?” Tacitus asked.

“It’s Livia and her mother,” I said with a groan. “Damn them! I thought I had another day.”

“Do you have any other vineyards that need inspecting? Somewhere in Greece, perhaps?”

I glared at him with my mouth screwed up.

“You have to greet them, Gaius. You have no choice.”

“I’m getting very tired of hearing that. I’m a free man. I’m supposed to have choices.”

“No one but the emperor is really free,” Tacitus reminded me with a tired philosophical commonplace. “And then only if you believe there are no gods waiting to exact retribution for his numerous crimes.”

“Yes. As Ovid says, ‘Gods are convenient to have, so let us concede their existence.’”

We reached the front of the house at the same time as the wagons. I dismounted and went to help Livia and her mother out of the first wagon. They were accompanied by a few favorite servant women. The rest of their retinue rode in the second wagon. The third, I was sure, held their baggage.

“Welcome to Comum, ladies,” I said, trying to inject civility into my voice, since I couldn’t quite manage warmth. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow at the earliest, so I’m afraid things may not be entirely ready for you.”

“Oh, we’ll manage.” Pompeia dropped her considerable bulk to the ground with a grunt and offered me a hug and a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. She wore a blue gown and had her hair done up in the style of women of the Flavian court, with crimped curls piled up high toward the front of her head. Given her size and the color of her gown, the effect was like waves on the ocean. “We got far enough yesterday that we just decided to push on and finish the trip today, rather than make another stop.”

Livia’s hair was done in a simpler style, pulled back into a bun on her neck. She wore a soft green gown, with gold bracelets on each arm and a brooch pinned over her heart. In a rare moment of tenderness she had told me that her father gave it to her. He was the only person who ever loved me, she said. Standing in the wagon as though not certain she would get out, she looked down her nose at the villa. “How old is this place?”

“My grandfather built it,” I said, “during the time of the deified Augustus.”

“It’s a nice place,” Pompeia said. “I visited here when I was a girl.” My mother and Pompeia are cousins. Her family’s home was south of Comum, but she and her brother sold it after their parents’ deaths. She claims to prefer the sophistication of Rome, but she’s just a pretentious snob.

“It’s ancient then,” Livia said, wrinkling her nose.

“My father did some work on it. It’s smaller than my other houses, but quite comfortable,” I assured her.

“And the servants have finally learned not to scratch their bottoms in our presence,” Tacitus said over my shoulder.

“Hmpf,” was all Pompeia said. Livia just gathered her cloak around her and reluctantly stepped down from the raeda.

My mother, Julia, and several servants emerged from the house, laughing about something.

“Pompeia dear, how lovely to see you,” Mother said, stepping forward. “I hope the trip wasn’t too tiring for you.”

“Aren’t all trips tiring?” Pompeia said, embracing my mother and kissing her lightly on the cheek, a gesture which my mother returned.

“Well, you’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

The noise from the servants in the garden drifted out to us.

“What’s going on?” Livia’s simple question sounded like an accusation.

“Oh, Gaius arranged a marriage for Aurora,” Mother said. “We’ve just finished celebrating it. If we’d known you were arriving today, we could have waited.”

Livia questioned me just by the tilt of her head and the arching of an eyebrow.

“We’ll talk later,” I said abruptly. “You thought Aurora ought to get married. Now she is.”

“Who is her husband?”

Before I could repeat my admonition that we talk later, my mother said, “His name is Felix. He’s a servant from our house at Tuscany.”

“Is that where Aurora will be living now?” Livia asked with a hint of hope in her voice.

“Well, I don’t know,” Mother said. “What is your plan, Gaius?”

“Yes,” Livia echoed, “what is your plan, Gaius?”

It’s odd how the same words, spoken by two different people one right after the other, can convey simple curiosity on the one hand and a direct challenge on the other. And it all depends on the meaning of “is,” or at least the emphasis given to that little word.

“My plan is that Felix will come to Rome with us. He’ll be in charge of buying supplies for the house there. Arcturus, who does that job now, is getting old.”

“And how old is Felix?” Livia asked.

I shrugged, trying to show my indifference, but my mother spoke up. “He’s older than I am. That’s all I know. Isn’t he at least fifty, Gaius?”

The curl of Livia’s lip let me know that, when we did talk later, it would not be a pleasant conversation, and probably not a short one.

Julia stepped up beside my mother and extended a hand to Pompeia. “There’s food set out in the garden. You must be famished after your trip.”

Pompeia needed no other encouragement. Given her girth, I doubt she has ever been anywhere close to famished.

“Perhaps we can still extend our good wishes to the happy couple,” Livia said.

As we passed through the small atrium Livia’s eyes rolled at the frescoes which, I had to admit, were badly dated. The place had last been painted when my father was a young man, probably early in the reign of Claudius. The only time I had suggested repainting, my mother had strongly objected. The decorations had been done shortly after she married my father and she was loath to change them.

“You can’t receive many clients in here,” Livia said.

“I save a lot of money that way.”

“But people can’t see how important you are.”

“Around here, everybody who needs to know does, and nobody cares.” That lack of pretension was one of the great charms of Comum.

As we entered the garden the servants moved away from the door of Aurora’s room, still laughing and making noises and gestures like a couple engaged in love-making. Our presence put a damper on their fun, as I was glad to see. I wanted to play out this scene without an audience.

“Back to work, everyone,” I ordered. They shuffled off to their various tasks, with a few backward glances.

“Bring them out here,” Livia said. “I’d like to offer my congratulations.”

“Do we really need to disturb them right now?” Tacitus asked.

Livia drew herself up. “As mistress of any house which belongs to my husband, I have a right to know who will be working in it.”

“Of course you do,” my mother said. She knocked on the door. “Aurora, you and Felix come out here for a moment.”

The door opened and Aurora and Felix emerged sheepishly, smiling at one another. Aurora had unpinned her hair and shaken it loose. All I could think about was Ovid’s line about reaching across the table at a dinner party to claim his mistress from her husband. I had a momentary fear that Felix had lied to me, as Aurora looked into his eyes with adoration.

“Here’s the blushing bride,” Livia said, taking Aurora’s chin in her hand and turning her head back and forth. “Perhaps your new husband can nip a bit off your other ear, to even things out.”

Aurora flushed, but in anger. The tip of her right earlobe had been cut off when she was almost killed in one of our recent misadventures.

Livia patted—almost slapped—Aurora’s cheek, then turned to Felix. “And you’re Felix.”

“Yes, my lady.” Livia had not yet been to my estate in Tuscany, so Felix had never met her. Even though he had no idea who she was, her dress and arrogant manner made it clear how he should address her.

“You do look as happy as your name implies.”

“I am, my lady. This is a joyous day.” He took Aurora’s hand.

“I’m Livia, wife of Gaius Pliny.”

Felix bowed his head. “I’m honored to meet you, my lady. And may I offer you belated congratulations on your marriage and the utmost good fortune.”

“I suppose you may, and I’ll return the same.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“How old are you, Felix?” Livia touched his shoulders and felt the muscles of his arms.

“I’m fifty-three, my lady.”

Livia sneered at me. “That’s no surprise. Have you been married before, Felix?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Aurora had not met my eyes yet. She leaned close to Felix, her shoulder touching his. I would have to tell her not to overplay her role.

“Was she a servant in this house?” Livia asked.

“Her name was Delia, my lady, another servant in my lord Pliny’s household, and I mean your husband’s uncle.”

“So that was some time ago. Did you have any children?”

“My wife gave birth to a son, my lady.”

I silently applauded Felix for his logical dexterity. He must have practiced saying something like that to divert attention from his castration. It stopped Livia for a moment, the way a charging animal is stunned when it hits an unseen net.

I took Livia by the arm before she could lower her horns for another charge at the obstacle. “Will you come with me, please?”

Livia followed me to the far corner of the garden, as far from the others as we could get. “What more do you want?” I said, lowering my voice.

She answered me in an angry whisper. “I’m still not sure that this is a real marriage and not a sham.”

“You mean, like ours?” I gave her an opportunity to reply and her mouth moved, but what could she say? “You wanted Aurora married. She is married.”

“But can someone that old even service her?”

“His wife had a child.” I was as careful in arranging my words as Felix had been.

“Years ago. That doesn’t mean he can still—”

“You heard the servants. It sounds like Aurora was…serviced quite well. Or do you want them to perform in front of you, like Tiberius’ sexual acrobats on the isle of Capri?”

“Well! You don’t have to—”

“Aurora is married, as you…requested, and before you arrived in Comum, as you requested. I don’t want to hear another word on the subject.”

Cast of Characters

Historical Persons

Caecilius Pliny’s biological father. Pliny never mentions him in his letters, but since his name, after adoption by his uncle, was Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus, we know his father’s family name (nomen gentilicum) was Caecilius. Inscriptions from around Comum mention men named Caecilius, but we don’t know if any of them was Pliny’s father.

Julia Daughter of Julius Agricola and wife of Tacitus. All we know about her is that she and Tacitus were still married in the late 90s, when Tacitus wrote the Agricola, his encomium of his father-in-law.

Lutulla I’m not sure where to put Lutulla. Her name appears in an inscription from around Comum, and she seems to have had some connection with a Caecilius. Whether either of them have anything to do with Pliny, we don’t know.

Plinia Pliny’s mother and the sister of Pliny the Elder. Pliny mentions her in only a couple of his letters, particularly 6.16 and 6.20, those describing the eruption of Vesuvius. We have no idea when she was born or when she died.

Pompeia Celerina In several letters Pliny mentions or writes to his mother-in-law, Pompeia Celerina, but he never mentions the name of her daughter (his wife) or her husband’s name. Relations between Pliny and his mother-in-law seem to have been cordial later. In this book they are off to a rocky start. Pompeia owned an estate at the town of Narnia, northeast of Rome, which Pliny enjoyed visiting.

Romatius Firmus A childhood friend of Pliny’s. Several letters are addressed to him (see Epilogue). He apparently stayed on in Comum as an adult.

Fictional Characters

Aurora Pliny’s servant and lover. After a brief first appearance in The Blood of Caesar, she has become a more and more important character and her relationship to Pliny has deepened.

Barbatus The stablemaster on Pliny’s estate near Comum.

Delius Illegitimate son of Pliny’s uncle, born to a mistress thirty-five years before the narrative date of this story.

Livia Pliny’s wife. Pliny was married two or three times, but the only wife he mentions by name is the last one, the youthful Calpurnia. The anonymous wife who was the daughter of Pompeia Celerina seems to have died about a.d. 96. Pliny mentions his affection for her in one of his letters.

Livilla Younger sister of Livia, first engaged to Pliny. She does not appear in this book but is referred to several times. If a man was named Livius, all of his daughters would be named Livia, the feminine form of his family name. Putting -illa on the end of the younger daughter’s name would serve to distinguish her from her older sister.

Naomi Servant and confidante of Pliny’s mother, and one of my favorite characters. She is Jewish and has had some influence on Plinia’s thinking.

Phineas Son of Naomi, and Pliny’s chief scribe. He’s a couple of years older than Pliny. He and Naomi were taken captive at the capture of Jerusalem in a.d. 70.

Pompeius Brother of Pliny’s mother-in-law, Pompeia Celerina.

Tertia Her name would have been Pompeia Tertia, since she was the third daughter of a man named Pompeius. To avoid some confusion, I have called her Tertia, as she would have been called by her family.

Glossary of Terms

Also see glossaries in previous books in this series.

aedile Roman magistrate whose duties included public works (roads, sidewalks, etc.), staging games and shows, and overseeing fair dealing in the marketplaces.

clientela Every Roman aristocrat was a patron and had lower-class persons who were dependent on him. The root cli- means to lean on, or rely on, someone. It’s also found in triclinium, where three people reclined on a dining couch. Clients were expected to be at their patron’s house early in the morning to greet him and receive a small donative to get them through the day and then accompany him as he went about his affairs in town. The size of a man’s clientela was an unmistakable measure of his wealth and prestige.

collegium A business partnership, usually among wealthy equestrians. The term could also cover a group of people, even a religious sect, who needed authorization to act as a corporation. Being recognized as a collegium gave them the right to own property, to establish a treasury, or to inherit when someone died.

equestrians The class of wealthy Romans just below the senatorial class, originally so called because they could afford to ride a horse into battle. Senators were forbidden to engage in any business, which left room for ambitious men from the lower classes to make fortunes. To qualify for equestrian rank, one had to have a total fortune of 400,000 sesterces (1,000,000 for the Senate). Periodically the censors would go over people’s accounts. If one’s fortune had slipped below the required mark, one would lose the equestrian status. Members of this class wore a narrow purple/red stripe on their clothing, the same color as, but not as broad as, the senatorial stripe.

hipposandals A kind of Roman horseshoes, strapped over a horse’s hooves when the animal had to pull a particularly heavy load or travel over rough terrain.

municipium The Romans established towns with various degrees of rights. A municipium was originally a settlement in Italy, but the term is later used of towns across the empire.

pankration A type of “mixed martial arts” practiced by the Greeks.

papyrus/parchment Papyrus, made from a plant that grows along the Nile, was the favored type of writing material in antiquity. Pages were glued together to make scrolls. Parchment, or animal skin, was known as far back as the fifth century b.c., but was considered an inferior material. Both are labor-intensive to make. Parchment won out because it works better in the codex, or book form, which we now use.

Perusia Ancient name for the city of Perugia, one of the major towns of Umbria, founded about 300 b.c. It is near Lake Trasimene, site of one of Hannibal’s major victories over the Romans in the Second Punic War.

Tanagra figurines Small terra-cotta statuettes depicting people, usually women, engaged in daily tasks or sitting and chatting. They were typically 4-7 inches high and originated in the Greek town of Tanagra, north of Athens, in the late fourth century b.c.

tunica rustica The gown traditionally worn by a Roman bride. It was white, with a saffron belt and veil.

About the Author

Albert A. Bell, Jr. is a college history professor, novelist, and weekend gardener who lives in Michigan. He and his wife have four adult children and two grandsons. In addition to his Roman mysteries, Bell has written contemporary mysteries, middle-grade novels, and nonfiction. Visit him at www.albertbell.com and www.pliny-mysteries.com.

Also by Albert A. Bell, Jr.

Cases from the Notebooks of Pliny the Younger

All Roads Lead to Murder

The Blood of Caesar

The Corpus Conundrum

Death in the Ashes

The Eyes of Aurora

Fortune’s Fool

Contemporary Mysteries

Death Goes Dutch

For Younger Readers

The Secret of the Bradford House

The Secret of the Lonely Grave

Nonfiction

Perfect Game, Imperfect Lives

Exploring the New Testament World