Deadly Election

46

Not much was said on our return journey. We took our time setting out and did not hurry: there was no point in arriving back in Rome before the wheeled-vehicle curfew ended. For me, this trip could have been a delightful country idyll. However, it was overcast by a constant sense of strain.

When we first went to the carpentum, Julia Optata asked about the woodwork lashed to its roof. We told her it came from the litter of Callistus Valens, who had been set upon, and she looked as frightened as her sister had just sounded.

She wanted little to do with Tiberius and me. Although she had come with us, she still behaved as if she was travelling on sufferance. Sometimes I caught her chewing her lip as she brooded. Was she worried how things would turn out once she was back with Sextus?

For part of the way I sat in the rear of the carriage with her and her maid, hoping I might glean something useful. But Julia Optata had not exaggerated when she boasted to her sister of being tight-lipped: she never conversed with staff and had placed me in the same excluded category. I knew better than to expect the maid to gossip in front of her mistress, and no opportunities materialised to get her on her own at rest-stops. Julia kept her close, probably on purpose. I gave up on both of them, to allow myself the luxury of travelling up front, next to Manlius Faustus.

He was not a man who smooched or even held hands in front of his uncle’s driver. That hardly surprised me. Since I knew him, I was not disappointed either.

Other travellers were fascinated by the pieces of wrecked bodywork lashed to the roof of our own vehicle. People in carts coming the other way actually said hello. At one point a raffish young man overtook us, staring heavily, in a boy-racer chariot that must have cost his father much heartache; he turned round, came back for a second look, then asked Faustus if he would accept anything for the parts. He pressed but Faustus courteously declined.

It takes a real conniver to flog off evidence. My grandfather, for instance: he would have let it all go, for the right price. ‘Looks like you have a knack. If you want a career,’ I chortled to Faustus, ‘you could well become a scrap-dealer.’

He thanked me for this careers advice but wondered if it might put off women. I said the kind of women he liked would love it. He then claimed that doing up the house in Lesser Laurel Street had made him think. Instead of closing down the builders’ yard, he might keep it and go into business. I pointed out the previous owners renovated bars. He said, to a plebeian anything was acceptable, so long as it was lucrative. At least he had an insider view now of how much to bribe the district aedile.

That was the most exciting episode on our journey. We arrived back in Rome too early for our carriage to be allowed in. That gave us an excuse to persuade the driver to go round the city to a more convenient entrance than the Pincian Gate. We made him start a circle, but he lost his nerve at the Praetorians’ Camp even though they were all inside ‘resting’ (on wineskins, by the sound of it). As soon as the gatekeepers opened up, he nipped in through the Tiburtine Gate and flogged down all the way through the Fifth Region gardens. At the base of the Esquiline, where the Fifth joins the Second and Third Regions, we passed the enormous sanctuary of Isis and Serapis. I realised that this, rather than the other Temple of Isis beside the Saepta Julia, must have been where Trebonius Fulvo’s dog first bit the priestess. We could have called in to see how her wounds were but by then we were keen to be home.

We did see Consul. He was racing about, barking at vehicles’ wheels. ‘Don’t call him! He’ll recognise us and jump in.’

A sturdy man whistled decisively, at which the huge dog slowed up and tentatively returned to his new trainer. A piece of stick was thrown for him to fetch. Consul seemed pitifully grateful to be praised when he retrieved it.

At the house on the Clivus Scauri, Faustus and I closely observed Julia Optata’s return to her husband. He heard the carpentum and came to greet us in the atrium. Sextus embraced Julia; she clung to him. Their children then raced out, squealing with joy that their mother was back. His mother appeared, beaming. Even his father hovered, looking gently delighted to see everyone together.

It was all normal.

Absolutely normal.

So normal I would have felt ashamed I had ever doubted them – had I not overheard that telling exchange between the two sisters.

I finally managed to tell Faustus about it as we drove towards the Aventine. I could not remember full details of what had been a nebulous, allusive conversation. ‘They knew what they meant, but did not spell it out in case of eavesdroppers.’

‘I believe you,’ he reassured me.

Not long afterwards, we arrived at Fountain Court. There we had one of those tricky moments when I had to decide whether to invite him in, as if something particular might be expected, while he would have to choose what to do about a perhaps unwanted invitation …

Stalling, I said I was exhausted. Faustus also looked weary; he hesitated but suggested meeting tomorrow for breakfast at the Stargazer. Afterwards we could collect the litter parts from the Vibius house where we had left them for convenience, then take these tragic relics to show to the Callisti. They would not have thanked us if we had brought the heartbreaking evidence of their father’s fate so late in the evening.

Rodan for once was on the threshold, gawping. Tiberius passed me over into the cold porch of the Eagle Building, almost forgetting to say goodbye. I turned back, leaned in and kissed his cheek. ‘Ugh, stubble!’ he mumbled apologetically, rubbing a hand over his chin. In his tired state he seemed unsure of himself; with anyone else I would have thought he had regrets.

‘That stiff down from the Palatine came back again,’ grumbled Rodan.

‘Next time tell him I shall come to see him.’

The mules wanted their stable. Their driver had had enough of us. While I stood talking to Rodan, Faustus was driven off.

I walked upstairs. Entering my apartment, I was glad to be alone. I needed to think. I wanted to dwell undisturbed on what had happened in the mansio, whether it was significant in our lives or would prove to be a one-night wonder. I felt I knew the answers – but that was dangerous. My heart had been broken once, many years ago, when I had believed I knew what a man intended.

My sisters would have cheered me on. ‘Make him wait, Albia! Make him nervous …’ Julia and Favonia had never been in love themselves, so they were full of theories. Ridiculous girls.

So I had finally lured Manlius Faustus into bed, and what a terrible bed we had chosen. The bedbugs’ bites bothered me, just thinking about it. My bed, as I lay back on it, was a beautiful, expensive piece of furniture that had turned up at an auction long ago and been retrieved for private sale, especially for me. I had shared it with a husband. There were occasionally lovers, none who mattered. I could not pretend: a lover mattered now. My heart and body longed for him.

This is what you miss most as a widow. Not even the intercourse, really, because you can always arrange that somehow, but having someone solid and tolerant to loll against. Someone who drops an arm over you, during the night or early morning, wanting to make sure for himself that you are still there.

Everything about this bed was comfortable – except that I wished Tiberius was in it with me.