Graveyard of the Hesperides

LXI

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.

“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.