Graveyard of the Hesperides (41 page)

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 Ptolomaïs 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.

 

LXII

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.

In the atrium, Tiberius was helped to offer me fire and water, tokens of the life we were to have together. “Blazing rows and tears!” muttered a female guest satirically.

I handed another coin to Tiberius as an emblem of my supposed dowry. I was almost afraid to touch him in case he crackled.

I laid the third coin as an offering to his Lares, which appeared to be the crooked ones from my parents' house; someone must have whizzed them up here. I tried to kindle the hearth with the sodden marriage torch; male cousins got a flint to spark, then lit the hearth for me. I tossed the dead torch among the guests, who fought for it as a lucky charm—more fool them.

We exchanged gifts. Uncle Tullius spoke for Tiberius, saying that his gift to me was our new house, though he also gave me pearl earrings, from which I shall never be parted. I had bought him Pliny's
Natural History
—but only one scroll.

“I have to explain, love. This first scroll is an enormous table of contents—from which you will discover, I am sad to say, that the book you want most, on precious stones and marbles, is the last but one. My plan is: I give you the first book now at our wedding, then every year on our anniversary, you shall have one more scroll. When we have been happy together for thirty-seven years, your collection will be complete. You can either choose another book, or you can leave me.”

Tiberius was smiling as he managed to croak, “If we divorce, can I keep the library?”

“Argue when we get that far.”

He would own the entire encyclopedia one day. I was sure of it.

*   *   *

Our ordeal was almost over. I recited a prayer—“Heaven help me!”—and was led by my matron of honor to the wedding chamber. Our bed, our comfortable bed from Fountain Court, would be waiting for us.

I let Claudia Rufina come only as far as the bedroom door, which I closed very firmly. Only then could I take charge of my stricken lad. I put him to bed, trying not to weep over him too much. So many brides have to cope with new husbands who are too drunk to move. Half-paralyzed, mine could barely groan, but he was blameless. “Tiberius Manlius, you are favored of the gods. Jupiter Best and Greatest struck you with his thunderbolt, yet allowed you to live.”

I undid the damned Hercules knot myself, but afterward he always said that was only what he would have expected of me in any case.

*   *   *

We lay still and quiet together, listening as our guests, drenched and exhausted, prepared to depart. Tomorrow they would all be back and we must give a dinner (Julia and Favonia had booked Genius again); on following nights, other festivities. Being married is no holiday. But the point was to make a big public statement and our wedding had surpassed all hopes.
Aedile bridegroom struck by lightning
would even make it to the
Daily Gazette
.

I heard the last guests milling about. There were tired women's voices as they collected up young children. Men sounded less in evidence. I had glimpsed Father and Uncle Petro, heads together, dumping their women while the women deplored them. If I knew them, it was prearranged, though I had lip-read the classic mutter of, “Let's get to a bar; I need a drink!”

The bar crawl would be decorous, because they were taking my young brother Postumus and Marius, who was very refined, a philosopher. They excluded the loathsome Antistius, though as a gesture to new unity, Uncle Tullius was discreetly invited.

Some landlord would do well tonight. It would probably be at the Stargazer. But wherever they went, I knew it would be a better bar than the Garden of the Hesperides.

 

Also by
Lindsey Davis

T
HE
F
LAVIA
A
LBIA
N
OVELS

The Ides of April

Enemies at Home

Deadly Election

The Graveyard of the Hesperides

T
HE
F
ALCO
S
ERIES

The Silver Pigs

Shadows in Bronze

Venus in Copper

The Iron Hand of Mars

Poseidon's Gold

Last Act in Palmyra

Time to Depart

A Dying Light in Corduba

Three Hands in the Fountain

Two for the Lions

One Virgin Too Many

Ode to a Banker

A Body in the Bathhouse

The Jupiter Myth

The Accusers

Scandal Takes a Holiday

See Delphi and Die

Saturnalia

Alexandria

Nemesis

The Course of Honour

Rebels and Traitors

Master and God

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

LINDSEY DAVIS
is the author of the
New York Times
bestselling series of historical mysteries featuring Marcus Didius Falco, which started with
The Silver Pigs
, and the mysteries featuring Falco's daughter, Flavia Albia, which started with
The Ides of April
. She has also authored some acclaimed historical novels, including
The Course of Honour
. She lives in Birmingham, England.

 

Visit the author's Web site at
www.lindseydavis.co.uk
or sign up for email updates
here
.

 

Thank you for buying this

St. Martin's Press ebook.

 

To receive special offers, bonus content,

and info on new releases and other great reads,

sign up for our newsletters.