Master and God (19 page)

By contrast, Lucilla was wary and anxiety-prone. She could not risk being drained in the way Lara was. Scrimping and saving, or being dragged down by a man who could never quite be trusted, were not what Lucilla yearned for. She saw her sister’s life and feared ending up that way.

Lucilla had no real friends other than Lara. Lara taught her, shared their work, laughed with her, and gave her a home to visit for a share in family life. Lucilla generally spent birthdays and the great winter holiday of Saturnalia at Lara’s house. Lara had a deep affection for her, loving Lucilla equally with her own children. It was a devastating blow when, a couple of days after giving birth for the final time, Lara died. By the time Lucilla reached the house, the newborn baby had gone too.

Juno, what was the point of any of it?

Lucilla felt completely cast adrift again. Worse, she found tremendous pressure building for her to look after Lara’s children. For her sister’s sake she wanted to do right but the consequences, if she agreed, would be grim. Yet Lara’s children were her only blood relations.

Junius openly hoped she would move in. Just as when her mother died and Orgilius expected to inherit his lover’s daughter, Lucilla sensed that the tanner aimed to have her replace Lara in his home and bed. That would never happen, but his calculating, sordid gaze depressed her. Arrangements for her sister’s burial were mainly left to her.

It was at this point, immediately after the funeral, that the Praetorian found her sobbing.

‘It’s me – Vinius!’

Gaius had assumed Lucilla would be there, and was surprised to hear no answer to his cheery call. It was evening, when she rarely had clients. He had brought a goat-legged bronze side-table for the room where he had his couch. Dumping the furniture, he stood in the still corridor, listening.

He had never been at the apartment when Lucilla was absent, and he found it much less appealing.

A surprisingly dark thought came: that she might be entertaining a lover. Nothing to do with him, and it would be unpardonable to barge in. The lover would certainly get the wrong idea. Cringing, he imagined Lucilla’s reaction . . .

It was a courtesy between them that they never went into each other’s bedrooms. (That was what Vinius believed; Lucilla had no compunction about his when he was not there.) Her workroom was free ground; he tapped the door, strode in and came upon her sobbing broken-heartedly. Gaius Vinius jack-knifed through horror and fear of involvement, followed by a quick review of his own recent actions in case this was his fault. Then he flung open his arms, offering to comfort her.

Lucilla shook her head, impatiently lifting her lightweight chair to turn away from him.

Vinius folded his arms, looking resigned as he waited for her to finish crying. He ignored any instinct to pick her up like a bedraggled leveret. In the vigiles he had dealt with distraught women; he knew she would tire herself out, then speak coherently. He had learned this through dealing with the widow who had given away her savings to a fraudster who ‘seemed such a nice man, with such beautiful manners’, and that barmaid at the Fighting Cock who murdered her two-timing lover with a fish-kettle, beating his head as flat as a bread-paddle before begging the vigiles to bring the louse back to life . . .

Lucilla was an efficient nose-blower. With dried tears, she seemed quite winsome. Still, Vinius was a stalwart; he ignored any urge to set his co-tenant on his knee and kiss her better. Or indeed, kiss her until he felt better himself, now that he had started to think that his knee was a good place to put her.

Jupiter. With Verania still hung around his neck like a leadweight amulet, he had to treat Lucilla like a sister. He had always wanted a sister. As a good-looking young soldier, when he met other people’s sisters, he had gained the impression they were always very sweet.

‘Finished?’ A nod. ‘So what was all that about? A man caused the problem, I suppose?’

‘Only a man would say that!’ Lucilla jumped up from her chair, looking as if she wanted to stick a hairpin in his good eye. She swiftly informed him about Lara, whose funeral had been that afternoon.

Vinius was crushed. ‘Oh gods, I am sorry.’

Lucilla could not afford to quarrel because she had decided to ask a favour that she feared would not go down well. Seeing no alternative but to take Lara’s children and bring them up herself, she had a confused proposal: she would rent Gaius Vinius’ two rooms. ‘You wanted an investment—’

‘Stop it! This is a bloody ridiculous idea.’ Vinius clamped his hands on her shoulders and shook her. He seemed genuinely angry. ‘They have a father, don’t they?’

‘He’s useless; he’s revolting—’

‘Oh I get it – he groped you over the pyre today? Still, use your brain. How can you earn your living with a bunch of infants under your feet, especially if you try to take on double rent for this place?’ Everything Vinius said was obvious, but as Lucilla crumpled under his stern onslaught, he softened. ‘Ah Lucilla! Don’t throw away your precious life. Now you’re breaking my heart – please: let’s see your old spark again.’

At that moment Lucilla would, for once, have fallen on the Praetorian’s neck. Unfortunately, his arms remained rigid as he still gripped her shoulders, so she was unable to collapse into that inevitable disaster.

‘What am I to do then?’ Tears were about to gush again. Vinius let go of her quickly.

‘Buck up, girl. There has to be a solution. I’ll sort you out.’

‘I can sort myself,’ Lucilla whimpered ungraciously.

Vinius scoffed. ‘Doesn’t look like it to me! I’ll help. I don’t want snotty brats ruining my elegant investment, not to mention you blarting and reneging on your rent.’ Knowing when things were swinging his way, he changed his tone. ‘The best way to plot is over a food bowl. I’m ravenous and I don’t suppose you bothered to eat today? Does that bar down on Plum Street run to a Chicken Frontinian? Get your stole; I’ll treat you.’

‘I can pay my way.’

‘I’m offering street food, not a banquet.’

Lucilla unbent a little. ‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘The Scallopshell does chicken dumplings or pork morsels,’ Lucilla told him. ‘You have to wink first.’ The old emperor Vespasian had banned everything except pulses in food shops. Tiresome gruels discouraged people from lingering at the counter so long they started muttering against the political regime. In his previous existence, Vinius had policed the edict in a desultory fashion; when barkeepers were found selling meats instead of lentil pottage, the vigiles could lean on them, extracting information by threats to suspend their licences.

He could live with dumplings if Frontinian was unavailable. Eating out in public was safe. It held fewer temptations than being alone together in the apartment – provided his wife never heard about it. He had no evil intentions. He was too committed to thinking up a way to solve Lucilla’s problem.

Vinius found a solution quite easily.

He consulted Lucilla, then next morning took her to visit his brother. Felix and his wife, Paulina, had had a young son and daughter who both died of a childhood ailment the previous year, a common tragedy. Paulina had been a good mother and was desperate for more children. She had even suggested searching rubbish-dumps for abandoned babies. She felt apprehensive about risking pregnancy at her age, but longed for children so badly she was contemplating it – ‘Though my husband drives, which means he works at night. Not much chance of anything happening!’

During that remark, Lucilla saw Gaius Vinius was amused at the suggestion a couple might only make love in bed and at night; she looked away quickly.

‘The only other thing,’ said Felix, ‘is to buy a healthy slave girl. I can father a couple of nippers on her, no sweat.’

Paulina was a woman of few words, but said what she thought about that. Although Felix was a big man with bigoted opinions it was clear that in their house Paulina held sway. He pulled a face at his brother, but backed down, appearing oddly proud of his strong wife.

Vinius lost no time in taking his brother aside to broach his idea. Paulina was ahead of him. As soon as Lara’s orphans were mentioned, she showed Lucilla the room where her own children had once slept, an untouched shrine still containing their two tiny beds and pathetic row of clay animal figurines; she produced a copy of their memorial stone with its sad picture of the children, their pet duck and puppy.

Lucilla described the two little girls, whom Lara had named Marcia and Julia after the months of their birth; they were about five and six. If they could be taken care of, Junius’ mother would bring up the three older boys, who needed less attention; as lads, Junius took more interest in them anyway. Everyone thought the baby, Titus, who was about fifteen months old, was too sickly to live.

Without delay, Paulina asked for a meeting; Vinius shepherded her and Lucilla to Lara’s house. Since their mother died, the younger children had become very subdued. The boys had the same shifty manner as their father; they would be fine with him. The two girls were pretty, like their mother; Paulina instantly took to them.

Junius fairly readily agreed to give up his daughters. His only tricky reaction involved him taxing Vinius: ‘Your connection with my wife’s sister is
what
, exactly?’

‘I am Flavia Lucilla’s guardian,’ replied the Praetorian, unfazed. His sister-in-law glanced at him quickly.

‘How did that happen?’

‘I appointed him,’ Lucilla interrupted. ‘I met Gaius Vinius through official channels when he was very helpful to Mother and me. I would not dream of taking any important decision without his advice first.’

Even Gaius looked startled by this declaration, though he rallied enough to wink at Lucilla, a curious gesture from a one-eyed man.

‘Vinius Felix insists on proper arrangements,’ Paulina butted in, anxious to pin down Junius, of whom she clearly shared Lucilla’s low opinion. ‘If everyone settles down nicely, we will adopt formally.’ Her eyes narrowed at the whimpering Titus, whom Lucilla was tending. ‘What about that little mite?’

‘Don’t worry about him,’ shrugged Junius. ‘He won’t last the week.’

‘Give him to me as well then. I’ll comfort him on his way out.’

He might not die. Lucilla reckoned that if the toddler could be saved, this stern woman would achieve it.

They went in a quiet crocodile to Felix and Paulina’s house. The two little girls, in their matching pigtails that Lara herself had plaited a fortnight before, walked one each side of their new mother, with Paulina grasping each by the hand. Paulina seemed abrupt at first meeting, but the children had immediately accepted her gruff kindness. Lucilla carried the frail Titus in a basket. Vinius shouldered a small pack with the children’s meagre belongings, together with professional equipment of Lara’s that Junius had passed on to Lucilla.

Paulina gave them a meal, during which Lucilla had an odd feeling that her introduction to Felix and his wife might have wider repercussions. Paulina had encouraged her to see the girls whenever she wanted. She would be invited to their home again.

When she and Vinius were leaving, Felix came and thanked her for making his wife so happy with this ready-made family. Lucilla began to feel tearful again.

Vinius walked her back to Plum Street. ‘You did the right thing. Paulina is strict and Felix will spoil them silly; it’s perfect. Then of course, I make a wonderful uncle.’

Lucilla felt their relationship shift disconcertingly.

Vinius had to go to the Camp, or so he said. Lucilla wondered if he was really intending to visit his wife at the marital apartment. Whatever his destination, he seemed in no hurry to be there. Before he left that evening, he carried two chairs to the balcony. Felix had given him a flask of wine which Vinius poured into beakers. Feeling calmer about the future, but suddenly exhausted, Lucilla slumped in her chair beside his.

They sat for some time enjoying their drinks in silence. It was good wine. As a carter, Felix sometimes drove for a wine importer.

‘You will be all right,’ Vinius encouraged. ‘If you need any kind of help come to the Camp and ask me.’ Silence. ‘You
can
ask.’

‘Yes.’ Lucilla held up a hand, palm towards him. ‘You are a good friend, Gaius; I understand that.’

This was the first time she ever called him Gaius. It was a slip. Too personal. Even though he had become her nieces’ uncle, she would not repeat it.

It was then that Vinius turned his chair so he sat directly facing Lucilla. He could have reached out and taken her hand, though he did not do so. ‘I want to ask you some questions.’

Lucilla placed her beaker on the ground, immediately on the defensive. ‘What questions?’

‘Tell me about Lara.’

‘You met Lara once. She was here one day when you came, about six months ago.’

Vinius did remember. The women were very alike to look at. He had heard Lara in the workroom, sounding cheery; then she came out to be introduced. A pretty woman, though with dispirited eyes. They had barely met, yet to his mind the sister had stared at him as if she did not trust him near her Lucilla.

‘She loved her children?’

‘Yes. She kept them immaculate. She would have been horrified to see them today, all grubby and tearful.’ Children were like that all over the Empire though many others, even in gruelling poverty, were given the best of everything possible. Lara had been devoted. Please gods, Paulina and Felix would be too.

‘And she loved you too,’ commented Vinius.
She thought I was after you. She reckoned I was trouble
. . . ‘How old was Lara, would you say?’

‘She was thirty-six this year.’

She looked forty, Vinius thought; forty at least. ‘Thirty-six; and a mother how many times?’

‘Oh about ten,’ groaned Lucilla unhappily. ‘Some died. She still looked so young, to me, because of her happy nature, but she was worn out. And don’t say, “Never let that happen to you, Lucilla”, because she told me herself often enough.’

‘I bet she did!’ Vinius was still pursuing some mysterious line of thought. ‘When you were born, Lara would have been how old?’