Master and God (36 page)

He was sitting very still. He had been in a stupor for a long time, days maybe. A dagger was lying close upon his desk, though his lassitude was so severe it prevented him even killing himself. Did he want to commit suicide? He could not even tell. He had no energy. He was lifeless. No one could reach his misery. He himself could no longer analyse what was happening, despite a confused feeling that something must have gone awry. Thought had become jumbled at one point, but now there was no thought.

There was nothing.

He heard the Praetorians arrive. Irregular thumps indicated vague attempts to break down the door, but that was short-lived.

He heard a man say not to damage the décor; stand back and let him fiddle. Rutilius tensed. After some scratching and a muffled curse, the double doors swung gently inwards. A Guard came in, sucking a cut hand. He came in alone. He closed the doors after him quietly then opened just one set of shutters to let in daylight. He came over and sat on the edge of the table, still sucking the blood from his hand where the knife he used on the lock had skidded off and gashed him.

Rutilius did not respond. He made no eye contact.

The Guard had only one eye, in fact. He could have looked terrifying. His matter-of-fact manner belied his scarred appearance.

‘Good morning, sir. My name is Vinius Clodianus. I have come along to see if everything is all right?’

The level way the Guard spoke was reassuring. Quintus Julius Cordinus Gaius Rutilius Gallicus managed to speak for the first time in days: ‘Something seems a little odd . . .’

‘Yes.’ Clodianus placed a hand – the unwounded one – kindly upon the Prefect’s shoulder. Rutilius did not react. The Praetorian lifted his hand immediately, taking the opportunity to pick up the unsheathed dagger from the Prefect’s desk. The young man placed the dagger on a side-table and came closer again. ‘Yes, I can see things are in a bit of pickle. But you’ve done a good job, sir, nice holding operation; now you can relax. I am here. Nothing bad is going to happen. My job is to take charge of absolutely everything, so you don’t have to worry.’

A group of servants, incapable of following a simple order, pushed into the room, twittering.

‘Would you all mind stepping back outside?’ The Praetorian spoke politely, though his voice showed annoyance. ‘The Prefect and I will ask, if we need anything. A doctor who understands these situations has been summoned. When he arrives, just knock on the door to warn us and let him straight in, please.’

The doors closed. As silence descended, the Prefect of the City found it easier to hold himself together. Nevertheless, he was only just succeeding.

The Praetorian Guard was seated now, long legs outstretched in front of him, ankles crossed. He had positioned his feet very carefully, as if he could only control his legs with great care, as if he needed the top one to hold down the other. It took a trained man to notice that. Despite it, the Guard had never let his single eye stray from watching the Prefect. Meanwhile he was prepared to sit companionably, applying no pressure.

He smiled. It had a wry quality. ‘We can talk, if you would like that,’ he offered. The Prefect was incapable of talking. He was sunk so deep in depression, he could not even move. ‘Or not. Incidentally, I am the Guard who was a prisoner in Dacia. We met at the palace the other evening; you had the goodness to speak to me encouragingly, sir. I have not been myself since I came home and I just don’t know how to straighten everything out. To be honest, I would appreciate a few quiet moments myself.’ Motionless, Rutilius might not even have heard. ‘Thank you, sir,’ replied the Guard, as if their two troubled souls had, in fact, communicated.

So, sitting together in that room burdened with documents that should have been dealt with days ago, weeks ago, even in some cases months ago, Vinius Clodianus and Rutilius Gallicus waited for the doctor to arrive. A fly battered itself pointlessly against one leaf of the open window shutter, buzzing at the same spot repeatedly, heedless of the fact that if it just walked around the wooden frame, freedom lay inches away.

L
udicrous, thought Gaius. Here is the Prefect, who is in such panic he has mentally shut down. They have sent a man to care for him who is so chronically drunk, he is floating in clouds, hampered by a mile-high headache.

Watching over Rutilius, wafting kindness in that sad man’s direction, Gaius considered his own predicament. He was in a foul pit. He had dug it himself.

For three days, he had been a bigamist.

He wanted to ignore the situation, but it could not be avoided and raised a sweat along his hairline. He was so busy nipping from place to place to dodge people, like a servile cook in a comedy, he could neither solve the predicament nor take advantage of the possibility of sleeping with two wives. That was on hold for other reasons too.

Caecilia, to whom his brothers had bound him, was obviously disappointed and intending to endure her new marriage only as long as she had to. For her, Vinius Clodianus was merely a legal instrument. Under the stringent Augustan matrimony laws, as soon as her first husband passed on she had two years to remarry or she would lose a rather pleasant legacy; time was running out. Caecilia was, Gaius supposed, his fifth wife.

Onofria, his fourth, he could hardly bear to think about. Gaius Vinius, who called himself a careful man, a man of sense, had married a stranger he met in a bar. After one terrible, sloppily debauched evening had come a desperate night, now a dreadful dim recollection which rose repeatedly like vomit. At the time, he and Onofria had convinced themselves that their few hours of camaraderie were a sound basis for a lifetime together. In fairness to Onofria, once she sobered up, which took all of four days, she did point out that this was never going to work.

For the last three days, Vinius had also been married to Caecilia, with a wedding ring to prove it, something his fourth wife luckily failed to notice, being most of the time upended with her head in a bucket. With his fifth wife, Vinius was head of household of a neat, small, convenient apartment in Lion Street, and (he was astounded to learn) stepfather to three young children.

Caecilia had actually visited the Camp to find out where her bridegroom was. Onofria could never have made it, since even if she had had such a terrible idea, she was too queasy to go further than the apothecary on the corner of the street for medicines, which she took instead of food. In any case, Onofria would not chase him to his workplace, because she was an easy-going, hard-living, free-thinking, free-spirited woman, who even while recovering from a binge was only interested in wondering where her next night’s drinks would come from.

As far as he knew, Caecilia must have been headed off at the Camp (where soldiers were used to getting rid of women who believed themselves married to colleagues), so the cornicularius had not encountered her. Not so far. It was bound to happen. Gaius knew his superior took a dim view of men who bamboozled women into ‘marriage’ even though it was not allowed. Gaius was heading for more shit than Hercules cleaned from the Augean Stables. He was out of control. It was remarkable he was not having a nervous breakdown of his own.

Perhaps he was.

Rutilius was deteriorating. Tears began coursing down his cheeks. The doctor still had not arrived. Pharoun of Naxos: the official choice for this task.

Time for initiative. Gaius gave orders to the Guard who came with him: ‘Go to the Ludus Magnus and find Themison of Miletus, who bandages up the gladiators. Mention my name –’ He tapped his face. ‘Describe this wreckage. Tell him I need help for a friend of mine. Oh – tell him it’s a different friend this time; otherwise he’ll wet himself. If he agrees, escort him politely. If he quibbles, rope him up and bring him anyway.’

Eager to put one over on Pharoun, Themison came promptly.

Rutilius refused to budge. They had to lift him up from his chair and shift him along physically. Gaius went first, walking backwards, enticing this great Roman figure forwards, beckoning with both hands as if he were catching a particularly neurotic pony. Themison and the Guard shoved the Prefect from behind, using a mix of respectfulness and brute force, as they manoeuvred him to a litter so they could take him to his own house.

‘Better come as well,’ Themison told Gaius while they got their breath back. ‘He seems to have formed a bond with you.’

Gaius had to stay at the Prefect’s house for a week before heavy sedation and various kindly treatments worked enough magic for Themison to release him. Before that, if he left the room even for ablutions, Rutilius became agitated.

The cornicularius was to say, ‘I told you to use initiative, not get yourself imprinted as a duckling’s mother.’ Adding, ‘At least you came back sober!’ Then, snidely, ‘Doesn’t the Prefect’s house have a wine cellar?’ And the final put-down: ‘Your wife’s been here, by the way.’

At least the Prefect was recovering. Rewarded with time off for this achievement, Gaius Vinius turned up, not at either of his wives’ homes but the Insula of the Muses at Plum Street. Where, so far, neither his fourth nor fifth wife knew he had an apartment.

Terror the dog was tied to a ring outside, so he could watch the world go by. He wagged his tail and let Gaius enter, without savaging his leg, then growled to show he would not let him leave.

Indoors, a couple of customers were having their hair styled by Lucilla and her girls. Gaius walked past this coven and into the kitchen. He made a drink: mulsum. The warm spiced concoction was everyone’s panacea, though a man in his disarray might need something stronger. He cooked even a drink in the male style; his method was adventurous and time-consuming, using as many utensils as possible, tasting frequently, admiring his own skill. He was so ambitious, he threw away the first panful as not meeting his high standards.

He carried a jug and two beakers into the workroom, where the clients were now having manicures from Glyke and Calliste. Silence fell. He squeezed through, aware of significant looks that passed between the women; he guessed Lucilla would be on the balcony. He closed the fold-up door for privacy.

‘It’s me.’

Lucilla nodded.

‘Pax?’

‘Pax Romana.’

‘I haven’t been myself.’

‘I bloody well hope not, Vinius! I wouldn’t like to think that’s what you have become.’

‘You were boorish yourself, woman.’

‘As you so rightly pointed out, I got divorced – it was a bad moment . . . I’ll forgive you if you forgive me.’

In daylight and sunshine, today they were just fellow-tenants. It was probably shaky but neutrality was reinstated between them.

For some time they sat side by side in silence. His mulsum was decent, though not as wonderful as Gaius believed. He gulped. Lucilla sipped hers, looking tired and drowsy.

At one point they both raised their beakers to salute old man Cretticus as he shuffled about down in his garden. They both sat back and put up their feet on the balustrade.

Eventually they heard movement indoors as the customers and girls left; Lucilla went out for polite farewells and, presumably, to take money. When she returned, Terror barged ahead of her; he threw himself on Gaius, putting heavy paws on his shoulders and licking him. Gaius petted the dog, though Lucilla must have seen him wrinkling his nose. Tended by hairdressers, Terror’s fur was combed, his skin oiled and ridiculously scented with floral lotions.

With the other women gone, a still afternoon descended. The only sounds now were birdsong and distant street noises. After Terror calmed down and just lolled on him, Gaius continued to rub the dog’s great neck for comfort.

‘Borrow him if you want. You’d love the Camp, wouldn’t you, Baby? . . . What’s the matter, Vinius?’

‘I’m all right.’

‘You look as if you need to talk to someone.’

Dodging the real issues, Gaius described helping Rutilius Gallicus. ‘Confidentially.’ Rome knew the City Prefect was unwell, though not precisely how he was afflicted.

Succinctly but honestly, Gaius then reported his own troubles.

Assigned a reluctant role as his female friend and confidante, Lucilla listened. Gaius, who would unburden himself to nobody else, never considered how unfair it might be to discuss his personal life so intimately. He had known Lucilla for ten years. He reckoned he had permission to tell her everything. He could not decipher all she was thinking, but her veiled gaze added to the attraction. What man is not thrilled to have the attention of a woman who keeps her mystery?

‘What am I going to do?’

Lucilla said briskly, ‘You cannot be a bigamist. In Rome, marriage is defined as willing co-habitation by two people. You can only do it once. The second marriage automatically annuls the first.’

Gaius was impressed. ‘When did you train as a lawyer?’

‘Customer talk. If you don’t believe me, take proper legal advice.’

‘I can’t risk telling anyone. I would be informed on.’

‘You just told
me
.’

‘I trust you.’

‘Thanks!’ Lucilla sounded dry.

Gaius rasped a laugh: ‘The crazy thing is, anyone who tries to denounce me will come whispering to the very team of inquisitors I now collaborate with.’

He saw Lucilla frown. ‘Are you going to enjoy that work?’

‘No. But this is the Guards.’

‘You will need a clear head then. Stop overdoing the drink. Yes,’ Lucilla reproved him. ‘Members of your family are very concerned. Paulina had a word. For some reason people think you may listen to me.’

‘I do.’

‘Then stop being a barfly.’

‘I am dealing with it.’ Gaius poured them more mulsum; they both smiled.

‘All drunks say they are in control, but I agree you are strong-willed.’ Lucilla was presumably thinking,
I ought to know
. ‘Besides, wine is just your temporary refuge; it’s understandable. You never got over Dacia. Are you still sleeping badly?’

‘Bad memories.’ Gaius scowled. ‘I came home, assuming I had left it all behind, yet Dacia won’t loosen its grip on me. While I was there, the recurrent memory was something very different.’ Time to tell her. Time to open up. ‘We have never talked about what happened at Alba.’