The Grove of the Caesars Page 14

  “Unfortunately, yes. We had completed our main session, the recital we were hired for. After we closed, we dallied for a bite to eat. The lady was so kind to us, we thought we would play another set as thanks. I went and offered to Cluventius—so that was when he started looking around to tell his wife. Then he realised she had gone. The poor man, he immediately felt guilty about not missing her sooner—he erupted.”

  “Did it strike people immediately that something must be wrong?”

  “Yes, because she had mentioned stepping aside but only to catch her breath—and that was quite a while before.”

  “How long, Stertinius?”

  “As long as it took for me and the boys to eat, then Pamphyllus to stuff in seconds.”

  “Quite long!” the drummer confirmed sweetly. Pamphyllus was not tall, but huge-bellied and always frank about his enormous takeaway. “Then I had to spend a few moments washing it all down.”

  “You know his ‘few moments’ of quaffing,” Fluentius reminded me. I did. Although the others were abstemious, Pamphyllus liked a beaker after their main set.

  “They knew something had befallen Victoria, out on her own in the dark,” I mused. “They realised she had been gone much too long. They were all a bit merry by then but had to do something about it. They started the search quite urgently?”

  “Straight off,” confirmed Stertinius.

  “Well organised?”

  “Surprisingly so. We joined in for a time. As long as we could. We had a concert the next day, so finally we had to slip away and leave them to it. Anyway, Cluventius had called in people. There seemed to be enough of them. We made enquiries afterwards, so we heard what had happened. Terrible. Absolutely awful. That poor woman.”

  I explained that it was not the first time; the pervert had taken many previous victims. “Had you ever heard of similar occurring?”

  Stertinius shook his head gravely. “No—but we’d never played Caesar’s Gardens before. Wrong side of the river. I hate the Transtiberina. It stinks of tanneries and fried fish. Then, if the client’s security is less than tight, sailors push their way into the recital. We only agreed because Cluventius knew we had done a musical soirée for the Empress recently, in her own gardens further along. No one says no to Domitia Longina. Not if they like life. So that was a precedent. We were trapped.”

  I smiled. “I expect the Cluventii had to pay accordingly!”

  “But of course! Am I not the Fabulous Stertinius? I set my rates accordingly. As your mother knows.” It was Mother who hired him to play at my wedding.

  “She told me she wangled a discount.”

  “I always let them think that,” grinned the great musician. His hands passed over his lyre strings expressively. “Mind you, in your mother’s case she was charming. I might have weakened.”

  I smiled again. “Ah, she is the Fabulous Helena Justina!”

  “Exactly.”

  We talked some more about the party, though with little more to add. They had taken more notice of the guests than many guests took of them. They told a story expressively. I could smell the roses and taste the roasts, hear the rise and fall of cheery voices—yet my gaze still could not reach beyond the edge of the entertainment, to see what had happened to Victoria Tertia on that lonely path in the dark.

  Expecting nothing, I did ask if the musicians had seen anything of my dancing boys. To my surprise, they had. During the main recital, Primulus and Galanthus, shameless pair, had sneakily slunk their way in. Once they began dancing, stewards fast manoeuvred them out.

  “Unsuitable body movements!”

  “That’s them. I’m afraid they have only mastered one style: imperial lewd.” I outlined how they had come to us. Stertinius had not played at the Black Banquet; music to accompany that tense event had been provided by professional funeral players. A “threnody combo,” Stertinius scoffed and, in his opinion, a poor one, not the best death ensemble that could have been chosen.

  Returning to the dancers, I said I hoped they had their clothes on.

  “Bum-starver tunics and altar-boy amulets,” confirmed Pamphyllus.

  “Gongs on thongs? Yes, I was aware of the amulets, though I tried not to look. I thought they were bound to be engraved with saucy seduction scenes, like rent-boys’ lamps … Oh, I’m saddened, Stertinius. I intended to offer that pair a good home, then see what they made of it. The lads seem to have run away that night, but if they encountered the killer, they might just have been petrified. I want to find anyone who saw them after they were chucked out of the party.”

  The musicians could not help. We would all have thought no more about it—until suddenly Fluentius recalled that as the musicians were making their way home they had heard distant screams. “Sorry, I forgot all about it. We knew it could not be Victoria Tertia because it did not sound like a woman. Too squeaky. Not even a whore being beaten by a sailor, we thought. Younger. Children, maybe. Messing about. It sounded like nippers playing frighten-yourself-silly games, long after they should have been in bed.”

  Whoever it had been, the sounds had come from the other direction. The musicians were halfway to the Sublician Bridge; they had had no incentive to turn back. It was late, wintry, dark, out in the open. Noises carried a long distance. By the time they could have reached the scene, anything alarming would have been over. They reckoned whoever they had heard might have been as far away as the Porta Portuensis on the district boundary.

  If it really was Primulus and Galanthus who were squealing, we had little hope of finding them. The vigiles would not operate beyond the city gate without good reason. They could, and if they were following runaway slaves who were likely to bring in a reward, they might be bothered. Otherwise, if the boys had gone that far, they were on their own now.

  XXXI

  It had been a long day and I was ready for my bed. The musicians sat on in the courtyard, as they often did. They would quietly play on for their own pleasure and practice, until they rolled themselves up in their robes where they were, sinking into sleep as the oil lamps died. In the morning they would all be gone.

  The night was still young. Gratus and Fornix were relaxing outside, listening to the music. Just when I was about to go upstairs, a late visitor arrived. Gratus went to the door. I waited to see who it was, in case of some crisis.

  To my surprise, it was Donatus, the scroll-seller, bringing a parcel that contained my next encyclopaedia present for Tiberius. “I came to meet my reader!”

  “You’re out of luck.” I explained why Tiberius was in Fidenae, although meeting him was an excuse, really: Donatus was more eager to look at my scrolls.

  “I promised to think about them.”

  “You promised. I thought you were shooing me out of your shop.”

  He peered around, spotted the table covered with scroll sets, and went straight over there. Unlike Julius Karus, he immediately began to poke through them. “I would never buy these! They look like old onion skins.”

  I joined him, agreeing they were filthy. “There are no complete sets. Some of the poor tattered things are just bitty extracts.”

  “And yet somehow they always retain the precious papyrus sheet that names the so-called author!” Donatus marvelled bitterly as he continued looking. He was quite violent with the rolls, shaking them so the remaining dirt flew out, then throwing them open right to the far ends. He pulled at rods and waggled loose pieces, grabbed a lamp and scrutinised title sheets. “Nothing here is by that well-known writer Anonymous, the invisible sage of nowhere.”

  I saw his point. Even so, I felt obliged to argue on behalf of my treasures. “Maybe whoever last owned them just threw anonymous material away.”

  “Or wiped his bum?”

  “Well, kindled a bonfire. They were found in a garden.”

  “If we were in Egypt, they’d be used as mummy wrappings … but we’re not, are we?”

  “Are they any use, Donatus?”

  “They are utter rubbish, if you ask me.”<
br />
  “I did ask you.”

  “Well, that was very sensible, Albia. You came to the one honest scroll-seller in Rome. I, unlike all the other bastards, will tell you what these items are—and why, even though their contents are complete dross, they could have value.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Tell me, then. This is what I wanted.”

  “At Donatus and Xerxes, we aim to please.”

  “Xerxes? I’ve never seen any sign of him.”

  “Pure invention. A partnership sounds more reliable than a one-man outfit. It sounds as if when one seller is less than helpful, or has gone off and closed the shop for a week, the customer can complain to the other. Punters are so easily fooled. But you don’t need Xerxes. I can give you the lowdown.”

  “So, honest partner-inventor?”

  “So, that lyre-player and his band have got drinks,” said Donatus. “Can I have one?”

  * * *

  I saw Gratus rear elegantly to his feet, going for the flagon. Donatus looked around my gathering, which now even included Suza and the dog. Suza did not want to miss anything. Barley had come to investigate; bored by what was going on, she clambered slowly into her kennel, turning around to look out at us. She managed to indicate how patient she was with us, dragging on after sensible dogs went to sleep. I was on her side. I felt ready to drop.

  “You are out late,” I hinted, while we waited for Gratus. Donatus replied it was early for him; he would probably go around a few bars after we kicked him out. “Probably” sounded like a firm decision. I mentioned my exhausting day. He said he was sorry to keep me up—clearly not planning to leave yet.

  As a good informer, I braced myself. You never send them away. Either they never come back again, or they lose any will to cooperate.

  Once powered with mulsum, Donatus said immediately, “Your scrolls are forgeries.”

  That told me.

  His new attitude tonight was impressive. He still had the stringy hair and languorous expression, yet he had sharpened up. Since I visited the shop, he had done much more than I expected. He had asked among his clients, he said, one collector in particular. Sure of his ground, Donatus spoke firmly. It seemed odd to receive a tight, factual lecture from him. Although he would always look the kind of unwashed obsessive who would offer barmy theories, as weird as his own shop customers, suddenly he made sense.

  “Say again where you found them.” I did so. Donatus squared up to it: “I think I know what’s going on. The usual way to age papyrus involves burying it in casks of grain, which will work its way in nicely among the whole roll and stain it. Something else has happened with your little cache because if you unravel these, as I did, the far end is still cleaner than the start. I expect you noticed?” I cannot say I had. But I was no expert; that was why I went to him. “Otherwise people use ‘cedar baths.’ I found that in Pliny—”

  “You’ve been reading my reserved scrolls?” I experienced a twinge of outrage. I felt as if someone had grabbed a new acquisition of mine, and started it before I had had a chance to.

  “Books should be read. I think Pliny is wrong—he’s just done his usual thing of passing on some tale a correspondent told him without testing it. Cedar is wood. It would be hell to get enough juice for some kind of ‘bath.’ I do sometimes use walnuts to darken repairs, but only on small areas. Legitimately, of course.”

  “You can buy cedar oil,” I countered. “It’s used on furniture and floors. It’s good against moths.”

  “Why does this household need an encyclopaedia?… Yes,” Donatus agreed grudgingly. “It’s the main pesticide for protecting scrolls, but used very thinly…” Under challenge, he was losing interest.

  “Why were my scrolls buried in the ground?”

  “Someone has been experimenting. They hope the earth will stain them, so they look like antiques.”

  “Why bury them in the Grove of the Caesars specifically?”

  “Good question, Flavia Albia. Out of the way, presumably. Someone who doesn’t have land of their own? That’s most people! In Rome, who owns gardens? Did you mention a cave?”

  “Man-made. Represents a ghastly grotto. Pile of rocks. We are dismantling it to rebuild with an imperial nymphaeum.”

  “Your turning up there is someone’s hard luck, perhaps—or perhaps not.”

  “Why?”

  Donatus took a long swig, emptying his beaker. He was hoping for a refill. I pretended to be so excited I overlooked this yearning. Gratus still had the flagon by him but had closed his eyes as if absorbed in the delights of music. Donatus stopped hoping, being even more keen to impress me: “If you are passing off new finds of scrolls as ancient, Albia, they have to look right. What’s written must be scrawled on the correct material for the time and seem to be suitably aged since then. The lettering and dialect must match whatever would have been used by that author, not to mention the content. His style, his sphere of interest.” That matched the kind of comment Tuccia had made when I showed her the scrolls. “But crucially,” Donatus added, “you must come up with a believable context for your find. You must show that your fakes came to light now for a reason. A tomb collapses through neglect or is struck by lightning. A flood washes material out. An earthquake throws up long-missing treasure.”

  “Might someone have known the plans to excavate the grotto?”

  “Could be. But I suspect that they chose the cave only because it was so isolated. Otherwise, they would have needed to be on the spot just when you dug, if they were to exploit the ‘discovery.’ More likely this was just an experiment. Not very successful, because their burial hole was obviously damp.”

  I nodded. “Stagnant puddles. I find the grotto creepy.”

  “The presence of water could speed up the ageing process,” mused Donatus, rather taken with this idea, “but if left too long, scrolls start to rot. You can see where it has happened. It makes them unreadable in places—though admittedly they do look authentically old as a result. My fear would be that if they dry out now, they will fall to pieces.” I thought, Better sell them on fast, then! “The only good thing—going back to your cave, Albia—is that any fakers can now claim it was your building work that brought them to light.”

  “Wrong, unlucky fakers! I have got them, so any claims will be made by me. Anyway, there’s a big flaw. That cave is man-made, in the time of Augustus. Epitynchanus and Philadespoticus hail from the School of Miletus, hundreds of years ago.”

  “Ah, the crucial error! Detail. This is so often where forgers go wrong!” Donatus was enjoying himself being snide. “Such people think they have it nailed. Good craftsmanship. Excellent scholarship. But they become over-confident, so a vital historical element is wrong. Their story breaks down. The cave wasn’t built— I love it!”

  We fell silent. Gratus saw I was happy to continue the conversation, so he came and poured more drink. I declined.

  “All right,” I said. “I am being an auctioneer’s daughter: what is your provenance for this kind of forgery? Who says literary counterfeiting takes place?”

  Donatus let out a hollow laugh. “History says so, for one thing. The best literary fraud I know began with the tumbledown tomb of a certain Dictys, a minor figure in the Trojan War. His burial place fell to pieces. In the rubble was a memoir he had written about his personal experiences. Unfortunately, he was a latecomer to the war, so he made out he had collected further stories from Odysseus when he ran across him.”

  “His memoirs were ‘found’ at the ruined tomb the way we found our scrolls?”

  “Allegedly. They were brought to Nero. According to different stories, they were translated from an archaic language into a more modern version, either before they were brought to Rome or afterwards on Nero’s orders. The need for translation gave authenticity, though of course it meant the resultant copy was no longer ancient. Nero handed out big finders’ fees all round, because he was delighted to be able to promulgate this genui
ne story of what happened at Troy. People have a real wish for knowledge.”

  “But?” I sensed a contradiction coming.

  “Apart from, was it really the tomb of Dictys and was a real epic found in it? Plus various textual curiosities, I believe?… Flavia Albia, what is the most famous trait of Homer’s Odysseus?”

  “There are so many … Clever, stubborn, full of hubris, complicated. Wily, untrustworthy—he lies, cheats and steals. Odysseus the Liar.” I chortled quietly. “I’m with you. It sounds like a forger is tipping the wink.”

  “Astute woman! Honest forger, too. But would people notice whatever he was slyly telling them…?”

  “Verdict?”

  “No verdict. The stuff vanished into an imperial library and it all died down quietly. What saved a big scandal is that nothing was being sold on the market. No one has any reason to publicly challenge Dictys’s brand-new, somewhat belated so-called autobiography.”

  “Well, memoirs are generally ghosted, Donatus. People who have adventures are full of themselves, but that makes them rubbish writers. Was it a good read?” I asked. If Tiberius were here, that would be his question.

  “No idea. I only sell stuff, I don’t have to read it. If it caught on at the time, it was a fad, one of those cascades where ignorant people think they want to read the latest sensation simply because everyone else has. We shift a lot of copies that way, so as dealers we never point out what crap it is. Most buyers never open the thing, or they give up at the first papyrus join.”

  “Meanwhile people lie around at dinner parties claiming the stuff is wonderful … Bestsellers—the most unread books in the world.” I smiled. As I waved an arm over the table of scrolls, I could feel myself frowning. “Here is the crunch: if I try to sell these grub-infested items, will there be a public challenge?”

  Donatus looked at me sadly. “I doubt that. You will offer them through your father, I presume? Falco, if he’s careful, will catalogue them as ‘believed to be counterfeit.’ Is he an honest auctioneer?”