Furies (3 page)

Viator, the bald slave, snatched up the Etruscan amphora set in a central nook of the wall, clearly a place of honour. Titiana flinched, her cheeks flushed, but she held her silence.

“Put that down,” Aculeo snapped.

“My master told us to take it all,” Viator said.

“Your master can get buggered by a radish.” Atellus looked up at his father, his eyes wide in surprise, but remained silent as his mother. “That was never part of it.”

Gnaeus appeared, took the amphora from Viator, smearing the splendid black and red surface of the double-handled amphora with his greasy fingerprints. “It’s not worth much anyway,” he said, pursing his lips. “Two hundred sesterces perhaps.”

“It’s a classic piece, worth twenty times that,” Aculeo seethed.

Gnaeus scratched at his beard - probably swarming with fleas, Aculeo thought. “Three hundred at most,” the freedman said with a shrug.

“Just put it …”

“Oh what does it matter?” Titiana said irritably. “I’m surprised you didn’t pawn it as well.”

“I could never have done that,” Aculeo said. “I gave it to you on our first anniversary.”

She sighed and turned to Gnaeus. “Five hundred.”

“Titiana, no …”

“Is it mine or not, Aculeo?”

“Of course, but …”

“It’s a long journey to Rome and we need silver more than an old amphora.” She turned her attention back to the freedman. “Five hundred. No more haggling, I’m not a fishwife in the Agora.”

Gnaeus smirked and counted out the coins, then passed the amphora to Viator. “Box it up with the rest.”

“Back to work, leeches,” the old slave Xanthias snapped, herding them out of the tablinum. “Leave the Master and Mistress be!”

The moneylenders’ slaves returned to stripping the contents out of the villa, stacking the fauces with more crates, tables, chairs, tapestries unhooked from the walls, preparing to load it all into the mule wagons parked outside the gates.

“Titiana, if you’d only just listen to me,” Aculeo whispered, kneeling on the floor at her feet, trying to take her small hand in his. She gently but firmly pulled it from his grasp.

Little Atellus beamed at his father. “Why you on the floor, Poppa?” he asked.

Aculeo felt his heart break at the child’s sweet beauty, his plump, rosy cheeks and lips, thick chestnut curls and oh, his mother’s golden-brown eyes. “I’m just tired,” he said, smiling at the boy.

Atellus raised his hands, sticky from the honeyed dates he’d been eating, and chirped, “Poppa, come play!” Aculeo laughed and snatched him up, tossing him in the air. Atellus squealed in delight and Aculeo tried to kiss his cheek but the boy was too full of energy. He squirmed out of his father’s arms and ran down the marble hallway towards the atrium.

“Ah, he’s heading to the garden again. I’ll fetch him,” Xanthias said, leaving them alone at last.

“Titiana, it’s not the season to travel,” Aculeo pleaded. “By the Gods, we just lost two fleets! Why don’t you wait until spring at least, or summer?”

“Perhaps you should have picked a better time to lose everything,” she said. The softness of her tone did little to reduce the words’ sting.

“A few months at most and we’ll be back on our feet.”

“Don’t be a fool, Aculeo.”

“Titiana, you have to trust me …”

“Trust you?” she cried, tears in her dark, lovely eyes for the first time since he’d broken the news of their bankruptcy ten days ago. “Why didn’t you trust me enough to even discuss things before you threw everything away on Corvinus’ foolishness?”

“It was an investment. An investment like any other …”

“An investment that required you to put up our house as security? Our entire estate? Even my dowry?”

“Titiana …”

“My dowry, Aculeo, not yours to do with what you will. But that wasn’t enough, was it? No, you had to tangle up some of our dearest friends in your
investment
, ruining them as well for the sake of that stupid, stupid man!”

“We owed our entire fortune to Corvinus.”

“Where is that fortune now, husband? And where is the man? Both just ashes on the pyre.”

She’s twisting it, Aculeo thought, though he held his tongue. How could I have predicted what would happen? How could anyone? Storms off Portus had sunk not just the primary but also the secondary of the company’s great fleets of grain freighters. And when Aculeo had called on Corvinus and discovered the villa empty, his patron’s pale, bloated body floating in the bath, the blood from his open veins staining the bathwater, flies already crawling across his forehead …

“Corvinus was like my own father! How could I have said no?”

She fixed him with a withering glare. “How could you have said yes? And borrowing from a man like Gurculio!” She spat out the name as though she had a mouthful of lye.

The moneylender’s slaves stumped into the room opposite. Vibius approached the death masks of the illustrious Tarquitius ancestors hanging on the wall in their ashwood frames and plucked one off, examining it in puzzlement. “What about these?” he asked, passing it to Gnaeus.

“Put that down, fool,” Aculeo hissed.

“I can get a good price for them if you like,” Gnaeus offered. “New men are always trying to gild their pasts.” Aculeo glowered in response, seething. “Fine, dusty old things anyway,” the freedman said, tossing it carelessly onto a table. The masks seemed to gaze across the room at Aculeo, silently casting their unanimous judgement.

Xanthias returned with Atellus in hand, the boy’s tunic smeared with dirt. “Can you not stay clean for five minutes?” Titiana sighed.

“I’m sorry Mistress, he was too quick for me,” the slave said.

“You too old,” the child proclaimed.

Titiana allowed a small smile, laying her hand gently on the slave’s cheek. “Thank you, Xanthias. It’s hardly your fault, he’s quite wilful. Come, Atellus,” she said, holding out her hand for her son. The boy stuck out his lower lip and hugged Xanthias, turning away from his mother.

“Perhaps he’s hungry,” Xanthias said. “I’ll have the cook make him something.”

“He just ate. I don’t want him to get sick. He can eat again once we’re aboard.”

“Titiana, I beg you not to go,” Aculeo said.

Titiana closed her eyes. “Please don’t make it more difficult than it already is.”

He took her in his arms, holding on tight. “I can’t bear to lose the two of you,” he whispered.

“Oh my love, don’t you see? You already have.”

Aculeo felt actual pain at her words, like a knife stabbing in his heart. “Titiana, I give you my oath,” he said, his throat so tight he could barely speak, “I’ll get it all back. This is just a temporary setback. We’ll build a palace, anything you could ever want …”

She looked up at him, her dark, lovely eyes glistening with tears. “It’s not about our money, our home, our things. I love you in spite of all that. I always shall.”

“Lucullus then?” he asked bitterly. Titiana’s father, Lucullus, had been tepid about the marriage from the very start, especially given that it had involved his beloved daughter moving from Rome across the sea to Alexandria.

“I don’t care what my father thinks,” she said, stroking her fingers back through his hair, sweeping the stray curls off his forehead. “It’s about Atellus.”

Aculeo felt a lump swell in his throat as he gazed down at their perfect little boy running about the aulos. “Atellus? He’s just a child. By the time we’re back on top he’ll not even remember this.”

“Oh won’t you face the truth for once? You’ve ruined your family’s good name with this horrid mess. You’ve thrown away your honour. That’s bad enough for you. For me. But I can’t allow that for Atellus. I won’t.”

“But … what will I do without you,” he whispered.

“Oh my love,” she said. He could have faced her anger or resentment, he’d grown used to it over the past few weeks, but not the pity that now lay like heavy stones in her eyes. He looked away, wishing he could crawl into a deep, dark hole in the ground. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, held him close, kissed his cheek with her soft, warm lips. He tried to kiss her back, to embrace her but someone made a small coughing sound behind them. Titiana’s slave stood in the hallway, pointedly avoiding Aculeo’s gaze. Even the damned slaves won’t look at me, he thought bitterly.

“The wagon is ready, Mistress,” the slave said. “We need to hurry or the ship will leave without us.”

“Come then,” Titiana said firmly, breaking away from Aculeo. Too soon, too soon. Atellus put his head down and went to her at last. She took the boy by the hand and led him down the hallway, past the stacks of boxes and furnishings towards the gates and then into the hired wagon. They’re leaving, Aculeo thought, they’re actually leaving. He followed them.

“You come too, Poppa?” Atellus asked as Aculeo tried to step into the wagon.

Titiana held up her hand. “No. You shouldn’t show your face in public yet,” she said. “It’s too soon.” She looked towards Xanthias. “You’re to take care of him.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the old slave said, tears running down his deeply lined cheeks.

“Why Poppa and Xanfas not come?” the boy asked, sensing something was amiss.

“You’re taking a special trip to Rome just with your Mamma, remember?”Aculeo said, forcing a smile, though his eyes were burning. “I’ll come as soon as I can.”

Titiana paused before handing him a small packet wrapped in linen. “What’s this?” he asked. She said nothing. He looked at her for a moment, then reluctantly unwrapped the bundle. It was her emerald necklace with the matching earrings – his wedding present to her. They suddenly felt heavy as a millstone in his hands. “Titiana, no …”

“They’ll only get stolen when we get onboard,” she said.

“Oh, of course,” he said at last. “I’ll … I’ll keep them here for you then.”

“Aculeo …”

“I’ll keep them safe for you. I’ll come for you once I’ve found my feet again. By summer at the latest. My oath.”

Titiana held his gaze for just a moment, unsmiling now, unreachable. “If you truly love us you’ll let us be,” she said. She nodded to the driver and the wagon rattled off along the creamy paving-stone street towards the city, the winter breeze cold and damp off the Egyptian Sea.

“I should stop them,” Aculeo said hoarsely. “I… I should do something.”

Xanthias shook his head. “No, Master. The mistress is right. Let them go.”

Gnaeus appeared next to him in the doorway, scratching at his beard. “When are you leaving?”

“The agreement was midnight,” Xanthias snapped.

“The auction’s first thing in the morning. Gurculio’s orders …”

“Oh shove Gurculio’s orders and let the man be!” The freedman scowled but slumped away. Xanthias turned to Aculeo and said gently, “How about some wine, Master? There’s an amphora of aged Tameotic I’ve been holding back. An excellent vintage. Or so I’m told.”

“No, nothing,” Aculeo said, and wandered back through the villa. It had been so full of life only a moment ago. Now it was just the echoes of his sandals slapping against the stone, the empty chatter of the slaves as they packed everything up. The back wall had been removed last summer to reveal an extraordinary view of the city down below, the vast gridwork of red clay tile roofs and bone-white buildings, temples and palaces that lay beyond. To the north, ships bobbed in the Great Harbour of the wine-dark Egyptian Sea. There in the harbour the great Pharos soared, dove grey in the early morning light, a billowing trail of smoke and glint of yellow firelight spilling forth from the lighthouse mouth, and Rome itself a lifetime away.

Aculeo thought he heard the sound of distant horns and drums, a joyous festival in the city, and realized it was the first day of Januarius. Already? He watched a flock of brown and grey birds pass overhead from left to right before they turned as one and wheeled out to the darkening sea.

He couldn’t recall if the omen was good or bad.