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.’