of the chamber would be permanently lost.
Lost? Oh, be reasonable! thought Gaius tetchily. He had noticed the city surveyor had sent a representative; in that practical department they would need a discreet mark on their charts, for whenever the old embankment had to be maintained. Even the priests would want to avoid the bad omen of turning up a skeleton, supposing they ever had to bury another culprit.
The black-covered litter with the anonymous occupant had already gone, heading out of Rome. The priests removed themselves from the scene promptly. Off for a stiff drink in one of those putrid pontiffs’ fancy dining rooms, no doubt. The chief of them, the Flamen Dialis, was bound by a ridiculous system of prohibitive rules for his daily life, but presumably nothing barred him from a very strong restorative after he had buried a woman alive. His wife, the Chief Priestess, would have known Cornelia well, so he might be going home to a very frosty atmosphere.
The Praetorians remained discreetly at the lonely scene. They would deter any rescue; none was attempted. They would observe whether the goddess Vesta resurrected the virgin who had been consecrated to her for so many years, as a sign that Cornelia was innocent. As Gaius expected, all the gods chose to abandon her.
A small detachment guarded the Campus Sceleratus for days. Since normal funeral ceremonies were forbidden, anyone who attempted to lay flowers or tributes was prevented; not many tried. Vestals might be honoured women, but they were haughty and self-important, therefore more revered than loved. Veiled elderly women of all ranks appeared occasionally and were persuaded to go home. A few passers-by came up to make enquiries, though nobody wanted to gossip with Praetorians. No one wanted to attract their attention. People were afraid it might get them arrested.
The Guards’ task was grim but at least when the watch changed, the Camp was nearby. Details marched to and fro quietly, and since their own parade ground was immediately the other side of the Colline Gate, they were virtually at home and often their abnormal duties went unnoticed by the public.
Vinius Clodianus attended the scene as much as possible. When he was desperate for rest, he slept at the Camp. He ate and bathed there. He visited his office daily to check correspondence. He made no move to go into the city, even when by any standards he had the right to be off duty.
It was a draining vigil. The soldiers were well able to imagine what was happening underground.
Eventually there could no longer be any hope of life. Without being required to check the tomb, the guard was quietly stood down. Clodianus returned to his office where he wrote a short, clear report, should anybody want it, to state that the dismal episode had passed off without incident.
He took himself to the Praetorian baths, where he scraped himself over and over again with a strigil as if it was he who had been defiled. He sat in the steam in the hot room trying to cleanse his spirit. Inertia claimed him for a while, but eventually he pulled himself out of that.
Then will you be coming home?
I will.
When Gaius walked into the apartment, Lucilla took in quickly that he had bathed and changed. He was in a white tunic that looked old and comfortable, with a civilian belt, and apparently unarmed. The back of his head was wet, since tough men rarely towel-dry their hair. They claim you cannot catch a cold that way, and are always surprised when they do.
‘Is it finished?’
He merely grunted.
‘Do you want anything?’
A shake of the head, only just short of annoyance. He went into his room, closing the doors. Their rules forbade her to follow.
Lucilla addressed the dog clearly, so Gaius had to hear: ‘Bad grumpy Master! Anyone would think I had married him!’
No sound came from inside the room, but perhaps he was grinning.
Despite his refusal, she prepared him food: a segment of loaf, filled with sliced cooked meat and gherkins; half a cup of wine; a full beaker of water; figs in a saucer. With this snack on a small tray, she knocked firmly and, without waiting for permission, entered his sanctum.
Gaius was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head down, completely slumped. Lucilla walked around him and placed the tray on a small table he had recently bought, marble, one leg shaped like a dolphin. The dog, who recognised a food tray, came in eagerly, claws scratching the wooden floorboards.
‘No, leave Master. Let him settle. Come on out; you are going to see Glyke.’
Before she left, she brushed one hand briefly over Gaius’ clean, springy hair. ‘Ignore me then! I could dance off in a huff. But I’m just going to the baths, Gaius.’
He had not moved. He was taut, morose, a man who had come in from his work, still worked up over a project he had hated. But that was temporary. Gaius would soon be himself again. Lucilla was tolerating this mood because she understood him; equally, he was allowing her to manage him because she had that understanding. They knew each other inside out, like people who already lived together.
When the front door had closed behind her, Gaius raised his head, letting the silence of the apartment seep into him. His movements were slow, yet relaxed. He ate the bread and meat, though left the wine, also the figs, but gradually drained the whole beaker of water. Then he lay on his bed resting, while he waited for Lucilla to come home to him.
There were two tacticians in their relationship. Now Lucilla not only left the watchdog with Glyke and Calliste in the shop, but made arrangements for the girls to forestall her clients tomorrow morning. They exchanged looks; she ignored that.
She went through the baths hurriedly: warm room, hot steam, cold plunge. She strigilled the oil off for herself, talked to no one and refused the masseuse.
Back at the apartment, all was quiet. No sound came from Gaius, though he had evidently been about. It was late enough to need light in the corridor so he had placed a pottery oil lamp on the shelf in front of the Lares. Lucilla lit another lamp, which she took to her room. She left the door open. Other than that she made no overtures to Gaius. The next move was up to him.
When he appeared in the doorway, it was the first time, to Lucilla’s knowledge, he had ever seen her bedroom. Gaius smiled slightly, entering her private place. She watched him look around, inspecting everything. In his room, the bed was close against the wall, but Lucilla had hers positioned centrally, with purple and black striped rugs either side. There were rather good cupboards, with panelled doors, curved legs and pointed pedestals. A folding stool, composed of slats, sat in front of a side-table where she kept her personal cosmetics, pins, perfumes, combs and ornaments. The window shutters were half open. For his own reasons, Gaius went and closed them.
She had not tidied specially. Things were neat but casual. Her clothes from today were piled on a chest, except a light undertunic she was still modestly wearing. She was lying on her bed, barefoot, ankles crossed, hands folded at her waist, as if she had just spent a long time thinking. She was lying on her hair too, its vibrant chestnut length well combed, but simply tied on the nape of her neck with a snaggle of blue ribbon. It was the first time for many years Gaius had seen her as she was, with neither face paints nor jewellery, and her hair only one tug away from flowing out freely.
He too was now clad only in an unbleached undertunic, and shoeless. Seeing his bare feet for the first time, Lucilla rather liked them: the well-kept feet of a soldier who regularly practice-marched twenty miles and could not afford to get blisters. The tension had drained out of him, though he still looked weary. He tipped his head on one side and gave her a soft look while he said, ‘I would really like your company.’
Lucilla nodded.
Gaius came to the free side of her bed. He lay down alongside her, mimicking her pose with hands demurely folded. Neither was quite sure of the other, yet nothing seemed to need explaining.
Lucilla’s bed possessed only one pillow. She had most of it. Masterful, Gaius pulled more to his side. Lucilla hoiked it back. Gaius reprised his tug. Lucilla gave in and angled her head towards him, so they were sharing.
‘Come here,’ said Gaius. ‘Come properly.’
‘Properly’ meant tucked up against his side with his arm around her and her head on his shoulder, nuzzling his neck, absorbing his warmth and his familiar scent. He had put back the weight and muscle he had lost as a prisoner. His ribs, hip and thigh were solid to lie against; the clasp of his arm, though casual, was strong.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
