This was something I could be confident about.
“I have read all of Virgil, and Cicero, and the Greek philosophers, and the writings of Marcus Aurelius. . . but my favourite is the Aeneid.”
“It is a wonderful story,” he said. “It has everything – burning cities, shipwreck, adventure, love. . .” He broke off, blushing. He was clearly as embarrassed as I was about being reminded of the reason we were here. I wished we could just have a conversation without the ghost of marriage hanging over us the whole time.
“I am glad you are educated,” he said finally. “So many girls are not, and it makes them very dull to talk to. It seems, to me anyway—” he glanced shyly at me “—that we will get along together very well, if we can talk about the same things.”
After our visit, when my mother leaned across to me in the carriage and asked, “Well?” – looking into my face as demandingly as a tax collector – it really was not that hard to make myself smile and nod: I like him.
I saw Publius almost every day after that. He never again wore the senatorial toga; he wore a plain toga over a simple tunic. We talked about my favourite places in Leptis Magna, and we discussed philosophy and literature.
Once, Caracalla came with us.
I was never sure exactly why he came. I suspected that it was to inspect Publius, to see if he was a threat. But Publius was so obviously gentle and unassuming that Caracalla, after a few questions that were as pointed and loaded as ballista missiles, got up abruptly, snatched a peach from the silver fruit bowl and strode off, ignoring both the hostess and Publius. His visit gave me a new insight into Publius, however, because that was the only time I ever heard him sound angry.
“I dislike that man,” he said, although his voice sounded as if he had said hate instead of dislike.
“Me too,” I replied at once, without thinking whether this was a wise thing to say, or a wife-like thing to say. I met his eyes and I saw Publius meant it.
“He is cruel,” Publius went on, his fists clenching. “He has his slaves whipped for the slightest offence, and I have heard tales—” He stopped, scowling to himself. “I shall not repeat them.” Then he burst out: “I don’t believe we should have slaves at all. People are not for owning. If we were to free all ours, when we are married, what would you say?”
I was taken aback. We had always had slaves. I really didn’t know what we would do without them. Who would do the washing, I wondered, and the cooking, and the cleaning? And what on earth would Publius’s father – a grand old man of a senator – say? It seemed completely unrealistic to me. But. . .
“I would say it was a good idea,” I said, and smiled at him.
He looked into my face, as if trying to judge how much he could trust me. What he saw seemed to please him. He smiled.
“You must miss Leptis Magna,” he said. He hesitated. “Once we are married, we could travel there perhaps. For a visit.”
My eyes filled with tears. I hadn’t realised how nervous I had been feeling, or how much depended on him being kind. I knew I was lucky in the man I was betrothed to.
But I also realised that I needed to be lucky. What happened in my life did not depend on me, but on the whim of the Emperor and the goodwill of the man I was told to marry. I felt glad and happy that Publius was going to be a good husband, but a shadow was cast over it by the knowledge that it was just luck. At any moment, a wave might come and knock my sandcastle life to pieces.
As I talked to Publius over the next few days, I learned more about Roman politics. When I asked whether his father and the Emperor were friends, Publius shook his head.
“The Emperor and the senate are not friends. Too many senators had their noses put out of joint by a provincial general taking control after they had spent years working to gain power,” he added. “That is why the Emperor is encouraging us two to marry. He wants to make some alliances among his friends and the senate.”
“But doesn’t the Emperor rule by the will of the senate?”
“Not this emperor. No, he rules by the will of the army. No one dares rebel, not when all the men with swords are loyal to him. If you cross him. . .” He made a gesture of slitting a throat with his hand.
“Like Plautianus,” I said, remembering.
“Yes, that was a scandal. The man was powerful, but Caracalla hated being married off to his daughter. Poor little Plautilla. She was sent off to the ends of the earth, and her father was dead soon after. Caracalla has his own plans and the Emperor won’t be able to hold him back for long.” He sounded bitter. “This is Rome, full of murderers, liars and thieves. One day they will all be called to answer to God.”
That last word rang oddly in my ears, and I began to suspect something. As it turned out, I was right to be suspicious.
10.
Godless
A few days later, my mother was unwell and unable to travel to Publius’s house. The Empress herself said she would act as chaperone for me. She brought her secretary with her, and sat dictating letters to him as Publius and I strolled in the gardens.
At the end of the gardens was a grotto, overhung with cool plants and with the trickle of
