“Drink?” offered Petronius, hoping to get one himself. I shook my head. Remembering Famia temporarily spoiled my taste for it. That’s the most poisonous aspect of drunkards. They cease to enjoy their own liquor-while observing the results of their excess kills its pleasures for the rest of us.
Petro and Pa exchanged raised eyebrows.
“Hard business,” commented Pa.
“You always like to be obvious.”
Helena laid a hand on my shoulder, then removed it. I had come home a hunched, miserable bastard who needed to be comforted but would not allow it. She knew the signs. “You saw Maia this time?” she asked, though my filthy mood surely confirmed it. “Where had she gone yesterday?”
“She took one of her daughters to some function where young girls were being introduced to Queen Berenice.”
Helena looked surprised. “That doesn’t sound like Maia!” Rather like me, my sister despised establishment formality. Being asked to attend on Titus’ exotic lady friend would normally make Maia as rebellious as Spartacus.
Petronius seemed to know about it: “Something to do with the lottery for a new Vestal Virgin.”
Again, not like Maia.
“I had no chance for small talk,” I said. “You know Maia. As soon as she saw me, she worked out that I had bad news. I was home-yet where was Famia? Even he would normally have dropped his luggage at his own apartment before heading for a wine bar. She guessed.”
“How is she taking things?” asked Pa.
“Too well.”
“What does that mean? She’s a sensible type. She won’t make a fuss.” He knew nothing about his younger children, Maia and me. How could he? When he absconded from responsibility I was seven, Maia only six. He saw neither of us for over twenty years.
When I first told Maia her husband was dead, she fell into my arms. Then she backed off at once and demanded the details. I had rehearsed the story enough times, on the sea trip home. I kept it brief. That made it seem even more bleak. Maia became very still. She stopped asking questions. She ignored what I said to her. She was thinking. She had four children and no income. There would be a funeral fund to which the Green chariot faction had made Famia contribute, which would pay for an urn and an inscription which she did not want but which she would have to accept to give the children a memorial of their disreputable sire. Maybe the Greens would come up with a small pension. She would qualify for the pauper’s corn dole. But she would have to work.
Her family would help. She would not ask us to do it, and when we offered we would always have to say it was for the children. The children, who ranged from nine to three, were already frightened, bewildered, inconsolable. But they were all very bright. After Maia and I carefully explained that they had lost their father, I reckoned they sensed there was a secret we were keeping back.
My sister had known tragedy before. There had been a firstborn daughter who had died of some childhood disease at about the age the elder son, Marius, was now. I had been away in Germany when it happened, and to my shame I tended to forget. Maia would never forget. But she had borne her grief alone; Famia was never any use.
Petronius took Julia from Pa and handed her to Helena, giving Pa the nudge that they should leave. Pa, typically, failed to respond. “ Well, she’ll remarry of course.”
“Don’t be so certain,” Helena disagreed quietly. It was a rebuke to men. Pa failed to take this hint too. I buried my face in my hands for a moment, reflecting that an attractive, unprotected woman like my sister would indeed have to fend off a rash of propositions, many of them repulsive. That must be just one aspect of her despair in her new situation. Still, removing predators was one thing I could help her with.
“I bet…” Pa had been struck by one of his terrible mischievous ideas. “I bet your mother,” he suggested to me portentously, “will try to set her up with somebody we know!”
I could not bring myself even to try thinking up who he meant.
“Somebody else who’s been given a nice station in lifecongratulations, by the way, Marcus, and not before time; we must celebrate, son-on some better occasion, of course,” he conceded reluctantly.
Belatedly I caught on. “You don’t mean-”
“He has a good position with a sound employer, plenty of loot, prime of life, well known to us all-I reckon he’s obvious,” crowed Pa. “Your mother’s precious lodger!”
I kicked back my stool, stood, then walked off to my bedroom, slamming the door like an offended child. It had been a bad day, but now I felt truly sickened. Like all my father’s wild remarks, this had a deadly air of probability. If you ignored the fact the lodger was a poisonous, parasitic fungus with the ethics of a politically devious slug, here indeed was a salaried, propertied, recently elevated man who was longing to be part of the family.
Oh gods: Anacrites!
