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Felix and Aurora held one another’s right hands in the traditional manner, but we made no sacrifices and invoked no gods. Aurora would not say to her husband the age-old vow, “Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia.” She had said that to me during the Saturnalia when we went to the cave where we had found the Tyche ring. The words had no legal effect, of course, unlike when Livia said them a few days later in the atrium of my house in Rome, but they meant more to me than all the pomp associated with my wedding to Livia.

  She had dropped thinly veiled hints—threats, to be more precise—about not wanting Aurora present at our wedding. I had refused to comply. As a member of my household, I had pointed out, she had an obligation to be there. Her absence would cause more comment than her presence. Because of her own good sense and her pain over what was happening, Aurora had remained on the edge of the crowd. I was certainly aware of her, but I’m not sure Livia noticed. At least she never said anything, and if Livia is unhappy about something, she lets me know about it, quickly and loudly.

  I realized everyone was looking at me in anticipation. I couldn’t put it off any longer.

  “I’ve called you here today,” I said, “to acknowledge that…Felix and Aurora are…husband and wife.” I had never had to work so hard to force words out of my mouth, even though I knew they had no meaning. I could feel Tacitus trying to hold me up with his eyes as I said a few more innocuous platitudes. I like to write my speeches down and revise them for possible publication. These words I wanted to be utterly forgotten. The only thing that enabled me to proceed with the ceremony was my awareness of Felix’s secret and my knowledge that not even Aurora knew it. “Let’s join in congratulating them and wishing them every happiness,” I concluded.

  Tacitus stepped forward. “Good fortune for the newlyweds,” he said. “A cheer for Felix and Aurora. Talassio!”

  The others joined him in the traditional shout for a newly married couple, so ancient that no one knows anymore what it means.

  * * *

  I couldn’t eat, but while the others enjoyed a meal in the garden, another bed was moved into Aurora’s room. Then it was time to accompany the couple to their quarters with obscene jokes and ribald songs, a part of Rome’s wedding traditions, regardless of the couple’s class or wishes, that I particularly despise. It was the one thing Livia and I agreed on at our wedding but could do nothing about. We sat on opposite sides of my room after the wedding until the noise subsided outside the door. I had stashed several of Musonius Rufus’ treatises under the bed before the ceremony, so I had something to do. Like Socrates, Musonius won’t write anything himself, but his students and friends take down his teachings and circulate them among a small group. While I read, keeping my voice down, Livia just sat and fumed. Stoic philosophy held no charm for her, as I had hoped when I selected those books.

  My mother ran her arm through mine. “You’ve done the right thing, Gaius. And she looked absolutely beautiful.”

  “Well, I hope everyone else is happy with the arrangements.” I turned my back to the celebration and fixed my gaze on one of the columns on the other side of the garden. It was cracked and no longer straight.

  “I’m sure we all are. I wish you could be, too.” The way she patted my arm told me she understood more than she was saying.

  Even though I knew now that none of the crude suggestions would be carried out in Aurora’s room, I couldn’t stand to listen to any more of the buffoonery. Stepping away from my mother, I told Tacitus, “I’m going to inspect the vineyards.”

  “I’ll ride with you.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder.

  I nodded. “I would appreciate that.”

  The servant who oversaw the stables on this estate went by the name Barbatus, because of his affectation of a beard. I didn’t know his real name. He claimed to be descended from a Gallic prince captured by Julius Caesar. Even as a child, I had never much liked the man because of his habit of stroking his beard and because he talked so much, always asking so many questions about where I was riding to. I could never seem to find the nerve to tell him it was none of his business. All I could do was keep my answers as brief and uninformative as possible.

  Time had not changed his mannerisms or made him any less annoying. When I requested horses for Tacitus and me, he asked, “Where will you be riding, my lord?”

  “Away from here. Why does it matter?”

  “Some horses are better for distance, my lord,” he said with studied indifference. “Others can give you speed. If I know where you’re going, I can give you the best horse for your ride.”

  “We’re going out to the vineyards,” I said.

  “I see. Should I be expecting you back at any particular time, my lord?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “I just want to be sure someone is here to assist you, my lord.”

  “We’re perfectly capable of dismounting and unharnessing the horses by ourselves. Just see to your business and don’t worry about us.”

  Barbatus stroked his beard. “As you wish, my lord.” He brought two horses from the stalls and helped us mount.

  “He’s an inquisitive fellow, isn’t he?” Tacitus said as we turned toward the vineyards. “I’d expect that sort of nosiness from a female slave, not a stable hand.”

  “He’s always been like that. I should give him the benefit of the doubt, I suppose. Perhaps he’s just being solicitous of my welfare.”

  “Or perhaps he’s one of Regulus’ spies and wants to know your every move.”

  I groaned. “This day is bad enough. Don’t start—”

  “Sorry. That was an ill-advised attempt at humor. The man’s obviously just a congenial blabbermouth. Forget I said anything.”

  We rode in silence—companionable on Tacitus’ part, morose on mine—out to the vineyards on the east side of the estate. Lake Comum is long and slender, splitting into two branches, like a capital Greek upsilon (Y), only inverted, from a Roman point of view. The house sits halfway up the peninsula. The mountains rise quickly on either side of the lake. We dismounted, tied the horses to a tree, and walked among the vines.

  “How did you settle on Felix?” Tacitus asked. “I know you were thinking about this problem back in the spring, but I’ve seen so little of you the last couple of months, I feel like I’ve missed an important part of the story.”

  I held a vine in my hand, rubbing the leaf between my fingers with no interest whatsoever. “I had Phineas compile a list of all of my male servants—slaves and freedmen—over the age of forty. Then I eliminated those who were already married. I narrowed the list down to the oldest ones who might pass Livia’s inspection. I kept coming back to Felix because of his age and because he was married years ago to one of my uncle’s mistresses.”

  “So he should understand how the game is played,” Tacitus said.

  “After talking with him, I’m sure he does.”

  “But do you think you can trust him absolutely? Aurora is a stunningly beautiful woman. Even as much as I respect our friendship, I’m not sure you could trust me with her.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He turned out to be the best choice for a reason I never could have anticipated.” I paused.

  “Well, come on, man. Out with it! Does he prefer other men? Is that it?”

  “No. Even better, actually. I found out just before the wedding that he’s a eunuch. Castrated when he was sixteen and completely unable to couple.”

  “A eunuch?” Tacitus doubled over with laughter. “By the gods, it’s like a comic play. Does Aurora know?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to tell her. She’s hardly speaking to me.”

  “Oh, that’s even better. I would love to know how that conversation goes when they’re alone together for the first time.”

  “Damn you!” I turned on him abruptly and shook my fist in his face. “This is no joke. I don’t care if he is a eunuch. I wouldn’t care if he was blind into the bargain. I cannot stand to think that another man can go into a room with her and close th
e door.” I had to pause to keep my voice from breaking. “Did you see how beautiful she looked? Like Hesiod said of Pandora, ‘a face like a deathless goddess.’”

  Tacitus covered my fist with his larger hand and pushed it back. “She’s always beautiful, but as spectacularly gorgeous as she was today—that was Julia’s doing, not a bunch of gods. My wife is adept at that sort of thing. She may not be able to parse a line of the Aeneid, but she knows what color eye shadow a girl should wear and exactly how much. The outfit Aurora was wearing was what Julia wore at our wedding.”

  “I suspected as much. She just brought out what was already there.” I put my hand to my head, which was aching. “Oh, dear gods! That dress means Aurora knows that I told you and Julia well ahead of time what I was planning but didn’t tell her until the last minute.”

  Tacitus’ shoulders slumped and he shook his head. “Gaius, to be so intelligent, you can do some stupid things when it comes to women. You don’t understand how they think unless they’ve killed somebody.”

  That point I couldn’t argue. “I rue the day I ever came up with this scheme.”

  “It’s the only choice you had.”

  “I know, but that doesn’t make it any more palatable.”

  “You need to take your mind off the whole business. It doesn’t really change anything between you and Aurora.” Tacitus took me by the shoulders and turned me toward the vines. “I know you didn’t actually come out here to inspect your vineyards, but as long as we’re here, we might as well.”

  I took another leaf between my fingers. “They remind me of the filigree on Aurora’s wedding dress.”

  Tacitus sighed. “You’re hopeless, my friend. You should remember Horace’s advice in one of his poems: ‘Xanthis, don’t be ashamed of love for your serving-girl.’”

  “Xanthis was Greek, not a Roman of the equestrian class. I’ll bet he wasn’t married.” But Tacitus was right. What hope did I have? Certainly none of ever being truly happy. The best I could do was to distract myself by devoting full attention to running my estates and keeping up my literary work. As Cicero said, “If you have a garden and a library, you have all you need.” At the moment I would have been willing to debate that claim with him and was confident I would have run him off the Rostra. I wondered if he had a favorite girl aside from his wife.

  “Your vineyard isn’t exactly impressive,” Tacitus said, drawing me back to the harsh light of reality. “Didn’t your uncle write about grapes and the best places to grow each variety?”

  “He did, extensively. But this property belonged to my father, not my uncle.” Tacitus was right, though. Nothing about the vineyards, or anything else on the estate, suggested prosperity. “This estate produces less income than any of my other properties.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

  “That’s why I’m bringing in some people from Tuscany to look things over. I’ve not spent enough time here in the last five years to know just what’s going on. I’ve been paying more attention to my place at Misenum in the aftermath of Vesuvius.”

  “Whatever profits you’re making here,” Tacitus said, “they certainly aren’t coming from your vineyards.” He plucked a grape and squeezed it between his fingers. “It ought to be a lot plumper by this time of the summer. You grow more olives and wheat on your other estates, don’t you?”

  I nodded. “But, considering how pathetic the plants in this vineyard look, I should reread what my uncle says about vines in his Natural History. If I can’t improve the output here, I should switch to growing something more suited to the land and more profitable… You may have noticed the tall, blond fellow I brought up here.”

  “Yes. I thought I was going to have to restrain Julia when she saw him.”

  “His name is Brennus. He’s quite good with vines, and his sensitive nose is the most remarkable I’ve ever seen in a human being.”

  “He’ll have his work cut out for him here.”

  We walked among the vines, studying drainage and the angle of light. “You inherited this property from your father,” Tacitus said, “but your mother and uncle also grew up around here, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, my uncle’s family owned the estate on the lake at the foot of this property. That’s where he and my mother grew up. He sold it not long after she got married. I’ve made an offer to buy it back. I’d like to have access to the lake.”

  “Why? You can’t stand to be on a boat.”

  “But I enjoy looking at the water and listening to the rhythm of it. That’s why I like my estate at Laurentum so much. I’ve been so involved in restoring my property around Naples that I’ve neglected other places. I want to correct that oversight and some others. Did you know that my father started work on a temple to Rome and Augustus outside Comum?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “He never finished it before he died, and he left no funds for the work. I want to look into finishing it.”

  “If you could let Domitian think he’s the Augustus you have in mind, it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “I’ll make it clear that I mean the first one. Domitian can’t publicly object to that.”

  “I suppose not.” Tacitus looked up at the sun and said, “We’d better be getting back.”

  “Must we?”

  “Do you plan to live out here like some savage? What was it Aristotle said, ‘Anyone who finds delight in solitude is either a wild beast or a god’?”

  I folded my arms across my chest and put my chin in my hand, the classic pose for statues of orators and philosophers musing over something. “Or the husband of a shrew like Livia.”

  “When is she due to arrive?”

  Tacitus might as well have thrown a pail of cold water in my face. “Tomorrow or the next day. They went to Narnia first, to drop off Livilla at their house there. For obvious reasons, she doesn’t want to be around me.”

  “Do you think Livilla’s told her sister what she knows about you and Aurora?”

  “If she had, I would probably be a dead man by now.”

  “Just like Livia’s first husband.”

  “We have no way of knowing what happened,” I reminded him, although Livia had stopped just short of admitting to me that she killed the poor man. I took her all-but-confession as a veiled warning.

  “I wonder why a woman would do that, when divorce is so easy.”

  “An ex-wife has to endure all the whispering, and she doesn’t get anything but her dowry back. A childless widow gets sympathy and everything her husband had. And Liburnius had a lot of everything.”

  “So do you, my friend. So do you.”

  What he said was true. My father’s estate and my uncle’s together had made me one of the wealthiest men of my age in Rome. But now I was wondering why my uncle had left my adoption to his will. He wasn’t the only man to do so. Julius Caesar had adopted his grandnephew, Octavian, in his will, but he also named Brutus a guardian of any son he might have. Had my uncle, like Caesar, hoped to have a son? Considering his age and his lack of a wife, he hadn’t been trying very hard. Or was he hoping to find his illegitimate son, Marcus Delius, and recognize him?

  * * *

  I was surprised and a little relieved when I walked out into the garden and saw who my “husband” was to be. I don’t know Felix well, but I had met him on visits to Gaius’ estate in Tuscany. When we were children, he used to let Gaius and me explore the storerooms in the house and usually had some small treat for us. All I knew about him was that he seemed to be a nice man who kept to himself. He had an air of resignation—even of sadness—about him, which I sometimes feel when I’m around older servants.

  But, no matter how nice he might be, I still didn’t want to share a room with him. When he closed the door, I scooted across the bed, as far away from him as I could get. For reassurance I touched the knife I had strapped to my thigh, a knife Gaius gave me, with his dolphin seal embossed on the handle. Julia had gasped when she saw it while she was helping me dress,
but I wouldn’t take it off.

  “You don’t have to be afraid of me, dear,” Felix said, sitting down on the far end of the second bed and making no movement toward me. Because of that bed there wasn’t much floor space left. “I know I’m not really your husband. I couldn’t be, even if I were lucky enough for this to be a real marriage.”

  “What do you mean? What did Gaius…Pliny say to you?” Gaius had sent someone to ask to talk to me before the wedding, but Julia sent back word that we were too busy preparing for the ceremony. Maybe that hadn’t been such a good idea.

  Felix shook his head. “It’s what I said to him. It’s something you should know, but I hope I can rely on your discretion not to tell anyone else.”

  “Of course you can.” I could hear the crowd of servants outside the door, still wishing us well and singing every bawdy song they knew to encourage us.

  “All right then.” He paused for a moment, as though gathering his courage. “You see, my first owner…castrated me when I was sixteen.”

  I could see on his face how hard it had been for him to admit that. That look stirred up a twinge of sympathy. “Why…why did he do that?” Castration could be punishment for…things I hated to think about.

  “For something I was accused of but did not do. That’s all you need to know.”

  I could make a guess. Probably something involving his owner’s wife or daughter. “Did Gaius Pliny know this when he sent for you?”

  “No. He knew I had been married a long time ago to his uncle’s earlier mistress—meaning no insult to your mother—and he assumed I knew how to play that role. He didn’t know his uncle chose me because I would be unable to couple with her.”

  I relaxed enough to move closer to him, but not too close. “Felix, I’m so sorry, but do you mind if I say I’m relieved?”

  “I wouldn’t take advantage of you, even if I could. You know that. You’ve known me since you were a child. I’ve been treated well by this family and I will repay that kindness by doing what’s expected of me.”

  “Does anyone else know about…your condition?”

  “No. I’ve tried hard to keep it a secret.”