LXIII

On Pincian Hill the scent of the stone pines wafted cleanly to my jaded brain. Rome lay clothed in blackness ahead, its geography distinguished only by faint lights on the Seven Hills; I could make out the Capitol and the twin peaks of the Aventine; in the other direction what must be the Caelimontium. A cake would have been nice, to speed my steps. But I had to do without, as I turned down through the lively early-evening streets, to face my last ordeal.

*   *   *

On the way to tackle Severina, I completed one further piece of outstanding business; I called at the marble yard. It was open, but lit with only a taper or two. The mason approached through the eery lines of rough-cut stone; his unforgettable ears stuck out like roundels either side of his bald dome. He peered at me anxiously as I stood waiting at the end of an alley among the travertine, still shrouded in my shapeless black cloak and shadowed by the wide brim of my hat.

“Scaurus! Has Severina been in about her commission? You told me she had to consult other people.”

“Her other friends backed out. Severina paid for the monument.”

“She can afford the occasional tribute to the dead. Scaurus, I never forget a promise; I told you I would be back when she’d made up her mind…”

Scaurus grunted. “The stone’s already gone.”

“Where to?”

“Tomb on the Via Appia.”

“Not in the family name of Hortensius?”

“Name of Moscus, I believe.”

The mason was mistaken if he thought that would be good enough; I was in a mood for perfecting things. “I’m not traipsing out there among the ghosts at this time of night.” I smiled at him. “Don’t try it on, Scaurus. I can always go another day, but I know that I won’t need to … All I want is the wording. Just show me your pocket scribble-board…”

He knew I could see the waxed tablets which he used to take notes, hanging from his belt. So he turned back a couple containing more recent orders, and there it was.

Not what I had assumed the first time I made enquiries. But exactly what I was expecting now:

D + M

C + CERINTHO

LIB + C + SEVER +

MOSC + VIXIT +

XXVI + ANN + SEV

ERINA + ZOTICA

+ LIB + SEVERI +

FECIT

I read it aloud, slowly deciphering the monumental shorthand: “ ‘To the spirit of the departed, Gaius Cerinthus, freedman of Gaius Severus Moscus, lived twenty-six years: Severina Zotica, freedwoman of Severus set up this’… Very subdued. There’s spare space on your diagram. What have you deleted at the end?”

“Oh … she couldn’t make up her mind whether to add, ‘well deserving of him.’ In the end she left it out for some reason.”

An innocent enough phrase—much used on tombstones set up by wives, or their informal equivalent. Sometimes, no doubt, the tribute was ironical. But anybody reading it would infer a close relationship.

So I could tell the mason the reason why Severina made herself omit those words: however much she wanted to speak well of her fellow freedman, the girl was too professional to leave the slightest clue.