Part 3 (1/2)
The mutually insincere flattery seemed to have played itself out, though the heat of the encounter still sparked between them. Had he become an enemy to Maius, simply by opening a small wine shop? Surely Maius wasn't threatened by Cato's presence in Pompeii?
As if the shop weren't crowded enough, another figure peeked out from behind Maius, still in the street. ”Quintus? Mother?”
Cato sighed. He should have expected his married sister, Portia, to make an appearance.
Maius slid to the side to allow her to enter, and Cato did not miss the naked admiration that overtook the older man's face as Portia ducked her head politely and joined Octavia.
”Ah, it is like a double rose has bloomed right before my eyes,” Maius rubbed his hands together and looked between Octavia and Portia. ”Two blooms ready for picking.”
Despite the sordid insinuation, Cato nearly laughed aloud at the look on his youngest sister's face. Isabella had been ignored far too long, and this last insult of attention lavished on both her mother and older, married sister was too much for her. She crossed her arms and shot daggers at the politician from her eyes. Cato did her a favor by neglecting to introduce her older sister.
Portia lifted her chin and ignored Maius's comment. Octavia seemed too insulted to respond. Best to position himself between Maius and the women, before his mother recovered and took a swing at the offender.
”You'll forgive us if we excuse ourselves from your kind visit, Maius.” He held a hand toward the doorway. ”As you have certainly noticed, there is much work to do here.” He indicated Maius's fine woolen toga, with its purple silk edging, and fought to keep the sarcasm from his voice. ”We wouldn't want you to get soiled by standing too close to the effort.”
Maius bowed to Cato, then to the women, including the young Isabella, thankfully. He reached again for Octavia's hand, but she deftly wrapped an arm around Portia's waist, and lifted a serene smile. ”We have heard so much about you, Nigidius Maius.” Her expression was like ice. ”Meeting you indeed confirmed all we have heard.” The words were honey-coated barbs, but her pleasantry did not waver. Cato lowered his head and coughed into his hand to hide his amus.e.m.e.nt and Maius's face darkened for a moment, then cleared.
”I look forward to furthering our acquaintance at the games this week.” His eyes roamed over Portia now, as though he had traded in Octavia for the younger version.
They stood suspended, all of them, until he removed himself from the shop, then for a few more beats while Cato imagined him strolling down the sidewalk, and then they seemed to exhale all as one, and the women started talking.
”What a vile man!” Octavia brushed at her clothing as though Maius had left behind some vestige on her person.
”Hush, Mother.” Portia eyed the doorway. ”He may hear you.”
Octavia huffed. ”Let him hear me. No doubt he is unaccustomed to hearing the truth in this town.”
Portia gripped her mother's arm. ”He is not a man to be opposed, Mother. He has been duovir for longer than the five years I have been here, and commands much fear in this city.”
The young Isabella spoke for the first time, her voice low. ”Someone should poison his mushrooms.”
”Isabella!” Octavia's rebuke was half-hearted, and Cato winked at his sister. She had become fascinated of late with the history of the Empire, and had been all talk about the Emperor Claudius, murdered twenty-five years ago in such a way.
Portia turned her eyes on him, and there was neither amus.e.m.e.nt nor petulance there. ”He is just the sort of man you always opposed in Rome, Quintus. You could do something-”
Cato turned back to the spilled wine, but Remus had it all cleaned up.
Portia had not finished. ”It would give your coming here purpose. More than a rich n.o.bleman's idle pastime with the vines.”
Cato scowled. ”Not as rich as you seem to think, Portia. And my 'idle pastime' will no doubt yield more fruit than any of my efforts in Rome. Or have you forgotten?”
Portia started again, but her mother stilled her with a gentle hand on her arm. ”It grows close in here, girls.” She straightened. ”Let us leave the men to their work, and take some air.”
Cato pa.s.sed her a look of grat.i.tude, but the intensity of her eyes was as pointed as Portia's remarks.
She feels it too. That I am wasting my life here.
He walked with them to the doorway, and watched as the three women who both loved and frustrated him walked arm-in-arm down the raised sidewalk of the Arnius Pollio block where his shop huddled between others of its kind.
Portia's words chased around themselves in his mind. It would give your coming here purpose.
But he did have a purpose.
He would get his hands dirty, but it would be in the fertile black soil at the foot of Vesuvius, not in the futile political maneuverings of the city government.
No matter how much Gnaeus Nigidius Maius deserved to be brought down.
CHAPTER 5.
The evening was a fine one for theater entertainment, and Cato escorted his mother and Isabella toward the southern end of town, eager for a diversion.
The bulk of their belongings had arrived from Rome yesterday, and between directing the slaves to place the furniture and prized statuary throughout the new villa, and instructing Remus in the final details of opening the shop, Cato had found the past few days to be more work than play. A situation he meant to rectify this evening.
He did not acknowledge that an inner restlessness also plagued him, a stirring of unease, as if none of his frantic activity amounted to anything worthwhile.
A half moon hung already over the back wall of the city's large theater as they approached. They could see nothing but the high wall with its curved vaults and outer staircases from this side, but beyond the wall and sloping downward lay a fine example of Roman-adopted Greek culture. The Romans had long ago left behind their barbarism and embraced the sophistication and the architecture of the Greeks, whose far-flung cities and poli the Roman military machine had swallowed.
Cato led the two women to the outer wall. They would not enter the theater at the front. The only access to the highest tiers of seats, reserved for the n.o.bility, was from the outside. He stepped aside at the base of the stairs and allowed them to precede him. The two were radiant tonight, with eyes s.h.i.+ning in antic.i.p.ation of the performance and hair braided into delicate spirals atop their heads. He gave Isabella a quick peck on the cheek as she pa.s.sed.
Her face lit at his attention. ”You are in fine spirits tonight, Quintus.”
A few steps above, Octavia turned to call over her shoulder. ”Quintus, tell me there is not going to be some vulgar compet.i.tion here tonight, in addition to the play.”
Cato laughed and tightened his toga to climb the stairs. ”Fear not, Mother. I am simply a boy on holiday after too much time indoors with an ill-tempered tutor.”
Octavia shook her head and continued upward. She was aware of his proclivity for compet.i.tive entertainment. He was, after all, a Roman, raised on l.u.s.t and blood. Indeed, he would have rather been at the arena, but the new gladiators had just arrived and would not perform for another two days.
They cleared the stairs and stood above the highest gallery of the theater, gazing down into the middle tier of twenty rows, accessible by vaulted corridors at the side of the building. Below the middle tier a covered gallery curved around the half-circle, separating it from the lowest tier for slaves and the poor, and providing special box seating for the magistrates whose generosity sponsored the event. Far below, the orchestra seating was reserved for aristocrats.
Taken in all at once, it was a spectacular sight. The five thousand seats had nearly filled, and the citizens had arrived in their best clothes, melting the marble theater into a sea of white, with red and blue and gold sashes weaving and twisting through the bright sea like languid, colorful fish.
Cato put a hand on his mother's back and guided her to a bank of empty seats.
”Oh!” Isabella pointed. ”There is Portia! And Lucius!” She waved frantically, and her older sister smiled and nodded. The two joined them a moment later. Cato slapped his quiet brother-in-law's back in greeting, kissed Portia's cheeks, and the group squeezed into a near-empty row.
As they sat, the hum of the waiting audience increased. Cato searched for the cause, and saw Gnaeus Nigidius Maius had entered from the side corridor and crossed to a private box at the side, where nearly everyone in the theater would be able to see him. Cato fought to hold onto his mood of frivolity.
Something about that man drove ice down his back and fire into his veins.
The curtain hiding the two-story facade at the back of the stage soon dropped into the trench and the performance began-a typical one, with the itinerant actors performing the familiar roles of Macus the Jester, Bucco the pot-bellied simpleton, and Dossenus the trickster. Behind them, on the free-standing scaenae frons, the two-story facade, marble statues of the honored gens Holconii watched the proceedings, mute spectators from an era now past. Their family had been the most prominent in Pompeii and had renovated the theater as a gift to the town.
The play failed to capture Cato's attention. Instead, his eyes continued to travel to the seats where Maius held court, whether with pet.i.tioners or family members Cato could not tell at this distance.
At a break in the performance, Cato stood. ”I am going to walk in the quadriporticus.” He glanced at his family. ”Anyone care to join me?”
Portia stood at once. ”I must stretch my legs.” His sister hated confined s.p.a.ces. Cato held out a hand. ”Then let's go for a run.”