"Nemesis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davis Lindsay)

IV

My life changed for ever at that moment.

My father’s will was quite short and surprisingly simple. There were no outrageous clauses. It was a routine family testament.

‘I, Marcus Didius Favonius, have made a will and command my sons to be my heirs.’

So it was legally proper, but well out of date. Despite all the talk of revisions, this had been written long before he died — twenty years ago, to be precise. It was soon after my father returned to Rome from Capua, where he had originally fled with his girlfriend when he left home, and when he set up again as an auctioneer here, trading under the new name of Geminus. Flora, the girlfriend, never had children. At that time ‘my sons’ meant my brother and me. Festus later died in Judaea. Clearly Pa, who had been close to him, had never been able to face writing him out.

The customary seven witnesses had signed. They ought to be present again when the will was opened, but to Hades with that. Some names were vaguely familiar, business contacts, men of my father’s age. I knew that at least two had died in the intervening period. A couple came to the funeral.

As was customary, the tablet named some people who might have had a claim but specifically disinherited them as main heirs: Pa chose to dispense with the equal treatment that the law would have given his four surviving daughters if, say, he had died intestate. I could see why he had never made my sisters aware this would happen. Their reaction would be vicious. The bastard must have imagined with enjoyment my discomfiture when I had to pass on the news.

He left no instructions about making any slaves free. They too would be disappointed, though executors can be flexible. They were bound to know that, so they would continue canvassing me. I would take my time over making decisions.

Next came a list of specific annuities to be paid out: quite a high figure to Mother, which surprised and pleased me. There were smaller sums for my sisters, so they had not been ignored completely. It was usually assumed married daughters had received their share of the family loot in their dowries. (What dowries? I could hear them all shriek.) Nothing had been done for Marina who, well after the will was made, became my brother’s lover and mother of a child who was presumed to be fathered by Festus. An enormous sum was earmarked for Flora, Pa’s mistress of two decades, though since she had died that no longer counted. I would keep quiet about it; there was no point upsetting Ma. After that, the rest went to the specified heirs: ‘my sons’. So with Festus dead, everything else my father had owned would come to me.

I was seriously shocked. It was completely unexpected. Unless I uncovered enormous debts — and I reckoned Pa was too canny for that — then he had bequeathed me a substantial amount.

I tried to stay calm, but I was human. I began to reckon up mentally. My father had never owned much land — not land in the traditional Roman sense of rolling fields that could be ploughed and grazed and tended by battalions of rural workers, not land that counted formally towards social status. But this was a grand house in a splendid location, and he had owned another, even bigger villa on the coast below Ostia. I only discovered his place at Ostia last year, so there might be further properties he kept secret. The two I knew about were well staffed — and house-trained slaves were valuable in themselves. Above all, these houses were furnished expensively — crammed to the rafters with wonderful goods. I knew Pa kept instant-access funds in a chest bolted into the wall at the Saepta Julia and he had more money with a Forum banker; his cash flow rose and fell with the ups and downs of self-employment, much as my own did. However, throughout his life, his real investments followed his real interest: art and antiques.

I looked around. This was merely a bedroom for casual visitors. It was lightly furnished, compared with the areas Pa used himself. Even so, the bed I was lolling on had intricate bronze fittings, a well-upholstered mattress supported on decent webbing, a striking wool coverlet and tasselled pillows. There was a heavy folding stool in the room, like a magistrate’s. An old Eastern carpet hung on one wall on a runner that had gilded finials. On a shelf — which was grey-veined marble, with polished onyx ends — stood a row of ancient south Italian vases that would sell for a figure big enough to feed a family for a year.

This was one unimportant room. Multiply it by all the other rooms in at least two large houses, plus whatever stock was crammed into various warehouses and the treasures currently on display at Pa’s office in the Saepta. I began to feel light-headed.

Complete upheaval faced me. Nothing in my life could ever be as I had expected: neither my life, nor the lives of my wife and my children. If this will was genuine, and it was the latest version, and if my brother Festus really had died in the desert (which was undeniable, because I had spoken to people who saw it happen), then I would be able to live without anxiety for the rest of my days. I could give my daughters dowries lavish enough to secure them consuls, if they wanted idiots as husbands. I could stop being an informer. I need never work again. I could waste my life being a benefactor of out-of-the-way temples and playing at patron to dim-witted poets.

My father had not just made me his legal representative. He had left me a great fortune.