I exchanged a glance with Cassia, but she kept her expression neutral. Apparently this Secundus had known just what to say to convince Duilius.
Was this all innocent? The playwright might be a nervous new writer afraid his efforts would be lost, as Duilius believed. He’d hired a family of actors who wouldn’t charge much and who played in fields outside the walls for the plebeians. If his play was a success, he could try to gain the attention of a wealthy sponsor.
But why the strange business with the ring? Unless he’d wanted to add a measure of intrigue and drama to keep Duilius interested, nothing more.
“The man in the play is related to Tarquinius?” I asked.
“We are sworn to secrecy about that,” Duilius began, but a chorus of yesses drowned him out.
“A descendent of him.” The oldest daughter, who appeared to be about sixteen, raised her voice above the others. “Laurentius’s character regains the admiration of the Roman people and erases the stain on his ancestor’s name.” She shrugged. “A flight of fancy. There are no more kings, and no one wants them back.”
The young woman spoke without hesitation, certain of her facts. Cassia looked impressed with her knowledge of history.
“How is Secundus paying you?” Cassia asked her.
The young woman opened her mouth, but Duilius roared, “I will answer. I am the—”
“Paterfamilias!” the entire family shrieked, and the younger ones fell into laughter. Camille smiled gently at her husband.
Duilius spluttered as though angry, but I saw a spark in his eyes that told me he was pleased with his riotous family.
“He is paying in installments,” Duilius said when he could make himself heard. “A bit now, a bit more when we have finished rehearsing the play, and then the final portion after we’ve performed.”
“When will the performance be?” Cassia continued.
“I don’t know.” Duilius balled his bony fists in frustration. “Secundus says the playwright insists on Laurentius wearing the ring, and now both Laurentius and ring have vanished.”
“We will gladly try to find another ring for you,” Cassia said. She sent me a nudging look, and I nodded in agreement. “Do you where the playwright got the first one?” she asked. Laurentius had told us he thought it was a family heirloom, but I knew Cassia wanted to hear what Duilius and Camille would tell us.
Duilius shook his head. “No idea. I will have to ask Secundus when I see him again.”
“Do not.” Cassia’s abrupt command caught the attention of the daughter. “I don’t want Laurentius to be in trouble,” Cassia went on smoothly. “We will replace the ring, with Secundus and his employer none the wiser.”
Duilius conceded. “That will do, I think. It’s only a prop, after all.”
He waved a hand in dismissal. The daughter, sitting on the floor, drew her knees to her chin, a thoughtful gaze on Cassia.
The family continued their chatter about the play and the difficulties it would present. Playwrights, Duilius explained disparagingly, particularly newer ones, did not understand the technical details of staging a play—what needed to happen onstage versus offstage, and the like. Duilius then regaled me with tales of plays that had been great successes for them in the past. None that made them enough money to leave this hovel, but they were happy with them even so.
It took some time to extract ourselves, but in honesty, I left the apartment with reluctance. The family, while crammed together in tiny rooms, was boisterous and friendly, with us as well as with each other.
Cassia and I emerged as the sun was setting, the April evening clouding over.
We could not discuss what we’d learned right away, as Cassia had to fall into step behind me on the crowded Subura streets, letting me break a path with my body. People pressed around us, wanting to be home before darkness fell.
When we reached a larger street and could walk side by side again, I asked, “What do you think of this Secundus?”
“He found a troupe he could make believe anything he wishes,” Cassia answered. “Or who won’t question him. I asked the daughter—Duilia—if I could read part of the play, but she said she’d seen nothing written. I don’t believe Duilius can read, in any case. He has a wonderful memory, she says, and only needs to be told the lines once.”
“Do you believe there is a playwright? Or maybe it’s Secundus himself, pretending he’s representing another.”
“That could be,” Cassia conceded.
Again, we had to travel one behind the other as we passed a fountain surrounded by clusters of women waiting to fill jugs. This fountain sat at the base of a tall castellum, where eight spigots jutted from the mouths of stone fish to pour into a large basin.
I turned here, making my way south toward the valley that separated us from the Aventine. I heard Cassia’s steps pattering faster until she was beside me once more.
“Where are we going?” Our home was in the opposite direction.
