Saturnalia Read online

  ‘You know everyone, don’t you?’ I suggested. Well, they knew Zoilus, of the unburied dead. He was hardly a social conquest to boast of ‘Have you ever come across people from the Temple of AEsculapius while you’ve been wandering around with your bucket of bones? I understand they go out ministering to the homeless at night.’

  ‘That’s what they call it!’ Dora huffed. ‘Pottering up lanes, looking for sleepers in doorways and offering them herbal infusions they don’t want—A man started it, years ago, but some woman does all the work nowadays.’ She went off into a private rant: ‘What most people don’t understand, Falco, is that when you pop into the apothecary for a purge powder, all you get is only the same as we offer—but without the benefit of incantations. They are amateurs. We’re specialists. They use exactly the same ingredients. It takes mystic preparation to produce a decent medicine…’

  This complaint went on for a long time. I needed to get away.

  I asked if I could have the donkey. The witches were disappointed to learn that he was mine, but soon became anxious that my time had overrun at the hire stables and I might have to pay a penalty. Apparently they had been hoping to kill the mangy beast, flay him, and use various dried pieces in their spells; however, theft was not their style and as soon as they realised I had a legitimate claim they helped me climb into the saddle. I felt a moment of anxiety, thinking they might grope me. But I did them wrong. Delia and Dora were far too gracious to indulge, even when tempted by a man wearing only a skimpy undertunic because his other clothes had been stolen.

  I offered what money I still had as a reward for their honesty, but they refused all payment.

  The donkey would not budge when I told him to walk. Dora tapped him on the nose with the cauldron ladle. She uttered one word in an extremely ugly language; he whinnied and shot away so fast, I nearly catapulted off I called breathless goodbyes as Delia cackled. The donkey had left a good pile of dung behind; Dora was engrossed in collecting it into her sack.

  I clung to the reins and gripped with my knees, yearning for my lost clothes to keep me from freezing. I didn’t care too much about the lack of dignity, though I admit I was showing more than is usually considered proper for a ride across town.

  After his retraining with the ladle, the donkey trotted along so efficiently that soon I saw the familiar outline of the Appian Gate. The long nightmare was ending. I was going home.

  XXVII

  Surprisingly, by the time I walked into my house, I had encountered no further adventures. I was cold, starved, bruised, dirty, stinking and disconsolate. Normal, some would say.

  Helena Justina, wearing a house-gown and with loose hair, was talking to Clemens in the hall. She looked anxious even before she saw me arrive in only my underwear. I gave her a brisk report: ‘Robbed, knocked over, tramps, ghost, witches, learned absolutely nothing. Left alone to die!’ I snarled at the centurion, who looked scared, though not scared enough.

  I grabbed my washing equipment and a clean tunic, whistled up the dog, spun on my heel and went back out again. I hoped I had caused a sensation and left panic in my wake. Nux pattered along beside me, as if this was an ordinary evening walk.

  I enjoyed a long steam in our nearest bath house. The facilities were basic, aimed mainly at dock workers, the stevedores who unloaded goods on the riverbank and became filthy doing it. None were around at this time of night to disturb my gloomy thoughts, so I was calmer when I returned to the changing room and found Helena waiting. She eyed me warily.

  Nux had been guarding the original clean garment I brought out; Helena supplied extras. She helped dry me and pull tunics over my head. Better still, she silently handed me a bread roll stuffed with sliced sausage, which I devoured in between adding warm layers of clothing. Sitting on the bench, I then worked at my finger where the vagrants had tried to screw off my equestrian ring. They had failed to remove it, but had left my knuckle badly swollen. With spit and persistence, I managed to remove the ring before it became fatally embedded. Then I filled out my previous abbreviated story for Helena. She kicked her heels angrily against the stonework of the bench, though she could see I was unhurt and even regaining my good temper.

  ‘Clemens and Sentius claimed they “lost” you. They say they spent a long time looking for you, Marcus. They only arrived back just before you did.’ I bit my bread roll, growling. ‘Chew thoroughly. There are gherkins.’

  ‘I know how to eat.’

  ‘And if you took advice, you might avoid indigestion.’

  She was right, but I burped at her rebelliously. Then, after a moment, I went over to a fountain and drank plenty from the low gurgle of icy water. It would revive me, and help the food down. Helena watched, sitting with her long hands linked on her girdle, as dispassionate as a goddess.

  There was still no one about, so we stayed there. The bald doorkeeper peered in a few times, glaring at Helena for intruding in the men’s dressing room. He shook the greasy money-bag that hung on his twisted belt, but when we ignored this half-hearted plea for a bribe he gave up and left us to it. We could talk here. At home, there would be endless interruptions.

  I went over everything that had happened, although there is a special short version—even of the truth—that a man tells his loved one.

  ‘No need to be worried, fruit.’ Helena accepted the reassurance, but she leaned her head upon my shoulder. Her great dark eyes were closed, to hide what she thought. I nuzzled her fine, soft hair, breathing in the delicate scent of the herbs in which she washed it. I was trying to kill today’s foul memories. I had shed the strange musty odours of the witches, but the rank smell of the vagrants would be with me for days; it seemed to infuse my own pores, even after fanatical oiling and scraping with my curved bone strigil.

  Sometimes when Helena Justina had been frightened for my safety, she let fly with rampaging rebuke. When she was really scared, she said nothing. That was when I worried.

  I wound my arms around her, then leaned my head back on the wall, relaxing. Helena settled against me, enjoying the relief of my return.

  The doorkeeper looked in again. ‘No funny business!’ He was a complete menace. We took the hint and left.

  Only as we were walking slowly home, trailed by Nux who was fastidiously sniffing every kerbstone, did Helena mention Titus Caesar.

  ‘Oh! Titus, eh?.. Note that I didn’t ask.’

  ‘But he was on your mind. I know you, Marcus.’ Helena kept me waiting as long as she could. I thought she was being mischievous, but she was annoyed with her princely pal. The imperial do-gooder had done no good at all for Quintus.

  ‘Off day, was it?’ I asked, all innocence.

  ‘Don’t sound so annoying!’

  ‘Touch of a cold? His corns chafing him?’

  ‘He was in a dismal mood. Apparently—and this is a secret Titus and Berenice have agreed that they must part.’

  ‘Ouch. Not the best moment to approach for a favour.’

  His infatuation with the Judaean Queen was absolutely genuine.

  When his father became emperor, she had followed Titus to Rome, in the blissful hope that they would live together. After openly sharing quarters at the Palace long enough to affront the snobs, it seemed they had now accepted that it could never be. This was probably the worst moment to remind Titus Caesar of another young man who had fallen for a beautiful barbarian.

  Heartbroken but stolidly conscientious, Titus had nonetheless heard Helena out. Then he summoned and quizzed Anacrites, while she was allowed to listen. The Spy regaled Titus with his coruscating scheme to use Justinus to entrap Veleda. On hearing this plan from Anacrites (whom I wouldn’t trust to keep a pet rat), Titus reassured Helena that her brother was safe and well treated.

  ‘So my darling, while you fumed, did Titus Caesar make Anacrites confess where the prisoner is held?’

  ‘No,’ Helena said, sounding short. ‘Anacrites—patronising swine asserts it is best if our family do not know.’

  I snorted
. ‘So—as I asked the idiot Spy myself-how is the lovelorn Veleda to notice the handsome bait he’s put out for her?’

  ‘Oh there’s a devious plan,’ scoffed Helena sarcastically. ‘Listen to this gem: the Praetorians have put up a personal notice in the Forum. You know the sort: Gaius from Metapontus is hoping his friends from abroad will see this and find him at the Golden Apple in Garlic Street.’

  ‘Ridiculous!’ I chortled. ‘Everyone knows Gaius from Metapontus is a stifling bore, and his friends try to avoid him. In fact, now he’s in Rome, they have all sailed off to the Maritime Alps in a boatload of fish-pickle—’

  ‘Be serious, Marcus.’

  ‘I am. The Golden Apple is a dump; anyone who stays there is dicing with ruin—’

  Helena admitted defeat and played my game: ‘While Garlic Street is well known as a thieves’ kitchen, even though it’s not as bad as Haymakers’ Lane… I didn’t bother arguing with Anacrites. There are other ways to deal with fools. I just smiled sweetly and thanked Titus for listening to me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘What would you have done, Marcus? When I left the audience, I walked down to the Forum and looked for the advertisement.’

  I stopped. Nux took advantage of this to inspect a rotting half chicken carcass in the gutter. I kissed Helena gently on the forehead, then I gazed at her with undiluted affection. No informer could want a more intelligent and trustworthy partner. I liked to think my training had played some part in her aptitude, but she gave me a stem look and I refrained from claiming credit. ‘You are exceptional.’

  ‘Anyone could do it.’ Many would not have done. ‘On the other hand,’ Helena continued, still cruelly dismissive of the Chief Spy’s stratagem, ‘Veleda can have no idea she should look for a personal advertisement. She will never see it. Anyway, most Celtic tribes can’t read.’

  ‘And did you find the cunning invitation painted up?’

  ‘Elegant lettering in dark red paint. Looks like an election poster; nobody will read the thing, Marcus. And you will hate this: Quintus is “staying with friends by the Palatine”. He is the house guest of a certain Tiberius Claudius Anacrites.’

  XXVIII

  It was time to regroup.

  Later that night Helena had a message from her father, whose interview with Vespasian had passed off in a friendly spirit. The Emperor had told him openly where his son was, and said he would be allowed to see the young prisoner. Decimus intended to visit Anacrites’ house tomorrow. ‘Mother can go too.’

  ‘What about Claudia?’

  ‘Papa and Vespasian agreed it will be better if she stays away. They don’t want Claudia losing her temper with Quintus and smashing up the Spy’s statue collection.’

  ‘Anacrites collects art?’

  ‘Cornered a niche market, apparently. Vespasian hasn’t seen any, but he thinks it is rather saucy.’

  ‘Pornography?’

  ‘Erotic nudes, you are supposed to say, Marcus.’

  ‘That’s just typical. I bet Anacrites hasn’t mentioned his rude collection to my mother!’ I could tell Ma, but she would refuse to believe me.

  It seemed that Vespasian was taking a benign view of the fact that in earlier years the senator’s brother had been a political plotter. This dangerous past history could make a suspicious emperor regard all of the Camilli darkly. (Not only the Emperor: his advisers too. Had I not known the family well, I would myself certainly have judged them risky in the present situation.) So far, they were surviving. Even so, it might not last. I knew enough to be wary of politicians—even jolly old coves like Vespasian.

  Perhaps lover-reacted, but I was afraid Justinus’ connection with Veleda would cast doubts on his loyalty to Rome. That could finally crush his family. Justinus, his future once so promising after our original German escapade, was bound to be blacklisted if he showed emotional ties to the priestess. His father and brother would then be coloured politically too. None of them could expect any further social advancement.

  Their disgrace might even affect me, now I was openly living with Justinus’ sister. But I had been born a plebeian. I was so used to being at the bottom of the middenheap, few scandals could touch me. There were ways out of trouble for me, in any case. My work—undercover jobs that the Emperor would always need—could bleach out any grime that tried to stick to me.

  Now it was urgent that I find Veleda. I wanted the kudos of beating Anacrites. Out of fuendship to the Camillus family, I also wanted to show Vespasian and Titus that I was energetically assisting the state. That might just help my in-laws’ position.

  I had to establish whether or not the priestess had killed Gratianus Scaeva. Upon that would depend how I handled the fleeing invalid if I ever traced her. I decided to go back over the murder. The incident had led to Veleda’s flight; I wanted to know much more about it.

  So next morning I had another lie-in, this time planning action with Helena. It might have been a romantic occasion, but our children had managed to prise the bedroom door open, so we had two heavy toddlers jumping all over us. When the dog put her paws on the edge of the coverlet and began licking my face, I got up.

  I scribbled a to-do list, which ran:

  Ganna (Ma)

  Zosime

  Victor + Pa

  Senator (lunch fixed up by Helena)

  Quadrumatus house

  Petro?

  If I could work through that lot in one day, I would be proud of myself

  In our discussions, Helena never asked me to devise a way to set her brother free. She probably knew I thought it best if Justinus was held securely until the priestess was found. In fact, none of the Camillus family at any point suggested a rescue.

  That does not mean the idea never occurred to me.

  This morning, I would have the luxury of interviewing in my own home. For once, I had helpers. I sent Clemens and a couple of his lads to fetch Zosime, from the Temple of iEsculapius, and also to bring in Victor, the vigiles nark from the Saepta Julia who had seen Justinus captured by the Praetorians. I told Clemens I wanted to see my father too, but he was so nosy that when he saw Victor being gathered up, he would race along to our house of his own accord.

  While some legionaries—humbled by their failure to stick with me yesterday—organised those errands, Helena took a pair of the spares out for provisions. Carrying my daughter Julia, I hopped up the Hill to my mother’s house.

  Ma was slapping dough around in a cloud of flour, in company with Aristagoras, her neighbour. Despite his age, the papery swain was agile on his walking sticks. She brushed aside his adulation but let him into her apartment sometimes and gave him a panfried sardine to reward his faithfulness. On my arrival she always sent him packing.

  ‘My son’s here! I’ll have to ask you to go.’ There was no need to shelter behind me so primly but I knew better than to interfere with my mother’s complicated reasoning. Aristagoras never bore me a grudge; he tottered off, with fish sauce all down his tunic. Ma’s sunny social glance hardened. ‘What do you want, Marcus?’

  ‘I have brought this dear child to see her grandmama.’

  ‘Don’t expect Julia to soften me up!’

  ‘No, Ma.’ She was wrong. It never failed. Every informer should maintain a cute infant, to help him interview intractable old dames.

  I hoped that Anacrites might have said more to Ma about holding Justinus, but the aggravating swine had not. I just brought down a lecture about how sad it was that the poor Spy, who had no family, would be all on his own at Saturnalia. Fortunately, Mother was sidetracked; she had learned what the girls were plotting about her gift of eye treatment.

  ‘And what do you think?’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘I’m not having it! I don’t want to be cut.’

  ‘He’ll just use a kind of needle. They gently poke the scales aside.’ Ma shuddered, with high drama.

  I could have tried to persuade her, but I chickened out. My sisters had thought this up; they could deal with the obstinacy. />
  ‘What do you think?’ Ma demanded unexpectedly, peering at me. ‘It’s a good idea, Ma.’

  She sniffed. Still, she hated being hampered in her active, scheming life. Perhaps she would accept the operation. If it went wrong, she would blame me. She always enjoyed that.

  I changed the subject, asking after the young girl I had left in her charge. Ganna had been hidden away in the back room when Aristagoras came and was still there, so I had the chance to ask Ma in private how she was getting on with the acolyte. ‘I’m knocking her into shape.’ Surprise!

  ‘You keep her in?’

  ‘Except when we make a little trip together to a market or temple.’ ‘Has she said anything?’

  ‘She fooled you plenty. There’s a lot she’s holding back.’

  I said I thought that might be the situation, which was why I had come to interrogate Ganna now that I knew more about my case. Ma sniffed again, grabbed little Julia, and sent me in to the girl.

  Veleda’s acolyte looked pale and wary—perhaps from putting up with Ma, though I held back my sympathy.

  Fair hair isn’t everything. By daylight, I found Ganna too young and unformed to be attractive. I didn’t trust her either. I must be growing old. When women gave me lies, I no longer found it exciting. I had no time or energy for game-playing of that sort. There were better games to play with somebody straightforward who was close to you. I wanted witnesses to give up their information in a pleasant voice and a direct manner, pausing at suitable moments to help me take down notes. Of course there was no chance of that.

  As a neutral lead-in, I asked Ganna about any jewellery or other financial resources Veleda had. We discussed rings and necklaces, while I quietly wrote details on my note-tablet.

  Without looking up, I said, ‘She went straight to Zosime, but I imagine you know that, Ganna.’ Then I did glance at her. Ganna twisted her hands, pretending not to understand. ‘I assume there was a plan.’ I kept it conversational. ‘What I want from you now, please, is how did she organise her escape from the Quadrumatus house?’