A Comedy of Terrors Read online

  There was one crumbling cake saved for me. Tiberius looked guilty. “I’m afraid you’ve ended up with the wonky one.” Half of it was missing. I noted the rest had been “tidied” by someone picking out its pine nuts. “Oh dear! Is yours too battered? Want to swap with me, love?”

  It was a feeble offer. I declined with a long-suffering shrug. This festival was really ramming home that I was a failure in my new maternal role. If we had owned a parrot, I might have told Tiberius he could keep the children while I was going into exile with the bird.

  Even though I no longer had a client, Beauty in Greater Laurel Street had glued her foul-mouthed self into a cranny in my mind. What would happen to the poor feathered thing? This is the curse of the freelance. No work, no pay, everyone relying on you and, to cap it all, a bad conscience.

  My secret plan was for two beans. I had discussed this with Fornix, who was ready to say he had put two in by accident. Little Gaius and Lucius would have received one each. We would have had two Kings-for-the-Day, called it a special treat, and avoided whining. They would both be excited and happy, then possibly the regal demands they imposed on the rest of us would not have been too crazy. It was a perfectly decent plan. Like all good plans, it fell apart as soon as fools interfered.

  Lucius did receive the first bean, but he swallowed his cake without chewing and choked on it. Fornix, a useful kind of chef, upended the three-year-old, held his heels and shook him briskly. I wondered satirically how much call there had been for this when he presided over the lush kitchens and fancy clients at Fabulo’s, the famous restaurant. Barley ran up; she wolfed down the regurgitated cake, including the bean. “Oh, good dog!” I warbled despondently.

  Dromo had taken the other marked cake. “I’ve got the bean! I’m going to be the King! Oh, I’m going to have a lot of fun with this…” There was no longer any point in asking him to generously give up his bean to Gaius, because Lucius no longer had his. I despaired.

  Dromo had no idea he had done wrong. “This is brilliant! Do I have to wear a crown?”

  Everyone roared “No!” (Or, in one surreptitious baritone, “No, you bloody don’t, Dromo!”) Over the racket we could make out a visitor at the door, knocking. Rodan was too busy thinking about why he had no bean, then wondering whether there was a dark plot against him. I went myself.

  I swept open the double doors with a festival flourish. This might have been a serious mistake, because I realised that Nephele’s absence from home must have been noticed there. Outside, her husband and his heavy squad could well have been gathered to attack me. Fortunately, it simply turned out to be the flitter’s sister.

  XXXVII

  She told me on the doorstep that her name was Terentia Berenike.

  She was significantly younger than Nephele. Right from the start I wondered about that. Nephele had said they were very close, and Berenike behaved as if it were so. But in my own family there were more than ten years between my two sisters and me; I knew it made a difference. They thought we were all best friends, but there were many things I would never say to Julia and Favonia.

  I made sure I looked surprised. I let her come in, and the interview salon was called into use again. Outside in the courtyard, the noise quietened, then everyone else dispersed. I’d like to think they were learning polite behaviour, but they had simply run out of cakes.

  Berenike was not only younger but prettier and livelier. She was well turned out, in her own style, which involved long scarves to twirl and hair curls to twiddle. A perfume I would have rejected formed a defensive wall around her, driving away anyone with a sensitive nose. For that whiff alone, she seemed less intelligent than her sister, or had a worse personal maid. The women’s relationship showed in their build and their facial features.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I am looking for my sister.”

  “Not here, I’m afraid. She did explore using my services at one time, but in the end we parted company.” When you tell lies, use as much truth as you can. Any successful criminal knows that. “You seem anxious. Why are you looking for Nephele?”

  This one was a burbler, letting a torrent tumble out: “I called on her today, but she was not at the house.” She blinked sooty eyelashes in a dramatic show of anxiety. “No one knows where she is, or when she left, or why. When her people went to wake her this morning, they couldn’t find her. She had said nothing to me. I am terrified something bad has happened to her.”

  “Really? What do you think it might be?” Berenike looked vague. “She has mentioned troubles with her husband,” I suggested patiently. “Could he have something to do with this?”

  She shook her head vigorously and came out with, “He is as upset as I am.”

  “He knows she has gone missing?” I asked, showing my surprise. “I can tell you, without breaking any confidences, that I do know your sister has barred Murrius from their house.” Face it: all Greater Laurel Street knew that.

  “He came this morning while I was there, and because Nephele has disappeared, the servants let him in. So far, he is just striding about, shouting. He is utterly distraught.”

  I bet he is! I addressed the sister firmly. “I can shed no light, I’m afraid. But aren’t you all reacting too soon? Your sister has only been missed this morning. There could be a perfectly ordinary explanation. Nephele may have gone somewhere particular and wanted an early start. She decided not to disturb her household at such an hour—whenever it was.” My breakfast time, dammit. “She should be back. It’s too soon for hysterics, I suggest.”

  “My sister would never do anything like that.”

  “No? Once women start taking a stand against their husbands,” I scoffed, “in my experience they quickly change in other ways. Are you married?” I asked, jumping on the subject abruptly.

  “Not yet,” Berenike answered, with a jangle of her arm bangles. She pushed gold up and down in agitation. “We are finalising plans.”

  “Who is the lucky man?”

  She tensed, shy of discussing her engagement. I deduced an arrangement of convenience, without affection. Perhaps she was even an unwilling bride. Quite possibly she wanted someone else.

  “Known him long?” I persisted, wondering about this.

  “A son of family friends.”

  “First time?”

  “Yes, for both of us.”

  “When is the happy day?” Still curious about her attitude, I kept hauling out the usual trivialities.

  “In the New Year.”

  “Soon! Are you excited?”

  “Of course.”

  “Was your sister excited for you?”

  “I think so.”

  “I would expect you both to be looking forward to you being a married woman as well,” I said frankly. “So much more to talk about!”

  “But she tells me everything!”

  Did she? “She said you were close. Berenike,” I sprang on her, “is it possible your sister has taken a lover?” I had decided this was good cover to protect Nephele.

  Her sister gasped. “Oh, no!”

  “No?”

  “Never!”

  “You seem very sure!” I let scepticism register. “I do know the kind of families your sister and her husband belong to. Private clans where loyalty is always strong. Where wives do not abandon husbands because traditional rules forbid any flexibility—and they dare not stray. This could explain a great deal of reticence. In a situation where nobody breaks those rules, a wife with a secret might well say nothing, not even to you.”

  The younger sister brushed this aside again. “Oh, she would have told me!”

  I made no reply but I certainly knew Nephele had, after reflection, agreed with me to keep her sister in ignorance about her real flight from Rome.

  “So you cannot help me, Flavia Albia?”

  “No, I am sorry. I have nothing to tell.”

  At that point, I saw a subtle change. As Berenike twisted scarves and adjusted bangles, it was clear she was f
ailing to achieve whatever she had come for. She had no idea what to do next. If she did have a mission, what drove her?

  Suddenly I guessed: “He sent you!” I challenged. “Gaius Murrius. He believes his wife came to me with her problems, and he has persuaded you to find out!”

  “The poor soul thinks she has left him!” Berenike wailed. She seemed relieved I had given her something to say, though she was defending him very unexpectedly. “He desperately wants her to come home.”

  “I am sure he does,” I answered coldly. “Did he bully you into coming?”

  “No! I wanted to come.”

  “Murrius made you do his dirty work?”

  “No, that’s unfair. He loves her.”

  “Oh, I am sure he is enraged if he has lost her!” I scoffed. “I have seen this man. I draw my own conclusions. You ought to be ashamed to act as his spy.”

  “No! I am concerned for her. I love her too!”

  I stood up. “If you do, then allow her to make her choices—if that is what she has done. Your sister was never really my client, but as a woman I will speak on her behalf, defending her, as you should do, Berenike. From what I saw, any decision was made from free will. And judging by what I have glimpsed of that marriage, if she were to be reconciled with Gaius Murrius, she would most likely pay for it dearly.”

  I was shooing the younger sister out. “Go back to your brother-in-law—if you really must report to him.”

  “You sound as if you are questioning my loyalty to Nephele!”

  “Only you know whether you are loyal. My advice is, choose very carefully which party to support. Tell Murrius this from me: if she has left him, he should consider why. Would a just husband pursue her, or should he accept an inevitable situation? When a couple have lost all mutual respect, it is time to conclude the farce.”

  I wanted to ask what would happen now about the parrot, but I sensibly kept quiet.

  XXXVIII

  I was finished with my non-client, let alone her fluttery, jingly sister. My household needed me. Dromo had had time to realise his new role as King-for-the-Day might not be as wonderful as he had thought. He was puzzling and growing nervous. “Nobody has told me what I have to do!”

  “Behave nicely all day and be kind to everyone,” I bluffed airily.

  Suza, young herself and envious that he had snaffled the bean, explained more bitterly: “Be in charge, you idiot. You have to make mischief during the celebrations. When guests come, you must insult them horribly. They must only react with a gay laugh to whatever you do, and nobody can beat you for it. You have to wear crazy clothes—”

  “Where do I get those?” Usually he wore old cast-offs from his master, mended as necessary, although Tiberius was a careful man. After Dromo had worn a tunic for a week, its patch quota increased fast. After a month his outfit looked like a floor cloth.

  “Dromo,” I suggested, “you can go down to my parents’ house. My sisters may be able to find you an old costume we once used.” I didn’t tell him it was a carrot.

  Suza kept going: “—and chase women around.”

  “Chase them where to?” he fretted. One good thing about this slave was that he was not fully out of his pimply adolescence, so he fled if a woman said boo. Which they therefore did on principle.

  “Around!” yelled Suza, maddened even more. “You run around after them. You are not supposed to catch them! It’s a joke, Dromo!”

  The boy found that even more worrying. Although Dromo had desperately wanted to be chosen, it had not struck any of us until then that he would be so anxious. He loathed the responsibility and was terrified of messing up. In a boy I had liked more, it would have seemed sweet.

  “Now look!” Tiberius gravely instructed him. “You have seen it happen plenty of times, Dromo. The idea is that as King-for-the-Day you will rule over chaos, rather than the normal good order that applies in Roman households.”

  “Ha! Not in mine!” I snorted. I then remarked loftily that only the uptight Romans could formally organise chaos for themselves. Give it a special day, invent traditions, apply rules, appoint someone to ensure a suitable riot happened …

  “Oh, Albia!” everyone else trilled. “You are such a Briton!”

  To avoid the Dromo tutorial, I decided I would take Rodan back to Fountain Court to fetch whatever nasty item he had left behind. First, he had to be reminded that he had been making a fuss earlier, and why. In front of everyone he would not say what he had lost, though as he and I walked he confided that it was the purse of money my father had given to him. He had buried it in a corner of the yard for safety; when Dromo brought the handcart to fetch his other things, Rodan had forgotten it existed.

  The ridiculous lump was shambling along with me, full of anxiety. Once tall, over the years he had grown stooped and grizzled. His arms and legs were muscular but his belly was far too big, clad in a tunic that looked as if it had been used to rub down a very grimy cow. His battered old boots had never matched; one had lost its fastening.

  “Do you think anyone will have dug it up, Albia?”

  “Not if you kept it a secret and if you disguised where you had been digging. I hope you locked the gates after you left?” At that, his silence was ominous. “Juno, what’s worrying you, Rodan? Had you told someone?”

  “Oh, no!” he said, in a way that confirmed he had blabbed. As we reached the end of the alley, he slowed down and asked whether Falco would be angry.

  “If you lost the loot? I shouldn’t think so.” I thought my father would guffaw that on the one occasion he was generous to Rodan it had turned into a pointless gesture. “He won’t care—but he won’t replace it. It is—or was—your money now. Don’t expect another purse if you haven’t taken proper care, Rodan.”

  Rodan was dragging his feet when he ought to have been rushing to find his treasure. Puzzled at how upset he was, I insisted he tell me the problem.

  “I don’t want to go down the alley. Albia, will you fetch it for me?”

  This big scared hulk was supposed to be my protection. I growled, but it was a time of seasonal rejoicing so I agreed. He could wait near the corner, by the old barber’s, which was closed today for the holiday since this was never a district where men paid to look spruce at festivals.

  “Confess now, Rodan.” I had had more success in screwing admissions from murder suspects. “Come on, you’ve lost your nerve. What happened to you? What was bad enough to scare a tough old fighter?”

  My father said Rodan had never been any good. Still, he looked the part—and I now learned that that had caused the trouble. Rodan admitted he had taken some cash and gone out for a Saturnalia drink. Normally he stayed in his cubicle, too mean to buy a round, which meant people had asked him about his unexpected appearance at the Hungry Goat.

  “Oh, gods, Rodan, you never chose the Goat?”

  Then, as often happens when a man is big and ugly and, Rodan claimed, if he looks able to handle himself, some drunk tried to goad him into a fight.

  “What, the old Who are you looking at? Think you’re hard? Want to try it, then?” Anyone who tackled Rodan must imagine he was well past it.

  Rodan looked surprised that I could imagine this scene. He said that with the bar owner wanting to prevent his place being smashed up, together they had managed to calm things.

  “What was scary, then?”

  “Afterwards.”

  On Rodan’s way home the same character, with aggressive friends, had surrounded him. He reckoned they had been lying in wait. They tried to persuade him to drink more with them, but even he could tell this was a bad idea.

  They continued to pester him. Pushing and shoving him, they showed a big interest in the tenement he was supposed to look after: was anyone left living there? Could people get in to use the space? They had more menace than he could handle. “Those fellows were planning something. I didn’t want to be dragged in. After that, even though I’d said it to the barman, they asked me again whether Falco gave me a Saturna
lia pay-off—but I pretended I had already spent it. ‘He would not give me much,’ I told them. ‘He is too mean.’ You won’t tell him?”

  I would, because Falco would laugh, though I soothed Rodan. “Let’s hope nobody thought you were dumb enough to leave your money unguarded!” Dear gods, he had done, though. I told him to sit outside the barber’s and not move.

  “He won’t let people use his stool, not unless they want a shave.”

  “Rodan, he will today because he’s closed. It looks as if he has left and gone to his family, poor fellow. Shut up, sit there, just stay still until I come back.” When Rodan meekly squatted on the stool, I noticed his hair was grey all over. That’s Saturnalia: you suddenly notice someone you have known for ever is turning into an old man. He has a look that makes you wonder if he will even survive until next year.

  I set off glumly. All the other shops were closed too. Most looked derelict, the favoured decorative style for premises in our alley. There were no garlands on porticos. When the December darkness fell, nobody would put out lamps.

  I had lived in Fountain Court for long enough. I won’t say it held no terrors for me; I was cautious today. I ought to be safe with a gladiator, though locals would know Rodan was useless. I had brought my dog. Barley knew we were not safe. She was huddling up behind me, so close that her shoulder bumped my calf. When a shutter creaked, I heard a small whimper.

  The lane was as dirty as ever. Unidentifiable smells hung above foetid winter puddles. I walked up the centre of what passed for a street, the dark passageway between the looming unhappy buildings. My wariness increased; I knew not to pass close to doorways. We always fooled ourselves that to belong here gave some protection, but that was a travesty.

  I had pride that I had survived such a long time in this hole, yet on returning I felt newly annoyed that the sordid neglect was allowed to persist. When would the Aventine become a refined haven? How could the rack-rent tenements and heartbreak lanes be transformed into something salubrious? Well, watch out: Trajan is coming! They were all in for a shock when they gained a tight-arse provincial senator at the old Eagle Building: Lenia’s Laundry, Falco’s office, Albia’s sad home for over a decade …