Saturnalia mdf-18 Read online

  'The rest of us suspect they love him because he's a hot dispenser of poppy juice… Drusilla is in Cleander's pocket because he never seriously insists she dries out. He loathes slaves and freedwomen, so he sees Drusilla even without that scowling maid of hers present, and has complete control. Husband doesn't help,' Aedemon informed us, happily insulting his own patient, Quadrumatus. 'Says "a drop never hurt anyone". He only has to observe Drusilla after a hard bout to know how wrong that is.'

  'I don't suppose he does see her tipsy,' suggested Helena. 'This seems like a house where they may well lead separate lives much of the time-and when Drusilla is unfit for society, I expect the scowling Phryne keeps guard.'

  While Pylaemenes just winked at me, Aedemon muttered, 'Too much is concealed behind closed doors in this house. Abominations. Quadrumatus is a good judge and has a mind of his own, sure-but that's useless if nobody ever takes notice of his instructions.' It was unclear what abominations had upset him.

  In a pause, Helena asked, 'So where is Drusilla, our hostess, today?' 'Rumour is, she had a complete nervous breakdown. Swallowing more wine than ever-never got over her brother's awful death.' Aedemon then raised himself upright like an uncoiling reptile and swanned off, following a slave who had a huge tray of seafood bites.

  I could see the dream therapist was about to move away too, but I made a last effort: 'So what has Quadrumatus been so lax about?'

  Pylaemenes just shrugged.

  He sidled off, so we shifted further from Anacrites and Cleander.

  We managed to position ourselves beside one of the three-foot silver salvers. It seemed to be wielded by the cheese-server Aedemon and Pylaemenes had mentioned, but I had to leave Helena at risk of his fabled gaseous emissions because Claudius Laeta was gesticulating from a doorway. Helena waved me off to my meeting. I left her discussing Gallic cheese with the server: was it best pounded with pine nuts, hazel nuts or almonds?

  She had the best bargain. At least she could pick out a cheese and the flatulent slave boy would cut her a sliver. He looked like a reprobate who would give a handsome woman more than a sliver, in fact. I heard him begin chatting to her; he was full of cheeky quips.

  I meanwhile was made to halt by a valet, whose purpose in life was to irritate men by fiddling with the folds of their togas. A sponge-slave grabbed me by both hands and cleaned any grease from my fingers and palms, then a boy almost tripped me up, scrabbling round so he could dust my boots. I had endured less attention when visiting Vespasian.

  Emperors can afford to relax. This manic preparation told me that inside the room I was trying to enter was someone dull, but highly aspirational.

  Too right. An ingratiating major-domo whispered the good news. His duty was to set people at their ease with terrifying lists of VIPs. 'You are entering the presence of Marcus Quadrumatus Labeo, who is hosting and chairing the convocation. Also present are Tiberius Claudius Laeta and Tiberius Claudius Anacrites, who are both highly placed imperial freedmen. The guest of honour is-' The creep nearly wet himself-'Quintus Julius Cordinus Gaius Rutilius Gallicus!'

  Rutilius had enough names already but I invented a few more for him: 'Old Grovel is here, is he? Bonanza Boy! Domitian's Ovation Sparkler. I'm Falco,' I said as the major-domo gasped at my irreverence. 'If you need a mnemonic, give me a piece of brazier charcoal and I'll write it on your wrist for you.'

  LV

  Didius Falco!'

  The triumphant, pretty nearly triumphal, great general Rutilius remembered me! Could it be I had impressed him with my talent when we first met out in Tripolitania-an event made the more memorable for both of us when he ordered my brother-in-law to die in the bloody jaws of arena lions? Could he even be recalling with nostalgia that long hot summer evening when he and I, the most mismatched of literary entertainers, hired the Auditorium of Maecenas and gave a cringe-making poetry recital?

  I did not fool myself. A flunkey would have whispered my name in his ear. In any case, Rutilius Gallicus knew who I was because he was expecting me.

  He was in his early fifties, the kind of provincial senator who could pass for a market trader. A couple of generations back, his family were probably not much better than that; still, it meant the man was sharp. His career progress confirmed how well he could schmoose. Consul, priest of the Augustan cult, imperial legate, governor. Top of the tree-and looking at the sky.

  'This is a pretty mess, Falco!' Too right. He caused it-though you might think, from the easy and companionable way the general spoke, he was making Veleda's stupid escape our joint responsibility.

  Never trust a member of the aristocracy. Rutilius was as close to benign as they come. But if he had driven all the way back from Augusta Taurinorum at Saturnalia-after returning to Italy specifically to spend Saturnalia with his family-he must be desperate to cover his back. Old Grovel had decided that being young Domitian Caesar's buddy might not be enough.

  It was an interesting meeting, if you liked watching an empty potter's wheel. Round and round and round again they went. Quadrumatus Labeo made a capable chairman, as I had always suspected, but the rest sidelined him. I could see why one of the family doctors had said nobody listened to him; worse, Quadrumatus accepted it. Laeta had produced the agenda; he steered progress. Rutilius Gallicus listened regally. He had the air of a man who will be reporting back to higher life forms. I could guess who.

  As the 'official' trouble-fixer, Anacrites was invited to summarise progress. He waffled as far as the abortive operation at the Temple of Diana A ventinensis, then he tried to force my hand: 'Apparendy Falco has new evidence about the Scaeva killing.'

  'Just a lead.'

  'You said-' He had slipped up. He realised I was deliberately undermining him.

  'Misunderstanding?' I grinned at him. 'As soon as I have hard evidence, I'll produce it.' He was furious.

  'So' Quadrumatus tapped a stylus end a few times. 'The priestess went to the Temple of Diana Aventinensis after she absconded from here, but left four days ago, and the priests have no knowledge of her subsequent movements. It's a start.'

  No, it was useless. The lard buckets all sat there until one of them thought to ask, 'Anything you want to add, Falco?'

  I leaned my chin on my hands. 'Couple of points. First, before she moved on to the Aventine, Veleda was at the Temple of AEsculapius. They say her illness may be marsh fever or similar. So she is likely to suffer relapses, in the usual cycles of recurrence, but if she survives the first bout, she won't die on you.'

  They had forgotten they could lose her simply through disease.

  Laeta looked impressed, Rutilius grateful-mildly.

  'Second-a minor correction-she left Diana Aventinensis five days ago.'

  'Who told you?' Anacrites burst out.

  'Can't reveal my sources.' I glanced at Laeta, who made a gesture to the Spy in support of me. 'Third-major update, this one: the priests of Diana do know where she went next; they sent her there.'

  They all looked at me. I kept it quiet and polite. Some of these idiots might offer to employ me on another occasion. I needed the money, so I was daft enough to humour them. 'I have seen her. I have spoken to her.' That made them sit up. 'The situation seems to be containable-I mean, not simply that Veleda can be forcibly recaptured, but that she may surrender peacefully. Which would be much better for the Empire.'

  At the mention of the Empire, they all looked down at their nice clean note-tablets and assumed pious expressions.

  'I'd just like to go right back to before she ever took to her heels,' I told Rutilius. 'She was said to be greedy distressed when she learned she would be part of a Triumph. You had never said what fate awaited her-am I right?'

  'Maybe I should have done, Falco.' Rutilius paused. 'The reason I did not, frankly, is that it would be wrong to anticipate that my Ovation would be granted. Such an honour must be voted by the Senate. Even if it is thought appropriate, I must first complete my task as Lower German governor.'

  'Your modesty commends you.
' In retrospect his caution was even more wise. I reckoned Veleda's bungled captivity could well lose Rutilius his Ovation. The man was bright enough to know it too. 'I was told originally that Veleda overheard her fate from "a visitor". Quadrumatus Labeo, can that be right? You were providing a safe house, where she was to be kept in conditions of absolute secrecy. Did you really permit your visitors to communicate?'

  'I did not. Of course I did not.' Quick to defend himself, Quadrumatus looked put out. Then, in his normal direct way he confessed what he had previously fudged: 'It was one of my household who revealed what was planned for her.'

  'You know who?'

  'I do know. The person responsible has been reprimanded.' There was awkward shuffling among the others. I gazed at the crestfallen householder. He had intended to withhold the truth, but weakly confessed: 'It was my wife's freedwoman, Phryne. She took against the priestess and committed this very spiteful act.'

  'Your wife cannot control her?'

  'My wife is a… benevolent disciplinarian.' His wife was a lush, and the freedwoman controlled the keys to her wine cupboard. 'How does this help, Falco?'

  'Maybe it helps you, sir, to reconsider just how you govern your household. '

  Laeta pursed his lips. They all knew about Drusilla, and while none of them would have been so blunt they remained silent through my rebuke.

  Anacrites was rubbing his forehead, a sign that stress had brought back his headaches. He could no longer contain himself 'You're wasting time, Fako. If you know where the priests sent Veleda, I demand to be told!'

  We were colleagues in this, so I answered his question. 'They sent her to the sanctuary at Nemi.'

  Then I sat back and let the fool rush from the room, intending to apprehend her at the shrine, taking all the credit. If he dashed all the way there, he would be gone for two days. My guess was, somewhere along the crazy ride, he would realise I gave him the information too easily; he would suspect I had misled him and turn back. It would do me no good in our tortured relationship-but it bought me, and Veleda, precious time.

  LVI

  Helena and I did remember our children. We were going home in a hired chair, one of a row that had been thoughtfully ordered up in case the house-party guests wanted to go out. We had shed Laeta, who was lingering to make himself useful to the great Rutilius. We had not even reached the gate at the property boundary when we both gasped guiltily. We turned the chair around, and our daughters never knew how close they came to being given up for adoption in a very wealthy house.

  At the Probus Bridge, Helena went on with our two sleeping nymphs, while I climbed out and set off to the patrol house of the Third Cohort of Vigiles.

  It was a wasted journey. The Third told me proudly that as soon as Petronius had alerted them to the flautist's owner, they notified the Quadrumati. Someone had been from the villa to pick up the missing boy already.

  'Had you interviewed him?' 'What about, Falco?'

  I hired another chair, and returned down the Via Aurelia. It was late afternoon and at the onset of darkness, the villa had been trimmed with half a million lamps. Everyone had been eating and drinking all day now. One of Drusilla's dwarfs had been chosen-or had elected himself-King for the Day; he was causing havoc. It took me an hour to find anyone who knew about the flautist and even longer to persuade them to take me to him. He was locked in a cell-like storeroom.

  'This is harsh.'

  'He's a runaway.'

  'He fled because he was witness with terror-terror of somebody here.'

  'It's for his protection then.'

  As protection it had failed. When they opened up for me, the young boy I remembered cowering in shock nine days ago was stretched out, face up on a mattress, dead.

  Word of my furious return must have gone round. Quadrumatus and Rutilius appeared in the doorway as I straightened up from examining the lad. I had found nothing to explain his death. It was classic: he looked as if he was asleep.

  'He has been back in this house less than three hours-but someone got to him. He was trapped in here; he must have known he was doomed. Whoever came and killed him, it's a certainty they also killed Gratianus Scaeva. Your flautist,' I told Quadrumatus fiercely, 'saw your brother-in-law's killer. I won't ask if you knew that all along-you're a patrician and I'm not stupid. But I tell you this: others in your household did know; they arranged a cover-up. I sensed it when I first came here and if I had been given true information then, this boy would be alive.' He would have been a witness, but that wasn't what was making me so angry. 'He has been murdered to silence him. Don't tell me he is just a slave. He was human; he had a right to life. He was your slave; he was one of your family. You should have defended him. Call this a safe house? I don't think so! You run a house of riot, sir!'

  Disgusted, I turned on my heel and left.

  I went back.

  I cleared the store-room and locked the door. I kept the key.

  I found Quadrumatus Labeo: 'This house is outside Rome and theoretically beyond the jurisdiction of the vigiles. By the authority conferred on me by Claudius Laeta in the Veleda affair, I am ordering that your flautist's death be referred to the city authorities. We will not have the same appalling mistakes that were allowed when Gratianus Scaeva died. This time the crime scene and the corpse will be meticulously catalogued, and witnesses who fail to co-operate will be taken into custody. You, sir, will be responsible for ensuring that members of your household tell us the truth. Someone will be sent to examine the body professionally. Until then, the room is to remain locked. Take the name of anyone who attempts entry, and detain them for interrogation.'

  Petronius Longus would give me that rueful look of his. Still, Marcus Rubella was already collecting for next year's Fourth Cohort drinks party. Given a large cash contribution, which could be suitably disguised on my mission's expense sheet, he would agree to help. I wanted a doctor to look at the dead flautist. This house was full of medical creatures, but I trusted none of them. I wanted Scythax. I was going to find out how the flute-boy died, even if we had to conduct an illegal autopsy.

  LVII

  I barely made it back in time to be smartened up and hauled out to dinner with my sister Junia. I tried telling Helena I was too tired, too gloomy and too tense to go. I received the response I expected. All over Rome unhappy lads were being forced to attend parties with uninspiring relatives. To avoid it needed very careful prior planning.

  It was a perfectly good evening-if you ignored the fine detail: Junia couldn't cook; Gaius Baebius had no nose for wine; their overwrought son Marcus-King for the Day-had no idea what was going on; my precocious little girls knew exactly what they wanted to be princesses who behaved badly; and wonderful Junia had invited Pa. Helena asked him to tell us about his operation, knowing that would cheer me up. It did. Better still, prim Junia was thoroughly offended by the ghastly details. That was even before my father offered to show us all the results.

  He drew me aside at one point, and I thought I was to be favoured with distasteful tunic-lifting, but he just wanted to croak that he had brought the ear-rings he was trying to flog me. I bought them. Then I refused to humour his proffered demonstration of his wounds.

  He must have found a taker, because soon we were subjected to an hour of three-year-old Marcus Baebius Junillus running around, showing everyone his bare little bottom. 'We can't stop him!' gasped Junia, horrified by her predicament. 'He is our King for the Day!' Little Marcus might be deaf and speechless, but he had a flair for misrule.

  Notwithstanding his rights, Helena eventually grabbed the excited child, plonked him on her lap and made him sit quiet for the ghost stories. All the children were far too young for that. Things became tricky.

  Pa, Gaius and I made the traditional exit to the sun terrace, where we stood around with half-empty wine cups, shivering and discussing chariot teams. I supported the Blues, while Pa supported the Greens (that was precisely why, many years ago, I had chosen the Blues).

  Gaius nev
er went to the races, but ventured that If he did he thought he might fancy the Reds. At least that gave Pa and me something to talk about, as we massacred the mad idea that anyone would ever support the Reds. 'You two bastards always gang up together,' complained Gaius-which gave us both something else to get annoyed about loudly, while we were angrily denying it.

  This was a true family occasion. We walked back indoors for another drink-Pa and I both extremely keen to open up the amphora he had hospitably brought, rather than Gaius' vinegar. Junia's hired ghost had arrived.

  'Whoo-hoo?!' he went, spookily gliding around in a white garment with his face hidden. Silent children cowered against their mothers, thrilled. Helena and Junia were equally thrilled, now the children had calmed down. We men stood and applauded, pretending to be brave. Only Gaius Baebius was quaking, since I had just muttered to him to keep a check in case the spook stole something. Pa couldn't care less so long as it was over quickly; he was too busy shifting from foot to foot as the red hot pain flared up in his damaged posterior. I was stunned: I knew this ghost, though he did not remember me. It was Zoilus.

  He might be crazy, but as Saturnalia entertainment that could only help. I had thought when I met him on the Via Appia that he must have had theatrical training. Actors are often paid too little to lead decent lives, and Zoilus had the air of being too unreliable to obtain steady work. Even so, he was on some good contacts list. Junia had obtained him from the Theatre of Marcellus, a snooty monument built and named for a nephew of Augustus, but not above providing acts for private homes. Intellectual aesthetes employed small teams to give them masterpiece-theatre all to themselves, on rickety stages in their chilly villas. Children's parties in fine mansions had little entertainments where the spoiled brats threw food at the performers. Stage donkeys were popular. And there was always a demand for sexy charades at degenerate banquets. The stage donkeys, and sometimes stage cows, featured in those too-usually having a really good time with some stage virgin.