A Comedy of Terrors

by Lindsey Davis

  I had expected trouble at the door, but the party guardians had already reached the point when anyone in a woman’s tunic was happily pulled in. They had applied this to three bisexual queens, though now were in the process of removing the rouged beauties. I had wondered if the place would be awash with girls of easy virtue, but it turned out the Fourth were surprisingly prudish, or else had terrifying wives. They were perfectly able to enjoy themselves suicidally without help and, I was informed gravely, their parties never became orgies. It depends how you define an orgy.

  The lights were bright, the wine was flowing, good humour was rising steadily, the noise level had reached the point where words were only audible from three inches away but nobody bothered lip-reading. So far, there were no arguments. They had hours to go yet; there would be flailing fights later. These were men whose work was regularly tedious or dangerous, and this was the one evening in the year when they came together to forget their griefs. Their tribune was here, but anyone could slap him on the back and tell him what an idiot he was with no fear of him ever remembering.

  They drank; they drank a lot more; they threw into their wide-open mouths pickled beets and mussel-forcemeat sausage. It was no place for prawn mites or frosted canapés with rosehips. While I was there, little old women, who looked like the troops’ grannies, came waddling in to massive cheers, pushing enormous cauldrons on wheeled trolleys for the weight, shiny bronze cauldrons that steamed gorgeously with spiced pork dumplings in hearty fish stews, served into huge bowls by the giant ladleful and a whole loaf each for dunking purposes. Nobody at this party would offend etiquette by asking for a simple side salad.

  A beaker was forced into my right hand while another found its way into my left. A chaplet of some damp foliage, I could not see what, ended up on my head. Without me needing to say who I was or what I wanted, I was pushed through the crowd, shedding Rufinianus early on by a cunning whisk around a group who were laughing at a lad who had spilled wine: he was bent double, sucking it out of his tunic to avoid waste. I did feel various pinches and slaps on the behind, but generally these were cheeky assaults that I knew had to be taken as appreciation. Propelled by friendly hands, sideswipes from people who hadn’t noticed me and an accidental elbow, I floundered through the crush to the men I sought.

  “I thought we agreed not to tell her!” roared Morellus at Tiberius.

  “You are not supposed to be here,” Tiberius duly said, for Morellus’s benefit. He winked, gave me a winy kiss, then had the wit to swing me sideways, so Morellus would not try to kiss me too. “I’m overdressed—thank goodness!” he murmured in my ear, his words tickling erotically. Through the plain ochre tunic, his body felt extremely hot, though not unhuggable.

  I made an attempt to relate what Rufinianus had worked out about gangster identities. Tiberius looked interested, but Morellus waved it aside. “It will keep. Tell us tomorrow.”

  “You will be drunk tomorrow.”

  “We are drunk tonight,” confessed Tiberius. He burped artistically, to demonstrate. “I believe we shall soon be much, much drunker…”

  “Show some reaction. This is crucial news about Greius and his mentor! Morellus, do you know the name Appius Terentius?”

  “It floats to the surface occasionally. Not associated with nuts but it could be. He fancies high society—our tribune clinks beakers with him on race days. Stop wittering on, Albia,” Morellus ordered. “We can’t deal with anything exciting tonight. Now you’re here, grab an olive and enjoy yourself!”

  “I don’t see any olives.”

  Morellus called to a trooper to fetch me olives; the man looked appalled at the idea. I felt myself floundering, as any control I might have had over my companions melted. I had managed to put down both my wine cups, but I needed a bucket of water to hurl over those two.

  “Leave it, Titus. I’m easy.”

  “No, no, the lady has spoken. The lady wants olives, she shall have them!” Morellus himself lurched off on a vain quest. He would forget what he was looking for the next time a passing waiter filled his beaker. If enough waiters passed him, Morellus would pass out.

  My uncle loomed up. He was serving because he had always done it and saw no reason why retirement ought to transform him into a deferential guest. Petronius identified my ditched beakers, into which he poured more, making no comment on me having two. “Primitivo!” It always was. He himself had collected a whole line of brimming goblets of the warm red liquor from people who had given him drinks to say they were glad to see him. He would work his way through them all before the night ended. By the end of the week he might be conscious again, enough to promise Maia Favonia that he was now too old: he would definitely not be doing this next year … He knew the sad rubric from last time.

  Petronius gestured to where my father was. I waved one of my beakers at Falco, who raised his own back at me, along with a wild lasso flourish from a long cold meat sausage he was eating single-handedly. I decided against trying to mime across the room that I had seen my brother and sisters or that Postumus had speared his tutor. By now, Mother would have picked them up from the clam party and, after a small tot of the girlie wine and gathering any leftover seafood into a napkin, she would have taken them home safely. Helena would see Vitalis had bandages, though the young man was quite used to receiving unintentional wounds from my brother. No need to struggle across to speak to Father: I was a dutiful daughter, but I would see them all at the big family feast they were hosting tomorrow.

  “Uncle Lucius, did you ever arrest anyone called Appius Terentius?”

  He pondered. “Mobster?” Through the wine-haze, I thought his face closed. “Many, many years ago, there was a vicious fraudster called Appius Priscillus. I mean, vicious. Back while your father was trying to con your mother into living with him, unforgettable period, Priscillus nearly killed Falco. Suggestions were made to bugger off. Being your father, with his ludicrous talents, Falco achieved this.”

  “How?”

  “He never said. I never asked. If relatives are back in Rome, it needs looking into—but what would I know these days?” maundered the grumpy retiree. “Ask Falco.” He wandered on his way with his flagon. I looked over, but my father was too happy to be reminded of some near-death experience. I would check with him tomorrow.

  Left with me, my husband thought he should be amorous. No one took any notice, luckily. I cannot say I bothered much myself. It was low-grade canoodling, with a wildly missing aim.

  “Later, love.”

  “You are looking lovely—”

  “No, I look like a woman who had intended to stay home, working wool. This crook Terentius, if he drinks with the tribune, is he here tonight?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t know who anybody is, though I feel they all know me. That’s worrying. I have been careful not to insult anyone.”

  “It’s all right. You are allowed to be a rude drunk, but the system is to disparage everyone equally. The Fourth disapprove of picking on people.”

  “They disapprove of very little tonight!” Tiberius marvelled.

  “I warned you.”

  “You did, you did … You always take such good care of me…”

  Oh, Juno. Taking care of him tonight meant I could not walk away and abandon him to the nightmare. I would just have to persuade him now that he had stayed long enough. Fortunately, Fate suddenly homed in on the party venue. In the dense ceiling of greenery they had roped to the roof, some of the flickering lamps set fire to surrounding pine needles. A cheer went up. Apparently, this always happened. It never made the Fourth reconsider their decorations, nor had the shortage of candles and matches affected their supplies this year. I heard a cry to bring the siphon-engine, so they must have thought a fire was inevitable; at least they had water standing by.

  * * *

  Under cover of the confusion, I hauled Tiberius outside. In fairness, he came willingly. He had to hold onto me hard, because by now the floor was slippery.

  As we ska
ted across spillages to the exit, I saw Gaius Murrius. He was with someone else, who had to be his brother, Quintus Caesius: thicker-set, with more miserable features, but similar. Scaurus, the Fourth’s tribune, was talking to them: suppositions about his civic invitation list had been correct. I would not speak to the brothers with him there. I would not speak to Cassius Scaurus at all.

  A further local grandee was entering, among a small but pushy group of attendants in livery, white tunics with pale green edgings, death’s-head amulets. He raised an arm and headed over towards the tribune’s group. Even if this was Terentius, it was the wrong moment for me to intervene.

  We had to wait while the siphon-engine, minus its towing mule, was manoeuvred indoors, then manhandled tipsily towards the fire. In the street outside, Tiberius stood still, breathing fresh air. I was supporting him. Holding his head, he groaned.

  “Cheer up.” I was reasonably kind. These things happen. “Unless they get that blaze under control, your brother-in-law’s warehouse will be burned down. With any luck, he will suspect it was you who suggested they should use it.”

  Tiberius shook his head. He had indeed cheered up. “The bastard won’t merely suspect me—he will know!”

  L

  Even when I had him outside, it was hard to prise Tiberius away from his new pals.

  “I must go back in there and help them put the fire out!”

  “They can manage. Leave it to the experts, love.” He was still struggling ineffectually, so I suggested he had had enough close contact with flames that autumn. He beamed at me, head on one side, remembering how the thunderbolt at our wedding had nearly killed him. He would suffer for the rest of his life yet had never borne any grudge for it.

  Some men batter their wives when they are drunk. Mine became ridiculously loving. It might have been embarrassing but everyone else was rushing to watch the fire. You would have thought the vigiles knew what a blaze looked like.

  “What now, beloved?” Tiberius demanded, in a grandiose rostrum manner.

  At least I was rescuing my husband. Coming here with news had been pointless. There was no way the vigiles wanted to hear about villains this evening. Even if I had managed to interest Morellus, the relevant gang leaders looked to be here and I guessed there were truce rules: subjecting them to interviews when they had grace-and-favour invitations was out. Once Scaurus was in his glad-rags he became a relaxed host, a save-it-for-next-week man.

  “Now? You have been to the party. So, Manlius Faustus, come home and be sociable with your wife.”

  Gentlest of drunks, he agreed to be plucked free. He slung a heavy arm over my shoulder, letting me support him. Once I had circled him around to face in the right direction, we set off.

  All over the hill, festival music and laughter were spirited. Houses and streets were bright, lit by oil lamps and waxed tapers. The mood was light, though with undertones of menace. It was probably best to avoid jealous old acquaintances. If someone went to their door and uttered the words “Oh, it’s you!” to a dark figure outside, that person might fell them to exact vengeance for a tragic slight years before. This was the night when long-lost relatives would emerge from the shadows without bothering to announce who they were. Old ladies huddled indoors with even older little dogs, muttering about the noise and hoping their happy neighbours would drop dead—which the obliging ones possibly did.

  The walk home was not the easiest romantic stroll of my life. We had to cross the main Aventine heights, slow going with a woolsack, who could hardly put one foot in front of the other. He was walking as if his shoes were three inches too big. Battling streets full of whooping and skirling people was difficult enough; luckily, when they bombed us with nuts they were too squiffy to aim. I managed to stop Tiberius stiffly reproving them. He seemed very pleased that his wife was a woman who had helped drunks to their houses before. Using well-tried tactics—manhandling and sweet talk—at last I hauled him home.

  “Oh, it’s you!” cried Rodan, disappointed. Before I could fell him, like a bitter old acquaintance arriving mysteriously, he let us in.

  Once we arrived, I offloaded the master onto Gratus and Paris. Neither of them could claim sobriety, but they had enough in reserve to cover. They laid him on the courtyard bench where, if he threw up, it would be closer to the water tap. By now, he was simply a silent dead weight. I pushed a pillow under his head and spread rugs to keep him warm. He woke up enough to say thank you quite nicely. He then tried to grab me, but it was a purely symbolic gesture.

  “Albiola!… I love you!”

  “I know it.”

  “Do you love me too?”

  “Mostly, darling.” Not as much tonight. I could have married a hitching post and had wittier conversation.

  “I feel rather peculiar.”

  “Sleep it off, Aedile,” I advised.

  He had had to find out for himself. Even for a man who had been struck by lightning, the vigiles’ drinks party was a thumping great test.

  I stayed with him until he had no idea where he was or that a caring nurse watched over him, then went to bed. On my way I checked in on the boys. They had reverted to restless night-time crying. Children who experience a tragedy gain an instinct for new risks. I tucked them in neatly; the necessary gestures and murmuring reassured me too. In case they cried again, I thought I would lie down in a nearby room we had prepared for Marcia and Corellius if they came to stay.

  Oops!

  “What’s happening? Get out of here!”

  “Sorry. Accident.”

  “Oh, piss on the Pantheon, Albia!”

  Marcia and Corellius had arrived. They were exhausted by travel, and in his case by illness. Being jumped on in the dark turned them into very stroppy guests.

  “Nobody told me. By the way, your leg arrived.”

  “Scram, Albia!”

  “I’m going.”

  Glaphyra called a question from her room, so I told her that everything was fine.

  I fled to my own room, where I crawled under the blanket with only Barley for company. The dog was restless. She kept standing up, digging in her paws as she edged about. She wanted the master here. I made her go on the floor. She whined frantically. I let her up again.

  Wakeful, I thought about those men I had seen, Murrius and his brother, then the frowning thickset one with the superior attendants. Though preoccupied with Tiberius, I had registered them. As we left the warehouse, I mentally filed an image of the tableau around Cassius Scaurus. Now I was free to evaluate what I had seen.

  I knew how this worked. The Fourth’s idle, bullying, skiving, ex-centurion commander would have compiled a short list of dignitaries who lived on his patch. He had invited them to be social tonight; he called it professional courtesy and his list included regular criminals, those he had failed to prosecute. Others whom the cohort had managed to deal with were in exile abroad, of course, their foot-soldiers condemned to death in the arena or the mines. Under Scaurus there had been a few, though never as many as my gloomy retired uncle thought there should have been.

  Scaurus must have given his favoured guests an arrival time. Rome was a clock-free city once the courts were closed, but everyone could gauge appointments roughly; that was how we lived. I had seen the tribune provide his invitees with a short burst of generous hospitality, after which I guessed he would ease them out. Thanks for showing up, you must have a lot of other calls to make, see you next year and goodnight. Duty done, Scaurus could bellow, “Jupiter, thank the gods they’ve gone. I need a proper drink!” before he became even more rat-arsed than his happy men.

  Disclaimer on legal advice: I do not say any crooks presumed his invitations were a signal to send in their annual bribes.

  Honest, Judge. I have absolutely no evidence that gold cups, cash, streamlined racehorses or exotic comestibles ever passes into cohort tribunes’ warty hands. There are anti-corruption rules, and anyone in that position is well aware of them. We all know that.

  What I will say is
that, as I hauled my wavering husband out of the smoky warehouse, my brain nevertheless found time to note that Cassius Scaurus had chosen not to wear a synthesis. The troops’ party robes mostly looked homemade, sewn by their wives and girlfriends. Scaurus had no access to that because (snigger!) his wife had left him. Instead, over a smart bruised-berry-coloured tunic, with rich bands of contrast, he had been wearing a wide new black leather belt and one of those tawdry gold necklets that I had already witnessed as favoured by Gaius Murrius and his gambling friends. There was a goldsmith on the Aventine trying to gather his payments for twinklers like that.

  Well, you add it up on your abacus.

  What else could I remember? When I first noticed them, Murrius and his presumed brother were talking together, with Scaurus almost primly listening. The fraternal pair looked tense. Had Murrius relayed his conversations with Tiberius? Were they growing nervous? As they spotted the presumed Appius Terentius, both stiffened. The way they straightened up was not a routine salute to the newcomer. What was he doing there? How would they all handle it? Perhaps they wanted to talk to him about Greius, though of course not in front of Scaurus.

  Scaurus himself was tossing mixed nuts and olives into his mouth through his thin lips and what remained of his brown teeth. He had these titbits in a dish he cupped close in one hand. Murrius and his brother had each taken a single stuffed vine leaf from a platter a slave brought round, though they held them without eating. Scaurus kept making fast, greedy movements, as if unconscious of what he was doing, though in retrospect, I wondered. While he munched, had his eyes been, if not narrowed, at least rather still? Was he in fact observing what the crooks all did?

  If the third man was Terentius, his only companions were an escort, identically dressed, accompanying their master to show his importance. None was his henchman, Greius. I knew that. I had seen Greius, seen him more than once, haranguing Pinarius. Presumably tonight he was off pursuing his complex love-life.