"This is my mother: Fausta," said Porcius. "Mother, this is Nubia. And some friends of hers. I've been giving them a tour of the bakery." He didn't bother to introduce the woman behind his mother so Flavia deduced that she must be a slave-girl.
"How nice," said Fausta, patting his arm vaguely. She and her slave-girl continued past them. Flavia lingered at the top of the stairs, and noticed that the slave girl carried a bath-set: a bronze ring with strigil, tweezers, ear-scoop and oil-pot attached. Porcius' mother and her slave-girl were certainly going to the baths.
Flavia watched them out of sight, then turned and ran to catch up with the others.
"This is my room," said Porcius, leading them into a bright room with a small balcony overlooking the road. "And these are my steeds."
Nubia uttered a cry of delight. On the table beside the bed was a delicate wooden cage. Nestled in the sawdust were several mice. Nubia counted at least five of them.
"And this," Porcius gestured towards a big wooden box as long as his bed, "is where they race."
The box was open at the top and as Nubia looked down she saw a wooden model of a racetrack. She recognized the layout because she had been to the races in Rome a few months earlier.
"I call it the Circus Minimus," said Porcius, "because it's the smallest racecourse in the world. Pater helped me build it."
"You race your mice?" Jonathan raised an eyebrow. "Yes," said Porcius, setting the cage in the middle of the racetrack and opening the door.
One by one the mice emerged from the cage. Some were grey and some were white. With bright eyes and twitching noses, they explored the model racetrack. There was a central island and the wood round the edges was carved in steps to represent the spectator seating.
The four friends knelt beside the track and Nubia picked up one of the white mice. She giggled as his warm little body explored the palm of her hand.
"What are you doing?" came a voice from the doorway. "Racing those silly mice again? Why don't you grow up?"
Nubia and the others looked up. A girl of about fifteen stood there. She wore a sage-green tunic and had tied a lavender palla round her hips in a way Nubia knew was fashionable among young women in Rome. With her pale skin and dark wavy hair she would have been very pretty except for one flaw: she was cross-eyed.
"Who are you?" she asked, staring at Nubia and the others.
Flavia jumped to her feet. "I'm Flavia Gemina, and these are my friends: Jonathan, Nubia and Lupus. You must be Titia."
"I know you," said Titia. "You're Aristo's pupils." "That's right! Do you know him?"
Titia stood in the doorway for a moment without replying. Nubia couldn't tell which of them she was looking at. Abruptly Titia moved away from the doorway and Nubia heard her footsteps disappearing down the hallway.
"How rude!" muttered Flavia, sitting down again.
"Don't mind her," said Porcius. He had brought out two tiny wooden chariots, each with a wooden rider fixed inside. "She's always in a bad mood because she'll never find a husband."
"Why not?" asked Nubia.
Porcius snorted. "Didn't you see her? She's a cross-eyed freak. I think she's in love with your tutor Aristo," he added.
"How did you know that Aristo is our tutor?" asked Flavia.
"Everybody in Ostia knows. Or at least everybody at my school. They're all jealous because you have a private tutor who is nice to you and lets you do projects and doesn't beat you when you get a sum wrong."
"What school do you go to?" asked Jonathan.
"The one in the forum," said Porcius. "But I don't want to talk about school. Here, Nubia," he said, handing her one of the model chariots. "Why don't you harness up- the Greens and I'll do the Blues. The Greens are the white ones," he added.
"He is lovely," said Nubia, stroking her white mouse.
"That's Cupido," said Porcius. He had already harnessed a grey mouse to his blue chariot. "You can tell him by the nick on his tail. He's best on the inside, because he's steady. Icarus there — the one climbing into the Emperor's Box — he's the fastest so you should put him on the outside. Castor and Pollux are the other two. They go in between."
"You really like the races, don't you?" said Jonathan, handing Icarus to Nubia. She nodded her thanks and smiled as the mouse nosed into his tiny harness. The little creatures were obviously used to the procedure.
"I love the races," said Porcius, without looking up. "I'm going to go to chariot racing school in Rome next year, when I'm twelve."
"They have a school for that?" asked Jonathan.
Porcius nodded.
"Have you ever been to the races?" asked Flavia.
"Myriads of times," said Porcius. "Pater always takes me up every year for the Ludi Romani."
"We've only been once," said Flavia. "But we loved it." "They've been, but I haven't," said Jonathan glumly. "OK," said Porcius, breathing heavily as he concentrated on getting his last mouse into the harness. "Before we put them on the starting line we have to place our bets. I wager ten pistachio nuts on the Blues."
"Five on the Greens," cried Flavia.
"Me too five greens," said Nubia.
Lupus held up his wax tablet: FIVE ON THE BLUES.
"Lupus! You traitor!" cried Flavia. "Why don't you bet on Nubia?"
Lupus grinned and shrugged.
"He obviously thinks he knows who's going to win," said Jonathan.
"Aren't you going to bet?" Porcius asked Jonathan.
"My father doesn't allow it."
Porcius shrugged. "You can be the Emperor, then. You drop the napkin."
"What?"
"To start the race."
"Oh. All right." Jonathan pulled his handkerchief from his belt and held it up.
"How many circles?" asked Nubia.
"Seven circuits, of course," said Porcius. "Just like the real races. Ready Jonathan? Then give the signal . . ."
Flavia wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. "That was the funniest thing I've ever seen. They're so cute. And so fast!"
"Yes," said Porcius proudly. "They're my boys. Here you go, Nubia and Flavia. Here are your winnings. Well done. Come on Lupus. Pay up."
Lupus scowled. He didn't like losing.
"Well run, boys," Porcius said to the mice as he scattered a handful of sunflower seeds onto the Circus Minimus. The mice had been released from their tiny harnesses and they happily devoured their reward.
"Oh!" said Flavia suddenly. "We're supposed to be solving — I mean studying — how bread is made."
"Do you really want to go down to the boring old bakery again?" Porcius asked Nubia. She was holding Castor and stroking his tiny shoulder blades with her finger.
"Can you show us the ovens?" Flavia asked.
Porcius ignored Flavia. "Nubia?" he said. "Do you want to go back down?"
"You can see the little donkey again," said Flavia. Nubia's eyes lit up and she nodded firmly.
"Somebody whipped him!" cried Flavia.
The thin slave with straw-coloured hair was removing bread from a wall-oven. His one-armed tunic left a shoulder exposed and she could see the red welts on his back.
Porcius nodded. "Pater beat the slaves yesterday to see if they knew anything about some missing bread rolls." He noticed the look on Nubia's face. "It doesn't hurt them much," Porcius said. "Slaves don't feel pain like other people."
"Can we try some fresh rolls?" asked Jonathan. "They smell delicious. And I love warm bread."
"No," sighed Porcius. "My father keeps strict account of every loaf of bread baked and sold. If even one goes missing he knows about it. He doesn't even let my mother take bread without asking. Oh, hello, pater!" said Porcius. "These are some friends of mine. They're studying how bread is made."
A short man in a flour-dusted apron came through the doorway from the mill room. A tall boy of about thirteen trailed behind him.
"I know you," said the short man to Flavia. He had onion breath. "You're Alma's mistress."
"That's right. I'
m Flavia. These are my friends Nubia, Jonathan and Lupus."
"Titus Nasenius Pistor. This is my eldest son Quintus. We call him Ericius."
The tall boy nodded. He was very thin with spiky hair and bluish shadows under his eyes. He coughed.
"Hello," said Flavia. "We're studying how bread is made and Porcius has been showing us around."
"That's my boy!" Pistor hooked his arm round Porcius' neck and gave his son an affectionate squeeze. "He and Ericius here are going to take over the business one day." Porcius squirmed free of his father's hairy arm, but Pistor didn't seem to mind. "Any questions you'd like to ask me about the baking process?"
"How many slaves do you have?" Flavia asked.
"Just the two," said Pistor. "The one we call Teneme and the one by the ovens there: his name is Tertius. He's also our accountant. This is a family business. Quality not quantity. Special loaves, mainly. Some pastries. Our famous poppy-seed rolls. Panis popularis for our preferred customers. The slaves do the milling and kneading and baking. I supervise. My family and I sell at the counter."
Ericius coughed again, and Pistor slapped his tall son on the back. "Both my boys do the early shift, before they go to school. Then my daughter Titia takes over."
"You said some bread has been going missing?" said Flavia.
Pistor nodded. "That's been going on for months. At first the amount of disappearing bread was so small that I didn't notice. But I've been keeping strict accounts for the last few weeks and just this morning I calculated that it's almost always a dozen of my special poppy-seed rolls that go missing."
"That's not very much," said Jonathan.
"No, it's not," he scowled. "But it doesn't matter if it's one roll or a hundred. There's a thief in my household. That's what matters." He spat onto the floor. "And you know, it's very strange. The thefts only occur every seventh day."
"Every seventh day," said Flavia to the others as they walked back home. "I know every eighth day we have the nundinae: the market days. But why every seventh day?"
"The Sabbath!" said Jonathan.
"Tomorrow's the Sabbath, isn't it?" said Flavia.
"Actually it starts this evening," said Jonathan. "You Romans start the day from sunrise. For us Jews, the day begins at sunset."
"It's good you're Jewish and Aristo lets us off lessons on the Sabbath," said Flavia. "That means we have a free day tomorrow. I think each one of us should follow a member of Pistor's household tomorrow and see where they go."
They all nodded.
"Lupus, you follow the boys to school. And Nubia, you keep an eye on Titia or Fausta, whoever comes out first. Take Caudex as your bodyguard. Jonathan and I will hang around the bakery and see if Pistor or the slaves go anywhere."
"Who'll be your bodyguard?" asked Jonathan. "You know your father doesn't like you going out alone."
"I'll take Scuto," said Flavia, and then muttered under her breath. "But you'd better not tell pater."
Early the next morning, just before dawn, the four friends stood watching Pistor's bakery from across the street. The bakery window was a bright square of yellow where a line of hanging oil lamps illuminated Pistor and his two sons. They were already selling bread to a steady stream of customers. Beyond them Flavia could see the slave called Tertius taking bread out of the ovens.
"Look at Pistor," muttered Jonathan. "Porcius and Ericius could eat a whole loaf each and he wouldn't notice."
Titus Nasenius Pistor was resting his forearms on the counter and gossiping with his customers. His two sons were doing most of the work, handing out bread and taking coins. Flavia's door-slave Caudex and her old nurse Alma were among those in the queue. This was their daily routine.
Flavia had rarely been out of the house this early and she was surprised to see how busy it was just before dawn. It was chilly and she could smell the smoke from the torches people held.
She shivered and pulled her woollen palla tighter round her shoulders. Her bare legs were cold, too, so she stood closer to Scuto and let the heat from his furry body warm her calves. He looked up at her, and gave his tail a tentative wag. When Flavia shook her head at him he sighed and lay down on the pavement. Flavia didn't mind: now his body was warming her feet.
Presently Alma stood silhouetted in front of the bright rectangle above the bakery counter. She chatted with Pistor for a few minutes and finally followed the torch-bearing Caudex back across the street to Flavia.
Alma smiled and handed out bread rolls. "There you go, my dears," she said. "Try those."
"Behold!" said Nubia. "They are warm."
Jonathan bit into his. "And delicious!"
Flavia gave half her warm roll to Scuto, who was on his feet again. He devoured it in one gulp and kept his eyes fixed on her face.
Lupus chomped his roll carefully with his molars, then tipped his head back to swallow. He had no tongue and every bite of food threatened to choke him.
"Do you want us to stay with you here, dear?" Alma asked Flavia. "Caudex and I usually go to the meat market next."
"You can carry on shopping," said Flavia. "But can we keep Caudex?"
The four friends - plus Scuto and Caudex - had moved further up the road to a place from which they could see anyone coming out the back door of the bakery. The sky was pale in the east when two dark shapes emerged from this door and moved towards the forum.
"There go the boys, Lupus," whispered Flavia. "Follow them!"
Lupus nodded and disappeared after Porcius and Ericius.
A moment later Flavia jumped as the shutter of the caupona behind them rattled open. She turned to see a sleepy-looking man in a pale tunic yawning at them.
"You waiting for me to open? Have a seat and I'll be with you in a moment."
"We may as well," whispered Flavia to the others. "If we sit here and have a cup of hot spiced wine, we'll be less conspicuous."
"Behold," said Nubia, as they sat at a rickety table near the marble bar. "Pistor's wife and daughter are now serving bread."
"And he's still busy chatting to his friends," snorted Flavia.
There was no longer a queue outside the bakery, but a steady trickle of customers still came and went.
Flavia and her friends had drunk two beakers of hot spiced wine - well-watered - before Titia disappeared from the bakery counter and reappeared a few minutes later at the back door.
"There goes Tidal" said Flavia with satisfaction. "Nubia, you and Caudex follow her. And don't let her spot you. She knows who you are."
It was mid-morning, and Jonathan's stomach was growling. He had only eaten one bread roll and drunk some weak spiced wine. He and Flavia sat at the table, warming their feet beneath Scuto's furry stomach.
"I'm hungry," Jonathan remarked. "It seems like I'm always hungry these days."
"Here." Flavia grinned at him and pushed a silver coin across the table. "Buy us a couple of their rolls. We'll see how good they are."
"Not as good as Pistor's," said Jonathan a moment later. He chewed his roll and suddenly he winced. "Ow!" He reached into his mouth and pulled something out.
"What is it?" asked Flavia, her grey eyes wide.
"Bit of grit. I could have broken a tooth. No," he said, "these rolls are definitely not up to Pistor's standards."
"I'm bored," sighed Flavia. She rested her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. "I guess being a detective involves a lot of waiting. I wish I had a scroll. But if I was reading then I couldn't watch the bakery doorway."
"Shall I recite some poetry for you?" asked Jonathan. "I know lots of it. It's from the Tanak."
"What's the Tanak?" asked Flavia.
"Our Holy Book," said Jonathan. "The T stands for 'torah', the first five scrolls. The N stands for 'nevee'eem' which means 'prophets'. And the K stands for 'k'tooveem' which means the 'writings'. When you add vowels you get the word Tanak, our holy writings."
"And there are some poems?" asked Flavia.
"There are a hundred and fifty, which we call psal
ms. I can recite them all. Choose a number."
"What?"
"Choose a number between one and one hundred and fifty." "Um . . . a hundred . . . and four!" said Flavia.
"O Lord my God, you are very great," recited Jonathan, "You are clothed in glory and majesty and you wrap yourself in light like a garment. You stretch out your heavens like a tent and you make the clouds your chariot . . ."
"Jonathan, that's beautiful," said Flavia. "I never knew you could do that."
"I know all the psalms by heart," said Jonathan proudly. "Choose another number and I'll see if I can tell you the last line. That's a bit harder . . ." He laughed at the expression on her face. "Go on," he said. "Test me."
"OK. Sixty-seven. What's the last line of poem sixty-seven?"
"That's a short psalm; only seven verses. I'll tell you the last two lines . . ." He paused for a moment, then looked up and to his left, " 'The earth will yield its harvest and God our God — will bless us. God will bless us, so let all the ends of the earth be in awe of him.' "
"Teach me!" cried Flavia. "Teach me a psalm!"
"I'll teach you one of our prayers," said Jonathan, "the one our Messiah taught us: Pater noster, our father . . ."
"Pater noster," repeated Flavia, and then she pointed: "There goes the runaway slave!"
"What?"
"Teneme. Look how fast he's moving! Quick, Jonathan. Follow him!"
"Good morning, sir," said Flavia casually, and leaned on the cold marble counter of the bakery. "May I try another one of your poppy-seed rolls?"
"Of course," said Pistor. "That will be one as. Still working on your project?" he asked, as he slid her change across the counter.
She nodded.
"Then why don't you come on in?"
"Can my dog Scuto come in, too?"
Pistor nodded.
A moment later, Flavia and her dog entered the bakery. It was almost deserted. Apart from Pistor, there was only a slave sitting at a table in a corner.
Pistor had just turned to serve a customer, so Flavia wandered over to the table. Scuto followed her, his toenails tapping on the brick floor. He sniffed the slave's knees and wagged his tail.
The fair-haired slave stopped flicking beads on his abacus and reached down to scratch Scuto behind the ear.
The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits Page 28