I now needed to be shown where the torso was found and hoped to be led there by the house steward—but once she had been turfed out of the consultation, Phryne took over supervising me.
‘What’s wrong with your mistress?’ I enquired as we walked. ‘She suffers with her nerves.’
‘And that was her doctor. What’s his name again?’
‘Cleander.’ Phryne disliked him. In view of his snooty attitude towards her, it was understandable.
‘He’s a Greek?’
‘He’s a Hippocratic pneumatist.’
Sounded like he was a charlatan. ‘And does he attend the whole family? I thought Quadrumatus Labeo sees Pylaemenes?’
‘Pylaemenes is his dream therapist. His doctor is Aedemon. He is an Egyptian,’ said Phryne, who had grasped my line of questioning. ‘An Alexandrian empiricist.’ Another quack.
‘Drusilla Gratiana said her brother was not strong. Who looked after him?’
‘Mastarna. Etruscan. A dogmatist.’
As she grew more terse, I took the hint and kept quiet until we came to a prettily decorated salon. It must have been thoroughly cleaned up; there was no sign now of the reported pools of blood. Gratianus Scaeva had been found on a reading couch; it had since been replaced with a different one. There were goat-footed marble side tables, display cabinets with a selection of bronze miniatures, lampstands, a couple of cedarwood scroll boxes, rugs, cushions, a hot wine dispenser, pens and ink, and in short, more pieces of furniture and knick-knacks than my mother had in her whole house—but no clues.
We walked back to the atrium, where I said, ‘I did not want to upset your mistress, but I have another question. Was anything found in the water, other than her brother’s head? Were there any weapons or pieces of treasure, for instance?’
Phryne looked at me wide-eyed. ‘No! Should there have been?’ I was taken aback by her reaction, but I had probably startled her with my reference to barbarian rites.
At my request she then walked me to the suite Veleda had occupied. This was a very large villa. The Quadrumati were not sharing much of their domestic life with their house guest. They had kept Veleda so far away from the rest of them she could have been in a different dwelling.
Her quarters had been comfortable. A couple of rooms, furnished in the same basic style as the rest of the house, though lighter on luxuries. She and Ganna had shared a bedroom, each with her own well-furnished bed. They ate in a small private dining room. A reception room with seating gave on to an enclosed courtyard when they wanted fresh air. They had been attended by a slave, on a daily rota to avoid any danger of suborning. When the family were not using their musicians and poetry readers, these had been sent along to provide entertainment—though Drusilla Gratiana had never allowed the priestess use of her troupe of dwarfs.
Life would have been lonely but tolerable. As imprisonment for a condemned person, this was more than humane. But once Veleda heard of her intended fate, her isolation would have given her too much scope for brooding.
‘Veleda was unwell, I hear. What was wrong with her, Phryne?’ The malevolent retainer cackled. ‘We never found out. Feigning, probably.’
‘Did any of the family medicos take a look at her?’
‘Certainly not!’ Phryne was outraged at the suggestion that a physician who had touched one of her sacred charges should finger the sickly barbarian.
‘So she was left to make the best of it?’
‘By no means, Falco. When she started complaining—’ The freedwoman emphasised her belief that Veleda was a self-pitying malingerer—‘Drusilla Gratiana kindly arranged for Zosime, from the sanctuary of AEsculapius, to attend her. My mistress even paid for it!’
So these noble folk had had three personal doctors, plus a dream therapist, on call and visiting daily—all of whom could presumably be relied on for confidentiality—yet for Veleda they brought in a completely different person, an outsider, from a charitable shrine that took care of dying slaves.
‘Zosime is female? So… Women’s troubles?’
‘Pah! Headaches!’ Phryne snorted, with a sneer that would have shattered glass.
VIII
I had seen enough, and scoffed at enough, to keep my head reeling as I stomped home.
On the way I did a check: I went straight up the Via Aurelia to Tiber Island, where at the shrine I asked to see Zosime. She was out on calls, and nobody was sure when she was likely to return.
‘What’s it about, Falco?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
This search would be tricky. Since Veleda’s presence in Rome was a state secret, and her absconding was such an embarrassment, I would have to pretend she did not exist. It would be awkward. Still, I like a challenge.
When I played coy, the receptionist at the Temple of AEsculapius merely nodded. The shrine attendants accepted any story; they were used to hard-hearted citizens dragging in worn-out old slaves they could not be bothered to feed any more, and pretending they just found these sorry specimens wandering in the street. No sick slave was turned away. This was the only truly charitable temple in Rome, the only hospital. Treatment was free; the temple survived on donations and legacies. Most of their patients arrived only when they were past saving, but even then, after they had been allowed to die as gently as possible, the hospital conducted and paid for a burial. Way back when I was a very poor informer, I used to think that one day they would be doing it for me…
Hey ho. Time for lunch.
I hoofed on over the Fabrician Bridge to the Theatre of Marcellus, then turned down the left bank past the meat market and the corn dole station. By the Temple of Ceres there was a commotion: a posse of
Praetorians were throwing their weight about. Big bullies, they were unmissable in their scarlet cloaks and crested helmets. All of them came with a filthy attitude. This was the result of encouraging long term legionaries, sad men who loved the army too much, to volunteer for special duties. The minute they put on their shiny moulded breastplates and took their personal oath to the Emperor, the Guards were in Elysium. No danger; double pay; a soft life in Rome, instead of being stuck in some dire province—plus the chance to behave like utter bastards every week.
‘Name?’
‘Didius Falco.’ I kept silent about my profession, let alone my current mission.
They grabbed me, pulled off my elegant hat, peered in my face (breathing with a whopping gust of garlic), then threw me aside like a dirty duster.
‘What’s the commotion for, boys? Surely Vespasian is not reduced to claiming the pauper’s corn dole? He gets good rations at the Golden House, and can eat them beneath the revolving ivory ceiling in the fabulous octagon—’
‘Push off!’
I was a man. They were not interested in me. I knew whose orders they must be following, and why. Anacrites had sent them. They were only assaulting women—which in that area was foolish, even in the cause of a national emergency. The beef-butchers’ wives are neither pretty nor polite. Despite the December chill, the ladies of the Cattle Market Forum were all barefoot and bare armed. They had strong husbands with bloody cleavers who could manhandle dead oxen—but these sturdy women did not ask their men for assistance; when the Guards tried to ‘inspect’ them, they weighed in with fists, teeth and feet fearlessly. The Guards’ bravado was slipping.
‘Looking for someone special, officer?’ I enquired (wondering how the Praetorians dealt with not mentioning Veleda)—but blood from a split lip was despoiling his bright breastplate and he was already exasperated. I hopped off without waiting for an answer.
As I marched quickly up the embankment, something struck my neck with a vicious sting. A cobnut bounced on the pavement. When I turned back, a small boy ran away, giggling. We still had ten days of this menace to endure. Io Saturnalia!
More of our national treasures were loafing truculentlyoutside my house. These shiftless wastrels were the soldiers Titus had assigned to me. They looked as bad as I was expecting. I rounded them
up from various flower stalls and wine counters where they were ogling pretty garland-sellers and begging for free drinks. I knew without asking that Albia must have locked them out and in this instance I did not blame her. They were bandy-legged ex-marines from the salty First Adiutrix legion, an emergencyoutfit Vespasian had put together in a hurry, who were currently stationed at Moguntiacum on the Rhine. Camillus Justinus had been a tribune in the First for a time. Not a prestigious posting. ‘And you lads were the travel escort for she-whom-we-do-not-name? Bad luck.’
‘Oh, Veleda was all right, Falco.’
‘No, soldier—I mean, bad luck: now you are taking orders from me!’
As they looked at each other warily, I opened up with my key, and led them indoors.
Helena Justina was waiting in the entrance hall, a tall, tart young woman in three shades of blue wool, with earrings that shouted not to annoy her. Hiding behind her, Albia was terrified of the soldiers. The acting centurion in charge of them was already inside, chatting up Helena Justina as if she were a wine-seller, while she glared at him stonily. Nux was hiding behind Albia, though when I came in the dog ran out and barked loudly, before scurrying into retreat again.
Head high and bursting for an altercation, Helena cried, ‘Marcus Didius! Welcome home.’
Her tone was enough to make the boys of the First shuffled closer together nervously. Even the centurion stepped away slightly. He stopped short in wondering if he dared bully the householder and quickly adopted a respectful hangdog mode. How wise.
I kissed Helena’s cheek formally, looking deep into those fabulous brown eyes with mischief and lust in equal measure.
Helena Justina managed to remain calm. ‘This is Clemens, an acting centurion. He has explained about the soldiers.’ I held her closer than a senator’s daughter expects to be clutched, while in close view of a bunch of surly legionaries; then I smiled at her with so much affection she blushed. ‘Marcus Didius, I am quite happy living in a very large house with a very small staff’ She tried to wriggle free surreptitiously. I held on. ‘I will even entertain—with only a small staff—large numbers of relatives over the Saturnalia period. Relatives who make no contribution, and most of whom are yours. But—darling—I do now find myself wondering exactly how I am to manage here, if eleven—’ Helena kept my accounts and business records. Believe me, she could count—‘hungry soldiers are to join us for the festival.’
‘Twelve,’ stated Clemens. ‘I’ve got a little servant who will be along presently.’
‘Twelve!’ exclaimed Helena, in a voice that would unman Hercules.
I released her and turned to Clemens. ‘As you see, my wife—the most hospitable of women—is delighted that you and your men are to join us.’ A couple of soldiers sniggered. I folded my arms. ‘Here’s how it will work. Everyone in my household—right down to my dog—will be treated with respect, or the whole bunch of you will be hogtied and thrown off the Probus Bridge. Two soldiers and the acting centurion’s servant will be on a roster daily to assist the noble Helena Justina. They will escort her to market—take handcarts—and help bring home provisions as she directs. They will work in our kitchen, under her supervision. Helena, sweetheart, all soldiers can make bread and scrub vegetables.’
‘Don’t you have a cook?’ asked Clemens. He looked amazed. He was also worried; a true soldier, on making camp he thought first about his rations.
‘You will meet Jacinthus,’ I assured him, smiling.
Jacinthus was new. I had had him a week. He was one of two slaves I had recently forced myself to buy, aiming for a last-minute Saturnalia discount as the markets prepared to close for the holiday. The other acquisition was Galene, who was to look after my children. Neither slave knew anything, but they had both appeared clean and fit, which was better than most specimens on special offer in December. Julia (aged three and a half) and Favonia (aged twenty-one months), were teaching Galene Latin, and how they wished to be looked after with late bedtimes and rewards of sweetmeats.
‘Jacinthus,’ Helena explained, with her neck as stiff as a javelin, ‘will no doubt produce exquisite pork loins in fig sap sauce one day. His baked quince will be a legend all over the Aventine. Women I scarcely know will beseech me for his recipe for mushroom bread…’
‘Once he has learned his craft?’ Clemens caught on fast. He would fit in here. You needed nifty footwork and a clear head.
‘Exactly. In the meantime, Jacinthus spends his time asleep.’
Clemens shot me a look as if he could guess which partner had purchased this treasure. He did not know it was my fifth attempt to buy us a cook. Sleeping was better than cooking, if Jacinthus cooked like his predecessors. All had been sold back at a loss within a month. ‘I dare say my boys can help you wake him up,’ offered Clemens. His tone had a pleasantly ominous timbre.
A small, shy voice now made itself audible: ‘Hello, Falco. I bet you don’t remember me!’
The soldier’s name was Lentullus. Last time I saw him he was a raw recruit in his first posting in Germany. His most distinguished act on our expedition had been swinging on the tail of a giant bull while I tried to cut its throat with a small knife as the creature attempted to kill the rest of us. The youth had courage, but of all the ragged failures in all the least victorious legions, Lentullus was the daftest, silliest, clumsiest and untidiest. He had no idea. He had no luck either. If there was a large hole, with a great notice beside it saying Don’tfall in here; this means you, Lentullus! Lentullus would home in and tumble head first down the hole. Then he would wonder why he had been so unlucky. Any legion that included him had no hope. Sometimes in nightmares I heard his off-tune voice croakily singing an execrable and obscene ditty called the Little Mess-tin Song. I woke up shaking. It wasn’t the Mess-tin Song that brought me out in a sweat.
‘I bet I do remember,’ I answered him. ‘Have you learned to march yet?’
‘No, he bloody hasn’t!’ muttered Clemens, with feeling.
I already had a queasy-gut feeling. My house had been turned into a scene from some mythical nightmare. Then Helena smiled grimly and told me that my mother-in-law was in our best reception room in a foul mood, and wanted to speak to me.
‘That’s funny about you remembering,’ burbled Lentullus. He had never known when to shut up. ‘Because Veleda told me she remembered me too! I was hoping that if we all came to Rome, I’d see you, Falco—and the tribune too…’
The ‘tribune’ was Quintus Camillus Justinus. And while I was sure that the affable Justinus would be delighted to meet up with Lentullus again, my next task was to ensure that Julia Justa, my mother-in-law—a forthright woman, whose hearing was almost as good as my mother’s—did not overhear that there was a soldier in my house who could tell her just what her favourite son got up to, back in the forest with Veleda.
IX
Had the soldiers not known more than was convenient, I might have taken them as an escort. I did try swinging into the room like a lad who had nothing on his conscience. Twenty years of practice should have taught me such a performance was ridiculous. My mother-in-law wanted somebody’s liver chopped and fried—and the warm bread was already being sliced open to receive mine. She was accompanied by her daughter-in-law, Claudia Rufina, and if the rocks didn’t finish me the whirlpool would.
The noble Julia Justa, wife of the most excellent Decimus Camillus Verns, was a Roman matron with the full rights of a mother of three children, an affiliate of the rites of the Good Goddess, the benefactor of a small temple in Bithynia and a confidante of one of the older, plainer, more prickly tempered Vestal Virgins. She ought to have expected a quiet life of luxury. Given that her husband tried to dodge his responsibilities, both her sons ignored suggestions to settle down respectably and her daughter had married an informer, Julia looked depressed. Only her little grandchildren gave her hope—and one of those was now at risk of being whisked away to Baetica by his angry mother.
Julia Justa owned outfits in all the colours in the
fullers’ dyeing range, but had chosen to come in crisp white robes that blazoned she was not in the mood for nonsense. These garments were held in place, as she swept up and down our salon, by exquisite jewellery. Julia’s necklace, earrings and head-dress were heavy with Indian pearls of memorable size and lustrous good quality. Perhaps, I thought, this was an early Saturnalia gift. Probably, then, the gift of her younger son’s extremely wealthy wife, Claudia Rufina. She was the only one in the family with real money, and the Camilli—though diffident people—were desperate to keep her married to their son.
Julia was venomous and sleek. Claudia enjoyed her wrath. While Julia prowled, Claudia sat very, very still. Claudia—aflame in saffron—had swapped her own favourite heavy emeralds for enough gold chains to shackle a complete set of galley-slaves. Clearly she wished her absent husband Justinus could be set to rowing on a trireme bench, under the lash of a very sadistic overseer.
‘Ah Marcus! You have bothered to return!’ Useless for me to say I had been working. I could not admit what I was working on, in any case. I had a nasty feeling they might know.
I managed to nip in close enough to plant a kiss half an inch From the mother-in-law’s well-groomed cheek, but abandoned greeting Claudia. She was a tall girl with a habit of leaning back to look at people down her long nose. Justinus was also tall, so whenever they quarrelled they were able to do it eye to eye in a satisfactory manner; perhaps that had encouraged them. She had nice teeth and by the look of things would be gnashing them the minute her husband was named. ‘You know where he is, of course?’ Julia accused me.
‘Dear Julia Justa, I have no idea.’ She gave me a long, hard look, but was an intelligent woman and knew I did not waste effort on lies. Not with her. In a ghastly way, she trusted me; it made life very difficult. ‘Quintus saw my father, Favonius, at the Saepta Julia this morning, I believe, but he has been nowhere near us here today or yesterday.’ I turned to Claudia. ‘Do you want to tell me about what happened?’
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