‘Hello. I am Ermanus,’ offered the spokesman. He smiled at me. I did not smile back.
They were well built with heavy bellies; they looked raffish and untidy, but much harder than the old slugs t had been talking to earlier. These large boys went to the gym. If you punched those paunches, your fist would bounce off solid flesh, too fat, but supported by muscle. The black leather straps holding in their guts would barely give, and the metal studs in those workmanlike straps and five-inch belts would break your knuckles. If you hit these men, you would only have yourself to blame. They would fight back—and they would have had practice. Their biceps were bursting below their short, taut tunic sleeves. They had calves like military gateposts.
‘You’re Falco?’ Ermanus now almost sounded tentative. Not true. In case anyone failed to find him frightening, dark blue patterns in woad wreathed all over his arms. His comrades were equally menacing. None of them wore cloaks, despite the cold. They wanted everyone to see how hard they were.
‘Don’t come any closer!’
‘We just need a word…’ Every landlord’s enforcer, every master villain’s back-up gang, every curmudgeon with a cudgel I had ever encountered said that. We just need a word… Dear gods, when would the world’s brutes change their script? It was ridiculous when what they all meant was: shut up, don’t call attention to us, just give in and lie down in the road quietly while we kick you insensible. Most of them were illiterate. Holding a conversation was the last thing any of the bastards really had in mind.
I shifted my balance. ‘You stay right there. What do you want?’ ‘You’ve been talking with our old fellows.’
‘I was talking. Your old fellows were unresponsive. What of it?’ ‘Was it about a woman?’
‘It may have been.’ Or it may not. Or maybe I am not allowed to say. Thank you, Laeta, for putting me in this stupid position. Let me know how I can make you look like an idiot some day.
‘From Germania Libera?’
I wondered if the heavyweights were lusting after her—but I was starting to suspect that was the wrong scenario.
‘I am searching for a woman from Free Germany, yes. Can you give me information?’ I looked at them. They looked at me. ‘If! I find her—and find her quickly—there may be a reward.’ If I really did find her, I was confident Laeta would pay whatever I had to negotiate. He would have to. I would not hand her over until he covered any debts.
‘She came calling on the old fellows.’ They were not after a reward. It all emerged without prompting. ‘Someone had told her they were from her region and she begged for assistance. They refused to have anything to do with her.’
‘Do you know where she went afterwards?’ No. ‘You followed me—why not follow her? She used to be beautiful.’ I was picking up hints now that the fabulous priestess held no appeal for Ermanus and his muscular pals. ‘When was it she came calling? And this is important—what was her condition?’
‘A week ago. She was desperate. And she said she was ill.’
‘Very ill? Enough to mention it—so how ill?’
‘The old fellows thought she was playing on their sympathy.’ First Phryne, the old freedwoman at the Quadrumatus villa, now her compatriots; either Veleda was faking, as Phryne suspected, or she had terrible luck when she sought help. I hoped she was not genuinely sick. I could not afford to have her keeling over from a neglected disease. Rome has its moral standards. We care for our special prisoners right up to the moment when we execute them.
‘What did you think?’ They shrugged. Total uninterest. I pressed them for further information, but they were stringing me along, trying to keep my attention; trying, I realised with foreboding, to detain me. I was starting to think this was a soft kind of ambush.
‘Well,’ I said. Best not to feel too outraged by the situation I now suspected. ‘Thank you for telling me she turned up. It lets me know she had not found help at that stage. There was no need for you to try and scare me witless, creeping up like that.’
‘We like the look of you, Falco. We know some people who are having a party tonight—’ I had prised the truth out of them. ‘Music, good food, entertainment—there will be drinking a lot, and playing around… Much fun. Much relaxation. Want to come along?’
I had a good idea what kind of party this relaxing hop would be. I understood now. The Rhineland fun-lovers with the leatherwork and studs were just looking for a new playmate.
‘Sorry, blue eyes.’ I tried to let them down gently. ‘I don’t get out much to orgies these days. I’m married, and I need to be at home. I have to ensure the wife doesn’t get the taste again for her old wild ways.’
‘There will be women!’ Ermanus promised, while his two friends nodded, still begging me to change my mind. ‘Hot women, Falco!’ An alarming vision hit me of what kind of women would associate with these fruity party-lovers. There would be animal furs. People wearing tails. Skimpy costumes that ended where clothes ought to start. I wondered if they would have pastries in the form of male genitalia and drinks made with poppy sap. There were bound to be pornographic lamps.
I could hardly bear to say it: ‘Don’t tell me—it’s a nymphs-and-satyrs party!’ They looked amazed that I knew. ‘Too much for me, Ermanus. My sciatica holds me back these days. It’s always good to be wanted—but no, thanks!’
I walked on, still aware of being followed—but now only by three wistful gazes.
XV
Dear gods, I hadn’t been invited to a nymphs-and-satyrs party since I was seventeen. The only time I plucked up the courage to go to one, my sister Victorina (who had organised it) inadvertently let out the secret, so all our aunts turned up. As a result it was not quite the occasion Victorina had hoped.
Feeling old, I carried on home. Lunch with the wife. To whom, though I told her all about the traders and the ex-bodyguards, I somehow made no mention of my newfound happy mends. Still, I could tell Petronius. Or perhaps not. He would want the address of the party ‘for security reasons’.
Helena Justina had had a useful, though frustrating morning. She had started by providing Clemens with a map of the city, which she divided into segments for his men to search. Since none of them had ever been to Rome before, she tried to show the soldiers where they were in relation to the map: ‘You would think that would be easy,’ raged Helena, ‘since we live beside the river—I had marked the river in blue ink, and put a big cross byour house so they could find their way back… I could tell they didn’t understand it. Juno, I don’t know how legionaries survive on campaign!’
‘A tribune tells them where they are,’ I explained gravely. ‘They are given orders when to march, and when to stop, and when to eat, and when to sleep, and when to fart and when to blow their nose.’
‘They will never find Veleda.’
‘Even if they do, darling, will they find their way back home with her?’
‘I notice you didn’t involve yourself in telling them anything, Marcus. ‘
Quite right. I had met legionaries before.
‘Maybe we’ll never see them again,’ growled Helena hopefully. ‘They will be home for supper,’ I said. ‘Will there be any?’ Luckily there would. After the map episode, Helena had worn herself out further taking two soldiers and Jacinthus, our sleepy so-called cook, to market for provisions. I had exempted myself from that task too, again with foresight. As I had promised her, the two soldiers then proved themselves perfectly happy left in the kitchen with big knives, pans and buckets, preparing food. With a strange kind of patience, they were showing Jacinthus how it was supposed to be done. He just stared, as po-faced as ever. Galene, however, our other new slave, had abandoned the children and was watching, entranced, everything the soldiers did. When I looked in, she was examining a long curl of apple peel. Gaudus was elbow deep in pastry, complaining that our milled flour was gritty, discussing the virtues of cinnamon (if you could afford it), and arranging for Galene to escort him to the local baker so he could get his pies baked. Scaurus was sear
ing meat in a pannikin and did not wish to be disturbed.
A tray had been made up with our lunch on it, so I grabbed the tray and carried it to our dining room. Obviously we householders were expected to set an example by eating formally. How formally was a surprise: slices of cold meat had been laid out with military correctness on a serving platter, decorated with neatly halved eggs; each knife was set at a thirty-degree angle on a folded serviette with a bread roll; there were six black olives per person, plus two gherkins; the water jug had been buffed like a lady’s hand mirror.
Helena calmed down grudgingly. We found the children. Julia was playing farms with Favonia’s little horse-shaped pottery feeding bottle. Favonia was gnawing the leg of a stool. In her own room, our foster-daughter Albia was laughing as she read through a letter; I had no idea who her correspondent was, but if a teenaged girl has a smile on her face instead of the normal filthy scowl, in my view you think yourself lucky and leave well alone. Helena acquired a thoughtful expression, however, rubbing her forehead abstractedly with the back of her hand, like a woman who already has enough to cope with. I grinned reassuringly. As usual, that made her look more anxious.
‘Where’s the dog?’
‘Hiding. Probably in your bed.’
Helena and I then assembled with Albia and the children in the dining room, though we did not start to eat. Helena sat silent, and I knew why she was uncomfortable.
‘Something is not right here, Marcus.’
‘Too perfect. They are taking us for idiots.’
‘I’ll go—’
‘No, leave it to me. I’ll deal with it.’
‘Oh I love it when you play-act as the father of the family…’
I went back to the kitchen. Nobody heard me coming, so I found them all stretched out on benches, ensconced with mounded bowls of double rations, clearly set in for a siesta they expected to extend all afternoon. A flagon that did not contain water slid its way back on to a shelf and looked innocent, just as I entered. I pretended I had not noticed. Gaudus, for one, was sharp enough to know I had seen it.
‘Now look here. In our house we don’t have “them and us”. I run a benevolent democracy. Our slaves are loved and part of our family; so are army visitors. Helena Justina and I would like to implement a slight adjustment, therefore: Galene and Jacinthus, Gaudus and Scaurus, either you four come and join us decently for lunch, or I’ll have to bring the tray right back and the rest of us will come down here.’
Four pairs of hostile eyes stared back at me. I stood my ground and told them to collect cutlery. They knew I was on to them.
I was a Roman. Just as Helena kept the keys to the store-cupboards—which from now on, she really would have to hold in a bunch on her belt—I was the master: father of all the household, priest, judge and king. I would not allow ganging-up in the kitchen. There were damn good reasons for running an establishment the Roman way: it prevented riot and bankruptcy.
We all had lunch very pleasantly together as a family.
Helena warned me afterwards, we must ensure that none of those four won the bean to be King-for-a-Day at Saturnalia, or they might retaliate with more misrule than we could handle. I returned a genial smile. I was king all the other days. And I myself was determined to allocate that bean.
XVI
Helena needed rescuing from domesticity. I told Galene to watch the children, and Albia to watch Galene. Albia agreed readily; she was a born tyrant. We showed Gaudus where the local bakery was; I reckoned that if Galene took him she would be pregnant before the pies coloured in the oven. I was barely coping with ownership of my first generation of slaves; it would be some time before I could face the idea of a dynasty.
I had warned everyone we would be back in half an hour, though we were planning to bunk off for longer. (Next time I would imply I was going out for ages, but then return unexpectedly after ten minutes… )
Suddenly I understood why there were so many suspicious masters. I also understood why they were bad-tempered; I hated the slaves and the soldiers for putting me—a fair-minded, friendly, relaxed character—in that position.
Helena and I stood on the Marble Embankment and slowly inhaled the cool December air like captives drinking in the fresh breath of freedom. Then we set off together on foot for our next enquiry. Always thinking ahead, Helena had persuaded Zosime from the Temple of JEsculapius to give directions for finding Mastarna, the physician Zosime had quarrelled with, who had looked after the young man Gratianus Scaeva until somebody segmented him.
Knowing only that Mastarna lived ‘somewhere by the Library of Pollio’, it took us a while to identify his house, though I knew that area well and found an apothecary nearby who told us where to go.
‘Presumably you have dealings with him.’ I like to find out a few facts in advance.
‘Not that one. I always thought Etruscans favoured roots and shoots. You know—gathering herbs by moonlight, pounding bulbs, assembling folklore potions.’
‘Mandrake and religious magic?’
‘Bloody dogmatist.’ The apothecary spat. It was an insult rather than for medical relief ‘All he wants are scalpels and saws. I need the ones who prescribe ointments and laxatives. He’ll always have idiots with too much money pleading for him to slice bits off them, but how am I to earn a living? Give me a decent empiricist prescribing purges any day. I may as well live near the beast market as across the alley from Mastarna. At least then I could hope the real butchers would give me free oxtails…’
He was still maundering on when we shuffled away and knocked on the doctor’s door, keeping our backs to the complaining apothecary in the hope he would not follow us over there. Mastarna was out, but his housekeeper said he would be back soon, and we could wait. She was a short, wide little bundle with her girdle right under her bulging bust, who faced the world with her left shoulder forward, squinting at us with her wall eye. I started to wonder if
Mastarna was one of those sinister medical men who collect freaks. He certainly collected fees. He lived in a small but beautifully decorated apartment on the good side of a quiet street. He possessed much desirable furniture, which meant he earned more than I did. His whole house reeked of terebinth resin, however; I thought ours, always smelling of young children, rosemary hair-wash and grilled meats, was healthier.
When he came home, he was impeccably groomed and elegantly turned out. All I knew of Etruscans was that my own nose, which plumb-bobbed straight down from my forehead with no bumps, was reckoned to show that Etruscans had lurked in the Didius pedigree somewhere about the time of the last Carthaginian war. From tomb portraits that had passed through my father’s none-too-legitimate auctions, I had gleaned a picture of reclining men and women in rather Greek poses, with slanted eyes and cheerful smiles. Mastarna had none of that strange pointy-eared elfin look. He was as wrinkled as a roof gargoyle. When I asked, he said he came from Forum Clodii, but he looked more Roman than I did and sounded like a swanky lawyer lying his head off over some writ in the Basilica. His tunic was pristine and he wore a toga over it. The toga was meticulously pleated; he was so pleased with the effect, he kept it on at home, and it stayed on even after he learned we were not prospective patients who would need to be impressed.
He had a goatee beard. That pigeonholed him for me. The apothecary had been right to curse him.
‘It is so good of you to see us without an appointment. I hope you don’t mind us calling.’ I let Helena do the softening up. Before I could interrogate him fairly, I needed to get over my irritation with his beard. ‘Didius Falco is investigating the disappearance of Veleda—we can mention her openly to you, since I believe you knew she was staying at the Quadrumatus house. Inevitably, in view of the timing, my husband has to consider the sad death of your late patient.’
No shadow passed behind Mastama’s eyes, yet I knew he would refuse to help us. His reply was smooth and meaningless. If he was diagnosing a splinter in your finger, he would be just as bland. I wouldn’t trust th
is man to mop up vomit—not that he would. He thought himself well above that level of patient care.
‘I am loath to ask his grieving relatives about him,’ I joined in, speaking firmly. ‘But since it appears that the priestess killed him, I need to investigate Scaeva, and any possible relationship he had with her. As he was your patient, you must have known him as well as anyone.’
‘A delightful young man.’
Such cliches were what I would expect from a pomposity with goat’s whiskers. ‘Why did you attend him? What was his illness?’
‘Sniffies and—’ Mastama cleared his throat slightly—‘sore throats. He suffered badly from catarrh in winter.’
‘Do you mind if I ask how you treated him?’
‘Patient confidentiality—’
‘He’s dead, Mastama; he won’t sue. Being run down and suffering from an extension of childhood illnesses does not usually constitute a family secret anyway.’ It did not normally lead to decapitation either, but this was not the time for bedside wit; Mastama lacked any sense of humour. ‘What did you do for him?’
Mastama was clearly annoyed, but he merely said, ‘These are seasonal disorders. Difficult to cure.’
Helena leaned forward, a stylus poised over a note-tablet between her long fingers. ‘I believe you belong to the dogmatic school?’
Such a question, from a woman, surprised Mastama. ‘We diagnose scientifically. We study the human body through research and theory.’
‘Research? You approve of dissection of corpses?’ Helena had raised a contentious subject. Mastama’s expression immediately became veiled. ‘Did you dissect Scaeva?’ I nearly choked. I was supposed to be outspoken, but Helena could be outrageous. I wondered if she had gleaned this background knowledge from Zosime. Not necessarily: Helena was quite capable of rushing to a library, while I had been mooning at Flora’s Caupona yesterday, and reading up the major schools of medical thought with a scroll in one hand while she tucked the children into bed. She was addressing the doctor with an expression full of reasonable sweetness, while she posed her brutal questions: ‘I wondered if the family might have allowed an autopsy, since somebody had already begun the process…’
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