Saturnalia

by Lindsey Davis

  She and her mother instantly colluded and swore never to tell Claudia. (Claudia was in the nursery with her baby son and did not know we were visiting.) From what I knew of the daft relationship between Claudia and Justinus, he would probably confess to his wife himself They had never had secrets. A cynic would say that explained their problems.

  Helena and I walked home via the Aventine. We visited Ma, who was holding court among her neighbours as a pitiful invalid; the operation must have been successful because I caught her casting a very sharp eye over their dainty offerings of fruit and pastries. Although we told her Ganna had been sent to a place of safety, we had decided not to risk Anacrites finding out that we were giving houseroom to Veleda. We kept quiet about that. Ma thought she could always tell when I was hiding something, but I had lived at home until I was eighteen; I knew how to bluff.

  Once my mother had made free with her instructions on child care and household management for as long as we could bear, we left.

  ‘I hear your father had his piles attended to,’ was her gleeful parting shot. ‘Apparendy it was very painful!’

  Only an impious Roman son would rejoice that his father was suffering—but the thought ofPa lying face down in agony while the pile-crushing gadget savaged his posterior was boosting my mother’s recovery. Happy for her, I gave Ma my best grin.

  ‘That’s the wicked grin she says reminds her of Geminus,’ Helena remarked. I let her have a share in it.

  Strolling in an affectionate mood, we made our way to the patrol house and dropped in to see Lentullus. I had snaffled some of my mother’s treats to bring him—the titbits Ma had judged not good enough—but he was still far too ill to eat. Quintus volunteered to see nothing went to waste. While Helena mopped the sick soldier’s brow, I warned Justinus that Anacrites and the Praetorians were marauding through the city with increased desperation. He should remain inside the patrol house. So long as Petronius kept his promise of not mentioning Veleda, I hoped Quintus would never learn she was at my house. He asked about my search, of course; I just said I had a few leads to follow.

  Lentullus kept bleating that he was sorry to be such a trouble and would hurry to get well and rejoin his comrades. Quintus privately shook his head at me. We went into the yard and he let me know quiedy that the lad was unlikely ever to be fit enough for the army. Clemens and the others would be going back to Germany without him. If he survived, eventually somebody would have to tell Lentullus that his days in the army were over. I could see it would be me. Knowing his innocent joy in legionary service, I saw no way of consoling him.

  His survival still hung in the balance. Being realistic, he was more likely to die than live. It would be some time before we could be sure he had avoided a fatal infection. Gangrene lurked ever closer. The doctor was daily reviewing the need for amputation, which would probably kill the patient. Lentullus had lost huge quantities of blood and was unable to take much nourishment. He now had an enormous pad of wadding bandaged on to the injured leg, which Scythax said was too badly damaged ever to bear his weight properly again. A large bottle of pain-killing medicine had been left for when he needed drugging—which Quintus said was frequently.

  Scythax was not here, so Quintus was in charge of the soporific. His duties as a nurse must include more intimate attentions too; the calm, kind-hearted way he was getting on with it all reminded me why his men had so admired him as an army tribune. Although he had a sensitive nature, he was not afraid to get his hands dirty. At his best Quintus Camillus Justinus was practical, competent—and completely decent. At his very best he had applied those qualities to his marriage. Then, there had seemed a chance he and Claudia could survive together. As Helena and I walked back home slowly together, she cursed Veleda’s presence in Rome, which had put her brother’s future in jeopardy.

  Helena had not yet made good her promise to beg for clemency for the priestess. After seeing Justinus, she confessed to me, ‘I half wish I could forget that noble offer!’ Being who she was, I knew she would honour the promise. The only reason she had not yet tried approaching Vespasian or Titus was that we wanted to be able to prove that Veleda was innocent of murdering Scaeva. With the charge hanging over her, especially with the killing here in Rome, no plea for leniency stood a hope.

  We still had three days. I told myself that if Ganna really had seen the killer in action, three more days should be ample to establish our case.

  LIII

  We spent a good evening with Maia and Petronius. This was mainly achieved by Maia pretending it had nothing to do with Saturnalia but was a simple family meal. My daughters were well behaved, as often happened in the presence of much older children; in the company were Maia’s four, plus Petro’s daughter and Albia, who all got on together.

  I would normally have avoided breaking off in the middle of an investigation merely to socialise, but at that point I was stuck, waiting on other people. I managed to relax. Well, Lucius Petronius always had a good wine to hand, and was liberal with it. Maia could cook too.

  My mother had been invited, which at least kept her out of the clutches of Anacrites. Apparently he was paying her a lot of attention, grilling her about my activities. She claimed she always told him I was a good family man, devoting myself to giving my children a wonderful festival. ‘And what have you bought for Helena as a present, Marcus? Oh don’t tell me; you’re just like your father. I don’t suppose you’ve given it a thought.’

  I claimed it was a secret. Maia muttered that that was always a good way to buy time. Helena said she would be happy with a surprise, so we all roared the traditional reply that her surprise would come when she received nothing. Some younger children who had never heard this one before collapsed in hysterical laughter.

  Helena had never been demanding in that way. Her soft brown eyes were telling me she would not mind—while I felt my heart lurch guiltily because I had still not arranged anything.

  Earrings. Pa had mentioned unsold earrings… ‘What have you got for Maia?’ I muttered to Petronius.

  ‘A neck chain.’

  Why did I ask? He had always bought neck chains, whatever woman—or women—he was buttering up. That way, the philandering rascal never got caught out in conversations afterwards.

  Although they were not invited, we were joined just after dinner by my other sister Junia and dreary Gaius Baebius. They always knew when someone else was entertaining. To demonstrate that Junia’s slipup with vinum primitivum was all forgotten and they were once again the devoted couple, they made a big fuss of jointly issuing invitations to their house the next day. Abruptly, Petronius stood up and left, saying that he had to be on duty. This left Maia with the task of refusing the invitation for them (Petro loathed Junia and Gaius Baebius). Maia, who was always blunt, just said, ‘No thank you, Junia.’

  ‘Oh I suppose you busy people must have other plans!’

  Maia bared her neat little teeth in what could be either smile or snarl.

  I tried to bluff by saying we had a house full of soldiers, so Junia countered quickly that we would be glad to get away from them—as we had obviously done today. I then assumed it was Helena’s turn to cover for us, but she had gone into some dream of her own, so we ended up with no escape.

  ‘We are having ghost stories. I shall be giving you a perfect night!’ Junia oozed, with the self-satisfaction we all hated.

  Junia and Gaius clung on like rock anemones. They were still there swiping the leftover food from Maia’s serving dishes when a message came for me from Petronius, so I was able to abandon the party and go over to the patrol house. I assumed the call was merely a courtesy on his part, but it turned out to be genuine: another body of a vagrant had been found.

  The dead man was laid out in a cell, since Lentullus was still occupying the doctor’s treatment room. I found Petronius and Scythax bending over the corpse, a weightless, grey-faced vagrant who could be anywhere between forty years and sixty. If I had seen him walking around, I would have kept my distan
ce in case he harboured an infectious lung disease. Petro said he had instructed his men to give all rough-sleepers a kick to ensure they were alive. After zero response to their greeting, a vigiles patrol had brought this one in, just after twilight.

  ‘Not dumped for Scythax then?’ I gave Scythax a forbidding glance.

  He refused to look shifty.

  Petronius said, ‘I sent to the temple to have Zosime questioned, but I gather she is still at your house, Falco?’

  ‘Right. Helena wants her for something… Time of death,

  Scythax?’ Only a couple of hours earlier, he said; the body still had traces of warmth. It was a mild night for December, and the vagrant had wrapped himself in many dirty layers. We joked gently that the dirt alone would have kept him warm. I frowned. ‘We know for sure this one wasn’t done in by Zosime. I’ve got ten daft but honest legionaries and a centurion’s servant who can all give her an alibi tonight. ‘

  ‘Could be a damn copycat killing.’ After dear Junia’s invasion of his home, Petronius was in a dour mood.

  ‘Think so? So far, the authorities haven’t commented,’ I put to him. ‘You normally have a problem advertised and a loud public outcry, before the crazy emulators start. I’d say there is an original serial killer prowling out there—hitherto unnoticed.’

  Reluctantly, Petro nodded. ‘We have absolutely nothing on him.’ I turned to the doctor. ‘Scythax, come clean about the corpses that are dumped for you. This one was left on the streets. So what do you know about your little presents—and do you suspect Zosime from the Temple of AEsculapius is connected with them?’

  For a moment Scythax looked unhelpful. Chin up, Petronius stared at him, though my pal said nothing. ‘The ones we find at the patrol house,’ Scythax finally admitted, ‘are brought here by the woman.’ He seemed to cringe, knowing that Petro would be annoyed.

  ‘By Zosime?’ I said quickly. ‘I assume you can explain that?’

  Scythax let himself be drawn out by me, where he was obviously wary of Petro. For one thing, I did not have the power to set Sergius on him. Sergius was the muscle-man who beat criminals into confessions. Well, sometimes they were criminals, sometimes they had just been arrested by mistake—but they all confessed. The vigiles were one happy family; if anyone upset Petro, he believed in traditional paternal chastisement. When he was feeling particularly conservative, he would rave that it had been a bad day when fathers of families lost the power of life and death. ‘Zosime was the first to suspect something,’ Scythax admitted nervously. ‘She came and discussed it with me. Her temple won’t take any action, so she has to rely on the vigiles. ‘

  ‘Why not mention this to me?’ snarled Petro.

  ‘Nothing definite to go on. Zosime brings me the corpses, when she finds them, so that I can say whether they are natural or unnatural deaths. ‘

  ‘Unnatural, I take it?’ I asked.

  ‘I am starting to think so. Sometimes we get one who has genuinely died of malnutrition or disease. But most display the classic sign of manual strangulation—a small bone in their throats is broken.’ It seemed best not to ask how a doctor would discover that. Presumably not by pressing down a tongue and ordering the corpse to say ah. ‘It is as if,’ said Scythax, with dry distaste, ‘they are birds who have had their necks casually wrung.’

  ‘Anything else we should know?’ demanded Petronius, becoming more intrigued.

  ‘Anything sexual?’ Scythax knew the vigiles’ preoccupations in murder. ‘Nothing that seems connected. Many vagrants have been abused at some time prior to death, it goes without saying. In those who are clearly runaway slaves, indications of long-term brutalisation are practically generic.’

  ‘Are the corpses all men?’ I asked.

  ‘Occasional women. And, sadly, a few children.’

  I looked at Petro. ‘Isn’t this wide spread of victims unusual from repeat killers?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, mostly they go for one consistent type—male or female, adults or children.’

  Scythax volunteered, ‘I believe the common factor is that the victims live on the streets. They seem to be chosen for punishment because of their indigent lifestyle. Someone finds them sleeping under arches or in doorways, and ends their existence. He—or she—may justify murder as a kindness to end their misery.’

  ‘Putting them down like worn-out horses?’ Petronius was shocked and angry.

  ‘Unless,’ said Scythax, with his odd dispassionate attitude, ‘this killer hates them—sees them as a kind of human vermin. Eradicates them for the greater good.’

  ‘Even more delightful. How will I find this self-appointed Fury?’

  ‘Look for someone who is convinced cleaning up the streets is a decent motive. Of course,’ said the doctor diffidently, ‘you need to know where to start looking.’

  ‘Io,’ replied Petronius glumly. ‘Happy Saturnalia!’

  SATURNALIA, DAY FIVE

  Twelve days before the Kalends of ]anuary (21 December)

  LIV

  The fifth day of the festival brought a turn of the winch.

  It started well: we were at breakfast when a message came for me from Petronius. He had obviously buckled down last night to reviewing reports. Among a pile from other cohorts he picked out that the Third had discovered a runaway slave, a teenaged musician. Petro sent a runner over to the Third, who rapidly returned confirmation that they had banged up the Quadrumatus flautist. He did not confess, but when he was rounded up he was carrying a flute. The Third were not bright, but they could add I and I to make III . (According to Petro, III was the only number they knew.) They had chucked the flute away; their tribune hated music in the cells.

  I was in my cloak and about to set off for the Third’s patrol house to interview the recaptured slave, when a huge litter with gold knobs on the poles turned up on the windy embankment outside my house. The gold was wearing thin and the eight bearers were a lopsided, shabby set who could not march in time. The conveyance was government issue: some tatty leftover from the imperial transport pool, downgraded from when Claudius or Nero were dragged around in it. Twenty years later it was due for a bonfire. Equally senile, the bearers lurched and dropped it heavily. Out staggered Claudius Laeta and under compulsion I greeted him. He was fetching me to a meeting. Laeta said it was urgent. I knew that meant two things: it wasn’t urgent—and the pointless blather would drag on for hours. This was my day ruined.

  ‘I’ll fetch my toga.’ Helena caught me in the unusual activity, so I lured her into the expedition. That was not hard. After our late night with Maia and Petro, the children were over-tired and squabbling fretfully. Both Helena and I could have coped with the children, but their nursemaid, Galene, was screaming in a hideous storm of foreign frustration. Albia had refused assistance. Currendy she was locked in her room. She was a teenaged girl; Helena let her act like one. Nux was in hiding with Albia. We tapped at the door and called out that we had to go somewhere. ‘Get going then!’ snarled Albia from within. Well, it was better than ‘I hate you’, and much better than ‘I hate myself. In about six months we would be facing both.

  We sent Galene to the kitchen, telling her to make good use of it and cook something. Jacinthus was there, but unlikely to be productive. Galene bounced off happily. Helena looked rueful. ‘Maybe we should just accept this, Marcus.’

  ‘Right. First step to degeneracy: be ruled by your slaves.’

  We put our daughters into cute little matching tunics with bows in their hair and took them with us. Anyone who wants to offer a better solution can just keep quiet.

  ‘What extremely advanced parents!’ Claudius Laeta hooted with disdain.

  ‘Your soldiers have disrupted my quiet household routine,’ retorted Helena.

  Laeta said he would be happy to remove the soldiers—when I earned my fee and found Veleda. Feigning anxiety, Helena and I relaxed. Julia and Favonia sat on our laps as good as gold, fascinated by riding in the litter. If Laeta took us anywhere with slaves, we were sur
e of a welcome for these deceptively sweet cupids.

  I had assumed the conference was in the Palace. Instead, I soon realised we were going down the Via Aurelia; Laeta admitted we were going to the villa of Quadrumatus Labeo.

  ‘One of his Saturnalia guests needs a progress report.’

  ‘We answer to Quadrumatus?’ I snorted with astonishment. ‘Not him.’ Laeta lost some of his pomposity. ‘Out-of-town is more discreet, Falco.’

  I let Laeta deal with the bloody-minded Lusitanian doorkeeper.

  While he struggled to declare his invited status and the porter sneered at that idea, Helena wiped up Favonia’s dribble. Although I had kept a close grip on Julia, she had managed to get black door hinge oil on her; I dealt with that by the time we carried them indoors, where entranced slave girls fell on them. After hardly any training from us, my children both knew how to gaze at strangers with big appealing eyes. ‘Don’t give them any food!’ I ordered sternly, as Scaeva’s ex-girlfriends carried them off in delight.

  They took the hint. ‘Oh the dear little things must have some must cake to celebrate the festival!’ Good. It was bound to be made properly here, with wine-lees from the estate. After running around the peristyles playing hide-and-seek with the sewing girls, mild intoxication would work magic. Our little monsters would be fast asleep when we collected them.

  There were plenty of grand ladies on whom Julia and Favonia could practise their techniques of begging for jewellery and toys, for the place was full of stiffs, and since it was Saturnalia, the stiffs had brought their stately wives. The Quadrumati were bravely putting bereavement behind them and going ahead with their annual house party. ‘Invitations will have been sent months ago,’ Helena sneered. ‘And the hospitable Quadrumati would not want to disappoint their many friends.’

  ‘I seem to recall Quadrumatus asserting “We are a very private family”! Yet half the Senate have congregated, in the hope of blood on the marble.’