“What happened was that you teased her and dumped her. Did the women in her household encourage her misery? Sympathize with her tears? That nurse she had? Her mother, her grandmother?”
“They may have done.”
“I see. Now tell me what happened that night at Fabulo’s. Tell me the truth, Numerius, because I will check up. I assume when Clodia appeared, none of you was expecting her?”
Was there hesitation in those untrustworthy watery eyes?
“Clodia turning up was never quite unexpected,” he hedged. “She tended to find out our plans. She would bound in, looking thrilled. We were used to it.”
“You let her stay?”
“Not much choice.”
“Was she upset with you?”
“No, I don’t think so. I hardly spoke to her.”
“And at the end, some of you took her home?”
Another flicker of unease beset Numerius. “I believe some of the lads did so.”
“Not you?”
“I was trying to keep out of the way…”
“Trying to shed Clodia?”
Not answering directly, he nevertheless assented. “I quickly jumped in a litter with Anicia.”
“I thought the girls went home from events in pairs?” Numerius looked at me as if I was crazy. I sighed. “All right. You travel as boy-and-girl couples, then lie to their parents … Anicia was supposed to be friendly with Vincentius, but that night he had lost the lottery for dinner places so he was not there. You and she must have enjoyed yourselves, giggling over how you coupled up behind his back.”
Numerius did not deny this.
“You and Anicia—is it serious?”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Being extremely cynical, because she had someone vibrantly attractive—Vincentius—and you could have been aiming to take the heat off yourself. To put distance between you and Clodia, in case her death is questionable and someone implicates you. Anicia may even have agreed to go along with it. Make you look like an innocent party. A mutual pretense that you were involved with someone new.”
“I really like Anicia.”
“But she was with Vincentius.”
“That wasn’t serious.”
“On her part, or his? I know he and Redempta had had a close friendship not long ago.”
“Well, that’s him. He makes himself available.”
“Plays the field, you mean?”
“No, not like that. He hangs around with us, we all like him, but he never commits himself. He has connections, expectations laid on him by his own people.”
“You know who his people are?” I quizzed sharply.
Numerius looked vague, a speciality of his. “Business folk. Aren’t they in property or something like that?”
“Is that what Vincentius says?”
“Of course not. Nobody would ask him. You don’t want to know what your friends’ parents do. Asking about the family’s money would be gross.”
I felt that was genuine. Ridiculous, but a true answer.
I did not suppose Vincentius actively hid his family background. After all, he had been frank with me about his legal training and its purpose. With criminals, either it is understood who they are and what they do, or they are happy to leave it blank so as not to arouse comment. For one thing, they take the attitude that their way of life is legitimate. This is what they have always done. Virtually respectable. A specialism they alone possess, where they feel no need to apologize.
Just like tax accountants, say.
*
“Did Clodia come to Fabulo’s in order to plead with you?”
“No.”
Numerius chewed his lip. He was hiding something.
“Why did you stay away from her Nine Day Feast?”
“I didn’t want to face her family, in case they were blaming me when it was nothing to do with me.”
That sounded honest. Despicable to me; reasonable to him.
“They thought she was still yearning after you. Had you heard any discussion of love-potions?”
“No.”
“What did you think, when it was suggested that Clodia acquired a love-potion to send to you?”
“I didn’t believe it.” So he had heard about it. “She sent me nothing. I certainly had not drunk anything like that.”
“No, you’re missing the point. The suggestion is, Clodia had an elixir for you, but she drank it herself and was poisoned.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“That’s the first sensible thing you have said to me. It does not seem right. So, help me, Numerius. What do you know about the woman called Pandora?”
“Nothing. I know who she is. The girls are always talking about manicures and hair lotions. We men prefer not to know how they achieve it, just enjoy the results. My mother doesn’t go to the herb woman, she makes her own stuff.”
Juno, I ought to have known. His wafty, woolly mother was bound to boil up rose petals, which turn into a hideous mash if you do it yourself. I knew without asking—she kept her own collection of linctus recipes, she created oily pick-me-ups for their mules, she could paint furniture, knot rugs, concoct rat poison …
A mad informer might have wondered if the Volumnii had a rodent problem so they asked for the homespun lady’s help, but having rebuffed the Cestii as marriage partners, surely it would be insensitive? Drinking poison by mistake is classic—but I would not believe that Clodia went to the larder and accidentally swigged some bottle of fatal gunk in the belief it was a fruit cordial. For one thing, dear little Clodia liked to be waited on. If she was thirsty, she would have screamed for Chryse, and Chryse seemed like a maid who would spot a poison bottle.
“What about you, Numerius? You look like a fashion-conscious lad. Pomades from your barber?”
“I don’t do much. Hardly anything. Lion fat and rosewater to keep away zits. Alum deodorant. Hair wax, yes. Oils at the baths. Breath pastilles from an apothecary.”
“What happens if you are ever ill?”
“My mater rubs menthol on my chest.”
I knew it.
XXXII
I needed a lie-down.
I had the excuse that I was going out to dinner later, but in fact I was exhausted by men I disliked and their nonsense.
I left Tiberius and Dedu (men I did like) to lock up Numerius.
“You cannot lay hands on me, I am a free Roman citizen!”
“I wouldn’t soil my hands,” Tiberius growled. “Move it, or you will feel my boot. And I’ll scrape it in dung first.”
The young buck conceded meekly. A message came from his father that the Min escapade would be dealt with. Presumably Cestius Senior then needed to consult other parents, round up the rest of the culprits and decide what their fathers were prepared to pay to make redress. How long this took would depend on how many times they had done it before. Was there an established routine, and how close had the parents already come to washing their hands of these brats? Besides, this time we wanted Min’s manhood returned. They had to locate the broken rudder and make whoever took it as a trophy hand it back.
I enjoyed myself as I imagined irritable parents demanding to know which of their sprats had nicked an Egyptian cabooly of gigantic size … I hoped they sent the object back to Dedu nicely wrapped, in the custody of a trustworthy slave.
It was handy having an aedile involved. After January, this would no longer apply. Still, even when his term ended, Tiberius would be entitled to style himself “the former aedile,” his honor for life. I had married usefully. I even loved him. It was wonderful.
I snoozed away the rest of the afternoon.
Paris turned up with the gown and bits of jewelry I had asked for. Taking these in a basket, I went out to the baths, sluiced off, then paid a girl to give me a makeover so I could pass as a society gadder. My mother always dressed simply; Helena had “internal beauty,” so she always looked right, yet she caused us, her daughters, to despair with her lack of eff
ort. Even so, she had brought us up so that when required even I, the stroppy one, could be taken among the glitterati and passed off as adequate.
When I returned to Apricot Street, Iucundus was arriving in a huge litter to collect me. He was wearing a gauze synthesis; in this floaty berry-red dinner dress, accessorized with necklaces, he looked like the King of the Bosporus. I made no comment. He had style, and I feared it was a style that would be approved where we were going. He said he had seen Tiberius, who was going to get his salesman’s three-day stubble shaved, so would travel separately. We would go first to obtain a place at Fabulo’s.
*
It was supposed to feel like dining in a private house. Somewhat at odds was the horrible alley down which the famous thermopolium lay. For the foolish, this was part of the thrill. To me, a dead dog on the corner is a health hazard.
Before most people even got that far, they wandered about for an hour trying to find this elusive venue. The restaurant’s attitude was that if your smart friends had not told you how to find it, Fabulo’s was not for you. Though famous, the eatery was sited down a typical Rome backstreet, completely anonymous. Shuttered premises lined a dark, highly pungent byway into which no sensible bearers wanted to wander. Iucundus had sent Paris that afternoon to spy out a safe route, so we could seem like knowledgeable Fabulo’s people. Whether we wanted to be part of that crowd was a different matter.
Wattle mats had been laid outside the entrance so that when people arrived and disgorged from their litters (they all came in substantial transport), whatever they stepped in would not ooze into their sandals. Sadly, Iucundus was so heavy that dark liquid squelched through the mat fibers all over his feet. He appeared not to notice. I hoped it was mud. Still, they had little boys in matching loincloths, ready to take togas, straighten dinner gowns and help people off with their boots. Foot-washing would be available.
Iucundus assailed the highly superior maître d’ and his flock of greetings staff. He apologized for not booking ahead, then sweetly inquired about the possibility of an unreserved table; he was very polite but that was his big mistake. Aggressive rudeness was the norm here; good manners implied we had come to the wrong thermopolium. Fabulo’s only handled louts.
They refused us entrance.
XXXIII
The maître d’ was courteous. He saw Iucundus was a man with money—even though my lovely friend was not so crass as to try to bribe his way in. We could see the assessment being made that Iucundus could become a valuable regular. Tonight, though, even with his presence and purse, there was no room at the thermopolium.
Behind us, a man stepped from a hired chair. Sturdy and classy, this clean-shaven someone wore the full purple-bordered tunic and toga that indicated consequence. It was a best-boots-and-leather-wristbands night; he held himself with unassuming ease. A slave with a lantern accompanied him. It was Dromo, but even he could pass; night escorts were unpolished lads.
While the new man paid off his bearers, I saw the maître d’s eyes narrow. He had spotted power. I hissed at him, “You know who that is? Manlius Faustus—the aedile who was struck by lightning! It must be his first venture out since it happened—and he’s chosen you!”
Fabulo’s door staff became starry-eyed. Their maître d’ nearly fainted.
Iucundus still looked so crestfallen, Tiberius did not need telling what was up. He approached with a winning smile and shook hands with the slick maître d’, possibly the first customer ever to be so gracious. He played unassuming, but it was clearly an act; in his role, he always came across as steely underneath.
Tiberius did not even ask; if this celebrity wanted to enhance Fabulo’s with his presence, Fabulo’s would grab him. He was instantly ushered inward. Turning back to us through enveloping folds of door curtain, he waved as if we had met by chance. “These are good friends. If it’s possible, may they join me?”
“Of course!”
“So kind. I hate to dine alone. Do say if we are being a nuisance…”
Any friend of the lightning-bolt survivor would be a joy to serve. “My name is Falaecus,” oozed the drooling domo. “If there is anything at all you need, sir, just ask me.” Iucundus and I swung indoors in the wake of our honored host.
“Well, you have the contacts!” he muttered to me under his breath.
“Oh, I knew him when he was just a lettuce salesman.”
“He cleans up marvelously!”
“And has all the moves. Anyone would think he crashes swank diners all the time.”
Iucundus pinched my wrist with affection. “I dare say they realize he has the power, the power to close them down!”
The cramped porched entrance gave way to a lamplit corridor, then opened out into a spacious inn complex, mainly out-of-doors. They would give their new guest the best table. It had the garden view, across a pillared courtyard with lovely painted foliage scenes, to a glittering glass mosaic fountain. People were already reclining there; we were put in a private nook where we were given drinks on the house while these underlings were discreetly moved. Garlands were placed upon us. I noticed the scent of smoking cassia. Iucundus identified what was in our glasses as a perfectly balanced Spiced Wine Surprise.
As we progressed to our table, another group was having a roast delivered on a flaming sword. I had always wanted to see that. Although I was disappointed by the meager flames, there was applause, while female guests squealed. The head chef, it had to be him, came out with a pair of gigantic knives, which he clashed dramatically before he cut the meat with stunning panache. By name Fornax, after an oven god, he was a big, round, happy man, a cook who wanted us to know he ate his own food. This bumblebee had definitely been to carvery school, though it looked as if the portions he served were rather small. I decided he wanted the leftovers.
Our waiter, called Fundus, started us on durum bread with a shiny seeded glaze. He looked terrified. Only about fifteen, he spoke Latin of a kind, with a very heavy foreign accent. He said it was his first week. Serving a magistrate while barely trained was really bad luck for him, and possibly for us. Every time we inquired what something was, he had to go away and ask. Still, we were kind to him.
“Do you have to have a name beginning with ‘F’ if you want to work here?”
“We are asked to choose one off a list, sir. It’s a theme.”
“Oh, I love themes!” exclaimed Tiberius, mischievously going along with the Fabulo’s ethos. “My name is Faustus, I could work here. I could be your pot boy.”
Young Fundus gulped that they already had one, then scuttled away nervously.
Back he came with pulled pork-belly bites for appetizers. They were exquisite.
Falaecus kept dropping by to inquire whether everything was all right, sir? He chose his moments, usually when we all had our mouths full. Sometimes he varied it, cutting across us just when we were absorbed in interesting table-talk. Waiters are taught this; apparently people don’t go out to dine for their own enjoyment, but to express endless gratitude for what they haven’t yet enjoyed. The challenge for staff is to see how many times they can ask the question, whether they can race to ask it before you have even tasted a mouthful or, best of all, before you are even served any food. I think they run a sweepstake out the back.
The menu was eclectic. Its style was international. This meant: full of rich things we had never heard of, dressed in piquant sauces with untranslatable names. They had such a complicated structure of courses, we said we would let the chef advise us. That went down well. Presumably it meant he could serve up whatever he had prepared in advance; he wouldn’t have to send a lad out running for a bucket of extra parsley if we chose unexpectedly. Of course here it would be a bucket of galingale, safflower or ginger-grass …
They used those things. Along with nard, bdellium and sumach. As Tiberius commented, this was no salt and fish-pickle fried snacks popina.
“We can go to one of those on the way home,” Iucundus consoled him. “If we are still peckish.”
Unlikely. At Fabulo’s we were in heaven. We could not tell what anything was but that is the aim of high-class Roman food. The large fish en croute was actually a fine mince of game bird, while the baked pastry in the form of a hare contained mixed shellfish. I decided not to try the squid-in-its-ink, in case the ink turned out to be the kind you write with.
Everything that could be turned into something tiny had been miniaturized. Much was sprinkled with roasted sesame seeds. The flavors were intense but if you liked something, you knew there would be no more of that, although the endless succession of new delicacies was almost overwhelming. A stream of slaves in matched uniforms carried our dishes, which they placed daintily on our private serving table, then Fundus, or occasionally Falaecus, described each platter at enormous length until everyone had forgotten everything he said. If we asked him again after sampling, Fundus could not understand our question.
If it was meat, we were even told the type of grass the beast had eaten. Tiberius said he was waiting to be told the garnish of mushrooms had grown in that beef’s own cowpat.
All vegetables were fresh, locally sourced, heritage varieties grown in selected fields by the finest producers who used traditional methods—that is, veg that had been carted in from the Roman Campagna in the normal way. However, if Fornax went and made his own selection in the Forum Holitorium, he certainly knew how to pick out a succulent pea pod.
Nothing else was local if it could be hauled from a far-off province. This meant when they gave us a single oyster each so we could (vainly) try to find a pearl, those oysters came not from the Lucrine Lake but the sea shoals at Rutupiae. Unfortunately for Fabulo’s, I was able to point out to my companions that any poor oyster that had been carried in a brine barrel all the way from Britain was, by definition, rather old.
We ate them anyway. And yes, Rutupian oysters are the best.
*
Wine was brought. We had asked to hear their list, which began with a surprisingly reasonable Sabine house red, which they called the wine of poets, though Tiberius reckoned that it was the wine of poets’ farm managers. Top whack was a hundred-year-old Caecuban; its price, matching its age, could only be designed to impress oligarchs who were brought here by diplomats trying for huge trade deals. Iucundus said presumably they hoped the oligarchs would pay.
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