by Tom Holt
There was something about her. You know in the fairy stories, the way that looking into the gorgon's eyes was supposed to turn you to stone. Well, looking Blandinia in the eyes was a bit like that, only instead of changing you into a block of marble, it made you tell the truth. Main difference being, they had the sense to kill the gorgon, first chance they got, while this Blandinia was not only alive, but apparently allowed out in public without an armed escort.
'Yes,' I said.
'Come along, then,' she said briskly, like I was the family dog, and that seemed to be the finish of her interest in me. She turned back to Lucius Domitius and said, 'Well, at least you've had something to eat. I hope these two have been looking after you properly'
'Oh, yes,' Lucius Domitius replied (which makes me wonder if the truth thing only applied to me). 'They've been really kind and helpful.'
'That's all right, then,' she said. 'Maybe we won't have them killed, after all.'
To be fair, it probably was a joke. It just didn't sound anything like one, that was all.
Anyway Next thing I knew, I was hoppiting along behind, trying to keep up with this girl and Lucius Domitius as she led the way out of the house, round the back and out onto the street. 'It's a great shame you missed the reception,' she was saying, 'Licinius Pollio'd gone to a lot of trouble to make sure everything would be nice. Never mind, though,' she said, 'can't be helped now'
Alexander and Pony-tail were following on behind me, so if the thought of making a run for it crossed my mind, it didn't hang about there long enough to take its boots off or wash its hands. We marched down an alley, through a courtyard, up another alley — by that time my sense of direction was completely fuddled, so I stopped trying to keep track of where we'd been and tried to get talking with the girl hoping I'd be able to get some kind of clue from her about what was going on. But she was as smart as a lawyer, and I got nothing out of her.
We hadn't been walking all that long when, quite suddenly, Blandinia stopped dead in her tracks and pushed open a little narrow door in a plain brick wall.
It looked like the entrance to some warehouse, but on the other side was a magnificent entrance hall, with mosaics on the floor and amazing painted plasterwork —a lion hunt in Persia, a storm at sea with ships rolling about, the wooden horse of Troy being dragged in through the city walls, and a load of other stuff, very tasteful and not long painted, judging by the damp smell of the plaster. It all seemed a bit odd, such an extravagant display of wealth tucked away behind a miserable little door in a grotty alleyway, but then I remembered something I'd overheard in an inn a few years back, about how the rich Romans were getting cagey about being conspicuous — something to do with the unusually high proportion of rich men who found themselves in court on treason charges (where the guilty party's property gets confiscated by the emperor if he's convicted). Fair enough, I thought. If flashing your money around is going to land you in the dock, there's a lot to be said for making yourself hard to notice. Of course, these trumped-up treason charges were supposed to have been one of the great evils of Nero's reign, which the noble Vespasian had put a stop to, but maybe nobody had told Licinius Porno that, or maybe he was just one of those paranoid types who never trust the government.
Some people are like that, apparently A porter met us at the threshold (which was decorated with one of those beware-of-the-dog mosaics with a picture of a huge lifelike Spartan hound; a lot of people like them, though I reckon they're too cutesy for words, almost as bad as the dinky little silver skeletons people have as centrepieces for dinner parties) and led us into the dining room. Nice place Licinius Porno had, I'll give him that. There was an enormous double lamp hanging from the ceiling on a gilded chain so you could see right around the room. The furniture wasn't very old but it was all good stuff, lots of gilding and ivory panels, and loads of cushions everywhere — real Levantine purple, not the cheap imitation. One nice touch I noticed in particular: the ceiling was painted blue, with flying birds and a big yellow sun and everything. Made the place seem light and airy, like you were having your dinner outside.
And there, standing in the middle of the room fussing over something with the chief steward, was that same tubby little man I'd first met in Ostia , the one who'd given me a whole denarius to get zonked on. He raised his head as we walked in, looked straight past me as though I wasn't there, and started gazing at Lucius Domitius like he'd seen a god or something. 'Welcome, welcome,' he called out, scurrying across the room to meet us, 'do please come in, make yourself at home. And your friend,' he added, as an obvious afterthought.
Tactically, we were badly placed. Alexander and Pony-tail had parked themselves in the doorway, like Horatius and his buddies getting ready to hold the bridge against the Etruscans. Aside from getting past them, which would've been tricky without cavalry support at the least, and probably elephants, it didn't look like there was any other way out of the room. If we'd been fetched here to be horribly put to death, I couldn't see there was much we could do about it.
If he was planning on killing us, either he was going to feed us first, like farmers do with pigs before sending them to market, or else he hated us so much he was planning on eating us afterwards. The place was rigged out for a high-class dinner, little tables dotted around the floor with silver dishes of interesting little concoctions involving dead birds and sausages, two rather fancy bronze donkeys with panniers full of fresh olives, that sort of thing.
Expensive and tacky, unless they were presents from people he didn't want to offend. Not that I gave a damn. Personally I like tacky What else would you expect from someone like me? No, the only reason I even bothered looking was because you can tell so much about a person by the things he puts on display when company's expected, and at that precise moment, I wanted any hints I could get about who we were up against. All in all, the decor and effects seemed to suggest either someone who'd been poor and come into money, or a man who knew what he liked and didn't give a toss — the boss of a street gang, for instance, someone like that.
I had plenty of time to look around, because the tubby little guy, Licinius Porno, was stood there in front of Lucius Domitius like he'd taken root, staring. Just when I was starting to get fidgety, like you do when you've been standing in one place for a while, the tubby little guy cleared his throat and said, 'This is indeed an honour,' or something like that. Lucius Domitius smiled feebly and said, 'Oh, right,' and the tubby guy beamed. Honestly, you could've snuffed out that fancy lamp of his, and we'd still have been able to see.
'In fact,' he went on, 'this is a lifetime's ambition for me.' He paused, like he was trying to swallow a whole apple. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'that must sound very crass, but the truth is, I'm rather at a loss for words. I'm not usually like this, I promise you.'
'That's all right,' Lucius Domitius said awkwardly, 'don't worry about it.' He gave Porno his best stuffed-frog look, and then asked, 'Sorry if this sounds rude, but what are we doing here?'
For a moment, Porno looked like he didn't understand. Then he blinked like a lizard and said, 'Well, really, I just wanted to meet you, really I know, it sounds silly but it's true. You see,' he went on, speeding up suddenly like a cart rolling down a hill, 'the fact is, I happen to think that your music and your poetry — well, they're wonderful. I've got copies of all your poems I could find, I've been collecting them for years, and whenever I meet someone who'd been at one of your recitals, I pester them to hum me the tunes, and I've got a slave, a Sardinian, wonderfully clever fellow, who writes them all down in little marks and squiggles on a wax tablet, and works them up so my musicians can play them. I've got twelve full-time musicians, you know, and all they do is play your music, and I sent to Antioch specially for a very famous singer I'd heard about, he wasn't cheap but I felt that only the best would be worthy of your songs — Diomedes of Antioch, maybe you've heard of him? No? Well, never mind. Anyway, he sings and the musicians play for me three times a day, after breakfast, lunch and dinner, and I've go
t a couple of quite decent flute-players who do medleys of your work at other times during the day when I'm alone or exercising or having a bath. And also, something I'm really excited about, I managed to get hold of the harp you played when you gave your first public recital at Naples; it took me ages to track it down, a captain in the guards had it and it cost me an arm and a leg, but now of course it's one of my most treasured possessions. And—' He stopped and caught his breath, as if he'd just run the foot race at the Olympic games. 'Well,' he said, 'like I told you, I just wanted to meet you and, well, say thanks, for all the wonderful hours of pleasure you've given me.'
Well. I've got to give Lucius Domitius his due; he took it very well, considering. Me, in his place, either I'd have strangled Licinius Porno right there on the spot for scaring us half to death and having his tame thugs bash our heads in, or else I'd have burst out laughing so hard I'd have split a gut.
Not Lucius Domitius. He just stood there, mouth slightly open, didn't say a word. I've seen livelier corpses in plague pits.
'Anyway,' Licinius Porno went on, 'that's all I wanted to say And now, if you'd care to join me for a bite to eat, I'd be honoured. Epaphroditus, water and towels for our guest.'
A little skinny kid with curly hair bounded forward with a silver bowl and started washing Lucius Domitius' hands, and I don't think he noticed until the kid started trimming his fingernails with a little silver knife, he was so stunned by the whole business. Then another bloke, who for some reason was got up as Cupid or Ganymede or someone like that, steered him over to a couch and shoved him onto it in a duly obsequious manner, whereupon a whole bunch of slaves swooped down and shoved dishes of food under his nose, until he was surrounded by them and I couldn't see him any more. At this point, a rather less elegant bloke tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a smaller, plainer couch stuck behind a pillar. Well, only a mug stays standing up when he can lie down, so I went where I'd been told and waited for the food to come round, which it did eventually I was still pretty well stuffed with Alexander's fish sauce, but one thing you learn when you're on the road is to eat first while it's going and worry about digesting it later. Very tasty, those snacky things, though maybe a bit salty for me, and you had to eat a whole plateful of the little savoury things in pastry to fill yourself up.
Our host, meanwhile, was perched on the couch next to Lucius Domitius. He wasn't eating anything, he was too busy chattering away, about how The Fall of Troy was probably his favourite of Lucius Domitius' works, either that or Orestes The Matricide, depending on what mood he was in, though he really loved that long, slow bit in The Transformation of Arachne, and why was it he'd never done anything like that again, it was a pity, not that he didn't like the later stuff, don't get him wrong, but there was something special about the early works, he must've heard Telemachus at Pylos forty times if he'd heard it once, it was pure genius — I stopped listening after a while, because even a country boy like me knows it's really bad manners to throw up at a posh dinner party.
'Have some tripe,' said a voice beside me. It was Blandinia, the girl who'd fetched us. She was grinning.
'Don't mind if I do,' I said. 'Can I ask you something?'
'Sure. What's on your mind?'
I jerked my head at Porno. 'Is he for real?' I said. 'I mean, this isn't some horrible ruse, is it, to soften us up or lull us into a false sense of security?'
She lifted her head, Greek style. 'Hardly,' she said. 'If you need proof, I'll hum you the whole of The Bed of Procrustes. I've heard it so often, I know the rotten thing by heart.'
'More than I do,' I said. 'In fact, I don't remember that one at all. Truth is, I wouldn't know it from a vaudeville number. I'm not really musical.'
'Me neither.' The grin softened into a smile. 'In this house, though, you don't get much choice. So,' she went on, 'you're Galen.'
'That's right,' I said. 'How come you've heard of me, then?'
'Oh, I remember you from the old days.' She laughed, though it wasn't the friendliest noise I've ever heard, if you see what I mean. 'You haven't got any idea who I am, have you? Well, no reason why you should, I was just a kid back then, obviously' As she said that, she looked past me at Lucius Domitius, who was still listening to Porno telling him how clever he was, rather like a harbour wall listens to the sea. 'Hardly likely really that you'd notice a slave's kid running round the kitchens. My dad was a cook, you see, and my mother worked in the laundry. Slaves aren't usually noticed at the best of times. As for their kids, unless they smash a vase or make a noise when there's company in the house, they're pretty well invisible.'
'Oh,' I said. If I'd thought it'd have helped, I'd have said how good the food always was and how clean the sheets were, but I got the impression that she wouldn't have been impressed. 'So that's how you know me, then,' I said.
She nodded. 'You and your brother,' she said. 'Actually, I liked him. One day, he caught me stealing grain out of a jar in the storeroom, and I thought he'd tell on me for sure, but he just smiled and gave me an apple. I'd never had an apple before, would you believe?'
That sounded like Callistus all right, doing good deeds all over the shop, harvesting hearts and minds wherever he went. Nothing like that ever happened to me. I mean, I never caught kids thieving from jars or any of that stuff, so I never got the chance to be generous and lovable. What I always say is, if you don't get the breaks in this life, what can you achieve? Bugger all.
'Ah, right,' I said, or something equally memorable.
'I was sorry when I heard he'd died,' she went on. 'I remembered him very well.
You can imagine: you see, I was convinced the nice man who'd given me the apple was Nero Caesar — after all, they looked so much alike, didn't they? — and then when I told my dad he just laughed and said no, that must've been the emperor's Greek friend, Callistus. And then when I met Nero Caesar the second time — well, I realised Dad must've been right. Anyway, that's why I remember him, and you too, for that matter. I think your brother was the first person I'd ever met who was nice to me for no reason —not being family, I mean, or a friend of my parents.'
'Excuse me,' I interrupted, as something she'd said sank in, 'you heard that Callistus was dead? Who from?'
She looked at me for a moment, completely blank-faced. 'It was about five years ago,' she said. 'I wasn't with Licinius Porno then, I was still a slave.
Actually, I was working in a brothel, but we won't go into that. Things weren't very nice for Nero Caesar's household after he was thrown out, people seemed to blame us for what'd happened. I suppose it was because he'd gone and we were still there. Anyway, one of my clients—' She looked away as she said the word.
'He was a soldier, and he'd been one of the men who went to Phaon's villa to arrest Nero Caesar — only they got there too late, of course, didn't they, and he was already dead. The soldiers all got into terrible trouble for that, needless to say The officer was cashiered, if that's the right word, and the men were posted to all sorts of horrible places, very cold or very hot, and nearly all of them were killed or fell sick and died. But this man — he'd been sent to the German frontier, which is the worst posting you can get, apparently — he'd survived and finished his tour and come back, which is when I met him. Often the clients get talking when they're done, they're often the sort of people who don't have anybody much to talk to, and when I told him in passing I'd been raised in the Golden House, he started telling me the story, about going to Phaon's villa and seeing the dead body, and everybody taking it for granted that it was Nero Caesar, because it looked pretty much like the face on the coins and the statues. But when they took the body back to the city and had various people examine it, just to make sure, there was this Greek doctor who was absolutely certain the body wasn't Caesar, because he'd treated Callistus for a burn on his arm a few weeks earlier, a lamp that got knocked over or something, and he saw the scar.'
I looked at her. I remembered; it'd been me that knocked the lamp over. 'Go on,'
; I said.
'Well,' she continued, 'the Greek doctor told the sergeant who'd brought the body in, and the sergeant scowled at him and said, Are you sure? And the doctor said, Positive, the scar's exactly where the burn had been, and he'd also examined Caesar for a strained elbow tendon, caused by too much harp practice or whatever, and there hadn't been any scar there that he might have mistaken for the one on Callistus' arm. The sergeant didn't like that at all, because everybody else he'd asked had sworn blind the body was Caesar, but he reckoned he couldn't keep quiet about a thing like that. So he went to his officer and told him; and the next thing they all knew, they'd got their new postings and never saw each other again. But there was another funny thing, the soldier told me: that doctor, the one who noticed the scar, he got sent to Africa as the governor's personal physician, and he hadn't been there a week when he was stabbed to death in the marketplace by some robbers. Strange, really, don't you think?'
'Odd coincidence,' I agreed. 'Assuming it was all true, that is. I mean, you're right, it was Callistus who got killed, not Lucius Domitius, but for all you knew your soldier could've been making things up, him or the man he got it from.'
She nodded. 'I wondered about that, too,' she said. 'So a while later I asked around, people I'd known in the old days — some of us managed to keep in touch, friends of my parents mostly — and it so happens that a boy I grew up with had become a clerk at the palace; and I was talking to him about this, and he suddenly went quiet, so I asked him what the matter was, and he told me there's a whole file of letters and reports in his department, which he'd been told to make copies of three or four times, all about a pair of petty criminals who keep turning up all over the empire, and they look uncannily like Nero Caesar and one of his hangers-on from the Golden House. Well, I told this clerk, there's a simple explanation for that, and didn't he remember Callistus, who looked just like Caesar, and that brother of his (meaning you); and you'd disappeared the same time as Nero Caesar died, so wasn't it likely that these two petty criminals were Callistus and Galen? But my clerk friend said they'd thought of that, soon as the first reports came in, and there was a letter on file sending an officer to investigate, and a few pages on, the officer's report, where he said he'd been out and found the two men and talked to them—'