by Tom Holt
'Excuse me?' I said. 'That's not right.'
She nodded. 'I know,' she said. 'Remember, I said this was a while after I'd met the soldier. Well, in the meantime I'd been bought from the cathouse by Licinius Porno, who'd apparently been to some trouble to track me down, because I'd known both Callistus and Nero Caesar. Anyhow, the name of the officer who made out the report was Licinius Macer, who just happens to be our Porno's nephew In fact, Porno had bought him his commission not long before.'
'I see,' I lied. 'So it was Porno who found out—'
She lifted her head. 'He had a pretty good idea by then,' she said, 'but it wasn't till I told him about the soldier I'd met that he was absolutely sure.
Then he told me to go back and chat up my friend the clerk, and see if I couldn't get a copy of the whole file out of him. Well, he didn't like the idea, but he'd always been soft on me, from way back, and I asked him very nicely, and so Porno got his copy Meanwhile, my clerk kept me up to date on further sightings of you two for about two years, and then one day he told me he couldn't help me any more, because the file had been taken away and rewritten in code. And then, not long after that, he fell ill and died.'
'Oh,' I said.
'Quite. Though,' she went on, 'two of the other clerks in his office had the same bug, and they were very sick for a while and then got better. But Palamedes — that was my friend's name — he was the only one who died of it. Bad luck, don't you think?'
I nodded. 'So then what happened?' I said. 'Pollio followed up the trail where it'd left off, did he?'
'Sort of. Actually, he found another clerk, in the cipher department, the one who had the job of coding the latest entries in that file, and he gave him a lot of money That's how he found out you were in Sicily'
That shook me. 'He knew that?'
'Oh yes.
Not good, I thought; because if Porno's spy in the palace knew where we were, it was because he'd read it in the official reports, so whoever those reports were written for had to know too. Probably several people, not just one. 'Right,' I said. 'So then what did he do?'
She frowned. 'I'm not quite sure,' she said. 'I was helping him with the search, me and a dozen or so others in the house, but he didn't tell us everything, only the bits we needed to know to do the jobs we'd been given. I gathered that he'd sent a letter by express courier to some friend or business partner of his in Sicily, asking him to rescue you from whatever mess you got into next and bring you home, but apparently it all went wrong, some soldiers got killed or something, and you sort of slipped through the net.' She sighed. 'No, it was pure chance that we found you when you turned up at Ostia . Porno just happened to be down at the docks that day — this is what I've been told, though I didn't have it from Porno himself — and who should he bump into but you? He thought he knew you from somewhere, so he gave you some money just in case you were an old friend fallen on hard times; it wasn't till he got home, wondering out loud who it was he'd met, and I heard him describe you to someone— 'I know,' I put in.
'Scrawny little Greek bloke, I expect he said, with a face like a ferret.'
'Like a weasel, actually,' Blandinia replied, 'but close enough. Anyhow, to cut a long story short, soon as we'd figured out who you were, we all went scurrying down to Ostia after you, picked up the trail at Gnatho's estate, followed it on to Rome , and hired half the layabouts and street people in the city to look for you.
I nodded thoughtfully 'So you found us,' I said. 'So why didn't Pollio scoop us up and bring us in right away? What was all this shit about Alexander and whatsisname following us around to keep us safe, and giving us money in our sleep?'
All this time, I'd been feeding my face with the grub the slaves brought round, but I wasn't paying attention to it, just stuffing it into my mouth and chewing.
Typical of the way things go with me. I can truthfully say I've had goose stuffed with partridge and honey-roast thrush wrapped in escalope of hare with fennel sauce, and I haven't got a clue what it tastes like. Might as well have been bacon and beans.
'Well,' Blandinia replied, 'I wondered that, too. But Porno —well, he's basically a good man, pretty decent and considerate, not at all like your average Roman knight. A bit strange in some ways, but fundamentally all right, if you know what I mean. But when it comes to Nero Caesar, it's like he's spoiled in the head or something — like he's been out in the rain without a hat once too often, and the damp's got into his brains and turned them mouldy The way he saw it was, he couldn't go grabbing Nero Caesar off the street and having him dragged here like a runaway slave or something, it'd be the most appalling liberty. What he was planning on doing was biding his time till you two started cooking up scams again, and then he'd offer himself as the mark. That way, when you two were working him over, pretending to be sardine kings or parsnip barons with a lucrative trade deal up your sleeves, he'd have a pretext to invite you to dinner, maybe get you to stay for a few days, and he'd pretend to be taken in by your scam, which'd be his way of giving you a large sum of money without Nero Caesar feeling he was accepting charity. It was only when he found out you'd fallen into the hands of gangsters, and there were rival mobs about to fight a pitched battle over who got to keep you, that he decided he'd better get you out of there quick, and the hell with the proprieties. So he sent for Alexander and Julianus Bolius — and, well, here you are.
'My God,' I said. 'What a devious man he is, to be sure. I tell you what, he'd have done well in our line of work.'
Blandinia nodded gravely 'He has,' she said.
That shook me. 'What, scamming? But he's so rich. Nobody ever gets rich doing what we do. Crucified, yes, but not rich.'
She lifted her head. 'You're wrong there,' she said. 'Can I be absolutely honest with you? The truth is, it's quite easy to make a lot of money cheating people, provided you're good at it. Licinius Porno's good at it. You aren't.'
'True,' I said. 'Well, about us, anyhow But is that really what Porno—'
She nodded. 'He was a legacy hunter,' she said. 'Back before he got tubby and lost his hair. His father was a respectable knight in the grain trade, but he got on the wrong side of Claudius Caesar and ended up broke. Licinius Porno made his pile by sneaking round rich, elderly widows and getting them to leave him all their money in their wills. He was very good at it, I gather; he was good enough looking to get their attention, and cute and funny enough to get them fond of him, and that's basically what it takes. Oh, I'm not saying he didn't forge a will or two when an old bat didn't turn out as susceptible as she ought to, and there's some people who'll tell you that one or two of his old dears may have crossed the River a bit before their time, though I haven't got an opinion on that point. Mostly, though, it was sheer charm and personality. If you've got those, you see, swindling people's a piece of cake. If you haven't — well, I won't make a song and dance out of it, but he's here and you're where you are, and that more or less says it all, doesn't it?'
I nodded. Not a lot you could say to that, really Still, the thought that this obviously rich and respectable Roman whose venison pasties with coriander and chives I'd been gobbling down all the while was really no better than us made me wonder why the world works how it does. I mean to say, cheap trash like me and Lucius Domitius, we pull a few scams, the guards get on to us, and the next thing we know is, we're hiding under a cart or inside a water butt, penniless and hated by the whole world, and somehow that's sort of comforting; it shows that the gods really are watching and keeping score of who's nice and who's nasty. But if a man can go around cheating old ladies, forging their wills, maybe even murdering them, and wind up as rich and comfortable as a genuine member of the noble equestrian order, then where the hell's the sense in that? I don't see how even Seneca could've explained that one away.
'Fair enough,' I said. 'But straight up, you're telling me that Licinius Pollio's gone to all this trouble and expense just because he likes the way Lucius — I mean Nero Caesar sings?'
'That's about the strength
of it, yes.'
I ask you. Dumb as cowshit, some people. All that money and time and effort just to find Lucius Domitius, when for a fraction of the cost and aggravation he could take a hike down to the slave market, or even get on a boat to Delos, and buy himself a top-flight band, flute-players and harpists and zither—botherers and the whole bunch of them, plus a crackerjack singer, and they'd play and sing Lucius Domitius' words and music just as well as he could, most likely a damn sight better. Just goes to show how weird people can be when it comes to art and music and bullshit like that.
Anyway 'That's a relief,' I said. 'Hard to believe, but if that's all he wants us for, that's fine. Absolutely great. I mean, we're not proud. You tell Licinius Pollio, if he wants to hire Lucius Domitius to sing and play for him, chances are he'll be delighted to work for board, lodgings and pocket money, let alone the going rate. We aren't proud, Lucius Domitius and me.
She gave me a funny look. 'I'd gathered that,' she said. 'You know, that's a funny thing: the former emperor of the Romans, working as a field hand. That's something I'd have liked to see.
I frowned. 'It was better than a clown show, I'll grant you,' I said, watching him trying to swing a hoe. He's got the strength, you see, but bugger all coordination, plus he doesn't know the work. What I mean is, he's a piss-poor field hand, just as he was a piss-poor emperor of the Romans. Stick a harp in his paws, though, and he'd be worth all of a drachma a day If you ask me, people are born to a particular line of work. I was born to scamming and thieving, and that's who I am. Nero Caesar's a born catgut-fondler — not the best, not the worst, but then again, when the soles of your boots are peeling off, you don't insist on having the very finest cobbler in the empire see to them, anybody who can do the job is just fine.' I shook my head. 'Sounds like your Porno was born to be a knight, and I don't suppose it really matters how he got there. And by all accounts, the late lamented Vespasian was born to be the emperor. If only people had some way of knowing what it is they're supposed to do before they start doing it, the world would be a happier place, and no mistake.'
She looked at me. 'You're wrong on one score ,' she said. 'I think you were born to be a philosopher. You haven't got the legs for standing about looking impressive in a short woollen gown, but otherwise I'd say you were ideally suited.'
She was making fun of me, but I'm used to that. 'And then there's you,' I said, turning my line like a wise general counter-attacking from a position of weakness. 'You were obviously born to be a rich knight's confidential freedwoman. It's obvious you're good at it.'
She turned bright pink, then said, 'I don't know what you're suggesting, but as a matter of fact, Licinius Porno's tastes run in a different direction. You don't believe me, come and look round our place some day and count the rosy-cheeked fifteen-year-old page boys. I work for a living.' Actually I hadn't been suggesting anything of the sort, but apparently I'd trodden on a corn.
Still, it got her off my back for a moment. 'Anyhow,' I said, pressing home with my heavy infantry, as it were. 'What's the plan from here on?'
She frowned. 'I'm not sure. To be honest with you, I don't think Licinius Porno's thought much beyond this. I mean, his life's been devoted to getting to the point where he could sit Nero Caesar down and tell him how wonderful his music is. At some stage, he'll probably screw up enough courage to ask for a song or two. After that, I don't know. I rather get the impression that Porno was planning on dying after that, on the grounds that anything else would be a pathetic anticlimax.'
'Oh,' I said. 'Only I was hoping we could sort of spin this one out for a while — twenty years or so, for choice. It's not like either of us has got anything better to do.'
'I expect that could be arranged,' she said. 'Or if you don't want to spend the rest of your days hanging round our house, I could always have a word with him for you. He'd be far too shy to offer, for fear of giving mortal offence, but if I told him that what Nero Caesar would like best in the whole world would be four hundred thousand sesterces and a boat trip to Trapezus, I'm sure he'd be only too pleased to oblige.'
I nearly choked on my rabbit with fruit sauce. 'Four hundred thousand?
'All right, six,' she said. 'Say what you like about Pallio, he's no piker, he'd want to do the thing properly' She smiled at me, though there was something about her expression that reminded me of a growling dog. 'I think it's probably safe to say that all your troubles will pretty soon be over. Now isn't that nice?'
Six hundred thousand sesterces, I thought, fuck a stoat six ways to Nicomedea.
And all my troubles over, too; no more sleeping in ditches or eating cheese with green fur on it or hiding from soldiers in middens. Just because a creep who swindled old ladies liked the way Lucius Domitius played the harp. Crazy 'Would you mind?' I said hoarsely 'Having a word with Licinius Porno, I mean? I think it's a tremendously good idea.'
'Thank you,' she said. 'I'll do that, then, as soon as he's through nattering with your friend. Meanwhile, eat up, there's still plenty of food left, and if we run out, we can always send Alexander and Julianus Bolius out to the kitchens.' She sighed. 'It's a pity they're so useful as hired muscle,' she said, 'because actually they're very good cooks. They're even better at beating people up, though, so by your theory that's what they ought to be doing, full time. Or is your theory flexible enough to allow for a person being really good at two things at the same time?'
As it happened, I had an answer to that point, but I never got to tell it, because that was when the door flew open and the room filled up with people.
I recognised the Sicilian, of course, and a couple of his button men who I'd met back at the inn. The rest of them were cut from the same cloth, as we say back in Attica , and besides, you didn't need to look further than the swords in their hands to see what they were there for.
I may not be much of a human being. I'm not brave, or clever, or good-looking, or gifted with any useful skills. But I've got a small collection of instincts that see me through when the shitrain starts to fall, and that's more than a lot of people can say By the time the boarding party was through the door, I was invisible. I'd slid off the couch, landed on my knees, slithered sideways across the floor and wormed my way behind a handy floor-length curtain. Another thing I have a certain flair for is attention to detail, because I remember remembering to tuck my toes in (unlike Claudius Caesar, in very similar circumstances, who left them sticking out under the hem of the curtain and got caught straight away; and they dragged him off and made him emperor, so let that be a lesson to you). Anyhow, there I was and there I stayed, and because I had the sense not to poke my head out to see what was going on, I missed the details of what happened next. I heard a lot of shouting, which didn't last very long, some screams, and quite a bit of that sound that's not really like anything else, really sharp metal slicing into flesh and grating on bone. I suppose they could have been carving the saddle of roast mutton in a hurry, but I don't think that's what it was. In any event, it didn't last very long. About the time it takes to eat an apple, give or take a bit. Then someone spoke.
'The other one,' he said, and then I heard Blandinia reply 'What, you mean the Greek?'
'With a face like a rat,' said the first voice, 'yes. Where's he got to?'
'Oh, you've missed him,' she said, sounding very unimpressed. 'He bolted off through the door like a polecat. You might just catch up with him if you're quick.'
'Fuck,' said the first voice, and then, 'All right, get after him. We'll come back for this lot.'
Sort of a stampeding noise, then nothing. After the nothing had been going on for a good long time, I took a deep breath and stuck my nose round the edge of the curtain.
Well, the good part was, the room was empty. Apart from dead people, of course.
There were plenty of them.
ELEVEN
When I was a kid, I used to have this nightmare. I was in our house, and there was just me, and I'd go round the place for ages and ages (our house was a lot bigger
, in the dream) and there'd be nobody, just me. Then suddenly I'd go round a corner or walk into a barn, and there'd be everybody I ever knew, lying in a great big heap, dead. Sometimes they'd be all chopped up in bits, other times they'd be covered in boils, like they'd died of plague, and once or twice they were all dried up and mouldering, like they'd been dead for a year or so. It was a really horrible dream, and it usually came on after I'd eaten green figs last thing.
Well, maybe it was just the figs, or maybe it was one of those prophetic dreams the gods send us, to let us know we're in for a really shitty time and there's nothing we can do about it. Anyhow, if it was a prophetic dream, that was what it must've been warning me about: the sight I saw when I came out from behind the curtain.
I've seen dead people; who hasn't? I've seen them lying on beds, or face down in ditches, or sat up against walls with their heads drooping down on their knees.
I've seen them carved up and smashed in, or bent and twisted in the wreckage of carts, or bobbing just under the water like huge white carp waiting to be fed breadcrumbs. I've seen them hanging off wooden crosses beside the road, with their bones poking through their skin. I've seen glimpses of them under a blanket of feeding crows, I've seen them dry and crispy and brittle like duck crackling where they've been turfed out of ancient tombs and stacked outside like trash, I've seen them in bundles of bits, jumbled up and mismatched, where someone's ploughed up an old graveyard. I've seen them carried on doors with everybody crying their eyes out, or stepped over in the marketplace because it's nobody-in-particular's job to clear them away I know dead people from nothing, and most of the time they don't bother me at all.