Venus In Copper

by Lindsey Davis

  A pageboy was curled up with his thumb in his mouth and a peach in his hand. He was so fast asleep he looted as if all breath had left him. Hyacinthus kicked at him anxiously, but the child started awake and stumbled away.

  I gazed around, searching for clues. Here the worst signs of domestic upset were the wine-stained napery which would pose problems for the Hortensius linenkeeper, and a sea of spilt lamp oil on one of the couch coverlets. I kicked a hardened bread roll out of my path. 'Who was here tonight, Hyacinthus? How many of the family?'

  'All three, with both women.'

  'The guests?'

  'Just one. A business associate.'

  'And Severina.' Seven. Plenty of elbow room on the couches. 'What was the table plan?'

  'Mealtimes are not my province, Falco. You want the chamberlain.' The chamberlain would be full of himself, a wearying talker (I had met them before). He could wait.

  I walked all around the triclinium, but nothing caught my eye. Wine flagons and water jugs had been left on several side tables after the meal, with a litter of spice bowls and straining equipment. The only relic of the food was a complicated structure on a low central table. It was a tree, sculpted from golden wire, which must have arrived festooned with the fruit for dessert. Bunches of grapes and apricots still hung from its twisting arms and loaded its plinth.

  I was still lost in thought, and Hyacinthus was hunched miserably on a dining couch, when the stillness was interrupted by a man arriving explosively.

  'Someone has died--yes?'

  'Someone may have done,' I answered sombrely, giving the wild apparition a once-over. He had a bald forehead, a wide mouth, a nose two sizes bigger than his other features and darting mid-brown eyes. His stature was unexceptional but he filled extra space by exuding the operational energy of a well-oiled Cretan windmill left with its brake off in a steady gale. 'Who gave you the information?'

  'A skivvy ran and told me!'

  'Why? What is it to do with you?'

  Hyacinthus looked up. 'If you are blaming the food for poisoning Novus,' he told me, with a faint trace of amusement, 'he thinks you're after him--he's the chef, Falco!'

  Chapter XXXIV

  'Novus!' The wild-eyed chef grew still. He was visibly upset.

  'Steady! What's your name?'

  'People here call me Viridovix,' he informed me stiffly.. 'And if my master has been poisoned--then you want to talk to me!'

  'If you're the chef,' I commented, 'most of the people who ate here tonight will want to do that!'

  If I needed confirmation that the Hortensius crowd were a clutch of social amateurs, I would have found it in the fact that they had a Gallic cook.

  It was a hundred years since Rome decided to civilize the Gauls; since then we had moved on from genocide at Julius Caesar's hand to taming the tribes with commodities which came cheaper for the Treasury: ceramic bowls, Italian wine, and the finer points of democratic local government. Gaul's response was to fill Rome's artists' studios with life models who specialised in posing as Dying Barbarians, then later to inflict on us a rash of heavy-going middle-class bureaucrats in the mode of Agricola. Many prominent Gauls come from Forum Julii, which was graced by what passed for a university--plus a port, so they could easily ship themselves out to Rome.

  I am prepared to concede that one day the three cold Gallic provinces will come up with a contribution to the civilised arts--but nobody is going to convince me that it will be mastery of cuisine. Even so, I never imagined that Hortensius Novus died because his cook came from Gaul. His dinner almost certainly killed him--but that was nothing to do with the cook.

  Calming Viridovix was my first priority; he might become less agitated without an audience. I winked at Hyacinthus, who obligingly disappeared.

  'I'm Didius Falco. I'm investigating this tragedy--and frankly, after finding your master's body I need a drink!

  Considering that he was poisoned, I imagine you'd like to join me--let's try and find something we can assume has not been tampered with ...'

  I sat him down to simmer off boiling point. I found one wine flask, an elegant sky-blue fluted glass affair with a silvery, lustrous finish, which stood with its bung out, breathing, like a special vintage set aside for the after-dinner toasts. The amber wine was brimming well up the neck of the vessel; the diners had plainly overlooked their treat. I took a risk that anything that was meant to be partaken of by the company in common was probably safe. It was a big risk; but Viridovix was obviously badly shaken, and I was desperate.

  'This should do us --' The contents were thick as nectar and probably of great age. Although I took my own cup neat Viridovix asked for spices; I found a little bowl in matching blue glass standing handy beside the flask and, thinking a cook would appreciate flavour, I emptied the entire contents--myrrh and cassia, by the sniff of it--into his cup.

  One gulp convinced me the person who should be enjoying this was my expert friend Petronius. It was fifteen-year-old Falernian, if I was any judge. I recognised the way it slid down my throat like molten glass, and the warm burn of the aftertaste. I knew it because Petro used to treat me on his birthday; he always said it was a waste pouring this noble grape juice into a cluck like me, but Falemian should not be drunk alone (a philosophy I encouraged).

  We quaffed. The rook immediately looked less pale. 'Better? Viridovix, the tact is Novus has died, but no one is likely to blame you--unless you had a grudge against him.I I wanted to remind the cook that when a free citizen died by violent means the first suspects were his slaves, but to offer a hope of my protection if he was innocent. 'The best thing you can do to help clear yourself--'

  'I have done nothing wrong.'

  'I realise that.'

  'Yet others may not agree with you?'

  I liked his wry attitude. 'They will if I identify the real killer.' Viridovix looked uncertain. 'I was hired to prevent this,' I grumbled. 'So yours is not the only reputation under threat, my friend.' My glum mood had convinced him. We took another swig, then I persuaded him to go through the dinner menu. Obviously a worrier, he had been carrying it around, written on a scrap of parchment which was still in a pouch at his waist:

  DINNER FOR SEVEN; HOSTED BY HORTENSIUS NOVUS

  Appetisers:

  Salad of Lettuce and Mallow Leaves

  Peacocks' Eggs

  Sausage in a Ring

  Baian Oysters Hortensius

  Artichoke Hearts

  Olives

  Main Dishes:

  Hare in Rich Wine Sauce

  Lobster in Saffron Pot Roast Pork Crowned with Laurel

  Wild Crane Halibut Pancakes Fennel; Potted Peas; Stewed Leeks and Onions: Mushrooms

  Dessert:

  White Cheeses

  Fruits Presented on a Hesperides Tree Purchased Pastries

  Wines:

  With the Appetiser, Mulsum (first pressing), warmed

  with Honey and malabathron flavouring With the Main Dishes, a choice of Red or White Chian

  Served to Individual Taste For the Toasts after Dinner, Setinum

  'And who devised this elegant collation?' I asked.

  'I myself,' boasted Viridovix, then added, 'with some suggestions from Severina Zotica ...'

  I was not ready to think of Zotica. 'Was the evening a success, Viridovix?'

  'Certainly.'

  'Your creations were well received?'

  'Good ingredients,' he shrugged. 'You cannot go wrong. I am free to buy the best.' He was evidently conscientious. I discarded my private joke earlier about shiny meat--and with it any lingering doubt that his master might have been poisoned by accident, simply through eating unsafe food.

  Rereading the list, I put some further queries to the cook, not all of them for professional reasons. 'What are Oysters Hortensius?'

  'Poached in a light bouillon of white wine, laurel leaves, juniper berries and lovage--'

  'Invented by one of the family?'

  'Invented by me!' I was corrected. Of course. No
one as pretentious as these freedmen would allow visitors to be served up with a recipe named after a Celtic slave. Viridovix provided the creative skill; they took the credit.

  'Mushrooms make people think twice nowadays .. .' I was referring to the infamous murder of the Emperor Claudius by his wife. Viridovix, who was well down his winecup, merely sniffed. 'Did the pastries come from Minnius along the road?'

  'As usual. His work is not bad, and he gives us special rates.

  'Because one of the freedmen leases him the stall?'

  'I don't know why, I am a cook.'

  'How did that come about?'

  'Prisoner of war. Novus acquired me,' Viridovix murmured rather sweetly, 'because the slavemaster declared I was a tribal leader.'

  'Snobbery!'

  'He likes having his porridge stirred by a ruined prince.' The cook was not a bitter man. I enjoyed the light way he mocked his master's vulgarity.

  'Were you one?' He smiled in silence. 'Still, perhaps you were once something better than a cook...Was it hard, coming here?'

  'This is how I have to live,' Viridovix said quietly.

  'So you knuckle down?'

  'This is my work --I choose to do it well,' he added, with the dignity of the mildly drunk.

  'An individual's privilege!' I must have been drunk too. I noticed he wore the same overdone uniform as Hyacinthus, laden with gaudy braid. The cook also sported a twisted silver torque. 'Did that necklet come with you when you were a prisoner?'

  'Hardly! I have been supplied with it.'

  'Extra colour? Do I gather from the full fancy dress that you supervised the servers personally?'

  'Bad carving can ruin my best work.'

  'I intended to ask the chamberlain who ate what.'

  'He will not know,' said Viridovix dismissively.

  'But you noticed?' I hazarded. 'You know what they all took--and what they all left on their plates!'

  He glanced at me, pleased by the compliment, then graciously answered my query. 'I should say everyone sampled almost everything. Pollia left every scrap which she could call gristle; Felix looked for fat to peel off; the guest pushed his food around all night --'

  'Any reason?'

  'A man who does not know how to eat.'

  'Or how to live!' I cried, glancing enthusiastically at his menu.

  Viridovix accepted the compliment. 'As you say! Novus as usual devoured a large plateful, then called for a further helping. But none of them really noticed what they ate.'

  'Disappointing?'

  'Normal, Falco. In this house.'

  'Does that rankle with you?'

  'Not enough,' responded Viridovix shrewdly, 'to make me want to murder them!'

  'It's my theory cooks commit their murders when they overheat in the glare of the ovens--then their method is to run amuck with meat cleavers.'

  'Poison would be highly unprofessional!' he smiled.

  'Tell me--as an observant man--were any of those present nervous?' I carefully avoided naming Severina Zotica.

  'All of them,' he replied at once.

  'Even Novus?'

  'Especially him.' Somehow that was a surprise.

  'What accounted for this edginess?' He gave me a wide-mouthed Gallic smile again, full of intelligent charm. I laughed. 'Oh sorry; you will not know details; you are just the cook!'

  'Ah, cooks are all ears while people eat their food!'

  'Going to tell me?'

  'It was because of the business they had gathered to discuss,' I waited. He timed it nicely for effect: 'I think, forming a new partnership.' This time he actually grinned at me.

  'In what field?'

  'City property.'

  'Did you learn any details?'

  'No, Falco. When they were ready to talk, all of us serving were dismissed. I expect you want to ask me,' Viridovix suggested quietly, 'if I saw Hortensius Novus eat or drink anything that nobody else touched?'

  'I would probably have worked around to it!'

  'Nothing,' the cook disappointed me. 'Most of them dipped into most of the dishes and all of the wines. If poison was in the food, they are all dead. The servers were being attentive--but it was also a party where people made much of passing delicacies to their neighbours --'

  'Best behaviour night?'

  'Much graciousness. Too much.'

  'So the general mood was amicable?'

  'It seemed so, but the tension was high. I was afraid it would infect the servers; something would be dropped. A harpist had been engaged, but he was paid off without playing. They finished fairly early --'

  'Did you see what happened then?'

  'Of course; we were waiting to clear .. . After they came out, Crepito and Felix stood in the portico for some time, with their guest--'

  'Still discussing?'

  'Low voices--something Novus had done seemed to be causing controversy. Then I overheard all of them going on drinking, but nothing came of it; thee guest said he had something else to do. When he left, Felix and Crepito disappeared, heads together.'

  'Happy?'

  'No; I would say.'

  'Where was Novus?'

  'Novus had stomped off somewhere.'

  'With Severina Zotica?'

  'No,' said the cook. 'I should have told you earlier --Severina Zotica was never there!'

  At that point a shoe scratched on marble. Viridovix dropped a warning hand on my arm. I turned on my seat. Standing in the doorway in a wait of garlic and frankincense was a man who could only be another of the Hortensius triumvirate.

  Chapter XXXV

  He looked older than Novus, though similar: the same skin tones and well-fed solidity. A fleshy body with a heavy head, and a bushy black moustache which hid the movements of his mouth.

  He exhibited a strange lack of curiosity about who I was or what I might be talking about here in their family dining room, with the family cook. Instead, he crossed in front of us and seized the fluted blue flagon from which Viridovix and I had helped ourselves. Luckily I had previously put down my cup on the floor where it was hidden behind my feet. Viridovix somehow let his winecup burrow invisibly into the folds of our couch's coverlet. The freedman glanced at the flask, spotting that some of the liquor was missing.

  'Novus couldn't wait!' he grumbled.

  I detached myself from Viridovix. 'Excuse me, sir. Are you Crepito?'

  'Felix.' The one married to Pollia. He was still scowling at the flask as if accusing Hortensius Novus of starting it. Neither Viridovix nor I disillusioned him.

  'I'm Marcus Didius Falco. Here on an assignment for your wife...' Impossible to tell if he knew anything about it. 'If Hortensius Crepito is anywhere around can I request an urgent interview?'

  He lifted the flask. 'Special vintage! Crepito and Novus are both about to join me--'

  'Not Novus, sir. Something has happened. May we talk--with Crepito as well, if possible?'

  Still more concerned with the flask than this mystery, Hortensius Felix shrugged and led me out.

  The three freedmen had meant to marshal and sample their Falernian in a small room on the other side of their main hall. Another which was new to me. It was exuberantly foreign--Nilotic paintings, fans, statuettes of ibis-headed gods, vibrantly striped cushions and ivory couches with sphinxes for arms.

  'Our Egyptian salon.' Felix noticed me step back a pace. 'Like it?'

  'Every home should have one!' Like a wasps' nest, or a door that will never stay closed.

  Another gust of garlic billowed in after us: Crepito-- who must have been searching for Novus. 'I can't find the fool; what's he playing at?'

  Although Pollia had assured me these freedmen had no direct blood relationship, now that I had seen all three they definitely sprang from the same eastern tribe. Crepito had a smaller moustache than Felix, less flesh than Novus, and a louder, bluffer voice than either, yet the same jowls, swarthiness, and irritable temperament, Novus must have been the youngest of the three.

  I introduced myself a s
econd time. 'Hortensius Crepito? I'm Didius Falco, on hire to your wives.' Crepito grunted, so I proceeded on the assumption that I was a known quantity. 'I'm sorry to be the one who breaks this; Hortensius Novus has had a sudden accident--a fatal one.'

  Both showed proper evidence of surprise. 'Impossible! We were with him no time ago --' That came from Crepito.

  'I found him myself,' I declared quietly. 'He must have had some kind of seizure, immediately after your meal tonight.'

  The two freedmen exchanged glances. 'You mean --'

  'Yes; it looks like deliberate poisoning.'

  'How?' demanded Felix, with the urgency of a man who realised all too keenly that he had just eaten the same meal as the murdered man.

  I reassured them sympathetically. 'What happened to Hortensius Novus seems to have struck with great rapidity. If anyone else was affected, I'm sure they would know by now.'

  Despite this, Felix put down the fluted blue flask on a side table, and stepped away hastily.

  I was wishing I had met Crepito and Felix earlier. Breaking news to strangers is always unsatisfactory. It's harder to judge which of their reactions are due to shock--and how much of the shock is genuine.

  Hortensius Felix had grown sombre and uncommunicative. Crepito requested details, so I described how I had found Novus dead on the floor of the lavatory, which was where he remained. 'You may feel,' I suggested, 'you ought to call in a magistrate before you have him moved.'

  'Is that normal?' demanded Felix abruptly. 'Normal to call in the authorities?' Under stress he had revealed for the first time signs that the freedmen had come to Rome from some different culture.

  'Best to act responsibly, sir. Most householders report a suspected murder to the Praetor of their own accord, rather than have him sending his aedile round after tip-offs from their neighbours.'

  'People don't--'

  'People do,' I said grimly. 'Don't expect solidarity from the folks you used to dine with, once the nasty rumours start to fly.' Once again the two of them exchanged glances. 'I know Hortensius Novus was like a brother to you both,' I said, more gently. They received this with a distinct air of reserve. My sense of dealing with foreigners increased. I thought I needed to reassure them again: 'I'm trying to advise you. If the murderer were fleeing from the scene, you should send for the vigilantes to dash in pursuit. But poisoners normally hope they will remain undetected; so they stay put, looking innocent. You can rely on the magistrate's office to investigate tomorrow. Then the matter will be handled with greater sensitivity --' I meant, polite incompetence.