Afterwards, I had another plan. I would return this prototype to Morellus’s wife Pullia, wrapped up with ribbons like a special bonbon.
Once the two nephews were sufficiently scared, we let them know we loved the joke. “Gaius Antistius Daellius, Lucius Antistius Laellius, I pronounce both of you convicted of the hideous crime Saturnalia Too Soon!” Tiberius intoned. “All tricks are now banned until the proper day, or there will be no cakes!” I muttered that I was planning to send their terrible new friends into exile.
Next, Tiberius turned himself into a jolly uncle. He pounced on Gaius and Lucius for chasing, squealing and tickling games. Nobody ever expected me to behave like a jolly aunt, thank goodness. That meant when they spilled out into the courtyard, I had space to spoon up the last of the gravy from the demolished pies.
Gratus cleared the table, detailing the tots to help him like slaves, as if Saturnalia had really started. Then Tiberius and I finally had a quiet word together.
I told him about Agemathus playing dead. Tiberius laughed, though managed not to annoy me by enjoying it too much. Ours was a marriage of true love—at least, it was on most days—but we never strained the fabric.
“And how was your morning, O master of the house?”
“Bit of a puzzle. Morellus has asked me to help him with local street monitoring. Someone is selling bad festival nuts.”
“So this is your joint enterprise. Well, most are not eaten. They are for throwing around as holiday fun. Does it matter?”
“People do eat them. Beggars. Children. Hungry idlers. Anyone who picks them up.”
Tiberius asked my opinion. Should he agree to assist? Normally it would be me wanting his support for any doubtful new commission, but at Saturnalia everyone plunges into role-reversal. I supplied his usual questions: “Do you want to? Is it interesting to you? Will you be paid?”
“Only in credit for being public-spirited. And an invitation to the Fourth Cohort’s Saturnalia party.”
“Juno! Tell me where your will has been deposited!” Playing the sweet companion, I applied my thoughtful face. “I can run the building firm for you, if you decide to go out sleuthing. The workmen will take a long holiday anyway. But will you have time to be public-spirited about this, darling—given the demands of your poo-dumping inquiry here at home?”
Tiberius sighed. “You are right. It will be difficult. Morellus has bloody awful timing.” He became slightly more serious. “I wanted to settle in the boys before anything major claimed me. I did explain that to him. But who else will take an interest in nobbling nut-scammers? It seems important to our friend, so I’ll have to crunch it in somehow. Let’s hope we can crack it easily!”
Thank goodness: my new husband was as light-hearted as I wished. Maybe I would keep him. If we could get through our first Saturnalia together, I reckoned he could stay.
“Some turd!” He grinned. He was very proud of his nephews. I was proud of him for the way he had offered them a home, even though their father (a parasite) was still alive. There was a third boy, who had opted to stay in Fidenae. Privately, I prophesied that when he reached his fretful adolescence he would turn up on us, wanting the easy life that he thought his lucky brothers had.
In case Tiberius thought he was in the clear, I took his hand lovingly. I smiled like his adoring bride. He smiled at me. He was a looker when he smiled, though he knew better than to rely on it.
“My darling!” I cooed. He became more uneasy. “Now that we have a moment and you seem docile, may I open a discussion? Where are we going to house the new donkey, sweetheart—and what do you intend to do with your temple sheep?”
I loved him enough when he smiled, but when he looked guilty the man was a stunner.
VI
By the end of the afternoon, Xero’s pies had lived up to their reputation.
Fornix arrived home at the height of the medical emergency. I might have concealed that it was caused by a pie-purchase but Dromo, extravagantly doubled up, stupidly told him. Satisfied that punishment was in progress, Fornix pursed his lips, strutted to his kitchen and began cooking a gentle broth for our invalids. So far no one could take this nourishment. We had one worryingly sick child, Lucius. Suza, Dromo and Paris were throwing up helplessly. Even Tiberius had disappeared with a strained expression. Of the adults in our household, only Gratus and I were upright.
Then Pullia came. She was pleading for us to take her children for a few hours because Titus Morellus had also been laid low. “I’d like to know who gave him pie!”
He had already been dangerously ill that summer; his eldest three were still affected by anxiety over it. Since Tiberius and I had been involved with the case where it happened, Pullia might have blamed us for nearly getting him killed so I could hardly refuse a favour.
The Morelli, a girl and two younger brothers, sat on a bench in their matching cloaks, looking subdued. Our Gaius perched with them, having somehow escaped the curse of Xero’s. He seemed to believe all the illness had been caused by the boys’ trick at lunch. Exhausted by rinsing tunics and sheets, I let him think it.
“Look after them for me while I settle the old man,” begged Pullia, though she was in no hurry to go back to her desperate husband. “They’re too scared of losing him; they won’t be any trouble.”
“Really?” I eyed them, all unconvincingly quiet. It would never last, but I said nothing.
“They think you’re a druid, Albia, so just give them the evil eye. Yours are right little moaners!” Pullia felt free to mention. Other than her bad judgement in husbands, she was intelligent, decent—and as outspoken as most Aventine women. Morellus had never deserved her. Perhaps he realised this, though more likely the idiot convinced himself she had a catch in him. “I remember those boys at your wedding! Mind, I am sorry about their mother. I had a chat with her, before she started crying over her marriage—I managed to slip away while she was carrying on … Are they here for good?”
“Unless I accidentally kill them.” I told her how sick Lucius was, so she inspected him for me.
“He’ll live—as far as you can ever tell. When they lie there looking small and pathetic, you just have to hang on, hoping. Parenting is such fun. Come and ask me any time if you want advice. I never know the answer, but you can sob on my shoulder—make sure the babby hasn’t been sick on that side. But, Albia, why ever were you having bought pies?”
“Our cook went off in a huff.”
“It must be nice to have a cook!”
“It’s lovely when he’s here. I need to find a nursemaid too, if you know anyone reliable.”
“If I did, I’d be grabbing them myself for my lot!”
Her lot smirked. Gaius imitated them.
Pullia said she and Morellus reckoned our boys would end up in the Senate if we managed not to let them die young. I agreed: their complaining and conniving were perfect for politicians. Pullia was so sweet and straight, she thought I meant it.
Perhaps I did. But it would be twenty years before we had to find the cash to provide our little moaners with lives of civic leadership. In Rome, something as simple as a badly cooked pie could easily destroy the dream first.
Once Pullia felt Titus Morellus had been sick by himself in an empty apartment long enough, she took herself home. In the menagerie and nursery that had become my world, I struggled on. I swept up sheep droppings. I washed little faces. I pretended to be kindly. Fornix made me a beaker of mint tea. I told him it helped. He knows I think mint tea is pointless.
Tiberius recovered enough to totter through to the builder’s yard, where he issued orders tetchily. Soon I could hear his workmen turning a storage shed into a stable. They were disgruntled because in the building trade in winter it was customary to be given large gifts, then to take weeks off. Being told to empty their pallet store and make a donkey’s manger was outrageous.
Since they had missed our lunch, the builders enjoyed themselves exclaiming how crazy it had been to have Xero’s pies during a festi
val, when standards slipped. I put my head around the yard door to ask, “What standards?” I pointed out that Xero’s was famous for causing upsets on any day in the calendar. Half the murder trials at the Basilica were adjourned in the afternoon because Marponius, the judge who liked condemning killers, had to go home with bellyache.
“Mind how you site the manure heap,” I offered helpfully. We had a discussion about flies. Well, I did. They stood and listened sardonically.
Muttering that they didn’t seem to need him with me in charge, Tiberius came back into the house to lie down. He was well enough to carry a note-tablet upstairs with him. He planned to make a chart of who had eaten which pies, then who was ill. While he amused himself with that, I looked after Lucius, who was crying so much I could not tell whether he was genuine or playing up. Pullia was right. Feverish children were hell.
Taking a chance, I only soothed the little boy. If he died, I would blame myself for not having summoned a doctor. Even if he lived, I would feel guilty about my lack of feeling. If I did call in a doctor, it would probably make no difference, while I would curse myself for placing trust in quackery.
Fornix helped. He produced a coloured tincture; he told Lucius it contained a magic herb. The cook was big, calm, and extremely relaxed here, after many years of screaming in small hot kitchens. The boys had adopted him as their best friend as soon as they knew he could make honeyed dates.
The child sipped the narcotic, kept it down, and fell asleep. Fornix had come to us as a celebrity chef, but he knew how to stock a home with knock-out drops.
Tiberius looked in on his nephew. He told me he had worked out what was wrong with the pies. He would summon the strength to go and interrogate Xero, accusing him of tainted ingredients. He had made a chart that proved it.
Dressing for the occasion, he had changed into full togate whites, with his purple stripes as a magistrate. I agreed that this should set him up for oratory against mould. “The nut orchards must be destroyed!”
“Oh, stop mucking about,” he said grumpily.
Since we had a donkey, Tiberius would ride. He admitted he was still queasy, so I had better come with him. We were a team; today we needed to swap roles. He would ask the nagging questions. I would have to punch the pie-maker.
I sighed. “Can’t promise that. My mother wants me to be respectable. Helena will say there are edicts for use against shopkeepers. Tiberius, can’t you just fine Xero?”
“No, it’s too important.”
“Giving you stomach pains?”
“He has gone too far. I intend to tackle this. Someone has to.” Tiberius Manlius was a stubborn man. He had a dogged plebeian sense of right and wrong, which could lead to a dark, intractable sense of outrage. I knew this mood from my family. You have to think of it as admirable, then wait for them to cool off. “Xero’s products are sold everywhere. If he keeps using putrid ingredients, he may slay half the city.”
“What’s new?” I murmured. “I hope he does for the half that annoys me. Those pies are legendary—for all the wrong reasons. Why ever don’t people stop going there?”
“This is Rome,” Tiberius answered, shrugging. He did allow a glint of humour in those grey eyes. “It’s a festival. Colourful excess. Xero’s pies are a traditional part of the joy.”
VII
Can a Roman ride in a toga? No.
Am I sure? Don’t argue. They rarely ride at all, but take a look at the manly images: on a horse, it is short tunic or nude. Nudity raises cultural questions that I need not explore here.
An aedile might travel in a litter, but we did not own one. Uncle Tullius did, but currently he was using it for the social side of his business life; he never said much, but everyone knew he went to meetings intending to be carried home drunk after the annual consolidation of partnerships, terms and bribes. He would not lend us his festive transport in this busy period.
The toga could have been bundled up and carried by a body slave, but Dromo was too sick to leave the house.
I refused it. Staggering through crowded streets under armfuls of wool was not in my marriage contract. I did say if Tiberius made it as far as Xero’s I would help dress him. Much is discussed about Roman men and their togas. Little is said of the bigger issue: Roman wives and toga-management. Winding and making folds were my duty; I accepted that. The rest was his problem.
We settled that Tiberius would sit on the donkey, with his garment piled in front of him. We would have put it in a pannier, but Mercury was so new to us, she had no accessories yet.
While Tiberius addressed her outside our house, the donkey ignored him, turning her head back to nibble at the toga. I noticed that the air was suffused with the scent of warm spiced wine. The mood in the streets was good-humoured. That could change at any moment. But so far, even a man who was arguing about money sounded more puzzled than angry: “I gave you the cash for safe-keeping. You know I had to stop my father getting his greedy hands on it. Where’s your good faith, Pinarius? The damned goldsmith expects I’ll pay him. I need it now. Hand it back, you ugly bastard!”
“Lay off me, old mate. I don’t pinch from friends…”
These were a couple of young men-about-the-neighbourhood. I knew them by sight. The complainant was good-looking and muscular. That was about all they had going for them, in my opinion. Presuming they knew my profession, I called over that the mate could hire me to regain his loan, but he said no: Pinarius would cough up—if he didn’t want his balls ripped off.
At that, Pinarius looked shifty. His mate still seemed sure he could handle this. You just can’t help some people.
I had to leave anyway. Experts who like donkeys say they are eager to work with humans. Apparently so. Once Tiberius had shaken her rein enough, our new beast cantered down the Clivus Publicius so fast, people cheered. When the toga began unravelling, I ran alongside poking it back. Tiberius was fully occupied with Merky. We arrived faster than expected. This is unusual in Rome, especially in the week before a festival.
* * *
Xero’s pie shop.
I had been hearing about this outlet ever since I’d come to Rome. Yes, the place was a legend, though I had never been before. Nothing I had heard was good. Our workmen, lawyers, the vigiles, Father’s auction staff, they all patronised this well-known shop, and all condemned its products every time. Drax, the watchdog in our yard, never turned up his long black snout but he, poor half-starved thing, was usually sick afterwards. My Aventine grandmother, when she was alive, had whacked any child who mentioned a meal from Xero’s: it was the sign of sluttish housekeeping. “Your wicked mother is trying to kill you! I’d rather die famished than taste that muck.”
My own mother, as far as I knew, had never sent out to Xero’s. She was a senator’s daughter: she could not possibly know the address or understand what to order. But if ever Falco exclaimed he had dreamed of pie, Helena would say wistfully that if he got one, sharing it would only be polite.
My sisters and I were convinced Helena knew more about Xero’s than she would admit. We had a bet that Falco took her. They often gave hints of secret adventures. They sneaked out of the house, becoming different people from the staid parents we were supposed to know. We were sure of it, which was thrilling, though we had never proved dates, times, or what their missions were. Or was it possible they simply bunked off to eat beef-and-mustard pasties, while enjoying peace away from home?
The pie shop, it turned out, was located right below our hill. It was hidden under the arches of the Circus Maximus, a prime location. On race days, staff carried huge trays up among the tiers of seats, but even when nothing was happening on the track, many shops in purpose-built arcades thrived down below. These shops were spacious, each easily fifteen feet wide and going back deeper inside, with handsome peperino pillars either side of big arched entrances. Around the Circus was a very seedy area. Xero’s place stood next door to a so-called manicurist, where the thin female staff did not look as if they really cut nails.
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I helped my dear husband don his official drapes. In fact Tiberius, while unmarried for ten years before he met me, had learned to manage formal dress. He often still had to: Dromo would fly into tearful despair if asked to help. I had learned toga-pleating on Falco, a restless mannequin. But I was a patient daughter and a more patient wife, so we set up Tiberius handsomely in a few minutes.
I had to wait in the arcade. “Why keep a wife and hold your own donkey?” Tiberius asked loudly. Sounding like a man of the people might have impressed the staff; they were unloading large baskets of pastries to restock the shop.
“Why keep a donkey when you can ride a wife?” joked one of the pie-porters, crudely.
“Hay is cheap,” I returned, making it amiable. Actually, in the city at Saturnalia fodder was damned dear, as we had recently discovered. Merky and the new sheep were being supplied by the local lupin-seller, who was horribly happy to do it.
Nothing was cooked at the pie shop. Ready-mades were brought here from somewhere else; being ferried across Rome in open-topped baskets explained much. The shop had shelf-racks indoors, heavy with their famous fat pies, which staff warmed up in a wood-oven if asked (you went away to buy a cabbage while it was done) or they were simply handed out cold. A waiting queue snaked down the arcade under the Circus, blocking other shops. It was a daunting line yet moved quite fast: businessmen, dock workers, slaves, fathers and sons, even a few women. Adept servers slapped orders together. People either brought their own cloths, or pies were wrapped in old pieces of papyrus discarded by libraries. Aniseed chicken in poetics and inky gravy: a Xero’s classic.
Tiberius was polite, but in his official gear he always had the manner. When he demanded to see whoever was in charge, a big counter flap was lifted to admit him. He vanished into the interior.
Flavia Albia Mystery 09 - A Comedy of Terrors Page 4