‘Marcus, I bet most of them will slip a servant a denarius to sneak them into the crime scene.’ Apart from the fact they looked a mean bunch who would think a whole denarius was too much, Helena was bound to be right. Snobs are the worst gawkers. It explained why the Quadrumati had tried to hush up what happened.
Laeta bustled off importantly to see where the meeting would be. We moved among the milling groups of notables, marvelling that none of the family was anywhere in evidence.
‘Entertaining the fashionable way,’ Helena enlightened me. ‘You invite hordes of people, whom you know only slighdy, then you keep out of sight but let them wander at will admiring all you own.’
‘Giving them a good shake-down for stolen silverware when they leave?’
‘I suppose the message is that the hosts have so much money,
Marcus, that even if everybody steals something, they won’t miss it.’
We worked out that the gathering was mixed, in fact. We identified various off-duty hired entertainers, and Drusilla’s troupe of dwarfs were stomping about being offensive. They were all drunk. Perhaps they knew where Drusilla kept her wine stash. The men the dwarfs were insulting seemed to be tradesmen. Although it was still mid-morning, they were digging into trays of pre-lunch snacks and aperitifs; perhaps it was the only way they could guarantee themselves a Saturnalia bonus. Of course the senators ignored them, and the tradesmen were even more snobbish about sticking together and not conversing with the senators. While such a melange could appear egalitarian, Helena and I thought that the groups had just been bunged together in a perfunctory and rather tasteless manner.
‘It makes you wonder what they would have done with Veleda,’ said Helena. ‘I suspect they would have let everyone know they had her—and made her a sideshow.’
Among the retainers who had gathered to grab festive gifts, we found a knot of medical specialists. Aedemon’s bulk made him instantly visible; he was talking to a man I remembered as Pylaemenes, the Chaldean interpreter of dreams in his shabby robe. I would have ignored them, but I spotted Anacrites nuzzling up to them. He must be here for the same meeting as me. When I walked Helena over to see what he was up to with the physicians, I also recognised the third man. He was Cleander, who on my previous visit had turned up for a consultation with Drusilla Gratiana. He had an oval face, round eyes, and a restrained manner which probably meant he could be savage if he fell out with anyone.
‘Name’s Falco. We passed in a doorway. You look after the lady of the house.’
‘And you’re the bloody sleuth.’
Cleander looked too busy to speak. His bedside manner must be brisk. He made it plain he had no time for meaningless socialising. Nonetheless, the others treated him as a respected colleague.
‘Anacrites!’ I gave my own colleague a brush-off nod.
‘Falco.’ He was equally indifferent.
‘Dear Anacrites.’ Helena forced him to acknowledge her.
‘Helena Justina!’ When he clasped her hand, greeting her formally, he bent his head obsequiously, showing the grease he always lathered too thickly on his hair. He was wearing a heavy tunic, with a sweaty nap like a mushroom, in a shade of ochre that reflected off his face and made him look bilious.
‘So you’re all here, to receive your rewards for a year’s hard work!’ Helena exclaimed to the doctors, trying to dissipate the heat between the Spy and me. She must have worked out that Mastarna, the goatee bearded consultant who used to attend the deceased Gratianus Scaeva, was absent. ‘It’s rather hard on him to lose out on his Saturnalia bonus, just because his patient happened to have had his head lopped off.’ The others were silent, not meeting each other’s eyes.
Turning to Cleander, I tried the friendly chat which is an informer’s trademark: ‘We haven’t had an opportunity to get to know each other.’ He despised the offer. ‘As I remember, I was informed you are a “Hippocratic pneumatist”?’
‘He’s a good doctor despite that!’ Aedemon joshed him, while Cleander himself merely inclined his head snootily. He thought it degrading to discuss his craft with me. ‘All his patients will tell you how wonderful he is,’ Aedemon continued. ‘I’m hanging around trying to poach them, but they all adore Cleander far too much.’
‘As I understand it,’ Helena joined in gamely, ‘the Hippocratic approach is a sensible, comfortable regime, encouraging health by diet, exercise and rest. I know someone who is being treated that way,’ she told Cleander. It was Zosime’s prescription for Veleda. Since he himself was not the favoured physician, Cleander obviously didn’t care if the patient was Helena’s favourite donkey. She noted it, and changed the subject: ‘Of course, any treatment must be very difficult when some patients refuse to help themselves.’ Still playing dangerously, this was a veiled reference to Drusilla’s alleged habit of over-imbibing wine.
Unwilling to talk about his patient, Cleander made a sudden excuse and left us.
‘Sometimes gruff ones are the best doctors… Is he a bit of a loner?’ ‘Married with children,’ Aedemon disabused Helena.
‘You mean quite normal?’ I laughed. ‘Horrible to his wife, and distant with his offspring?’
‘I expect he blames his work, darling! He is a loyal physician,’ Helena commented disingenuously. ‘He didn’t like me criticising Drusilla. ‘
‘Drusilla Gratiana foolishly blames the gods for her misfortunes,’ Aedemon replied. ‘Cleander won’t have it. He rejects all superstition—irrational assignment of causes—shamanism.’
‘He hates me, of course!’ giggled Pylaemenes, the dream therapist. ‘And what do you think of him?’ I asked, keeping it light.
‘I would like to know that man’s dreams,’ exclaimed Pylaemenes, with feeling.
‘He’s a tortured soul?’
‘He has his dark side, I suspect.’
‘He is bloody rude,’ snarled Aedemon. ‘He gave me all Hades, just for supplying Quadrumatus with a scarab amulet. A patient who is drinking his own urine as a laxative deserves a comforter!’
The Chaldean patted the fat man’s knee. ‘Oh that was a misunderstanding,’ he soothed. ‘Quadrumatus had a nightmare in which your scarab was eating him—’ A nightmare seemed natural, if the man had been drinking his own water. Quadrumatus took a sharp downward lurch in my estimation for submitting to it. ‘He gave away the scarab to his cheese-server, and Cleander happened to see the boy with it.’
‘So what’s wrong with that?’ wailed Aedemon. ‘The cheese-server needs help. He is permeated by gas. Classic bowel putrefaction. Every conduit in his body must be blocked.’
‘I fear you are right,’ agreed Pylaemenes gravely. ‘His farts are legendary.’
I cheered up. At last we had encountered someone attending the Quadrumati who had a sense of humour.
‘I’d like to get access to that boy and give him a thorough emptyout with wild cabbage,’ Aedemon exclaimed.
At that moment Cleander returned. The man had no social skills. Overhearing Aedemon, he scoffed, ‘He’s just a slave, man; he’ll get over it!’ We were only discussing flatulence, but this would clearly have been Cleander’s attitude whatever the boy suffered from. He then charged in with: ‘You’re chasing Scaeva’s death, Falco? Can we assume you’ve got nowhere?’
I had met his type before. Some know the effect of their rudeness. Most are just so arrogant they have no idea. I did not need to justify myself to him. Aware of Anacrites watching me, I declared that I would identify the’ murderer publicly in the next few days.
‘Someone had better look out then!’ muttered Cleander in his low, gruff voice. I glanced at Helena but with the Chief Spy standing alongside, neither of us elaborated. I felt the Spy’s intense tingle of curiosity. He as good as fetched out a note-tablet and made a memo to himself
Once again, Helena attempted to improve the atmosphere. ‘How are your headaches these days, Anacrites?’ He jumped. He had been listening in, with the unobtrusive silence that was his favourite technique, a slight smil
e on his face as he followed everything the rest of us discussed. He hated being made the centre of attention; I guessed Helena knew that. She turned to Cleander: ‘Our friend here had a bad head injury and still suffers side-effects. I wonder if one of his humours may be a little out of balance?’
Surprisingly, this tactic worked. Cleander was at once drawn into a discussion with Anacrites about his famous headaches. He even seemed to be offering cures. Before I could suggest blood-letting from a main artery, Helena pulled me and the others off to one side.
‘So Cleander won’t let Drusilla Gratiana get away with believing she hits the amphora because she’s fated?’ Helena asked Aedemon. ‘I don’t suppose she enjoys being warned off wine—but she puts up with it? It confirms that Cleander’s patients think he’s marvellous.’
‘The rest of us suspect they love him because he’s a hot dispenser of poppy juice… Drusilla is in Cleander’s pocket because he never seriously insists she dries out. He loathes slaves and freedwomen, so he sees Drusilla even without that scowling maid of hers present, and has complete control. Husband doesn’t help,’ Aedemon informed us, happily insulting his own patient, Quadrumatus. ‘Says “a drop never hurt anyone”. He only has to observe Drusilla after a hard bout to know how wrong that is.’
‘I don’t suppose he does see her tipsy,’ suggested Helena. ‘This seems like a house where they may well lead separate lives much of the time—and when Drusilla is unfit for society, I expect the scowling Phryne keeps guard.’
While Pylaemenes just winked at me, Aedemon muttered, ‘Too much is concealed behind closed doors in this house. Abominations. Quadrumatus is a good judge and has a mind of his own, sure—but that’s useless if nobody ever takes notice of his instructions.’ It was unclear what abominations had upset him.
In a pause, Helena asked, ‘So where is Drusilla, our hostess, today?’ ‘Rumour is, she had a complete nervous breakdown. Swallowing more wine than ever—never got over her brother’s awful death.’ Aedemon then raised himself upright like an uncoiling reptile and swanned off, following a slave who had a huge tray of seafood bites.
I could see the dream therapist was about to move away too, but I made a last effort: ‘So what has Quadrumatus been so lax about?’
Pylaemenes just shrugged.
He sidled off, so we shifted further from Anacrites and Cleander.
We managed to position ourselves beside one of the three-foot silver salvers. It seemed to be wielded by the cheese-server Aedemon and Pylaemenes had mentioned, but I had to leave Helena at risk of his fabled gaseous emissions because Claudius Laeta was gesticulating from a doorway. Helena waved me off to my meeting. I left her discussing Gallic cheese with the server: was it best pounded with pine nuts, hazel nuts or almonds?
She had the best bargain. At least she could pick out a cheese and the flatulent slave boy would cut her a sliver. He looked like a reprobate who would give a handsome woman more than a sliver, in fact. I heard him begin chatting to her; he was full of cheeky quips.
I meanwhile was made to halt by a valet, whose purpose in life was to irritate men by fiddling with the folds of their togas. A sponge-slave grabbed me by both hands and cleaned any grease from my fingers and palms, then a boy almost tripped me up, scrabbling round so he could dust my boots. I had endured less attention when visiting Vespasian.
Emperors can afford to relax. This manic preparation told me that inside the room I was trying to enter was someone dull, but highly aspirational.
Too right. An ingratiating major-domo whispered the good news. His duty was to set people at their ease with terrifying lists of VIPs. ‘You are entering the presence of Marcus Quadrumatus Labeo, who is hosting and chairing the convocation. Also present are Tiberius Claudius Laeta and Tiberius Claudius Anacrites, who are both highly placed imperial freedmen. The guest of honour is—’ The creep nearly wet himself—‘Quintus Julius Cordinus Gaius Rutilius Gallicus!’
Rutilius had enough names already but I invented a few more for him: ‘Old Grovel is here, is he? Bonanza Boy! Domitian’s Ovation Sparkler. I’m Falco,’ I said as the major-domo gasped at my irreverence. ‘If you need a mnemonic, give me a piece of brazier charcoal and I’ll write it on your wrist for you.’
LV
Didius Falco!’
The triumphant, pretty nearly triumphal, great general Rutilius remembered me! Could it be I had impressed him with my talent when we first met out in Tripolitania—an event made the more memorable for both of us when he ordered my brother-in-law to die in the bloody jaws of arena lions? Could he even be recalling with nostalgia that long hot summer evening when he and I , the most mismatched of literary entertainers, hired the Auditorium of Maecenas and gave a cringe-making poetry recital?
I did not fool myself. A flunkey would have whispered my name in his ear. In any case, Rutilius Gallicus knew who I was because he was expecting me.
He was in his early fifties, the kind of provincial senator who could pass for a market trader. A couple of generations back, his family were probably not much better than that; still, it meant the man was sharp. His career progress confirmed how well he could schmoose. Consul, priest of the Augustan cult, imperial legate, governor. Top of the tree—and looking at the sky.
‘This is a pretty mess, Falco!’ Too right. He caused it—though you might think, from the easy and companionable way the general spoke, he was making Veleda’s stupid escape our joint responsibility.
Never trust a member of the aristocracy. Rutilius was as close to benign as they come. But if he had driven all the way back from Augusta Taurinorum at Saturnalia—after returning to Italy specifically to spend Saturnalia with his family—he must be desperate to cover his back. Old Grovel had decided that being young Domitian Caesar’s buddy might not be enough.
It was an interesting meeting, if you liked watching an empty potter’s wheel. Round and round and round again they went. Quadrumatus Labeo made a capable chairman, as I had always suspected, but the rest sidelined him. I could see why one of the family doctors had said nobody listened to him; worse, Quadrumatus accepted it. Laeta had produced the agenda; he steered progress. Rutilius Gallicus listened regally. He had the air of a man who will be reporting back to higher life forms. I could guess who.
As the ‘official’ trouble-fixer, Anacrites was invited to summarise progress. He waffled as far as the abortive operation at the Temple of Diana A ventinensis, then he tried to force my hand: ‘Apparendy Falco has new evidence about the Scaeva killing.’
‘Just a lead.’
‘You said—’ He had slipped up. He realised I was deliberately undermining him.
‘Misunderstanding?’ I grinned at him. ‘As soon as I have hard evidence, I’ll produce it.’ He was furious.
‘So’ Quadrumatus tapped a stylus end a few times. ‘The priestess went to the Temple of Diana Aventinensis after she absconded from here, but left four days ago, and the priests have no knowledge of her subsequent movements. It’s a start.’
No, it was useless. The lard buckets all sat there until one of them thought to ask, ‘Anything you want to add, Falco?’
I leaned my chin on my hands. ‘Couple of points. First, before she moved on to the Aventine, Veleda was at the Temple of AEsculapius. They say her illness may be marsh fever or similar. So she is likely to suffer relapses, in the usual cycles of recurrence, but if she survives the first bout, she won’t die on you.’
They had forgotten they could lose her simply through disease.
Laeta looked impressed, Rutilius grateful—mildly.
‘Second—a minor correction—she left Diana Aventinensis five days ago.’
‘Who told you?’ Anacrites burst out.
‘Can’t reveal my sources.’ I glanced at Laeta, who made a gesture to the Spy in support of me. ‘Third—major update, this one: the priests of Diana do know where she went next; they sent her there.’
They all looked at me. I kept it quiet and polite. Some of these idiots might offer to employ
me on another occasion. I needed the money, so I was daft enough to humour them. ‘I have seen her. I have spoken to her.’ That made them sit up. ‘The situation seems to be containable—I mean, not simply that Veleda can be forcibly recaptured, but that she may surrender peacefully. Which would be much better for the Empire.’
At the mention of the Empire, they all looked down at their nice clean note-tablets and assumed pious expressions.
‘I’d just like to go right back to before she ever took to her heels,’ I told Rutilius. ‘She was said to be greedy distressed when she learned she would be part of a Triumph. You had never said what fate awaited her—am I right?’
‘Maybe I should have done, Falco.’ Rutilius paused. ‘The reason I did not, frankly, is that it would be wrong to anticipate that my Ovation would be granted. Such an honour must be voted by the Senate. Even if it is thought appropriate, I must first complete my task as Lower German governor.’
‘Your modesty commends you.’ In retrospect his caution was even more wise. I reckoned Veleda’s bungled captivity could well lose Rutilius his Ovation. The man was bright enough to know it too. ‘I was told originally that Veleda overheard her fate from “a visitor”. Quadrumatus Labeo, can that be right? You were providing a safe house, where she was to be kept in conditions of absolute secrecy. Did you really permit your visitors to communicate?’
‘I did not. Of course I did not.’ Quick to defend himself, Quadrumatus looked put out. Then, in his normal direct way he confessed what he had previously fudged: ‘It was one of my household who revealed what was planned for her.’
‘You know who?’
‘I do know. The person responsible has been reprimanded.’ There was awkward shuffling among the others. I gazed at the crestfallen householder. He had intended to withhold the truth, but weakly confessed: ‘It was my wife’s freedwoman, Phryne. She took against the priestess and committed this very spiteful act.’
‘Your wife cannot control her?’
‘My wife is a… benevolent disciplinarian.’ His wife was a lush, and the freedwoman controlled the keys to her wine cupboard. ‘How does this help, Falco?’
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