‘Maybe it helps you, sir, to reconsider just how you govern your household. ‘
Laeta pursed his lips. They all knew about Drusilla, and while none of them would have been so blunt they remained silent through my rebuke.
Anacrites was rubbing his forehead, a sign that stress had brought back his headaches. He could no longer contain himself ‘You’re wasting time, Fako. If you know where the priests sent Veleda, I demand to be told!’
We were colleagues in this, so I answered his question. ‘They sent her to the sanctuary at Nemi.’
Then I sat back and let the fool rush from the room, intending to apprehend her at the shrine, taking all the credit. If he dashed all the way there, he would be gone for two days. My guess was, somewhere along the crazy ride, he would realise I gave him the information too easily; he would suspect I had misled him and turn back. It would do me no good in our tortured relationship—but it bought me, and Veleda, precious time.
LVI
Helena and I did remember our children. We were going home in a hired chair, one of a row that had been thoughtfully ordered up in case the house-party guests wanted to go out. We had shed Laeta, who was lingering to make himself useful to the great Rutilius. We had not even reached the gate at the property boundary when we both gasped guiltily. We turned the chair around, and our daughters never knew how close they came to being given up for adoption in a very wealthy house.
At the Probus Bridge, Helena went on with our two sleeping nymphs, while I climbed out and set off to the patrol house of the Third Cohort of Vigiles.
It was a wasted journey. The Third told me proudly that as soon as Petronius had alerted them to the flautist’s owner, they notified the Quadrumati. Someone had been from the villa to pick up the missing boy already.
‘Had you interviewed him?’ ‘What about, Falco?’
I hired another chair, and returned down the Via Aurelia. It was late afternoon and at the onset of darkness, the villa had been trimmed with half a million lamps. Everyone had been eating and drinking all day now. One of Drusilla’s dwarfs had been chosen—or had elected himself—King for the Day; he was causing havoc. It took me an hour to find anyone who knew about the flautist and even longer to persuade them to take me to him. He was locked in a cell-like storeroom.
‘This is harsh.’
‘He’s a runaway.’
‘He fled because he was witness with terror—terror of somebody here.’
‘It’s for his protection then.’
As protection it had failed. When they opened up for me, the young boy I remembered cowering in shock nine days ago was stretched out, face up on a mattress, dead.
Word of my furious return must have gone round. Quadrumatus and Rutilius appeared in the doorway as I straightened up from examining the lad. I had found nothing to explain his death. It was classic: he looked as if he was asleep.
‘He has been back in this house less than three hours—but someone got to him. He was trapped in here; he must have known he was doomed. Whoever came and killed him, it’s a certainty they also killed Gratianus Scaeva. Your flautist,’ I told Quadrumatus fiercely, ‘saw your brother-in-law’s killer. I won’t ask if you knew that all along—you’re a patrician and I’m not stupid. But I tell you this: others in your household did know; they arranged a cover-up. I sensed it when I first came here and if I had been given true information then, this boy would be alive.’ He would have been a witness, but that wasn’t what was making me so angry. ‘He has been murdered to silence him. Don’t tell me he is just a slave. He was human; he had a right to life. He was your slave; he was one of your family. You should have defended him. Call this a safe house? I don’t think so! You run a house of riot, sir!’
Disgusted, I turned on my heel and left.
I went back.
I cleared the storeroom and locked the door. I kept the key.
I found Quadrumatus Labeo: ‘This house is outside Rome and theoretically beyond the jurisdiction of the vigiles. By the authority conferred on me by Claudius Laeta in the Veleda affair, I am ordering that your flautist’s death be referred to the city authorities. We will not have the same appalling mistakes that were allowed when Gratianus Scaeva died. This time the crime scene and the corpse will be meticulously catalogued, and witnesses who fail to cooperate will be taken into custody. You, sir, will be responsible for ensuring that members of your household tell us the truth. Someone will be sent to examine the body professionally. Until then, the room is to remain locked. Take the name of anyone who attempts entry, and detain them for interrogation.’
Petronius Longus would give me that rueful look of his. Still, Marcus Rubella was already collecting for next year’s Fourth Cohort drinks party. Given a large cash contribution, which could be suitably disguised on my mission’s expense sheet, he would agree to help. I wanted a doctor to look at the dead flautist. This house was full of medical creatures, but I trusted none of them. I wanted Scythax. I was going to find out how the flute-boy died, even if we had to conduct an illegal autopsy.
LVII
I barely made it back in time to be smartened up and hauled out to dinner with my sister Junia. I tried telling Helena I was too tired, too gloomy and too tense to go. I received the response I expected. All over Rome unhappy lads were being forced to attend parties with uninspiring relatives. To avoid it needed very careful prior planning.
It was a perfectly good evening—if you ignored the fine detail: Junia couldn’t cook; Gaius Baebius had no nose for wine; their overwrought son Marcus—King for the Day—had no idea what was going on; my precocious little girls knew exactly what they wanted to be princesses who behaved badly; and wonderful Junia had invited Pa. Helena asked him to tell us about his operation, knowing that would cheer me up. It did. Better still, prim Junia was thoroughly offended by the ghastly details. That was even before my father offered to show us all the results.
He drew me aside at one point, and I thought I was to be favoured with distasteful tunic-lifting, but he just wanted to croak that he had brought the earrings he was trying to flog me. I bought them. Then I refused to humour his proffered demonstration of his wounds.
He must have found a taker, because soon we were subjected to an hour of three-year-old Marcus Baebius Junillus running around, showing everyone his bare little bottom. ‘We can’t stop him!’ gasped Junia, horrified by her predicament. ‘He is our King for the Day!’ Little Marcus might be deaf and speechless, but he had a flair for misrule.
Notwithstanding his rights, Helena eventually grabbed the excited child, plonked him on her lap and made him sit quiet for the ghost stories. All the children were far too young for that. Things became tricky.
Pa, Gaius and I made the traditional exit to the sun terrace, where we stood around with half-empty wine cups, shivering and discussing chariot teams. I supported the Blues, while Pa supported the Greens (that was precisely why, many years ago, I had chosen the Blues).
Gaius never went to the races, but ventured that If he did he thought he might fancy the Reds. At least that gave Pa and me something to talk about, as we massacred the mad idea that anyone would ever support the Reds. ‘You two bastards always gang up together,’ complained Gaius—which gave us both something else to get annoyed about loudly, while we were angrily denying it.
This was a true family occasion. We walked back indoors for another drink—Pa and I both extremely keen to open up the amphora he had hospitably brought, rather than Gaius’ vinegar. Junia’s hired ghost had arrived.
‘Whoo-hoo?!’ he went, spookily gliding around in a white garment with his face hidden. Silent children cowered against their mothers, thrilled. Helena and Junia were equally thrilled, now the children had calmed down. We men stood and applauded, pretending to be brave. Only Gaius Baebius was quaking, since I had just muttered to him to keep a check in case the spook stole something. Pa couldn’t care less so long as it was over quickly; he was too busy shifting from foot to foot as the red hot pain flared up i
n his damaged posterior. I was stunned: I knew this ghost, though he did not remember me. It was Zoilus.
He might be crazy, but as Saturnalia entertainment that could only help. I had thought when I met him on the Via Appia that he must have had theatrical training. Actors are often paid too little to lead decent lives, and Zoilus had the air of being too unreliable to obtain steady work. Even so, he was on some good contacts list. Junia had obtained him from the Theatre of Marcellus, a snooty monument built and named for a nephew of Augustus, but not above providing acts for private homes. Intellectual aesthetes employed small teams to give them masterpiece-theatre all to themselves, on rickety stages in their chilly villas. Children’s parties in fine mansions had little entertainments where the spoiled brats threw food at the performers. Stage donkeys were popular. And there was always a demand for sexy charades at degenerate banquets. The stage donkeys, and sometimes stage cows, featured in those too—usually having a really good time with some stage virgin.
‘They offered me a stage donkey,’ saidJunia, unaware of the effect she caused in some of us. ‘But I didn’t think we had the room.’
‘Very wise!’ intoned Pa seditiously.
When Zoilus had finished his turn, I cornered him. ‘That was a good haunting—though not as frightening as when you jumped me on the Via Appia!’ I backed him up against Gaius and Junia’s petite but decorative Greek urn display stand. Their four alabastra and their kylix (which had one broken handle, but Pa thought it was reproduction anyway) wobbled disconcertingly. ‘Now before you get paid, you will answer me some questions.’
‘Marcus, mind my precious red figures!’
‘Just shut up, Junia. This is men’s talk. Talk, being the big word, Zoilus.’
‘I am just a restless spirit—’
‘I know, I know; drifting about eternity like a dried leaf… Why did you call Zosime a bringer of death?—Don’t go all vague on me. My sister’s going to give you a big bowl of her deep-fried sesame balls as thanks for this evening, so there’s no need to be ethereal. You’ll need a strong stomach. Why did you say it, Zoilus?’
‘I don’t know-ow—Owl’ He might be a spirit but he knew when his privates were kneed. This was my first time putting the persuaders on a ghost. His ectoplasm had more substance than he pretended. After a couple of wine cups, I was not gentle; my sudden jerk produced a satisfactory shriek.
‘Stop messing about, or you’ll really be dead and I won’t bother to bury you.’ I had no time for finesse. ‘Look here—Members of my family, some of whom are young and sensitive, are gathering to see what’s going on. I’ll have to beat you up fast and very hard…’ Zoilus understood. He had roamed among vagrants long enough to know about impatient men and the pain they could inflict.
He caved in and answered me sensibly. He knew about the runaways who died in the night even though they were fit, or halfway fit. I asked if he had seen any being killed. He moaned a bit, which I took for an affirmative. I asked if the killer was a woman or a man; to my surprise, he said a man. It was one of the few statements I had ever heard him make with firmness.
‘Are you sure? So what had Zosime to do with it?’
‘Woo-oo…’ This tremor was barely audible.
‘Oh stop it, Zoilus. Brace up, you ghoul! If I brought him in front of you, could you identify this man?’
But Zoilus collapsed. Hiding his head in his spectral robe, he just writhed about and moaned more. Eventually I foolishly loosened my hold on him as Junia interrupted again, bringing a tray of dubious looking bites. Zoilus made a sudden run for it, through a set of double doors and away across the home-built sun terrace that was the pride and joy of Gaius Baebius. My hands were too greasy to stop him; my will was flagging too. As he fled, he snatched the purse with his agreed fee from Junia, but ignored her snacks. Maybe he could tell that my sister’s famous over-salted, under-spiced deep-fried sesame balls were as hard as Pluto’s heart in Hades.
SATURNALIA, DAY SIX
Eleven days before the Kalends of January (22 December)
LXVIII
The sixth day of Saturn alia often sees revellers reviving. Those who had been out of their heads for the past five days either die of drink and debauchery or learn to live with their condition. I felt I was enduring the worst aspects, with no chance to enjoy myself I missed the good events because of my work, and was sober for the grim ones.
Junia’s layered cheesecake was repeating on me acidically when I climbed out of bed. Helena rubbed my hunched shoulders and crooned sympathetically.
‘I’m depressed about that flautist.’
‘I know you are, love. Maybe today Mother will manage to get into the Vestals’ House. She knows we are going to them tonight—’ ‘Are we?’
‘I’m sure I told you, Marcus.’
‘I’m sure you thought you did!’
‘Oh please be good about it. Mother is trying to create a normal festival for Claudia. She will do her best for you; she realises you’re bound to ask has she talked to Ganna.’
Being ‘normal for Claudia’ might be Julia Justa’s aim, but her eccentric daughter threatened to jeopardise that: Helena had a bad conscience about leaving the priestess on her own for the past two evenings, so she proposed taking Veleda with us this time.
‘That’s risking trouble! Ulterior motive?—You think ifClaudia hits her hard enough, Veleda will be done for and my problem will be over?’
‘Desperation! Somehow, Marcus, we have to resolve issues.’
I said I wanted to resolve what I would have for breakfast first. It ended up being honey on a brown roll, but I ate it on the hoof Petronius Longus sent me a message to come to the doctor Mastarna’s house. It wasn’t to help Petro face up to a medical consultation: Scaeva’s physician had killed himself
I walked to the place by the Library of Pollio, musing on how many times I had been called out at first light by the vigiles. Suspicious deaths often occurred at night. Either that, or nosy neighbours informed at the patrol house last thing, so they could go to bed with a clear conscience. Sometimes the watch simply found the corpses while they did their rounds.
When I reached the house, processing was virtually complete. ‘Your name came up,’ Petro informed me dourly. Whenever he found me involved in a case, he disapproved.
What had happened looked obvious. Mastarna had been found by his housekeeper, the lopsided midget I had seen before busying herself around his smart apartment. She was now pretty shocked. Sometimes if she had backache Mastarna would give her a ‘tonic’ so she slept well and the pain eased. She must have known that he had a habit of dosing himself with mandrake too, but she had not expected the jug of poison.
We know he did himself in,’ Petronius confirmed. ‘It’s classic. He left a note.’
‘Don’t say that’s where my name cropped up?’
‘Bright boy. “There is no wayout. Falco knows everything. I apologise.”
So what’s that about?’
I sat down to think. His despair could be because I had announced yesterday that I was on the verge of identifying Scaeva’s killer. Petro and I gazed at the Etruscan lying on his reading couch. The toga he had worn so fastidiously when Helena and I visited now lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, one of the signs that he had roamed about the room in anguish before he stretched out on his couch, with a jug of dark liquid. There was a clean cup on the tray, untouched. He had swigged straight from the jug. Then he tossed the valuable article across the room. Drips followed its progress. One of the vigiles rubbed at a spot on the floorboards; Petro kicked him just in time as he went to lick his finger and taste the stuff.
Petronius knew more than he had at first revealed, even to me. Mastarna had died yesterday evening. Before that, he had been visited by a colleague who had greatly upset him. The housekeeper was bad with names but she said the fellow-doctor was a Greek.
‘Must be Cleander. He has a spiteful attitude. And he gave the impression he knew something-must have concerned Mastarn
a.’
There had been a short argument, then Cleander left. Mastarna went out a couple of times, seeming agitated and saying he wanted to seek advice from friends, but he returned forlorn because they were out. He asked for writing materials and sent the housekeeper to her own house; she lodged elsewhere. She said he was a very private man; Petro and I exchanged glances. Uneasy, the loyal biddy had got up very early and came to check on him. When she could get no answer, she panicked. Thinking the worst, she sent for the vigiles.
‘One of his friends turned up to see what Mastarna wanted yesterday—apparently he went around banging on doors like mad. The fellow is cooperating.’ Petro had closeted the witness in another room, to which he now took me.
I was surprised to see Pylaemenes. The dream therapist said that he had not known Mastarna well. He had been surprised that the man had been trying to see him so urgently last night. ‘Bit of a shock Aedemon says Mastarna was after him too.’
‘You both know something that explains Mastarna’s suicide?’
‘Everybody knows,’ Pylaemenes exclaimed. ‘Mter we saw you yesterday, that bastard Cleander must have come here, crowing that the game was up—they were always on bad terms. Mastarna tried turning to Aedemon and me but then he despaired… Somebody is going to tell you now, so it may as well be me. This is what I know, Falco. I had a slight involvement because there had been a family argument. Quadrumatus needed me to interpret a dream and tell him whether he was right to take a stand.’
‘Quadrumatus Labeo,’ I told Petro, ‘is a man of enormous wealth and power, apparently incisive—yet he can’t jump unless this star-spangled Chaldean tells him what to do.’
‘What was the problem?’ Petro asked Pylaemenes.
‘Scaeva. Scaeva was always sickly. He wanted to be well for Saturnalia, when they had a big programme of events planned. He and his sister—’
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