Then Petro and I walked slowly back to Fountain Court. A few shops were reopening to catch the evening trade as the Circus emptied. All the streets seemed to contain men with sly expressions, drunks, hustlers, slaves up to no good, and girls on the make. People talked too loudly. People barged us off the pavement, then when we took to the roadway others knocked us into open drains. It was probably by accident, but anyway they didn't care. Instinctively we started shoving too.
This was the city at its worst. Maybe it was always like this, and I was just noticing it more tonight. Maybe the Games had brought out extra dross.
Upset by the interview with Cicurrus, we did not even pop into a winebar for a pre-dinner relaxer. Perhaps for once we should have done. We might have missed a very unpleasant experience in Fountain Court. We were walking along glumly with our heads down, which gave us no time to make good our escape. Instead I laid a warning hand on Petro's arm, and he groaned loudly. The litter we had seen outside the laundry when we left earlier was still there. Its occupant had clearly been watching for our return.
She jumped out and publicly accosted us. However, this was not little light-footed, violet-clad Balbina Milvia. The litter must be a shared one, used by all the women of the Florius household. It had brought us a much more terrifying visitor than Petro's pert piece of dalliance: this was Milvia's mama.
Even before she flew at Petronius and started bawling, we could tell she was furious.
XXIX
Cornella Flaccida had all the grace of a flying rhinoceros: big hands, fat feet, an irretrievably immodest mien. She was nicely decked out, though. On the features of a bitter hag had been painted a mask of a fresh-faced maiden, newly risen from the foam of Paphos in a rainbow of scintillating spray. On a body that had indulged in long evenings of gorging wine-soaked heron wings were hung translucent silks from Cos and fabulous collars of granular gold filigree, all so light they fluttered and tinkled and assaulted the startled senses of tired men. The feet that stumped towards us wore pretty tinselled bootees. A devastating waft of balsam punched us in the throat.
Considering that when Balbinus Pius had been put away by Petronius all the gangster's property had been transferred to the state, it was amazing so much money could still be spent on his ferocious relict. On the other hand, Balbinus was a hard nut. He had made sure a good proportion of his worldly effects had been cunningly dumped out of official reach. Much of it had been placed in trust for Flaccida by calling it part of the dowry of her nifty offspring Milvia.
Mama was living with her daughter now: her own mansions had all been confiscated, so the two were thrust together in the far-from-dowdy abode of Milvia's husband Florius. All the vigiles cohorts were running books on how long the three could put up with each other. So far they were clasping hands as stickily as bee-keepers in the honeycomb season: it was the only way they could hang on to the cash. An accountant from the Treasury of Saturn checked the health of Milvia's marriage daily, because if she divorced Florius and her dowry reverted to her family, then the Emperor wanted it. This was one case where the encouragement-of-matrimony laws did not apply.
Since our new Emperor Vespasian had made a platform of supporting the quaint old-fashioned virtues of family life, it will be seen that if the amount of money he stood to grab on Milvia's divorce could persuade him to muffle his quaint old-fashioned conscience, then it must be very large indeed. Well, that's the joy of organised crime for you. It's astonishing more people don't take it up.
No; actually, there was a reason why other people stayed honest: setting up as a rival to Cornelia Flaccida was just too frightening. Who wants to be parboiled, roasted, skewered through every orifice, and served up trussed in a three-cheese glaze with their internal organs lightly sauteed as a separate piquant relish?
Of course I made that up. Flaccida would have said that as a punishment it was far too refined.
'Don't you damn well run away from me!' she yelled.
Petro and I were not running anywhere; we had not been given time even to think of it.
'Madam!' I exclaimed. Neutrality was a dubious refuge. 'Don't play about with me!' she snarled.
'What a repulsive suggestion.'
'Shut up, Falco.' Petro thought I wasn't helping. I shut up. Normally he was big enough to look after himself. The hard-bitten Flaccida might be more than he could deal with, though, so I stuck around loyally. Anyway, I wanted to see the fun.
I noticed Helena coming out on to our porch. My dog Nux nosed eagerly after her, sensing the master's return. Helena bent and clutched her collar nervously. She must be able to tell that our visitor was a woman who probably bit off watchdogs' heads as a party piece.
'Haven't I met you two grimeballs before?' Milvia's mother cannot have forgotten Petronius Longus, the enquiry chief who convicted her husband. Meeting her again face to face, I decided I preferred that she should not realise I was the hero with the social conscience who had actually widowed her.
'Charming that our vibrant personalities made such an impression,' I gurgled.
'Tell your clown to keep out of it,' Flaccida ordered Petro. He just smiled and let her run.
The dame tilted back her fading blonde coiffure, and surveyed him as if he were a flea she had caught in her underwear. He gazed back, completely calm as usual. Big, solid, full of understated presence: any mother should have envied her daughter's choice of him for a lover. Petronius Longus reeked of the controlled assurance women go for. The gods know, I had seen enough of them rush at him. What he lacked in looks he made up in size and obvious character, and these days he wore wicked haircuts too.
'You've got a nerve!'
'Spare me, Flaccida. You're embarrassing yourself.'
'I'll embarrass you! After everything you've done to my family -'
'After everything your family has done to Rome – and is probably doing still – I'm surprised you haven't felt obliged to move to one of the remote provinces.'
'You destroyed us, then you had to seduce my little daughter too.'
'Your daughter's not so little.' And she doesn't take much seducing, Petronius implied. He was too courteous to insult her, though, even in his own defence.
'Leave Milvia alone!' It came out in a low hard growl, like the raw noise of a lioness threatening her prey. 'Your superiors in the vigiles would like to hear about you visiting my Milvia.'
'My superiors know.' His superiors, however, would not take kindly to angry visits to the tribune's office by the termagant Cornella Flaccida. This stinging hornet could cause Petro's dismissal.
'Florius hasn't heard about it yet.'
'Oh, I'm terrified.'
'You'd better be!' yelled Flaccida. 'I've still got friends. I don't want you showing your face at our house – and I promise you, Milvia's not coming to see you either!'
She turned away. At that moment Helena Justina lost her hold on Nux, who tore down from our apartment, a shaggy bundle of grey and brown fur, with her ears back and her sharp teeth bared. Nux was small and smelly, with a canine distaste for domestic upsets. As Flaccida stepped back into her litter, the dog raced straight for her, seized the embroidered hem of her expensive gown, and then backed away on her strong legs. There seemed to be diggers and boar-hunters somewhere in Nux's lineage. Flaccida slammed the litter door for her own safety. We heard a satisfying wrench of expensive material. Shrieking abuse, the dame ordered her bearers to be off, while my stubborn hound gripped her skirt hem until it tore free.
'Good dog!' cried Petronius and I. Nux wagged her tail proudly as she worried half a yard of Coan gown as if it were a dead rat.
Petro and I exchanged a private glance, not quite looking up at Helena. Then we gave each other a grave public salute. He went up to the old apartment, bouncing on his heels like a chirpy dissident. I went home, looking like a good boy.
My darling's eyes were warm and friendly, and richly brown as the meat sauces at Imperial banquets. Her smile was dangerous. I kissed her anyway. A man should not be
intimidated on his own doorstep. The kiss, though, was formally on the cheek.
'Marcus! What was all that about?'
'Just a homecomer's greeting -'
'Fool! The fright who left her flounce behind? Didn't recognise Cornella Flaccida?' Helena had once helped me interview the woman.
'At a guess, somebody has upset Balbina Milvia, and she's gone crying home to Mother. Mother came dashing to scold the delinquent lover. Poor Mother must be very alarmed indeed to discover that a member of the vigiles has easy access to her household. She must be wetting herself at the thought of him winding his way into Milvia's confidence.'
'Do you think she spanked Milvia?'
'It would be the first time. Milvia was brought up a spoiled princess.'
'Yes, I gathered that,' replied Helena, rather laconically.
'Oh?' I asked, feigning mild curiosity. 'Can it be that the princess has just had a hard time from more than her scraggy bag of a parent?'
'It is a possibility,' Helena conceded.
'I wonder who that might be?'
'Someone she met when she was out riding in her nice litter maybe?' Helena returned my formal kiss on the cheek, greeting me like a demure matron after my afternoon away. She smelt of rosemary hairwash and attar of roses. Everything about her was soft and clean and begging to be intimately fondled. I could feel myself going twittery. 'Maybe that will teach Milvia to stay at home plying her loom,' she said.
'As you do?' I walked her indoors, getting both arms round her. Nux scampered after us, alert to canoodling she could bark at.
'As I do, Marcus Didius.'
Helena Justina did not possess a loom. Our apartment was so tiny we did not have much room for it. If she had asked she could have had one. Obviously I would encourage traditional virtuous pursuits. But Helena Justina hated long, repetitive tasks.
She stayed indoors and worked in wool? Like most Romans I was forced to admit, no; not my devoted turtledove.
At least I knew how mine behaved, even when I was away from home. Well, so I told myself.
XXX
Petronius came over to fetch me the next morning. He looked like a man who had failed to supply himself with breakfast. Since I was the cook in our household, I was able to let him have some of our bread rolls, while Helena ate hers in silence. She had fetched them, running down barefoot that morning to buy them fresh from Cassius, then I had arranged them in a neat pattern in the bowl.
'You're in charge, I see, Falco.'
'Yes, I'm a stern Roman paternalist. I speak; my women veil their heads and scurry to obey.'
Petronius snorted, while Helena wiped honey from her lips fastidiously.
'What was all that fuss yesterday?' she asked him outright, to show how subservient she was.
'The old battering ram's terrified that I'll infiltrate too far and put the screw on the gangs again by acquiring inside knowledge. She thinks Milvia is daft enough to tell me anything I ask.'
'Whereas the rest of us know you don't go there to talk… Interesting situation,' I mulled, teasing him. Then I told Helena, 'Apparently Milvia is now chasing Lucius Petronius, while her formally ardent lover has actually been witnessed trying to dodge out of the way.'
'Oh? Why can that be?' Helena queried, subjecting him to a bright look.
'Frightened of her ma,' I grinned.
Petro scowled. 'Milvia has suddenly acquired some very peculiar notions.'
I raised an eyebrow. 'You mean she finally noticed you're no good?'
'No. She wants to leave Florius.' He had the grace to blush slightly.
'Oh dear!'
'And live with you?' asked Helena.
'And marry me!'
Helena took it more stalwartly than I did. 'Not a good idea?'
'Helena Justina, I am married to Arria Silvia.' Helena restrained herself from commenting on his bold claim. 'I concede,' Petro went on, 'Silvia may dispute that. It just shows how little Silvia knows about anything.'
Helena passed him the honey. I was expecting her to throw it at him. We kept our honey in a Celtic face-pot we had acquired when travelling through Gaul. Petro eyed it askance. Then he held it up, rudely comparing the round-eyed cartoon features with my own.
'So you were never serious about Milvia?' Helena grilled him.
'Not in that way. I'm sorry.'
'When men need to apologise, why can they only say it to the wrong person? And now she wants to be more important to you?'
'She thinks she is. She'll figure it out.'
'Poor Milvia,' murmured Helena.
Petronius made an attempt to look responsible. 'She's tougher than she looks. She's tougher even than she thinks she is.'
Helena was wearing an expression that said she thought Milvia might turn out to be tougher – and much more trouble – than Petro himself yet realised. 'I'll be going to see your wife today, Lucius Petronius. Maia's coming with me. I haven't seen the girls for ages, and I have some things for them that we brought from Spain. Are there any messages?'
'Tell Silvia I promised to take Petronilla to the Games. She's old enough now. If Silvia leaves her at her mother's tomorrow, I'll pick her up and return her there.'
'Her mother's? You're trying to avoid seeing Silvia?'
'I'm trying to avoid being battered and browbeaten. Anyway, if I go to the house, it upsets the cat.'
'This won't get you all back together again.'
'We'll sort it out,' snapped Petronius. Helena took a deep breath, then once again said nothing. 'All right,' he told her, capitulating. 'As Silvia would remark, that's what I always say.'
'Oh, I'll keep quiet then,' Helena returned, not unkindly. 'Why don't you two men talk about your work?'
There was no need. Things had taken off at last. Today we knew what we had to do, and what we hoped to learn.
Not long afterwards I kissed the baby, kissed Helena, burped, scratched myself, counted my small change and took a vow to earn more, combed my hair roughly, and set out with Petronius. We had avoided telling Frontinus our plans. In his place we had Nux. Helena would not be taking her visiting as our dog was deadly enemies with Petro's famous cat. I didn't mind in the least if Nux savaged the flea-ridden creature, but Petronius would turn nasty. Besides, Helena did not need a guard dog if she was with my sister Maia. Maia was more aggressive than anything they might meet on a short walk over the Aventine.
Petro and I were going the other way. We were off to Cyclops Street on the Caelian. We had to interview Asinia's friend.
Her name was Pia, but the scruffy building she lived in convinced us in advance that her lofty name would be inappropriate. Hard to tell how she had ever become friendly with anyone who gloried in Asinia's good reputation, though we had heard the relationship went back years. I was too old to worry about how girls chose their friends.
We climbed several flights of stinking stairs. A janitor with a goitre let us in, but he declined to come up with us. We passed dark doorways, barely lit by slits in the blackened walls. Dirt marked our tunics where we brushed against the render as we turned corners. Where shafts of light intruded, they were thick with motes of dust. Petronius coughed. The sound echoed hollowly, as if the building was deserted. Maybe some tycoon was hoping to drive out his remaining tenants so he could redevelop at a profit. While the place waited to be torn down, the air had filled with the dank smell of despair.
Pia was hoping for visitors. She looked even more interested when she saw that there were two of us. We let her know we weren't buying, and she relapsed into a less friendly mood.
She was lounging on a reading couch, though apparently not for mental improvement. There was nothing to read. I doubted if she could. I didn't ask. She had long hair in a strange shade of vermilion, which she probably called auburn. Her eyes were almost invisible amongst dark circles of charcoal and coloured lead. She looked flushed. It wasn't good health. She wore a short undertunic in yellow and a longer, flimsier outer one in a nasty burnt turquoise; the outer garment had hole
s in it, but she had not stopped wearing it. Gauzes don't come cheap. Every finger was horribly ringed, seven greenish chains choked her scrawny neck, she had bracelets, she had base metal charms on fragile ankle chains, she had jingling ornaments in her tresses. Pia overdid everything except taste.
Still, she could be a warm-hearted honest poppet for all that.
'We want to talk about Asinia.'
'Sod off the pair of you,' she said.
XXXI
'You like a challenge; you can start,' I told Petronius. 'No; you're the expert with unpleasant hap,' he courteously replied.
'Well, you choose,' I invited Pia. 'Which of us?'
'Stuff you both.' She stretched her legs, letting us see them. It would have been better if they had been cleaner and not so sturdy in the knee.
'Nice pins!' Petronius lied in his light, admiring tone. The one they believed for about three seconds before they noticed it came with a sneer.
'Get lost.'
'Play us a new tune, darling.'
'How long did you know Asinia?' I threw in. Petronius and I would share the questioning between us and it was my turn now.
'Years and years.' Despite her bluster she could not resist answering.
'How did you first meet?'
'When she was serving in the shop.'
'The chandlery? Were you sent there shopping?' I had guessed, though refrained from saying, that Pia was a slave at the time. She must be independent now, though hardly in funds.
'We liked a chat.'
'And to go to the Games together?'
'No harm in that.'
'No harm at all – if you really went.'
'We did!' It came out fast and indignant. So far the tale was true.
'Did Asinia have a boyfriend?' Petronius took over. 'Not her.'
'Not one she hadn't told even you about?'
'I'd like to see her try. She couldn't keep a secret, that one. Not that she ever wanted to.'
'She loved her husband?'
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