Saturnalia mdf-18

by Lindsey Davis

  Now I wished I could have done this early enough to have then dropped in at Titus Caesar's boudoir when I stank of tramps and could give the imperial playboy lice.

  'Anything else?' I asked Clemens in a nasty tone.

  'I've ordered horses,' he responded meekly.

  I hate horses. If he did not know that already, he soon worked it out.

  I should have known any plan devised by an acting centurion would be a time-waster. Clemens had thought it was clever for us to leave Rome by the Ostia Gate, pick up the mounts he had arranged-which were not horses but donkeys; I could have told him that-then ride right around outside to the south of the city. It was a long way. It was the lazy way, too, and it took far longer than briskly walking across, which is what I would have done, left to myself Only my abstraction caused by Helena being with Titus let Clemens bamboozle me into this crazy scheme.

  Clemens brought a soldier who had not crossed my path and annoyed me yet, Sentius. I had asked for my old comrade Lentullus; apparently he had to stay with the children, on Helena's orders. I thought twice about leaving my two precious ones with the clumsiest legionary Rome possessed, but Helena had a knack for choosing unexpected nursemaids. I ordered Lentullus to remove the wooden swords because I did not wish my tiny offspring to turn into frightful martial types who would be mocked by social poets: galumphing gym-frequenters, the shame of their parents, who would never acquire husbands. Lentullus just said, 'Well, they're happy and it's keeping them quiet, Falco.' I was only their father. Overruled, I left him to it.

  Sentius was a tight-lipped, terse type, who viewed me with brooding suspicion. I thought he was trouble too. He was too big for a donkey and had staring eyes. He spent most of the morning eating an enormous almond pastry. Meanwhile Clemens kept digging into a bag of seeds and pine kernels, which he never offered round.

  At least fretting about the wife, the children, the route, these companions, and the fact that I had had no breakfast stopped me losing my temper over the beast I was supposed to be riding. I had been given the truculent one with mange, who kept stopping dead.

  It was past noon when we reached the Appian Way necropolis. The houses of the dead stretch out from the city for several miles along the ancient highway. Packed tombs line the worn cobbled road to the south between stately groups of umbrella pines. Occasionally we saw funerals taking place. There would be more cremation parties after the festival, when Saturnalia indulgence and violence had taken its toll. People usually came out here at holiday time to feast with their dead ancestors, but chilly weather and dark nights must be putting them off Mostly the road was empty and the lines of rich men's mausoleums looked deserted.

  As we slowed our mounts when we started to look for vagrants, we pulled our cloaks tighter across our chests, burying our ears in the fabric. We all became morose. It was a cold, grey day, a day for things to go badly wrong with no warning.

  None of us had brought swords. I had not even thought about it, because weaponry was forbidden in the city. My automatic failure to carry had lacked forethought. Wandering between these isolated tombs in bad light was a dangerous idea. This was a situation where we were asking to get hurt.

  At first it seemed that Petronius must be wrong. We saw no sign of people living rough. We had all heard stories of successful beggars who were so good at their craft they became millionaires; beggars who treated importuning as a business and worked from secret offices; beggars who went home in a litter every evening, rid themselves of their rags and filth, and slept like kings under tapestry coverlets. Perhaps all beggars were like that. Perhaps Rome, where good citizens are generous benefactors, really had no homeless people. Perhaps in winter rich, kindly widows sent all the vagrants on holiday to airy seaside villas where their hair was trimmed, their sores were cured and they listened to improving poetry until they suddenly reformed and agreed to be trained as sculptors and lyre-players… Romancing, Falco.

  Starting near the city, we began a systematic search through the great variety of monuments. Most were close to the road, giving easy access for funerals, though space was tight and some had had to be built at a distance from the highway. Round ones were favourite but rectangles and pyramids were there too. They came in all designs, some small and low but many higher than a man or two-storied, with a lower chamber for the dead and an upstairs for the family to hold feasts. They were in weathered grey stone or different coloured brick. Some were in the form of ovens or pottery kilns, indicating the trades of their dead owners. Classical architecture, pilasters and porticos marked the resting places of cultural snobs; no doubt the urns that contained their burnt relics were of fine marble, carved alabaster or porphyry. Some tombs had religious decorations; others carried statues or busts of the deceased, sometimes accompanied by one of the gods.

  Clemens found the first remains of a campsite. Blackened undergrowth showed where a small open-air fire had once been, probably for days on end. The ashes were cold. Broken amphora shards and a sodden old blanket with a distinctive smell convinced us this was not simply the remains of a formal cremation or of a family memorial party held outside a mausoleum. We continued searching and gradually came across more indications that Petro was correct. Locked chambers had had unpleasant rubbish deposited around them, especially in the entrance area. Ancient tombs which were no longer visited by relatives of the dead and newer ones with the doors recently broken in contained evidence of rough sleepers. Some had been used as lavatories. The worst were sordid after being used for both.

  Starting to recognise the signs, we trod carefully near doorways. We held our breath before stooping to look inside open tombs. We poked at discarded clutter only with sticks, and we held the sticks at ann's length. We were wary of enclosures where rats might be foraging.

  Clemens made the first sighting. He called out, and pointed to a thin figure, some way off, loping away from us. It was probably a man, dressed in patches, hunched double and carrying a bag of some sort over one shoulder. Whether or not he heard us shout, he kept going and was too far off for us to chase him.

  The light faded. The day closed in. At the rate we were going we would soon need torches, which we had not brought. To cover more ground, we split up; Clemens took one side of the highway, Sentius the other. I went up ahead some distance, tethered my donkey to show where I started, then moved forward by myself on foot. Intent on searching as far as I could that day, I kept up a good pace. I glanced inside any tombs which had ready access; checked quickly around the back of all those I passed, whether open or locked; kept going steadily. Clemens and Sentius were supposed to pick up my mount in due course, then move on past me so we worked in relays.

  They never caught me up. I covered the ground faster than they did. Informers learn to be meticulous without wasting time. This was no area to hang about. Just because the road and the tombs seemed deserted did not mean they really were. You need not believe in ghosts to be aware of an unseen presence. We were all being watched, undoubtedly. I was just waiting for the moment when we found out who it was and what they wanted.

  At one chilly monument, a whimsical pyramid, a flight of tiled steps led down into a pitch-dark interior. I could not bring myself to step past the creaking door; irrational fear that it would slam shut behind me held me on the threshold. I had grown so nervous in that lonely place I shouted out, 'Is anybody in there?'

  Nobody answered, but my call had been heard. As I turned on the steps, heading out of the tomb, I was suddenly accosted. With a wild but silent movement, someone-or something-all in white reared up above me on the mausoleum roof. This restless ghoul was hooded, jerking its wrists above its head as if jangling spectral bangles. I was so startled, my foot slipped on damp vegetation and I fell heavily. Then the figure continued its wild dance, letting out a high ghostly cry.

  XXIV

  The cavorting spectre slowed its roof top dance.

  'Hoo! Hoo! Are you alive or dead?'

  'I'm bloody well not happy!' I sat up awkwardly i
n agony. I had twisted my ankle as I slid on the tiled steps. 'Stop jiggling about.'

  'Hoo-oo are you?' The faint, papery voice sounded like a bat squeak.

  'Name's Falco. Who in Hades are you?'

  'In Hades, out of Hades… Flitting bodiless and airy… the unburied dead.' Someone around here had read too much Virgil.

  'Suit yourself.' I was in no mood for paranormal crackpots. When in pain, I tend towards the pedantic. 'Tell me, spirit, whose corpse do you represent?'

  'I used to be called Zoilus.'

  I closed my eyes. I was a sensible man. I had an urgent job to do.

  The Furies must really be bearing a grudge today, if the spiteful ones-sorry, ladies, the kindly ones-had stuck me here, talking to a ghost.

  Wincing, I forced myself upright. I took a few hops to firm ground, where I tested my ankle. Somehow, the spirit of Zoilus had jumped down from the tomb; he bobbed up in front of me. He was still waiting for me to react in fright, and I still wasn't having it. Twilight had descended. By some trick he could have learned in a theatre, he seemed unearthly, wavering around me, his shifting white robes luminescent; only a pale orb that was almost without features lurked in his hood where his face should be. This ghost was light on his feet. In fact he did not seem to have any feet. He had mastered a smooth glide as if he floated several inches off the ground.

  'Hoo! Hoo! Give me the fare for Charon!' So that was his game. I felt better for knowing. His squeaky tone was wheedling now, like any human beggar. 'Help me pay the ferryman, master.'

  He had gone to more trouble with his story than most supplicants do, so I fetched out a coin and promised him the fee to cross the Styx if he would tell me whether he had seen a barbarian woman roaming friendless and solitary like him. He let out a shriek. I jumped. 'Death! Death! Bringer of death,' wailed the pallid sprite-rather pointlessly, if Zoilus was already deceased.

  Could he know about the decapitation of Gratianus Scaeva? Had the murder at the Quadrumatus villa become the latest hot news among the shades in Hades? Had Scaeva's soul rushed there after his violent death, indignantly protesting? Were the bored spirits now flocking together to hear this news, all twittering with faded voices in Pluto's underworld forum-by Pluto, why was I messing about on a lonely road all day, when I could just ask this spook to help me out: get him to ask Scaeva's ghost, Hoo-oo did you in then?

  I offered the coin. He did not take it. Whether unburied dead or simply restless, half-demented human, Zoilus darted away from me, rapidly executing that liquid glide backwards. Then he vanished. He must have jumped behind a tomb, yet it seemed as if he folded himself up and slipped into the very air, becoming bodiless and invisible. I called out. Nobody answered.

  He had left me for a reason. As he slithered away into nothing, at last I encountered the runaway slaves. A scatter of them rose from the ground silently around me. I looked frantically for Clemens and Sentius, but they were nowhere. I was alone and unarmed, with dusk closing in. Zoilus had been more of an irritation than a threat; now that he was gone, I yearned for his crazy presence.

  I had new companions, and I was even less happy. As the dark figures gathered in number, I remembered Petronius' sombre words of warning. If these beings could scare off a ghost, or a man who believed he was a ghost, I had reason to feel genuinely frightened.

  XXV

  There was no point in this errand if I now simply gave them the nod and escaped on my way. I took the initiative. I walked up to the man who looked mildest-mannered and, not getting too close, I addressed him. After a long pause while he assessed me, he agreed to talk.

  The refugee I had chosen had once been a slave, trained as an architect. He had worked for a master he liked, but on the master's sudden death the heirs sold him off to a new owner, a coarse, violent bully, from whose house he had fled. The runaway was quiet, educated, spoke both Latin and Greek, presumably could read, write, calculate and draw, and had once run projects: giving instructions, controlling the finances, getting things done.

  Now he was destitute and alone. I thought he carried the aura of the dying.

  When I met him that evening, he was about to walk into Rome, seeking food and any available shelter. He carried a light, loosely rolled blanket. His world was desolate and secret. If he were to be apprehended and identified as a runaway slave, the finder had twenty days to return him to his master, or else be liable to prosecution for theft of another man's property: valuable property, in view of this slave's education. If a finder returned such lost property to his master, a good reward might be paid. If the finder failed to return the slave, he would be swingeingly fined.

  'Can you seek refuge anywhere?'

  'In a temple. Then-if, while clinging to an altar, I can persuade them to believe I was seriously ill-treated-I may be sold on to a new master. '

  'With all the risks.'

  'With all the risks,' he agreed, dull and defeated.

  After he first ran away, he had managed well enough for a time. A vagrant who lived in a deserted building had let him share shelter, but he woke one night and the other man was trying to rape him. He escaped from that only with difficulty, and was badly beaten up. Then he struggled on his own. He begged, he searched for scraps, he slept under bridges or in doorways in the city. Beggars he met around a brazier under an aqueduct one night gave him wine, either too many swigs on an empty stomach or the liquor was doctored. They battered him senseless and stole everything he had. He had ended up naked, wounded and terrified.

  Now we moved. Unwilling to stand still in one place any longer, he began restlessly walking. I followed. He kept talking in torrents, as if his story needed to be told before he vanished from life altogether. He shifted about; perhaps movement eased his aches or made him forget the pangs of hunger.

  He told how he had found refuge in a public park. Two men who lived in a broken handcart under an oleander bush helped him recover and find a new tunic. I gathered they probably stole the tunic for him. Barefoot, he survived, but had lost his confidence, and came to live here outside the city, nervous that if he stayed anywhere in Rome he would be set upon while he slept. He had found occasional work hawking clothes-pegs or pies, but it was a poor living anyway, then the middleman who organised the street-tray sellers took most of the profits and, knowing their workers were desperate and outside the law, cheated them whenever possible. The refugee's wild appearance and dirty clothes, such as they were, prevented him getting other work. When he had had a stroke of luck and found some money in the street, he bought stolen goods to sell on, but was even cheated by the thieves, who had shown him attractive vases but swapped them secretly and passed him worthless bundles instead, so he lost the cash he had found and felt betrayed.

  Out here, he slept up by day, then roamed in the city. At night, everywhere was more dangerous-above all, there was the risk of being arrested by the vigiles-but there was more rubbish to scavenge and less chance that some 'respectable' citizen would spot him and turn him in. Suspected runaways were hauled before the Prefect of

  Vigiles, their descriptions were circulated, and their old masters had the right to reclaim them. All options were bad. Once a runaway was restored to a bullying owner, harsh beatings and other cruel treatment were inevitable. If no one came forward, a runaway would become a public slave; that meant back-breaking construction work, cleaning latrines, or crawling into cramped, smoky hypocausts to clean out ashes. It could even lead to transportation to the mines. I knew about slavery in the mines. Few survived.

  This man was on a downward spiral. Starvation and cold were killing him, helped by lack of joy and loss of hope. He was thin. His complexion was grey. He had a bloody cough that would take him out in months. I told him to go to the Temple of AEsculapius, but he rejected that for some reason.

  'You know they look after slaves?'

  'Oh they come around and tend people on the streets.' He spoke in an odd tone, as if he despised the temple's staff. Clearly he had no trust in kindness. Whatever you th
ink of architects, he must have been rational once to have done the job for his first master. Deprivation had stopped him thinking; he could no longer help himself It almost seemed as if he no longer wanted to.

  I gave him a little money. He hesitated, proudly, then snatched it and jabbered with gratitude embarrassingly; his thanks were so excessive, I suspected him of mocking me. Then I asked him if he had seen Veleda. He said no. I could not decide whether I believed him. He offered to take me to meet other people who might know something about her. I was heading into danger with him, but once again I had to accept the offer rather than have a wasted journey.

  So I let myself be taken away from the road, to rising ground where a crazy group of homeless outlaws existed in a secret world. A lolling signboard said the land belonged to owners called the Quintilii, but it was not used for farming and no buildings stood there. It was well placed to be developed into an out-of-town villa, but instead was a haven of lawlessness and destitution.

  The smell hit me first. It crept across the grass, but once it caught my nostrils I could not be rid of it. Even in the open air, the stink of a dedicated tramp stops your lungs. The only stench more clinging is that of a decomposing corpse.

  Men and women congregated here, though there was little to choose between them visually. They were dark, shapeless bundles, either half naked or wearing many impenetrable layers of clothing, with knotted ropes around their waists. Some were plainly mad, others purposely behaved like madmen, intending to terrifY. They skulked in filthy rags, one with a half-missing lop-sided hat. Their eyes were dull, and either downcast to the ground, or staring so wildly I tried not to meet their manic gaze. One man had a pipe. He could only play one note, which he did in loathsome monotony for hours. A couple paraded in slave collars defiantly: metal neck-restraints which had been put on them to show the world that they were runaways. One dragged around a mighty bundle of clanking chains. A pair of perpetual inebriates, with loud, hoarse, raging voices, roared tuneless drinking songs to the waking stars.