by Mike Ashley
Aulus Piso with his bluff manner and gravelly voice more than made up for the dismal demeanour of the bridal pair. He was delighted to see Hengist and made him his partner on one of the couches.
The Family Valeria had assembled with one outsider and one absent guest.
The majordomo arrived and struck his staff three times on the floor as signal that the cena was about to begin.
‘But, my dear,’ demurred Julia. ‘Our number’s not yet complete.’
‘Basso knew the hour,’ growled her husband. ‘It’s past.’ He signalled to the majordomo. ‘Bring on the gustus.’
Julia, sulking, flung herself down on the central couch. Marcus drew Paulina out from Claudia’s wing and led her to the third couch where Lucius stood.
‘Come, children, lie with each other in happy prelude to the nuptial couch,’ he said, paternally.
Paulina obeyed reluctantly, but shrank away as Lucius lay down beside her. At her imploring glance, her aunt hurried across the room to join her.
‘I hope you don’t intend to lie between them on their wedding night,’ guffawed Piso. ‘You’re bound to blight Maro’s marital bliss.’
‘She might learn a thing or two,’ muttered Julia, sourly.
Somewhere, a cithara began to play. Slaves entered bearing on salvers the gustus or appetizers, salted sea-urchins, jelly-fish in egg sauce, a salad of tree-fungi in allec, black and green olives, dormice seasoned with honey and poppy seeds, spiced peacock eggs, prunes and pomegranate seeds. Honey-wine was poured into chased silver drinking horns.
‘My cousin must have staked all he has on this little spread’ whispered Piso, setting to with gusto. ‘I hope the quarry’s taking the bait. They want him hooked without delay.’
Hengist glanced at the young equite who was dipping his fingers into the silver-gilt dishes with a fastidious self-restraint. If Marcus had hoped to impress his guest-of-honour with the lavish scale of his entertaining he had missed his mark.
‘He looks like one who’d be happier on bread soaked in mother’s milk,’ Piso added. He offered a ribald opinion on Paulina’s wedding night, but his words were lost as he munched on a dormouse and spat out the delicate bones.
Behind each couch stood the diners’ personal slaves to attend their owners with finger-bowls and napkins between courses. Having no slave of his own, Hengist was obliged to accept the services available to him from Piso’s slave.
Conversation was desultory, the gaiety forced. Julia still sulked, Claudia looked anxious. To Marcus’ courteous enquiries about his journey and Piso’s good-natured jibes, Lucius returned the same monosyllabic answers.
A change of atmosphere suddenly rippled through the room, the ruffle of a breeze on a sullen sea. Like a statue touched to life by Pygmalion, Basso the gladiator materialized out of the night and stood in the doorway.
‘Basso! I didn’t hear my doorkeeper announce you,’ said Marcus in surprise.
‘I invaded your sanctum in my own style,’ returned the gladiator. ‘Over the wall.’
He was beyond doubt the most potently beautiful male animal that had ever stalked the mica-strewn sands of the circus. His tunic barely covered the proof of his virility, being worn short to show the play of muscles under the copper sheen of his lightly-oiled thighs. The skin of a wildcat he had speared in the arena swung from his shoulders. His hair was long and curling, his eyes needed no kohl to enhance them, his mouth was full and sensual. He was the ideal of splendid manhood allied with an arrogance and savagery that made him the idol and envy of many.
Julia sat up eagerly. ‘Welcome, Basso. We were afraid you’d forgotten us. My impatient husband’s started cena. Come, join us.’ She patted the empty space beside her on the couch.
‘No,’ protested Piso. ‘Take your place with us, Basso. Here’s Hengist who once rivalled you for reputation.’
Hengist had risen at the gladiator’s arrival, the better to take his measure. At the recognition of his name, Basso approached and circled him like a great cat sniffing out the potential of an antagonist.
‘Who would consider himself Basso’s rival?’ murmured the Gaul.
‘Not Hengist,’ returned the gladiator. He glanced from the space beside Piso to that beside Julia. ‘Enticing offers. But here . . .’ he swung towards the third couch, ‘is the place I’d like to take if someone will oblige me.’
Paulina had also sat up. Her eyes had an unnatural glitter and her little pink mouth had fallen open.
Lucius flushed with indignation as Basso eyed his puny frame with overt ridicule.
‘What’s this?’ He pulled an ampulla from under the equite’s pallium. ‘Your own wine! What an insult to your host. But, of course, you intended to share it.’ He took out the stopper and gulped down several mouthfuls.
‘That’s hundred-year-old Falemian,’ protested Lucius.
‘Then I’ll savour every second of it.’
Marcus was scowling in annoyance. In some circles the inclusion of the gladiator would have been an unparalleled coup; on closer acquaintance with his future son-in-law he realized it was a dire mistake. The prim little equite was not the sort to appreciate the glamour of the professional killer.
‘I’m afraid my daughter can’t be torn from the side of her betrothed nor from the protection of her aunt,’ he said, with forced geniality.
‘Ah, yes, greetings Valeria Claudia.’ Basso made a mock bow. ‘The ex-Vestal. Everyone here seems to be an ex-something.’
‘Even you, Basso, will run your race,’ observed Piso, ‘unless you’ve discovered the Cup of Eternal Youth.’
‘I’ll live to spit on your tomb,’ retorted the gladiator, insolently.
‘Ah, the impudence of ex-slaves these days,’ murmured the magistrate, ‘particularly when they turn gladiator. They know they can dare anything. After all, what worse can I do to him than will probably befall him tomorrow in the arena?’ Aloud, he said, ‘Come, Basso, allow us to worship you, our transient god. Take my cup. I haven’t touched it.’
Basso downed the honey-wine in a single gulp and sauntered back to the couch where Julia lay.
‘Let me entice you further,’ she murmured, huskily.
She took a prune from a dish and held it between her lips. With a laugh, Basso knelt on the couch and put his lips to hers. With her tongue she pushed the prune into his mouth.
‘Circe turning men into swine,’ muttered Piso. Hengist was surprised at the rancour in the eyes that watched the pair.
With a deeper scowl, Marcus took the vacant place beside his Piso.
The next course arrived. Red mullet, sea-perch, dolphin, mackerel, sole and eel, and a dish made from embryo octopi. The centrepiece was an enormous catinus with four silver figures of Triton at each corner pouring from their conch-horns a rich sauce over tiny fish which were so stirred by the flowing liquid that they seemed to swim about in its depths. It was a feast, Hengist thought ruefully, that would keep a fleet of galley-slaves alive for a month.
Basso remained on Julia’s couch. They fed each other titbits and drank from the same cup, kissing and caressing each other between mouthfuls. They seemed oblivious to the rest of the company. Piso tried vainly to divert Marcus’ attention, but the Senator’s eyes kept straying to the amorous couple on the neighbouring couch.
The time came for the commissatio when the King of the Feast was selected. Marcus over-rode Julia’s insistence on Basso to choose Piso. The magistrate cheerfully donned the chaplet of roses and supervised the mixing of the wine in the crater, determining its strength and how many cups could be drunk by each guest. He was bending over the bowl, savouring its bouquet, when at Julia’s whispered urging Basso sprang off the couch and seized Piso by the neck, forcing his head to submerge. The magistrate spluttered and kicked and struggled, but was unable to free himself from the brutal grip.
‘A noble death for a drunken sot,’ shouted Basso. ‘Drowned in his own brew.’
Hengist rested his hand on the gladiator’s shoulder. ‘
Let him up,’ he said, quietly.
‘What’s it to you?’ demanded the gladiator.
‘I call him my friend.’
‘And who do you call your enemy?’
‘No man.’
Basso released his captive, who fell back on the tiles, choking and retching. Crimson rivulets ran from his scanty hair and lashes, swam in his eyes and flowed from his nose and mouth onto his garments. Julia was laughing uncontrollably, Marcus stood clenching his fists in impotent fury, Claudia and Lucius looked on in disbelief while Paulina ate pomegranate seeds like some detached Proserpine watching while the souls of the dead were weighed.
Basso tore the fibula from Hengist’s pallium. The garment fell about his feet, revealing the Gaul’s long, lean frame.
‘You look hungry for a shopkeeper,’ he jeered.
‘It’s the nature of the beast,’ replied Hengist, softly.
Basso studied the fibula. ‘This could be a formidable weapon in the hands of a man who knows how to use it.’ He glared pugnaciously at Hengist. ‘We want better entertainment than the twanging of some instrument. Shall we match?’
The shopkeeper shook his head. ‘Basso would win scant honour in besting one past his prime.’
‘Scared?’
‘No, just bored.’
‘You’re right. The whole evening’s a bore. Maybe it’s the company. They need livening up, a tickle or two from my sword. They love the sight of other men’s blood while they’re sitting safe in the cavea, let’s see how they like to bleed.’
‘Why not go back to your couch,’ suggested Hengist, mildly, ‘and bid our host send for more wine.’ He judged that Basso had been more than a little drunk when he arrived at the villa and nursed a fragile hope that he might be coaxed to drink himself into a stupor.
But the gladiator was only warming up. ‘I’m bored with Julia’s whorish tricks, though the sluts of Subura would be hard pushed to best her. Rich, spoilt women, jaded with every other excitement to be had have paid for my body since I was a slave. Women with noble names and long pedigrees bribing their way into my cell and into my bed. Wives of men who cheer me when I win and whose boos would be the last sound I heard if I lost. But no one quite knows how to play the whore like your virtuous wife, illustrious Senator. Notice any new tricks lately? All learnt from me. Or does she refuse you?’
Julia’s laugh had stuck in her throat. Her cosmetics stood out like a theatrical mask on a face suddenly drained of colour. Marcus stood like one who had seen a Gorgon. Claudia, kneeling beside Piso, looked up imploringly at Hengist.
‘I think we’ve had enough blood drawn for one night.’ The Gaul’s voice was low, but it had an edge to it that made the gladiator look at him.
‘Do you think so? Maro doesn’t think so. He’d like to see more.’
Paulina shrank back on her couch, concealing her trembling mouth with both hands. Her dark eyes gazed at Basso eloquently.
‘Do you imagine, Lucius Maro, that it’s your prestige and wealth that made Valerius negotiate a marriage contract. No, it’s to conceal his shame that Paulina, the would-be Vestal Virgin, came crawling to me with the same lust of all her kind. I opened the petals of this little rosebud here in this very garden.’
‘I feel sick,’ said Piso. He staggered to his feet and went out through the doorway. No one moved to help him.
Paulina burst into a paroxysm of crying and ran from the room.
Claudia rose to confront the gladiator. ‘I would advise you not to say anymore,’ she said, coldly.
‘Or what?’ he grinned. ‘You’ll deny me. It’s too late. I already know.’ He smirked at the rest of the company. ‘Even Vestals have their secrets.’
‘Get out!’ said Julia. Her tone was as pale and deathly as her face. ‘Go, before I have my slaves beat you from our door.’ She turned on her husband. ‘Do you say nothing while we are slandered before your face?’
‘He doesn’t dare,’ said Basso, brutally. ‘He knows I have the Emperor’s favour. One whisper in Caligula’s ear and life and estates are forfeit.’
With that Parthian shot he sauntered out the way he had come, into the night.
Bestowing a glance of withering contempt on his would-be in-laws, Lucius Maro also took his departure.
‘I should see to Paulina,’ Julia said in a smothered voice. Moments later, Marcus followed her into the atrium.
Hengist and Claudia were left alone. Even the cithara had fallen silent.
‘I’m afraid I wasn’t much help to you,’ he said, ruefully.
‘Nothing’s so difficult to combat as pure malice,’ she replied. ‘I was hoping . . .’
‘Perhaps I should leave,’ he suggested when she did not go on. ‘Or at least see how Aulus fares.’
‘No, don’t leave me.’ Again, she rested her hand on his braceleted arm. ‘Forgive me. I feel suddenly alone and a little frightened.’
‘Frightened?’
‘Of Basso. Of his threats.’
‘I’m sure he exaggerates his influence with Caligula.’
‘I’m not so sure. The Emperor’s taken up his summer residence at Baiae with his uncle Claudius. Basso can be there tomorrow.’ She gave a quivering sigh. ‘Talk to me of pleasant things. What did you last see at the theatre?’
‘The Frogs.’
‘Aristophanes. I prefer tragedy. Someone like Euripides.’
He stayed at her side, chatting on various subjects and avoiding the ugly incidents they had just witnessed. Hengist was beginning to think of the long ride home, of his comfortable bed and Tassia’s welcoming arms when he heard a stifled shriek from somewhere inside the villa.
‘What was that?’
Claudia rose, suddenly restless. ‘Perhaps we should go in search of Aulus. A man of his size may have suffered apoplexy after such an assault. Bid one of the slaves bring a torch.’
The flood of flames made the light within its radius as bright as day. They wandered along the paths they had taken earlier in the evening, occasionally calling Piso’s name. Hengist stopped suddenly and pointed to a pool of red-stained vomit close to the hedge.
‘Look there, too. It’s Maro’s amphora. Basso’s been this way.’
‘Oh, poor Aulus!’ cried Claudia. ‘I should have let you come out earlier.’
‘What lies to the left?’ They had come to a break in the hedge, one path leading left, the other to the euripus and the apricot tree.
‘A circular path leading back to the dormitory of the slaves,’ she said in answer to his question.
Hengist hesitated, then decided to check the travertine bench to see if Piso had fallen asleep there. The bench was unoccupied but for two dead birds and a scattering of apricot stones. Instinct drew him onto the miniature bridge. The water below sparkled darkly, but something other than fish lay in its depths.
‘Bring the torch,’ he ordered tersely.
‘What is it?’ Claudia’s voice quavered. ‘Is it Aulus? Not drowned?’
Hengist thrust the torch down to illuminate the object below. Water rippled gently, distorting the features. An inquisitive fish darted close to nibble the corner of a staring eye.
‘It’s not Aulus,’ he said, grimly.
At the moment he spoke, a flushed and dishevelled Piso stumbled through the break in the hedge.
‘It’s Basso.’ Unconsciously, Hengist uttered the traditional ‘Hoc habet. He’s had it now.’
‘It’s as well I happened along when I did,’ observed Piso. ‘If it had been my cousin who stumbled across your discovery, you wouldn’t be alive to tell of it. This is one disaster too many for Marcus.’
It was the eerie stretch of hours between midnight and dawn when the world and mankind were at lowest ebb. The dead man had been dredged up and now lay naked in one of the cubicles. The Valerii had been gathered together in the tablinum and searchers sent out to locate Lucius Maro.
‘As it is, he’s disgruntled,’ continued Piso, ‘that I’ve turned this into an investigation instead of hu
shing it up. He thinks I’m questioning you, not confiding in you or seeking your advice.’
‘How can I be of service?’ enquired Hengist, modestly.
‘Help to convince me that Basso got drunk, fell into the euripus and drowned.’
Hengist took the lamp from Piso and studied the dead man’s face. ‘He doesn’t look like any drowned man I’ve seen after a naumachia.’
‘I forgot you’ve seen gladiators drown in those mock sea-battles. But isn’t it possible for a man to drown in water as shallow as a euripus? If he bumped his head?’
Hengist scanned the body from head to toe. ‘Help me turn him over.’
Piso complied, with a shudder. ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked, nervously.
‘Fresh wounds,’ grunted Hengist. ‘There are plenty of old scars, but no death wound. Turn him back. I want to look into his mouth.’
‘Ugh!’
‘Bring the lamp closer.’ The ex-gladiator deftly prised open the jaw. ‘The water will have washed out anything in his teeth or on his tongue. There’s something in the back of his mouth though. Have tweezers brought from the bathhouse. I want to see what it is.’
Piso swallowed before he put the next question. ‘Do you suspect murder?’
‘Don’t you? Why else are you holding this investigation?’
‘To discover the truth.’
‘Or divert suspicion.’ His glance wandered over the corpulent figure of his friend. ‘I see you’ve changed your robe.’
‘My dear fellow, I simply had to borrow one from Marcus. My own was in a disgusting state.’
‘Where did you go after you left the triclinium? Claudia and I searched for you.’
‘Am I really under suspicion?’ Piso was astonished.
‘You did leave the triclinium before Basso . . .’
‘To be sick after all that wine he’d forced me to imbibe. I then staggered off to the slaves’ dormitory where I lay down until the nausea passed.’
‘Did you see anyone else in the garden?’
‘I saw no one and no one saw me. Not even a slave. Of course a slave can’t give evidence unless he’s been tortured first.’
