Saturnalia (8 page)

XIV

Being tracked was always dangerous. I never underestimated the risk. Whether it was general muggers emerging from unlit alleys, hoping to follow some lump of off-guard after-dinner flab and snatch his purse along with his fine linen banquet napkin, or whether it was thugs trailing me specifically for reasons connected with a case, I treated them all as potential killers. Never ignore the half-seen shadow you try to convince yourself was nothing; you may very well end up with an assassin's knife sliding under your ribs. That cart being driven erratically in a road where carts don't normally deliver may have a driver who is planning to run you down. The faint noise overhead may be a heavy flowerpot falling down accidentally--or a pot someone has pushed over with a view to crushing your head. It may be three men dropping down on you from a balcony.

'Hey, Falco!'

Even before I pinpointed them, I knew I was being hunted by Germans. I had recognised the accent. Not the ex-bodyguards. The voice belonged to a younger man. At the breathy shout from my left, I spun around and checked my right. Long practice.

No one rushed me. Two quick steps had me with my back against a house wall. As I scanned around, I pulled my knife from my boot.

My mind raced. I was in the enclave between the Fourth and Sixth Districts. The High Lanes. Not as elegant and lofty as they sound. Somewhere close to the Porta Saluta, named for the Temple of Salus, or well-being. About to be very unhealthy for me.

I knew nobody in these streets. Had no idea where the nearest vigiles station was. Could not rely on local stallholders. Was unsure of the configuration of local lanes and back doubles, if I had to make a run for it... I identified the Germans. Several, and they looked tough.

People were about. A woman stood outside a shop with two young children; she was gazing at produce--knives? cushions? pastries?--while the little girl tugged her skirts, whining to go home.

Businessmen were arguing lazily but long-windedly on a corner. A slave wheeled a handcart laden with cabbages, pretending not to notice when he dropped one and it rolled away. Two dogs stopped sniffing each other and stared at me. Only they had spotted my sudden movement and sensed something interesting was about to occur.

In the brief pause, one of the dogs walked over to the lost cabbage, which was still slowly rolling, and put his nose down to it as the vegetable teetered on the edge of the kerb then toppled down into the gutter. The cabbage gave a lop-sided lurch, and covered itself with muddy water. The dog licked it, then looked up at me, his curiosity on the wane. The other dog barked once, just making a point about who owned the street.

My heart was pounding. 'Hey, Falco!'

Taller than me by several inches and heavier by many pounds, three fair-haired men in their thirties stood in a loose group a few strides away. They had seen my knife. They looked faintly sheepish. I refused to be fooled.

'Hello. I am Ermanus,' offered the spokesman. He smiled at me. I did not smile back.

They were well built with heavy bellies; they looked raffish and untidy, but much harder than the old slugs t had been talking to earlier. These large boys went to the gym. If you punched those paunches, your fist would bounce off solid flesh, too fat, but supported by muscle. The black leather straps holding in their guts would barely give, and the metal studs in those workmanlike straps and five-inch belts would break your knuckles. If you hit these men, you would only have yourself to blame. They would fight back--and they would have had practice. Their biceps were bursting below their short, taut tunic sleeves. They had calves like military gateposts.

'You're Falco?' Ermanus now almost sounded tentative. Not true. In case anyone failed to find him frightening, dark blue patterns in woad wreathed all over his arms. His comrades were equally menacing. None of them wore cloaks, despite the cold. They wanted everyone to see how hard they were.

'Don't come any closer!'

'We just need a word...' Every landlord's enforcer, every master villain's back-up gang, every curmudgeon with a cudgel I had ever encountered said that.
We just need a word.
. . Dear gods, when would the world's brutes change their script? It was ridiculous when what they all meant was: shut up, don't call attention to us, just give in and lie down in the road quietly while we kick you insensible. Most of them were illiterate. Holding a conversation was the last thing any of the bastards really had in mind.

I shifted my balance. 'You stay right there. What do you want?' 'You've been talking with our old fellows.'

'I was talking. Your old fellows were unresponsive. What of it?' 'Was it about a woman?'

'It may have been.' Or it may not. Or maybe I am not allowed to say. Thank you, Laeta, for putting me in this stupid position. Let me know how I can make
you
look like an idiot some day.

'From Germania Libera?'

I wondered if the heavyweights were lusting after her--but I was starting to suspect that was the wrong scenario.

'I am searching for a woman from Free Germany, yes. Can you give me information?' I looked at them. They looked at me. 'If! I find her--and find her quickly--there may be a reward.' If I really did find her, I was confident Laeta would pay whatever I had to negotiate. He would have to. I would not hand her over until he covered any debts.

'She came calling on the old fellows.' They were not after a reward. It all emerged without prompting. 'Someone had told her they were from her region and she begged for assistance. They refused to have anything to do with her.'

'Do you know where she went afterwards?' No. 'You followed me--why not follow her? She used to be beautiful.' I was picking up hints now that the fabulous priestess held no appeal for Ermanus and his muscular pals. 'When was it she came calling? And this is important--what was her condition?'

'A week ago. She was desperate. And she said she was ill.'

'Very
ill? Enough to mention it--so how ill?'

'The old fellows thought she was playing on their sympathy.' First Phryne, the old freedwoman at the Quadrumatus villa, now her compatriots; either Veleda was faking, as Phryne suspected, or she had terrible luck when she sought help. I hoped she was not genuinely sick. I could not afford to have her keeling over from a neglected disease. Rome has its moral standards. We care for our special prisoners right up to the moment when we execute them.

'What did you think?' They shrugged. Total uninterest. I pressed them for further information, but they were stringing me along, trying to keep my attention; trying, I realised with foreboding, to detain me. I was starting to think this was a soft kind of ambush.

'Well,' I said. Best not to feel too outraged by the situation I now suspected. 'Thank you for telling me she turned up. It lets me know she had not found help at that stage. There was no need for you to try and scare me witless, creeping up like that.'

'We like the look of you, Falco. We know some people who are having a party tonight--' I had prised the truth out of them. 'Music, good food, entertainment--there will be drinking a lot, and playing around... Much fun. Much relaxation. Want to come along?'

I had a good idea what kind of party this relaxing hop would be. I understood now. The Rhineland fun-lovers with the leatherwork and studs were just looking for a new playmate.

'Sorry, blue eyes.' I tried to let them down gently. 'I don't get out much to orgies these days. I'm married, and I need to be at home. I have to ensure the wife doesn't get the taste again for her old wild ways.'

'There will be women!' Ermanus promised, while his two friends nodded, still begging me to change my mind. 'Hot women, Falco!' An alarming vision hit me of what kind of women would associate with these fruity party-lovers. There would be animal furs. People wearing tails. Skimpy costumes that ended where clothes ought to start. I wondered if they would have pastries in the form of male genitalia and drinks made with poppy sap. There were bound to be pornographic lamps.

I could hardly bear to say it: 'Don't tell me--it's a nymphs-and-satyrs party!' They looked amazed that I knew. 'Too much for me, Ermanus. My sciatica holds me back these days. It's always good to be wanted--but no, thanks!'

I walked on, still aware of being followed--but now only by three wistful gazes.

XV

Dear gods, I hadn't been invited to a nymphs-and-satyrs party since I was seventeen. The only time I plucked up the courage to go to one, my sister Victorina (who had organised it) inadvertently let out the secret, so all our aunts turned up. As a result it was not quite the occasion Victorina had hoped.

Feeling old, I carried on home. Lunch with the wife. To whom, though I told her all about the traders and the ex-bodyguards, I somehow made no mention of my newfound happy mends. Still, I could tell Petronius. Or perhaps not. He would want the address of the party 'for security reasons'.

Helena Justina had had a useful, though frustrating morning. She had started by providing Clemens with a map of the city, which she divided into segments for his men to search. Since none of them had ever been to Rome before, she tried to show the soldiers where they were in relation to the map: 'You would think that would be easy,' raged Helena, 'since we live beside the river--I had marked the river in blue ink, and put a big cross byour house so they could find their way back... I could tell they didn't understand it. Juno, I don't know how legionaries survive on campaign!'

'A tribune tells them where they are,' I explained gravely. 'They are given orders when to march, and when to stop, and when to eat, and when to sleep, and when to fart and when to blow their nose.'

'They will never find Veleda.'

'Even if they do, darling, will they find their way back home with her?'

'I notice
you
didn't involve yourself in telling them anything, Marcus. '

Quite right. I had met legionaries before.

'Maybe we'll never see them again,' growled Helena hopefully. 'They will be home for supper,' I said. 'Will there be any?' Luckily there would. After the map episode, Helena had worn herself out further taking two soldiers and Jacinthus, our sleepy so-called cook, to market for provisions. I had exempted myself from that task too, again with foresight. As I had promised her, the two soldiers then proved themselves perfectly happy left in the kitchen with big knives, pans and buckets, preparing food. With a strange kind of patience, they were showing Jacinthus how it was supposed to be done. He just stared, as po-faced as ever. Galene, however, our other new slave, had abandoned the children and was watching, entranced, everything the soldiers did. When I looked in, she was examining a long curl of apple peel. Gaudus was elbow deep in pastry, complaining that our milled flour was gritty, discussing the virtues of cinnamon (if you could afford it), and arranging for Galene to escort him to the local baker so he could get his pies baked. Scaurus was searing meat in a pannikin and did not wish to be disturbed.

A tray had been made up with our lunch on it, so I grabbed the tray and carried it to our dining room. Obviously we householders were expected to set an example by eating formally. How formally was a surprise: slices of cold meat had been laid out with military correctness on a serving platter, decorated with neatly halved eggs; each knife was set at a thirty-degree angle on a folded serviette with a bread roll; there were six black olives per person, plus two gherkins; the water jug had been buffed like a lady's hand mirror.

Helena calmed down grudgingly. We found the children. Julia was playing farms with Favonia's little horse-shaped pottery feeding bottle. Favonia was gnawing the leg of a stool. In her own room, our foster-daughter Albia was laughing as she read through a letter; I had no idea who her correspondent was, but if a teenaged girl has a smile on her face instead of the normal filthy scowl, in my view you think yourself lucky and leave well alone. Helena acquired a thoughtful expression, however, rubbing her forehead abstractedly with the back of her hand, like a woman who already has enough to cope with. I grinned reassuringly. As usual, that made her look more anxious.

'Where's the dog?'

'Hiding. Probably in your bed.'

Helena and I then assembled with Albia and the children in the dining room, though we did not start to eat. Helena sat silent, and I knew why she was uncomfortable.

'Something is not right here, Marcus.'

'Too perfect. They are taking us for idiots.'

'I'll go--'

'No, leave it to me. I'll deal with it.'

'Oh I love it when you play-act as the father of the family...'

I went back to the
kitchen.
Nobody heard me
coming,
so I found them all stretched out on benches, ensconced with mounded bowls of double rations, clearly set in for a siesta they expected to extend all afternoon. A flagon that did not contain water slid its way back on to a shelf and looked innocent, just as I entered. I pretended I had not noticed. Gaudus, for one, was sharp enough to know I had seen it.

'Now look here. In our house we don't have "them and us". I run a benevolent democracy. Our slaves are loved and part of our family; so are army visitors. Helena Justina and I would like to implement a slight adjustment, therefore: Galene and Jacinthus, Gaudus and Scaurus, either you four come and join us decently for lunch, or I'll have to bring the tray right back and the rest of us will come down here.'

Four pairs of hostile eyes stared back at me. I stood my ground and told them to collect cutlery. They knew I was on to them.

I was a Roman. Just as Helena kept the keys to the store-cupboards--which from now on, she really would have to hold in a bunch on her belt--I was the master: father of all the household, priest, judge and king. I would not allow ganging-up in the kitchen. There were damn good reasons for running an establishment the Roman way: it prevented riot and bankruptcy.

We all had lunch very pleasantly together as a family.

Helena warned me afterwards, we must ensure that none of those four won the bean to be King-for-a-Day at Saturnalia, or they might retaliate with more misrule than we could handle. I returned a genial smile. I was king all the other days. And I myself was determined to allocate that bean.