Food for the Fishes

2

Me, I’m an early riser by nature, at least when I haven’t been out on a binge. My wife Perilla’s different, and as for Mother dawn’s something she might just know about in theory but as far as first-hand experience goes you can forget it. Add to that that in pleasure-loving Baiae Rome’s holidaymaking creme de la creme are snoring in their socks until the crack of noon and you’ll understand that breakfast tends to happen pretty late.

We’d been here five days now and I’d settled into a routine: up just after first light, a walk to the harbour through the practically-empty town — the villa was on the far edge, on the Puteoli side, but Baiae isn’t a big place — or along the beach, then back in time for the rolls and honey. Early morning’s the best time for walking in this part of the world. It’s cooler, for a start, and like I say there’s no one around barring the slaves clearing up after the parties of the night before and the local fishermen who keep the restaurants along the bay supplied with the huge amount of seafood they get through every evening. Plus the fact that later in the day the place — especially down by the prom, where Rome’s gilded beauties go to see and be seen — is heaving with cut-glass accents and primped exquisites of all sexes taking their pet sparrows for walkies. There’re plenty of secluded wineshops around to duck into, sure, and I’d tried a few the first couple of days, but they just set my teeth on edge: overpriced wine, pretentious decor and a conversational background that would’ve disgraced a self-respecting parrot. Zethus’s might have its faults — Alcis was one of them — but at least there you didn’t get powdered-and-perfumed darlings seriously discussing the chicest colour for litter curtains or sniggering over their previous night’s host’s oh-so-last-month choice of dinner menu. And that was just the males.

For anyone who was anyone, Baiae in July might be the place to be, sure, but I was tired of it already.

Perilla and Mother were out on the terrace and started when I arrived back. Perilla can really pack it away at breakfast time, especially when she’s on holiday, and she was tucking into a plateful of cheese, eggs and olives. Mother had her usual gunk in front of her: currently, a bowl of goat’s milk curds flavoured with fruit juice and honey. Jupiter knows why she hasn’t poisoned herself years ago, but she looks fit enough. And for someone who must be pushing sixty a face and a body like that shouldn’t be allowed, so maybe she has something after all.

‘Good morning, Marcus,’ Perilla said. ‘Did you have a nice walk?’

‘Yeah. It was okay.’ I slid onto the couch next to her and planted a smacker on her cheek as she reached for another olive. ‘Stepfather not around yet?’

‘No, he isn’t,’ Mother said tartly. ‘He’s indisposed. Good morning, dear.’

I glanced at her. Uh-oh; with Mother you didn’t get that tone very often, but when you did it meant trouble.

Bathyllus shimmered over. We’d done a deal, Mother and me. If the two families were going on holiday together — and it wasn’t my idea, believe me — we’d trade off in the bought help department. Two sets of domestics in the same house was a recipe for disaster: the clash of interests and personalities would’ve put more blood on the walls inside of five minutes than you’d get in half a dozen of Euripides’s best, and nerves scraped to screaming rawness ain’t exactly conducive to a quiet time by the seaside. I got to bring our major-domo Bathyllus while she had her chef Phormio. Not that the arrangement was perfect, mind, because Phormio is to cooking what an asp in a basket of figs is to a lucky dip, but before we clinched the deal I’d got the bastard alone by the pickled onions and promised him there’d be hell to pay at the first wobbler. Disguising food to look like something it isn’t may be good Roman culinary practice, but lamb chops made of turnip I can do without.

‘Hot roll, sir?’ Bathyllus proferred a plate. Yeah, well; that was one thing. The little bald-head is an arch-snob, and the combination of buttling for Mother and being here in Baiae at the hub of the social universe had done wonders for his style. I took one and reached for the honey.

‘He isn’t well?’ I said. ‘Priscus, I mean?’

Mother sniffed. ‘He has a headache.’

I glanced at Perilla, but the lady was studiously cutting the rind off her cheese. There was something more than slightly screwy here. Mother’s husband Titus Helvius Priscus might be pushing seventy-five and look twice that on a good day, but he was a spry old bugger, and ill was something he didn’t get. Also, Mother fussed over him like a hen with a day-old chick, and the way she’d said ‘headache’ didn’t exactly ooze sympathy.

‘Self-induced,’ she added.

I nearly dropped the honey-dish in pure shock. ‘What?’

‘Seemingly he came rolling in at one in the morning tripping over the furniture, Marcus,’ Perilla said, still busy with the cheese and not looking at me. ‘Naturally, Vipsania thought it was you — ’

‘Oh, thanks a bunch!’

‘- until she realised Priscus’s side of the bed was empty. Then, of course, he came upstairs and there was no doubt.’

Bacchus on a seesaw! I didn’t believe this! ‘Priscus?’ I said. ‘You’re kidding!’

‘Marcus, dear, I do not,’ Mother sniffed again, ‘kid. Ever. You’re at the back of the house; you wouldn’t have heard him.’

‘But Priscus doesn’t even drink! At least, no more than a cup in an evening.’

‘Evidently he does now. And it took considerably more than a cup to get him into that state.’

‘Fried as a newt,’ Perilla murmured.

I glanced suspiciously at her ears. They were bright red, and she was keeping her head well down over the cheese. Yeah, well, I suppose it was funny, but all the same for Priscus to come home drunk was about as likely as a crayfish tap-dancing the length of the Baian sea-front.

‘Did he say anything?’ I said.

‘Not at the time.’ Mother set down her spoon. ‘Or nothing very intelligible. Bar the singing. That was intelligible enough for me, or most of it was, unfortunately. After the fourth verse he climbed into bed fully clothed and went straight to sleep.’

‘Uh…what about this morning? When he woke up?’

‘We exchanged a few words.’ Ouch! ‘Then he said he had a headache and I came down to breakfast.’

‘Ah. Uh…fine. Fine.’ I picked up the roll and honeyed it in the sudden ensuing silence. ‘So you don’t know where — ?’

‘No, I don’t!’ Mother snapped. ‘The only thing I know is that he went into town after dinner, ostensibly to see an antiquarian friend of his whom I do not know. A man called Leonides. They were planning, I think, to discuss Siculan oil-lamps.’

‘Right.’ Yeah, that sounded more like Priscus: put the old bugger in the sin capital of the empire and spend the evening discussing Siculan oil-lamps is just what he’d do. Only evidently this time he hadn’t. No one gets fried as a newt discussing Siculan oil-lamps, not even in Baiae. ‘You’ve, uh…Priscus has been to Baiae before. This the first time it’s happened?’ That got me a wordless glare that would’ve fricasseed a squid. ‘Yeah. Yeah, okay. So maybe he wasn’t drunk. Maybe it was just…ah…overexcitement.’

‘About the Siculan oil-lamps,’ Perilla murmured. I shot her a look.

‘Marcus, I’m not a fool,’ Mother said. ‘Of course he was drunk. I could smell the wine half way across the room.’

‘So, uh, what are you going to do about it? I mean, the guy’s — ’

‘I am not going to do anything. Personally, I don’t trust myself. You are going to talk to him. When he’s fully sober and compos mentis, that is.’

Oh, shit. The first part, fine, but where Priscus was concerned the second would take until the Greek kalends. ‘Look, Mother — ’

‘This is your department, dear. You’re male and the wine-drinker in the family. You have experience of these things. You can tell Titus that I’ll accept any reasonable explanation so long as it is accompanied by a grovelling apology and an assurance that it will not happen again.’ She stood up. ‘Now. When he has recovered from his hangover sufficiently to behave in a civilised fashion, and when you’ve had your little talk, he’ll find me in the library. Possibly.’

She left.

I looked sideways at Perilla. She was still paring bits off her piece of cheese, even though the rind was long gone, and her ears hadn’t lightened any in colour.

‘You, uh, think we could make it as far as Puteoli and get a boat east before she misses us?’ I said.

‘I wish I’d seen — ’ She stopped and turned towards me, her shoulders shaking. Two seconds later we were hugging each other and helpless.

‘It’s not funny,’ I gasped eventually.

‘No.’ Perilla hiccuped, reached for her napkin and dried her eyes. ‘No, it isn’t. Vipsania’s very upset. What do you think got into him?’

‘About three pints of wine, by the sound of things.’

She giggled. ‘Don’t start me off again! I’ve been trying not to laugh ever since she told me. But Priscus? Marcus, it doesn’t make sense.’

‘Yeah, right.’ I glanced up at the first-floor window where Mother and Priscus’s bedroom was. The shutters were still closed, but he’d had his long lie. Ah, well, no point in putting things off; I’d have to do it some time. And Priscus with a hangover headache couldn’t be all that much woolier than the old bugger was normally. Which reminded me. ‘Hey, Bathyllus!’ I yelled.

He soft-shoed over: Bathyllus has the major-domo’s trick of always being in call but never being obvious. Me, I think the process has something to do with Democritus’s theory of shifting atoms, but that’s only a theory.

‘That hangover cure you put together,’ I said. ‘Could you whip one up for me?’

‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’

Not a blink: we were still getting the perfect butler act. Still, I’d back the Bathyllus Bombshell against any hangover in existence. I’d never asked him what was in it — some things it’s better not to know, especially when you’re going to be drinking the stuff — but it worked like a charm.

What it tasted like, mind, was something else again.

I knocked on the door, waited for an answer that didn’t come, and opened it. With the shutters closed the room was in total darkness. Careful not to spill the Bombshell — what it’d do to the floor tiles was anyone’s guess — I went over to where the fine lines of sunlight showed and unlatched the bar. Light streamed in.

‘Hey, Priscus,’ I said to the lump on the bed. ‘Wakey wakey!’

‘Mmmaaa!’

Well, at least he was alive and bleating. ‘Come on, pal! Show a leg.’ I thought again. ‘Or maybe don’t show a leg. Just sit up, okay?’

For a wonder, he did. The old Egyptian embalmers might’ve appreciated the next bit, but it scared the willies off me.

‘That you, Marcus?’

‘Yeah.’ I shoved the Bombshell into his unprotesting hand. Get them to drink it while they’re suggestible and before their nose gets into gear. ‘Put that down you.’

He sank the full cupful without a murmur. I felt my scrotum contract in sympathy as I waited for the inevitable reaction…

It never came.

‘Quite good, my boy. Thank you.’

I stared at him. ‘You liked it?’ This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go.

‘Shouldn’t I have? It was very refreshing. Certainly tastier than Phormio’s usual breakfast drink. What was it?’

‘Uh…how’s your headache?’

‘Headache? What headache?’

‘Mother said you had a headache.’

He blinked back at me numbly. I’ve never quite been able to work old Priscus out. On the one hand, he’s got about the same mental grasp of what’s going on around him as a codfish has of fretwork, but on the other under normal circumstances he can twist my mother round his little finger. And Mother, for all her society ways, is a seriously sharp cookie.

‘Not so’s you’d notice, Marcus.’

‘Fine. Fine.’ Leave it. There was a stool by the wall. I pulled it up. ‘Okay. Business. You like to tell me what exactly happened yesterday evening?’

That got me another blink. ‘I went to Leonides’s.’

‘Yeah, right. So I gather. Who’s Leonides?’

‘An old friend. We’ve corresponded for years. He collects Siculan oil-lamps.’

‘Uh-huh.’ I shifted on my stool. Check; so far, so good, but we weren’t there yet. ‘How about Baian wine jars?’

‘I…mmmaaa!..don’t quite catch your meaning, my boy.’

I sighed. ‘Look, Priscus, no one gets smashed out of their skull discussing Siculan oil-lamps. Okay, so maybe it was the guy’s birthday and he invited you to split a jug or two. It happens. You’re not used to the stuff, it’d be natural for you to — ’

‘Oh, but Leonides doesn’t drink! It brings on his trouble.’

‘Fine.’ Scratch that one, then, without further amplification. It seemed we were in for an uphill struggle here, and I’d need all my patience. ‘So let’s skip the oil-lamps. What happened then?’

‘He has a fascinating collection. Quite unique. Do you realise that the number of early Siculan oil-lamps still extant is only in the region of — ?’

‘Forget the fu-’ I caught myself. ‘Forget the oil-lamps, Priscus. I’m trying to save your guts here. So you left Leonides’s hundred-per-cent sober. What happened next?’

‘I…mmmaaa!..dropped in somewhere on the way home.’

Now we were getting to it. ‘Uh-huh. What kind of somewhere?’

‘A little place by the baths. Serving drinks and…other things. It sounded quite jolly in passing and I thought I’d stop for a quick cup of warm milk and wormwood.’

‘Warm milk and, uh, wormwood.’

‘Yes. After all, my boy, I am on holiday. Only they didn’t seem to have that, so to be polite I had a cup of wine instead.’ He grinned at me like a louche tortoise. ‘I’ve never been inside one of these places before. It was quite…mmmaaa!…fascinating. Then I got into conversation with a very charming girl from Alexandria — ’

Oh, shit.

‘- who, would you believe it, Marcus, had never been inside the library there in her life! Mind you, she’d been lots of other places. Talking to her was quite an eye-opener.’

Yeah, I’d bet it was. Jupiter in a handcart! ‘And, uh, she kept you drinking, right? After that first cup?’

‘Oh, I had to keep her company.’ There was the louche tortoise look again. ‘Fortunately I’d just been to our bankers. Wine is very expensive here, isn’t it? Then before I knew it it was closing time and we all had to go home. She offered me a bed for the night but I thought Vipsania might worry, so I declined.’

I looked at him and he smiled blandly back. I had my suspicions of Priscus. No one could be that dumb and live. Yeah, well, it was none of my business, really. If the old bugger wanted to kick over the traces, so far as it was possible at his age, then fine. He’d been lucky, though: they’d just skinned him, not rolled him and dumped what was left in an alley. ‘Well, so long as you’re really sorry it happened,’ I said, ‘Mother’s — ’

‘Oh, but I’m not sorry at all, my boy!’ The smile became a beam. ‘What gave you that idea? I had a marvellous evening! Very entertaining!’

‘Uh…Priscus…’

‘I really should get out more often. You must join me next time. You’d be amazed.’

‘Yeah, I probably would, at that.’ Next time. Gods! What had we unleashed here? I hesitated, weighing possibilities. ‘Priscus, listen to me, pal. Perhaps where Mother’s concerned we should stick with the Leonides’s birthday idea, okay? And maybe play down the enjoyment factor? Plus I wouldn’t…ah…mention the other place at all.’

‘Or the girl? She really was quite…mmmaaa!..’

‘Especially the girl.’ I stood up. ‘You with me?’ It was always just as well to check on these things. Priscus’s chain of reasoning skipped a few links at the best of times.

‘Of course. If you think it’s best.’ He frowned. ‘Only — ’

‘Trust me,’ I said. ‘This way you might escape with surface burns. Mention the cat-house and the girl and you’re cooked. Mother’s expecting you in the library for an explanation. Once there, you’re on your own. You want me to send Bathyllus up with some breakfast first?’

‘Oh, indeed! I think I could manage an egg this morning. Lightly boiled.’

Lightly boiled. Yeah, that’d make two of them…

I went downstairs.

That afternoon we took the carriage to Cumae. Priscus and Mother were pretty quiet, then and at dinner later, but whatever the old bugger had said he seemed to have smoothed the thing over. After dinner I went along the beach to Zethus’s. There was only one topic of conversation, but that was a show-stopper.

Licinius Murena had been murdered.