Saturnalia

XVII

‘You are joking, Albia? You cannot seriously mean, not only do I have to search for a missing murder suspect, and my missing brother-in-law – but now I must waste yet more time and effort looking for a dog?'

'I cannot go; you do not let me roam outside.' That never stopped her when she wanted to buy cinnamon cakes.

Albia spent a lot of time imagining she was a princess, among whose accessories was a noble hunting hound, a role she crazily assigned to Nux; the little dog just let her get on with it. Albia loved Nux. Nux returned the favour. To the rest of us my pet was a scruffy, often stinky bundle, whose matted, multicoloured fur nobody would willingly investigate closely. Nux was friendly and full of life, but she had no pedigree. She had adopted me. She came from the streets and saw me as a soft touch. She was right, too. Nobody who had a choice would let Nux into their home. I took in the dog, and later I took in Albia, because their lives at the time were even worse than my own. Besides, in both cases, I blamed Helena. She wanted to believe she was in love with a generous person, a benefactor of the oppressed. She had willed me to do it. Both times. 'Poor Nuxie was upset when the soldiers came, Marcus Didius.' 'Have the bastards mistreated her?' 'No, but she doesn't understand why they are all in her house.' 'She'll come home of her own accord.' 'How can you be so heartless? The streets are wild with revellers – she will be terrified!'

Infected by Albia's agitation, both my children began wailing. Julia and Favonia, two fine little tragic actresses, were clutching Nux's favourite toys and looking piteous. Needless to say, I soon found myself promising to go out and find the lost doggie. Trusting young faces beamed at heroic Papa, expecting miracles. Albia came with me. I think she suspected I would bunk off to a wine bar. (No, sweetheart; that was last night.) Eventually, when we had walked all the local streets and alleys, feeling like fools as we called the dog's name, I got sick of being jumped at by revellers in fancy dress who then ran off whooping. I marched to the vigiles' patrol house, and asked to see Petronius. Albia stuck with me, glaring balefully.

'Petro – I want you to tell the men to look out for my dog, please. Don't say anything!'

Petronius Longus eyed up the situation; saw I was being supervised; saw that this was not my own idea. He revelled in my discomfiture. 'You mean, Falco, my hard-pressed lads are to ignore all the arsonists, plotters, market-trashers, temple-defilers, robbers, rapists and heartless killers -' 'I said, don't say anything.' 'What – not even, I hope you've come to collect your dog?'