Saturnalia

XXVI

I was so certain of discovery, I nearly leapt to my feet and prepared to go down fighting. But the vagrants astonished me. They shuffled past on the road, in ones and twos, obviously now all hobbling into Rome. It was their normal nightly migration. I had been sure I faced trauma and terror, but they had the attention span of sparrows. Starvation and drink had frayed their brains. Once I moved out of their vision, they had forgotten me.

For a long while, I lay still. One last follower came along, running in odd starts, then pausing and muttering to himself His language was vile. He was full of hate; it was unclear why. Obscenities poured from him fluidly and so profusely they became meaningless. It was the man with the flute. He began to play his only note, over and over. I waited with my eyes closed, feeling that his monotonous serenade was aimed directly at me. I supposed I could deal with a single opponent if I had to fight him, but the energy he put into cursing, and then blowing, was fierce.

I thought of that other flautist: the terrified young boy who discovered the body at the Quadrumatus house, the musician who would never raise his tibia to his lips again. Slaves don't only run from beatings. The flautist was well treated there, yet a fright like that could yet make him flee from home as the vagrants here had done; he was too fragile to last in this environment. I hoped he stayed whimpering in his cell. Silence descended. Chilled and light-headed, after a terrible day with neither food nor drink, I ventured to sit up and with clumsy fingers strapped my boots properly. I felt stiff when I stood upright, but I was otherwise mobile and tree. Tentatively, I set off walking. Soon I stopped taking care, but walked at a steady pace along the Via Appia. Occasionally I misplaced the road in the dark and meandered off the edge of the paving, but on the whole I found the solid surface and by now the winter stars were faint above me, telling me the way to Rome.

Eventually I thought I saw firelight. I would have made a detour to avoid a confrontation, but two things stopped me. By the light of the flames, I could see that whoever was having a picnic had set up their cauldron right next to the donkey I had left behind; he was still tethered exactly where I had positioned him as a marker for Clemens and Sentius. At this time of night on an open road any presence worried me. But I could hear women's voices, so I took a risk.

Any thought of controlling the situation collapsed as I reached the bonfire party. One of the figures seated on the ground reached out, threw something on the blaze, then the flames shot up several feet higher, turning a curious metallic shade of green. Dear gods. I had now stumbled across a pair of practising witches.

Too late. They had spied me and were calling out a cheery greeting; escape was impossible. I didn't believe in witches, but I knew how they operated. If I ran for it, they would change shape at once and soar after me on huge black wings, talons at the ready… I despised such lore, but by this stage I was so light-headed I was not prepared to test the truth of it.

Well done, Falco. Up to your best standard. I just hoped the worst the old mothers were up to out here was collecting herbs. Somehow I thought otherwise. Cuddled between them, this quaintly dressed couple had what was quite obviously a bucket of old bones. The spell-mixing hags were wizened and wrinkled, though after the violence of the runaways they seemed less threatening. I apologised for disturbing them; I admitted I was unsure of coven etiquette. The old women were at once sociable and welcoming. 'Sit down! Have a bite.'

Although I was starving, nothing would make me accept a ladleful from their battered cauldron. Human ears and the testicles of unhygienic animals were not my favourite cuisine. But I sat down with them – rather abruptly; I was about to collapse. 'I'm fine, thanks. The name's Falco, by the way. I'm a private informer. What do I call you ladies?'

'Our real names, or our professional ones?' Without waiting for an answer they owned up to Dora and Delia. I didn't ask whether those decent Greek appellations were their working pseudonyms. 'We are witches,' one boasted proudly. 'He's not an idiot, Delia. He can tell that by our equipment.' The enormous battered spoon with which they were stirring their thick black mixture was tied with a fillet of purple ribbon. Lying on the ground in the firelight I could see feathers and odd wisps of wool. A wooden figure boded ill for someone. A tiny model clay puppy, with a squelchy substance stuffed in each hollow eye socket, seemed destined for the magic broth. They had a metal disk, which bore symbols I preferred not to have deciphered. Dora was clutching a square bag made of old sacking, in which I had no doubt she kept offensive ingredients. I forced myself to look impressed. 'Shouldn't there be three of you?' 'Daphne couldn't come out. She had to mind her grandchildren.' 'And what's in the pot?' I quavered.

'Dung and little piggies' do-dahs mainly. Marinaded for seven nights. Beetles and blood. A pinch of lizard never does any harm. We like to use a lot of mandrake root. You have to grind it very fresh. Pulling it up by moonlight can be a bit of a fiddle, but once you get the knack, it's worth it on results.' 'Scorpion? Mare's urine? Toads?' I quavered. 'Oh yes. You can get a good smear up with toad-spawn.' The Emperor Augustus, that spoilsport busybody, had tried to eliminate witchcraft. Unusually, his method was to persuade court poets to portray witches behaving horrendously. Legislation by literature. Organisation by ode. Those imperial creeps, Horace and Virgil, both rushed to suck up to their emperor. Horace wrote a revolting poem about a boy who was buried up to his neck in the ground by filthy witches, beside a bowl of food he could not reach, and starved to death so his enlarged liver could be used in a love potion. 'Got a girlfriend? We can knock you up a quick philtre while our main brew simmers,' Dora offered. 'I don't go in for love potions. Why lure lovers by secret spells? I prefer women who fling themselves upon me out of heartfelt lust…' 'Get a lot of that, do you?' sneered Delia, though her sarcasm was mild. Something moved close by and I started.

'That's only Zoilus – he won't hurt you.' When Dora told me, I recognised the pale shadow that had crept up close unnoticed. The ghoul was jerking his arms like wings, holding up his pallid garments on pointed fingers. The witch turned towards him and let out a cry: 'Leave us alone or I'll bake you in a curse cake! Bugger off, Zoilus!' At once, the unburied man-bat swooped off obediently. Conversation flagged. Exhaustion had taken hold of me; I was sinking. I dared not nod off, or I might be transformed into something; it was bound to be one of the animals or birds I loathed. 'I enjoyed your green fire. Can we have another quick burst?' I asked. Maybe someone would see the light and come to rescue me.

'Oh, green fire is totally outmoded, darling. Delia only does it to calm her poor nerves. Bats' eyes, now; bats' eyes never go out of fashion. Tricky, though; ever tried making a bat keep still long enough to pull its eyes out? And bones of course.' Dora rattled her bucket. 'Bones,' she repeated thoughtfully. 'Can't get them so much nowadays. Modem cremation methods sadly don't help us, and the bereaved relatives generally break up any big bones so the ashes will fit those awful streamlined urns. Cheapskates.'

'No it's just overcrowding,' Delia said. 'They all want to save space because they're running out of shelves in the tombs, darling. Only neat little urns will fit.'

'Tragic!' agreed Dora, morosely twisting locks of her hair in her filthy fingers. The braids appeared to be wound with rags instead of the traditional snakes. I refrained from asking about it. She was bound to bemoan the impossibility of getting hold of serpents nowadays and I knew I would fail to keep a straight face.

Our fire-lit social gathering was ridiculous, but I never entirely lose sight of a mission. Since we were all on good terms, I asked Hecate's sisters whether they had ever come across another woman with infernal aims: I told them as much as I could about Veleda.

'Don't know her. We never mingle in society much,' pouted Delia. She had a good hooked nose, though something about it made me wonder if it was glued on for the occasion. Women dress up to go out on the razzle in their own ways… Dora had the warts. She also had the second sight. 'You'll regret getting involved with that one, dearie!'

'Believe me, I already do. Well, if you do run into her, try to resist any claims of sisterhood. Don't trust her; she's trouble. Just find me and tell me.'

'Oh we will!' they assured me, insisting that they were both completely patriotic. This was like talking to a pair of elderly aunties who had been sipping at the festival wine since breakfast. They reminded me of several of mine. I had been at weddings where the conversation was much crazier than this. 'You know everyone, don't you?' I suggested. Well, they knew Zoilus, of the unburied dead. He was hardly a social conquest to boast of 'Have you ever come across people from the Temple of Жsculapius while you've been wandering around with your bucket of bones? I understand they go out ministering to the homeless at night.'

'That's what they call it!' Dora huffed. 'Pottering up lanes, looking for sleepers in doorways and offering them herbal infusions they don't want – A man started it, years ago, but some woman does all the work nowadays.' She went off into a private rant: 'What most people don't understand, Falco, is that when you pop into the apothecary for a purge powder, all you get is only the same as we offer – but without the benefit of incantations. They are amateurs. We're specialists. They use exactly the same ingredients. It takes mystic preparation to produce a decent medicine…' This complaint went on for a long time. I needed to get away. I asked if I could have the donkey. The witches were disappointed to learn that he was mine, but soon became anxious that my time had overrun at the hire stables and I might have to pay a penalty. Apparently they had been hoping to kill the mangy beast, flay him, and use various dried pieces in their spells; however, theft was not their style and as soon as they realised I had a legitimate claim they helped me climb into the saddle. I felt a moment of anxiety, thinking they might grope me. But I did them wrong. Delia and Dora were far too gracious to indulge, even when tempted by a man wearing only a skimpy undertunic because his other clothes had been stolen.

I offered what money I still had as a reward for their honesty, but they refused all payment.

The donkey would not budge when I told him to walk. Dora tapped him on the nose with the cauldron ladle. She uttered one word in an extremely ugly language; he whinnied and shot away so fast, I nearly catapulted off I called breathless goodbyes as Delia cackled. The donkey had left a good pile of dung behind; Dora was engrossed in collecting it into her sack.

I clung to the reins and gripped with my knees, yearning for my lost clothes to keep me from freezing. I didn't care too much about the lack of dignity, though I admit I was showing more than is usually considered proper for a ride across town.

After his retraining with the ladle, the donkey trotted along so efficiently that soon I saw the familiar outline of the Appian Gate. The long nightmare was ending. I was going home.