The Ides of April

LII

I lost him. He must have merged into the crowd.

By the time I caught up myself, I could see Tiberius looking back anxiously from the chariot, as if he had glimpsed our quarry or some other risk. The vehicle jerked to a sudden stop again; the Baubo actor was once more trying to earn his fee. Being re-enacted now was a traditional scene where the old crone groaned as if in the desperate pangs of childbirth (helped by the crowd chorusing along with "Heave!"), then lifted up her skirts to reveal her privates (was that what amused Ceres? — she must be easily tickled). Baubo then produced a child of Ceres' own-represented tonight for extra comic effect by a swaddled piglet. The dialogue was as refined as the events. Laia Gratiana looked pained, but was encouraged to smile by raucous spectators who did not know she was too snooty.

I had more to worry about. The mob had increased here, including a boy I recognised with horror. He had climbed halfway up a column on a fire porch for a better view and was hanging there by one arm. At least it meant I noticed him. Watching wide-eyed, with all his solemn, curious intelligence, was young Postumus. He was carefully absorbing every detail, taking in every obscenity. Dear gods, my terrible brother had a waxed tablet and stylus; despite his perilous position, he was writing down the jokes. Baubo had noticed and was looking furious at the breach of copyright.

Someone else saw this too. Postumus had not spotted Andronicus, but Andronicus had fixed on him. I suddenly made out the archivist, beginning to move purposely towards my brother.

I was too far away. I tried shouting but there was too much general noise. I began to push through the crowd, assailed by smells and grabbing hands, using my torch to clear a space. There was little room to swing it but I stabbed a few feet and ribs in passing.

I saw an arm grab Postumus from below. Sick with fear, I jumped up on a large pot outside a shop, only to see it was Tiberius, with Morellus close behind him. Postumus was pulled down, furiously wriggling as he lost his note tablet. Relief surged, as I watched my brother flung hand to hand like a victim being rescued from a blazing building, in the classic vigiles manoeuvre. Somewhere at the end of that line, Postumus would receive a dressing-down. If Morellus had told his men who Postumus was, he would be escorted home, in the hope of a moneybag from our grateful parents. If Papa had been happily organising his wine cellar, they might even get one.

Andronicus had vanished again. I began pushing this way and that, searching. I heard Morellus call to some of his men, "Keep looking for Ginger!" and I reached Tiberius and Morellus. Frantic gestures indicated where Andronicus must be, so we butted our way in that direction. He must have leapt among the pavement paraphernalia outside a shop, kicking over a large jar of tallow for lamps. It smelt awful and as it spilled across the road, the cobbles had become slippery. People were also throwing nuts now, purposely trying to sting others with the hard little missiles.

The chariot slumped then set off again, once more helped by the crowd. Now they took up the Baubo episode's cry of "Heave!" as if the vehicle's painful momentum shadowed the birth process. It was a larger crowd, they pushed much harder, and as the lumbering vehicle swayed like a baby suddenly slithering out of its mother, one of the men in snake costumes at the front lost his footing on the spilt tallow. He fell, screaming in agony as a wheel ran over him. The chariot lurched spectacularly, then its axle collapsed.

Laia and Marcia were thrown out. The Amazons rushed to stand on guard over Laia, while Morellus strode across, grabbed Marcia and pulled her into the entrance to an apartment block. Closer to me, Tiberius had finally homed in on Andronicus. I scrambled after, treading on or elbowing anybody in my way. Just as Tiberius reached him, the runner's boot slid on a scatter of nuts. He was careering so fast he could not stop himself; he sprawled full length on the cobbles. Andronicus dropped onto him, punching him repeatedly with a fast, full arm stretch. The winded runner could barely protect himself. I still had the torch, so I ran straight in, swinging it as a weapon in wide arcs.

"Andronicus! Take on a woman, why don't you?"

Rearing backwards, away from the naked flame, he only just kept his feet. I was extremely angry and wanted him to know it. Prettied up at Prisca's and in my finery, I must have made a wild vision. He looked shaken.

Brandishing the torch, I really was trying to set fire to him. I would have killed him if I could. Tiberius stopped me. Still on the ground, he grabbed me by the ankle, shaking his head. I kicked free, but by then Andronicus had backed, cursed, twisted around and disappeared into a mass of people.

Tiberius struggled to his feet. "Leave it; we'll get him…" He was badly bruised and had a cut by his eye which needed to be mopped up. I checked; Andronicus had gone. I pulled Tiberius out of the crowd; we found refuge in the entrance where Morellus had shoved Marcia Balbilla, a sour stairwell to a typical multiple-occupancy block, stinking of damp, neglect, and uncollected urine in a great tank.

"Cerberus!"

"— With bells on his tail!"

We backed out fast. Morellus and Marcia were still there, closely engaged, and not locked in a discussion of public order control. I thought I might have to rescue her, then I realised that Marcia was doing most of the work. Morellus just leaned back against a bannister with his eyes closed, and thought it was his lucky day. Thank goodness he had had the presence of mind to put his fire-axe on one side or he would have disembowelled himself as they went at it. I left the torch, in case they needed extra light.

So much for festival abstinence.

Outside, Tiberius and I found space by a wall we could lean on. He managed to wipe some blood off himself with one arm. We settled our breathing. I found him a napkin that I kept folded small in my belt purse, which he pressed on his cut eye.

We watched the street slowly clear. The wrecked chariot was towed away by members of the vigiles. Laia Gratiana must have been rescued and taken home. Any other cult women had given up for the evening too.

Zoe and Chloe were looking after the two men in snake costumes; we saw them all go to a bar. The one who had been run over had to be supported by both women, but despite any cracked ribs he was clearly still up for whatever the night ahead might hold. Both men had the innocent seriousness of fellows who think they have picked up a couple of likely prospects. Zoe and Chloe were going to fleece them for drinks. Well, so I presumed. Who knows?

"Intriguing foursome!" Tiberius grinned.

"Gruesome scope for misunderstandings!.. So," I mused, in a thoughtful tone. "What about that then-Morellus and Marcia?"

The runner and I looked at one another. We could not help ourselves; we doubled up together and laughed until we were breathless all over again.

Somebody was watching us.

It was me who felt the accusing gaze. It was me who first saw him. We were supposed to be tailing him, but how long had Andronicus been observing us? He could not know the cause of the hysterical mirth that had us clutching our stomachs and laughing until we wept;

he was staring at me like a man who had found his new bride in bed with her grandfather.

He had been motionless in front of a shuttered shop. Once he realised I had seen him, he tossed his head scornfully and set off away from us. I straight away ran after him, not waiting to explain to Tiberius, though he was so hard on my heels he could have stepped on my dress hem and tripped me.

We were close to the huge Temple of Juno the Queen-the exotic Aventine Juno, brought here from Veii when Rome conquered the Etruscans, not the grand Greek version who lived on the Capitol. Andronicus ran down the side of the building, then on across the frontage of the tiny Temple of Liberty, which is supposed to be Rome's oldest library, the place where slaves are freed. There were always a few people about there; he zigzagged through knots of them, perhaps unaware that wherever there was enough light from lanterns, that bright nut-brown head of his was a giveaway. Perhaps he knew and did not care. He enjoyed the chase, believing himself invincible. No one had caught him so far tonight. Why should he fear capture?

He was moving faster than it seemed from his relaxed lope; we were making no headway. He reached the long street that would take him to the Temples of Minerva and Diana. Now he began bounding along, springing up on goods piled outside shops and kicking them over, so our progress was hampered as the outraged owners came rushing out to resecure them. Rolling jugs and scattered buckets tumbled in our path. Unhappy shopkeepers dragged at our tunics, gesticulating in various foreign languages and pleading for justice as we broke away and rushed on.

He plunged into the backstreets. He fled down alleys clogged with years'-old rubbish, where dung paved the road. He dodged around fountains where ragged old drunks were lounging. He vanished into dark narrow entries that could be fatal dead-ends. The whores he pushed aside had collected their wits and were ready to abuse us as we ran up in his wake. Dogs he had disturbed stretched their legs and thought about biting chunks out of us. We were lucky, they were too busy peeing on cornerstones to bother. When I stumbled over litter, Tiberius grabbed my hand. When he slid a yard on slime, upright as a lake-skater in some frozen northern wilderness, I steadied him.

Andronicus crossed Greater Laurel Street. Delivery carts were out and about, now the festival proceedings were over. For a short stretch he confused us by dodging among the carts, then he nipped into a cross street, and was off again, veering past bars and workshops, pushing over a vegetable stall so we were handicapped by streams of rolling cabbages.

He burst out onto the Clivus Publicius, some way ahead of us. We lost sight of him. Suddenly we saw him again, now riding on the back of a startled mule he had unhitched from an unattended cart. He rode the beast full pelt down the hill away from us, looking back with his face alight with glee, one arm aloft as if wielding a triumphal banner, and whooping taunts. Ironically, we were only yards from where the ox-wagon had killed Lucius Bassus.

He knew he was safe. Just as we rallied ourselves to follow, a grim troop of Praetorian Guards marched past. The tall togate brutes were unmistakable, with soldiers' boots showing below their tunics and their swords under their clothes. They never wear full armour inside Rome, but they don't need to. They had probably been sent to execute some philosopher Domitian objected to for campaigning for a better world, but we would do for starters, just to get them in the mood before the bloody business in their orders.

Unable to pull up in a timely fashion and with no pillar to hide behind, we had run right in among this noble death squad. The big bored men were automatically unhappy about us. Breathless people running must be running away from a crime. People who give feeble explanations are people who ought to spend time in a cell, getting their story straight on a starvation diet in between visits from the torturer. As for women on the streets in opaque dresses, they need a good seeing to and these were the heroes to do it-one after the other, or several at once if there was no time for orderly queuing. If and when Tiberius argued about my treatment, he would be given similar attention. At the Praetorian Camp there was a scale of reparations, where people with complaints of harassment generally found they would not in fact receive compensation, but would be charged for those old military myths, "insult to a Roman officer" and "damaged uniforms."

We were in trouble. I assumed any quick thinking would be up to me, though my tired brain refused to cooperate. I was surprised, therefore, when Tiberius straightened up, hauled aside the centurion, a slow beast with ringworm, spoke a few words, showed his signet ring, and signalled to me to come and stand safely beside him. I was being taught new rude words and pawed heavily. One of the men had that clever knack of removing clothes from women without them noticing what he was up to.

Coins chinked. The centurion demurely uttered, "Have a good night then, sir!" glancing at me as if he assumed I was some blowsy piece Tiberius had paid for by the hour from a "manicure parlour." Neither of us had the energy to set him straight. I was too preoccupied, garment-wise. I had to retrieve one of my shoulder brooches from the gutter.

The Guards marched on to carry out their important work for the emperor. They left us like two misdelivered sacks, standing alone on the dark pavement.