Saturnalia

VIII

I had seen enough, and scoffed at enough, to keep my head reeling as I stomped home.

On the way I did a check: I went straight up the Via Aurelia to Tiber Island, where at the shrine I asked to see Zosime. She was out on calls, and nobody was sure when she was likely to return. 'What's it about, Falco?' 'I'd rather not say.' This search would be tricky. Since Veleda's presence in Rome was a state secret, and her absconding was such an embarrassment, I would have to pretend she did not exist. It would be awkward. Still, I like a challenge.

When I played coy, the receptionist at the Temple of Жsculapius merely nodded. The shrine attendants accepted any story; they were used to hard-hearted citizens dragging in worn-out old slaves they could not be bothered to feed any more, and pretending they just found these sorry specimens wandering in the street. No sick slave was turned away. This was the only truly charitable temple in Rome, the only hospital. Treatment was free; the temple survived on donations and legacies. Most of their patients arrived only when they were past saving, but even then, after they had been allowed to die as gently as possible, the hospital conducted and paid for a burial. Way back when I was a very poor informer, I used to think that one day they would be doing it for me… Hey ho. Time for lunch. I hoofed on over the Fabrician Bridge to the Theatre of Marcellus, then turned down the left bank past the meat market and the corn dole station. By the Temple of Ceres there was a commotion: a posse of Praetorians were throwing their weight about. Big bullies, they were unmissable in their scarlet cloaks and crested helmets. All of them came with a filthy attitude. This was the result of encouraging long term legionaries, sad men who loved the army too much, to volunteer for special duties. The minute they put on their shiny moulded breastplates and took their personal oath to the Emperor, the Guards were in Elysium. No danger; double pay; a soft life in Rome, instead of being stuck in some dire province – plus the chance to behave like utter bastards every week. 'Name?' 'Didius Falco.' I kept silent about my profession, let alone my current mission.

They grabbed me, pulled off my elegant hat, peered in my face (breathing with a whopping gust of garlic), then threw me aside like a dirty duster.

'What's the commotion for, boys? Surely Vespasian is not reduced to claiming the pauper's corn dole? He gets good rations at the Golden House, and can eat them beneath the revolving ivory ceiling in the fabulous octagon -' 'Push off!' I was a man. They were not interested in me. I knew whose orders they must be following, and why. Anacrites had sent them. They were only assaulting women – which in that area was foolish, even in the cause of a national emergency. The beef-butchers' wives are neither pretty nor polite. Despite the December chill, the ladies of the Cattle Market Forum were all barefoot and bare armed. They had strong husbands with bloody cleavers who could manhandle dead oxen – but these sturdy women did not ask their men for assistance; when the Guards tried to 'inspect' them, they weighed in with fists, teeth and feet fearlessly. The Guards' bravado was slipping.

'Looking for someone special, officer?' I enquired (wondering how the Praetorians dealt with not mentioning Veleda) – but blood from a split lip was despoiling his bright breastplate and he was already exasperated. I hopped off without waiting for an answer.

As I marched quickly up the embankment, something struck my neck with a vicious sting. A cobnut bounced on the pavement. When I turned back, a small boy ran away, giggling. We still had ten days of this menace to endure. Io Saturnalia! More of our national treasures were loafing truculently outside my house. These shiftless wastrels were the soldiers Titus had assigned to me. They looked as bad as I was expecting. I rounded them up from various flower stalls and wine counters where they were ogling pretty garland-sellers and begging for free drinks. I knew without asking that Albia must have locked them out and in this instance I did not blame her. They were bandy-legged ex-marines from the salty First Adiutrix legion, an emergency outfit Vespasian had put together in a hurry, who were currently stationed at Moguntiacum on the Rhine. Camillus Justinus had been a tribune in the First for a time. Not a prestigious posting. 'And you lads were the travel escort for she-whom-we-do-not-name? Bad luck.' 'Oh, Veleda was all right, Falco.' 'No, soldier – I mean, bad luck: now you are taking orders from me!' As they looked at each other warily, I opened up with my key, and led them indoors. Helena Justina was waiting in the entrance hall, a tall, tart young woman in three shades of blue wool, with ear-rings that shouted not to annoy her. Hiding behind her, Albia was terrified of the soldiers. The acting centurion in charge of them was already inside, chatting up Helena Justina as if she were a wine-seller, while she glared at him stonily. Nux was hiding behind Albia, though when I came in the dog ran out and barked loudly, before scurrying into retreat again.

Head high and bursting for an altercation, Helena cried, 'Marcus Didius! Welcome home.'

Her tone was enough to make the boys of the First shuffled closer together nervously. Even the centurion stepped away slightly. He stopped short in wondering if he dared bully the householder and quickly adopted a respectful hangdog mode. How wise.

I kissed Helena's cheek formally, looking deep into those fabulous brown eyes with mischief and lust in equal measure.

Helena Justina managed to remain calm. 'This is Clemens, an acting centurion. He has explained about the soldiers.' I held her closer than a senator's daughter expects to be clutched, while in close view of a bunch of surly legionaries; then I smiled at her with so much affection she blushed. 'Marcus Didius, I am quite happy living in a very large house with a very small staff' She tried to wriggle free surreptitiously. I held on. 'I will even entertain – with only a small staff – large numbers of relatives over the Saturnalia period. Relatives who make no contribution, and most of whom are yours. But – darling – I do now find myself wondering exactly how I am to manage here, if eleven -' Helena kept my accounts and business records. Believe me, she could count – 'hungry soldiers are to join us for the festival.'

'Twelve,' stated Clemens. 'I've got a little servant who will be along presently.'

'Twelve!' exclaimed Helena, in a voice that would unman Hercules.

I released her and turned to Clemens. 'As you see, my wife – the most hospitable of women – is delighted that you and your men are to join us.' A couple of soldiers sniggered. I folded my arms. 'Here's how it will work. Everyone in my household – right down to my dog – will be treated with respect, or the whole bunch of you will be hogtied and thrown off the Probus Bridge. Two soldiers and the acting centurion's servant will be on a roster daily to assist the noble Helena Justina. They will escort her to market – take handcarts – and help bring home provisions as she directs. They will work in our kitchen, under her supervision. Helena, sweetheart, all soldiers can make bread and scrub vegetables.'

'Don't you have a cook?' asked Clemens. He looked amazed. He was also worried; a true soldier, on making camp he thought first about his rations. 'You will meet Jacinthus,' I assured him, smiling.

Jacinthus was new. I had had him a week. He was one of two slaves I had recently forced myself to buy, aiming for a last-minute Saturnalia discount as the markets prepared to close for the holiday. The other acquisition was Galene, who was to look after my children. Neither slave knew anything, but they had both appeared clean and fit, which was better than most specimens on special offer in December. Julia (aged three and a half) and Favonia (aged twenty-one months), were teaching Galene Latin, and how they wished to be looked after with late bedtimes and rewards of sweetmeats.

'Jacinthus,' Helena explained, with her neck as stiff as a javelin, 'will no doubt produce exquisite pork loins in fig sap sauce one day. His baked quince will be a legend all over the Aventine. Women I scarcely know will beseech me for his recipe for mushroom bread…' 'Once he has learned his craft?' Clemens caught on fast. He would fit in here. You needed nifty footwork and a clear head. 'Exactly. In the meantime, Jacinthus spends his time asleep.' Clemens shot me a look as if he could guess which partner had purchased this treasure. He did not know it was my fifth attempt to buy us a cook. Sleeping was better than cooking, if Jacinthus cooked like his predecessors. All had been sold back at a loss within a month. 'I dare say my boys can help you wake him up,' offered Clemens. His tone had a pleasantly ominous timbre.

A small, shy voice now made itself audible: 'Hello, Falco. I bet you don't remember me!'

The soldier's name was Lentullus. Last time I saw him he was a raw recruit in his first posting in Germany. His most distinguished act on our expedition had been swinging on the tail of a giant bull while I tried to cut its throat with a small knife as the creature attempted to kill the rest of us. The youth had courage, but of all the ragged failures in all the least victorious legions, Lentullus was the daftest, silliest, clumsiest and untidiest. He had no idea. He had no luck either. If there was a large hole, with a great notice beside it saying Don'tfall in here; this means you, Lentullus! Lentullus would home in and tumble head first down the hole. Then he would wonder why he had been so unlucky. Any legion that included him had no hope. Sometimes in nightmares I heard his off-tune voice croakily singing an execrable and obscene ditty called the Little Mess-tin Song. I woke up shaking. It wasn't the Mess-tin Song that brought me out in a sweat. 'I bet I do remember,' I answered him. 'Have you learned to march yet?' 'No, he bloody hasn't!' muttered Clemens, with feeling. I already had a queasy-gut feeling. My house had been turned into a scene from some mythical nightmare. Then Helena smiled grimly and told me that my mother-in-law was in our best reception room in a foul mood, and wanted to speak to me.

'That's funny about you remembering,' burbled Lentullus. He had never known when to shut up. 'Because Veleda told me she remembered me too! I was hoping that if we all came to Rome, I'd see you, Falco – and the tribune too…'

The 'tribune' was Quintus Camillus Justinus. And while I was sure that the affable Justinus would be delighted to meet up with Lentullus again, my next task was to ensure that Julia Justa, my mother-in-law – a forthright woman, whose hearing was almost as good as my mother's – did not overhear that there was a soldier in my house who could tell her just what her favourite son got up to, back in the forest with Veleda.