Saturnalia (14 page)

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 byour 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 totallyoutmoded, 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 AEsculapius 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.

XXVII

Surprisingly, by the time I walked into my house, I had encountered no further adventures. I was cold, starved, bruised, dirty, stinking and disconsolate. Normal, some would say.

Helena Justina, wearing a house-gown and with loose hair, was talking to Clemens in the hall. She looked anxious even before she saw me arrive in only my underwear. I gave her a brisk report: 'Robbed, knocked over, tramps, ghost, witches, learned absolutely nothing.
Left alone to die!'
I snarled at the centurion, who looked scared, though not scared enough.

I grabbed my washing equipment and a clean tunic, whistled up the dog, spun on my heel and went back out again. I hoped I had caused a sensation and left panic in my wake. Nux pattered along beside me, as if this was an ordinary evening walk.

I enjoyed a long steam in our nearest bath house. The facilities were basic, aimed mainly at dock workers, the stevedores who unloaded goods on the riverbank and became filthy doing it. None were around at this time of night to disturb my gloomy thoughts, so I was calmer when I returned to the changing room and found Helena waiting. She eyed me warily.

Nux had been guarding the original clean garment I brought out; Helena supplied extras. She helped dry me and pull tunics over my head. Better still, she silently handed me a bread roll stuffed with sliced sausage, which I devoured in between adding warm layers of clothing. Sitting on the bench, I then worked at my finger where the vagrants had tried to screw off my equestrian ring. They had failed to remove it, but had left my knuckle badly swollen. With spit and persistence, I managed to remove the ring before it became fatally embedded. Then I filled out my previous abbreviated story for Helena. She kicked her heels angrily against the stonework of the bench, though she could see I was unhurt and even regaining my good temper.

'Clemens and Sentius claimed they "lost" you. They say they spent a long time looking for you, Marcus. They only arrived back just before you did.' I bit my bread roll, growling. 'Chew thoroughly. There are gherkins.'

'I know how to eat.'

'And if you took advice, you might avoid indigestion.'

She was right, but I burped at her rebelliously. Then, after a moment, I went over to a fountain and drank plenty from the low gurgle of icy water. It would revive me, and help the food down. Helena watched, sitting with her long hands linked on her girdle, as dispassionate as a goddess.

There was still no one about, so we stayed there. The bald doorkeeper peered in a few times, glaring at Helena for intruding in the men's dressing room. He shook the greasy money-bag that hung on his twisted belt, but when we ignored this half-hearted plea for a bribe he gave up and left us to it. We could talk here. At home, there would be endless interruptions.

I went over everything that had happened, although there is a special short version--even of the truth--that a man tells his loved one.

'No need to be worried, fruit.' Helena accepted the reassurance, but she leaned her head upon my shoulder. Her great dark eyes were closed, to hide what she thought. I nuzzled her fine, soft hair, breathing in the delicate scent of the herbs in which she washed it. I was trying to kill today's foul memories. I had shed the strange musty odours of the witches, but the rank smell of the vagrants would be with me for days; it seemed to infuse my own pores, even after fanatical oiling and scraping with my curved bone strigil.

Sometimes when Helena Justina had been frightened for my safety, she let fly with rampaging rebuke. When she was really scared, she said nothing. That was when
I
worried.

I wound my arms around her, then leaned my head back on the wall, relaxing. Helena settled against me, enjoying the relief of my return.

The doorkeeper looked in again. 'No funny business!' He was a complete menace. We took the hint and left.

Only as we were walking slowly home, trailed by Nux who was fastidiously sniffing every kerbstone, did Helena mention Titus Caesar.

'Oh! Titus, eh?.. Note that I didn't ask.'

'But he was on your mind. I know you, Marcus.' Helena kept me waiting as long as she could. I thought she was being mischievous, but she was annoyed with her princely pal. The imperial do-gooder had done no good at all for Quintus.

'Off day, was it?' I asked, all innocence.

'Don't sound so annoying!'

'Touch of a cold? His corns chafing him?'

'He was in a dismal mood. Apparently--and this is a secret Titus and Berenice have agreed that they must part.'

'Ouch. Not the best moment to approach for a favour.'

His infatuation with the Judaean Queen was absolutely genuine.

When his father became emperor, she had followed Titus to Rome, in the blissful hope that they would live together. After openly sharing quarters at the Palace long enough to affront the snobs, it seemed they had now accepted that it could never be. This was probably the worst moment to remind Titus Caesar of another young man who had fallen for a beautiful barbarian.

Heartbroken but stolidly conscientious, Titus had nonetheless heard Helena out. Then he summoned and quizzed Anacrites, while she was allowed to listen. The Spy regaled Titus with his coruscating scheme to use Justinus to entrap Veleda. On hearing this plan from Anacrites (whom I wouldn't trust to keep a pet rat), Titus reassured Helena that her brother was safe and well treated.

'So my darling, while you fumed, did Titus Caesar make Anacrites confess where the prisoner is held?'

'No,' Helena said, sounding short. 'Anacrites--patronising swine asserts it is best if our family do not know.'

I snorted. 'So--as I asked the idiot Spy myself-how is the lovelorn Veleda to notice the handsome bait he's put out for her?'

'Oh there's a devious plan,' scoffed Helena sarcastically. 'Listen to this gem: the Praetorians have put up a personal notice in the Forum. You know the sort:
Gaius from Metapontus is hoping his friends from abroad will see this and find him at the Golden Apple in Garlic Street.'

'Ridiculous!' I chortled. 'Everyone knows Gaius from Metapontus is a stifling bore, and his friends try to avoid him. In fact, now he's in Rome, they have all sailed off to the Maritime Alps in a boatload of fish-pickle--'

'Be serious, Marcus.'

'I am. The Golden Apple is a dump; anyone who stays there is dicing with ruin--'

Helena admitted defeat and played my game: 'While Garlic Street is well known as a thieves' kitchen, even though it's not as bad as Haymakers' Lane... I didn't bother arguing with Anacrites. There are other ways to deal with fools. I just smiled sweetly and thanked Titus for listening to me.'

'And?'

'What would you have done, Marcus? When I left the audience, I walked down to the Forum and looked for the advertisement.'

I stopped. Nux took advantage of this to inspect a rotting half chicken carcass in the gutter. I kissed Helena gently on the forehead, then I gazed at her with undiluted affection. No informer could want a more intelligent and trustworthy partner. I liked to think my training had played some part in her aptitude, but she gave me a stem look and I refrained from claiming credit. 'You are exceptional.'

'Anyone could do it.' Many would not have done. 'On the other hand,' Helena continued, still cruelly dismissive of the Chief Spy's stratagem, 'Veleda can have no idea she should look for a personal advertisement. She will never see it. Anyway, most Celtic tribes can't read.'

'And did you find the cunning invitation painted up?'

'Elegant lettering in dark red paint. Looks like an election poster; nobody will read the thing, Marcus. And you will hate this: Quintus is "staying with friends by the Palatine". He is the house guest of a certain Tiberius Claudius Anacrites.'