Saturnalia (19 page)

XXXVI

We never stood a chance of finding him. Whoever it was, moved off of his own accord. By the time we had careered down six flights of stairs in the dark and burst out at street level, all sounds had ceased.

'Sounded professional.'

'Bar musician going home after a night of touting around the tables for coppers.'

'Too good for that.'

'Bar musicians are bloody good. They have to be, to beat the competition. '

'I want it to be the Quadrumatus flute boy.'

'You want it too much, Falco.'

'All right.'

'That's fatal.'

'I said all right--All right?'

'No need to get nasty.'

'Well don't make so much of things.'

'You sound like a woman.'

'We're drunk.'

'No, we're tired.'

'A woman would say that's what men say as an excuse.'

'She'd be right.'

'Right. '

So we said good-night. Petronius maintained he had to stay up on duty; he would go back to the party, I reckoned. I set off for home. I was looking out for the flute boy, but I never saw him. Nobody much was about. Even the bad people were at home these nights. Burglars celebrate with their families like anyone else. Criminals honour festivals enthusiastically. There had been a rash of thefts a week ago while the old lags worked hard to obtain cash for food, lamps and gifts. If you want a good December feast, spend Saturnalia with a thief

Now the dark entries and alleys were still. I convinced myself! was more sober than a third party would think, and on the alert for anyone who slipped through the shadows.

It was a good theory. It worked so well that when I came upon Zosime from the Temple of AEsculapius, tending a patient by a flight of steps, I nearly fell over them.

Zosime was working alone. She must have left her donkey nearby; she had a medical bag with her and when I arrived she had been bent over a motionless figure huddled on the steps. I scared her. She jumped up and almost tripped, hurriedly putting distance between us. I was shocked by her anxiety.

'Steady! It's me--Falco. The investigator.'

The woman recovered fast. She seemed annoyed by my interruption, though perhaps she was annoyed with herself for jumping. She was competent and knew how to survive the streets at night so I would have gone on my way, but as she turned back to her patient she exclaimed under her breath.

'What's up?'

She straightened abruptly. 'We get too many of these... The man is dead, Falco. Nothing I can do for him. I am disappointed; I had been tending him and thought he was recovering.'

I moved closer and inspected the vagrant. It was no one I recognised. I doubted anyone in Rome would claim him as friend or family. 'What killed him?'

'The usual.' Zosime was repacking her medicines. 'Cold. Hunger. Neglect. Despair. Brutality. This is a terrible time of year for the homeless. Everywhere is closed up; they can find neither shelter nor charity. A week-long festival will see many starve.'

I let the rant slide to its end. 'But you think he should have got better.' I had gone down on one knee, peering closer. 'His face is discoloured. Has he been attacked?'

When Zosime did not answer, I rose to my feet again. Then she said, 'Of course it is possible. The sick are vulnerable. Lying here, he could be kicked by casual passers-by.'

'Or deliberately beaten up,' I suggested. 'There are no signs of serious violence.' I gave her a stare. 'So you looked?'

She gazed back, openly acknowledging that she had half expected to discover an unnatural death. 'Yes, I looked, Falco.'

'You said "too many". Is there a pattern?'

'The pattern is of death by maltreatment. It is the norm for social outcasts... What do you want me to say?' she demanded suddenly and loudly. It was my turn to be taken aback. Then her irritation with me diminished into something sadder. 'Who would kill vagrants and runaways? What would be the point?'

'You know your business, Zosime.'

'Yes, I do,' she replied, still angry, but also despondent. It was that time of year.

I told her about the missing flautist and asked her to look out for the boy. He might trust her. It seemed unlikely he would be out and about now. The streets were cold, lonely, and pretty well deserted. I left her and walked home.

If I was lucky, I would find a warm bed with a welcoming woman in my house. My house; even the fact that it had once been my father's gave that concept extra solidity. I was now a man of substance. I had house, wife, children, dog, slaves, heirs, work, prospects, past history, public honours, roof terrace with fig tree, obligations, friends, enemies, membership of a private gymnasium all the paraphernalia of civilisation. But I had known poverty and hardship. So I understood the other world of Rome. I knew how that man lying dead on the steps could have sunk so low he found mere breathing too much to cope with. Or, even if he had managed to continue, how other ragged men could have turned on him because his illness made him just weaker and more hopeless than they were; the perpetual victims for once finding themselves able to exercise power. The best and worst kind of power being, the power of life and death.

These were grand thoughts. Suitable for a man alone, descending an empty stone stairway among the elegant, lofty old temples on one of Rome's Seven Hills, thinking himself at that moment lord of the whole Aventine. But I had noticed that Zosime reacted to the runaway's death not with grand thoughts but tired resignation. She had believed he was recovering but she dreaded to find him dead, and it depressed her. I had seen her kind of feeling before too. She had the world-weariness of those who know that effort is futile. The city is sordid. Many people know nothing but misery. Many others cause such misery, most of them knowingly.

Whatever her personal background--which probably involved slavery and certainly poverty--Zosime was a realist. She had lived long enough to understand the harsh life on the streets. Her work with the runaways was grounded in experience. She never idealised it. She was well aware that the runaways' malnourishment and sheer despair would probably thwart her; tonight, though, she had believed worse forces were at work. I had seen that. Zosime had let me glimpse her fears.

SATURNALIA, DAY ONE

Sixteen days before the Kalends of January (17 December)

XXXVII

Dawn was approaching when I reached home. My key refused to work. I had been locked out.

I did what Petronius and I used to do at his house: turned around on the step and gazed up the deserted street as if that would make the door open behind my back by magic. As a trick, it had failed then and it still failed. But I noticed something. Not a full shape, just a hint of greater darkness in some shadows. A man was watching my house. Anacrites had wasted no time.

I sharpened up. I had my hand on the curly tail of the mighty dolphin arouser Pa had left us; before I could disturb the neighbourhood I let go again as the grille rattled, then the door slid open. One of the legionaries had been waiting up. It was Scaurus. As he stepped aside to let me enter, he nodded surreptitiously towards the place where I had detected an observer. 'We have company.'

'Spotted him. I didn't want to use the back entrance; no need to tell them it exists. Has anyone had a good look at him?'

'No, but Clemens has put a man up on the roof terrace on obbo.'

Ludicrous. Anacrites watched me and my men; we watched his. So several personnel who could be out looking for Veleda were tied up in useless pursuits.

'Some Praetorians came and searched your house,' Scaurus warned me. 'Helena Justina wants to discuss it with you.'

'Damage?'

'Minimal.'

'What did they make of you lot?'

'We were all out having a drink at the Three Clams,' the legionary confessed. 'Unfortunately, the eyes outside will have seen us rolling home later.'

'Anacrites knows you're seconded to me. And I dare say he can guess you are all reprobates and drunks. The Three Clams is a dump, by the way. If you don't want to walk all the way up the Hill to Flora's, try the Crocus or the Galatean. Did the Guards tell Helena why they came?'

'Looking for her brother. Have you got him, Falco?'

'Who, me? Kidnap a state prisoner from the Chief Spy's house?' 'Yes, it's a shocking suggestion... I hope you've put him somewhere they won't look,' said Scaurus.

I went hunting for a snack, but the marauding Guards had cleaned out the pantry. Then I went to bed. The bed was empty.

I found Helena in the children's room. Favonia had a fever and had been vomiting all night. Helena, pale and puffy-eyed, was probably catching the same illness.

'What did I buy a nursemaid for? Where's Galene?' 'Too much trouble to bother her.'

I sent Helena to bed and took over. It is not in the informers' manual, but sitting up with a sick child is a good way to organise some thinking time. In between sponging the hot little head, administering drinks, finding the lost doll that has fallen on the floor, and wielding the sick-bowl when the drinks you had enticed down hurtle back up again, you can generally work out your next day's plan of action, then sit back mulling over what you have learned so far on your case.

Never enough, of course.

Breakfast was late; someone had to go out for rolls, as the Guards had raided the bread basket. Helena and I spent the wait disputing my refusal to say where her brother was. If she did not know, she could not be pressurised. She failed to see it. We ate in silence. Eventually Helena broke in with the old questions, 'So where exactly did you go last night, and who were you drinking with?' To which I gave the customary answers.

She flounced out to do the daily shop, taking two soldiers called Lusius and Minnius, together with the centurion's servant, Cattus.

Lentullus tagged along with them though he was due to peel off unobtrusively. I had covertly given him a map and a money-bag, telling him how to find Justinus and saying to stick with him, if possible for a week.

'I'm sending you because you know him, Lentullus.'

'That's nice.'

'Maybe not. May be hard work. Keep him indoors. He's been told to lie low, but you know what he's like. If anyone can make him stay put, Lentullus, it's you. You fetch food and drink and anything else he needs; stick around the local neighbourhood. Whatever you do, don't come back here, in case you're spotted by the Spy's men. Here's a tunic--' The legionaries were in plain clothes, which only meant that instead of all wearing red tunics they had been issued with identical white. I gave Lentullus a brown one. 'As soon as you get there, change your togs, then go to the barber at the end of the street where the apartment is.' Plain clothes for soldiers also meant growing their hair. 'Have a close crop.' Anyone looking for a soldier in white with curls would be thwarted by this transformation into a shaven-headed civilian in inconspicuous brown. Well, anyone Anacrites employed would be fooled. 'Tell him to put the price on my slate.'

Lentullus was a big child at heart. 'I'll get a free haircut? That's great, Falco.'

'No, you'll get a long complaint about me. I used up my credit about three years ago. But he'll charge you the real price, not the stranger's special.'

'Is the tribune going to be a problem?' Lentullus then asked warily. 'I hope not.'

'Can I bop him one?'

'I'd rather you managed to control him some other way.'

'Oh thanks, Falco. I'd better not use a sword on him.'

'No, please don't!'

So Lentullus tagged along after Helena, while I stood on the doorstep talking to Clemens, offering a more interesting target in case Anacrites' observer thought of tailing the shoppers. Petro and I had warned Justinus last night that he would be given a minder. It might work. He had no clothes, other than his now battered turnip costume. No senator's son with hopes of a career wants to appear in public with roots dangling around his legs and ridiculous leaves coming out of his ears. On the other hand, there was a laundry on the ground floor of the apartment block where we had left him. Washed tunics were just hanging on lines. If he decided to bunk off, he would manage it, even though he might end up a bit damp around the armpits. We could report him to the vigiles as a clothes thief, but they had so many of those to chase, they would never get around to him.

'Stay friends with him,' I had pleaded with Lentullus. 'If he skips, make sure that you go with him.'

'When he skips.' The young legionary was cynical. He hadn't been like that when Quintus and I first knew him as a scared recruit in Germany. But it tended to happen to people who spent time around us.

Now I had to ensure that by the time Quintus did skip, I would have found Veleda and placed her out of his reach.

Easier said than done. But a breakthrough was not far away.

XXXVIII

We had reached the seven days of Saturnalia. I was almost at my deadline and now the family harassment began.

I was still on the step with Clemens (who rapidly removed himself) when festive visitors arrived: first my sister Allia, the flabby, exhausted one who was married to the corrupt road contractor, followed by Galla, who was leaner and weepier. Her water-boatman husband periodically deserted her or was thrown out by Galla, and since barmaids were extra-friendly during festivals, Saturnalia was inevitably one of the periods when Lollius went missing.

These virtuous Roman women wanted to spread the gossip that Junia and Gaius Baebius had had a tremendous row. That was unusual, since the snooty, sanctimonious couple were made for each other and doted on their harmonious image.

I looked pious. 'What's a quarrel to me?'

'You're head of the family.' Only when it suited them. Only because Pa ignored such obligations. 'Is it of absolutely no interest, Marcus Didius, that your sister was carried home across the Aventine last night by her husband--raving and uncontrollable?'

'Dear thoughtful ones, thank you. I certainly want to avoid that bore Gaius Baebius, if throwing the wine-soaked Junia over his shoulder has given him a bad back; he'll maunder on about the pain for hours... So it's a quiet festival all round?' I suggested hopefully.

'We are all coming to your house.' Allia had a harsh, unfortunate manner. 'You've got the space.'

'And you can afford it!' Galla assured me. All my sisters knew far too much about the contents of other people's bank chests.

'How fortunate. I can upbraid Junia with fraternal bile, like Cato the Censor... Good of you to tell us.' Perhaps Helena had heard about it. Probably not, or she would have made some comment this morning, when lists of my faults had formed much of her repartee. 'You don't mean tonight?'

'Marcus, don't you ever pay attention? You are doing the last evening.' That gave us a week to emigrate. 'We want ghost stories and a really big log for the fire. Make sure you have enough cake too. We all agreed.' All except me. 'Tonight we're dragging out to Papa's spread on the Janiculan. He's got a tale-teller coming, with puppets, to amuse the children. Maia's refused to have anyone round to hers this year, selfish cow; she says she hasn't forgotten the unpleasantness last time... I blame that man she's got now. I never liked him when he was chasing poor Victorina, and I was dead right!'

'It's my best friend Petronius you're insulting, Allia.' Not to mention Maia, my favourite sister--generally the friendly one.

'Well, you never had any judgement.'

As Allia denounced us all, Galla said nothing; her half-starved, virtually fatherless children would get their only decent meals of the month at Saturnalia feasts. In thrall to a serial adulterer, Galla was feckless and hopeless--but she knew how to get free food.

'Well, if I'm hosting, I look forward to my thrilling cache of guestgifts. '

'You are joking!' chorused my sisters, without missing a beat.

They moved off together, patrolling the street like carrion crows staking out a flyblown lamb's carcass. They were on their way to Mother's apartment, where the first cataract operation was to take place that morning. I was credited with persuading Ma to knuckle under--no doubt a prelude to piling blame on me if anything went wrong. I turned down an invitation to the eye operation, then I told Allia and Galla that if nobody had thought of a Saturnalia present for Pa yet, he was desperate to have his haemorrhoids fixed. 'Don't give him any advance warning; he'd much rather you just turned up with the doctor as a big surprise.'

'Are you sure that's what he wants?' 'Trust me. I'm your brother.'

Can they have forgotten our evil elder brother Festus, the best trickster on the Aventine? They looked suspicious, but for sharp-witted women who had known plenty of two-timing, sweet-talking, earnest-looking cheating bastards, they were easily swayed. I even gave them the address of Mastarna, the dogmatist doctor, who advocated surgery. They said they would go to ask his fees.

Bliss. Pa was in for the pile-pincers. As a lord of misrule, I had my moments.

I spent the morning helping out Clemens with the street searches. Ten men had seemed like plenty when we started, but resources were now stretched. Lentullus was minding Justinus. Minnius and Lusius were out scavenging with Helena and would be on pot duty when they returned; Gaudus was already in the kitchen, concocting treats for Favonia. Like all children our invalid had recovered fast, but she knew how to sit wide-eyed, begging to be spoiled. Titus (there is always one called Titus, generally a loafer) and Paullus were taking turns on the roof, watching Anacrites' men. Granius had gone to the Forum, to squat near the notice that Anacrites had put up for Veleda; if she appeared, Granius was to warn her that Justinus had left the Spy's house, and to bring her here. They could use the back entrance--not that it was likely. From what I remembered of the priestess, even if

Granius found her, I couldn't see her meekly agreeing to come. Gaius was sick; apparently it was traditional. The only day Gaius was fit to leave his bed was payday. The centurion's servant thought most duties other than lightly brushing down a cloak were beneath him. So that left Clemens with only Sentius and Scaurus. When I joined them, he thought I was checking their methods. He was right too. They were demoralised by failure and needed pepping up.

At our mid-morning break, I made him relieve Titus and Paullus. Anacrites' watchers were tailing us, so we could keep tabs on them just by looking over our shoulders. Paullus joined us. We put Titus on rotation with Granius in the Forum, which pleased Titus, the loafer, since all he had to do was sit in the shade eating a stuffed vineleaf. Granius was less glad, because he had been chatting up a hot-pie seller, and after two hours of banter had believed he was getting somewhere. I warned him she was leading him on; he didn't want to believe it, but when he went to take over again from Titus later, Titus told him she had gone off with a man with a ladder towards the Clivus Argentarius.

'That's life!' we cried, but Granius stuck out his lower lip, still convinced he had narrowly lost the chance of a hot date.

Clemens pulled Granius off observation when we all went for lunch in a small bar at the back of the Curia. Normally I wouldn't be seen dead there, but the Curia was closed for the festival so the hang-out was empty of senators and their parasites. We were in a quiet mood. The chances of us meeting up with Veleda were slight. She had now been on the loose for over two weeks. She must have found somewhere good to hide up. I had just another six days to find her and complete my commission from Laeta, but if she continued to keep her head down, she would be safe. The legionaries were not alone in feeling demoralised.

We had been searching markets and bars between the Forum of Augustus and the old Suburra district. It had filled in a blank on the map, where all the central areas had now been explored. Clemens and the lads had already spent five days searching the west and the south of the city street by street. Unless I ordered them to widen the circle and start enquiries in the outer districts--the Esquiline, the High Lanes, the Via Lata and Circus Flaminius, where gardens, public monuments and high-class homes tended to predominate--then it was time to admit we had drawn a blank. We raised our beakers sociably to Anacrites' men: a couple of short hairy idiots who looked like brothers--Melitans maybe--and who were sitting uncomfortably by an empty stall opposite, since our bar was too small for them unless they came and shared our table. Which they might as well have done.

Clemens and I, and Scaurus who seemed to be a man of the world, tried to explain to Granius, who was still sulking, that no pie-seller or other sophisticated Roman woman was ever going to opt for a serving soldier, who was bound to be sent back abroad soon, when she could pick up a man with a ladder.
He
was just as likely to abandon her, but if she had the forethought to chain up his ladder, he would leave it behind when he skipped. A woman who owns her own ladder is always popular. Both professional handymen and normal householders would be popping in to 'borrow her ladder' at all hours. Even if their wives saw through it.

For some reason Granius suspected we were winding his spindle. He was twenty-one, had gone straight from childhood on a farm to the navy, then the young barnacle had been plucked from the marines, still with seaweed behind his ears, to become part of the newly formed First Adiutrix legion. All he knew of adult life on land had taken place in a permanent army fort in Germany. He was a Roman legionary but knew nothing of Rome. He had no idea of the social essentials in a hectic city neighbourhood.

'Just believe us, Granius. A big long ladder puts a twinkle in any woman's eye.'

Even Lentullus would have got that. Well, he would do nowadays.

I wondered how he was doing. There was no chance of going to ask him, with those two Melitan brothers just waiting to track me to the hideaway... Nonetheless, after I survived a throat-etching beaker of Campanian red at the bar, I decided life was for taking risks. I left the others to it and without looking behind me, set off across the Capitol end of the main Forum, skirted the beast market and cut around the Circus Maximus starting gates. I climbed the Aventine, where I made my way to a particular grimy alley called Fountain Court. This dead end on the rump of society was the only street in Rome where not one building had festive decorations. It had been the haunt of my carefree bachelor years. I stopped by at the barber's for an unguent comb-through and a shave. The beetle-browed Melitans duly tailed me, kicking their heels opposite while I took my time; when I left, I dropped in at the funeral parlour. 'If a couple of losers come and ask what I just said to you, tell them I was ordering a memorial stone for someone called Anacrites.' I waved an arm to Lenia, the frazzle-headed laundress at myoid tenement; the baggy hag was now so short-sighted, she just peered after me, baffled as to who had greeted her. That saved me having to listen to an hour-long monologue on her ex-husband Smaractus, and it saved Lenia from having me remind her that I had always told her so.

I did not cast my gaze up to my old apartment.

Since I was in my home area, I dutifully went to see my mother. As I arrived, I met Anacrites coming out of the building. I should have known that swine would beat me to the patient's bedside; he had probably brought grapes as well as creepy solicitude. He and I stood on the steps, engaged in meaningless chat. His watchers would be very confused when they had to report that they saw me talking to him. And he was furious when, as I went indoors, I pointed a finger at his men: 'I see you're still employing top quality!'

Maia was in the apartment, morosely pulling grapes from their stems and squashing them. I gave her a hug, but did not discuss Anacrites, with whom she had once had a misguided fling that had ended very badly. Petro and I would get even with the Spy one day. Maia did not need to know.

'Our house was full of Guards this morning, Marcus; I gather I should blame you for that.' I went cold. Maia had once had an apartment violently trashed by Anacrites, after she sent him packing. She saw my expression and said quietly, 'I was here. Lucius dealt with them.' So, fortunately, he had not rejoined the vigiles' party last night. He would have kept the Praetorians in order. Maia would have gone to pieces if she had to face a second house invasion. This mission was coming too close to home all round.

Allia and Galla had both left Mother's earlier, hysterical after the operation. It had taken five hours, during which Ma, who usually whizzed around like a demented fly, had had to sit in her basket chair and remain absolutely still. This would be hard, even without the man poking a needle around her eye. She had refused narcotic drugs. Nobody even dared suggest tying her to the chair.

Of course Ma endured it all with determination, even forgoing her customary scowl. The oculist had been amazed by her ability to sit like marble. Apparently he thought she was a dear old lady. 'Jupiter, Maia. How come you and the others found the only oculist in Rome who's blind?'

It had been intended that only one cataract should be cleared with the couching needle today, but Ma insisted that the man did both. My sister thought our mother was afraid she would be unable to find her courage a second time. She wanted to see. She hated not being able to keep a fierce eye on everyone. Besides, the oculist had said she would be the first patient who coped with both operations the same day. Well, that saved him a double visit. Ma must have been weak by then. She fell for it.

Even Maia looked strained now, but she was staying on watch overnight. Ma was resting. I looked in on her; she was lying straight on her back, with her hands neatly at her waist and her lips set in a straight line. It implied that somebody was for it. That meant nothing. She looked like that whenever she looked at me. Lamb's-wool pads covered both eyes, so someone would have to help her with everything until they came of[

'Where's--' I turned back to Maia, chilled. Where was Ganna?

'Oh we all knew your mystery woman was here,' scoffed my sister.

'Allia stormed in on her. You know what Allia's like. She couldn't bear to watch the operation, so she thought she'd cause trouble instead. Galla and Allia had got it into their head you'd stashed your tribal tootsie here so you could visit her secretly.'

'Oh yes--and Ma would go along with that liaison?'

'Do you want the story? In tramps Allia, loudly suggesting that Ganna comes out, puts some effort in, and helps us look after Ma. The girl shrieked, Allia grabbed her by the hair--' Allia had always been a bully and a hair-puller. As a child I kept well out of her way. 'So Ganna pulled free and ran out of the house. Nobody has seen her since. Well, apart from a big clump of blonde hair that Allia dragged out. Juno, I hate those mimsy little pale types!'

I swore. Maia (a vibrant, energetic girl who had a thicket of dark curls, jauntily bound with crimson ribbon) managed to look guilty about letting the acolyte run away. Then a tremulous voice came from Mother's bedroom. She had been awake and listening all the time. 'I'm just a helpless old woman, racked with suffering Someone must go after poor Ganna!' That order came out crisp enough.