Saturnalia (31 page)

LXII

For a moment they all stood, in a stricken triangle. Justinus was horrified; the women took it better, naturally.

Justinus straightened up. Veleda had last seen him dressed in a keenly-buffed tribune's uniform, five years younger, and fresher in every way. Now she looked stunned by his casual domesticity. He addressed the priestess formally, as he had done once before, in the depths of her forest. Whatever he said was again lost on the rest of us, because he used her Celtic tongue.

'I speak your language!' Veleda inevitably rebuked him, with the same pride and the same contempt that she had used to our party then: the cosmopolitan barbarian, showing up the inglorious imperialists who could not even bother to communicate with those whose terrain they invaded. It was a good trick, but I was tired of this.

He was staring at her, taking in that she looked so much more worn by time and life, and the despair of capture. Veleda's eyes were hard. Pity was the last thing any woman needed from a handsome lover. Quintus must already have struggled to cope mentally with the fact that the love of his young life was doomed to ritual killing on the Capitol. Would he turn his back on the Roman world--and if so, would he do something really stupid? We could see it was a hard shock to find the priestess here in his home, swaying very slightly from Roman wine in the cup that she still gripped unknowingly--a small silver beaker that Justinus must have known since his childhood, from which he may have drunk numerous times himself. He had found her being entertained among his parents, his sister, his wife and young child. He was not to know--or not yet--just how strained relationships had been.

In the silence, his baby son gurgled. 'Yes, it's Papa!' crooned Claudia, nuzzling his soft little head. I wondered if anyone had told Quintus yet that a brother or sister was expected. The little boy stretched his arms out towards his father. The traditional gold bulla his uncle Aelianus had given him at birth swung against the soft wool of his tiny tunic. He was a delightful, highly attractive child.

At once Quintus, the great sentimentalist, turned and smiled. Claudia thumped home the battering ram. 'Let's not bother Papa.

Papa doesn't want us, darling!'
Despite being tipsy, she produced one of her well-practised stalking exits, heading off for her kingdom, the nursery. Once there, some women would have burst into tears. Claudia Rufina had a sturdier spirit. I had talked her through past moments of decision and anxiety; I thought she would simply sit there by herself, quietly waiting to see whether Quintus came to her. If he did, she would be difficult--and who could blame her?--but as on previous occasions, Claudia would be open to negotiation.

Veleda looked as though she knew now that Justinus was too inhibited to abandon his Roman heritage. It was clear what she thought of that. She tossed the silver cup on to the mosaic floor, then with a broody glare she too swept out to take refuge in another room.

Quintus was left facing up to his tragedy. This was no longer an issue of whom would he choose? Neither of
them
wanted
him.
Suddenly he was looking like a boy himself, who had lost his precious spinning-top to rougher, ruder characters who would not give it back.

When the doomed man went first to follow Veleda, nobody stopped him. I moved closer to the double door he had closed behind them, but did not interrupt. Quintus stayed in the room for a short time only. When he came out, he looked agonised. His face was drawn with misery, perhaps even tear-stained. He was grasping a small object tightly in one hand; I could not see it, but I recognised the dangling strings: she had given him back the soapstone amulet.

When he reached me, he made an impatient movement, wanting me to step aside. I grasped him and embraced him anyway. Apart from Veleda, I was the only person present who had been with him in Germany, the only one who fully knew what she had meant to him. He had lost the love of his life not once, but twice. He had never got over it the first time; he probably imagined it would be even harder now. I knew better. He had had plenty of practice in bearing his loss. Grieving a second time is always easier.

Camillus Justinus was a young man. Now he knew that his fabulous lover was an older woman, growing ever older than his treasured golden memories. Whatever he had said to her, from the short time she spoke with him it was clear to all of us that she had cut short any grand protestations. What was there to say? He could plead that his wife was young and needy, a mother; perhaps Claudia had told him she was again pregnant. Veleda would see the situation. Justinus had lost his innocence--not that starry night in the signal tower in the forest, but in the instant when he chose the Roman life he had been born into: when he turned and smiled instinctively at Claudia Rufina and his little boy.

Perhaps Veleda had also noticed that when it came to women, Justinus was an idiot.

He continued resisting contact. I released him. Without a word to anyone, Justinus began his lonely walk to find his wife and tell her the hard decision that maturity and good manners had now thrust upon him. None of us envied the couple their coming struggle to regain some kind of friendship. But he was by nature easygoing and she was bitterly determined; it was feasible. For now at least, the Baetican emerald set would stay in Rome. Justinus and Claudia would get back together, although like all their reunions it would be bittersweet.

SATURNALIA, DAY SEVEN, THE FINAL DAY

Ten days before the Kalends of January (23 December)

LXIII

I know the historians will not record how the priestess Veleda's future came to be decided. I am debarred from revealing it, for the usual pretentious 'security reasons'.

What occurred in my own house is my own to reveal or conceal. In the circumstances, Helena said it was understandable that the priestess was bad-tempered at breakfast. She had been deeply withdrawn since the moment the previous evening when Helena kissed both of her parents gently, leaving them to oversee whatever transpired between her brother and Claudia. The senator and Julia were sympathetic in-laws. I myself was intending to suggest to Quintus that since Claudia did have so much money, it was time they acquired their own house where their tantrums--which would probably continue--could take their course, unobserved by relatives.

We had gathered up the children, Albia and Veleda and come quietly home. Anacrites seemed to have called off his useless spies. This morning everyone rose promptly. The Vestal Virgin had sent word to Julia that she had arranged an appointment at the Palace. She had made it clear this had not been easy. Although Claudius Laeta had given me this day as my deadline, most imperial business was suspended during the festival.

When it was time to leave, the Virgin sent a
carpentum
--the twowheeled formal carriage used only by empresses and Vestal Virgins, which can be out on the streets even during the wheeled traffic curfew. This unusual arrival caused a traffic jam on the Embankment as all my neighbours rushed to gawk. Julia Justa had already been collected; she leaned out and indicated, by that screwing of the face all women understand, that we were not to show amazement--but she had after all brought Claudia to take part in the deputation. This made it a squash, since the
carpentum
is not designed to carry three. Clad in black from head to foot, Helena pushed her way in anyway. We had a chair ready, with Veleda inside but heavily curtained, which then followed the carriage to the Palatine. It was flanked by Justinus and me, and escorted by Clemens and the remaining legionaries, all in burnished gear and, as far as I had been able to ensure, minus hangovers.

We had left Lentullus at my house. Helena and I now knew why her brother had appeared at dinner: Marcus Rubella had finally kicked them out of the vigiles' patrol house, so we had acquired the invalid. His condition was much improved, though he did have a setback when I had to tell him he would have to leave the army. Lentullus rallied, however, when he knew that 'the tribune' was offering him a home.

So that Clemens did not return to Germany short-handed, I had suggested that I should formally free the appalling Jacinthus (he would have to lie and say he was thirty), then we would take him before a recruiting officer (to lie again and say he was twenty), enrolling him in the legions. Jacinthus was thrilled. So was Galene, who had convinced Helena that she should be moved to the kitchen as replacement cook. Once again we would be lacking a nurse for the children, but we were used to that. Once again we would have a cook who couldn't cook--but at least Galene would be interested in learning.

All these issues had been debated and resolved that morning, while Helena and I tried not to disturb Veleda's gloomy reverie. By the time the Vestal Virgin sent transport, we had been running out of bright ideas. Veleda had been dumped by Quintus and was returning to captivity. She hated all of us.

At the Palace, the women stepped down from the carriage. Helena led her mother and Claudia in a stately procession, in through the great roofed Cryptoporticus, along many corridors, to an anteroom, where

Julia Justa and her Vestal friend met and exchanged dry kisses. I noticed that Claudia had managed to wear quantities of jewels, which drew disapproval from the Vestal. Claudia tossed her head defiantly.

We had brought the carrying chair indoors with us. Still guarding it, we men remained outside in a corridor. I kissed Helena. She shook out her skirts, straightened her stole, firmed up the pins holding her veil on her fine hair and led the formal deputation into a major receiving room. We had been told Vespasian was on his usual festival pilgrimage to his grandmother's house at Cosa, where he had been brought up. We could have been lumbered with Domitian, but we were in luck: Titus was imperial caretaker, dealing with emergencies. They were a long time. I was sweating. Flunkeys were anxious to depart for lunch. It was clear that ours was the only business being thrust before Titus that morning. It might be dealt with briskly and casually. I cheered myself up thinking that if Berenice really had been sent packing to Judaea, Titus would have no calls on him during the festival and might welcome work.

Rubbish, Falco. Nobody welcomes work when all of Rome is playing. Titus would rather play solo draughts all day than be tied to the office.

Just as I braced myself to barge past the flunkeys and invade the audience, things became even trickier. Word of what was afoot must have reached the Chief Spy's office. Suddenly Anacrites appeared and demanded that we unload the chair and give him Veleda.

At the same moment, ten-foot double doors with gilded handles silently swung open and the women reappeared. Titus was graciously escorting them out. He always looked fetching in purple, and today was bedecked with an extra-large Saturnalia wreath. His hair, normally barbered to a crisp, had been allowed to grow shaggy as a sign of being broken-hearted at the loss of Berenice, but even so a careful valet had spent time positioning the wreath fetchingly on the curly mop.

'You've lost the game--hand her over, Falco!' the Spy was commanding, as he dragged open the half-door and started pulling Veleda from the chair.

He was stopped in his tracks by the frigid tones of the elderly Vestal Virgin: 'Tiberius Claudius Anacrites--
Unhand that woman immediately!'

Titus Caesar had an eye for a beautiful foreigner. At once I saw him sizing up the priestess. As she recovered from the Spy's mauling, she gave a rapid assessment to the imperial prince who controlled her fate. In view of her reputation, Titus thought better of flirting, though he inclined his head politely as far as a heavy wreath allowed. Perhaps Veleda looked more hopeful for the future--though I could see she thought Titus a typical, sexually voracious Roman male. Behind everyone's backs, Helena Justina winked at me.

Her mother had noticed, and smacked Helena's wrist playfully.

The Vestal was in charge. 'You are to be sent to a shrine at Ardea,' she told Veleda. Thirty miles from Rome, Ardea was close enough to supervise yet far enough away to be secure. I thought it had been used as an exile for political prisoners before. 'Your life will be spared. You will live out your days as a temple cleaner.'

Veleda bridled. Helena grasped her hand and muttered quickly, 'Do not despise the honour. Being housekeeper to the gods is a worthy occupation--the Vestal and her colleagues traditionally have that role. It is neither onerous nor demeaning.'

Titus came forward. 'These three noble women--Helena Justina, Julia Justa and Claudia Rufina--have pleaded for you most movingly, Veleda. The Vestal Virgins, who see you as a sister, support them. Rome is pleased to accept their request for clemency.'

I stepped forward. I could see Claudius Laeta hovering. With Justinus at my elbow, I formally asked, 'Priestess, Helena Justina promised she would do her best for you. Do you accept these terms?

Will you live out your days at Ardea quietly?'

Veleda nodded her head, in silence.

Then Justinus and I formally completed my mission. We handed over Veleda into imperial control. Giving her up must have been as hard for Justinus as pleading had been for Claudia. I had insisted that Justinus accompany me, in his normal role as my assistant. I hoped this would reinstate him in imperial favour. Perhaps it would even impress his wife. We knew Claudia would make it a condition of their marriage that he never went anywhere near Ardea. As far as I ever knew, Quintus promised her, and he stuck to the promise.

When Veleda was taken away by the Guards, she kept her gaze cast down and did not look at him. Justinus stood quietly and sadly as she left. Only a cruel cynic would have pointed out that he had the air of a condemned man.

LXIV

I had all of my sisters, and some of their husbands, and most of their children, in my house for the last night of the festival. We were also entertaining Zosime and the soldiers. To help Quintus and Claudia mend their marriage, we had asked them too. Helena had invited my mother, though fortunately she did not stay long; invited by me inadvertently, my father turned up, but he was late as usual. They must have passed in the street. At least we escaped having their first confrontation in twenty years in our dining room. Who wants violent recriminations over the must-cake at a feast dedicated to reconciliation?

There were complaints. 'Everyone else had puppets or ghosts, Marcus. Couldn't you have made an effort to fix up some entertainment for the last night?' The troops had made plenty of mustcake, however. Nux thought it was wonderful and spent the day trying to steal pieces. We had a large log in a hearth, filling everywhere with smoke and threatening to bum down the house, plus green boughs shedding pine needles and dust. My lamp-oil bill would take about three months to payoff. By a deft sleight of hand, I arranged that our King for the Day was my nephew Marius--a lad with a dry wit, who accepted the bean with a wink that suggested he knew he had been chosen on purpose for his discretion. He enjoyed the role, but kept the antics within acceptable limits.

It was a decent night. A night for generosity of spirit. Gifts appeared at appropriate moments, and nobody made too much fuss if their gift cost less than they had hoped. The men were allowed to come dressed as they liked; the women wore their newest jewels. Claudia was showing off the satyr ear-rings Quintus bought from Pa; Helena kept her more tasteful ones for another occasion so as not to upset Claudia. Everyone was comfortable. Everyone ate just enough, and drank only a little more than sensible. None of my family would ever remember it; there were no fights and nobody was sick on Junia's dog.

My dog Nux spent most of the time hiding in the little room that I was turning into a masculine study. As soon as I could, I joined her.

We were both there, doing nothing much, when Helena looked in, threw a nut at me, and said Petronius had just arrived. He had been invited with Maia, who was still being stand-offish, but had come with Ma and had stayed on. After he grabbed food and drink, Petro took me aside. He told me what he thought of my wine; it did not take long.

'It's leftover
primitivum
I cadged from Junia. And before you say it belongs to the cohort then, this will pay me back for the bribe I handed over to Rubella for help at the Quadrumatus house.'

'Oh we drank your cash up yesterday!' grinned Petro.

'That was for next year's party.'

'Nuts. As a bribe it didn't cover the aggravation that you've handed us at that villa.'

We settled in for a discussion. 'Look, Petro, it's all very well saying there's no crime. My view is that Mastarna let Scaeva die--genuine accident, maybe--but then Mastarna is unlikely to have decapitated the corpse. For one thing, if he did, he's just a hired man and the Quadrumati would have had no compunction in exposing him. No, they are trying to shield one of their own. I am sure the freedwoman, Phryne, was malevolent enough to grab a knife and do the deed--and then she carried the head to the pool.' I remembered now, how she had looked when I asked whether weapons or treasure were found in the atrium pool with the head:
Should there have been?
'Even if that's all she did, somebody needs to tell Quadrumatus to stop looking away and deal with the woman. I thought I might write to Rutilius Gallicus and make him responsible for stiffening up his so-called friend.'

Petronius shrugged. 'Well you do that, and I'll get Rubella to ram home the message too.'

'I think there was more to it, Petro. I think that the poor flute boy saw what she did. The family covered it up but he was terrified of her. That's why he ran. When he was brought back to the villa, he may have become hysterical; Phryne killed the boy to keep him quiet.'

Petronius looked troubled. 'It's not her.' 'Alibi?'

'Her mistress vouched for her... Surprised? I'm still baffled by this flute boy death, Marcus. Scythax is being a menace over it--he is sticking to his theory, that the boy was killed like the street vagrants. The freedwoman can't have been constantlyout of the house at night, killing runaways. I've explained to Scythax that the boy was found dead by you, indoors, and it just doesn't fit. Scythax wants to do more work on the corpse, but the Quadrumati won't allow it--'

'I told you; they are covering. They don't want a scandal.' 'Well, Scythax is rambling. There can't possibly be a link between that villa's household and what's happening to runaway slaves on the streets of Rome. We're stuck, Marcus.'

I had reached the mellow stage by then. I told him we could think about the flautist tomorrow, when everything returned to normal. Most likely, since there was nowhere else to go with the case, we would have to forget about it.

The night went on. Pa and some of my sisters went home. Zosime returned to her temple. 'Will you continue your work with the homeless?' Helena asked her as we bade farewell.

'Oh yes. I've been doing it ever since I was first trained.' 'Well, good luck to you!'

A few favoured people remained and we would probably stay up for hours yet; it was the soldiers' last night with us and they were melancholy to be losing domestic comforts. I sat fairly cheerfully among my family, waiting for the next angrily slammed door, the next whining child with a sore throat, the next tipsy woman to tread on the dog's tail...

I thought I was cheerful, but melancholy thoughts came drifting through my brain. I found myself thinking about the runaway who had told me his life story on the Via Appia--the ex-architect with the long tale of woe. I had learned that man's whole history, yet never even knew his name. I would never see him again, never know his fate. He had been sickly and could by now have died of December cold. His run of bad luck could even have ended with a final gasp, strangled by the unknown killer who bent over sleepers in doorways and choked the life out of them. I wished I could have asked him if he had ever seen the killer at work.

Then, as the oil lamps flickered and wine wafted me halfway to oblivion, the truth hit me: Scythax was right. There
was
a link between the villa and the dead runaway slaves. The flute boy may have been killed at Phryne's instigation yet it was not one of the household who took his life, but somebody who came in from outside. One of the doctors employed by the Quadrumati had let a patient bleed to death by accident. That was nothing; another was far more menacing.

I ordered Justinus to stop smooching Claudia and come with me after Petronius, who had left to go on duty at the patrol house. Once there, I asked Petro if his famous lists of undesirables included doctors. Since medicine is akin to magic, he had a list all right. He would not let me see it, but he found the address we needed and we set off to apprehend the man whom I was now convinced must be the killer.

'He hates all slaves. I've heard him disparage them--Hades, he even sneered at me when he supposed I was one--and people have been telling me about his attitude ever since I first met him. He follows the same broad Hippocratic doctrine as Zosime and the doctors at the Temple of AEsculapius. Zosime, or maybe it was someone else, told me a long time ago that he trained her. She calls the way they work, "softly, safely, sweetly"--but he has foully perverted that...'

We were going to see Cleander.

The streets were a nightmare, full of revellers who could not understand our need to pass through the crowds quickly. Petro had brought a few men, but most were too busy attending fires that night.

The smell of smoke hung on the air, as thickly as the noise of merriment. We found the house. It seemed to be in darkness, but after muted knocking by a vigilis who pretended to be a patient, Cleander himself opened the door.

Petronius Longus led him back inside and began to interrogate him. In response, Cleander only glared haughtily. We were all beneath him. He treated the charge of murdering the runaways with chilly contempt. Soon he began refusing to answer any questions at all. Petronius eventually had him taken away to the patrol house.

'Seen it before, Marcus. He will never confess. I can put Sergius to work on him, but this man is so arrogant he will think it a challenge to withstand the pain.'

'Maybe his slaves--or his patients--will give up information.'

'I bet they'll protest his innocence just as much as he does.'

'All his patients thought he was wonderful.'

'And his household won't admit that they should have seen what he was doing.'

'Well, keep at it, lad. If you let it be known among the vagrants that he's in captivity, you may just find more witnesses. His activities were known among the runaways, but fear kept them silent. Even Zosime should help. He trained her, but I never had the impression she was particularly loyal to him. She hates what has been done to the runaways, for one thing. Shock her with the facts; she'll give evidence. '

Petronius was called away. He left a man to guard the house, ready for a full search of the property next day. Justinus and I cast a quick eye over various rooms, and were about to leave ourselves. Then the vigilis called to us; he had found a locked closet. We could not discover a key to it; Cleander must have taken it. For half a beat we nearly left it for the lads to search the following day. But in the end, Justinus put his shoulder to the door and forced it open.

The interior was in darkness. As we crashed in, a faint groan alerted us to human presence. We ran for lights. Then we saw that Cleander had left a patient, or a victim, strapped to a pallet. He was gagged, and blood trickled inexorably from his arm into a by now very full bowl.

We could have left him there. Sometimes afterwards, I wished we had. But even when we recognised the patient as Anacrites, our humanity won. We removed the gag. We held his arm in the air until the blood flow stopped, then the vigilis, who knew basic bandaging, swathed his arm in tom cloth.

'I thought Cleander strangled his victims, Marcus.'

'He did normal doctoring as well, Quintus. Mastarna letting Scaeva die may have given him the idea. Perhaps Cleander hated Anacrites as an ex-slave, but thought a spy should die slowly... Drip, drip, drip--softly, safely, and sweetly over the Styx to the Underworld...' Anacrites was reviving enough to glare at me. We sat him up. He fainted, but we soon revived him. We were not gentle.

'There is always the chance of getting the bastard next time,' I told Quintus drily, letting the Spy overhear me. Anacrites hated having his life saved by me. Nothing good could come of it.

But for now, my assistant was overcome by kinder feelings. Since Camillus Justinus had left Claudia Rufina throwing herself into revelry at our house, he was returning there with me. Perhaps he felt that his time as Anacrites' house guest had given him a host/guest bond of duty; perhaps he wished to explain about the turnip. Whatever the reason, everyone else in Rome was indoors with happy ti-iends and relatives. Anacrites had no friends and probably no relatives. So I heard Justinus issue a good-natured invitation to the enfeebled Chief Spy. He asked Anacrites to come home with us and share our family celebration on the last night of the festival...

Io,
my dear Quintus.
Io,
Saturnalia!