Authors: David Wishart
‘Evidently you’re a darker horse than I took you for, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Interesting. But it’s of no great matter. As you’ll no doubt know, then, if you’ve been there, the Lotus … specializes. Young slaves like Clitus, who let you in. Anyway, as I say I was there about a month ago and I happened to bump into Quintus Caesius. He was with a little Ethiopian boy of no more than nine or ten.
With
being the operative word. I was shocked.’ He smiled. ‘I didn’t know, you see. Up to then, I’d never even considered the possibility. No one had, no one did. Like me, he’d been very careful to keep that side of his life a secret, by indulging his inclinations only in Rome, and with slaves whose job it was to cater for him. Unlike me, though, to him the secrecy mattered. I hide things only out of politeness. Bovillans are very provincial, in all the senses of the word. If they discovered that I consorted with young men – rather than, as at present, simply suspected it – my friends and acquaintances would find the fact at the very least embarrassing, and although I’m not at all ashamed of what I am I have no wish to cause them pain. However, to me, personally, it would not be of great importance.’
‘But to Caesius it would,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Very much so. Particularly since his penchant was for the pre-adolescent variety. He was a highly respected public figure who had just been elected censor. A position in which he would be exercising moral judgement over the citizen body. Even the rumour that he was a practising paedophile would have ruined him completely.’
‘So you decided to blackmail him.’
He was still holding the bronze. He set it down carefully before answering.
‘I’d put it differently,’ he said. ‘For all he was no friend of mine, I had the utmost respect for Quintus Caesius. He may have played rough at times as a rival collector, but we were both self-confessed fanatics in that field; you must expect these things and exercise a certain give-and-take. Also, he was an extremely hard-headed businessman, one possibly not too averse to cutting corners, so long as he was acting within the law. However, as far as I know, in his public dealings he was scrupulously honest. Uniquely so, in fact. I’d no wish to damage him there.’
‘So asking for the Runner in exchange for your silence was a one-off?’
Baebius nodded. ‘There was a certain element of pique involved, I admit: when he’d stolen a march on me and bought it in advance of the auction it had been going a little too far, and I resented it out of all proportion to the thing’s worth, both monetary and aesthetic. But that would’ve been the end of it; there would have been no later demands, I give you my word on that, as I gave it to him. As I saw it, he had cheated me and I was rectifying the situation. I even offered to give him back the money he had paid for it.’
‘So what went wrong?’
‘I’m not sure. I suspect that my continued silence was so important to him that he simply didn’t believe me, or couldn’t take the risk of trusting me. After all, we were long-standing enemies. In the event, at the meeting in the wool store while the transfer was being made he suddenly attacked me with a knife. There was a struggle, I got the upper hand, and he fell backwards, hitting his head on a lump of masonry. When I looked, he was obviously either dead or very seriously injured. I panicked and ran, stupidly forgetting to pick up the statuette. Then I went home. And that’s all I know.’ He looked at me. ‘I didn’t see your witness – Dossenus, was it? I didn’t even know of his existence, until you told me just now. If I had, then I’m afraid I would have had to kill him too.’
Yeah, well, it all added up, I’d give him that. And whether he was actually telling the truth about Caesius attacking him was academic now. Me, I could see it happening: like he said, the guy must’ve been desperate, and perhaps it wasn’t too much out of character, given the circumstances. The knife might still be there to find, or Dossenus might’ve taken it, which would prove things one way or the other, but that was no concern of mine. Let Silius Nerva and his oh-so-respectable cronies in the senate deal with their own dirty linen from here on in.
‘One more thing,’ I said. ‘Not for me, but my son-in-law will be curious. The murder weapon. What did you use to kill Mettius and Andromeda? Presumably you took something with you.’
‘Ah.’ He went over to a stand of walking sticks in the corner. My two rod men shifted uneasily, and he glanced at me and smiled. ‘May I?’
‘Go ahead.’
He pulled out one of the sticks: ebony, with a silver head. ‘I take it with me on my outings in Rome,’ he said. ‘For obvious reasons, I prefer to be accompanied only by a single torch slave on the nocturnal parts of these, and I find this very useful. The top six inches are filled with lead, and I’m quite proficient in its use.’ He put the stick back, and I could hear the rod men relax. ‘So. What happens now?’
‘That’s up to the authorities,’ I said. ‘These gentlemen –’ I glanced over my shoulder at the two rod men – ‘will take you to Nerva. Or whoever. Me, I’m out of it.’
‘Job done?’ There was just a trace of sarcasm in his voice. I ignored it.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Job done.’ I turned to go. ‘Oh, by the way. That ivory plaque you sold me. Or your freedman did, rather. It was a fake.’
‘Was it really?’ He didn’t sound too surprised, or interested, which, given the events of the last ten minutes or so, was understandable. For someone who was looking at either exile or the strangler’s noose, a little minor fraud wasn’t going to weigh much. ‘I’m sorry. Call in at the shop and tell Nausiphanes from me he’s to refund the cost. You needn’t return the plaque. Consider it a Festival gift.’
I nodded. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re very welcome. Happy Winter Festival.’
I didn’t answer.
Like he’d said, job done. Not that the fact had left a very pleasant taste in my mouth, but then it seldom did. I left the rod men to it, and went home.
W
inter Festival morning.
Like I said right at the start, the Winter Festival’s really for the bought help, which is fair enough: the poor buggers have a pretty rotten time of it for most of the year, and it won’t do the empire much lasting harm if they’re allowed to let their hair down – within reason, of course – for three or four days in mid-December. Then, naturally, there’s the tradition aspect, and that’s for everyone to enjoy. Some things like the roast pork dinner, the gambling games, dressing up in party gear and being sick from overeating are pretty standard, but each family has its own traditions. We like to start the day with the presents, and Clarus and Marilla have followed suit.
So there we were, Perilla and me, plus the two youngsters, in the atrium with the Sack. No Mother or Priscus: Mother’s convinced that if you show your face before the chill’s properly off the morning the crow’s-feet goblin will get you, while Priscus is just plain bone lazy. And, of course, there were the household staff, everyone from the two major-domos to the kitchen skivvy, lined up in the dinky little freedmen-caps that they’re allowed to wear for the duration; faces washed, bright as buttons, hair neatly combed – except for Bathyllus, who as usual had polished his scalp specially for the occasion – and waiting with bated breath for the Sack to be opened.
‘You want to do this, pal?’ I whispered to Clarus. ‘It’s your house, and you’re Head of Household.’
He was grinning. ‘No, that’s OK, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Carry on.’
Fair enough. Like I said, I enjoy the Winter Festival, and the Sack is the best part. Everyone got a Festival doll, a wax candle and a little pouch of cash, which was traditional all over the empire – and as Head of Household Clarus had handed these out already – but the Sack was an extra.
‘OK, then let’s get started,’ I said, taking out the first present and looking at the tag and raising my voice. ‘Who’s got number six?’
A hand went up: one of the stable lads.
‘Congratulations, pal,’ I said. ‘You’ve got a bottle of scent.’
There were hoots from his mates, plus a couple of raspberries as he came up to collect it. He didn’t look too disappointed, mind, which was understandable: no doubt he could work a deal out later to their mutual satisfaction with one of the maids.
‘Next,’ I said. ‘Number eleven. Ex eye, ladies and gentlemen. Who’s got eleven?’
That was better. The mouse-like kitchen skivvy crept back to her place proudly clutching a packet of Alexandrian honeyed dates.
‘Five. The big vee.’
Five was a belt pouch with a couple of silver pieces in it. Always popular, that one. Euclidus the chef. I was glad it was him: the rest of the gang could enjoy their day off, but if we all wanted to eat then someone had to do the cooking.
‘Vultures over the Palatine, number twelve.’
‘That would be me, sir,’ Bathyllus said, coming forward.
I grinned. Yeah, it would be: the little guy never did have much luck with raffles. ‘It’s, uh, a rather fetching little brush and comb set, Bathyllus.’ Hoots and catcalls again as the assembled throng caught sight of them. Still, it was the Winter Festival, and you could take a joke too far. ‘Never mind, pal. See me later and we’ll arrange something different. OK, moving on rapidly. Number nine. All the Muses, number nine. Who’s got nine?’ Silence. ‘Come on, people! Somebody must have it!’
‘I think that might be Phormio’s, sir,’ Bathyllus said. ‘He isn’t here, I’m afraid.’
Yeah; now he came to mention it there wasn’t any sign of Mother’s lantern-jawed coconut-headed demon chef among the serried ranks. Currently speaking, the universe definitely had a Phormio-shaped hole in it. Not that we’d be grieving over this. Still, it was festival morning …
‘So where the hell is he?’ I said.
Bathyllus coughed discreetly. ‘In the latrine, sir,’ he said. ‘Or so I’d imagine. He’s been spending most of his time there ever since the small hours of this morning. If you give his present to me or to Lupercus we’ll be very happy to pass it on when he re-emerges.’
‘The latrine, eh?’ I glanced at Clarus. ‘Your department, I think, pal. A bit of medical research.’ He nodded and went out. ‘OK, Bathyllus. Here it is: a new pair of sandals.’ Very appropriate, under the circumstances. ‘Right. Number fourteen. One of each, ex eye vee. Who’s got fourteen?’
And so it went on. The Sack emptied and was put away for another year. Ah, well. The ladies went off to bring our own presents hidden in clothes-chests and under the beds – Perilla always gives me a new mantle; surprise, surprise – while the bought help dispersed to the general revelry below stairs.
‘Not you, sunshine,’ I said to Bathyllus. ‘Or you, Lupercus. Winter Festival or not, I want a word. Just twiddle your thumbs until Clarus gets back, will you?’
They did, and he did, a few moments later.
‘You found him?’
‘Oh, yes. It’s nothing serious. Just a bad case of the runs. Something he ate. I’ve given him a suspension that’ll help, but he’ll be out of things for the rest of the day.’
‘Is that so, now?’ I said. ‘And I suppose this means that he won’t be up to cooking this extra-special super-duper beyond-the-spice-route gourmet Winter Festival meal that Mother was talking about, does it?’
‘I doubt it.’ Clarus cleared his throat; I could see he was trying hard not to grin. ‘We’ll just have to fall back on Euclidus, I’m afraid.’
‘Hmm.’ I was looking at Bathyllus and Lupercus and getting two blank-eyeballed stares in return. ‘Something he ate, right? And this would be last night, in the servants’ hall, presumably. Together with the rest of the staff.’
‘Probably,’ Clarus said.
‘Anyone else dumping his or her guts out downstairs in the small hours, Lupercus?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Not so much as a twinge?’
‘Ah … no, sir. Fortunately.’
‘And it couldn’t be self-inflicted, could it? The deal was that he was barred from doing any cheffing until the festival meal itself. Right, Bathyllus?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So it’s odd, isn’t it?’ No answer. I turned to Clarus. ‘Uh … absolutely
apropos
of nothing whatsoever, pal, have you checked the contents of your medicine cupboard recently? For, say, your supply of purgatives?’
He’d twigged. He cleared his throat again. ‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not necessary, Corvinus. Lupercus here keeps the simple basics up to score. I’ve taught him how to prepare the non-harmful medicines I use a lot of, and I’m certain he’d make good any shortfall.’
‘Right. Right.’ I nodded. ‘Well, it’s a complete mystery, isn’t it? Mother will be disappointed. As will we all. Still, it can’t be helped. Never mind, better luck next year.’
‘Will there be anything more, sir?’ Bathyllus said. He was looking relieved.
‘No, little guy, I think that just about does it. It’s the festival: go and put your feet up, let your hair down or whatever. Oh, that reminds me –’ I reached into my belt pouch – ‘the replacement for that brush and comb set. I can’t think of anything suitable at present, so you’ll just have to make do with the cash equivalent.’ I gave him a gold piece, and handed another one to Lupercus. ‘Happy Winter Festival, pals. Don’t spend it all in the one shop.’
They went to join what was no doubt by this time a staff knees-up in full swing. Minus, of course, Phormio, who wouldn’t want to stray too far from the hole in the floor.
Ah, well. It was only once a year, and they deserved it.
S
olid Citizens
is completely fictional, of course, but what was interesting for me was that, uniquely and purely coincidentally, it was set at exactly the time it was written, in the lead-up to what would’ve been the Roman Winter Festival (Saturnalia), a week before our Christmas.
That
was quite an eerie experience, since I found for a lot of the time that I was sitting down at my laptop in December 2012 and mentally shifting back to precisely the same date in AD39. Even the weather outside my living-room window was the same – unfortunately, given my twice-a-day dog-walking duties. So despite all the murder and mayhem, for me at least the book has a definite Christmassy feel.
A word or two, for anyone who may be interested, concerning the Saturnalia itself. (I’ve already put some of this into the author’s note for
Last Rites
, but never mind.) It was dedicated to the god Saturn, which explains a lot about its character. Saturn occupied a very special place in the Roman psyche; he was a benign, grandfatherly figure, as opposed to his more authoritarian son Jupiter, and he had presided over the First Age of Man when life was much simpler and kinder. The festival began according to different accounts on 16 or 17 December, and originally lasted for three days, although this was extended to five and longer in the AD years. Through no coincidence whatsoever (early Christianity exhibiting the plagiaristic features that it did), it had a great deal in common with our Christmas, particularly in the latter’s mediaeval form: all public business was suspended, and the normal rigid social conventions – particularly those governing the relationship between slave and master – were relaxed or even reversed. It was a time for parties, when even the stuffiest Roman would let his hair down, swap his toga for a party mantle or indulge in a bit of cross-dressing
à la
pantomime dame; also for exchanging presents, particularly – by tradition – wax candles and dolls/puppets, which served the same purpose as our Christmas cards. Not the Sack, though; that’s pure invention on my part, and just a bit of fun, because I thought it was something that Corvinus would enjoy, so I gave him his head at that point. As at the mediaeval Christmas, often an equivalent of the Lord of Misrule or King of the Bean was chosen by lot – slave or free – whose word for the duration was law.