A master carver approached, perhaps the chef himself, wielding a vicious meat sabre. I wouldn't trust him on a dark night round the back of a seedy posca bar. His blade flashed in the lamplight. With one mighty sweep he cut open the boar's belly. Glistening innards tumbled out towards us, like raw guts. As Helena had said, they were sausages. While we still believed they were hot viscera, he tossed a quick-fire barrage into all our foodbowls. There were screams. Someone clapped briefly. Minas took a moment to grasp what was happening, then exploded with delight. 'Excellent, excellent!' He was so thrilled, he had to beckon a server to fill up his wine goblet. A hum of appreciative voices congratulated Anacrites, while Helena and I looked on patiently.
It was a shock – - though not if you knew what was coming. The trouble with the tired old Trojan hog trick is it only works once. Was I jaded? I made an effort to look excited – well, mildly – though even Claudia forgot her natural generosity and muttered to me, 'Those Lucanian sausages look very undercooked! I don't think I'll eat them.'
The crackling was good, though full of bristles.
XXXIII
Some time while everyone was gnawing tough pork, then picking their teeth discreetly, I noticed that Albia had slipped away from the table. Her absence went unremarked by others. As the main course ended, people were behaving informally. One by one they went out for a natural break, on their return taking the opportunity to move around and talk to different guests. Justinus was now alongside his brother. Helena abandoned Hosidia and crossed the room for a chat with Claudia.
I was bored with Anacrites' well-clad back as he listened to Minas. Luckily the gloopy singer reappeared; he had picked up the Cretan shepherds' habit of explaining everything long-windedly – so often, of course, lamenting young sailors lured to their doom by sinister sea-nymphs or brides who had died on their wedding day. When he announced, 'The next song is a very sad one', I went to find a lavatory.
I explored in a desultory fashion, but I had been in the house before and seen all I wanted of the layout, decor and cold living arrangements. I found the kitchen, with the caterers engaged in washing bowls – - most of them, anyway; I had passed a couple sidling about, probably pinching Anacrites' fancy curios.
The services were, as I expected, next to the kitchen – - functional, but with the faint unscrubbed odour you expect in a male establishment. (I was well trained; in a strange house it is a man's duty to report to his wife what the facilities are like.) Emerging, I took a wrong turn somehow.
I ended up in servants' quarters, a series of undecorated small rooms that served routine purposes. There were sacks of onions, buckets and besoms. Even a spy has to endure the domestic – - though I bet Anacrites put his onion-seller through an oral security test. That would explain why he had been sold mouldy, sprouting ones.
I spotted a figure ahead of me, slipping down a passageway. He did not hear me call out for directions, but he had left a door open and I heard voices. In one of the rooms, Anacrites' two legmen were sitting with a draughtsboard. I was surprised; I would expect him to keep work and home separate. Instead, the Melitans, as I called them, gave the impression this was a regular haunt. Their room had a sour smell that hinted of long-term use.
The duo were not playing, just talking. They could be arguing about whose turn it was to remove their food tray (there was a large jumble of used crockery and utensils piled ready to go back to the kitchen). They barely troubled to react to my appearance.
'Lost my way.'
Neither spoke. One waved an arm. I turned out of the room, pointed myself in the direction he indicated, and departed. After I walked off, their voices stopped abruptly, however.
They might not be Melitan, but they definitely were brothers. They had the same facial looks, the same dress code (dingy tunics; open-strapped shin boots), the same movements and accents (I had noticed they talked Latin). Most of all, the way they behaved together was the way Festus and I used to be: that blend of spats and tolerance only brothers have.
Back on familiar ground, curiosity drew me to a colonnaded peristyle, formally planted around a statue of three half-size nymphs. This was where the dining room really ought to be situated. I wondered if there was in fact a better triclinium than Anacrites had assigned to us.
I was looking for Albia. Sure enough, she was there on a low wall, looking in at the courtyard. She was just sitting, so I paused. Albia had gone out for a break from watching Aelianus being polite to his wife. It would be best if she could work through her heartache privately.
Someone else interrupted her reverie: Anacrites strolled through the colonnade opposite. Crossing a corner of the garden, he went straight over to Albia. He sat on the wall beside her, not so near as to make her nervous, though near enough to worry me.
'There you are!' he said easily, as though she had been missed, not perhaps by the company but by him. To reinforce his position as a careful host, he added, 'I am glad I saw you hiding here. Helena Justina told me all about your unhappiness.'
'Really!' He would have his work cut out with Albia. He played it well, saying nothing more until she asked in her blunt way, 'What are you doing away from your guests?'
Anacrites rubbed the tips of two fingers against his right temple. 'Sometimes commotion disturbs me.'
'Oh yes,' Albia, the unfeeling adolescent, answered. 'I heard you had your head smashed in.'
He managed to sound rueful. 'I don't remember much about it.'
'Does it affect your work?'
'Not often. The effects are random. Days may be good or bad. It's very frustrating.'
'So what happens?'
'I think I have partly lost my powers of concentration.' It must be three years since his head wound; he had had time to learn how to cope.
'That's awkward. You might lose your job. Do you have to conceal it from everyone?'
'Whoa!' In the teeth of Albia's relentless attack, Anacrites made it jocular: 'I'm the spy. I'm supposed to ask the heavy questions.'
'Ask one then!'
Anacrites leaned back his head against a pillar. He was savouring the peace and quiet, resting. 'Do you like my little garden?'
Oil lamps had been dotted around the rest of the house, though there were none out here, probably to avoid attracting insects. In the last light of evening, only outlines of climbers and topiary showed, though there were pleasant scents and a faint splash from some informal water feature. A boy grotesque, pouring from a vase, maybe. I did not see Anacrites as a two-doves-on-a-scallop-shell man.
'It's not bad.'
'I have it looked after by professional horticulturalists. They claim they need to visit every day to keep things trim. It costs a fortune.'
'Are you rich?'
'Of course not; I work for the government.'
'Spies don't do gardening?'
'No idea how to.'
'Falco can dig and prune.'
'Unlike your father, I never had a country background. Do you call Falco your father, by the way?'
'Of course.'
'I was not sure what kind of arrangement Falco and Helena had about you.' Anacrites was obviously hinting there was something irregular he could use against us.
'I have my citizen's certificate!' Albia slapped him down.