Saturnalia

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.