Saturnalia

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.