So these noble folk had had three personal doctors, plus a dream therapist, on call and visiting daily – all of whom could presumably be relied on for confidentiality – yet for Veleda they brought in a completely different person, an outsider, from a charitable shrine that took care of dying slaves. 'Zosime is female? So… Women's troubles?' 'Pah! Headaches!' Phryne snorted, with a sneer that would have shattered glass.
VIII
I had seen enough, and scoffed at enough, to keep my head reeling as I stomped home.
On the way I did a check: I went straight up the Via Aurelia to Tiber Island, where at the shrine I asked to see Zosime. She was out on calls, and nobody was sure when she was likely to return. 'What's it about, Falco?' 'I'd rather not say.' This search would be tricky. Since Veleda's presence in Rome was a state secret, and her absconding was such an embarrassment, I would have to pretend she did not exist. It would be awkward. Still, I like a challenge.
When I played coy, the receptionist at the Temple of Жsculapius merely nodded. The shrine attendants accepted any story; they were used to hard-hearted citizens dragging in worn-out old slaves they could not be bothered to feed any more, and pretending they just found these sorry specimens wandering in the street. No sick slave was turned away. This was the only truly charitable temple in Rome, the only hospital. Treatment was free; the temple survived on donations and legacies. Most of their patients arrived only when they were past saving, but even then, after they had been allowed to die as gently as possible, the hospital conducted and paid for a burial. Way back when I was a very poor informer, I used to think that one day they would be doing it for me… Hey ho. Time for lunch. I hoofed on over the Fabrician Bridge to the Theatre of Marcellus, then turned down the left bank past the meat market and the corn dole station. By the Temple of Ceres there was a commotion: a posse of Praetorians were throwing their weight about. Big bullies, they were unmissable in their scarlet cloaks and crested helmets. All of them came with a filthy attitude. This was the result of encouraging long term legionaries, sad men who loved the army too much, to volunteer for special duties. The minute they put on their shiny moulded breastplates and took their personal oath to the Emperor, the Guards were in Elysium. No danger; double pay; a soft life in Rome, instead of being stuck in some dire province – plus the chance to behave like utter bastards every week. 'Name?' 'Didius Falco.' I kept silent about my profession, let alone my current mission.
They grabbed me, pulled off my elegant hat, peered in my face (breathing with a whopping gust of garlic), then threw me aside like a dirty duster.
'What's the commotion for, boys? Surely Vespasian is not reduced to claiming the pauper's corn dole? He gets good rations at the Golden House, and can eat them beneath the revolving ivory ceiling in the fabulous octagon -' 'Push off!' I was a man. They were not interested in me. I knew whose orders they must be following, and why. Anacrites had sent them. They were only assaulting women – which in that area was foolish, even in the cause of a national emergency. The beef-butchers' wives are neither pretty nor polite. Despite the December chill, the ladies of the Cattle Market Forum were all barefoot and bare armed. They had strong husbands with bloody cleavers who could manhandle dead oxen – but these sturdy women did not ask their men for assistance; when the Guards tried to 'inspect' them, they weighed in with fists, teeth and feet fearlessly. The Guards' bravado was slipping.
'Looking for someone special, officer?' I enquired (wondering how the Praetorians dealt with not mentioning Veleda) – but blood from a split lip was despoiling his bright breastplate and he was already exasperated. I hopped off without waiting for an answer.
As I marched quickly up the embankment, something struck my neck with a vicious sting. A cobnut bounced on the pavement. When I turned back, a small boy ran away, giggling. We still had ten days of this menace to endure. Io Saturnalia! More of our national treasures were loafing truculently outside my house. These shiftless wastrels were the soldiers Titus had assigned to me. They looked as bad as I was expecting. I rounded them up from various flower stalls and wine counters where they were ogling pretty garland-sellers and begging for free drinks. I knew without asking that Albia must have locked them out and in this instance I did not blame her. They were bandy-legged ex-marines from the salty First Adiutrix legion, an emergency outfit Vespasian had put together in a hurry, who were currently stationed at Moguntiacum on the Rhine. Camillus Justinus had been a tribune in the First for a time. Not a prestigious posting. 'And you lads were the travel escort for she-whom-we-do-not-name? Bad luck.' 'Oh, Veleda was all right, Falco.' 'No, soldier – I mean, bad luck: now you are taking orders from me!' As they looked at each other warily, I opened up with my key, and led them indoors. Helena Justina was waiting in the entrance hall, a tall, tart young woman in three shades of blue wool, with ear-rings that shouted not to annoy her. Hiding behind her, Albia was terrified of the soldiers. The acting centurion in charge of them was already inside, chatting up Helena Justina as if she were a wine-seller, while she glared at him stonily. Nux was hiding behind Albia, though when I came in the dog ran out and barked loudly, before scurrying into retreat again.
Head high and bursting for an altercation, Helena cried, 'Marcus Didius! Welcome home.'
Her tone was enough to make the boys of the First shuffled closer together nervously. Even the centurion stepped away slightly. He stopped short in wondering if he dared bully the householder and quickly adopted a respectful hangdog mode. How wise.
I kissed Helena's cheek formally, looking deep into those fabulous brown eyes with mischief and lust in equal measure.
Helena Justina managed to remain calm. 'This is Clemens, an acting centurion. He has explained about the soldiers.' I held her closer than a senator's daughter expects to be clutched, while in close view of a bunch of surly legionaries; then I smiled at her with so much affection she blushed. 'Marcus Didius, I am quite happy living in a very large house with a very small staff' She tried to wriggle free surreptitiously. I held on. 'I will even entertain – with only a small staff – large numbers of relatives over the Saturnalia period. Relatives who make no contribution, and most of whom are yours. But – darling – I do now find myself wondering exactly how I am to manage here, if eleven -' Helena kept my accounts and business records. Believe me, she could count – 'hungry soldiers are to join us for the festival.'
'Twelve,' stated Clemens. 'I've got a little servant who will be along presently.'
'Twelve!' exclaimed Helena, in a voice that would unman Hercules.
I released her and turned to Clemens. 'As you see, my wife – the most hospitable of women – is delighted that you and your men are to join us.' A couple of soldiers sniggered. I folded my arms. 'Here's how it will work. Everyone in my household – right down to my dog – will be treated with respect, or the whole bunch of you will be hogtied and thrown off the Probus Bridge. Two soldiers and the acting centurion's servant will be on a roster daily to assist the noble Helena Justina. They will escort her to market – take handcarts – and help bring home provisions as she directs. They will work in our kitchen, under her supervision. Helena, sweetheart, all soldiers can make bread and scrub vegetables.'
'Don't you have a cook?' asked Clemens. He looked amazed. He was also worried; a true soldier, on making camp he thought first about his rations. 'You will meet Jacinthus,' I assured him, smiling.