I sent one of my nephews to obtain from my father a description of the purchased gift. Gaius, the runner, was also to tell Pa to ask around among his cronies at the Saepta and the Emporium for sightings of the missing man. Or indeed, sightings of the gift. Pa would love this. He adored pretending he was some kind of expert with a brilliant set of contacts, whereas I was an incompetent amateur. If he discovered anything, I would have to endure his crowing, but there was just a chance Pa would come up with results.
At home the pressure was truly on. In search of peace, I myself went to a wine bar up on the Aventine. I did not expect to find Justinus in this bolthole. As a place to drink it held very few attractions. But the waiter was amiable and the clientele, many of whom had something to hide from wives, mothers or taxation officials, respected other people's privacy. Until the First Adiutrix soldiers discovered it – as they were bound to – I could brood there alone.
Well, I took the dog. Walking Nux was always a good excuse to get out of the house. Flora's Caupona was no longer run by Flora, who had died, probably worn out by twenty years of living with my father. Previously given by Pa to this mistress of his as a little business where she could earn hairpin money (a business which kept her busy when she might otherwise have taken unwelcome interest in what he was up to), for about twelve months now Flora's had had my elder sister Junia as its hopeless proprietress. In the evening Junia was safe at home with her aggravating husband and her rather sweet deaf son; every day at sundown she would leave the caupona in the capable hands of the waiter, Apollonius, then everyone relaxed.
The bar was situated on a corner, as the best bars are. It had the usual two counters with crazy-marble tops, into which were set big pots containing sinister stews in anaemic hues, thickened with what seemed to be a mix of lentils and pavement dust. As the lukewarm pots fermented, from time to time half a gherkin or a lump of turnip would pop up through the slime, then softly sink to its death.
Awnings provided shelter in winter, when most topers sat miserably inside at a couple of wonky tables. Three wormy shelves on a wall held earthenware beakers. A clutch of amphorae leaned askew beneath them, around the bottom points of which Stringy, the caupona cat, curled his emaciated body. Stringy's diet, being the food at Flora's, was slowly poisoning him. The waiter (who always ate at the other caupona, the one across the street) either presided with lugubrious formality or lurked in a back room, where I knew he often read Euripides. When that happened it was bad news. He went off into another world and nobody could get served.
Tonight Apollonius was out among the clients, with a cloth over one arm. I had known him since he was an infant teacher; as a wine-bar waiter he still applied his skills to quell rowdies and to explain simple arithmetic to confused people who could not work out whether he had diddled their change. As I arrived that night, he was telling a drunken vegetable stall holder, 'I think we've all heard enough from you. Sit back on the bench and behave!' I felt I was seven years old again. The drunk did as he was told. I hid a smile.
Apollonius greeted me with a silent nod, then provided a dish of seeping chickpeas, which I ignored, and a cup of red wine, which I tried. 'I'd like your opinion of that, Marcus Didius.'
I noticed that instead of the normal thin crowd, tonight Flora's was warm and full of customers – all crushed in, hoping for free samples. The rest of them eyed me jealously. 'Junia experimenting with a new house wine?' I took a longer swig. 'Oddly enough, I can't taste anything wrong with it.' 'Oh it's not for here,' Apollonius hastened to calm my unease.
'That's reassuring. This caupona has a proud reputation for serving only the most disgusting rotgut on the Hill. People like to know where they stand, Apollonius. Change for change's sake is never welcome!'
Apollonius beamed. He had a quiet, intelligent sense of humour. This is always refreshing (and unexpected) in an intellectual. 'Trust me. We have no intention of destroying the traditions of the establishment. Rotgut remains the house speciality.' 'So what slippery travelling salesman offloaded this palatable gem on my dear sister?' 'We are testing it on a few favoured customers. Junia plans to provide this wine for the vigiles, at the Fourth Cohort's annual Saturnalia drinks party next week. She has been awarded the much coveted contract as their official caterer.' I whistled. 'What kind of bribe did that take?' 'I believe their tribune was impressed by her prospectus and sample menus,' returned Apollonius stiffly. He had a certain loyalty to Junia, as his employer, and managed to remain civil even after I guffawed. 'So what do you think, Falco?' 'I think it's all right.' He took the hint and gave me more. 'It's called Primitivum.' The vigiles would like that. I quaffed a couple of drinks, then prepared to go home.
I didn't bother to enquire after Justinus, and I was not supposed to mention Veleda so I dutifully avoided that subject too. Some of you may wonder why I went to the caupona. I found no clues, searched out no helpful witnesses, turned up no bodies and announced no public appeals for informants to come forward. I accomplished nothing for the case and a pedant would argue there is no reason to describe the scene. But these are my memoirs, and I shall include damn well anything that interests me.
I was paid by results. So long as I was getting the results, my methods were my own affair. You do your job, tribune, and leave me to mine.
If it makes you feel better, let's say, a good informer who is under pressure sometimes finds it useful to take a few moments of private reflection after a busy day. 'Petronius Longus is back,' said Apollonius, as I paid up. Well, there you are. That was a result.
XI
'What are you buying for Mother?'
Maia, the most ruthlessly organised of my sisters, was working on a list. A stylus was pushed into her dark curly hair, and her big brown eyes were glaring at a waxed tablet where various relatives' names had been assigned tasteful (but economical) gifts.
'Maia, the best thing about being married is that at last I can leave my mother's Saturnalia present to somebody else. Helena knows her duties. It saves Ma having to grit her teeth over one more manicure set that she doesn't need since five people bought one at the last minute from the same stall for her birthday.'
'Tell Helena she can do bath oils. There won't be duplicates. I had a brilliant idea – I'm clubbing together with the others to pay for an eye doctor. Galla and I are paying for the left eye operation, Junia and Allia are getting the right.' I raised an eyebrow gently. 'Discount for the pair?' 'Special one-time-only offer – two for the price of one on his low-interest instalment plan.' 'Does Ma know?' 'Of course not. She'd run off to the country. Don't you let on, Marcus. '
'Not me!' Personally, I thought another set of ear-scoop and tweezers was safer. I knew what would be involved in the cataract operation; I had investigated cures when the white scales appeared and Mother first started bumping into the furniture. I'd like to be there when my four sisters explained to Ma how she had to endure some quack pushing cataracts aside with a couching needle. The girls would probably expect me to be the heavy who held our mother down while it happened. 'In case you're wondering,' I said to Maia, 'I could use some extra weight training sessions from Glaucus at the gym.' 'You're getting a new note-tablet,' sneered Maia. I was still trying to think up ways to suggest I already owned enough notebooks to write a Greek novel, when Petro came in. He appeared to have woken from a nap, and was now gearing himself up for an evening shift on duty. This involved winding on leather wrist bands, rubbing his eyes a lot, and belching.