'I expect he blames his work, darling! He is a loyal physician,' Helena commented disingenuously. 'He didn't like me criticising Drusilla. '
'Drusilla Gratiana foolishly blames the gods for her misfortunes,' Aedemon replied. 'Cleander won't have it. He rejects all superstition – irrational assignment of causes – shamanism.'
'He hates me, of course!' giggled Pylaemenes, the dream therapist. 'And what do you think of him?' I asked, keeping it light. 'I would like to know that man's dreams,' exclaimed Pylaemenes, with feeling. 'He's a tortured soul?' 'He has his dark side, I suspect.' 'He is bloody rude,' snarled Aedemon. 'He gave me all Hades, just for supplying Quadrumatus with a scarab amulet. A patient who is drinking his own urine as a laxative deserves a comforter!'
The Chaldean patted the fat man's knee. 'Oh that was a misunderstanding,' he soothed. 'Quadrumatus had a nightmare in which your scarab was eating him -' A nightmare seemed natural, if the man had been drinking his own water. Quadrumatus took a sharp downward lurch in my estimation for submitting to it. 'He gave away the scarab to his cheese-server, and Cleander happened to see the boy with it.'
'So what's wrong with that?' wailed Aedemon. 'The cheese-server needs help. He is permeated by gas. Classic bowel putrefaction. Every conduit in his body must be blocked.' 'I fear you are right,' agreed Pylaemenes gravely. 'His farts are legendary.' I cheered up. At last we had encountered someone attending the Quadrumati who had a sense of humour. 'I'd like to get access to that boy and give him a thorough empty out with wild cabbage,' Aedemon exclaimed.
At that moment Cleander returned. The man had no social skills. Overhearing Aedemon, he scoffed, 'He's just a slave, man; he'll get over it!' We were only discussing flatulence, but this would clearly have been Cleander's attitude whatever the boy suffered from. He then charged in with: 'You're chasing Scaeva's death, Falco? Can we assume you've got nowhere?'
I had met his type before. Some know the effect of their rudeness. Most are just so arrogant they have no idea. I did not need to justify myself to him. Aware of Anacrites watching me, I declared that I would identify the' murderer publicly in the next few days.
'Someone had better look out then!' muttered Cleander in his low, gruff voice. I glanced at Helena but with the Chief Spy standing alongside, neither of us elaborated. I felt the Spy's intense tingle of curiosity. He as good as fetched out a note-tablet and made a memo to himself
Once again, Helena attempted to improve the atmosphere. 'How are your headaches these days, Anacrites?' He jumped. He had been listening in, with the unobtrusive silence that was his favourite technique, a slight smile on his face as he followed everything the rest of us discussed. He hated being made the centre of attention; 1 guessed Helena knew that. She turned to Cleander: 'Our friend here had a bad head injury and still suffers side-effects. 1 wonder if one of his humours may be a little out of balance?'
Surprisingly, this tactic worked. Cleander was at once drawn into a discussion with Anacrites about his famous headaches. He even seemed to be offering cures. Before I could suggest blood-letting from a main artery, Helena pulled me and the others off to one side.
'So Cleander won't let Drusilla Gratiana get away with believing she hits the amphora because she's fated?' Helena asked Aedemon. 'I don't suppose she enjoys being warned off wine – but she puts up with it? It confirms that Cleander's patients think he's marvellous.' 'The rest of us suspect they love him because he's a hot dispenser of poppy juice… Drusilla is in Cleander's pocket because he never seriously insists she dries out. He loathes slaves and freedwomen, so he sees Drusilla even without that scowling maid of hers present, and has complete control. Husband doesn't help,' Aedemon informed us, happily insulting his own patient, Quadrumatus. 'Says "a drop never hurt anyone". He only has to observe Drusilla after a hard bout to know how wrong that is.'
'I don't suppose he does see her tipsy,' suggested Helena. 'This seems like a house where they may well lead separate lives much of the time – and when Drusilla is unfit for society, I expect the scowling Phryne keeps guard.'
While Pylaemenes just winked at me, Aedemon muttered, 'Too much is concealed behind closed doors in this house. Abominations. Quadrumatus is a good judge and has a mind of his own, sure – but that's useless if nobody ever takes notice of his instructions.' It was unclear what abominations had upset him. In a pause, Helena asked, 'So where is Drusilla, our hostess, today?' 'Rumour is, she had a complete nervous breakdown. Swallowing more wine than ever – never got over her brother's awful death.' Aedemon then raised himself upright like an uncoiling reptile and swanned off, following a slave who had a huge tray of seafood bites.
I could see the dream therapist was about to move away too, but I made a last effort: 'So what has Quadrumatus been so lax about?'
Pylaemenes just shrugged.
He sidled off, so we shifted further from Anacrites and Cleander.
We managed to position ourselves beside one of the three-foot silver salvers. It seemed to be wielded by the cheese-server Aedemon and Pylaemenes had mentioned, but I had to leave Helena at risk of his fabled gaseous emissions because Claudius Laeta was gesticulating from a doorway. Helena waved me off to my meeting. I left her discussing Gallic cheese with the server: was it best pounded with pine nuts, hazel nuts or almonds?
She had the best bargain. At least she could pick out a cheese and the flatulent slave boy would cut her a sliver. He looked like a reprobate who would give a handsome woman more than a sliver, in fact. I heard him begin chatting to her; he was full of cheeky quips.
I meanwhile was made to halt by a valet, whose purpose in life was to irritate men by fiddling with the folds of their togas. A sponge-slave grabbed me by both hands and cleaned any grease from my fingers and palms, then a boy almost tripped me up, scrabbling round so he could dust my boots. I had endured less attention when visiting Vespasian. Emperors can afford to relax. This manic preparation told me that inside the room I was trying to enter was someone dull, but highly aspirational.
Too right. An ingratiating major-domo whispered the good news. His duty was to set people at their ease with terrifying lists of VIPs. 'You are entering the presence of Marcus Quadrumatus Labeo, who is hosting and chairing the convocation. Also present are Tiberius Claudius Laeta and Tiberius Claudius Anacrites, who are both highly placed imperial freedmen. The guest of honour is -' The creep nearly wet himself – 'Quintus Julius Cordinus Gaius Rutilius Gallicus!'
Rutilius had enough names already but I invented a few more for him: 'Old Grovel is here, is he? Bonanza Boy! Domitian's Ovation Sparkler. I'm Falco,' I said as the major-domo gasped at my irreverence. 'If you need a mnemonic, give me a piece of brazier charcoal and I'll write it on your wrist for you.'
LV
Didius Falco!'
The triumphant, pretty nearly triumphal, great general Rutilius remembered me! Could it be I had impressed him with my talent when we first met out in Tripolitania – an event made the more memorable for both of us when he ordered my brother-in-law to die in the bloody jaws of arena lions? Could he even be recalling with nostalgia that long hot summer evening when he and I, the most mismatched of literary entertainers, hired the Auditorium of Maecenas and gave a cringe-making poetry recital?