XLIV
She saved me. She had to. She was a girl with a conscience. She would not risk exposing Titus Caesar to embarrassment from a clutch of raucous plebians. Helena ground her teeth, I grinned at her—and for one night at least I had a senator’s daughter to act as my social hostess. I did not expect her to be able to cook, but she knew how to supervise.
The members of my family saw no reason to alter the habits of a lifetime just because I had produced an Imperial guest. Titus had already edged in, looking startled, before Helena and I could emerge with the kind of refined welcome he had learned to expect. My relations immediately grabbed him and sat him on a stool with a bowl of olives on one knee, to watch his turbot cooking. Next thing I knew, everyone seemed to have introduced themselves without waiting for me, Helena was testing the fish with a knifepoint, Petronius shoved a full winecup under my elbow, and the chaos redoubled while I stood there like a drowned vole in a thunderstorm.
After five minutes and a cup of inferior Campanian wine, Titus had grasped the house rules and joined in with the rabble shouting advice. None of my family was snobbish; they accepted him as one of us. Most of them were much more curious about the superior young lady whose sweet-scented head was bent close to mine over my makeshift cooking pot.
The Praetorians had to wait outside. Luckily, when the Didius women bring bread rolls for a party they supply enough to send out several basketfuls if any high-ranking visitor happens to bring his bodyguard.
“What kind of sauce?” Helena murmured, dipping in her finger.
“Caraway.”
“It hardly tastes.” I was looking up the recipe—one I once stole from Helena herself. She peered over my shoulder and spotted her own handwriting. “You ruffian!… It says a scruple; I’ll put more—did you squash them?”
“Have you tried grinding caraway seeds? They sit there and laugh at you.”
She tipped in more from the bag. “Don’t crowd me; I’m doing this.”
“You’re the staff; I’m the chef—I’ll get the blame.” I sampled it myself. “Rasps a bit.”
“That’s the mustardseed and peppercorns.”
“Stir in a spoonful of honey while I make the thickening—”
“This man is good!” cried Titus; the kind of guest I like.
“My younger brother is extremely self-sufficient,” Junia boasted complacently. (Junia had always cursed me as an incompetent clown.) I caught Helena’s eye. My sister Junia took great pride in her civilised behaviour and good taste; somehow at any family gathering she seemed stiff and out of place. I was pleased to detect it was Maia the madcap whom Helena already liked best.
* * *
It took four of us to transfer the fish from his bath. I hooked up the cabbage nets on the end of a spoon; the cooked turbot proved firm enough for us to ease him out whole, then swing the cradle onto my brother’s Celtic shield which Petronius was holding. As we fiddled about removing the nets, the heat of the fish, conducted through the metal shield with amazing rapidity, was burning his arms. When he complained we told him it was a test of character.
“Be careful of the prong on the underside!”
“Gods, Marcus; have I got to hold up the fish tray all evening? How can I put this thing down with a spike underneath?”
My brother-in-law Gaius Baebius, the customs clerk, stepped forward. Gaius Baebius (who would not dream of being mentioned in somebody’s memoirs by less than two of his names) silently swung an iron cauldron onto the table top. Petro dropped the boss into the pot, which supported the shield quite steadily; Gaius Baebius had created a two-piece comport of some style.
My brother-in-law must have been secretly planning this coup since he got here. What a creep.
The turbot looked wonderful.
“Oh Marcus, well done!” Helena cried—almost letting some affection show.
Now the company had expanded, there were the usual party problems: not enough dishes and not enough seats. Titus pretended he did not mind squatting on the floor with his dinner served up on a lettuce leaf, but with my mother present better standards were required. While Mama took a carving knife to the turbot I sent Maia, who had no inhibitions after wine on an empty stomach, rushing off to knock up my neighbours and demand a loan of extra stools and bowls. “Most of the other apartments are empty, Marcus; your block is a sanctuary for ghosts! I cadged these for you off an old lady upstairs—do you know who I mean?” I knew.
Remembering what the pretentious Hortensius family served up to Priscillus at their dinner party, you may like to know the menu I produced at mine:
Plain—but none of it was poisoned, I could guarantee.
We did have an exquisite wine which Petronius had brought (he told me what it was, but I forgot). And perhaps I exaggerate. My mother’s brothers were all market gardeners so our family’s idea of a salad had never been just a sliced hard-boiled egg on a bunch of endive leaves. Even my three uninvited sisters sent contributions to make me feel guilty; we had a large tray of white cheeses, plus cold sausage and a bucket of oysters to gobble with the basic greenery. There was food flowing out of the doors—literally, since Junia enjoyed herself more than once taking dishes down to our guest of honour’s loitering Praetorians.
Everyone told me the turbot was delicious. As the cook, I was too busy worrying to taste it myself. The Caraway Sauce must have been an effective side dish, since when I looked round for it the serving jug had been scraped bare. By the time I sat down to eat, the only space was in the corridor. There was so much noise my head ached. Nobody bothered to talk to me since I was merely a tired scullion. I could see my mother squashed in a corner with Petro and his wife, discussing their offspring, probably. My brothers-in-law just ate and drank, or farted surreptitiously. Maia had the hiccups, which was hardly surprising. Junia was taking pains to look after His Caesarship, which he tolerated pleasantly—though he appeared much more taken with Helena Justina.
Helena’s dark eyes constantly watched over my guests; she and Maia were doing good work for me, nudging along the conversation and passing round the food. Helena was beyond my reach. If I called out she would never hear me. I wanted to thank her. I wanted to go across and fetch her, then take her to one of my empty rooms and make passionate love until neither of us could move …
“Where did you find her?” squealed Maia’s voice behind my right ear, as she lurched up to spoon more of the glutinous turbot onto my plate.
“She found me, I think…”
“Poor girl, she adores you.”
I felt like a man stumbling out of the desert. “Why’s that?”
“The way she looks at you!” giggled Maia, the only one of my sisters who was actually fond of me.
I toyed with my second helping. Then across the hubbub of eight people talking at once Helena raised her head, and noticed me watching her. Her face had always contained a mixture of intelligence and character which jolted me. She smiled slightly. A private signal between us, to tell me everybody was enjoying my party; then a shared moment of stillness after that.
Titus Caesar bent sideways to say something to Helena; she was answering him in the quiet way she conversed with people publicly—nothing like the tyrant who trampled over me. Titus seemed to admire her as much as I did. Somebody should tell him that when an Emperor’s son indulges himself with a visitation to a poor man’s house, he could eat the fish and swig the wine and leave his guards outside to amaze the neighbours—but he should draw the line at flirting with the poor man’s girl … He had effortlessly impressed all my relations. I hated him for his happy Flavian skill at mucking in.
“Cheer up,” someone chaffed me, the way people do.
Helena Justina appeared to be lecturing Titus; she glanced at me, so I realised I was the subject. Helena must be attacking him over the way the Palace treated me. I winked at him; he smiled back sheepishly.
My sister Junia squeezed past me on her way somewhere. She tossed a glance at Helena. “Idiot. You must be heading for a tumble there!” she chortled, not bothering to wait and see if I was upset.
Once again I was the typical host: tired and left out. My fish had gone cold while I brooded. I noticed glumly that where my landlord had had a wall replastered it must have dried out and now there was a crack the whole length of the corridor, wide enough to insert my thumb. So here I was, presiding over an ideal Roman evening: a tasteful dinner for my family, friends, and a patron I respected. Here I was feeling depressed and with a dry mouth; insulted by my sister; watching a handsome Caesar attempt to capture my girlfriend; and knowing that when everyone else reeled off cheerfully, the debris they left behind would take me hours to tidy up.
* * *
One good feature of my family was that once they had eaten and drunk everything they could get their hands on, they vanished speedily. My mother, with the excuse of her age, was leaving first, though not before Petro’s wife Silvia had shrieked to prevent Titus from helpfully throwing away the turbot remains. Of course Ma had fixed on carrying off the skeleton and the jelly from the serving tray for stock. Petronius and Silvia were taking my mother home (with her bucket of bones). Titus remembered to say something complimentary to her about Festus (who had served under Titus in Judea). Still reeling from his near disaster with the fish tray his honour decided it would be tactful if he left too. He had already thanked me and was taking Helena lightly by the hand.
“Camillus Verus’ daughter has been defending your interests, Falco.” I wondered if he had heard that my relationship with Helena was more than professional and if he knew how intensely I was trying to keep her here. He appeared unaware of it. A smooth operator, this one.
I shook my head at her gently. “I thought we agreed: your role here tonight was to pass round the olives nicely and to count up the winecups before anybody left!”
Titus was offering Helena transport home.
“Thank you, sir,” she responded in her firm style. “Didius Falco has a commission to look after me—” (I used to be her bodyguard.) Titus tried to insist. “He needs the money,” she hissed, quite openly.
Titus laughed. “Oh, I’ll give him the money—”
“No use, sir,” Helena quipped. “Without the work he won’t take any payment—you know how touchy Falco is!”
But she was a senator’s daughter. I had no public claim on her. It was impossible to cause the Emperor’s son offence by quarrelling on the doorstep over a matter of simple etiquette, so finally I lost Helena among the noisy throng which was escorting Titus downstairs to the street.
It was rude of me, but I felt so depressed I stayed upstairs. Once my relatives had trampled down three flights to the thoroughfare and waved my Imperial visitor back to the Palantine, they saw no reason to march back up again, merely to say goodbye to me. They went home. The respectable citizens of the Piscina Publica must have winced at the racket as they left.
The apartment was dismally quiet. I braced myself for a long night clearing up. I flipped some strands of watercress into a rubbish pail, straightened a couple of cups lethargically, then collapsed on a bench in the traditional manner of a weary host, as I stared at the mess.
A door closed behind me. Someone with gentle fingers and a delicate sense of timing tickled my neck. I bent forwards to give her more scope. “Is that you?”
“It’s me.” A girl with a conscience. Naturally she had stayed behind to help me wash the plates.