In the Camillus Justinus house, proceedings had reached the stage that happens at all the best parties, where nobody remembers the original point. Once this occurs, the party is the point. Why quibble?
There were only three participants, plus a handful of Claudia’s closest slaves, those who had stayed awake, stolid elderly Baeticans who proved the claim she and Quintus always made that their slaves were family members. For Rome, the Camilli were liberal. They lived up to their stated ideals, which high-minded people will not always bother to do.
Nevertheless, the slaves were on duty, so they were serving. They were allowed tots of their own. At least half-full ones.
Since the group was so small, it was all fairly quiet. Besides, children were upstairs, hopefully sleeping. It was thought best not to disturb them, in case they came scampering down in their sleeping tunics to investigate what exciting times their elders were having. In the absence of incense and garlands, not to mention the lack of imported good-time boys (who organised this shindig?), a trio of respectable housewives was hardly going to raise the roof. As Helena said, the roof on the Camillus house was not in a good state and never had been in all her memory; they needed to treat it gently.
The truth was that the effects of the wine hit them so fast mainly because they were unused to it. Not in such desperate quantity. Respectable women, some of them mothers, were no strangers to a warming nip during festivals, a medicinal draught for sickness (one for the patient, one for the exhausted nurse), or a small glass on somebody’s birthday (to reward themselves first for keeping a calendar, then for remembering to look at it in time to fix up a suitable gift). But they did not drink to forget often enough to know that drinking to forget only makes you forget that someone is likely to turn up unexpectedly and find you at it.
In this case it was a small boy. He ran into the room barefoot, sweetly tousled, nervously het up. Claudia mentally went through the list of her children; this was Constans, her seven-year-old. He was prone to anxiety, sometimes suffered with his chest, had had trouble with his reading but was now catching up … His birthday, she knew without consulting, was next month. They had to make a special fuss of him, or he always lost out to Saturnalia.…
“Constans! Why are you out of bed, darling?” burbled the fond mother ineffectually.
Meline had mellowed so much that although she was wary of children, at least Roman ones, she actually held out her arms and took the boy on her lap. Since he was prone to anxiety, he sat very still, staring out at the others, owl-eyed.
“Constans, don’t look so frightened; you are not in any trouble!” his Aunt Helena soothed him. He liked her. She bought good presents. From what Helena had heard about Constans, she supposed there had been bed-wetting, although Quintus had recently assured her that the lad seemed to be over that stage now.… Helena had an introverted son of her own. But dear heavens (thought Claudia) our son is nothing like her crazy Postumus! “Tell us what the matter is,” Helena went on kindly, “and we can do something about it for you, sweetheart.” That was debateable at this point in the party, but they could send a slave to the nursery.
“Someone is coming! I was looking out of a shutter to see if my father would soon be home.”
“Coming down the street?” demanded his mother.
“No, they are here.”
“Outside?”
“The doorman has gone, but I don’t think he wants to let them in.”
Claudia was on her feet in an instant. Silverware flew in all directions as she knocked a tray off a sidetable. Meline caught the falling flagon, even though she was holding the little boy. The container she fielded was actually empty, but this was a superb hand-eye co-ordination. Helena clapped her effort, before they all made a wild stampede to the front doors.
The porter had refused to open up. He did not recognise the transport that had turned up on the doorstep; he became deaf when reminded that Quintus had not taken the family chair out that night, anyway. It was late. It was dark. Even by the standards of Roman porters, this one had always been intransigent. They only kept him because they were too soft-hearted to sell him on. He was taking a stand, nothing new in that. Despite increasingly frustrated banging, he would not risk letting danger in.
“This is the first time you have shown such regard for us!” snapped Claudia. “It could be Quintus Camillus. Get out of my way.”
She herself withdrew the mighty bolts. She cut her finger again, like the last time she tried it. She would not care about that, because she could hear her husband in a rage, bawling about how it was iniquitous for a man to be locked out of his own house.