Nothing seemed to have happened while he went out for his look around.
Aulus lifted Toutou, then put him down on the floor between the brothers’ couches. “Sit quiet. Dry your eyes; you’re safe with us. No one will even know you’re here.” As he bent to do this, he mouthed to Quintus what he had seen. “Bare terrace. All on our own. No transport, not one attendant left.”
Stuck, thought Quintus. Helpless. He wants us helpless.
Most senators would not be able to find their own way home, if they were ever allowed to leave here. Few would be carrying money for a fare; one or two probably could not even tell a hired litter-bearer their home address. On the streets of Rome at night, if men of this rank started asking for directions, muggers would descend like a flash flood. There would be no kindness for strangers; claiming to have a powerful place in society would mean absolutely nothing without bodyguards to back you up. Stuck.
The two Camilli would survive. They had acted as informers. Their street craft was fine. They would make it back to the Capena Gate—though they would have to get out of here first.
It was now the younger brother’s turn to leave his couch, defying protocol. He had spotted that aediles had been invited, even though two of their number were always plebeian, not senatorial. He only counted three, so he went across to enquire about the missing fourth man, who was their niece’s husband. In the family, she was regarded as a wild child, yet she had recently married a magistrate. It baffled everyone how Albia had managed this, not least since any watching gods reacted so angrily that her bridegroom had been struck by lightning. A doctor’s note had covered his absence tonight, apparently.
Quintus returned to report, casually flopping back onto his couch. Aulus commented that their nephew-by-marriage might be permanently singed, but clearly had his head screwed on. Weeks after the event, he knew how to deploy a good excuse.
A lightning strike in the middle of a wedding procession was sensational, and the famous victim had let it be known that he was struggling with after-effects. This let him attend parties he liked the sound of, but when he chose to avoid something official he blatantly bunked off. The brothers discussed how long Faustus would be able to get away with it. They liked him. They were envious.
Insidious scents of incense became apparent. Fine oils and wine were being poured as libations. At funerals, ancient custom was to sacrifice a sow to the gods of the underworld, the so-called chthonic deities. The sow for Ceres was apportioned between the goddess, the mourners and the deceased. So, pork arrived, ready barbecued; the Emperor made an ostentatious religious gesture, offering choice morsels for the gods, before further pieces were brought to the guests as sinister appetisers.
Customarily, everyone shared in the last proper meal any dead person could partake of before they flittered off to be a shade in the underworld. So the fallen of Dacia, though their corpses were not present, theoretically participated in this dinner. Grim legionaries and Praetorians, hacked to death in a massacre, the men might have held crude views on how their deaths were being exploited for the Emperor’s strange purposes.
A solemn line of servers, identical boys carrying identical platters, moved out across the banquet floor to deliver the sacrificial dainties. Crispy pork, still hot—well at least quite warm in mass-catering terms—exquisitely cooked with a glaze that smelled of honey, though it looked like some much darker marinade. Meat was handed to guests, the stand-in mourners, on little black tridents. Neat touch.
Aulus gravely took his portion from his painted attendant. He pulled off a piece, leaned down and handed it to Toutou.
“See what this is like, boy.” Observing him, Quintus had paused. “Give him some of yours too,” Aulus suggested, his tone sardonic.
“You are appalling!”
“I am looking after my slave.” No, he was using his slave. Aulus could be kind-hearted enough when he chose, but even in a good family Toutou’s first role was to protect his owner; only then could he count on any protection himself. “You’re safe with us” was purely notional.
“What will you do, if he keels over?” demanded Quintus, who genuinely had more scruples.
Aulus shrugged.
Despite his conscience, Quintus followed his brother’s example, dropping a piece of his meat to the little boy, who gobbled anything he was given. Who knew what had happened to this child before he was picked out at the slave market? He was now fed in the Aelianus household, but had failed to lose his fear of hunger. Perhaps he never would.
Some party, thought Quintus. Not only did the Emperor have his designated official who must routinely test everything before it can touch the imperial lips, but a guest had smuggled in his own taster. It would, of course, be seen as an unforgiveable insult if Domitian found out they too were checking on the food, his gift, in case he was intending to poison them. Etiquette ordained that you must always pretend to trust a host. Perhaps that was why murders at banquets were so common. And so successful.
“What shall we do, anyway, if Toutou groans and drops? We have to eat what we’re given.”
“Shut up, bro! You sound like my mother.” However, Aulus thought about it. Yes, what would he do? If Toutou’s small body succumbed, as it would do very quickly if a fatal drug was present, what alternative did they have? One thing: Before he himself was carried off, Aulus Camillus would stand up and accuse their host. You only die once. May as well go out shouting defiance. Denounce the bastard. Make your own justice. Get your name recorded in history as crazily courageous.
Quintus saw it in his eyes. “Make sure first! Don’t say anything too soon, in case that grumble in your tum is only a touch of colic.”
“Trust me.”
“Fat chance! Look out—black plates on the horizon.” Sharp-eyed, Quintus had spotted the next treat: the black serving plates that would become famous. Each diner was allocated his personal heavy comport.
Aulus scoffed quietly. “You have to admit, the theming is superb. If we ever escape, I’m going to ask for the name of his orgy planner.”
“I only wish someone had told us the big idea, so I could have brought a black-dyed napkin to wipe my fingers on.”
The food brought upon the black platters had been coloured black. Black food is unappealing, many would say.