“I am in no mood for a party.”
“It’s official: no option. Titus Caesar wants you.”
Titus Caesar sometimes did discuss state issues with me. I was not expected to take a chaperon. So what was this about?
Titus, in my opinion, had once nursed a partiality for Helena. As far as I knew it had remained hypothetical, though she had needed to leave Rome in a hurry to avoid awkwardness. She still avoided him, and would certainly never normally turn out rigged like this, in case it revived his ideas.
“What’s the wrinkle, fruit?”
Helena was smiling. Full of joy at seeing her, I had already let myself start to sink into her power. “Don’t worry, my darling,” she murmured. “I shall take care of you. I think, from what the messenger told me, our hosts will be wonderful Titus-and the fabulous Queen of Judaea.”
XXXVIII
NO WISE MAN can possibly answer the question: Was Queen Berenice really beautiful? Well, not when any of his womenfolk are listening.
I wondered if my brother Festus, he who died the heroic or notquite-so-heroic death in her country, had ever seen Titus Caesar’s armful. I found myself overcome by a yearning to discuss with Festus what he thought of her. Not that I mean to imply that anything would have happened if Festus, a mere centurion of common origin and raffish habits, ever had seen her, but, as is well known, Didius Festus was a lad.
Well, was she beautiful?
“Loud!” Ma would have said.
Achieved with sensitivity and high-quality trappings, loudness has its virtues. I happen to believe there is a place for loud women. (Festus thought so too; for him, their place was in his bed.)
Let it not be suggested that I am dodging the issue through a bad brother who happened to have had a reputation for jumping anyone in long skirts. I just want to say, as I am quite happy to do even if Helena Justina should be on hand, that had my brother Festus seen Queen Berenice he would undoubtedly have risen to the challenge of trying to displace his elite commander (Titus Caesar, legate of the Fifteenth Legion when Festus served with them)-and that I personally would have enjoyed watching Festus have a go.
That’s all. A man can dream.
Believe me, a man can hardly avoid it when he has spent hours supervising bucketfuls of grunge from the depths of a lavatory that must have been first used in republican times and rarely emptied since, then he walks into a room so full of exotic items that he can barely take them all in-not counting the dame in the diadem who is apparently feeding flattery to Titus as if it were huge pearly oysters in wine sauce. (Titus is lapping up her murmured endearments like a parched dog.) (The attendants have their eyes on stalks.) (Helena chokes.)
“Oh, settle down, Falco. It’s just a woman. Two eyes, one nose, two arms, a rather obvious bust, and perhaps not quite as many teeth as she must have owned once.”
I do not practice dentistry. I had not been looking at the Queen’s teeth.
Luckily, we had just entered a suite in Nero’s Golden House where the waterworks came in multiple quantities, with a luxuriant supply which was continually switched on. Liquefactious sheets of water slid down stair fountains; fine spouts tinkled in marble shells. High ceilings absorbed some of the stray sound and swathes of rich drapery muffled the rest. Unintentionally, the mad imperial harpist had created a satirist’s dream: in the Golden House, a sharp girl could be rude about a rival all the way across the room-indeed, right until the rival’s oriental perfumes knocked her back a pace, trying not to sneeze.
With an upheaval of purple, Titus Caesar, all curls and chubby chops, rushed from a dais to welcome us. He was typical of the Flavians, thickset and almost stout, apparently an ordinary fit countryman, yet conscious of his dignity.
“Helena Justina-how wonderful to see you! Falco, welcome.”
Titus looked ready to burst with pride in his conquest-or at being conquered by such a wonder. Understandably, he was eager to show off his new royal girlfriend to a senator’s daughter who once coldshouldered him. Helena responded with a quiet smile. Had he known Helena well, Titus would have restrained his enthusiasm at that point. If she had smiled like that at me, I would have returned to my couch, rammed my knees together, clasped my hands, and kept quiet for the next hour in case I had my ears blasted.
Being the son and heir of an emperor, Titus assumed he was in charge here. Queen Berenice, if I am any judge, detected more complex undercurrents. She had followed him down to us, shimmering. A neat trick. Silken robes help. Then it’s easy to do (Helena told me afterwards) if your sandals are difficult to walk in, so you have to sway sinuously in order not to fall over when traversing low steps.
Attendants placed us all informally on couches off the dais. The cushions were packed so hard with down, I nearly slid off mine. Like all architect-designed mansions, the whole place was dangerous; my boot studs had already skidded a few times on over-polished floor mosaics. There was so much to look at, I could not decide where to feast my eyes. (I refer to the exquisite paintwork-that on the walls and the ceiling vaults, of course.)
“Falco-you are very quiet!” chuckled Titus. He was reeking with happiness, poor dog.
“Dazzled, Caesar.” I could be polite. After today’s efforts, however, I may have been openly flagging. Physically I was wrecked. I hoped it was temporary. I ached worryingly. Age was catching up. My hands and fingernails felt rough; the dry skin of my face felt stretched. Even after a fast steam and scrape in the baths, the contents of that lavatory were still arousing unpleasant nasal memories.
“Marcus is exhausted,” Helena told Titus, settling herself elegantly. Though a private lass, in company she sometimes produced a composure that startled me. I knew when to shut up, anyway. I was too tired, so she was crisply taking charge. “He has spent all day searching for the little girl at the Laelius house. When I tracked him down for you, he was filthy, and I am sure they had given him nothing to eat-”
Berenice responded at once to the cue. (So the rumors were true; she had taken over the domestic keys already…) Rubies flashed as she waved a languid hand to call for sustenance for me. Helena beamed thanks in her direction.
“No luck?” Titus asked me. He looked very keen for a reassuring answer.
“No sign of her, unfortunately,” Helena said. Trays of dainties had arrived. I started to pick at them; Helena weighed in like a food taster, then selected from the silver bowls and popped morsels into my mouth almost as fast as I could deal with them. Fortunately, my wellwound toga stopped me slumping. Propped up in its hot woollen swathes, I succumbed to being tended like an invalid. This was nice. A comfortable palace. Helena did the talking. There was plenty for me to stare around at while I let her run the interview.
I wondered what the home life of the imperial family would be like nowadays: young Domitian, aping Augustus seizing Livia, had snatched a married woman and announced himself married to her; that was after seducing every senator’s wife he could persuade to favor him-before his father came home and clipped his wings. Titus (once divorced, once widowed) had now been joined-perhaps unexpectedly-by his exotic royal piece. Vespasian had previously lived openly with an extremely astute freedwoman. Antonia Caenis, my late patroness (was it coincidence that Berenice had delayed her arrival in Rome until after the death of Vespasian’s sensible, influential concubine?). There were a couple of very young female relations-Titus’ daughter, Julia, and a Flavia. Vespasian himself had now decamped to live in the Gardens of Sallust in the north of the city, near his old family house. But even without the old man, communal breakfasts must be riveting affairs.