“Terentia Paulla needs no help from anyone,” Numentinus uttered crushingly. “Anybody who has told you otherwise is a fool!” He paused. “Or completely mad,” he added, in a baleful voice.
I was too disheartened to protest or make further enquiries. What he said had a ghastly ring of truth.
I walked to the entrance hall they were using, and there at last my spirits rose slightly: the person who had asked for me was Helena. She was holding my toga, which somebody must have found and given to her, and she smiled gently. Obviously she had heard I had failed. There was no need to waste effort explaining.
I noticed she was rather well dressed, in a gleamingly clean white gown and a modest stole over hair which looked suspiciously fanciful to arouse new dreads. She was wearing a gold necklace her father had given her when Julia was born. She was scented divinely with Arabic balsam and her face, on close inspection, had been lightly touched up with such skill in the use of the paint that it had to have been applied by one of her mother’s maids or with the help of Maia.
The last thing I wanted now was the kind of social gathering that called for such titivation.
“Come along.” Helena grinned, seeing my horror. She sniffed at me “Nice unguents, Falco! You have such exquisite taste… A litter is waiting outside with a clean tunic for you. We can stop at a bathhouse if you’re quick.”
“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.”
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.
