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.
“I suppose your father must have considered whether to continue with the Vestals’ lottery?” Helena was asking Titus.
“Well, we feel there is no choice about tomorrow. There are twenty perfectly good candidates-”
“Nineteen,” I mumbled, between mouthfuls.
“Gaia Laelia may yet be found safe and well!” Titus reproved me.
