A Bitter Chill (30 page)

“Of course,” we both said, in our best party manner.

The new dining-room was enormous, and set in its own wing of the villa. As we began to walk down what seemed like half a mile of corridor, I realised I was dreading the dinner now. This latest threat to Plautius had changed everything. I even found I was taking deep breaths, like someone preparing to dive into a cold river, and illogically, I wished that after all I’d be sharing a couch with Quintus.

I said softly, “May the gods protect us.” Then I strolled into the grand banquet as if I hadn’t a worry in the world.

C
HAPTER
XXI

The dining-room looked magnificent. There were green branches everywhere, and even pink roses, which I discovered later were made of silk, so realistic you wanted to pick them. The air was heavy with rose scent, and alive with music. The dining-couches, placed all round the edges of the room, were draped with embroidered linen, and the small tables in front of them were set with silver-handled knives and spoons, and beautiful drinking-glasses. A huge table waited in the centre for the first course to arrive. It was all as bright as day, thanks to dozens of bronze lamp-standards festooned with small hanging lights.

A slave showed me to my place. It wasn’t at the very top of the room, but quite respectably close. Sempronia was sharing with Clarus and Priscus, while Clarilla sat with Quintus and Fabia. Plautius was there, reclining on a smaller couch on his own, with Timaeus seated nearby on a stool. I was in the middle section of the room with the dozen or so local guests—senior town councillors and their ladies—and at the far end sat several favoured freedmen, mostly Clarus’ clients. Where Candidus and Albia would have been placed I couldn’t tell. The furniture had been tactfully reorganised.

A couple of dozen pretty boys and girls carried in the appetisers, and delicious food aromas competed with the rose scent. But before they served us at our tables, there was a charming bit of festive play-acting, a typical example of how Clarus managed to honour the old Roman traditions while not letting them get in the way of his modern daily life. At a truly traditional Saturnalia dinner, the slaves should have been seated while their masters and mistresses waited on them. This wouldn’t have gone down at all well with important guests, and Clarus had arrived at a compromise which kept everyone happy. From the smooth way it was managed, it probably happened every year. Of course, being Clarus, he had to make a speech.

“Honoured guests! I’d like to welcome you all to my humble abode. At this season of convivial joy, we must not forget the old customs which have made Rome great. I shall have the pleasure of waiting on my servant here, my major-domo. Please come and be seated, Dimitrius.” He stood up and beckoned, and the man approached with a gravity and dignity that would have made a high priest envious.

“Thank you, my lord.” He sat carefully on Clarus’ own couch, but didn’t attempt to recline full-length like the rest of us. Sempronia, who was in the place of honour to the right of the host, looked on stonily as Clarus poured wine into a glass and offered it to his slave. Dimitrius drank the whole of it and held it out for a refill, which Clarus poured, smiling. “Thank you,” he said. “An excellent wine.” He looked round the guests and raised his glass. “May I propose a toast—to a happy and peaceful Saturnalia.” We all drank, then he rose and slipped back into his major-domo role, while Clarus resumed his position on the couch. It was very well done.

I was sharing with Horatius and Gemellus, one of our local Roman landowners. They were both good company, and when I told Horatius how Gemellus was winning an impressive reputation as an orator in court cases in Eburacum, the two of them became instant friends. Horatius wasn’t aware how easy it is to win an impressive reputation as an orator in a small place like Eburacum.

The food was wonderful. A touch showy, of course, but I can put up with that, as long as it’s also mouth-wateringly delicious. First there were oysters and snails, quails’ eggs and crabs, dormice, and lettuce—how had his gardeners managed lettuce in mid-winter?—all accompanied by fresh bread and warm wine. Then for the main course, four slaves carried in a whole roast sow. More servants brought smaller trays of roast piglets, which they arranged round the sow, and platters decorated like birds’ nests, containing chickens, ducks, geese, and doves. All this was set out on the central table in a wonderful display, before the carvers began to cut up and distribute the meat. I lost count of the different kinds of vegetables, and as for the choice of wines—but this isn’t the place for a complete menu. The sweet course is the only one that needs a detailed description.

As I ate and chatted to my two companions, I glanced around often, as if taking in the glittering scene, but in reality watching Plautius. He looked better than at any time since we’d first met, and was eating solid food, though sparingly. If you observed closely, you saw that he only ate from dishes that Timaeus fetched and sampled, but it was discreetly done. Timaeus was wearing a white tunic, like the table slaves. So was Quintus’ man Rufus, who was hurrying about among the tables, doing quite a creditable job as a waiter, and presumably keeping both eyes open for anything suspicious.

There was a longish pause between the appetisers and the main course. Some of the guests, like Gemellus, got up to walk about the room and chat to friends, but Horatius and I stayed put and watched the entertainment. Three bronze-skinned African girls, supple as snakes, bent their bodies into impossible shapes and did complicated acrobatic dances. They were accompanied by a girl drummer wearing nothing but a short leopard-skin kilt, and making enough noise to let me snatch a few private words with Horatius.

“You heard that Lord Plautius received an unusual message earlier today?”

He nodded. “A bit worrying, after we thought all that assassination business was finished with. What do you make of it?”

“I don’t know. All we can do is be on the alert.”

“He’s safe enough with all these people around him, isn’t he? It’s good to see him here.” He signalled to the wine slave to refill his glass. “Delicious, this white wine. Must be from Italia somewhere.”

“Yes, from near Neapolis.” I decided to venture a question that might sound rude if I asked Sempronia or Plautius directly. “Well, now that Decimus is found, I presume you’ll all be leaving to go home soon?”

“Don’t ask me, m’dear. I’ll be the last person to be told!” He looked across at Sempronia, who was eating with apparent enjoyment, and smiling as she talked with Clarus. “At least she’s in a better mood tonight. She’s done nothing but moan all day about how her slaves are all useless compared with Margarita. She misses her more than she expected.”

Serves her right, I wanted to remark, but said instead, “I saw Albia just briefly before she left. She said Decimus and his father had an argument.”

He gave a snorting laugh and took a long sip of wine. “
Argument!
That’s a good one! Full-scale battle, I’d call it. Old Gnaeus doesn’t often lose his temper, but by the gods, he did this time. I think he genuinely hoped he could persuade Decimus to give up this marriage. I could have told him the boy has made his mind up and won’t budge. He finished by storming out and yelling, ‘Goodbye, Father. I hope I never see you again. Remember, men are only mortal, but love goes on for ever!’”

Gemellus came back to his place just then. “It’s a good thing Silvanius serves a hearty first course,” he remarked. “This is likely to be a long interval. Apparently it’s chaos in the kitchen.”

Horatius shrugged. “It’s bound to happen at Saturnalia. The slaves are having high jinks, are they?”

“Yes. Only the usual sort of foolery, as far as I can make out. One of the junior cooks has been elected King of the Kitchen for the night, got himself drunk on the cooking wine, and started ordering everyone about. Most of them have had a few drinks more than they ought, seemingly. The chef’s having a tantrum and threatening to walk out.”

“I wish I’d a gold piece for every tantrum our cook has thrown!” I said, wondering what my own slaves were up to at the Oak Tree. “But how did you discover all this, Gemellus? Everything here looks so calm and efficient.”

“I heard Dimitrius apologising to Clarilla and Clarus. And I heard Clarus say that if anything goes wrong, Dimitrius will be in for a flogging.”

The second course, when it finally came, was worth the wait. If Gemellus hadn’t told us that the kitchen was in uproar, we wouldn’t have guessed. Perhaps some of the table slaves looked a little red in the face, and there was one small accident when a girl knocked over somebody’s glass, but nothing that doesn’t happen sometime at any party in the Empire. It was a triumph. Everyone sent compliments to the chef, and Clarus and Clarilla smiled and smiled, supremely happy.

Before the sweet course, there was a musical recital. A handsome eunuch with a clear, sweet voice sang love poetry which he accompanied on a lyre, and then two girls played flutes while two boys performed sinuous dances. Once again we had time to stretch our legs, and nearly everyone got up to stroll around, except Plautius and Sempronia, and the host and hostess. Several people disappeared briefly, presumably to relieve themselves, and the rest of us ambled about the room chatting to our friends. I even greeted Fabia as I passed her couch, and she replied with a sweet smile. Quintus smiled too. I approached Lord Plautius—slowly, in case he wasn’t wanting company—but he beckoned me closer. He looked well, if a little tired.

“Aurelia Marcella, thank you for arranging for my son to come here this afternoon. I’m sorry to say we couldn’t agree, but I was glad of the chance to talk to him. I wanted to give him a fair hearing.”

“I’m pleased if I was able to help. But you know, I’m sure, that he came back to the Oak Tree of his own free will, when he heard that Priscus and the others had been kidnapped. I don’t want to take the credit which should belong to him and his family loyalty.”

“Yes, so I understand.” He sighed. “I still haven’t completely decided what to do. Disinheriting my son is a very big step. Yet it’s what his mother wants. Well, we shall see.” He cleared his throat, indicating that the topic was closed. “A dreadful business, this kidnapping of innocent people. And I’m sorry that you were compelled to be involved in it.”

Gods, two apologies in one evening! Was he merely being polite, or was he feeling guilty about the instructions he’d given his messenger?

“I was lucky to escape with very little harm done. It’s a pity your trip to Brigantia has been spoilt by so much violence. You’ll be glad to get home, I daresay.”

He smiled. “I can’t deny it. We’ll be leaving tomorrow, if the weather permits. Silvanius’ sister is lending us her house in Eburacum for the first stage of our journey.”

There was no time for more. The flute-players brought their final piece to a triumphant conclusion, and the applause warned me I should return to my couch.

The slaves began to bring in the final course, a large and mouth-watering selection, mostly sweet. There were rich custards in individual bowls, and fruits to go with them, peaches and cherries in wine. Hazelnuts and walnuts, ready shelled, were brought round on silver trays, and I counted nine kinds of cheese, offered with fresh warm bread. I don’t know who had enough appetite left to do justice to those, but I regretfully realised that I hadn’t. However I couldn’t resist a few of the special almond-paste treats that the chef was famous for. They were shaped and coloured like miniature fruits—apples, pears, and peaches, and even, as a comic alternative, carrots and cabbages.

Last and sweetest of all, there were dates stuffed with almond paste, each one topped with a sliver of almond. Horatius’ eyes lit up when he saw these, and he told the boy to put half a dozen onto his plate. “I adore them,” he explained with his mouth full. “So do Sempronia and Plautius. I think a sweet tooth runs in our family. Look,” he dropped his voice, “she’s getting her own special supply of them. So’s Gnaeus. You’ll see, I won’t be the only one making a pig of myself.”

He was right. Diogenes had just brought in two oval silver dishes of the dates, and as soon as he placed one on Sempronia’s table, she began happily cramming them into her mouth. Greedy old sow, I hoped they’d give her a belly-ache later. Diogenes took the second dish to Plautius, who looked at it doubtfully. Sempronia leaned across from her couch and smiled, urging her husband to try them. I noticed Plautius’ dates were slightly different in their decoration from Sempronia’s, as if they’d been prepared specially for the old man.

Diogenes offered Plautius the dish, and the old man glanced at Timaeus. Gods, I thought, he’s certainly taking no chances about his food. Timaeus took a date, ate it, and smiled. This satisfied Plautius, and he ate three of the sweets in succession before waving the dish away. There was still a half-eaten custard on his table, but he lay back, wanting a rest now, and settled himself comfortably for an after-dinner snooze.

I wished I had the nerve to do the same. I knew that the next event of the evening would be a speech by our host. Clarus, despite his Roman education, had never managed to be more than a moderate public speaker. He had a good voice which he projected well, and his words were fluent, but his turn of phrase was unimaginative, ranging from slightly pompous to very
very
pompous. Well, it was a small price to pay for a superb meal. I picked up my glass and gazed round at the other guests.

People’s attentiveness for the next quarter-hour was in inverse ratio to their status. The table slaves were fully alert, making sure everyone had enough wine and food, and in between whiles listening carefully to their master’s speech. The freedmen at the far end of the room were wide awake, laughing at the jokes (I mean joke—there was only one, and it wasn’t very funny) and applauding whenever it seemed appropriate. The guests of medium importance, like Horatius and Gemellus, listened politely without nodding off or yawning. The same went for Priscus and Fabia. But Plautius lay dozing, and very soon Sempronia was sound asleep and snoring. The exceptions were Clarilla, who smiled encouragingly, and Quintus, who looked ready for anything, despite a casual pose. And I tried to be ready for anything too.