Hell’s bloody teeth! I had to knock this on the head right now or as sure as eggs was eggs I’d regret it later. ‘Now look, lady,’ I said. ‘You got us into this mess, you can just — ’
‘Nonsense, dear, she’ll be no trouble. And since you’re walking anyway…’
This was getting silly. ‘Perilla, we have a whole houseful of skivvies here! Give her to one of the chair team! These lardballs could do with walking a bit of the fat off, in fact — ’
Perilla set down her spoon. ‘Marcus,’ she snapped, ‘I’ve already told you! I promised Calvina that we’d do our best to make Placida feel part of the family, and besides, it’s a chance for the two of you to get to know each other. Be sensible, please!’
So that was that. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit! And I’d’ve liked to know where that ‘we’ had suddenly appeared from, too.
I was getting very bad vibes about all this; very bad.
Ah, well. At least we’d be out in the open air.
3
Trust me: there’re more pleasant situations to be in than attached to a hundred-and-twenty pound Gallic boarhound by three feet of rope and with your major-domo poised to open the door. Especially if the brute knows that in about ten seconds flat it’s just you, her and the wide-open spaces and is really, really looking forward to it.
‘You, uh, absolutely sure about this, Perilla?’ I said.
‘Of course.’ She gave me another dazzling smile. ‘You will take care of her, won’t you? She’s very delicate, and… Down, Placida! Your Uncle Bathyllus doesn’t want his head licked!’
Never a truer word was spoken. From the look on his face where the little guy’s what-I-want-for-the-Winter-Festival list was concerned having his head licked by a Gallic boarhound wouldn’t make even the top five hundred.
The ‘uncle’ didn’t go down a bomb, either.
‘Okay, Bathyllus.’ I gave the rope another turn round my wrist. ‘Fun’s over. Stop messing about.’
Bathyllus glared at me and opened the door.
I’d forgotten about the steps.
‘Oh shiiiit!’
‘Marcus, don’t pull on her lead like that! You’ll strangle her!’
If only. If only. I tried digging my heels in, but you can’t do that on marble, especially if it’s been polished by Bathyllus. I hoped the slavering brute had licked his follicles off. We hit the last step at a run and kept going.
‘Heel, Placida! Heel!’
‘Ow-oo-oo-oo!’
Oh, bugger! Not a good start, and the fact that the brute evidently didn’t understand Latin didn’t help either. Luckily the house next door had a pillared porch at street level. I stretched out an arm and had it nearly wrenched from its socket. We didn’t stop exactly, but at least it slowed us down enough for me to get a bit of purchase on the cobbles underfoot and do some hauling of my own. Jupiter! This was worse than driving a four-horse chariot in the Games. At least chariot drivers got fitted with a crash-helmet.
Time to exercise a little authority. I braced myself, pulled back on the rope as hard as I could, wound in another foot or so and gave what was left a firm jerk. ‘Okay, sunshine, that’s enough!’ I said. ‘Walk. Walk!’
Evidently the concept didn’t exist in dog-speak, or maybe the word meant something else in Gallic because she bunched her shoulders and heaved. We compromised on a sprint. Shit; if she kept this up I’d be knackered before we were half way to the Palatine. Plus being able to tie my sandal straps without bending down.
Even so, we were doing pretty well until the cat.
‘Ow-ooo! Owwowow-ooo!’
‘For fuck’s sake!’
One piece of advice. If you’re walking a Gallic boarhound never, ever wrap the lead round your wrist. When we hit the woman pastry-seller on the corner I was practically flying. And you ain’t never heard language like a pastry-seller’s who’s just been torpedoed by a hundred and twenty pounds of rampant, howling boarhound plus a hundred and eighty of screaming purple-striper.
‘Uh…I’m sorry, lady,’ I said when we’d picked ourselves up and I could get a word in edgeways. ‘Learner dog-walker.’
‘XXXX your “sorry”! Look at my XXXX pastries! All over the XXXX street! Why the XXXX don’t you XXXX look where you’re XXXX going?’
Or words to that effect.
Jupiter! ‘Ah…right. Right,’ I said. ‘Fair point, sister.’ I reached for my purse and took out a gold piece. ‘Maybe this’ll help.’
She snatched it from my hand, pocketed it, then turned to Placida who was doing her best to gulp down the spoiled stock. Her expression went gooey.
‘Ahh! XXXX me!’ she said. ‘Isn’t it a XXXX diddums, though! Boy or girl?’
‘She’s a bitch.’
The woman glared at me. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t call her that, sir, it’s not nice. What’s her name?’
‘Uh…Placida.’
‘Is that right, now? Well, you’ve got to laugh.’ She made cooing noises. ‘There’s a lovely girl! Come and let me see you, then!’ Placida finished off the last pastry and ambled over, grinning. ‘My XXXX brother had one of them things. Rest his soul. Lucky, her name was.’
‘Ah…yeah. Yeah.’ Gods! I tugged on the rope. ‘Well, it’s been nice chatting to you, sister. Sorry about the accident.’
‘I remember once she had three of my XXXX chickens in as many XXXX days. And next door’s XXXX goat, bless her.’
I gave the rope a second tug, but Placida had found another pastry and it was like trying to shift the Capitol.
‘Lovely nature she had, though, and so good with children. My youngest used to swing on her XXXX ears and she never batted a XXXX eyelid.’
‘Really? That’s — ’ I glanced down again. What the brute was eating wasn’t a pastry after all; in fact it looked more like…
Like…
Oh, gods!
Shlapshlapshlap
The pastry-seller gave the bent head a final affectionate pat. ‘Funny they’re such XXXX devils for horsedung, isn’t it? Lucky was just the same.’
I made Octavian Porch in good time and — if you didn’t count the upset litter and the irate senator with the interesting crotch — relatively unscathed.
Like Natalis had said, Rupilia’s house was one of the older properties you get in and around the centre, dating back long before Augustus and Agrippa’s public buildings jag and looking as out of place among the surrounding marble as a Samian pot in a Corinthian dinner service: a front door that looked like it hadn’t been changed since Cato was in rompers, with a greengrocer’s on one side, a cobbler’s on the other and a big walled garden attached. There were cypress branches fixed to the pediment and the doorposts, but at least the funeral itself would be over now so I wouldn’t be intruding too obviously. I wasn’t looking forward to the interview, mind: two days after a death isn’t the time for a stranger to come calling, and like Perilla keeps telling me tact’s not my strongest suit. However, under the circumstances I didn’t have much option.
I moored Placida to one of the doorposts, knocked and waited. Finally, the door-slave opened up: a middle-aged guy in a mourning-tunic with his forelock shaved to the scalp. He looked down at Placida, his eyes widened and he stepped back.
‘It’s okay, pal,’ I said quickly. ‘No hassle, she’s friendly. And if she starts howling just throw her a goat.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Stiff as hell; but there again I didn’t blame him. Opening the door and finding something like Placida sitting grinning at you and breathing horse dung doesn’t exactly merit spreading out the welcome mat. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I was wondering if I could possibly have a word with the mistress.’
‘She’s in mourning for her son, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t think — ’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I know. Look, I’m sorry, friend, but Minicius Natalis up at the Greens’ stables sent me round. The name’s Corvinus, Valerius Corvinus. If the lady can see me just for a few minutes I’d appreciate it.’
At least the mention of Natalis seemed to register, and it evidently made a difference. The guy stopped frowning and opened the door completely. ‘Would you care to come inside, sir? I’ll tell the mistress you’re here.’ He padded off.