The silence stretched out between us like a winding-sheet. I don't think I'd ever been so completely lost for words. Or so embarrassed. Or so bitterly sorry for another human being. Or so helplessly angry.
It was Callias who saved the situation. Forget the knee in the balls, I was really warming to that little bugger. He came in like one of these gods the Greek playwrights dangle above the stage to sort things out when they get their pricks tied in knots over a too-complex plot. Not that he was hanging from a crane, of course, but you know what I mean.
'Shall I serve the main course now, madam?' he asked.
Jupiter! I could've kissed him, and kissing male slaves isn't my bag, especially if they're as ugly as Callias. Perilla gave herself a sort of shake.
'Corvinus, I'm terribly sorry,' she said. 'I've been boring you. You should have said.'
'Hey, no, that's okay. It was fascinating.' Oh yeah! Well done, Corvinus. Another bummer in the conversation stakes. 'I mean no, it doesn't matter. Honestly.'
Callias, bless him, didn't wait for further permission. He signalled to his minions who were waiting outside and they oozed in, cleared away the starters — most of which were untouched — and served the dinner proper. It was good plain stuff: pork in a sauce of honey and cumin, lentils with leeks, and a sea urchin ragout that made my mouth water just to look at it. Added to which Callias hadn't forgotten my instructions about the wine. I took the first cup at a swallow and held it up for more.
Perilla sat back in her chair. 'You do the talking for a change, Corvinus,’ she said. ‘Tell me about your family.'
Some particularly evil-minded god must've been hovering round the dinner table that evening. Oh, no, I thought. No way, lady. Having just lived through one downer there was no way that I was going to be responsible for the next. At some of the more literary (or pseudo-literary) dinner parties the guests produce tiny articulated silver skeletons which they jiggle while declaiming merry odes on the subject of fate, death and bodily corruption. As a form of entertainment that's never much grabbed me. The thought of going in for a little soul-bearing of my own re my father and our relationship (or lack of one) made my balls shrink. So instead, and apropos of nothing, I began to trot out a few items from my usual store of dinner party winners. Suitably expurgated, naturally. Which in the event proved the best thing I could've done.
I never really thought I'd ever hear Perilla laugh, but she did, especially when I told her the one about the Vestal and the vegetable marrow. We'd both had more than a few cups of wine by then and the expurgation was wearing pretty thin; in fact she'd got to the silly stage when she'd laugh at (and agree to) anything, and I suspect that if I'd really wanted to get her into bed I could've done it without much trouble. With one of my usual bubbleheads I wouldn't've thought twice, but Perilla was different. She'd hate me for it in the morning, I knew, and I suspected that I wouldn't be too popular with myself either. So just before midnight I thanked her, said goodnight, and slipped old Callias all the cash I'd got on me. Then I whistled up the lads with the torches and went home.
I wondered on the way if I was getting soft. Or had misread her. Or misread myself. All of them were possible plus a few more. No doubt I'd be feeling pretty smug and virtuous in the morning, but at that precise moment I just felt lonely.
10
Forget smug and virtuous. Next morning I was too hung over to feel anything but delicate, which was a pity because I needed to go calling on Junius Silanus. Luckily finding the 'farm' Lentulus had mentioned proved to be easy-peasy, and I didn't even have to call in any favours.
If you want to know who's who in Rome and where they hang out, just ask Bathyllus.
I learned pretty early in life that slaves can be pretty clued-up people, and that a brand on your arm doesn't mean to say you're necessarily a thicko. Quite the reverse. I've seen senators that set next to the guy who opens my front door wouldn't even make intellectual pygmy status. And the slave grapevine has the imperial secret service beaten hollow. Try it yourself some time. Mention in your coachman's hearing that such and such a respectable octogenarian matron is screwing a gladiator and all over Rome next day you'll see slaves sniggering at her litter.
Silanus's address was nothing. Bathyllus could've told me where the guy bought his underwear.
Once you get beyond the working-class rabbit warrens round the bridges, the west bank of the Tiber is pretty thinly populated and definitely an up-market area, especially popular with rich guys who want to give the impression of loving the simple life. The slopes of the Janiculum are sprinkled with good old-fashioned farms each with its good old-fashioned picture gallery plus a few more homely features old Romulus would recognise straight off. Like five or six dining rooms (so the light's just right all year round), ornamental gardens or maybe even a private zoo. You can wake up in the morning to the crying of the peacocks and the smell of the rhinos and tell yourself there's nothing quite so invigorating as being close to your ethnic roots.
Even in this company Silanus's villa was something else. Real top-of-the-market stuff, I could see that straight off: a sprawling complex of buildings in its own grounds with a riding circuit attached so the guy didn't have to mix with the plebs while exercising his thoroughbreds and a covered litter-walk so he could take the air in comfort when it rained. Silanus might be out of favour, but he wasn't exactly down to his last copper penny, that was for sure. I only hoped Julia knew. You could just about have floated her island in the carp-pond.
I presented myself at the porter's lodge. The guy on duty was squint-eyed, smelt of dank chicken feathers and looked big enough to beat the shit out of an arena cat.
'I'm Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus,' I said.
'Yeah?' The porter fixed me with his good eye while the other checked out the weather over Ostia. 'You want a round of applause maybe?'
Gods! Maybe the guy had trouble extrapolating. I spelt it out for him.
'I want to speak to your master.'
'He's out.'
'Look, Horace.' I stared him right in the chest. He was wearing an amulet of some god I didn't know, with pointy teeth and a big belly. Probably the patron of wall-eyed gorillas. 'Just run along like a good freak and tell your boss he has a visitor, okay? Can you manage that or should I write it down for you?'
The guy scowled, leaned his massive shoulders against the gatepost and folded his arms. Stalemate. Scratch the friendly approach. I fell back on the old BTB gambit. Bribe the bastard.
That, it seemed, had been what he was waiting for. He made a show of examining the silver piece I gave him like it was a mint condition Croesus original. Then he spat on it for luck, raised his tunic and slipped it into his breech clout. As a money box I reckoned it was the safest place going.
'Okay,' he grunted. 'So what was the name again?' I told him and he nodded and disappeared inside, barring the gate behind him.
Ten minutes later he was back. The grin on his face didn't improve it much but the poor bastard couldn't help that.
'About time,' I said, preparing to barge past him through the half-open gate. 'So which way…'
He stretched out his arm. It was like walking into the limb of an oak tree. The grin widened.
'The master says fuck off,' he said, and pushed.
The gate slammed in my face. It sounded pretty permanent, and I could hear the big guy walking off ho-ho'ing into the sunset.
Great. So what was I supposed to do now? Sure, I could've made a fuss, maybe kicked at the door a little and tried out a few swear-words. That might've upset the neighbours, only there weren't any neighbours to upset. Besides, the gate was studded with more nails than a battleship. There had to be another way in.