Poseidon s Gold

XXXIII

Flora's was in a greater state of misery than usuaclass="underline" they had the decorators in.

Epimandos was hovering outside, robbed of his kitchen but making an attempt to serve drinks and cold snippets to people who did not mind lunching in the street.

'What's this, Epimandos?'

'Falco!' He greeted me eagerly. 'I heard you had been arrested!'

I managed a grunt. 'Well I'm here. What's going on?'

'After the problem upstairs,' he whispered tactfully, 'the whole place is being done up.'

Flora's had been there for at least ten years and never seen a painter's brush before. Evidently a murder on the premises was good for trade. 'So who ordered this? Not the legendary Flora?'

Epimandos looked vague. He ignored my enquiry and burbled on. 'I've been so worried about what was happening to you-'

'So have I!'

'Are you going to be all right, Falco?'

'I've no idea. But if I ever catch up with the bastard who really did kill Censorinus, he won't be!'

'Falco-'

'Don't flap, Epimandos. A whimpering waiter kills the lively atmosphere!'

I looked for a seat. Outside they were limited. The objectionable cat, Stringy, was sprawled over one bench displaying his revolting belly fur, so I perched on a stool beside the barrel where the beggar always sat. For once it seemed necessary to nod at him.

'Afternoon, Marcus Didius.' I was still trying to think of a polite way to ask if I knew him when he introduced himself resignedly: 'Apollonius.' It still meant nothing. 'I was your schoolteacher.'

'Jupiter!' Long ago this hopeless soul had taught me geometry for six years. Now the gods had rewarded his patience by making him destitute.

Epimandos rushed up with wine for both of us, apparently pleased that I had found a friend to take my mind off things. It was too late to leave. I had to converse politely; that meant I had to invite the ex-teacher to join my lunch. He accepted my invitation timidly while I tried not to look too closely at his rags. I sent Epimandos across the road to fetch me a hot meal from the Valerian, and another for Apollonius.

He had always been a failure. The worst kind: someone you could not help but feel sorry for, even while he was messing you about. He was a terrible teacher. He might have been a snappy mathematician, but he could not explain anything. Struggling to make sense of his long-winded diatribes, I had always felt as if he had set me a problem that needed three facts in order to solve it, but he had only remembered to tell me two of them. Definitely a man whose hypotenuse squared had never totalled the squares of his other two sides.

'What a wonderful surprise to see you!' I croaked, pretending I had not been ignoring him every time I had come to Flora's over the past five years.

'Quite a shock,' he mumbled, going along with it as he devoured the broth I had supplied.

Epimandos had nobody else to serve, so he sat down by the cat and listened in.

'So what happened to the school, Apollonius?'

He sighed. Nostalgia was making me queasy. He had had the same dreary tone when he was lamenting some stubborn child's ignorance. 'I was forced to give up. Too much political instability.'

'You mean too many unpaid fees?'

'Youth is the first to suffer in a civil war.'

'Youth suffers, full stop,' I answered gloomily.

This was an appalling encounter. I was a tough man doing a swinish job; the last thing I needed was a confrontation with a schoolmaster who had known me when I was all freckles and false confidence. Around here people believed I had a shrewd brain and a hard fist; I was not prepared for them to see me doling out free broth to this scrawny stick insect with his sparse hair and shaking, age-mottled hands while he flapped over my forgotten past.

'How's your little sister?' Apollonius enquired after a time.

'Maia? Not so little. She worked for a tailor, then she married a slovenly horse vet. No discernment. He works for the Greens, trying to keep their knock-kneed nags from dropping dead on the track. He has a nasty cough himself-probably from pinching the horses' liniment.' Apollonius looked puzzled. He was not in the same world as me. 'Her husband drinks.'

'Oh.' He looked embarrassed. 'Very bright, Maia.'

'True.' Though not in her choice of husband.

'Don't let me bore you,' the schoolmaster said courteously. I cursed him in silence; it meant I would have to carry on with the chat.

'I'll tell Maia I saw you. She has four children of her own now. Nice little things. She's bringing them up properly.'

'Maia would. A good pupil; a good worker; now a good mother too.'

'She had a good education,' I forced out. Apollonius smiled as if he were thinking, Always gracious with the rhetoric! On an impulse I added, 'Did you teach my brother and the other girls? My eldest sister, Victorina, died recently.'

Apollonius knew he should be saying he was sorry but lost himself answering the first question. 'Some I might have done, from time to time:'

I helped him out: 'The elder ones had a problem getting any schooling. Times were difficult.'

'But you and Maia were always signed on every term!' he cried, almost reprovingly. He was bound to remember; we were probably the only regular attenders on the whole Aventine.

'Our fees were paid,' I acknowledged.

Apollonius nodded fiercely. 'By the old Melitan gentleman,' he insisted on reminding me.

'That's right. He thought he was going to be allowed to adopt us. He paid up every quarter in the hope he was improving two shiny-faced heirs.'

' Did he adopt you?'

'No. My father would not hear of it.'

This set me off reminiscing. For someone who so clearly had little interest in children once he had produced them, my father could be a ferociously jealous man. If we misbehaved he would happily threaten to sell us as gladiators, yet he took pride in rejecting the Melitan's pleading overtures. I could still hear him boasting that free-born plebeians got their children as a trial for themselves, and did not breed for others' convenience.

The rows over sending Maia and me to school occurred not long before Pa lost his temper and left us. We felt it was our fault. We had the blame hanging over us; it made us a target for bullying from the rest.

After that fatal day when Papa left for an auction as usual but forgot his way home, Mother still strung the Melitan along-until even he finally twigged that no adoption would occur. He fell sick with disappointment, and died. With hindsight, it was rather sad.

'Do I sense, Marcus Didius, that all was not well?'

'Right. The Melitan caused some trouble.'

'Really? I always thought you and Maia came from such a happy family!' That just shows, teachers know nothing.

I cradled my winecup, caught up again in the anxieties the Melitan had imposed upon our house: Pa raging against him and all moneylenders (the Melitan's occupation), while Ma hissed back that she had to have the lodger's rent. Later Pa took to suggesting that the reason the old man was so keen on acquiring rights in Maia and myself was that we were his by-blows anyway. He used to roar this out in front of the Melitan as a hollow joke. (One glance at us disproved it; Maia and I had the full Didius physiognomy.) The Melitan was trapped in a stupid situation. Since he was so desperate for children, sometimes he even persuaded himself we were his.

Impossible of course. Ma, looking on like thunder, left us in no doubt.

I hated the Melitan. I convinced myself that had it not been for the anger he caused in my father, my Great-Uncle Scaro would have adopted me instead. Knowing about the quarrels that had already occurred, Scaro was far too polite to suggest it.

I wanted to be adopted. That is, if I was never claimed by my real parents. For of course I knew, as children do, that under no circumstances did I belong to the poor souls who were bringing me up temporarily at their house; someday my palace awaited me. My mother was one of the Vestal Virgins and my father was a mysterious and princely stranger who could materialise in moonbeams. I had been found on a river-bank by an honest old goatherd; my rescue from the toil and turmoil surrounding me had been foretold in a sibylline prophecy: