XXXIII

“I-o!” exclaimed Hyacinthus. He instinctively turned away towards the kitchen, but I clapped my hand over his mouth and held him still.

“Don’t raise the alarm yet!”

Hortensius Novus was lying on the floor. He had been felled in mid-stride, halfway between the door and the latrine seats. Cut down by death, the last embarrassment of all. If he was lucky, he was gone before he crashed facefirst onto the slabs.

Stepping carefully I bent to feel his neck, though I knew it was a formality. Then I saw his wild grimace. Something far worse than the violent purge had overwhelmed him. Perhaps the horrific certainty of approaching death.

He was warm, though not warm enough to be revived. I was no doctor; but I knew it was more than the strain of digesting too much dinner which had stopped the freedman’s heart.

“Somebody got to him after all, Falco!”

The slave became hysterical; I felt a rush of panic myself, but I had been in this situation often enough to control it. “Steady. Don’t let’s overreact.”

“He’s been murdered!”

“Could be. But people often pass away during a fit of diarrhoea … and gluttons do die from overeating occasionally Hyacinthus—”

The speech, too, was a formality. I was filling in time while I looked around.

Novus had clutched his light banqueting gown up around his waist. I steeled myself then tugged away his left hand, with its jasper betrothal ring, and dragged the garment down. The dead deserve some decency.

I stood up quickly. Then I gripped Hyacinthus by one elbow and wheeled him outside the door. There might still be time to find some evidence before it was destroyed—either accidentally or by someone with a vested interest. “Hyacinthus, stand there and don’t let anyone go in.”

One glance in the kitchen confirmed my fears. The house was slackly run. Flies circled over the work surfaces with a languidly possessive air. But the used utensils from the banquet, which might have furnished clues, were already lost to me. The tousled skivvy who washed the platters knew she would have to do it some time so she had already made a start at scraping away, before the food on the dishes and serving tureens had caked too hard. When I strode round the door she was on her knees beside a cauldron of greasy water, surrounded by finished piles of gold plate. I saw her squint at a huge silver dish, which I recognised as the one Severina gave Novus the day we had lunch; the tired drudge tried to persuade herself the comport was clean, but found a sticky smear and listlessly dunked it into her tub.

Only the skivvy was working. (Any skivvy will tell you that is a perfectly normal event.)

Some of the cooks and carvers were lolling around now the toffs had dispersed. They were picking at the leftovers with the sluggish air of kitchen workers who knew some of the meat had looked slimy when it came from the butchers, which of the sauces had not wanted to thicken, and how many times the vegetables had fallen on the floor among the mice droppings in the course of being prepared.

“Who’s in charge here?” I demanded. I guessed it was the kind of slapdash servery where no one would be in charge. I guessed right. I warned them that one of the guests had been taken ill, and none of the underlings looked surprised. I then said that the illness was fatal, at which they did suddenly lose their appetites. “If you can find a dog that no one likes, start feeding him these leftover titbits one at a time…”

I strode back to Hyacinthus. “We’ll put a bar across this door—” That would serve my purpose; people would think the lavatory had flooded: common enough. “Now before some busybody tidies it up, I want you to show me the dining room—”

A house where nobody empties the rubbish pails and the kitchen boards are never scrubbed may nonetheless feed its visitors amid breathtaking opulence.

The blazing candelabra were beginning to die down now, but not enough to dim entirely the gilding on the pedestals and finely fluted pillarwork, or the shimmer from the brocaded swags of curtaining, cushioning, and valencing which made the room and its three gigantic couches suitably luxurious for a set of jumped-up lamp-boys and the female trash who married them. I could not be bothered to take in all the details, but I remember there were huge paintings of battle scenes and highly polished onyx urns. Grilles overhead in the vaulted ceiling remained open after raining down a sickly perfume which made my throat clench.

A pageboy was curled up with his thumb in his mouth and a peach in his hand. He was so fast asleep he looked as if all breath had left him. Hyacinthus kicked at him anxiously, but the child started awake and stumbled away.

I gazed around, searching for clues. Here the worst signs of domestic upset were the wine-stained napery which would pose problems for the Hortensius linenkeeper, and a sea of spilt lamp oil on one of the couch coverlets. I kicked a hardened bread roll out of my path. “Who was here tonight, Hyacinthus? How many of the family?”

“All three, with both women.”

“The guests?”

“Just one. A business associate.”

“And Severina.” Seven. Plenty of elbow room on the couches. “What was the table plan?”

“Mealtimes are not my province, Falco. You want the chamberlain.” The chamberlain would be full of himself, a wearying talker (I had met them before). He could wait.

I walked all around the triclinium, but nothing caught my eye. Wine flagons and water jugs had been left on several side tables after the meal, with a litter of spice bowls and straining equipment. The only relic of the food was a complicated structure on a low central table. It was a tree, sculpted from golden wire, which must have arrived festooned with the fruit for dessert. Bunches of grapes and apricots still hung from its twisting arms and loaded its plinth.

I was still lost in thought, and Hyacinthus was hunched miserably on a dining couch, when the stillness was interrupted by a man arriving explosively.

“Someone has died—yes?”

“Someone may have done,” I answered sombrely, giving the wild apparition a once-over. He had a bald forehead, a wide mouth, a nose two sizes bigger than his other features and darting mid-brown eyes. His stature was unexceptional but he filled extra space by exuding the operational energy of a well-oiled Cretan windmill left with its brake off in a steady gale. “Who gave you the information?”

“A skivvy ran and told me.”

“Why? What is it to do with you?”

Hyacinthus looked up. “If you are blaming the food for poisoning Novus,” he told me, with a faint trace of amusement, “he thinks you’re after him—he’s the chef, Falco.”