A Comedy of Terrors by Lindsey Davis

Author:Lindsey Davis [Davis, Lindsey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781529374308
Google: 3sq-zQEACAAJ
Publisher: Hachette UK
Published: 2021-03-29T23:00:00+00:00

XXXIV

One place I did not want to be hit by flying nuts was halfway up the Stairs of Cassius. As a shortcut from the Embankment, where my parents lived, to the top of the Aventine, where my own house was, those steps were a tough climb even normally. When idiots were tossing missiles, the narrow, worn stone treads became deadly. To stop for breath made me a target. To plough on doggedly helped the nuts sting more. I could hear giggling, but it’s never possible to see who the flingers are.

Just as nuts have been debased from a cheap festival gift to high-velocity missiles, so liberty has changed from new life given to slaves by their masters into a licence for appalling behaviour. Once in their freedom caps, ex-slaves and troublemakers did as they liked, and they liked annoying others. Horribly for me, using the Steps of Cassius meant passing the Temple of Liberty where the worst culprits gathered. The holiday had yet to start but they were out in force, with their unbleached round headgear keeping their mindless skulls warm. It might be mid-morning, but they all had sour breath and dry mouths from drinking to excess and beyond the night before. Unfortunately, they never quite managed to kill themselves with over-indulgence.

“Give us a smile, darling!” these half-wits cried, like roofers who knew they were well out of reach or pot-bellied painters way up on scaffolds. “Hasn’t anybody told you it’s Saturnalia, and being serious is banned?” This, inevitably, was followed by offers to liven me up in various disgusting ways.

I don’t know the answer. Ignore them, they only shout louder to get your attention. Retaliate, and renewed ribaldry billows back at you, like a volcanic cloud. Ask don’t they have mothers and sisters? Their answers will tell you how gruesome their mothers and sisters are. Complain to the authorities and be blacklisted as a prude. Make a gesture— No, never make gestures.

They are beyond wit. They probably won’t follow you. You have to walk on as fast as possible and know safe places you can dive into.

Mine was Prisca’s bath-house. There, the proprietor was ready with soft towels, sweet oils and sane conversation. “Can’t you get that girl to do something about your hair for a change? And don’t ask for cakes—it’s too early.” Nobody else was bathing at this time of day so I had the place to myself. The water was not yet truly warm, but the floors were clean. I needed to rid myself mentally not only of the revellers’ catcalls but my client’s troubles.

After a slow pass through the suite with a borrowed bone strigil, I revived. I joined Prisca in a tiny colonnaded court outside. She was talking to Zoe and Chloe, a pair of female gladiators who practised there. Luckily, I had missed them biffing and banging; the two hearties in their hipster mini-skirts were now sprawled on the ground, recovering. They were short, wide specimens, all mighty thighs and filthy banter. They tended to gorge on sausages, which were always being sold from trays in their hangouts.

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