Pandora's Boy by Lindsey Davis

Author:Lindsey Davis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2018-07-03T07:00:00+00:00

XXIX

It was around lunchtime, but we had bought snacks earlier from a man with a tray in the Gardens of Sallust so there was no need to eat any more. I felt sick anyway.

Not wanting to alarm Tiberius, I put on a brave face and set off at a brisk pace for Apricot Street. There we parted, me to start tracking down Numerius Cestinus, him to perform light duties at the lettuce booth.

Dorotheus was still in the courtyard, now pretending to tend tubs of flowers. I hailed him. This cheered him up, since he did not have to find a fake excuse but could approach me and ask what I had been doing. I ignored the question, instead asking for an address for the Cestius family. Dorotheus offered to take me. I made him give me directions.

They lived in the kind of shabby block that discreetly hides how large it is. Once you know, this kind of place immediately announces money. They had an ugly door knocker, some Muse or goddess with a peculiar patina. The handle hung from her ears where her earrings should have been, while above it she looked bilious. I sympathized.

A pockmarked slave appeared to say the elders were in, but Numerius was out with his friends. Unable to face the woolly mama and her surly spouse, I wrote a crisp note instructing the youth to come to Apricot Street for interview, then left.

The slave was so unaccustomed to people giving him a tip, he suggested a caupona where the lads might be at lunch.

* * *

My informant was correct. There were two young men leaning on the bar. One I recognized as Cluvius, who thought he ran the group. The other was a stranger, so he could be Numerius. I walked up quietly. I stood to one side of Cluvius, who never looked round. They were posed to look good, yet ignored the barman and seemed oblivious to anybody else. In front of them stood empty saucers and wine cups, though anything they had ordered must have been a while ago. They were rapt in a lengthy conversation; it was no surprise that this was all about themselves.

The barman seemed glad of a customer who—he assumed—was not simply using his counter as a meeting venue. Little did he know. While I discreetly observed his other customers he brought me the house wine, with a jug of water, then gave me double snacks though I was still not hungry.

Clearly the young men were regulars who spent a lot of money there. From the evidence of empties, it looked as if the others in their group had been drinking with them before I came. Since these two had ordered nothing for a while, the barman wanted their counter space so he was frothing with annoyance, yet because they were regulars he could not complain.

“I felt I had to say something because I am your best friend. If you feel upset, or that I went behind your back, that was the last thing I intended.

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