courtyard when they wanted fresh air. They had been attended by a slave, on a daily rota to avoid any danger of suborning. When the family were not using their musicians and poetry readers, these had been sent along to provide entertainment--though Drusilla Gratiana had never allowed the priestess use of her troupe of dwarfs.
Life would have been lonely but tolerable. As imprisonment for a condemned person, this was more than humane. But once Veleda heard of her intended fate, her isolation would have given her too much scope for brooding.
'Veleda was unwell, I hear. What was wrong with her, Phryne?' The malevolent retainer cackled. 'We never found out. Feigning, probably.'
'Did any of the family medicos take a look at her?'
'Certainly not!' Phryne was outraged at the suggestion that a physician who had touched one of her sacred charges should finger the sickly barbarian.
'So she was left to make the best of it?'
'By no means, Falco. When she started complaining--' The freedwoman emphasised her belief that Veleda was a self-pitying malingerer--'Drusilla Gratiana kindly arranged for Zosime, from the sanctuary of AEsculapius, to attend her. My mistress even paid for it!'
So these noble folk had had three personal doctors, plus a dream therapist, on call and visiting daily--all of whom could presumably be relied on for confidentiality--yet for Veleda they brought in a completely different person, an outsider, from a charitable shrine that took care of dying slaves.
'Zosime is female? So... Women's troubles?'
'Pah! Headaches!' Phryne snorted, with a sneer that would have shattered glass.
VIII
I had seen enough, and scoffed at enough, to keep my head reeling as I stomped home.
On the way I did a check: I went straight up the Via Aurelia to Tiber Island, where at the shrine I asked to see Zosime. She was out on calls, and nobody was sure when she was likely to return.
'What's it about, Falco?'
'I'd rather not say.'
This search would be tricky. Since Veleda's presence in Rome was a state secret, and her absconding was such an embarrassment, I would have to pretend she did not exist. It would be awkward. Still, I like a challenge.
When I played coy, the receptionist at the Temple of AEsculapius merely nodded. The shrine attendants accepted any story; they were used to hard-hearted citizens dragging in worn-out old slaves they could not be bothered to feed any more, and pretending they just found these sorry specimens wandering in the street. No sick slave was turned away. This was the only truly charitable temple in Rome, the only hospital. Treatment was free; the temple survived on donations and legacies. Most of their patients arrived only when they were past saving, but even then, after they had been allowed to die as gently as possible, the hospital conducted and paid for a burial. Way back when I was a very poor informer, I used to think that one day they would be doing it for me...
Hey ho. Time for lunch.
I hoofed on over the Fabrician Bridge to the Theatre of Marcellus, then turned down the left bank past the meat market and the corn dole station. By the Temple of Ceres there was a commotion: a posse of
Praetorians were throwing their weight about. Big bullies, they were unmissable in their scarlet cloaks and crested helmets. All of them came with a filthy attitude. This was the result of encouraging long term legionaries, sad men who loved the army too much, to volunteer for special duties. The minute they put on their shiny moulded breastplates and took their personal oath to the Emperor, the Guards were in Elysium. No danger; double pay; a soft life in Rome, instead of being stuck in some dire province--plus the chance to behave like utter bastards every week.
'Name?'
'Didius Falco.' I kept silent about my profession, let alone my current mission.
They grabbed me, pulled off my elegant hat, peered in my face (breathing with a whopping gust of garlic), then threw me aside like a dirty duster.
'What's
Life would have been lonely but tolerable. As imprisonment for a condemned person, this was more than humane. But once Veleda heard of her intended fate, her isolation would have given her too much scope for brooding.
'Veleda was unwell, I hear. What was wrong with her, Phryne?' The malevolent retainer cackled. 'We never found out. Feigning, probably.'
'Did any of the family medicos take a look at her?'
'Certainly not!' Phryne was outraged at the suggestion that a physician who had touched one of her sacred charges should finger the sickly barbarian.
'So she was left to make the best of it?'
'By no means, Falco. When she started complaining--' The freedwoman emphasised her belief that Veleda was a self-pitying malingerer--'Drusilla Gratiana kindly arranged for Zosime, from the sanctuary of AEsculapius, to attend her. My mistress even paid for it!'
So these noble folk had had three personal doctors, plus a dream therapist, on call and visiting daily--all of whom could presumably be relied on for confidentiality--yet for Veleda they brought in a completely different person, an outsider, from a charitable shrine that took care of dying slaves.
'Zosime is female? So... Women's troubles?'
'Pah! Headaches!' Phryne snorted, with a sneer that would have shattered glass.
VIII
I had seen enough, and scoffed at enough, to keep my head reeling as I stomped home.
On the way I did a check: I went straight up the Via Aurelia to Tiber Island, where at the shrine I asked to see Zosime. She was out on calls, and nobody was sure when she was likely to return.
'What's it about, Falco?'
'I'd rather not say.'
This search would be tricky. Since Veleda's presence in Rome was a state secret, and her absconding was such an embarrassment, I would have to pretend she did not exist. It would be awkward. Still, I like a challenge.
When I played coy, the receptionist at the Temple of AEsculapius merely nodded. The shrine attendants accepted any story; they were used to hard-hearted citizens dragging in worn-out old slaves they could not be bothered to feed any more, and pretending they just found these sorry specimens wandering in the street. No sick slave was turned away. This was the only truly charitable temple in Rome, the only hospital. Treatment was free; the temple survived on donations and legacies. Most of their patients arrived only when they were past saving, but even then, after they had been allowed to die as gently as possible, the hospital conducted and paid for a burial. Way back when I was a very poor informer, I used to think that one day they would be doing it for me...
Hey ho. Time for lunch.
I hoofed on over the Fabrician Bridge to the Theatre of Marcellus, then turned down the left bank past the meat market and the corn dole station. By the Temple of Ceres there was a commotion: a posse of
Praetorians were throwing their weight about. Big bullies, they were unmissable in their scarlet cloaks and crested helmets. All of them came with a filthy attitude. This was the result of encouraging long term legionaries, sad men who loved the army too much, to volunteer for special duties. The minute they put on their shiny moulded breastplates and took their personal oath to the Emperor, the Guards were in Elysium. No danger; double pay; a soft life in Rome, instead of being stuck in some dire province--plus the chance to behave like utter bastards every week.
'Name?'
'Didius Falco.' I kept silent about my profession, let alone my current mission.
They grabbed me, pulled off my elegant hat, peered in my face (breathing with a whopping gust of garlic), then threw me aside like a dirty duster.
'What's
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