David Wishart - Food for the Fishes

She left.

I looked sideways at Perilla. She was still paring bits off her piece of cheese, even though the rind was long gone, and her ears hadn’t lightened any in colour.

‘You, uh, think we could make it as far as Puteoli and get a boat east before she misses us?’ I said.

‘I wish I’d seen — ’ She stopped and turned towards me, her shoulders shaking. Two seconds later we were hugging each other and helpless.

‘It’s not funny,’ I gasped eventually.

‘No.’ Perilla hiccuped, reached for her napkin and dried her eyes. ‘No, it isn’t. Vipsania’s very upset. What do you think got into him?’

‘About three pints of wine, by the sound of things.’

She giggled. ‘Don’t start me off again! I’ve been trying not to laugh ever since she told me. But Priscus? Marcus, it doesn’t make sense.’

‘Yeah, right.’ I glanced up at the first-floor window where Mother and Priscus’s bedroom was. The shutters were still closed, but he’d had his long lie. Ah, well, no point in putting things off; I’d have to do it some time. And Priscus with a hangover headache couldn’t be all that much woolier than the old bugger was normally. Which reminded me. ‘Hey, Bathyllus!’ I yelled.

He soft-shoed over: Bathyllus has the major-domo’s trick of always being in call but never being obvious. Me, I think the process has something to do with Democritus’s theory of shifting atoms, but that’s only a theory.

‘That hangover cure you put together,’ I said. ‘Could you whip one up for me?’

‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’

Not a blink: we were still getting the perfect butler act. Still, I’d back the Bathyllus Bombshell against any hangover in existence. I’d never asked him what was in it — some things it’s better not to know, especially when you’re going to be drinking the stuff — but it worked like a charm.

What it tasted like, mind, was something else again.

I knocked on the door, waited for an answer that didn’t come, and opened it. With the shutters closed the room was in total darkness. Careful not to spill the Bombshell — what it’d do to the floor tiles was anyone’s guess — I went over to where the fine lines of sunlight showed and unlatched the bar. Light streamed in.

‘Hey, Priscus,’ I said to the lump on the bed. ‘Wakey wakey!’

‘Mmmaaa!’

Well, at least he was alive and bleating. ‘Come on, pal! Show a leg.’ I thought again. ‘Or maybe don’t show a leg. Just sit up, okay?’

For a wonder, he did. The old Egyptian embalmers might’ve appreciated the next bit, but it scared the willies off me.

‘That you, Marcus?’

‘Yeah.’ I shoved the Bombshell into his unprotesting hand. Get them to drink it while they’re suggestible and before their nose gets into gear. ‘Put that down you.’

He sank the full cupful without a murmur. I felt my scrotum contract in sympathy as I waited for the inevitable reaction…

It never came.

‘Quite good, my boy. Thank you.’

I stared at him. ‘You liked it?’ This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go.

‘Shouldn’t I have? It was very refreshing. Certainly tastier than Phormio’s usual breakfast drink. What was it?’

‘Uh…how’s your headache?’

‘Headache? What headache?’

‘Mother said you had a headache.’

He blinked back at me numbly. I’ve never quite been able to work old Priscus out. On the one hand, he’s got about the same mental grasp of what’s going on around him as a codfish has of fretwork, but on the other under normal circumstances he can twist my mother round his little finger. And Mother, for all her society ways, is a seriously sharp cookie.

‘Not so’s you’d notice, Marcus.’

‘Fine. Fine.’ Leave it. There was a stool by the wall. I pulled it up. ‘Okay. Business. You like to tell me what exactly happened yesterday evening?’

That got me another blink. ‘I went to Leonides’s.’

‘Yeah, right. So I gather. Who’s Leonides?’

‘An old friend. We’ve corresponded for years. He collects Siculan oil-lamps.’

‘Uh-huh.’ I shifted on my stool. Check; so far, so good, but we weren’t there yet. ‘How about Baian wine jars?’

‘I…mmmaaa!..don’t quite catch your meaning, my boy.’

I sighed. ‘Look, Priscus, no one gets smashed out of their skull discussing Siculan oil-lamps. Okay, so maybe it was the guy’s birthday and he invited you to split a jug or two. It happens. You’re not used to the stuff, it’d be natural for you to — ’

‘Oh, but Leonides doesn’t drink! It brings on his trouble.’

‘Fine.’ Scratch that one, then, without further amplification. It seemed we were in for an uphill struggle here, and I’d need all my patience. ‘So let’s skip the oil-lamps. What happened then?’

‘He has a fascinating collection. Quite unique. Do you realise that the number of early Siculan oil-lamps still extant is only in the region of — ?’

‘Forget the fu-’ I caught myself. ‘Forget the oil-lamps, Priscus. I’m trying to save your guts here. So you left Leonides’s hundred-per-cent sober. What happened next?’

‘I…mmmaaa!..dropped in somewhere on the way home.’

Now we were getting to it. ‘Uh-huh. What kind of somewhere?’

‘A little place by the baths. Serving drinks and…other things. It sounded quite jolly in passing and I thought I’d stop for a quick cup of warm milk and wormwood.’

‘Warm milk and, uh, wormwood.’

‘Yes. After all, my boy, I am on holiday. Only they didn’t seem to have that, so to be polite I had a cup of wine instead.’ He grinned at me like a louche tortoise. ‘I’ve never been inside one of these places before. It was quite…mmmaaa!…fascinating. Then I got into conversation with a very charming girl from Alexandria — ’

Oh, shit.

‘- who, would you believe it, Marcus, had never been inside the library there in her life! Mind you, she’d been lots of other places. Talking to her was quite an eye-opener.’

Yeah, I’d bet it was. Jupiter in a handcart! ‘And, uh, she kept you drinking, right? After that first cup?’

‘Oh, I had to keep her company.’ There was the louche tortoise look again. ‘Fortunately I’d just been to our bankers. Wine is very expensive here, isn’t it? Then before I knew it it was closing time and we all had to go home. She offered me a bed for the night but I thought Vipsania might worry, so I declined.’

I looked at him and he smiled blandly back. I had my suspicions of Priscus. No one could be that dumb and live. Yeah, well, it was none of my business, really. If the old bugger wanted to kick over the traces, so far as it was possible at his age, then fine. He’d been lucky, though: they’d just skinned him, not rolled him and dumped what was left in an alley. ‘Well, so long as you’re really sorry it happened,’ I said, ‘Mother’s — ’

‘Oh, but I’m not sorry at all, my boy!’ The smile became a beam. ‘What gave you that idea? I had a marvellous evening! Very entertaining!’

‘Uh…Priscus…’

‘I really should get out more often. You must join me next time. You’d be amazed.’

‘Yeah, I probably would, at that.’ Next time. Gods! What had we unleashed here? I hesitated, weighing possibilities. ‘Priscus, listen to me, pal. Perhaps where Mother’s concerned we should stick with the Leonides’s birthday idea, okay? And maybe play down the enjoyment factor? Plus I wouldn’t…ah…mention the other place at all.’

‘Or the girl? She really was quite…mmmaaa!..’

‘Especially the girl.’ I stood up. ‘You with me?’ It was always just as well to check on these things. Priscus’s chain of reasoning skipped a few links at the best of times.