sealed. When done, the lady Crispina returned the opened box to her spouse and waited with the rest of us while the tribune removed the scroll.
Having read its contents, he looked up at me expectantly. “Anything else?”
“Any message, sir, for my master?”
“Why, give him my heartfelt thanks, naturally, and inform him that, as always, I am his faithful servant.” The tribune craned his head. “That small man just behind you, he’s rather attractive, in a diminutive sort of way, isn’t he? You there,” he said, wiggling his outstretched fingers, “would you care for some lunch?”
Betto appeared to fold in upon himself, then, realizing he was still visible, stammered something that sounded like a decline. Unsure that he was communicating, he looked to me with pleading eyes for assistance. “What my companion means to say, my lord, is that he’d be delighted”—Flavius whimpered—“but he is on assignment just now.”
The tribune shrugged. “Right then, everybody switch places!”
Our business concluded, I turned to go, the thought of watching the repositioning of the next phase of the tribune’s entertainment distressingly non-imperative, and more disturbing than coming upon them already engaged. At the archway between the two rooms, Betto was already turning away; his fretful mumbling almost inaudible. I grabbed his elbow and walked him briskly back through the calidarium, across the hallway and into the palaestra. There we found Malchus and Valens standing at the edge of the empty pool. Malchus reported that he had found an exit to an alley behind the toilets, but I told him we wouldn’t need it. “You three go on ahead. I will either catch up to you or meet you back home.”
Malchus squinted at me suspiciously. “Dominus would have our hides if anything happened to you.”
“I have business down the street which does not concern you.” It was evident my old friend was not to be convinced. “Drusus, I beg of you.”
“Let us check the street, at the least,” he said. I walked with them to the entrance, after which my companions fanned out, returning shortly to report nothing untoward. I waved them on and they walked back the way we had come. I turned left, but after a few paces retraced my steps and reentered the balnea.
Chapter VII
56 BCE Fall, Rome
Year of the consulship of
Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus
“Salve,” said the balneator, as I reentered the baths. “One sestercius.” He held out his upturned palm.
“I haven’t left,” I said affably. “I was just bidding a few friends farewell.”
“There’s a well-worn tale.”
“No, I am in earnest. I paid for myself and three others. Ah! I see. Forgive me; I am slow to recognize humor. You are in jest.” I smiled down at him. He smiled up at me, but did not withdraw his hand. Now I was confused. “Myself, plus three others in tunics and red cloaks? It comes to you, yes?”
“You just described half the men who patronize this fine establishment.”
“Oh, come now,” I said with frustration. “You must recollect.”
“Exactly. I must re-collect one sestercius.” The guard looked on impassively.
This is the kind of discussion from which I know I should flee but to which I am inexorably drawn, a moth to a candle. An inconsequential debate, not worth the time it takes to engage in it, but I am a fish mesmerized by the wriggling worm of another’s non-comprehension. Or a fisherman, determined to prevail over the thick-witted trout with a rod and line of impeccable, inescapable logic.
“Sir, surely you recognize me from our previous conversation.”
“I’ve got a terrible head for faces. One sestercius.” I was tempted to tell him the reverse was also true, but knew at once that stooping to vulgarisms would not have been helpful to my cause. Instead, I said, “Allow me to refresh your memory. I gave you two denarii for the whereabouts of tribune Cato not a quarter of an hour ago.”
“Sorry, we don’t give out the names of our clients.”
“I’m not asking for it now,” I said, my voice rising a modicum higher than I would have preferred. Exhaling, I calmed myself and planned my next move in this Game of Witless. “Here’s a proposition for you: I’ll guess where the tribune is; if I’m right, you let me in for free. If I’m wrong, I’ll pay you two sesterces.”
The old man looked offended. “Gambling is illegal,” he said, crossing his arms. I waited, staring him down. Finally, he said, “Go ahead then.”
“The laconicum,” I said triumphantly.
“Sorry, he’s in the calidarium. That will be two