When I tramped across the river again it was too late to do any more. The first rush of delivery carts was already petering out; the streets were busy with wagons of wine barrels, marble blocks and fish-pickle jars, but the initial frenzy that always occurs after curfew had passed. Rome was becoming more watchful as late-night diners braved the dark byways to go home, accompanied by yawning torchbearers. An occasional solitary walker sneaked through the shadows, trying to avoid attention in case robbers or deviants were breathing nearby. Where there had been lanterns hung on loggias they were now flickering out-or being doused deliberately by housebreakers who wanted a dark run home later with their swag.
It seemed probable that my own apartment was being watched by the Chief Spy, so I went to my sister Maia's house. She was a better provider than any of the others, and better tempered with me. Even so it was a mistake. Maia greeted me with the news that Famia would be really glad to see me, because he had brought home to dinner the jockey he had persuaded to ride my horse in Thursday's race.
'We had calf's brain custard; there's some left, if you're interested,' Maia informed me. More offal! Maia had known me long enough to know what I thought about that. 'Oh for heaven's sake, Marcus, you're worse than the children! Cheer up and enjoy yourself for once…'
I threw myself into it with all the jollity of Prometheus, chained to his rock on the mountainside, watching for the daily raven to fly in and peck his liver out.
The jockey was of previously unblemished character, but that didn't mean much. He was a tick. And he thought I was his new sheep. But I was used to brushing off parasites; the jockey was in for a surprise.
I forget what his name was. I made a point of forgetting. All I do remember is that he and that wastrel Famia expected me to pay far too much for the runt's pitiful services, and that considering I was giving him a chance to ride his heart out in the city's premier stadium, with Titus Caesar in the president's box, it ought to have been the jockey who paid me. He had a mean size, and a seamed, truculent face; he drank too much, and from the way he kept looking at my sister, he expected the women to drop at his feet.
Maia ignored him. One thing I could say about my youngest sister was that unlike most women having made one ghastly mistake in life at least she stuck with it. Once she married Famia, she never felt the necessity to complicate her problems by having crass affairs.
Fairly early on in the process of allowing the jockey to drink Famia and me out of pocket I disgraced myself. I had been sent to fetch a wine flask, but I slipped off to see the children. They were supposed to be in bed, but I found them playing chariots. Maia was bringing up her children to be surprisingly good-natured; they could see I had reached the flushed and niggly stage, so they lured me into the game for a while and one told me a story until I nodded off, then they all tiptoed out leaving me fast asleep. I swear I heard Maia's eldest daughter whisper, 'He's settled! Doesn't he look sweet…' She was eight. A sarcastic age.