A Comedy of Terrors

by Lindsey Davis

  I told him. He said that settled it: on safety grounds, I had to drop my client. Her connections were too dangerous. Her separation from Murrius made working for Nephele no safer: when he discovered my involvement, Murrius could turn on me, bringing his aggressive associates. Merely smiling, I sat down with Tiberius and finished off the contents of his beaker. He let me.

  The boys clambered back onto the bench, demanding Tiberius complete Aesop’s Fable of the Wolf and the Crane. Wolf gets bone stuck in throat, begs for help, other animals all refuse, only brave crane puts long beak down his throat, extracts bone; crane asks wolf for reward, he snarls that survival after putting head down a wolf’s throat ought to be reward enough. Like them all, it is a short story, though Tiberius was padding it out by inventing encounters with various other creatures, which he mimicked finely.

  “Are you reading that?” demanded Gaius, deeply suspicious. “Is it the proper story? I think you are making up the animals.”

  “It’s the story that my father, who was your grandfather, always read to me. Just like that. With lowing and growling and really loud roars.”

  Gaius backed down. We moved into general questions like why do lions roar. I said Tiberius would have to answer, because he owned an encyclopaedia. He said only the Index and Book One. (Book Two would be his Saturnalia gift, with Book Three as an extra surprise.) I joked, but all men are clever, aren’t they? He bantered, no, men are wise, it is women who are clever. This went over the boys’ heads, though I could see that the five-year-old suspected they had missed something.

  When the boys were collected by Glaphyra and taken off to bed, Tiberius Manlius gazed at me. “You don’t want to live with a moralist, but let me say this, please. You have put your head down the wolf’s throat, Flavia Albia. Be satisfied to escape alive. Please don’t risk any more with Nephele and Murrius! It cannot be worth it.”

  I answered that I had scruples about taking a fee that I knew was financed by loan-sharking. I saw it as blood money.

  We sat in thought, staring at the false leg. I pulled it closer to investigate and found that straps to attach it were pushed deep down inside. One might go around a stump of thigh, the other around a wearer’s waist.

  “Marcia’s fellow,” I deduced.

  “Where does that random thought come from?”

  “Not random. Corellius had a bad limp, from falling off a horse, he claims, though Marcia told me it looked as if he was hit by some kind of combat missile. Gone to see a medic. Must have had his crushed leg amputated.”

  “Brave man.”

  “Corellius was in more pain than he let us see. He works for the Emperor so presumably he has access to specialist military docs. He has had an operation, she has gone to nurse him, and now nobody has bothered to tell us, but they may arrive back here for the festival.”

  “Meanwhile his prosthetic has been delivered ahead of him,” Tiberius concurred. “Steaming hot from a workshop. We can let them stay here. We have room, and you get on with her.” He did not say that getting on with people was rare with me. Perhaps I could see him thinking it.

  “The leg looks rather good. I hope he survives to wear it.” I was acutely aware of the danger of amputation. My first husband had had a badly damaged thigh, but after I made enquiries about what could be done for him, Lentullus chose to struggle on as he was. That decision later caused his death in an accident when he lost balance, but at least we had had a couple of years together. “I hope Corellius doesn’t struggle back to Rome, then die at our house.”

  “Fortunately you are a forgiving woman,” Tiberius joked.

  A forgiving woman with a lot to do, I thought. Such as further checks on the Murrius-Laetilla financial association, with its implications for Nephele. And now I must do so discreetly, to stop Tiberius being anxious for me.

  To satisfy my own curiosity, I would continue investigating, despite his qualms. I might have felt guilty about refusing to listen to him, but I was sure he fully understood.

  Of course, I was well-placed to know how many wives find their husbands deny there was any such understanding!

  I did not ponder guiltily for long. Someone came knocking and they were not enquiring whether their leg had been misdelivered here. It was a messenger sent by the vigiles to tell Tiberius about a disaster.

  Once the man had persuaded Rodan to let him in, he staggered into the courtyard. He was covered with smuts and an aura of smoke hung around him. He pushed the leg aside, barely aware what strange article he was displacing, then leaned heavily on the table. Even before he croaked out his message, we could see that what he had to tell us must be grim. There had been a bad fire in which people had been killed.

  XXX

  I fetched his cloak for him and Tiberius went out straight away.

  When he came home again, he would be whacked. He had already spent the good part of a day patrolling with Morellus. In large doses Morellus was a trial.

  This second trip out would be much more upsetting. By the time Tiberius finally returned from the fatal fire scene, I had sent everyone else to bed. I was waiting up with a couple of oil lamps. I hugged him in silence, then took him into the room he normally used as an indoor study. He was chilled through; he kept his cloak on. I crouched to pull off his outdoor shoes for him. Knowing her duty, the dog came in and lay where he could warm his feet on her.

  “Wine?” No. Nothing. Seated beside me on a couch, he leaned forward, elbows on knees, head down. “Tell! Tiberius, let it out or you won’t sleep.” He nodded for me, but even after he straightened up, it took him a while to speak.

  He was grey. I had not seen him so drained since the worst period after that lightning struck him.

  He managed a factual start. The fire had been in an apartment block where one of the traditional nut-sellers lived. “Rosius.”

  A familiar name: Agemathus had muttered it, while giving information about the agent, Greius. After the previous nut-seller’s death at the warehouse, Rosius had taken a stand, Agemathus had said. He had turned his back on Greius in what had sounded like a very public rejection. Organised crime never allows that. They were bound to have come for him. He must have known they would do something. “Remember, Tiberius. When Agemathus came earlier, he was talking about this man being leaned on by the nut-suppliers. He refused to knuckle under.”

  Beginning to speak more freely, Tiberius confirmed it. “Retaliation. Morellus learned Rosius had been a target before because he wouldn’t play. The gangsters tried attacking him then, beat him up with staves, but he remained adamant.”

  “Agemathus said Rosius knew that other man they murdered at the warehouse. It had made him even more defiant. They couldn’t budge him. Tonight they burned Rosius’s home as a last resort?”

  “Final reprisal. Disgusting crime. He died inside.” Tiberius had to force it out: “Seven dead. Rosius, wife, his sister, her husband—and three children, one a baby.”

  “You said the fire was in apartments?”

  “Yes, a large block—but only one family died.”

  “Targeted!”

  “Had to be.”

  He sat rigid, with clenched fists. Into my mind came a picture of him here earlier tonight, happily miming animals for his own two young nephews. I gripped one of his fists between both my hands; it was no comfort for a man who had seen the Fourth Cohort carrying out burned bodies.

  Tiberius began again, more fluently sharing awful facts and sights: “It took ages before the red-tunics could even get inside. Heat too intense. They drained the siphon-engine over and over. The poor men were distraught, but they could do nothing.” Tiberius was stricken himself, even though he had arrived after the worst was over. “Couldn’t go close, couldn’t force a way in however brave they tried to be—and those men are brave, Albia … It had been set up to look like a travesty of a Saturnalia accident, but the disguise was minimal. Candles dropped in the street—nonsense. Wicked. No one in those apartments can afford wax candles. Besides, we also foun
d wood-tar and straw discarded.”

  “Arson,” I stated, as he stumbled, too emotional. I needed to encourage him to keep talking. I wanted to know; he needed to debrief.

  “Arson. No bloody doubt. From all the times the vigiles have attended genuine accidents, they can recognise a fit-up. They knew immediately this one was not right. Morellus was called, Morellus sent for me. Afterwards, we found the evidence. There was no serious attempt to make it look good or to hide what had really been done to those people.”

  “No, there wouldn’t be. They want their involvement known—it’s a scare tactic. And nobody escaped?”

  “No—and why? Because the bastards came to the building when everybody was asleep—of course such a family goes to bed early, they went early tonight. They always turn in as soon as it gets dark. The arsonists must have known there were young children and the menfolk had to work. They routinely had to leave at dawn, so everyone would be deeply asleep. Setting the fire must have been done silently, stealthily. Intruders went in, quickly dumped combustibles, and then—Albia, Albia, can you believe this?—the door, the only door to the outside, was blocked up. It’s a well-built apartment block. They lived on too high a landing for any escape from windows, and there were none onto the corridor. The vigiles could not reach any windows from outside either. Their ladders are not long enough.”

  “A lot of other people live there?”

  “Yes. They all had miraculous escapes. Well, that proves this fire was deliberate. One apartment burned, it went up fast and furious, while everyone round about, next door, immediately below, even above, had time to flee before their places caught. By comparison, no other rooms suffered much damage. This one apartment had been made into a sealed firebox.”

  “Lethal! A normal tenement fire is never that concentrated. Were other people given warnings?” I asked, suspiciously.

  “Can’t be certain. Alarms were raised, but probably by chance. One of the Fourth lives on the top floor. He was going for his shift tonight when he smelt smoke. He did what he could, sent a message for the Cohort to come running, and I suppose he yelled his head off, organised people from the building to hammer on doors and bring occupants out to safety. But he couldn’t get into the Rosius apartment—nobody could, because the door was blocked like that, wedged up, with fiercely burning materials piled outside. When the crew did clear a path to break the door down, a firestorm blew out at them.”

  “There! Stay calm, love, or it doesn’t help, you know that.”

  Tiberius slumped back, holding his head again. “I know, I know, but, oh, sweetheart, it was horrible. Morellus hopes the end came fast for the poor victims—he thinks they would all have been overcome by smoke quite early on … but onlookers had heard screams initially. I was there when the bodies were removed. They were seared toast, no soft tissue, all unrecognisable. The only way we knew there was a baby was when one of the men found the charred wood of its cradle. He wept. It will haunt him. They kept him on duty, but only to provide him with colleagues’ support.”

  “What’s to be done?” I asked quietly.

  “I don’t know. It’s hopeless. Morellus will appeal for witnesses, but we saw what happens, saw it after the warehouse murder. People are too scared to talk. Our only hope is it’s so abhorrent that this time someone will come forward out of pity.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  I stayed with him until I could persuade him up to bed. He did sleep, eventually. I found less rest, as I worried for him.

  XXXI

  I was growing accustomed to being first up. There was no point in hankering for my old life, when I could let sunlight squirm in through shutter cracks, like a randy god coming to ravish me, while I buried my head under a blanket. This was it nowadays. The matron. Domina Albia. The deserving one, chaste, modest and frugal, who loves her husband, his house and all his possessions: pleasant conversation, keeps the keys, works in wool (no chance!). Unto death. Albia the domestic queen …

  Rubbish to that.

  I had slid out from alongside Tiberius, holding my breath while I pushed my feet into slippers and groped on a chest for what felt like a stole. I left our room in darkness. Barley squeezed out along with me; she followed me downstairs like a honey-coloured wraith, although when we reached the courtyard she sought out her kennel. She lay down, nose on paws, watching me in the hope of food.

  While I was making mulsum with wine and honey warmed together, Gratus joined me, openly yawning—a rare unprofessional slip. He too had been drawn into early household manoeuvres. Cradling beakers, we leaned against the kitchen cooking-bench and did not bother to speak.

  Astonishingly, I had a visitor. That was me: Domina Albia—chaste, modest, frugal … and runs a list of annoying clients.

  Snapping alert, Gratus loped quickly to answer the knocking, to avoid disturbing people. The caller was Terentia Nephele. Gratus and I were taken aback, though she seemed oblivious to her timing.

  I am a grouse when disturbed in the morning. My brain likes to fire up at its own sullen pace. I like to rinse my teeth, ready to gnash at people.

  We moved grudgingly to open the small salon for use, Gratus bringing a brazier, me organising a drink for Nephele so I could continue mine without seeming impolite. Really, I needed adjustment time. I had not expected to see her again, let alone before my family was astir.

  Well, one was up: little Gaius hopped down, barefoot and in his sleeping tunic. He plonked himself in front of the visitor, staring. “We have a false leg. Do you want to see it?”

  She was not a woman to engage with a five-year-old.

  I managed to prevent him dragging the leg across the courtyard. “Not now, Gaius. Don’t be rough, it’s not yours. Go back upstairs, please, darling. You can come down when you have washed your face and are dressed. And proper shoes!” This one had a footwear antipathy. I could see him deciding to resist, so I picked him up, set him on the bottom step up to the balcony and gave him a slight push on the rump. “Up you go.”

  I wondered whether to explain the prosthetic limb, but Nephele had no interest, lost in whatever had compelled her visit. Hello! What’s up with her? Her face was set more than usual.

  My visitor was given a breakfast drink since mulsum was already made. I let her stir it herself. Hell, I gave her a spoon. That was enough; I wasn’t a serving wench. I folded myself into my stole, preparing myself.

  This is why informers live in uninviting alleys. At Fountain Court only emergencies brought call-outs so early, but when you live on a respectable street, clients and customers start cluttering up the neighbourhood along with the market traders. In Londinium, at least everyone hibernates in winter. In Rome, people assume if they are up, you should be too. They go out for bread and bother you at the same time.

  Juno. But I felt curiosity stirring: What have we here?

  Gratus popped his head in to say he was going out—for breakfast rolls—a clear hint to Nephele to hurry up. I would be needed. Breakfast with infants requires a full posse.

  I sat with my client, perplexed but allowing myself to be hostile. “If you are sent to find out how the aedile is faring after last night’s incident,” I rattled off irritably, “you can go straight back and tell them it has only made him angrier!”

  Nephele looked blank.

  “There was a fire.” Now I was shooting facts at her fiercely. “Arson. People dead. Children. A baby. A gangsters’ gesture—it had better not be from your relatives!”

  “Oh. People are talking about that locally. Nobody I know would be involved!”

  I gave her a look to say we would see about that.

  Once again, Nephele had arrived alone: no maid. She looked neat, though evidently had left home unaided by her girl. Gone were the complex ringlets, waves and interwoven loops of hair—though her self-pinned chignon, of course, gleamed with past applications of topical shine. A silk gown is a silk gown, whether a factotum lifts it reverently over your head or you throw it on quickly yourself. The prev
ious necklace group was reduced to one chain, with its clasp showing at the side instead of being centred out of the way at the back. Her skin was as clear as ever, no lines showed, yet Nephele now subtly gave herself away: she knew life. She seemed older than I had thought previously.

  She stayed silent, as if waiting for me to lead. Finally, I told her that I knew she had not been frank with me, that my people had called at her house and been moved on with threats, that my insight into her husband’s position had led me to end the commission.

  “You are dropping my case?” She looked briefly thrown.

  “That is my decision. Can you suggest why not?” Yesterday I had intended to continue, but the fire had hardened my attitude. She belonged to a despicable family; for all I knew they were behind the recent troubles. “Nephele, I first thought your husband had a gambling addiction—but what he really does in the community is worse. If his only flaw was spending money unwisely, I could have advised you like any client. But if he is what I think…” I left it there.

  She said nothing.

  I spelled out that Laetilla was not, or not primarily, her husband’s lover. “She assembles the proceeds of illegal money-lending. People can pay her direct, or I presume a bunch of collectors goes around leaning on debtors. Such enforcers tend to be brutal. Laetilla holds their takings at her house across the Aventine. Gaius Murrius then collects the loot. She may give him lunch, as you suggested, but I saw him go there in the evening. He didn’t take love-gifts, he took heavies to carry the money-bags. I presume you know all this, Nephele? You understand what business he is in?”

  “I know nothing about his business.”

  “If that’s true, you’re an idiot!” I snapped.

  “The men in our family never discuss what they do.”

  “Listen to me, then. Loan sharks move in on desperate people. They act very friendly at first, but they charge sky-high interest rates, with no proper contracts so they can never be sued. When the time comes to pay, they turn nasty, use threats, use violence, drive women who can’t repay their loans into prostitution or force men to engage in criminal activity on the gang’s behalf. It’s usury. It’s illegal, but nobody dares report them. Your husband belongs to an organisation like that. I suspect he is high-placed, a key figure. He runs it.”