A guard party surrounded Terentius. He had been allowed to shed the constricting shroud I had put on him. He did not bother to threaten reprisals, though the air was heavy with his confidence that this would go badly for the authorities.
He was facing out the tribune. “We meet again!” This, from the gangster to Scaurus, was his reference to their presumed colluding friendship.
Cassius Scaurus set him straight, however. “I don’t know you!” So much for his party guest-list. The hoary ex-centurion, with his career-long silken capability for lies, bluntly denied any connection. For Scaurus—as for a gangster—the truth would be whatever he said it was.
Even so, the warlord still believed he could control the situation. His expression stayed austere and derisory. However, the tribune set about formally announcing a list of crimes on which he intended to interrogate Appius Terentius. I could see Morellus grinning. Terentius stayed calm. He would blame everything on Greius—knowing Greius would have set up all his foul deeds to avoid leaving evidence. He remained unaware of his trusty’s fate.
We held back. I had signalled to an attendant, who ran outside to Uncle Tullius’s litter in which we had arrived earlier. Tiberius was struggling out of the gourd suit. He had brought full formal dress, in anticipation. The attendant came with his toga and, as I had done outside Xero’s, I began the lifting and pleating process. “Terentius is sure nothing will lead back to him,” I murmured. “Have you thought up a technicality to pin him down?”
“I don’t suppose,” Tiberius said ruefully, “we can slam him with false Census declarations.”
“Tax fraud?”
“He will have crooked accountants. Don’t worry, I have something in mind.”
Meanwhile official law-and-order plodded on. “What was your purpose in coming here?” Scaurus demanded of Terentius.
“Enjoying the bounty, with socialising thrown in.” Terentius was shameless. “I did hope,” he boasted blatantly, “there might be an opening for us to pay compliments to the Emperor.”
Now the first shock: “Forget it!” Morellus snarled. “Wrong place, wrong time, sir.” He spelled it out with crabby triumph: “The Emperor loves his people, but he loves his peace and quiet more. His Saturnalia will be in his citadel: Alba Longa in the hills. Sorry, Terentius! Domitian is not here.”
Terentius kept the thin smile of a man who could accomplish what he had wanted another day—and who intended to do so. His complacency was short-lived. Tiberius placed a hand on my arm to warn of a new arrival.
“Let us through—we are family!”
A horrible confrontation was about to happen.
The rest of us stood rapt, ready to watch the families confront each other. Members of the vigiles crowded in, hoping for a cat-fight. Spitfire women would be all the better with a garniture of betrayed men.
The Cornellus brothers, Caesius and Murrius, rushed up to attack Terentius, their sister Laetilla tottering with them in her platform soles. She was chinking with gold chains, as if the fine products of Hieronymus’s workshop had been lavished on her from several directions. They must have discovered where Greius kept his love-nest, his apartment in Dolichenus Street. (Word afterwards was that they found it because Greius, like any spoiled young bachelor, had had his father paying the rent.) They had hauled out Terentia Nephele—so she was here—then set off to her brother’s house. With him not at home, they had all plunged down to the Amphitheatre, gathering up Terentia Berenike.
The sisters raged at each other. As soon as he learned the Cornelli were throwing his women back at him, and why, Terentius looked thunderous. Berenike screeched at Caesius for not stopping his son. Nephele blamed Murrius for neglect. Laetilla slapped her and told him not to listen. Murrius finally forgot how much he had loved his wife, and with no more compunction dumped her.
Two brothers and their sister, two sisters and a brother: all of them now realised their pact had failed. In this adulterous disaster, damnation would fall on Greius. None of them knew yet that Greius was dead. They must have been wondering where he was. Then they found out.
We heard shouts to make way. We all saw an officious arena squad, hauling by the heels the young man’s corpse. As if it were planned—though it could not have been—they dropped his blackened body at his relatives’ feet.
Fatal burns are horrible to see. The sisters screamed. The brothers clung together. Terentius stood immobilised. Tiberius and I knew what to expect and looked away.
The squad-leader asked Scaurus whether they should take the body to the Spoliarium. That was a building outside the sinister exit called the Gate of Death. There, dead gladiators were stripped and their corpses prepared for their funerals.
Most of those who knew Greius were unable to react. It was Laetilla who stepped forward. She alone had command of herself. “Leave him to us. His family will take the body. He can lie on his bier in my house.”
She half knelt, to drape her own stole over him. She spread the fine, fringed material over the top part of his body, letting it fall on him softly.
As she straightened, clinking with her gold, our eyes met. Watching her, I decided something: her two brothers visited Laetilla for ordinary family reasons. She took home other men at other times for other entertainment. One did not care whom he seduced, how many he juggled, how dangerous the risk, or whom he offended. She said nothing. I never asked her. But I was sure: not content with his sister-in-law and his intended wife, Quintus Cornellus Greius had been sleeping with his aunt.
LXIV
No one else seemed to pick up on it. They had enough trouble ahead of them. The survivors’ lives would be different, shaken into patterns that were too new to contemplate. Terentius had lost his hard-hitting agent, but he would recruit another—if he survived. He had been betrayed—yet robbed of his retribution. His women would struggle to overcome what had happened, probably bitter for ever against each other. Caesius had lost his son. Only Murrius had any consolation. In years to come those twins of his, those nice children diligently looking after their parrot, would come into their heritage. For them there would be wider roles in the old family consortium, as the old extortion rackets went grinding on in perpetuity.
Standing there in the Amphitheatre, Appius Terentius believed himself untouchable. He had stuck to the code: every tier of his organisation was kept separate; nobody knew what the others were doing; nothing anyone else did could ever be traced back to him. He gave orders to people who gave orders, but no final act would ever lead back to his instruction.
He stated his position to Cassius Scaurus: “I have done no wrong, Tribune. There is no crime that you can link to me. You have no proof of anything.”
Scaurus was a normal, ploddingly adequate tribune; he therefore thought the same. Apprehending his villain had been bluff. This was how it had to be. Appius Terentius was unfinished business but crime is a plague that grips all cities. Greed for money and power never abate, fuelled by warped sex and intolerable violence. It continues as long as blood flows in the veins of habitual criminals. Even if he ever managed to manoeuvre the villain into court, an age-old slew of missing evidence and smart lawyering would clear him.
Scaurus was looking unhappy. Morellus was in despair. Time for Tiberius to act. He murmured, “Domina, thank you for coming with me.”
“Domine, thank you for bringing me.”
I thought very briefly of the home we loved. Our staff would already have returned from my parents’ house, travelling back up the Aventine with its frolics and frenzied hand-clapping, bringing our two weary little boys, in the donkey’s panniers. Now the donkey was secure in her stable, better protected from vile intruders. Fast asleep in their beds, Gaius and Lucius must be flushed after their exciting day, with a row of new toys lined up, though each of our ducklings was clutching his simple rag doll, home-made by Glaphyra. Our staff would be waiting for us. The candles among our festival greenery represented reassurance: the solstice was coming, when the earth would seem to paus
e in indecision, yet warmth and light would be restored. Tonight, slaves and freeborn, we would as equals together raise our toast to the Undying Sun.
* * *
Tiberius was ready. He and I stepped full into the circle of criminals and vigiles. I smiled gently. He was entirely serious but I felt him squeeze my hand. We were a partnership. In sombre moments, Roman women do not stand back to watch. Though he was clad in his robes of office, it was me who spoke first: “Restrain this man, Tribune.”
Tiberius, perfectly togate, took control. He raised a hand, the formal gesture. “Appius Terentius, I am Manlius Faustus, plebeian aedile. I speak for the Senate and People of Rome.”
Terentius laughed bitterly. “What’s your charge? Whatever, I deny it! There is no link to me regarding anything you ever claimed about a few mouldy nuts.”
My husband took that quietly. “It’s true, my witness for that activity accused your dead trusty. You are taken on a different charge, one you brought upon yourself. You have, using a slave who admits his crime, offended against a sacred Mother Goddess. You stole and butchered, then dumped like common garbage, a sheep that had belonged to the Temple of Ceres, destined for religious sacrifice.”
Ah, Sheep!
Morellus caught my eye, highly amused that a magistrate should bend the truth and use that age-old apology: It wasn’t mine, sir, I was just looking after it for someone …
“A slave?” Sneering, Terentius made the defendant’s usual protest. “Don’t rely on a slave, even if you torture him. Whoever he is, or says he is, I deny he is mine!”
“He is yours.” Tiberius was at last showing satisfaction as he punched in his elegant fatal charge: “You labelled him with a collar that names you as his owner, a collar you have had permanently welded onto him. Cassius Scaurus, arrest this man. Terentius, prepare yourself: you have committed a capital crime. The penalty is death, for temple desecration. Appius Terentius, I am charging you with sacrilege.”
Also by Lindsey Davis
THE FLAVIA ALBIA NOVELS
The Ides of April
Enemies at Home
Deadly Election
The Graveyard of the Hesperides
The Third Nero
Pandora’s Boy
A Capitol Death
The Grove of the Caesars
THE FALCO SERIES
The Silver Pigs
Shadows in Bronze
Venus in Copper
The Iron Hand of Mars
Poseidon’s Gold
Last Act in Palmyra
Time to Depart
A Dying Light in Corduba
Three Hands in the Fountain
Two for the Lions
One Virgin Too Many
Ode to a Banker
A Body in the Bathhouse
The Jupiter Myth
The Accusers
Scandal Takes a Holiday
See Delphi and Die
Saturnalia
Alexandria
Nemesis
The Course of Honour
Rebels and Traitors
Master and God
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LINDSEY DAVIS is the author of the New York Times bestselling series of historical mysteries featuring Marcus Didius Falco, which started with The Silver Pigs, and the mysteries featuring Falco’s daughter, Flavia Albia, which started with The Ides of April. She has also authored a few acclaimed historical novels, including The Course of Honour. She lives in Birmingham, England.
Visit the author’s website at www.lindseydavis.co.uk, or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Maps
Our Festival Characters
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter IX
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Chapter XLI
Chapter XLII
Chapter XLIII
Chapter XLIV
Chapter XLV
Chapter XLVI
Chapter XLVII
Chapter XLVIII
Chapter XLIX
Chapter L
Chapter LI
Chapter LII
Chapter LIII
Chapter LIV
Chapter LV
Chapter LVI
Chapter LVII
Chapter LVIII
Chapter LIX
Chapter LX
Chapter LXI
Chapter LXII
Chapter LXIII
Chapter LXIV
Also by Lindsey Davis
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the United States by Minotaur Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by Rowen Davis and David Baldensingh Rotstein
Cover photograph-illustration by Alan Ayers
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Davis, Lindsey, author.
Title: A comedy of terrors: a Flavia Albia novel / Lindsey Davis.
Description: First U.S. edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, 2021. | Series: The Flavia Albia novels; [9]
Identifiers: LCCN 2021017543 | ISBN 9781250241542 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250241559 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Flavia Albia (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Women private investigators—Rome—Fiction. | Rome—History—Domitian, 81-96—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Historical fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6054.A8925 C66 2021 | DDC 823/.914—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021017543
eISBN 9781250241559
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
Originally published in Great Britain by Hodder & Stoughton, an Hachette UK Company
First U.S. Edition: 2021
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