A Capitol Death

by Lindsey Davis

  I could hear Dromo now indoors, muttering as he flung items off his handcart. He would hurl aside purchases, then spend an hour minutely inspecting his beloved cart in case it had been scratched during the unfair role of carrying things. Fornix rushed to rescue the new equipment.

  Our new steward Gratus would have soothed things, but he had gone to collect his belongings.

  The visitor had ink stains on his fingers. He was an obvious pen-pusher, stoop-shouldered and short-sighted from his work, dressed in white, the palace colour, and so supercilious he was probably a freed slave. I watched him assess the place austerely. He looked down, as if afraid he might plonk his sandals in something nasty. Having come in so far, he could hardly retreat. I could see his horror that the mistress of the house spoke with a good accent, yet had no maids attending her, only a shy dog peering around her skirts. The staff were lunatics. Whoever had let him in was unplaceable …

  Tiberius, wearing his scruffy outfit, had waved a hand to me and slipped away to change.

  I was flopping on my dolphin bench, completely relaxed, not going anywhere.

  I can behave. The rules have been explained to me. Many times. There was nothing wrong with how my mother brought up her daughters, only the stroppy material she had to work with.

  I made a gracious gesture, inviting the newcomer in. I produced a smile that Mother would have approved. “Greetings, stranger. I am Flavia Albia. Are you here to see me?”

  He placed his posterior nervously on a portable chair, looking around what might one day be a peristyle garden. So far it had tamped soil plus a few containers. The roses were new-planted, the young climbers so spindly we had not yet given them pergolas. Rough-cut stakes leaned against a wall, for landscaping in some vague future. The best feature was the dog-kennel. Barley slunk from safety behind me, then high-stepped over towards it. She slithered in and snaked around, to lie with her long nose on her front legs, watching.

  “I wish to speak with the plebeian aedile, Manlius Faustus. He lives here?” The man’s hopeful tone said he did not realise it was the aedile, clad like a navvy, who had admitted him.

  “My husband. Lovely person, I am so lucky. We have no secrets. What can I do for you?” The world of government service was a world of men. This one managed not to shudder at our ghastly liberal principles. I pressed on as if I had not noticed: “And who are you? I place you as holding a secretarial post.”

  He squeezed out his name, Aepolus, then admitted he worked on the Palatine. He was sitting with his knees tight together, arms folded, a tense, defensive posture. The pressure of unsought conversation with a nonchalant woman deflated him. He was trapped with me. He was in anguish.

  Aepolus grudgingly revealed he was working on the Triumph. He thought this would put me off. I kept my terribly interested smile. “I can imagine! Doing all the work, receiving no thanks for it.”

  His eyes jumpily tracked a sudden noise. I was so used to a racket, I had not even noticed. Someone had dropped a girder in the yard, apparently. Loud banter followed. Drax had a barking fit. Such staff as we had in the house, plus the painters who had come out onto the upper balcony for another of their wrangles, were making their presence felt too, upping their volume to contend with the workmen’s banter.

  To the scribe’s relief, Tiberius then came downstairs. He had tucked a stylus behind one ear as if he had come from writing letters. Nice touch!

  A quick-change operator, he was now in a white tunic with a soft nap, clearly the home-owner. Tiberius smartens up well, even without Dromo’s help. Aepolus did not recognise him as our door-keeper. Palace freedmen would have low expectations anyway: to them, aediles are ambitious rich boys who win elections, inflict themselves on the city for a year while they do as little as possible, then swan off to new pastures, leaving career officials to sort out their many mistakes.

  First, Tiberius opened the yard door and yelled for less noise. This was so unusual, it worked.

  Since we had not seen one another all morning, when my loved one took the bench beside me, he put an arm around my shoulders, leaning in for a hearty cheek-kiss as if he had just returned from a long sea voyage. Aepolus blushed. Tiberius made a don’t-mind-me, you-two-carry-on gesture, causing the scribe to writhe in further misery.

  “This is Aepolus, darling,” I exclaimed, still cheerily in command. Aepolus must now assume I was the partner with the money. My husband could deny me nothing. “He is running the Triumph, he says. I think he must be the poor soul you spoke of, who is in charge of everything.” Tiberius tickled my neck, still not speaking. He would communicate eventually. Assessing a situation in silence was normal behaviour for him, though Aepolus could not know it.

  “I have a few points to discuss, sir. Delicate matter.” Aepolus bravely tried addressing the master. In any other home, the domina would have rushed away to count finger bowls. I made no move.

  “Good man. Carry on!” breezed Tiberius. Once again, he waved a hand to say his wife would do the talking.

  “Aepolus, I am glad you came.” I can sound helpful. Only people who knew me would see through it. “I assume this is about the event on Tarpeia’s Rock. Perhaps you don’t know, but as I have some expertise…” I saw no reason to specify what kind of expertise: let the silly man sweat “… I have been asked to assist our hard-pressed officials by conducting interviews. I have spoken already to a possible witness to the dead man’s fall.”

  “Any use?” Tiberius asked, in a low voice.

  “I felt she may be credible. To be certain needs more work.” Turning back to Aepolus, I asked, “There is a Praetorian oaf who claims he has orders to monitor pedestrian traffic. Nestor. As far as I can see, he spends his time absconding. You don’t happen to know who assigned this man a security role?”

  Aepolus shrugged. “The duty commander, I presume.”

  “No one in your bureau asked for him?”

  “Neither for him nor for a watch to be kept generally.”

  “No specific intelligence calls for extra caution?” asked Tiberius.

  “No reason to fear for the Emperor,” Aepolus confirmed. A glance flickered between Tiberius and me. Domitian was always afraid of being attacked, probably with good reason. “None more than normal,” added the scribe, as if he saw what we were thinking. His tone was neutral. Neither of us commented.

  “So what do you need to discuss with the aedile?” I was still pleasant, which struck our visitor as more ominous than reassuring.

  Aepolus pleaded with Tiberius, “This is extremely confidential, sir…”

  “We appreciate that.” No help.

  “I expect, my darling,” I giggled, to break the stalemate, “you are being asked to dismiss me from my commission!” I saw the scribe look grateful—then more nervous.

  “Not a chance!” Tiberius Manlius now came out in full positive mode. “Aepolus, the aediles were formally asked to decide what happened to the victim—”

  “Gabinus,” I inserted. “He was much loathed. If he was pushed to his death, there will be many potential suspects.”

  “My wife has been busy, you see! So,” Tiberius concluded crisply, “this problem requires looking into, but we in the aedilate have neither the time nor, frankly, the skills. All official law-and-order bodies are up to their earwax in arrangements for the Triumph. But, Aepolus, if a man who had a key role has suffered an unnatural death, it is imperative to ascertain whether that impinges on the success of the day or even on imperial safety. Flavia Albia will, as a favour to me, attempt to discover the facts. She has a great talent. The city should be grateful she is available. Any more questions?”

  “Will this inquiry be under your direction then, sir?”

  Tiberius shuddered. “No fear! My wife is strictly independent. I don’t want a divorce.”

  Aepolus gloomily agreed he had no further questions.

  “I have some,” I said.

  * * *

  Aepolus, who was yearning to escape, shifted uncomfortably ag
ain. Tiberius applied an interested face, similar to the one I had used earlier.

  I opened my satchel, which I had previously hung on a dolphin bench-end. I took out my note-tablet. “Aepolus,” I began, in a quiet voice, “tell me what work you are conducting for the Triumph.”

  He considered refusing. Then he thought better of it. “Forward planning and logistics.”

  I gazed at him, considering this tosh. Tiberius gazed at me, like a man watching a good farce. “Fill me in, Aepolus. Details, please.”

  “I fail to see what this has to do—”

  “Let me decide what is relevant.”

  “As you wish … My unit is charged with co-ordination, keeping the various sections properly in contact with one another, ensuring a tight timescale, ascertaining problems and solutions, monitoring consistency.”

  “Important!” Clearly I doubted that.

  “Essential,” he claimed. His glance flicked to Tiberius, but once again he found no help there.

  “This leaves me puzzled.” I remained polite. “You need things to run smoothly. So tell me why you want to halt my inquiry.” Aepolus played dumb. “Confidential palace business?” I smiled. He was not fooled. He was not meant to be. “Or, Aepolus, here is an idea: you have a personal beef. I am gathering a collage of notes about people who had reasons to resent the dead man. Gabinus was one of your colleagues. Pending the Triumph, he must have featured in your ‘forward planning and logistics.’ So did you, in the course of that, have a run-in with this man?”

  “I do not feel—”

  “It is a good question.” Tiberius leaned in; he was now dangerously quiet. “Answer it, please.”

  “I—”

  “Answer.”

  “Relations between you?” I insisted.

  He might be a good clerk, slick as they come—which on the Palatine is extra virgin oleaginous—but Aepolus was unused to interrogation. Most of the people I talk to are liars, but once he had to, he came right out with his confession: “Gabinus was thoroughly obnoxious to me. Rude, coarse, foul-mouthed, quarrelsome and obstructive.”

  Tiberius smiled, while I openly chuckled as I said, “Goodness! Next thing, you will be telling me you did not like him!”

  “He was completely impossible.”

  I stopped laughing. “So here is the crunch.” Setting aside my note-tablet, I asked: “Did you hate him, Aepolus? Did you push him off the Tarpeian Rock?”

  Here it came again: “No,” the scribe replied, with a defiant note. “I admit I wanted the earth to gape and swallow him, but I never did a thing about it.”

  XII

  Well, they all say that. The ones who had not said it yet would join in when I came to ask them.

  We let the scribe go. He beetled out as if we had set the Furies on him.

  Tiberius shook his head at me.

  “I was kind! I was polite to him.”

  “Not bad for you,” agreed my husband.

  We took a moment to sit, hand in hand, beside each other on our favourite bench, turning our faces to the autumn sun. In a few words Tiberius described his morning of tedious meetings. Then, at greater length, I relayed my discoveries so far. Fornix brought out luncheon snacks.

  Fornix and Dromo ate with us because in our household slaves and employees counted as our wider family. Only the day-rate painters trotted through the courtyard and went out through the side door to take their break with Larcius and the workmen. They wanted to tell crude stories, cruder than was permitted in my presence.

  Paris came back from his errand. Competent and intelligent, he had identified the bar called Nino’s. This was good: the last thing you need is a runabout who can never find the places to which you send him. I was teaching him ploys to use on informing errands. I already trusted him with a small petty-cash fund. Since working with me would often involve locations where drink was served, I hoped he would not become wine-sozzled. Many informers have tipsy helpers—let’s face it, many are hopeless drunks themselves. But I wanted better.

  Once he had identified Nino’s, Paris first sat down with a cup of wine, absorbing the atmosphere. This had results, because after a while an obvious guard hurried up, in the traditional hooded cloak and with the traditional arrogance; he pulled the owner inside the bar for a deep private confab. From the description Paris gave me, it could have been Nestor. He had a drink, clearly paying with a huge tip, then threw filthy looks around and left.

  When Paris in turn settled up, he made no reference to this and neither did the bar owner. The runabout announced he was on official business; he asked my question. Was a Praetorian called Nestor at the bar the evening Gabinus died? The barkeeper said he remembered Nestor. Of course he did. Nestor, a regular, was there with his cronies, all very familiar at Nino’s. They stayed all night.

  Paris had already become attuned to my work: he knew he had witnessed a stitch-up. “So was it useless, me going there?” he asked, sounding despondent.

  “No, Paris. Never mind what the proprietor said. The little scene you saw speaks for itself. If the guard you spotted was Nestor, then I bet he was not drinking at Nino’s, or not all the time. He went to persuade the barman to lie for him. What was more, you saw him pay for the alibi. He’s pretty dumb because Gabinus died in the morning. It was early but an alibi for the night before is shaky.”

  “Will you find out what he wants to hide?”

  “I shall try.”

  “On the face of it,” Tiberius joined in, “there is no reason why a Praetorian should attack the transport manager. What contact could they have had before?” We could not know. But Nestor had stupidly steered me into wondering. “Even the unlikeable Gabinus would shy off pushing a guard around. Bullies attack the weak.”

  “Guards are used to people mouthing off at them, sir,” Paris argued. “Everybody hates those pushy beggars.”

  I smiled. “Being up on the Capitol seems to make people officious. First Gabinus, now Nestor.”

  “Try to avoid him,” Tiberius warned. “Even if we reckon Praetorians have a soft life in Rome, Nestor does look as if he came up through campaigning legions. He will be a dangerous figure to upset.”

  * * *

  That was the point we had reached when we heard someone else knocking. After a stern glance from his master, Dromo for once went to the door. He sidled back with the usual message: there was a man to see us. For once, he had taken a name. Incredibly, it was Nestor.

  Tiberius grinned. Knowing I hated contact with such types, he volunteered to take on the visitor this time. I grabbed a stole and my satchel, then nipped out through the side door, making a run for it.

  XIII

  Egnatius, the stand-in transport manager, had told me the processional floats were being built in the Diribitorium. This gave me a chance to visit my father. I loved to remind him of what a soft-hearted pushover he was to adopt a British orphan.

  Falco operated as an auctioneer out of the Saepta Julia, down on the Campus Martius. The Saepta once formed a voting hall, but nowadays elections were an irrelevance, since benevolent emperors chose officials for us. How fortunate we were! The current one was especially keen on making decisions he thought too taxing for us.

  Denuded of its democratic function, the Saepta had become a huge two-storeyed bazaar, frequented by strollers and posers. It housed jewellery shops and antiques boutiques, a trove of sparkly gifts for men with expensive mistresses or those who needed to appease their wives. Pa had fun deciding whether the wife or mistress was getting the biggest bribe, though according to him, most people who wandered through were maddening time-wasters. They picked up items, left grubby finger-marks, then moved down the arcades without buying. They were leisured men, who had never been told money is for throwing away, especially on artefacts that auctioneers claim are bargains.

  Never say, “I’m just looking.” One day some seller will run mad at this hackneyed phrase, and retaliate with a bout of mass killing.

  Father was sitting in his office, like
a glum toad. Occasionally he darted out to keep an eye on someone he deemed to be light-fingered. The increased activity caused by the Triumph would top up his coffers, but he was at the stage of moaning bitterly about the extra work. “And bloody soldiers everywhere.”

  “Our noble restorers of peace?”

  “Thieving tossers.”

  After greeting him like a good daughter, I left him to it. My sisters and I go to the Saepta for a reason, but I could see he was in no mood to winkle out treats for me from the incoming goods. The main point of being connected to an auction house is to take first pick.

  I took myself to the Diribitorium, as always wondering what clown labelled it with such a ridiculous tongue-twister name. The building was once a vast enclosed area, also used in voting procedures, so like the Saepta, it was now redundant for the fine purpose of elective government. It had had a legendary roof made from heavy larchwood timbers that were supposedly a hundred feet long. When these were destroyed by a city fire, a decision was taken that the Diribitorium could not be rebuilt as before so it stayed open-topped. Yet today it was so crammed I could barely see the sky.

  The floats used in a triumph are tremendously high, people say three or four storeys, though that is nonsense as they have to pass under the usual street tangle of washing lines, or at least move through ceremonial arches. But they were lofty. Those towering constructions stood about in various stages of completion. Many were already hung with tapestries and painted scenery. Their wooden frames and panels, draped with stepladders and scaffolds, impeded my view. The noise was alarming: hammering of wood and metal, cursing that could be furious or simply routine, rehearsals with musical instruments, the cacophony of many conversations, all of which caused participants to shout ever louder. I made out several languages. Smells of paint and its colourings caught at the back of my throat.

  Once my eyes grew accustomed to the hectic scene, I gradually identified groups creating specific projects. They were of all ages, perhaps family units because some had children there; even the children were working. There must be logic, even though it looked like a disturbed ants’ nest. An official pushed through, with attentive clerks. Orders were rapped, questions asked, notes taken. Mainly the craft workers got on with whatever they were doing. I sensed resistance to supervision: when the officials moved on, gestures were made behind their backs.