A Capitol Death

by Lindsey Davis

  Had that happened with Gabinus?

  The Diribitorium had been built to hold all the male voters of Rome. This would have been a fraction of the populace, because elective government cannot be lavished on women, slaves, the young, the poor, outsiders or troublemakers who did not know your grandfather, but it would have been a big crowd. The place was massive. Now once again it contained hundreds of people; I had to seek out four. At first my task seemed hopeless. No one knew anything about any other workers, or so they insisted. Some swore at me for interrupting.

  I refined my method. Refreshment-providers moved around, skilfully lifting their enormous trays over every impediment. I latched on to one. “Do you deliver to Successus and Spurius? The failure and the remnant, they are known as, apparently … No? How about Lalus the chariot-gilder?”

  “What chariot?” Piemen did not follow politics. For them a triumph was just a big sales opportunity, never mind why. All they cared about was would the rabbits run out? If so they’d need a rat-catcher.

  “Ever take drinks to Quartulla in the costume department?” He shook his head. “Oh, maybe it was Quartilla—”

  “Well, you should have said!”

  At last. He led me around a pile of thrones, wove through a collection of statues, barged aside a man who was cataloguing them, pushed among hanging swathes of newly dyed material, then pointed her out.

  Queen of the wardrobe, Quartilla was hefty and bosomy. Of vague age and comfortable bearing, she looked like the aunt in every family who provides salves, socks, ghost stories and wise sayings. She controlled her section calmly, as if she had been kitting out “foreign prisoners” for decades. We all knew that when the mad Emperor Caligula held a triumph over Germany, he had so few real captives that a bunch of tall Gauls were rounded up for a short-contract impersonation; they had to dye their hair red, take German names and even learn to speak a Germanic language.

  Domitian had already held his own triumph over the unconquerable Germans, so he was now formally named Titus Flavius Domitianus Germanicus. Maybe soon he would be Chatticus Dacicusque. Maybe not. It might sound silly. He was notoriously sensitive.

  Quartilla had noticed me. Little got past her. I said who I was, then owned up about what I had come for.

  Quartilla assessed me, not hiding her scrutiny. She even came and plucked up the neck of my tunic, checking how the facing-braid was sewn on. She could tell I had done it myself. She seemed quite taken with another woman who worked, one who acted as if she knew what she was doing too. “Well, Flavia Albia, I hope they told you everything depends on me and my lot! They had to allow us a week or two over, so my men playing Dacians can grow their curly beards. Nothing can start without us.”

  “You won’t have enough real Dacians?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “Real?” The round-hipped dame exploded into gusty laughter. She was loud enough for people nearby to glance over at us, though clearly they knew Quartilla’s laugh; they lost interest. “None, darling. Our Master just bought off that bastard Decebalus, big king of the Dacian warforce. You don’t collect useful prisoners through bribery. We needed a good massacre.”

  She was right about what had happened. After struggling to control trouble further along the Danube, Domitian had shied off more fighting. He agreed to pay the Dacians huge financial subsidies, which were going to continue for years. Roman engineers and other experts would be sent to help fortify Dacia against threats from tribes elsewhere. Dacia would give reciprocal assistance to Rome, some sort of free pass across their territory for our armed forces if they marched to whack different barbarians.

  Their wily king took care to avoid capture: Decebalus had sent his brother Diegis to sign the treaty with Domitian. It had happened on the remote frontier, not in Rome. The Dacians were wary and Domitian was bright enough to realise his truce would be unpopular. It was said Diegis had received a golden diadem from the Emperor, symbolising that Dacia was now Rome’s client kingdom. I bet in their mountainous stronghold they sniggered at that.

  Prisoners were actually given back to us: Diegis handed over a demoralised bunch of Roman soldiers who, unknown to anyone in Rome, had been kept as hostages for the past five years since the massacre at Tapae. They were traumatised by their experience—Tiberius had heard about it. The poor shaken souls would not be on parade.

  Shortage of captives meant finding substitutes. Quartilla launched into what might have been complaints about fakes, though she seemed confident she could pass them off convincingly: “I can’t tell you the trouble I’ve had trying to teach my needlewomen how to sew baggy trousers. My actors are creating all Hades about having to wear them. They make them itch in awkward places.”

  I said I was sorry to hear that.

  “Oh, you do what you can. I keep a pot of special cream handy—mind you, the boys have to rub it on themselves!” She reddened at her own joke. “Anyway, they know me, they do what I tell them. Now what was it you wanted, sweetheart?”

  I duly asked about Gabinus, at which she frankly said he was a world-beating, big-talking, small-minded, bullying lump of animal tripe. No surprises. Then I said I had heard he was one for the women as well. She guffawed. Not her! He liked them too feeble to argue. I asked which feeble women he had dallied with, then. Narrowing her eyes, Quartilla claimed she had no idea. For the first time, I did not believe her. Later in the case, I might come back to ask again, but for the moment I left it.

  I wanted to know what business she had had with Gabinus, and how it had gone wrong. Quartilla said he was supposed to supply carts for some of her “prisoners” to ride on, so they could act as too wounded and demoralised to walk. She had told him how many carts would be needed, he had trashed her figures, she had threatened to go over his head—

  “Who to, Quartilla?”

  “I’d have found someone. Now he’s dead, I won’t have to bother.”

  “Is Egnatius, the substitute, more amenable?”

  “Egnatius couldn’t substitute a jellyfish. Not if it lay on its back and begged him to. But I can handle him—with my hands tied and a blindfold on.”

  I felt bad, but had to ask, “Was your contempt for Gabinus strong enough for you to do something about it?”

  This time Quartilla did not laugh. “Did I heave him off the cliff? Don’t be delicate, Flavia Albia—go on, ask.”

  “You heard he was pushed?” I was watching her closely.

  “Didn’t need to hear it.” She was easy with her answer. “He was too mean to jump by himself. Someone must have helped him take the leap. He would never have spared the world his nasty presence.”

  I told her wryly how witnesses admitted they loathed the man, but all swore they had not killed him. Quartilla laughed along, though gently, as if she knew how true this was, and how unfortunate.

  “So where did your altercation with Gabinus take place, Quartilla?”

  “There was more than one. He kept coming back for more. That was him all over. Nasty beggar never knew when he had been seen through and was no longer wanted. Never gave up … It all happened here. Where else?”

  “You never went up to him on the Capitol?”

  She fanned herself with one hand. “I have no time to go globe-trotting! And I wouldn’t tiptoe into any stinking den of his. No, when he wanted a ruckus he had to come down to parlay. Every time I saw him on the approach, I had to stop myself grabbing a stitch-ripper to gouge out his tickly bits.”

  “Some people did go up on the Hill on the sly,” I said. “I have heard of mysterious business meetings. Any idea what that could be about?”

  Quartilla was a reasonable woman. “No, but you know what those horse-traders are all like, dear. Dodgy deals are in their sweat. He was always having to negotiate with diddlers—in fairness he couldn’t help it. He needed a constant supply of fresh beasts, and they have them.” Then she reconsidered. “I am being too nice! He dabbled his filthy fingers wherever he could. If he saw a chance to make a bit on the side, in he wriggled. N
ever mind whether it had anything to do with carts and animals. Gabinus would try anything.”

  As I prepared to leave, she pleaded, “You look like a fashion-conscious girl who knows about foreign stuff.” I experienced that old twinge of unease, the fearful catch whenever somebody seemed to see through my pose of being Roman. Since I left Britain I had been well-trained, yet to me my position here would never feel secure. I knew where I really came from. “You don’t happen to know the difference between Chattian and Dacian cloaks, do you, Albia?”

  “Just stick them all in torques,” I advised. “That’s good shorthand for ‘barbarian.’”

  Quartilla shook her head sadly. “I can’t get torques for love nor money. Those grasping torque-importers saw us coming. Fixed a right little torque cartel. Prices have shot up high and mighty.”

  I suggested she ask the army’s nail-makers to twist some wire rings, then dip them in gold or silver paint. Quartilla perked up. Even though military fabricators were bound to start out unhelpful, I could see her persuading them to help her out. They all have aunties. At heart, they would be frightened to say no.

  Two very young children ran up to us, a boy and a girl being brought to show off their costumes to Quartilla. The excited tots wore richly coloured little tunics, with jewelled embroidery at the necks that had been exquisitely sewn by the young woman who had brought them along. “Give us a twizzle!” As she inspected them, Quartilla explained to me that they would represent captured royal children; they would ride on a float where a barbarian mother would sit half naked and weeping, while her husband stood in heavy manacles, gazing back through the procession towards the imperial chariot as if torn between admiration for his conqueror and apprehension of coming death. “Heart-rending!” The children were good-looking and sweet. Liking attention, they eagerly mimed for me how they would pretend to cry.

  “This was why I went head to head with Gabinus,” Quartilla murmured. “He was such a numbskull, he couldn’t see the point. That crook wasn’t going to give a cart for my loveliest tableau. Look at their pathos! And what outfits! An infant Caesar in his golden crib could wear those tunics. See all the work that’s gone into them, Albia. They took days to do and, never mind the transport section, I’m having them on proper show.”

  A muscle-bound porter shouldering a dead-weight container dropped his burden at Quartilla’s feet with a resounding clank. “Where do you want your chains?”

  We jumped back, partly from the reek of garlic. “Oh, toss them anywhere! You just chuck them around, and if they land on someone’s feet they’ll have to grin and bear it. Don’t you mind if you break anything here, everyone knows there’s a big budget…”

  While Quartilla engaged in a wrangle with the porter about his casual treatment of the ironwork, I asked the young woman if the cute children were hers.

  “No, we are minding them—”

  “Again!” shot in a seamstress nearby. It was pointed, though not vindictive.

  “While their mother had to go to see a man about a loan.”

  “Again!”

  Someone else said they ought to feel sorry for her this time: she had been truly landed … Conversations like this took place all over Rome on a daily basis.

  “Little ears!” Quartilla dragged her attention off the porter, while fingers went to lips to warn against gossip in the children’s hearing. I could see Quartilla was more easy-going with the troubled mother than her staff, though even they seemed fairly tolerant.

  I had the impression these costume-makers were a well-established crew who had been together for a long time, content with their work, proud of their skill. Though she was a force to be reckoned with, Quartilla ran them with a light hand. She showed appreciation. They knew she would take on anyone in defence of them and their work.

  I reckoned she would have bested Gabinus. She was proud of it. Despite him, her beautiful costumes would make it to the procession, where they would thrill the crowds. Romans would love to gloat over the distressed barbarian mother on the tableau cart, her proud warrior husband in his enormous chains, and their winsome, weeping offspring. Then they would let themselves pity the colourfully dressed “Dacian” family.

  So, this woman had had no reason to shove Gabinus off the rock.

  XIV

  The same food-seller came winding through, with a new load of hot pies and spiced meat. He had a big water gourd slung on his back and a small cup for it, which he kept on the edge of the tray with two fingers. Quartilla helped herself to a drink, wiping the cup carefully first on the end of a stole that was wound around her ample waist. She instructed him to take me to the scenery painters; he accepted her command, setting off fast. He managed to sell snacks as he went, though in his wake I was struggling against the press.

  Successus and Spurius had managed to commandeer a big area. They had set up a boundary tape, which people even honoured. I ducked under it. Inside, huge panels were hanging half done. I made sure not to knock against the still-wet paint, keeping in my skirts to avoid kettles of colours.

  Two bulbous men in streaked tunics plied their brushes, with a couple of dark-skinned mixing boys in attendance.

  “Piss off, woman.” That must have been automatic. The painters barely looked my way. The mixing boys went on mixing.

  “Aediles’ inquiry.”

  “Got a docket?”

  “Don’t push it.”

  “Only asking.”

  “I don’t need one.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Underneath their banter they were friendly. They looked like the fresco artists at my house, who worked hard, stopping for regular meals and chats about the arena, came early, stayed late, then went out for a couple of long, slow drinks until bedtime.

  “Which of you is which?”

  They told me, but over their shoulders as they continued working.

  Successus was portraying a barbarian town full of long-haired disorganised rascals in beards and woollen hats; they were being overcome by handsome, barbered Roman legionaries who, sure as Hades, knew what they were doing. He said it was no particular town because he had never been told anything about them. He had never even been across the Tiber. He pictured all his foreign towns with pointed roofs, square windows and no columns.

  “Columns are sophisticated. They say ‘Roman.’”

  “Or Greek?” I suggested.

  “Greek?” he responded dismissively. Just another bunch of exotic foreigners. Paint them naked, being trampled underfoot, while their wives snivelled.

  If ever Successus got bored he depicted a tree of no known botany, poking up above one of his roof gables. This had a nice softening effect, though he had to remember his brief was to show glorious military imperialism, not gardening.

  On the other side of their cleared space, Spurius took on the grand geographical features of conquered territory. He was currently creating a river, his speciality, which he signified by a huge bare-chested, big-biceps river god, rising from elaborate water ripples. This was a standard god, because everyone knows river gods all have unemotional features and weed in their hair. He said you could never go wrong with weed, though even better were ripples; Spurius was strikingly good at ripples. Those I saw him do were the mighty Danubium’s many curly waves, with currents rushing about in different directions. The river had to be clearly labelled with a name banner because of water gods all looking similar. A sign painter did the banner.

  After establishing how much I admired their work, they stopped painting, gathered around and I set out to question them both.

  “I have talked to a few people so I assume you hated Gabinus. What in particular had he done to you two?”

  Set their backs up. Came around like King Rat of the dungheap, spouting as much heartache as he could, causing aggro, knocking their paints over, driving them nuts.

  Was that all?

  No. Not the half of it, they told me bitterly. He had maintained that their floats were too big for his carts. When they
said the floats were the same size they had always used for triumphs, he claimed the rules had been changed. They demanded to see the new specification, with official stamps. He refused. It became heated, he behaved like a prick, and although he always did that because it was exactly what he was, on this occasion the outraged painters lost it. He was just too much.

  Successus tried to knock Gabinus off his feet with a trestle plank, while Spurius told him colourfully what a prick he was. Successus missed, but when his partner used colourful language he employed the full paint chart, both earth tints and precious metals. So that was a colourful chat. Indeed, it was so lively, Gabinus reacted: he lashed out and punched Spurius. He was drunk, but landed a good blow. I was shown traces of the black eye. Or ebonised, as the painters called it.

  “Was he often drunk?”

  “Most times.”

  “Who did he drink with?”

  “No one who saw him coming.”

  “You two ever share a bar with him?”

  “No fear.”

  “So not a convivial colleague?”

  “Lone boozer—thank the gods!”

  “What was his watering hole?”

  The noise around us seemed to be increasing. They leaned closer, now eager to co-operate.

  “Any bar he was passing when he felt a thirst—”

  “—or he went to that dump the Centaur.”

  “Right. I don’t know it.”

  “You’re lucky, then!”

  “Really … Did being in a tipsy state stop him doing his job?”

  “No, he was used to it.”

  Yes, they both hated him. No, they had not pushed him off Tarpeia’s Rock. Honest, they were never violent men. But they would like to meet the man who did Gabinus in. They would each buy him a big drink to say thank you.