I noticed the diviners acquired assistants as they left—a group I had walked past when I went into the temple. Some were boys, others older, as Lemni had been. They carried the hook-ended divination staffs. One shouldered the material and poles for a tent. The last spotty youth attached himself to Alichsantre, but kept slightly away from us. That might have been politeness, though he was shambling like any bored lad.
I tried to win over Alichsantre by playing innocent. “Just checking a small point that I forgot to ask Larth. I told him Lemni is dead. He was too upset to talk much, but he mentioned that Lemni used to place bets for all of you at the Auguraculum.”
Alichsantre blinked.
“Rely on my discretion!” I insisted. “Everyone has a flutter. I can’t see that harmlessly playing the odds has any bearing on Lemni’s death, but I must check his lifestyle and ascertain his movements.”
“He would sometimes take a message,” Alichsantre quavered. I hoped he found more self-assurance when reading off an augury.
“Well, I understand. You would be stuck in your tents. You could not nip out to put a silver coin on Belter or the Alexandrian. Mind you, I reckon old Belter has had his day. He runs as if he has a bad case of clunch nowadays. Do you know if Lemni only helped the augurs, or did he run errands for outsiders too?”
Alichsantre apparently lost himself in wondering whether “clunch” was a genuine equine disease. He seemed to be noting my comments, as if I was giving him tips on an unexpected goer in a race that was known to be fixed; he even glanced over at his assistant as if he wanted him to take a note, but the lad was away in a world of his own. Alichsantre eventually admitted Lemni was a runner of bets for most people on the Capitol. Priests, temple-sweepers, trophy-deckers, gate-lockers, even priestesses. I let my imagination romp. “If the Vestal Virgins ever came up to conduct a rite of national importance, while they were here they probably took the chance to have a punt, via Lemni … And would Lemni’s clients have included the dead transport manager, Gabinus?”
“I expect so.”
“Gabinus knew him?”
“Everyone knew him.”
“And you think Lemni would have run bets for him?”
“Almost certainly,” said Alichsantre—though when I had asked Larth, he had flatly denied it. Besides, Lemni himself had made out he barely knew Gabinus.
“Help me. Alichsantre—did everyone like Lemni?”
“Why not? Lemni was helpful, discreet, always busy, always on the go … We shall all miss him.”
I beamed. “That is such a touching memorial … which reminds me, his relations need to be found and told. There must be a funeral.”
“Oh, Larth will tell them,” Alichsantre assured me. “He will be the best person to break it gently.”
“Larth knows them?”
“Lemni and Larth used to go for a family supper there sometimes.” I was furious to find Larth had lied to me, pretending he barely knew anything about Lemni’s family. What was he trying to cover up? Alichsantre only added to it: “Larth has no airs and Lemni was so sociable he would invite him on race days.”
“Do you know where?”
“I am afraid not. But Larth will tell you.”
Larth would not.
Not willingly.
I was sick of this. I would have to make him.
I thanked Alichsantre and we parted. The young boy, his assistant, looked as if he might want to say something to me, but the augur moved off at speed once he was released from questioning. The boy left with him.
I found myself watching the lad. He shambled rather like Dromo, never thinking what his feet were up to. His poor walk was a legacy of wearing other people’s cast-off footwear all his life. Dressed in a tunic made entirely of patches, he had big ears, a skinny frame, more pustules than I cared to count. There were thousands of young men like him in Rome. As with most of them, he had low expectations yet seemed surprisingly tolerant of his position.
He did have a position. Someone fed him, clothed him, told him what to do. He probably knew other slaves like himself, with whom he could share pointless chat, obscene jokes and idiotic feuds.
What else was there? You could become more senior, obtain a salary, have a family, even if most people never met them—but one day end up at the foot of a cliff, trussed in a stiff old sheet of leather.
XXXI
When I left Alichsantre, I saw Scorpus. That saved me having to find him, but now the inquiry chief was in conference with Nestor. They were standing at the top of the Gemonian Stairs so we could not avoid acknowledging each other.
I walked up and found they were not discussing the murder case at all; they were comparing military careers. Typical. I had to wait while they ploughed through details. Nestor had served in Lower Germany, Pannonia, Rhaetia and Africa, where he ended up a centurion; even he said this showed what a crap province Africa had been. Scorpus had had a posting in Upper Germany and was also in Pannonia, though at a different time from Nestor.
I stood there patiently while Nestor quizzed Scorpus on whether he had ever thought of moving up from the vigiles to at least the Urban Cohorts; no, said Scorpus, he had found his niche. Besides, his gammy leg would count against him. Nestor agreed that would rule out the Guard, which was such an élite corps (what—full of deadbeats like him?). However, he reckoned the lower-caste Urbans accommodated plenty of lads with stiff bits, one eye gone, or even missing body parts. Finally becoming tetchy, Scorpus growled, well, that was it. He didn’t want to join such duds.
He gave no opinion of the supposedly élite guards; I hoped that meant he despised them. I could not tell from the conversation. But that is how ex-soldiers talk when face to face, especially with a woman listening. Those veterans had to stick together.
I knew men who would have growled, “Listen, Nestor—the guards are garbage!” Meanwhile everyone in Rome sneers at the Urbans, and even I regard the vigiles as tarnished heroes. The fact I had an uncle in the Fourth Cohort only means I know it at first hand.
For two men in military boots, Scorpus and Nestor were a contrast. Scorpus wore a red vigilis tunic that was probably clean but bore marks of much previous action. He had a nightstick pushed through his battered belt and a seen-it-all air, although with a grim undertone, as if he believed life could yet throw up more filthy surprises. Nestor had changed his cloak today, fastening this green one on a shoulder with a brooch; presumably his superior pay scale allowed him to own extra garments. A sword showed under the new one. In a white tunic, long on him and gathered under his fancy belt in heavy folds, he remained everything a Praetorian liked to be: big, threatening, cash-rich and privileged. Scorpus gave an impression of acute intelligence; Nestor looked dumb. Scorpus would help an old lady through traffic, if he could be bothered; Nestor would never even notice her. Scorpus had risen on merit; Nestor survived despite having none.
“What happened to Karus?” I broke in to ask the vigilis lightly.
“I sent him to pick up more flatbreads for the lads.” Scorpus must have been joking though he did not explain. I left it. He knew I had wanted to ascertain that the agent was not hovering nearby, observing us.
We had Nestor instead. Impervious to hints that Scorpus and I wanted to compare professional notes, he refused to leave, but stood there, set as a custard tart. Even so, he was less of a threat than Julius Karus. We could ignore the guard or use subtle code if need be. Karus would have been too dangerous to ignore and was probably so fluent in codes that he wrote his shopping lists in numerical encryption. He was that kind of agent. Manic in tradecraft.
“Did you meet with that augur, Larth?”
“Seems a nice man,” stated Scorpus.
There are two options when the vigiles describe someone: either they come out and share your scepticism, especially when the subject is of stratospheric rank, or they stubbornly pretend to be impressed by him when they know you are not. This comment was a pretence. I would have to batter my way through a mound of verbal
offal if I wanted a real opinion. Never mind that. I would manage without.
I told Scorpus what I knew. I did not care if Nestor overheard. “Decent fellows, those sky-watchers. Very lofty. Plus they can always identify any puzzling bird you have spotted in a bush in your garden, which is so useful … Actually, the man is a lying bastard. He claims he has no knowledge of Lemni’s family, yet my contacts say he often had supper with them.”
“I expect he forgot,” said Scorpus, though he flashed me a quick look. We were now having a conversation that was meant to go over the head of the guard.
“No, I get it. A most noble patrician with a national role on the Capitol must feel shy of admitting he’s eaten garlic prawns in a tenement.”
“Depending on the tenement, so might you be. Flavia.”
“Not me. I lived in one for years. Besides, give me garlic prawns and I’m your friend for life … Did Larth pinch the body from you?”
“Surprisingly, he did. We had to provide bearers to lug it away, but he saved us the trouble of deciding what to do with it.”
“Not his business anyway,” I muttered. “Not if he would come clean about Lemni’s family. What’s he doing, wading in? Lemni’s own people may want a say in what happens to his remains, assuming they can afford it.”
“They can’t,” put in Nestor, unexpectedly.
We stared at him.
“So I heard,” he added, unabashed.
This had to be addressed. I took him on, while Scorpus listened. “You knew Lemni?” I demanded.
“I met him.” Nestor remained brazen.
“Here on the Capitol?”
“Where else?”
“What about his family?”
“Nothing to do with them.”
“No idea where they live, then? Did you know he was a betting runner? Did he place bets for you?” That would have explained how they had come into contact.
“I knew he did it.” Nestor disappointed me. “Everyone knew. But me and the lads have a man of our own who takes money at the track. We don’t use unreliable civilians for wagers,” declared the guard. He had such a high-handed manner I could have kicked him somewhere sensitive. But I had to give up street-fighting now I was an aedile’s wife.
Tell the truth, Albia: I had been encouraged to calm down for much longer than that—ever since Falco and Helena adopted me. Everyone had warned them it would turn out appallingly; they wanted me to be a refined young lady, to prove the others wrong.
“What makes you call Lemni unreliable, Praetorian?”
Nestor shrugged. No reason, it seemed.
“So what’s your team?” asked Scorpus, a natural male question. Now they were into masculine gossip, I would never get any sense out of the guard.
“Greens, who else?” answered Nestor.
Scorpus nodded. It was unclear whether the Greens were his team too, but coming from a Blues family I preferred not to pursue the point.
I made a show of reminding Nestor that gambling was against the law. Scorpus choked at any idea that mere illegality would stop people engaging in our national pastime, or that he should waste his time cautioning Nestor for it.
Then I jumped the guard with a new line: “I heard you saw my husband the magistrate earlier.”
“He seems a fine man.” Nestor was copying the Scorpus routine, though the dumbcluck had picked up the phrase without its proper tone of irony. Scorpus winked at me. Subtlety is alien to the guards and Nestor could not play our game.
“Yes, people feel privileged to speak to him. Snaring Faustus was not easy! Once I had speared him to a table with a fish skewer, though, he gradually came around … Did he happen to ask whether, in your patrols of the Hill, you encountered suspicious types with business links to the late not-lamented Gabinus?”
“You are changing the subject, Flavia!” Nestor complained.
“That’s me. Unnerving a witness by picking at something different … So did you?”
“Investigate anyone coming to see Gabinus?”
“Exactly.”
Nestor managed not to scratch his head as he wondered whether this was meant to entrap him. “I stopped a few. Horse traders mainly.”
“You take their details?”
“No reason to bother them.” I could see why, despite Lower Germany, Pannonia, Rhaetia and Africa, Nestor had been left stewing at home in the latest campaign, not risked on a tinder-dry frontier. He must be known to be hopeless.
“Horse traders? They lie, they substitute, they steal, they cheat,” I listed. “I suppose you could just about say for a transport manager, with a triumph to equip, horse traders’ visits were legitimate.”
“More or less,” interjected Scorpus, chortling. He had been watching with an amused air.
“Well, I personally would not let horse traders wander unescorted near fancy temples that hold valuable, historic contents. But our Praetorians are trusting men, easy-going administrators, unafraid of risk!”
“We are not afraid of anything!” Nestor provided the guards’ stock retort. What a cliché-monger.
He had a vague idea we were baiting him. Smart tiger. Since most people are terrified of upsetting the guards, he had never had to learn how to handle ridicule. Nor could he quite believe I was so pally with the vigiles that we might gang up on him. He wanted to despise me as a lowlife in what would be a disreputable job even for a man, though he had to respect me as the wife of a highly placed, highly cultured magistrate. He could not believe Scorpus would ever collaborate.
“I hope you took down all their names,” Scorpus told Nestor, though he generously did not press it. A Praetorian guard could write, but would he bother? “Lay off him, Albia. Is there something significant in Gabinus and his dodgy contacts?”
I accepted his peace-making. I suppose this is why Scorpus of the First Cohort was a good officer. “There has been talk of a fishy-smelling lot who may come from Tarentum, Scorpus. It would be a real help if Nestor met them and has their details. Nestor, a group of them came up here one night and found themselves locked in after dark. Gabinus had to rouse the keeper of the Porta Pandana to let them all out. Mean anything?”
“Oh, those idiots!” Nestor was so pleased with himself, he burst out with it, then wished he had been cagey in case he had missed some reason to thwart me. He compounded it by boasting he knew more: “They were not southerners. That’s bollocks.”
“Where from, then?” Scorpus put in for me.
“Down on the coast.”
“Near Ostia?”
“Out that way.”
“What did sandy coastal prawn-fishers have to do with Gabinus?” Still Scorpus.
“No idea. I stopped them, though they stank so much I never searched them. When they said they were coming to see Gabinus, I lost interest.”
“Did you take names?” This was the important question. I made sure it was me who asked it.
“Routine procedure. They were just a family who stank like rats. They said some names. I never wrote them down—what was the point? No call for arrests or follow-up.”
Even Scorpus rolled his eyes. I just about managed not to tell the guard he was useless. What I thought might have shown in my face.
XXXII
Scorpus left us. He used the excuse that he had to return to the station-house “to see what was going on.” I knew what that meant. He saw no future in further enquiries. He would stomp back up the Via Triumphalis, lounge in his office, dictate a few notes about the Lemni case to his meek clerk, telling the clerk to file the scroll under “pending” for a week then lose it. Job done. Scorpus would call it time to go off shift.
“And what are you planning on next, Flavia?” Nestor made it sound like polite interest. With him, being polite meant patronising. He tried to loom over me, but I sidestepped.
I had no intention of telling him. I pretended I had used up all lines of enquiry, so I would trot off home for a rest and an almond turnover. Since that was his idea of what a woman investiga
tor did, the guard gave a satisfied smirk. I reckoned he would not follow me to check.
I headed off down the Gemonian Stairs. If Nestor returned to patrolling the Capitol, I should get away from him. To be certain and to feel safe, I would have liked to leave with Scorpus, but the investigator had made plain he had had enough of being seen in an informer’s company. I respected that. Sharing casework with the vigiles is delicate. I know never to be too clingy.
Anyway, I did not want even Scorpus with me while I went looking for new evidence. That was my real intention.
But for dodging Nestor, it would have been easier to take the steps on the river side of the Hill. This way, I had to trek around between the Arx and the Forum of Julius, through the Porta Fontinalis, where the old Servian Walls ended at the Hill. The Via Salaria, the ancient Salt Road, and the Via Flaminia left the city by this republican gate. Despite the modern overlay of trinket stalls and snack-sellers, the enclave still had a very ancient feel.
Just outside the gate stood a large heroic tomb with four Tuscan pilasters supporting a traditional frieze of garlands and bull’s skulls. For the first time, I noticed it contained the remains of a plebeian aedile.
* * *
CAIUS POLICIUS BIBULUS, IN RECOGNITION OF HIS WORTH AND VALOUR BY DECREE OF THE SENATE AND PEOPLE, THE SITE FOR A TOMB FOR HIM AND HIS DESCENDANTS HAS BEEN GIVEN AT PUBLIC EXPENSE
* * *
Hail and farewell, Caius Policius. I wondered how this man had obtained the rare honour of burial within the sacred area of Rome, and whether it meant he had died in office.
It gave me an odd feeling. If Tiberius Manlius had been killed by that lightning strike on our wedding day, as a serving aedile would he now have a tomb inside the city on publicly awarded land?
Don’t think about it. Tiberius survived. I still felt weak if I let myself remember that terrible moment of panic when he was struck down, but he was here. He would complete his public service, then probably not attempt to go further since his rank was not included in the Course of Honour. Unlike senators, who go on to bother society for the rest of their purple-bordered lives, we would establish our household and business as private citizens. The likelihood was that one day Tiberius and I would be a couple of eccentric codgers, quietly carried off in old age. Those close to us might honour us, but we would be unknown to many. Our eventual departure would be natural. We would have had full lives, comfortable ones, and by that time be living out a gentle retirement …
A Capitol Death Page 16