Gratus, our urbane house-steward, glanced briefly at the stacks of stuff we had piled about, giving us a reassuring leave-it-to-me look. He went into his well-honed smile of welcome. It transformed to a horror-stricken rictus as he caught the ripe fishy odour of Susuza.
“Witness,” I said.
“New maid,” she told him confidently.
Utterly unmoved, Gratus told her, if that was the case, she should carry in my things for me.
XLI
Travel is such a luxury.
So why does it take three days to recover from a two-day trip?
* * *
Next morning Tiberius and I hid upstairs for as long as we could, feeling sluggish. Eventually I set open our door and window shutters, but still lurked in private while early light brightened our room. It was painted chalk white, with fine lines of fantasy candelabra and garlands. Delicate colours picked out the ceiling and coves. Tiberius had chosen the scheme as a surprise for me; his taste was elegant and relaxing. One day we would manage to finish our whole house like this. It ought to be an incentive to work, though not always.
I lay quietly in bed, listening while our disturbed household began daily life. Tiberius awoke, briefly cocked an ear at the sounds downstairs, winked at me, then hauled himself out for a few stretches and lunges on the bedside mat. Soon he flopped back with me.
We could hear domestic adjustments taking place. Whenever Dromo passed anywhere near Susuza, he signalled this by letting off an explosive cry of “Phwoar!” If she wanted to stay, she would have to learn for herself how to deal with him. I refused to be bullied into acting as a peacemaker: you can never win.
Dromo was a slave; Susuza was not. The moment when she realised what this meant would be interesting.
We heard Gratus establishing rules. Fornix must serve menus entirely without fish for a week. Susuza was to go to Prisca’s baths twice a day. Dromo had to take her, with no cakes if he moaned. Gratus would allocate her a cubbyhole to sleep in, once the shellfish stink faded. He spoke matter-of-factly, so she sounded unoffended.
Susuza’s clothes would be destroyed as soon as Gratus found new ones that fitted her. This both solved the smell problem and would provide more modest covering. In any normal household, a maid inherits her mistress’s cast-offs but my clothes would never work on Susuza. I liked the way Gratus avoided the real problem, stating only that I was “too tall” …
He renamed her. Thank goodness. The whispering sibilants imposed by her daft parents had already started driving me nuts. According to Gratus, a new name was routine. This was Rome; like it or go home. The girl might offer suggestions if she was quick about it, but since she hadn’t expected the question, my steward made his on-the-spot decision. Gratus called her Suza.
* * *
Tiberius and I were forced to descend for breakfast when Larcius, the building foreman, arrived from next door. His whole team had come with him. Apparently, they needed Tiberius to make a tricky decision about soffits for the refit they were working on in Salamis Street. Larcius said everyone might as well take part in the discussion, to know the plan before they made a start …
It was nonsense. The men had all come for a look at my new girl’s big bust.
At that point, I bounced downstairs to give them shirty looks. I told them she was only twelve, so I expected them to be fatherly. When they ambled off, I could hear them agreeing that Suza was quite something. It was said in a friendly fashion. The toothless, bow-legged group liked being part of our easy-going household; they were thrilled by our new acquisition, a wonder over whom they could gloat to outsiders.
I myself took Suza to Prisca’s bath-house the first time. After two days of travel I felt ready for pampering; besides, I wanted to give the proprietress an explanation. I had known Prisca and her staff for a long time. “That does not give me the right to send along someone who reeks like an oyster barrel!”
“Too right!” Prisca answered baldly.
“I appreciate your help, Prisca.”
“This will cost you!”
“Get away, your baths are always full of fishwives.” There were some, though most of her customers were housewives, or at least engaged in social trades like cushion-stuffing.
Prisca was slight, approaching fifty, hardworking, a good business woman. Today she was in her usual sleeveless tunic and sandals, with a scarf tying up her hair. Suza took a good look at her chain necklace and big hoop earrings. “What makes you think you can trust her?” demanded Prisca. She spoke her mind, which supposedly was why I liked her, though brutal honesty could be inconvenient. She never cared. She owned her own business; she could be as rude as she liked.
I had outlined where Suza came from and the cause of her smell. Professional discussion ensued. “I could wear scent!” Suza piped up.
“Then you’ll stink of fish and ghastly scent,” Prisca countermanded. While one of the washing attendants was giving her a thorough oil and scrape, Prisca subjected the girl to her own kind of scouring. “You keep your prying little fingers out of Flavia Albia’s jewel caskets, my girl. Lock ’em up, Albia, you’ve got some nice things you don’t want to go missing. She’s a stranger, you know nothing about her, or whether she has morals. I hope you’re listening, missee!”
I explained that as Suza was so keen to be a maid, she would be trying hard for approval. Prisca retorted that I was an innocent. All this was happening in Suza’s hearing, though we never invited her to defend herself.
I had in fact already turned the tiny key in my jewellery box. I hoped I could remember where I had hidden it, so would not need to enlist Suza in a search.
“What have you picked up this wonder for anyway, Albia? Is it some juicy case you’ve been keeping from me?”
I explained. It was always worth consulting Prisca about my investigations. She liked to gossip. For all I knew she even kept whatever I told her private; there had never been unwelcome fallout afterwards. Occasionally she was a help, but even if she had nothing to contribute it kept her sweet so she would open up out of hours, or find me a massage even when I had forgotten to book.
I told her that Suza had been assaulted by a man who was subsequently killed. I said who it was.
“Ha!” scoffed Prisca. “I heard about that. I don’t suppose you’ve thought to consider, have you, Albia, whether it’s this girl who shoved that beggar off the rock?”
Fortunately I had. Suza was taken back to the inn where her relatives were staying, then next morning, when Gabinus died, they were all on their way home. I could time his death, because the old woman, Valeria Dillia, had seen him fall. Also, I knew that Suza was on the coast at the murex complex when Lemni died later. As a young girl, she hadn’t the strength to fight with Gabinus on the top of the cliff. Nor could I see her bundling up Lemni in half a tent, even if she had bopped him on the head with his mallet to subdue him.
“You never know!” replied Prisca, thrilled by the possibility.
Subdued at being discussed as a suspect, Suza was watching us. Her skin looked red all over where she had been forcibly scrubbed and strigilled; Prisca’s staff had enjoyed their task too much. Nude, the young girl was, of course, fully displaying her attributes.
Prisca sniffed. “You wouldn’t catch me having anyone built like that in my house!” After a moment, she relented. “Just cover her up from the neck down. The men will soon stop showing any interest.” Suza was gazing longingly at a snack-seller; he was looking startled as he noticed her for the first time. “Put her on a proper diet,” Prisca advised me, as she shooed off the interested man with the tray.
Relenting, she sent one of the manicure girls to ask her statuesque mother-in-law if she had a gown she no longer wanted, or one she would lend temporarily.
“Adolescence! Who needs it? You and I can thank the gods we got through that safely, Albia. Life holds enough struggles. I’m having fun with the menopause—and what about you, with that randy new husband? Are you pregnant yet?” Before I had time t
o shake my head, she dropped her voice. “Bloody hell, I hope you’re using something … I could have found you a proper maid, if I had known you were looking, Albia. One who could tidy up that hair of yours … I just don’t see why you’re making so much fuss of this girl from the coast.”
I repeated that the awkward orphan was a useful witness. That being so, I was determined not to lose her and didn’t want her out in the city by herself. I asked Prisca to send someone to escort Suza home safely while I went to try to find more evidence.
XLII
I walked over to the Capitol. Rome was seething; the Triumph was now definitely close. After I had shed Suza, I walked down from the Aventine on the river side, through the meat and vegetable markets, then up onto the Arx to the Auguraculum.
I wanted to speak to Larth. I had not taken Suza because I was keeping her in reserve. I would tell Larth that I knew all about the night Gabinus made a grab for her. I had found her, and I had brought her to Rome to give a formal statement. Knowing the part Larth and Lemni had played in her adventure, I wanted the full story.
Larth was not on the Capitol. However, I finally found someone who told me his proper name: Gellius Donatus. I even discovered where he lived.
His house was small but secluded, a neat property off the good side of the Clivus Orbius. It was not far from the Capitol. The road ran along the back of the new Baths of Titus; it once edged the Suburra, a famously grim district. Buildings that escaped demolition for Nero’s Golden House now benefited from proximity to the Flavian Amphitheatre. If the owners could endure constant work being carried out to create new imperial fora, they might bask in their position, about as close to civic grandeur as it was possible for a private home to be.
Last night, they nearly burned it down.
Amazingly, I learned this from Scorpus, whose cohort attended the blaze. Their siphon engine was still standing outside, along with a few bored vigiles. I recognised Taurus and Zenon and, of course, Scorpus himself.
“Arson?” I asked hopefully.
“You’ve worked with low society too long, girl. Nobody hates these people—their house is so discreetly hidden, no arsonist could find it. No, it was a funeral.”
The Gellius home was indeed on a modest scale, though fancy enough to possess an interior garden. It would serve to grill a kebab supper, at least until neighbours complained. This desirable block, clinging on at the edge of imperial monuments, must be full of educated people who were well up on property law.
As the Gellii had now proved, their interior was too small for a cremation. Flames had set ablaze a fig tree. This prized possession, a mature provider of both shade and fruit, filled most of the peristyle, or at least it had done. The First Cohort had hacked it down with fire axes. Huge burned branches lay out in the street, where the firemen had dragged them. They had saved the house, though that did not stop the ungrateful owners wanting compensation for their tree. Scorpus was lingering outside, ready to field any further complaints.
“The pyre is still in situ. They are waiting for the bones to cool—unexpectedly mingled with cindered figs. The unripe ones fell off and were hard as hell underfoot. There was a lot of incense slopping around too. Not to mention torches. All being manhandled by amateurs. No idea. Bloody nightmare. I’m stuck here until we can sign off everything as made safe.”
He sounded grumpy. He must have been in attendance most of the night. He spoke bitterly of a boundary dispute: he reckoned the Clivus Orbius belonged in the Fourth Region, assigned to the Third Cohort. They were, said Scorpus, bone-idle scum, who sat on their rat-arses doing nothing. I thought it best to agree meekly that this was what I, too, had heard.
Scorpus bleakly continued his moan. Unlike the renegade bastard Third, he was conscious of the horrible proximity of the Urban Prefecture. This tripartite edifice contained not the Urban Cohorts in person (since they were barracked out of town with the Praetorian Guard) but their ancient archives, the grandiose office of the Urban Prefect, and the tribunal where he issued his noble decisions.
What worried Scorpus? A simple fact. In our city’s stately hierarchy, the Urban Prefect was the immediate superior of the Prefect of Vigiles. The Urban overlord would be very concerned about a house fire on his own doorstep, especially if it involved a fellow senator. The Prefect of Vigiles had probably already been called in for a “friendly” meeting, which might not be friendly.
The fact that Gellius Donatus had caused his own fire would not affect the Urban Prefect’s assessment. We could imagine his watchful eye on the fire brigade, his junior colleague’s down-at-heel force. He would take a view on the fate of the much-loved fig tree. This view, inevitably, would be as unreasonable as he could make it.
“So the Clivus Orbius should never have been your shout,” I sympathised with the despondent Scorpus. “Yet here you are. What happened? Were your men just strolling past on their way to evening duties in the Forum, and they happened to smell smoke? Or when the fire started, did the householder send a message for help to the wrong station-house? Good grief, why did a fire start at all? Whyever was anybody holding a cremation here?”
Scorpus sighed. “It’s not illegal, Albia.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s crap. But you know what nobs are like. Someone they feel affection for has died, so they offer their nice garden. Most have more spacious grounds than this, but still there’s no law that says you have to own a park. So long as no corpse is actually buried inside the city walls, people can do what they like. Burn your brother. Flame your freedman. Immolate your sodding eunuch … It was out of doors. They thought that was enough.”
I was scathing. “That’s criminal. We could have had the city on fire again.”
“If they had asked first,” Scorpus agreed, now calming down as he unloaded his pain, “I would have advised against. Too confined, plus a big risk of hot air and sparks being funnelled past the upstairs bedrooms—which is exactly what happened. But who gets a check from the experts? They expect us to handle the crisis they have caused, then blame us afterwards.”
“If this street is under the Third’s jurisdiction, you could have sent a runner for them then left them to it. They would have the lost-tree complaint instead of you. So how did you and the First get stuck with it?”
“I couldn’t bloody well not call in my lads,” growled Scorpus. “We had flames shooting up like a chimney, the whole house was at immediate risk, and neighbours were screaming it would be their places next.”
“I see that. But why you?” I insisted.
Scorpus might have looked sheepish, though he wasn’t a man for regret. “I came to the house on official business. They told me about the funeral, so when they invited me, I accepted.”
“You mean you were right there in the garden, politely eating the roasted sacrifice, when the fire went up?”
“Can’t deny it. I ought to have called a halt when they were frizzling up the sow for Ceres on a portable altar, but it smelt pretty good and I was hoping for a nice piece of crackling.”
“Did you get it?” Even he looked slightly abashed. “I hope it wasn’t you who put the downturned torch to the oil-soaked brushwood.” I made free with my grin. “Scorpus, you have shocked me! So, was it on your orders that unruly lads with fire axes destroyed the much-loved fig tree?”
“Only thing we could do,” replied Scorpus, tetchily.
XLIII
Nothing so rough as a caupona was allowed in this stretch of street. I dragged Scorpus across the road to where a barber had defiantly set up stools, blocking the pavement. He had a customer, but we shooed him off. From here we could see that the Gellius home had a well-disguised narrow doorway. Cypress trees were currently set up on either side, to indicate bereavement. The front door was standing open, not an invitation to enter but to assist with smoke escape.
A couple of small windows over the street had heavy old bars. Otherwise nothing drew attention to this being where a senator lived. There were no
stone benches where clients could await admittance, no shiny knocker, not even a grille for a porter to squint through. No porter was in evidence, nor any other inhabitants.
“My house is smarter than this!”
“Well, you did all right for yourself, Flavia. You married a building contractor. Of course he’s added a nice porch to yours—he probably pinched a pediment from a client.”
“Only the doorcase. Salvage.”
“Has he told the customer?”
“You know Faustus. Pious and right-thinking.”
“I know that he’s a builder. Pious my arse.”
We discussed whether to send the barber to buy drinks for us, but with a claim for compensation hanging over him, Scorpus was too downhearted. He stretched out his legs on one low, shifting stool. I sat neatly on another. Hugging your knees can help control a wobbly perch.
“Come clean.” I was firm. It was probably pointless. “I know this is Larth’s house. Why had you gone there last night? What has been going on?”
A typical vigiles officer, Scorpus was unrepentant. “Mind your own business.”
“Don’t make me pull rank.”
“What rank?” he scoffed.
“Husband. The aedilate.”
“Jumped-up losers! Losers who do up their houses with doorframes they have pinched.” He seemed obsessed with his scenario about how Tiberius Manlius worked.
I was reduced to wheedling. Informers do a lot of that. “Come on, Scorpus. What’s the big secret?”
“Can’t tell you.”
“Not the old myth ‘operational reasons’?”
A Capitol Death Page 21