Enemies at Home: Falco: The New Generation - Flavia Albia 2

by Lindsey Davis

  ‘And a friend!’ I snapped, letting my aunt see what I thought of her bad manners towards Faustus. It made me change my intention of staying here another night.

  I asked to borrow escort slaves. I would have reclaimed Mucia’s carrying chair, but Claudia informed me it had already been collected, by Polycarpus. He had told her that it was a valuable asset which he needed to keep carefully for the executors.

  ‘I am appalled that you were put into a vehicle with dried blood on the seat, Flavia Albia. Whoever was murdered there? I was glad to see the back of the thing. My children kept playing in it … Your own boy is still here, if you need an escort.’

  I managed to find Dromo, who had stayed at the Capena Gate because nobody instructed him to do anything else. I dragged him with me up to the Aventine. First we went to the aediles’ office, but Faustus was absent. If he had been denied lunch by Claudia, he probably needed an early dinner. I knew where he lived, but was leery of visiting him at home.

  Instead I went to Fountain Court. ‘Cor, this is a dump!’ Dromo informed me, in case I had not noticed. I told him to doss downstairs with the porter.

  I took myself to the haven of my own apartment. This was indeed a dump, but I felt overdue for a night in my own bed. I had been away from home for five days; after that time any woman needs to refresh herself with a change of earrings.

  29

  Since I was up on the Aventine, next morning I walked over to the aediles’ office beside the Temple of Ceres. First I went into the temple, to check for myself whether the Aviola silver was there among the donated treasure. No luck.

  I would have liked a catch-up with my client, and perhaps a sociable breakfast, but Faustus was still absent. He might have been at a meeting, though realistically no magistrate works every day. The point is to hold the office so it goes on your record of honours. Faustus seemed more conscientious than most aediles, but no one expected him to flog himself carrying out public duties. He was a rich boy. His uncle ran the family business, owned the house where they lived, let Faustus draw money as he wanted. He had never been in the army, so this would be the first time in his life (at thirty-six) that any demands were made on him.

  What a shock that must have been.

  I was feeling bitter.

  I took another look at the fugitive slaves, not with much sympathy. I warned them this could be their last chance to tell me anything that might prove their innocence. The Temple was unlikely to allow them sanctuary much longer, whatever tradition dictated. The attitude in Rome was that somebody had to be punished for the deaths of their master and their mistress. I had failed to identify anyone else, so they were still chief suspects.

  Most listened with little reaction. One or two looked shifty, especially Amaranta and the girl Olympe, but I had no leads for further questioning and I was not in a mood to listen to frightened sobbing.

  ‘So we are running out of options,’ said Chrysodorus, the philosopher who had to look after the lapdog. Puff wheezed out a languid bark. Chrysodorus glared vitriol at Puff. ‘Bad girl! Albia, all I ask is make it quick. I can accept that life is merely a stroll to the cremation pyre, but please spare me hooks and ropes and naked flames.’

  ‘Torture, Chrysodorus?’

  Chrysodorus explained his gloom: a specialist contractor had been to the office, wanting to tender for squeezing information from the slaves if the temple kicked them out. Hearing Chrysodorus telling me about it made them all more agitated. Daphnus, the ambitious tray carrier, reckoned that had Manlius Faustus been at the office that day he might have accepted the contractor’s blandishments and handed everyone over.

  I assured them Faustus was a benign wimp who didn’t believe inflicting pain made people tell the truth.

  That was guesswork, though I had seen him be devout when organising a religious festival and he had told me he refused to see slaves as polluted by their condition. I thought it unlikely he would suddenly lose interest and end my commission; he had to answer to the temple, for one thing. Still, I never entirely trusted clients. Just in case my work was about to be cancelled, I asked the contractor’s address and went to have a proactive chat with him.

  He was called Fundanus. His premises were down in the valley, on the nearest side of the Circus Maximus, below the Temple of Mercury. His primary business was that of a funeral director. The area was notoriously frequented by whores. Fornicating with their backs against the wall below his signboard, the night moths may have found that gave their tired trade a special frisson. I expect he buried the ashes of plenty of those sad women.

  As I reached his yard, where carts, biers and headstones were arrayed, a mixed group of men, wearing matching red tunics, hurried out past me. I had seen this uniform on running men in Rome before, though never knew what it meant. Sometimes one of them was banging a bell.

  Fundanus explained cheerily. ‘My men, fetching in a body – see the hauling hooks? The bell is to let people know we are coming. They want to jump out of the way quick, to avoid a corpse that’s contaminated by slavery. A bed-maker in Cyclops Street hanged herself this morning.’

  ‘When a slave dies, the corpse has to be removed in two hours?’ Faustus had told me this.

  ‘Only one hour if the silly bastard pulls the rope trick,’ Fundanus corrected. ‘Well, twisted sheet in this case, to be strictly accurate. My fellows should make the deadline, but we’re pushing it. People are so thoughtless. They arse about after they discover a body, discussing what has happened – when it’s obvious – and all the while, precious time is flying. I could lose my licence if I miss the deadline.’

  ‘Why did she do away with herself?’

  ‘Couldn’t endure any more from the master.’

  ‘You mean sex?’

  ‘Fucking morning, noon and night.’

  ‘He was not married?’

  ‘Where have you been? Of course he was. The wife said the bint had to put up with it, since it kept him happy.’ Presumably, that saved the wife from having to endure the pervert herself. Confirming my dire view of this family, Fundanus said, ‘He likes to beat the wife as hard as the slaves if she crosses him. So she lets him do whatever he wants – provided he’s doing it to someone else.’

  He led me into the cabin where he normally seated the bereaved when they came to make arrangements. We took stools, not quite touching knees. He apologised for being unable to offer me mint tea, but said the serving boy had gone off as one of the red tunics. Feeling fastidious in this environment, I assured him that was fine.

  He had a face like a root vegetable at the end of a hard winter. His humanity was just as shrivelled. The man was a plebeian, no doubt of it. That meant he came from the same rootstock as my father or Manlius Faustus. Their ancestors used their wits to build up businesses – warehouses and auctioneering. These were businesses where they could keep their hands fairly clean while generating filthy lucre from the uppercrust who sneered at them for being in trade – all of whom, it is fair to say, were themselves as bent as a discarded nail.

  Fundanus had stuck at the filthy end of society, in a profession where everybody hated what he did. He had a stroppy attitude, and clearly enjoyed being awkward.

  It is perfectly possible even Fundanus thought his job was a boil on the world’s bum. Still, he put up with it, never thinking of retraining in some more pleasant area – say, as a tunic-maker, a poet, or in the pastry trade. The man was overweight, under-endowed with muscle or brains, and outclassed by every sewer-rat who ever poked his nose out of a drain.

  I noticed that his warts looked as if they had been infected with putrefaction from a long-time dead body. I told myself not to be squeamish, then told him my connection with the Aviola slaves.

  Fundanus explained his own interest, a man who liked to hold forth. Yes, he was a funeral director, but he had a lucrative sideline in punishing and executing slaves.

  ‘This is for private customers?’ I asked.

  ‘Can be. Someone has a slave who needs keepi
ng in order, kindly chastisement, we can supply the necessary.’

  ‘What would that be?’

  ‘Posts, chains, ropes. Floggers too – my operatives can work with the cross or the fork.’ I did not need to ask; the slave victims would be either nailed to a wooden cross or hung on a very ancient device called the fork. Then they would be flogged to as near death as their owner chose – or actually until they died. They were property. An owner could dispose of his slave; killing them was frowned upon nowadays, but theoretically it could still happen. ‘We make one charge, applies across the board − four sesterces each man, whether for a fork operative, a flogger, or an executioner.’

  ‘That’s fair.’

  ‘I don’t muck about,’ claimed Fundanus smugly. ‘Of course on a public contract, different rates apply. A magistrate gives the orders, we supply crosses as standard, plus free nails, pitch, wax, tapers, anything else required. All covered by our retainer. Copy of the rules hung in the premises.’ He gestured to it.

  I admired his certificate and said I was glad to see a public role being properly administered. ‘This is not an area where sloppiness can be tolerated.’

  ‘Right, young lady!’ Oblivious to my satire, Fundanus decided to set me straight about my own commission. ‘I expect this will come as news to you. Those slaves, that whingeing bunch who’ve got themselves bed and board at the temple’s expense, ought to have gone to their master’s aid. Me, I support extending blame to all the little shits under one roof. We have to fight the enemy, both within and without.’

  ‘Might they not have been loyal servants who were unable to do anything?’

  Fundanus gave me a pitying look. ‘I can tell what sort of home you were brought up in!’ My parents would have been proud to hear that, especially as he clearly meant ‘among dangerous philosophers, who think all beings born on earth have value’.

  ‘I try to see both sides,’ I murmured, feeling my mother’s influence.

  ‘That was what I meant!’

  ‘I am sorry,’ I apologised meekly, mentally writing a curse tablet against this man.

  ‘Let me tell you a few things about the world, my girl. We cannot let these people get the upper hand. Slaves have to be forced to protect their masters by the threat of their own death if they don’t. They ought to come running without thought for themselves whatever’s going on − including throttling, strangling, being thrown over a cliff, or struck with any stick, missile, blade or other weapon.’

  He must have seen this list in an edict somewhere. I wondered if the weapons would include fireships or military catapults. I merely said, ‘Seems comprehensive.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not ideal. It doesn’t cover poisoning − because the argument goes, how would they know? Pathetic! Or once the effects of a poison become obvious, it’s too late and what could they do? With a master’s suicide, the sentence only applies if the slaves are on the spot at the time and could prevent the attempt.’

  ‘Understandable.’

  ‘What,’ asked the funeral director, lowering his voice as some mark of respect, ‘happened to the victims in the tragic circumstance under review?’

  ‘Strangled. With a piece of rope.’

  He nodded, with grim satisfaction. ‘That would be covered.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘As I said. Your bastard clients should have gone to help.’

  I didn’t bother to contradict him that Faustus was my client, not the slaves. ‘They all say they didn’t hear anything. No cries for help.’

  ‘Mule-dung. I’d clean out the lying snots’ earwax with a lighted taper … Anything useful been done to them so far? What has been tried?’

  ‘Just intense questioning.’

  ‘You are having a laugh!’

  I admitted I was serious, but promised that when the time came to use proper methods, he would be the chosen operator.

  ‘You can put a word in?’ From the way he sized me up, he was wondering who I slept with.

  I assured him I had contacts, not mentioning names. Before things became tricky, I made my excuses and left.

  As I walked back to the Esquiline I felt demoralised. The Fundanus world-view was depressing enough, but I was having my own crisis. Earlier I had wanted my commission to continue, because I hate being thwarted and still hoped to find the truth. With time to review the situation as I walked, I decided I had now done everything possible. Some informers would drag things out for the daily retainer, but I faced up to the fact my inquiry should be wound up, even though it had proved a failure.

  I never get sentimental about cases. If they are dead in the water, it is always best to admit that. Save yourself time and effort; keep your integrity. Your clients may even be so fair-minded they appreciate honesty.

  Well, I had one once who claimed she did. She thought it meant she could get away with not paying me for work done. I soon explained how that was a misapprehension, so then she decided that I was a cheating bitch she should never have hired. I had to send a debt-collector. She coughed up when she saw Rodan. She didn’t even try to buy him off with the promise of her body – restraint in which she showed both morality and taste. Such rare qualities.

  The same woman even tried to hire me a second time. She seemed surprised when I refused, even though I was lying on a sunbed at the time so she could see I was not busy.

  This case was over. Faustus would pay me for what I had done, and I would accept the fee.

  He might never commission me again, although if he was a just man he would see that we had simply run out of evidence. It can happen. I still had doubts whether the slaves were guilty. But now we would be forced to follow the law and damn them, if and when the temple authorities chose to terminate their asylum.

  Then something happened, as it sometimes does. The whole inquiry had to be reopened, just as I was on the verge of writing the report that would tell Manlius Faustus we had to close it. Someone else in the Aviola household died.

  30

  I continued back to the Esquiline, considering how I could formally explain the position to Faustus. I thought he would probably accept it, causing me less of a headache than I got from my own bad mood. I cannot deal well with failure.

  Dromo was dodging about behind me, looking at stalls and shops. I needed to keep an eye out all the time, in case I lost him. Faustus had taught him one route to and from the Aventine but our path from the undertaker’s was new, while Dromo’s grasp of the Roman map was limited. If we separated, I did not trust him to find his own way to the apartment. Besides, he was supposed to guard me.

  The weather had warmed up. It was a long hot walk. I should have paid for a chair, but I chose not to sting the aedile with a hefty fare at the moment when I was dropping his case. If I did, as soon as the carriers set off, Dromo was bound to be left behind. How often have you seen women leaning out of chairs and helplessly calling slaves’ names, shouting themselves hoarse while their difficult entourage pretends not to hear?

  I needed Dromo; I was going to the apartment to collect my personal belongings and Faustus’ property, so Dromo would have to transport it all on his handcart. While I could rely on Polycarpus to return these things eventually, he had no incentive to be prompt and it was foolish to suppose every item would reappear. Even a good steward could not prevent messengers picking out choice goodies for themselves.

  As it turned out, asking Polycarpus to organise it was not an option.

  Close to heat exhaustion, we passed the Market of Livia but I did not go in. If I was leaving the apartment, I had no further need for provisions. I could not face the crowds, nor the barracking shopkeepers. You have to be feeling confident to cope in a Roman market. I was too demoralised.

  When I reached the part of the Clivus Suburanus where Aviola had lived, I looked around carefully from the shelter of a doorway, telling Dromo to stand close and not draw attention to himself. He knew what had happened to Camillus Justinus, so was prepared to follow orders temporarily. But the butterf
ly-brain would not keep still for long.

  I carefully checked for gangsters, though identified none.

  Everyone appeared to be going about their normal business. It was just a street. Elderly women muttering abuse after young men who had barged into them; young men staring at young women as if they had never seen anything female before; one girl and her mother brushed mud off their skirt hems where they had accidentally stepped in a gutter puddle. Overhead, someone invisible inside an apartment pulled a cross-street washing-line hand over hand as they hung wet clothes out. A clean tunic fell off into the same puddle, followed by a magnificently inventive torrent of screaming curses. A door slammed. A couple of pigeons lifted themselves laboriously from a sill, flew in a half-hearted circle and landed in fluffed lumps, to continue their midday drowsing.

  A dopey-looking boy stood outside the leather shop, which was closed for lunch. A couple of feet away from him sat a very hairy black dog. It had fleas. I could tell from here, by the intent way it was scratching among its long matted fur. It was loose, so could have belonged to anyone or no one, but kept looking at the boy as if it half hoped for a titbit and half feared a kick.

  ‘Cosmus,’ said Dromo, catching the direction of my gaze.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Their lamp boy yesterday. And Panther.’

  ‘His dog?’ Constans had told me that the boy went home to see his dog.

  ‘Right. You’re good at this,’ Dromo declared, mock-admiring. ‘Have you thought about making guessing-games your career?’

  ‘No. I’m too busy thinking, when shall I get around to beating you for cheek?’

  The last thing I wanted today was careers advice.

  Panther might be the beast I had heard barking when I called at Polycarpus’ apartment. His wife, Graecina, had said ‘the boy’ took the dog out for a walk, so at the time I assumed she meant their son. Cosmus must be about fourteen, quite a lot older than the child I had heard wailing when I visited. Graecina must have meant ‘boy’ in the other sense. As a freedman, Polycarpus was entitled to possess slaves. Mind you, someone who had been a slave himself ought to know how to buy better. It’s one thing for an adolescent son to loaf about the streets looking for trouble but a slave ought to be kept better occupied. This one looked impervious to training.