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

by Lindsey Davis

  ‘A lot of plotting at funerals,’ I agreed.

  ‘Even the great Gallo may wind up thrown into a stinking alley with a knife between his shoulder-blades – for dumping the fellow.’

  ‘All very colourful, Titianus.’

  We sat in silence for a while. Then I pointed out that − thinking of gangsters – in order to be absolutely thorough, we ought to investigate whether it was the Rabirii who had now strangled the steward.

  ‘We’ being Titianus and me. And ‘investigate’ requiring a visit to the gang.

  33

  Lunch is a wonderful mechanism. Some chunks of bread, a few scraps of ham, a bowl of cherries. Washed down with mediocre bar-room wine, this was enough to woo Titianus. It probably helped that he rarely shared investigations with anybody. He may have had a deputy he didn’t trust, or a low-level bunch of door-knockers who took orders from him if he could think of any orders to give, but normally he worked on his own. Now he believed I was his friend. If I suggested a jape, he had to fall in with it.

  He was too nervous to approach the grandee, Rabirius, in person. Instead, I managed to persuade him to tackle young Roscius. Titianus would have to find out the nephew’s haunts, which he would do that afternoon. He went back to the barracks, planning to oil up Juventus, the gangster liaison officer. Titianus believed he could squeeze him without arousing suspicion. According to him, Juventus was not very bright.

  I sympathised with him, for having to deal with idiots at work.

  We agreed to meet up early next morning when Titianus said Roscius would be out and about and accessible, collecting cash for the old man. I spent the rest of the afternoon double-checking the neighbourhood for people who could have seen anything in connection with the steward’s death. No luck, needless to say. Although Polycarpus had made himself friendly with everyone, no one would cause inconvenience to themselves by coming forward as a witness.

  I wrote a report for Faustus. I first outlined the reasons why the case had seemed to be dying on us. After that, much of my news concerned Polycarpus, but I did slide in a mention that Titianus had agreed to make further contact with the gang. I did not say I was going with him. I sent Dromo off, then spent a quiet evening by myself before an early night.

  I should have realised Faustus would guess what I was up to. So next morning who should come breezing into the apartment but my client. He was dressed not in his aedile’s purple stripes, but the street clothes he wore for going undercover.

  He did not trouble to chastise me. He acted as if his presence was a lucky coincidence. But he stuck there until Titianus turned up, then he came out with us. I acted as if I was perfectly happy to have Manlius Faustus do that. No choice really.

  Titianus looked wary. Annoyed, I saw that he thought I had deliberately sent for Faustus who, in his eyes, was tainted by visiting the tribune. Even with the aedile disguised as an unshaven lout in a shabby brown tunic, Titianus was never going to like him. This busted up his and my relationship as cronies, jeopardising Titianus’ willingness to be frank. Well, thank you, aedile!

  Faustus, who noticed a lot, gave no sign that he had noticed any of this, but I knew he would have done.

  Titianus led us first back to the Galatea. The sour fixer Gallo was not there; maybe he only turned up for his free lunch. Instead, as we scrutinised the bar from across the street, Titianus said he could see Roscius. He was laughing and joking with two other men, gang members our guide recognised. We had agreed the ideal was to corner Roscius by himself, when he might be easier to work on. So we stayed put outside, watching.

  When I say ‘we’ agreed a plan, Titianus and I did that while Faustus, in one of his introverted moods, merely listened and made no objection. I was trying to rebuild the investigator’s trust, so I was pally with him and ignored the aedile. If Faustus felt left out, it was his fault for interfering. I did not need a nursemaid if I was staking out a suspect with a vigiles expert. In my opinion, I did not need a minder ever.

  Titianus pointed out Roscius. He was about twenty-five, short-legged but good looking in a way that would not last past thirty. He thought himself a wonderful beast, with a ripped-neck tunic worn one-armed, in order to show off his well-oiled pectorals. Inevitably, a medallion of dubious metal with twinkly red glass inserts nestled among his curly chest hair. This jewel probably cost a packet (assuming he’d bought it, not stolen it); the deal must have made some lying, cheating jeweller extremely happy.

  After a time, Roscius left the Galatea with one of the men he had been talking to. The underling was a fish-faced bag-carrier. We split up to follow them, which is supposed to make you less noticeable. We all played the game of shifting positions, now me at the back, then Faustus, criss-crossing the street with Titianus. Tragic. It fools no one.

  The gangsters behaved as all of them do. They sauntered about, making their presence known. Money was picked up at a couple of places for certain. Banter was exchanged. It all looked friendly. That is the evil side of such people. They come around smiling, but their position in the neighbourhood is entirely based on threat.

  Roscius picked out an apple at a fruit stall. He paid nothing for it. The stallholder made no attempt to ask him. Roscius strolled on, munching, then threw most of the apple in the gutter. He was just enjoying his power.

  I had his measure. That familiar mix of boorish self-belief and ingrained bad manners. From the way he walked – knees apart, arms loose like a bad wrestler – I could see why the vigiles thought he might be aiming high, or was ready to split off by himself if the gang chiefs let him. I bet when he sat in a bar he had a hand in his lap and constantly jiggled his privates, not knowing he was doing it.

  I wondered how he got on with Gallo. Gallo looked as if he had been around a long time. His backing could make Roscius a leader, but if he despised the young upstart, Gallo could be the one to thwart him. The fixer’s choice might depend how much talent Roscius really had. To me, he did not look too clever. Not that stupidity holds back career criminals (as my father would say glumly), any more than it hampers promotion in the vigiles, election to the Senate, making a rich marriage, bringing too many children into the world, or being an amateur who buys an ‘ancient Greek’ statue and then sells it on for a fifty per cent profit, despite that new label from a workshop in Capua stuck on the base …

  I wondered whether old Rabirius saw his nephew as an asset or a liability.

  Then I wondered how healthy Rabirius was. What if he passed away? Could the Esquiline be facing an underworld power struggle? Would Gallo, the hard-man fixer, expect to inherit the business to which he had presumably contributed much? Would he be strong enough to dispose of any challenge from young Roscius, or would the old man nominate family to take over, and disappoint Gallo?

  Titianus was gesticulating. Faustus and I caught up with him. ‘They’ve gone in the Dilly-Dally.’

  It was the kind of bar that thinks it’s a brothel, or a brothel that pretends to be a bar. There was only a sketchy pavement presence. Moth-eaten curtaining hid the interior. They did not bother to have tie-backs. Whatever went on at the Dilly-Dally went on in hidden indoor places where the night sweeper always missed corners and the same dead mouse had been stiff on a shelf for three weeks.

  We parked ourselves outside. After a long time the other man came out on his own, the fish-face. He waved an arm to Titianus mockingly. Faustus looked at us, then strode across to the bar on his own and went in. Moments later he reappeared, head shaking. Roscius was not there.

  34

  Titianus may have felt surprised that Faustus made no attempt to blame him. The aedile barely reacted; he merely asked what next?

  Titianus had details of one last location supplied by Juventus. He led us to a street on the Cispian ridge, one of those happy havens that are lined throughout with eating places. Mostly you find these on seaside quays, where the restaurant owners all keep little boats and go out fishing. You eat fish, unless you are crazy. That day’s catch will be varied and
though never as fresh as they tell you, much fresher than any other item scrawled on the menu board. Never, ever opt for the beef hotpot in a harbourside fish restaurant.

  Roscius might choose any bar for lunch; Juventus had said it varied. We sat down to wait midway, at a place that had outside tables. Manlius Faustus imposed his punishment on the vigilis for what happened earlier. Faustus elected that now he and I would be the close cronies, with Titianus being made to feel left out, so he told Titianus to go inside to order drinks – not giving him any money.

  ‘A working threesome!’ exclaimed my client when the tired-eyed vigilis wandered back. ‘This reminds me of happy times, with you, me and Morellus, Flavia Albia.’ Faustus leaned back in his seat, in a relaxed pose with his hands linked behind his head. It sounded sociable, but Titianus looked unhappy, realising that the balance in our trio had shifted.

  Titianus had been too easily conned by Roscius, so I allied myself with Faustus. ‘Dear Tiberius, I have not seen Morellus recently. Is he working on a case – or working on a love affair?’

  ‘Dice,’ announced Faustus, impressively deadpan as he invented. ‘There’s a three-day league at a dive called the Sweaty Armpit – you would love it; I must take you there some time − Morellus is in knots because gambling for money is illegal; he thinks I’ll pop along and close the place, then he’ll be blamed by the whole district. Of course it’s never going to happen; they paid the usual sweetener as soon as I told them to.’

  I could not help laughing. Faustus chuckled with me. Titianus knew Faustus and I were playing him up.

  In fact Titus Morellus, Titianus’ counterpart in the Fourth Cohort, was stuck at home, recovering from a near-fatal attack by a serial killer. Morellus was a miserable character, but he had been brave. I knew Faustus visited the invalid from time to time, probably taking baskets of plums and toys for Morellus’ children. I could even envisage him slipping cash to Morellus’ wife Pullia; supporting someone who had suffered in a public role would be natural philanthropy for Manlius Faustus, a good citizen’s duty. Probably the kind of behaviour that had won him votes when he stood as aedile.

  ‘Where’s your waiter?’ Faustus asked. Titianus’ request for service had not worked. It was one of those bars. All frantic bustle, where strangers can never get a drink.

  We were still waiting for any refreshment to appear when Titianus decided to give up. He claimed he had to be back at the station house; it was probably the end of his shift. He lingered, as if he thought Faustus and I should come too, but we stayed put on observation, waving airy goodbyes at him and insincerely promising to let him know what happened.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ murmured Faustus in a lazy tone. ‘I can look after Flavia Albia.’

  Titianus could only amble off, while Faustus watched him go, rather narrow-eyed. When the aedile turned back to me, I thought he was going to be critical of me cosying up with someone else, but he merely looked delighted we had got rid of the man.

  Faustus caught a server’s eye immediately. Titianus was still near enough to see how easily the aedile managed it.

  We two had positioned ourselves side by side on a bench, both looking out at the street so we could watch for Roscius in two directions. The area was busy. I had a stole, which I pulled up over my hair; this was partly a professional move, so I looked different from when I was following Roscius. I rarely veiled up from modesty, but sometimes I liked the subtle extra level of privacy.

  Faustus could sense a mood. ‘Feeling down?’

  ‘Polycarpus.’ I sipped my drink.

  He nodded, then touched his cup against mine and slowly swallowed wine himself. The other tables were too close and crowded for us to talk about the case. At first we talked about nothing. We must have looked like a man and woman who knew each other, easy together as we enjoyed a small flagon of house wine (with a lot of water) in the warm sunlight.

  Sometimes we exchanged a glance, confirming that some character in the street who had looked like our subject was not him. Once I acknowledged how much the latest murder had depressed me, my mind cleared, so I slipped more happily into sharing our task. We had a good working relationship and Tiberius seemed content to be here. ‘Could be worse,’ he commented.

  I agreed quietly, ‘One of those times when you wish it wasn’t work.’

  He smiled, raising his cup in a mild salute to me again.

  Almost at once I saw him stiffen. He gestured slightly with one forefinger.

  ‘He’s coming! − Shit, we’ll lose him again, he’ll see us …’ It had to be presumed that when Roscius spotted Titianus tailing him earlier, he had noticed us as well.

  As Tiberius nodded down the street, I moved. I swung round in front of him like a girl who cared nothing about her reputation. With a shameless lunge, I came in close and hid my companion from where Roscius must be. Tiberius gave a nervous start, then he went with the act, playing a tipsy opportunist as he grabbed hold of me. My stole began to slide off my hair, but he noticed and pegged it. His flattened palm felt strong against my head.

  We held the pose, so close our breaths intermingled. I watched his grey eyes following the suspect. There was absolutely no need to embellish our charade, but suddenly he leaned in and kissed me.

  As he did it, he was watching. Roscius must have gone in somewhere, but Tiberius continued. He was an unexpectedly good kisser. I liked his faint disconcertion because he was enjoying it more than he had been ready for … Classic male surprise.

  When he released me, he flashed a quick gleam, all the recognition he would give or I would want; after all, we were play-acting for work. ‘He’s in the Three-tailed Dog.’

  ‘Looks a dump!’ I slid back into my seat, feeling warm. I could act suave, however. ‘We know him now. He’ll buy a drink, gulp it quickly, leave half in the beaker then go for a pee out the back. He’ll shunt down the alley and saunter out through one of the other bars.’

  ‘You’re good.’

  ‘You too!’ I remarked ambiguously.

  I was watching as many bars opposite as I could. Tiberius spent a moment watching me, then he too reapplied himself to surveillance.

  I glanced back at him. He steadily scrutinised the exit from the Victorious Soldier and the public counters of the Moon and Stars. I resumed my careful watch on the Ship, the Castor and Pollux, the Cow and the Dead Man’s Fingers.

  Roscius emerged through the food counters of the Diana, a workaday thermopolium that seemed to be full of bricklayers. He had somebody with him, a bald man who looked Cappadocian, possibly the subordinate we had earlier seen him leave behind at the Galatea. They strolled together down from the Cispian Hill, with us gently following. We did not bother with the dodging technique, but merely paced ourselves to remain a good distance behind, where we might not be noticed.

  They reached the Clivus Suburanus at the Porticus of Livia. They stayed together on the main road as far as the Esquiline Gate, where Roscius waved off the other man. He went on alone through the arch and into the Gardens of Maecenas.

  Faustus gripped my elbow, then we quickened our pace and caught up with him.

  35

  ‘Going somewhere? Mind if we tag along?’ Manlius Faustus must have learned this ghastly old line when he pulled in persons of interest for questioning. How many shopkeepers who encroached on pubic pavements had he arrested with that cliché? Perhaps he had first heard Morellus use it.

  At least the familiar script made Roscius feel at ease. However, he lost his confidence when Faustus then took us into the Auditorium of Maecenas for our conversation.

  We had walked on through the gardens, with the aedile and I either side of the young criminal, until this beautiful place appeared and Faustus moved swiftly to have a word with the curator. I saw money being passed over. Then we were let in.

  ‘I thought so!’ exclaimed Faustus, grinning at the crook. ‘Nice and big. No one else here. Nobody will overhear us.’

  That may not have given Roscius any sense of security.<
br />
  I knew the building. The Gardens of Maecenas had been built over an ancient graveyard, reclaiming an area that for years had been a famously unhealthy necropolis, full of burial pits of the poor.

  My mother once read me a poem about witches haunting this sinister spot under a lonely moon, a terrifying piece of work where cruel hags murdered a young boy: Horace, in spooky mode; he did it gruesomely. I was going through a mystic period at the time, a teen myself, in love with the supernatural without seeing its true menace. Now I despised horrors. Forget plague-ridden burial grounds with bones sticking out of broken old pots. All I wanted were these tranquil and elegant new gardens that had finally resulted from a land-grab by entrepreneurs. The first time I went for a walk in a grand public space after Helena and Falco brought me to Rome, I was astounded. There was nothing like any of these public gardens in Londinium.

  All right. There is nothing fancy at all in Londinium.

  Some garden-creators were freedmen of the imperial court, those high-rollers with moneybags for eyes, who always know how to fix themselves up with gorgeous property. Maecenas had been different, born a fabulously rich Etruscan, friend of Augustus and great patron of the arts; he made his garden particularly fine, with libraries and pavilions. This became his retirement home, a setting so elegant that the Emperor Tiberius had lived there for a time.

  To enter Maecenas’ Auditorium, as it was called, we passed down a long ramp with a herringbone floor. The monument was built substantially below ground, perhaps as a sunken dining room; when they turned on the water, the inner hall was cooled by a cascade that tumbled down at one end, where deep, white marble steps lined a semi-circular apse. Though never a great socialite, I had been here to a couple of events. The body of the hall can take dining couches, but generally it hosts stand-up soirées with drama, music or readings for well-dressed cultural snobs. Very small appetisers are handed round by blank-faced servers from Gaul in identical uniforms. Flute music nobody listens to wavers over the loud hum of pretentious chatter and rattling jewellery. The ticket price makes you wince.