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

by Lindsey Davis

  Though originally a private building, the Auditorium could nowadays be hired, and my father once recklessly shared an evening there with a senator he knew slightly, who wrote epic poetry. Their joint recital was even graced briefly by Domitian, in the happy days when he was only Vespasian’s spare heir; back then he had big dreams but no real expectations of becoming emperor.

  Do not ask for a critique of Falco’s writing. I am a loving, loyal daughter.

  Today we had it to ourselves, a rather over-elaborate interrogation room. The well-proportioned interior was lined with large wall niches that were beautifully painted with garden scenes and landscapes, all exquisitely done in that endearing Roman style where indoor frescos mimic living plants that you can see simultaneously outside. One end of the hall opened onto a terrace with lovely views towards the Alban Hills. Unfortunately, once Alba became the infamous location of our emperor’s citadel villa, nobody could gaze eastwards without the warped image of Domitian brooding in his fortress, planning ways he could make our lives miserable.

  This was an unusually sophisticated venue for an interview with a gangster, but none of Roscius’ violent associates would come looking for him here. If he was overawed by the grand setting, it might work in our favour. He looked around, no doubt hoping to identify statues he could steal, though this was strictly a performance space and no art gallery.

  Faustus seemed at home. Did he have an unknown life as an arts connoisseur?

  For me, it made a welcome change from barracks and bars. But it would not be my natural choice. The place was too busy making its gorgeous presence felt. I prefer a neutral background for grilling suspects.

  ‘I am not saying anything!’ Roscius began, predictably.

  Faustus pointed out that we had not asked anything yet. ‘You don’t want to get on the wrong side of me, Rabirius Roscius. I am more ruthless than you can possibly imagine. You don’t even know the meaning of “vindictive bastard” yet.’

  If true, to me it was an unfamiliar side of Manlius Faustus. I knew he could be tough, even unpleasant when someone annoyed him, but otherwise I saw him as a man of steadfast noble virtues, including restraint. Restraint in particular. Unfortunately.

  Roscius told Faustus to push off.

  Faustus told Roscius he was not going to do that.

  I stepped in as a sweet female ameliorator. ‘Roscius, trust me, I advise against upsetting this aedile. There are stallholders all along the Vicus Armilustrium who shit diarrhoea when he goes on a walkabout, even if their special counterfeit corn-measures have been left at home that day. I’m nice. Why don’t you talk to me?’

  ‘Oh, not “good bastard, bad bastard”!’ snorted Roscius like an experienced hardnut.

  ‘I have no idea what you mean … But I do know that whoever arranged that attack on a senator three nights ago has knocked over a hive of extremely angry bees. It may not have been announced in the Daily Gazette yet, but there are strident calls for a Senate inquiry, with possible intervention by the emperor himself. Everyone in your position can expect a very heavy crackdown. The scrutineers are being urged to go for all the old crime families. Be wise, man! Anyone who cooperates first in the aedile’s investigation may avoid having his door kicked down.’

  ‘Don’t be so generous, Flavia Albia,’ Faustus joined in, making himself sound scratchy. ‘Why should one gangster escape justice, when we have an opportunity to round them all up? I am just waiting for the formal order, then I shall be scarifying my patch. Every felon on the Aventine is really going to feel this. No scum unturned.’

  ‘I have heard,’ I said gravely, ‘Rabirius Roscius has more political know-how than some.’

  ‘Ha! How’s that?’

  ‘Well, dear Tiberius, this man will surely see that you and I are intent on solving the Aviola case, so for us, the senator-bashing is a separate issue.’ Neither of us had mentioned to Roscius that the bashed senator was my uncle. I guessed Roscius had not yet joined up all the dots in the sketch. Did he know Camillus Justinus had visited Gallo with me? Did he even realise Justinus went to the Second’s tribune with Faustus?

  ‘If we did solve the Aviola case, Roscius, your name could be omitted from the senator-bashing inquest,’ Faustus returned thoughtfully. He sounded as if he meant it.

  ‘I presume that would be a relief to the Rabirii,’ I offered to Roscius. ‘They won’t want this commission to take a piercing look at what happened to Aviola. It is very high profile, the victims were well-to-do and the circumstances − such violence, and so soon after a wedding − have attracted the wrong kind of public attention. That’s even without the slaves fleeing to the Temple of Ceres. For Romans, a religious connection makes it so much more sensitive.’

  ‘And it’s messy!’ quipped Faustus with some glee, as if he revelled in slurry.

  Showing signs of alarm, Roscius piped up suddenly, ‘We never done Valerius Aviola. Nor his precious bride neither.’

  I refrained from correcting his grammar. He would have been too busy learning how to operate a jemmy to attend a decent school of rhetoric.

  Faustus leaned towards him, sounding more reasonable. ‘That so? Do you want to tell me what really happened?’

  ‘No, I bloody don’t!’ Roscius fell back on the criminal’s professional motto: ‘If you had any evidence, you wouldn’t be asking.’

  ‘Evidence?’ laughed Faustus.

  ‘Oh, Roscius,’ I suggested gently, ‘you are forgetting this is Manlius Faustus, the infamous plebeian magistrate − and vindictive bastard.’

  Roscius was standing with his arms folded, a defensive stance, though his bravado was dwindling. I could see in his eyes he was making wrong decisions almost every time the conversation took a turn. We had been right to approach the junior. Old Rabirius must still be dealing with the gang’s business himself, supported by Gallo. He had not yet exposed Roscius much – not enough for the young man to be able to handle this competently. One day he would know better. He would stand firm and keep denying everything. He would be laughing at us then.

  Now he was under too much pressure. We had a few more exchanges on the same lines, until he gave way. He agreed to discuss the night when Aviola and Mucia were killed – though he made one last feeble attempt at a stand: ‘Why are you asking me about it anyway? This is victimisation, totally unfair. You have nothing to link me or my boys to it.’

  ‘You are the robbery expert,’ Faustus flattered him. ‘The word is, if a big breakin occurs, you are the only one capable. So did you know Valerius Aviola owned a cache of special silver?’

  ‘Do dogs shit in the gutter? You bet I knew. Wine set, plenty of items, all very pretty. Kept it in his dining room.’

  ‘Summer or winter?’ I asked, making a show of testing him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Summer or winter dining room!’ Faustus spelled out, sounding irritable.

  ‘On shelves or display table?’ I asked.

  ‘If table, three-legged or monopod?’ rapped Faustus.

  ‘If monopod, marble or fancy wood? Then citron or cedar wood?’

  Faustus and I were enjoying the word games, while Roscius clearly felt nervous. Trying to follow our banter made him breathless. ‘Lay off! You’re confusing me …’

  ‘Oh, forget citron and cedar. Stone beats wood every time for me.’ Faustus kept rambling. ‘Give me Euboean onion-skin marble for setting off silver any day. Lovely green base, good wavy lines …’

  ‘Stop joshing around,’ I chided. ‘You heard what he said – we are confusing him. Roscius, just tell me, did you know that the family were leaving for Campania?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ He answered the simple question with relief.

  ‘So did you go to the house that night to lift the silver while you could?’

  ‘We went.’

  ‘And you took it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? You got inside?

  ‘Of course. Sweet as a nut.’

  ‘So why not take the stuff?�
�

  ‘None there. Not a piece of it. We found the dining room all right, but the shelves were standing there all empty.’

  Roscius looked awkward and unhappy. In telling this odd story, he seemed unable to decide whether he was embarrassed by failure or defiant because he was innocent of theft. Faustus shot a glance at me, then he took up the questioning. ‘Something happened?’ he asked in a quieter voice than formerly. ‘Get it off your chest, why not?’

  Roscius nodded, though he still failed to speak.

  Faustus went back to the beginning. In his work as aedile, he must be used to questioning wrongdoers. He was calm, courteous, almost sympathetic. ‘So, let’s start with getting into the house. Is it right that you burst in past the porter?’

  Roscius bridled indignantly. ‘No chance! Am I good or not?’

  ‘Of course; you’re tops. So tell me.’

  ‘I got us in. My usual method. Did it sweet and quiet. Got past the lock with my special magic.’

  ‘A pick in the keyhole?’

  ‘Not saying. Trade secret. Anyway, no one knew we was in their house.’

  I stiffened, realising just how much the scenario I had worked on before was wrong. Faustus showed no reaction.

  Roscius was suddenly flying. He could not tell his story fast enough: ‘We got in, there was nobody around, we found the room, the shelves were empty, we started searching. Having made it in, we wasn’t leaving empty-handed. Unprofessional! Well, that was what I thought until we knew what had gone down. I was the one that discovered them. Just opened a bedroom door, quiet like, not knowing what might be inside, who I could be facing up to if I was unlucky. There the two of them was. Stark naked and flung out in agony, horribly staring up at me.’

  ‘Aviola and his wife?’ insisted Faustus. ‘Dead?’

  Roscius nodded.

  Being so sure of the details previously, I jumped in: ‘But hadn’t you already come across the door porter? Nicostratus? Beaten insensible and lying in his blood, in the long passage from the front entrance?’

  Roscius blinked. ‘Never saw him. Never saw nobody.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is the true juice.’ Roscius was determined for us to believe him. Though he prided himself on being hard, remembering the deathbed scene had moved him. ‘I let out some yelp, I can tell you.’

  ‘All right.’ Faustus knew how to imply he believed the story.

  ‘Flying phalluses, tribune, your honour, that was terrible. Who did it? I see you looking at me, but me and the boys, we don’t do nothing like that. Why would we? My boys came up and had a gawp as well – they wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t let them have a look to see – then we legged it like runners racing up a stadium. Got out the way we had got in. Went for a bloody big drink, I can tell you.’ He shook his head in disbelief, appalled. ‘The couple must have been going at it and never heard anybody come in the room. What a way to go. The old man had made an effort. He was half off the bed, part way under her. It looked as if she had wanted to save him, threw herself over him, trying to protect him – probably hampered him, getting in his way. She must have been pleading to the one who did it. But they put that bit of rope around her throat and did her too, poor naked cow. Gods in Olympus, it was really terrible.’

  36

  We were all silent.

  When we first arrived here, the helpful curator had folded back the big doors onto the terrace. Now we moved outside slowly, as if needing fresh air in our lungs. The walk across gave us time to adjust to this new story. None of us looked at the view.

  Faustus glanced at me, saw I was full of questions, then made a small open-palmed gesture like an orator giving way to a new speaker.

  I began tentatively. ‘Roscius, I want to be clear – the way you tell this, it sounds as if you arrived to an apparently empty house. Is that right?’

  He nodded. ‘We didn’t see anybody the whole time – except the dead two.’

  ‘There were supposed to be slaves all over the place, sleeping off drink, or just normally asleep …?’

  Roscius shrugged. ‘Can’t help you.’

  I pressed him and he told us he and his companions, of whom there had been two, turned left on arrival, went around to the dining rooms.

  ‘Did you know in advance where to go?’

  ‘Obviously. I could tell you the layout of most of the big houses – been inside a lot of them.’

  I made no comment. ‘So once you realised the silver was not where you had expected?’

  ‘We split up to search separately. The lads kept going in the same direction, looked in more rooms in case there was any more dining places. I crossed the courtyard on my own. I thought the stuff might have been in the kitchen. It looked as though they had had a party, so they might have used it.’

  ‘Friendly neighbourhood thieves don’t generally go to kitchens?’

  Roscius looked surprised. ‘Oh yes, we often have a bite while we are working. You can get good scran on a job. But I popped into the master bedroom first, and that was enough for me.’

  ‘And you still saw nobody? There were supposed to be women asleep in one bedroom at the front, others in the slaves’ own quarters at the back, two drunks paralytic in the courtyard; those two would be right by where your accomplices were searching … Didn’t any of you see any of them?’

  ‘Sorry. Cannot help you.’

  ‘How did you know the room you went into was the chief bedroom?’

  ‘Garlands hung around the doors.’

  ‘Probably been there since the wedding night …’ I mused.

  Faustus chipped in: ‘Was the house in darkness?’

  ‘That doesn’t bother us.’

  ‘No, but was it?’

  ‘We like it dark.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, but please answer my question.’

  ‘Mostly. The dead pair must have been screwing by lamplight before they was interrupted. They had a little pottery lamp on their bedside table, still flickering away.’

  ‘That all?’

  ‘There may have been candelabras in the big place next to where I found the bodies. I never got in there.’

  Faustus checked with me. I said, ‘The Corinthian oecus, the fancy saloon. It could have been dressed up, so it could be shown off to the guests that evening. But I can’t imagine why it would still be lit once the feast was over and the guests had gone. Not unless someone forgot about it when they doused all the other lamps.’ I thought Roscius must have been mistaken, and after listening to my comments he did not insist.

  Now that he had unburdened himself, Roscius quickly rallied as a gangland heavy. While Faustus and I were considering, he was perfecting his mindless stare. One day it would actually intimidate people.

  I asked, ‘Did either you or your companions touch the bodies, Roscius?’

  The supposed tough leapt back, gurning in disgust at the thought.

  ‘Settle down! I just wondered if you could tell me whether those corpses were still warm.’

  ‘You are joking! None of us went near them.’

  ‘Assuming you did meet someone in one of the porticos, what would you have done?’ asked Faustus.

  ‘Put them down. Swift tap,’ explained Roscius, miming one very hard knock on the head.

  ‘Not set about them with a weapon? Something like a plank, say?’

  ‘Too messy, tribune. Aedile,’ the crook corrected himself, wanting to sound like an accurate witness.

  ‘Not your style?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘And excuse me for asking – I have to cover everything – do you ever take rope with you on your excursions?’

  ‘I don’t have nothing to do with rope, tribune. I have enough to carry, with lock-wagglers and carry-home sacks – assuming I was the kind of fellow to have such stuff in the line of business.’

  ‘Well, you may as well admit you do,’ Faustus reminded him. ‘You have confessed you went on this burglary, and that you are a practised house-breaker
.’

  ‘I’m saying nothing!’ Roscius sounded panicky.

  ‘You have told us you were in a house where two murders of citizens and the third of a slave took place.’

  ‘I was given immunity!’ The crook’s eyes swivelled to me, hoping I would support this claim.

  ‘You were given no assurances,’ said Faustus heavily. ‘The only thing you can rely on is this: if I can identify the real killers as a result of your evidence, any assistance will be taken into account. You volunteered the information – which will count more in your favour than if it was extracted from you by any other means. Keep calm, place your faith in justice, and if you have nothing else to tell us, you can go.’

  Roscius turned to me. ‘He’s a cool one!’ he adjudged.

  ‘Sits in a bath of snow for pleasure,’ I answered. ‘Bunk off quick, while he’s given you the chance.’

  Rabirius Roscius rushed to an access door at the end of the terrace. We heard him stride up the ramp as he left the building.

  In silence, Faustus and I walked slowly back inside through the folding doors to the main hall.

  The curator appeared while we were staring at one another in astonishment and bafflement at what we had heard. This keeper, a grimy old man in a long tunic, went and turned on the cascade. It was a ploy to get money. Faustus tossed him a coin without comment, then the man slunk away again. After a few hiccups, the nymphaeum display surged into life. Sheets of water, slightly brackish at first, sluiced over the steps and vanished away through secret exit channels.

  ‘Do we believe him?’ Faustus asked, frowning slightly at the unsought entertainment. I felt cooler already, standing near the moving water, though I pulled in my skirts in case of splashes.

  ‘I think so. It’s a weird tale to invent. Roscius had no need to admit ever being in the house, not unless his story is genuine. Oh, and Tiberius, he seemed truly horrified by what he says he saw. I definitely accept his depiction of the crime scene.’ Faustus nodded, in one of his silent moods. He liked to absorb information at his own pace.