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

by Lindsey Davis

  More used to making quick assessments, I blew out air, then ticked off questions that surged into my mind:

  Where were the slaves while the robbers were poking about the apartment?

  If it was not the robbers, then who had stolen the silver, where had they hidden it, where was it now?

  If not the robbers, who did kill Valerius Aviola and Mucia Lucilia?

  Why was Nicostratus not at his post in the corridor? When was Nicostratus attacked, if not before the theft and killings? Who attacked him? Why − and why later?

  I tested some possible answers, but weakly.

  ‘The other door porter, Phaedrus, told me he was having supper in the kitchen. Maybe they were all there? Would they have had a chance to eat earlier, while the feast was going on? Maybe not. Maybe the slaves could not eat until after the party was over … Would there be enough room in the kitchen for all of them? I don’t think so. It’s too full of cupboards and cooking benches. There were ten, plus the hugely pregnant Myla. I think Myla told me she was dossing down in the slaves’ quarters at the time of the attack, but like all their claims, that now comes into question.’

  ‘We need to reflect,’ Faustus decided.

  ‘Speak for yourself, aedile! I need to jump on this straightaway or it will drive me crazy.’ He smiled a little. I rushed on: ‘I shall have to re-interview those deceitful beggars urgently. This afternoon I’ll look over my notes from their first examinations, then I shall come up to the office for a showdown.’

  ‘Want my help when you speak to them?’ asked Faustus, seeming keen to be involved.

  ‘No, thanks. I took the initial statements; I prefer to do the follow up myself.’ He was the client. It was my commission.

  He agreed to leave it to me. Perhaps he looked put out. I could not tell if he knew I was blaming myself for previously believing lies. He must concede I did have a sense of trouble earlier. I had told him then that I felt the slaves were holding something back; something was not right.

  The aedile and I stayed briefly in the Auditorium, each considering the implications, though independently and without further discussion, while finely judged torrents of cool water splashed elegantly over beautiful white marble in the background.

  37

  Eventually we emerged, into a Rome full of glaring warmth and light. We picked up Dromo, who had stayed kicking his heels outside. All today he had been following us around at a distance, barely noticed by his master or me; that was the normal life of a slave. Faustus had whistled to him a couple of times when we were about to change venues. I hoped Dromo had not seen that moment of theatre between Faustus and me at the bar, but he gave no sign of it.

  Faustus set off alone on the long haul back to the Aventine. I walked to the Aviola apartment. The streets were quiet, towards the end of lunchtime. The sun was hot, so even though it was not far I went slowly, keeping to the shady side. Dromo plodded along behind me, apparently too tired even to be distracted by pastry stalls. When I took a drink from a fountain, he did. When I set off again, he trudged behind obediently. I had to trust him to keep an eye out for trouble, because I was too deeply preoccupied with what Roscius had said.

  At the apartment I flopped in a chair in my room, chin down, fanning myself with the top of my tunic. This only stretches the neck of the garment. It never cools you. I needed to jump in a freezing cold fountain, nude, then come out to high-class attendants fanning ostrich feathers …

  I had gathered my previous note tablets though felt too drained to begin on them. I was no stranger to starting all over again on a case, but it is dreary. For once, Dromo went to the kitchen and brought me a tray of lunch. It was only because he could see I had no interest in fetching my own; he knew that unless I had something, there would be nothing for him. I accepted the tray and remembered to thank him, at which he found the energy to mime being startled.

  Revived, I read up my notes. While I was going over the old interviews, voices disturbed me. Galla Simplicia and Sextus Simplicius – Aviola’s ex-wife and his executor – had heard about Polycarpus. She had come with condolences for Graecina; he no doubt accompanied her out of curiosity. I thought I had better be present, though I kept out of sight to begin with.

  Galla had sent Myla to fetch down the widow. When Graecina came, Galla embraced her with every sign of affection. Grief had now descended on Graecina. The poor woman occupied her own, newly terrible world. I was impressed by the steady way Galla Simplicia talked to her and consoled her. She asked questions about how Graecina was coping and how she would manage in future; she made suggestions about the funeral, offering help. For once, I saw an extended Roman family operating properly: the mistress (a role Galla had taken up again with alacrity) kindly looking after the wife of one of their freedmen.

  I could not fault her. And this was the woman people said had wanted to murder her ex-husband and his bride. Unintentionally, Galla Simplicia did herself some good with me that afternoon.

  Her cousin wandered about the courtyard at a loose end. I slipped along a portico, as if by chance, and greeted him. Since he had now lost his intended new steward before Polycarpus even started in the post, I asked whether he would now keep Gratus, but when people once make up their minds to dismiss a staff member, they tend to go through with it. Simplicius insisted Gratus was still to be ‘let go’ via the slave market.

  It struck me Gratus might have had a motive to dispose of his rival Polycarpus. However, since Gratus was to be sent packing whatever happened, and he probably knew that, all he would have gained was revenge. It can bring joy to the bitter or indignant, but Gratus never struck me as that type. His measured attitude had been why I thought him a good steward.

  Still, what did I know? I had let a bunch of household slaves fool me with an elaborate fiction whose purpose I had yet to uncover.

  Myla was hanging around, taking too much interest in Simplicius just as she had with Faustus the other evening. Galla then called to him and they left.

  Galla Simplicia had ignored Myla. She seemed completely involved with Graecina, which was worthy work. But afterwards, I did wonder if she hustled her cousin away on purpose.

  I was ready to leave myself. I told Dromo he could stay behind and rest his tired feet. He could take one hour off (this presumed he could work out how long an hour was). Then, he was to see if he could do anything useful for Graecina and if not, I suggested he got together with her slave Cosmus.

  ‘Oh no! I’ve seen him gawking around the place like a dopey bum. He’s just a nipper.’

  ‘He looks almost as old as you. Be boys; pal up with him for a while, will you?’

  Dromo stared at me. ‘Is this for your work? You telling me to squeeze him for gen?’

  ‘I am saying, get to know him a bit if you can.’

  ‘Have I got to be a spy?’ I must be insane. Sending in Dromo was like army engineers setting up a catapult with a wonky wheel on a very steep slope with no ballast.

  ‘Just see what you think.’ I had remembered that my uncle’s young son had taken against Cosmus, when he was over there. Would Dromo feel the same? Perhaps Cosmus would be different with a fellow slave to how he had behaved with privileged, aristocratic children.

  ‘That dog of his sounds vicious!’ Dromo complained, though he did look interested in what I had asked him to do. Well, almost.

  For a change, instead of going down towards the Caelian, I walked a northern route to the Aventine – Clivus Suburanus, Clivus Pullius, Clivus Orbius, on to the top end of the Forum, then around the back of the Palatine on the river side, through the meat market to the corn station, and up the hill to the Temple of Ceres from the Trigeminal Gate. I must be growing homesick. I ended up very near my parents’ town house although since they were away at the coast I did not drop in. I had no wish to visit their home-sitting slaves. My favourites were Helena’s favourites too, and had gone with the family.

  Faustus was not at the aediles’ office. Nobody had seen him all day. I hoped he wa
s not annoyed that I turned down his offer of assistance with the interviews. More likely, he thought I was getting ideas about him.

  Fine by me.

  The nine survivors were in the office garden as usual: those two old workshy cronies, Amethystus and Diomedes, had marked out a board in the dust and were playing a game with pebbles for counters, watched in a desultory way by the ambitious young Daphnus and his twin, the dim scribe Melander. In another group, the African Libycus was talking to the women, Amaranta and the girl Olympe. Phaedrus, the tall German litter bearer-cum-porter, was sitting by himself, acting as if he wanted a sculptor to turn him into a Defeated Barbarian. Chrysodorus was on his own too. He was lying on his back on some grass, with his eyes closed and his hands folded on his chest, as if he was waiting for the pains of life to be over. The awful little dog, Puff, had curled up beside the philosopher, oblivious to his loathing.

  I marched over to them and called for attention. First, I announced that Polycarpus was dead. Keeping an eye on as many as possible, I told them how he had been killed. I heard subdued muttering, and noticed a few glances from one to the other, but no significant reaction. Few workers are truly sorry when their supervisor comes to a bad end.

  I mentioned that this did not affect their position. ‘You were here. In fact it happened yesterday morning, while I saw you all, so I can even vouch for you myself.’ One or two still looked subdued; after all, they were still indicted for the murders of their master and mistress. The killing of Polycarpus, a freedman, hardly made a difference.

  I had thought carefully how to approach my next task. I informed them as a group that ‘new information’ had been supplied by a witness. Then, assisted by the public slaves who guarded them, I interviewed each slave individually. I did it the same way as before, not letting them return to the others afterwards. As the waiting group decreased, the remnants had an opportunity to discuss among themselves, and perhaps to worry, what I might have been told.

  With each, I began by stating angrily that I knew they had lied. Nicostratus was not attacked by robbers bursting in, because the robbers entered discreetly and they never even saw him. Valerius Aviola and Mucia Lucilia were dead before Nicostratus was attacked. The robbers did not find, let alone steal, the silver.

  Every slave stuck doggedly to his or her original story. They refused to explain discrepancies. None had any idea, they claimed, why the robbers said they failed to encounter Nicostratus nor could they tell me who removed the silver wine set, if it was not thieves.

  Diomedes who, according to the tale, had been lying in the courtyard in a drunken stupor with Amethystus, claimed the searching robbers must have stepped right over them. ‘Must have tiptoed like dancers, very light-footed!’ he quipped. His impudent implication was that Roscius and his men were lying about what they saw, or did not see.

  Only Amaranta and Olympe, together with the young scribe Melander, seemed frightened that this new evidence was casting doubts on their story, though none of them changed it. All the others stuck to their bluff.

  Daphnus, the bright tray carrier, fiddled with his amulet and did query why this witness of mine had not come forward before. I said he had not wanted to get involved, which seemed to satisfy Daphnus. Most people think giving evidence about a crime will rebound on them and cause too much trouble.

  It was left to Chrysodorus to challenge me outright. ‘So,’ he proposed, ‘you have nine of us saying one thing and one person supplying new evidence – yet you automatically believe the singleton? Numerical probability is against you, Flavia Albia. And who is your surprise witness? Am I to deduce that if he can speak for the robbers, he is a robber himself?’

  I had to admit he was. ‘Intriguingly, Chrysodorus, you are alone in working that out! How pleasing to find a philosopher with a genuine enquiring mind, and willing to engage in debate. Something to be said for intellectual training.’

  ‘Your informant is a person of such admirable character, Flavia Albia!’

  ‘Now you are speaking like a lawyer, which does not endear you to me. Keep your irony to yourself, please. I’ll do the rhetoric, if any is needed.’

  ‘Let me speak in a cruder argot then – if this man avows the robbers did not take the silver, is that not what a criminal is bound to say – especially if he wishes to stop you looking for his loot?’

  ‘A good point – though I believe him. He was undoubtedly honest about seeing the bodies. The scene horrified him. He had the shakes even talking about it. So I do accept he legged it empty-handed, in shock.’

  I thought about this. I was certain Roscius had taken part in violence before. Even killing might not be new to him, though perhaps serious damage to others was mainly inflicted by the enforcer, Gallo. Even if Roscius was present during fights, I bet he normally left any victim behind, on the street or in a bar, possibly with a lot of spilled blood, yet either still alive and crawling, or else abandoned merely unconscious: the way it was meant to happen in that street attack on Uncle Quintus.

  Roscius could distance himself from that. What affected him with Aviola and Mucia was their nakedness and their agonised faces. The memory of their dead faces would stay in his mind for a long time.

  I had not even seen them, yet his horror affected me.

  I sat writing up a report to leave here at the office for Manlius Faustus.

  While I was doing it, the slaves must have held an urgent conference. I did hear raised voices, reaching me in waves. I wrote more slowly, allowing them time.

  At length, a guard knocked on the door and told me a deputation wanted to see me.

  38

  There were three of them: Amaranta, Libycus and Phaedrus.

  I was not surprised to see Amaranta as a ringleader. She was a quicksilver hopeful, with years to enjoy ahead of her if she escaped this unscathed – and she had organising skills. Libycus, the other body slave, made a natural partner to her now. Phaedrus, who had not budged on his original story when I talked to him again, was unexpected.

  Of those who did not come, the hard-drinking gardener and the man of all work – Diomedes and Amethystus – were bound to keep well out of anything tricky. Olympe was too young; Amaranta, being motherly, might even have told her to hang back. I would have expected Daphnus, so I wondered if there was unknown coolness between him and Phaedrus.

  Chrysodorus surprised me by his absence, given that he was the only one to tackle me beforehand over the new evidence. Still, although philosophers reckon to address the issues of all mankind, most are loners and many are awkward socially. He may have upset the rest and been rejected as a co-commissioner. Or he may have pulled out in a huff.

  I was still working in the office that Faustus used. I stayed where I was, on a reading couch. They stood. Of course they did. Making use of furniture is the sign of superiority in Rome. Men of power all sit their podgy posteriors on thrones and ceremonial stools. The mistress of any house has her armchair. Even an informer gets to recline when addressing a hangdog trio of slaves. The only unusual thing here was that I bothered to think about it.

  I waited for them to speak. Amaranta had been chosen as their spokeswoman. ‘Flavia Albia, we have not been entirely straight with you.’

  I raised my eyebrows. Informers should always take the trouble to keep their brows plucked. So much easier to express genteel scepticism, if you have neat arches for the uplift.

  Since Amaranta had fallen awkwardly silent, I said, ‘Why am I not surprised to hear that, Amaranta? So, what secrets are you about to give up to me?’

  ‘We think we ought to explain about what the robber has told you.’

  ‘Indeed, I think the same. You should.’

  ‘We need to say why he never saw any of us.’

  ‘That’s right. You do.’

  ‘We were all there really. In the apartment.’

  ‘Yes, you must have been.’

  ‘We were having our supper.’

  ‘All together?’

  ‘Yes, Albia.’
>
  ‘And where was this meal taking place?’

  ‘In the oecus. There wasn’t room to squash in anywhere else.’

  I swung my legs around, turning to sit up, with my feet on the floor. It gave me a view of them straight on. Bangles chinked as I leaned on the end of the couch, one-elbowed. I tugged at an earring thoughtfully, easing its hook.

  As excuses go, this was not bad. They had no way of knowing (for I had mentioned it to none of them) that Roscius told Faustus he remembered lamplight in the Corinthian oecus. Amaranta had just unwittingly confirmed that.

  I discussed what they were now saying, drawing out a portrait of a house that went to sleep with the master and mistress, only to reawaken once they were settled; a house that lived a second life – a life where the slaves held sway. In many homes this happens, so it was a credible tale. Sometimes it is perfectly harmless, because staff are permitted some form of private existence and their nocturnal sociability causes no disturbance. Sometimes riot occurs. That was not what Amaranta wanted me to believe.

  According to her, the loaned kitchen staff departed. Polycarpus went home too.

  ‘He did not eat with you?’

  ‘No, never.’ It would have been his private relaxation time, in his own apartment, with Graecina and their children. His escape. A luxury only a freedman could have. ‘We quite liked him living somewhere else,’ Amaranta admitted. I did not blame them. Every evening the steward’s departure must have given them an hour or so of something close to freedom.

  ‘Who made your food?’ I slipped in.

  Amaranta must have thought quickly – though not fast enough. ‘Myla.’

  I laughed out loud. ‘Oh, come off it! Not only was she squeezing out another baby, foisted on her by who knows who, but the idea of Myla providing a meal for ten people is ludicrous. When I am there, I can barely get her to bring me a cup of water.’

  The trio were silent.

  I refused to accept their version. ‘No, Myla could not have produced your dinner.’