Pandora's Boy: Flavia Albia 6 (Falco: The New Generation)

by Lindsey Davis

  For once Dorotheus was not skulking, ready to ask me about progress. He might not be on the lookout for me – yet I was looking for him. I had slipped up to my room for a change of sandals, as the ones I had on were rubbing. I happened to spot the lank with his arm in a sling as he came out of his master’s apartment, carrying a bag. He did not look furtive. In fact, he looked so nonchalant, I decided it was all an act: he must be up to something.

  Fortunately, I had acquired Roman habits, so I had hung out my bed coverlet on the balcony rail to air. I crouched down behind it. As soon as I could do so unseen, I sneaked downstairs. Dorotheus had almost reached the end of Apricot Street but I picked up his trail and followed him.

  On the way, he bought some fruit, which he added to the bag he had with him. It was a cloth sac of some size, though it looked fairly light. A man with a broken arm could sling it over his free shoulder, managing without effort. It bulged, as if stuffed with something soft, like clothing.

  Dorotheus seemed in no hurry, a typical house-slave. He passed the time of day with other slaves he knew. He looked in shops. He watched a shouting match between two men with handcarts. Finally, when I was fearing he must turn and spot me, he walked on, ending up at the exclusive, formal apartment where Marcia Sentilla lived.

  I felt not entirely surprised. His master and mistress might be agreeing a divorce but there would still be family business. One aspect in particular, I thought. Volumnius Firmus in Apricot Street was probably unaware of it.

  Dorotheus had been passed in by the porter in the outer porch, but I had to hang back lest the slave saw me. When I did reach the inner courtyard, he had already been admitted to the apartment. I stayed outside. I guessed he wouldn’t be long. I was right.

  After he came out I waited until the door closed behind him, then I jumped him and pushed him up against it. Speaking quietly, so as not to alert anyone inside, I ascertained the situation.

  Chryse had once mentioned to me that when Volumnius Junior was a small boy, he was given a slave to look after him. Dorotheus was the slave in question. They had been close ever since, though Dorotheus had stayed in the household and was not taken with Publius to Africa. When Junior slunk back from the army, he let his slave know he was now in Rome; they had been in regular contact ever since. The son was also close to his mother, so when he left the Cestius family, Dorotheus brought a message to Sentia Lucretia who at once said Publius should come here to his grandmother’s apartment. His father did not know.

  Dorotheus could not, or would not, tell me how his young master had come to desert, or even if that was what he had done. Nor could he explain how Publius planned to resolve this problem.

  I forbade the slave to reveal that I knew, on pain of me reporting to the army where their missing man Auctus could be found. I spelled out what Tiberius had said about the penalties for desertion. Then I marched Dorotheus back to Apricot Street. I said tomorrow I would assemble all the relevant parties and report to the family on my findings. I plucked ‘tomorrow’ out of the air, mainly to give myself a deadline.

  I played up my anger regarding Auctus. I had no real feelings about a feeble youth failing to make his way in the military. Clearly I scared Dorotheus.

  ‘I suppose,’ I raged, ‘when you have been asking all your busy questions about my inquiry, the real reason was not Volumnius Firmus nagging for rapid progress, but you wanted to know anything I learned about your young master? You were spying on me for him?’

  The slave hung his head, whining that Firmus did press him to find out how I was getting on. But then, as if to buy me off, he muttered something quite new. ‘Don’t say anything to my master. Look, I can tell you something you don’t know.’

  ‘Spill it quick then.’

  He said, before Clodia Volumnia died, she had told Chryse and Dorotheus that if neither her mother nor her grandmothers would help, she herself would obtain a love-potion to bind Vincentius to her.

  I pursed my lips, considering. ‘However could she do that?’

  Dorotheus claimed not to know.

  ‘Did she have her own money?’

  ‘A little purse of small coins so she could purchase trinkets.’

  I worked it out.

  ‘Did Clodia ever go near Pandora on her own?’

  Certainly not, Dorotheus said.

  ‘Sweet Venus! Will people in your family never stop lying? Cough up, man. It is time to bring the truth into the open so I can sort out some of the anguish.’

  Then he admitted that Clodia was sometimes allowed to travel in her mother’s chair, when Sentia Lucretia was not using it, to have a manicure or pedicure from Meröe and Kalmis. Chryse always had to go with her. Clodia, who had developed a friendship with one of the assistants, used to make Chryse stay in the chair.

  Surely, asked Dorotheus, acting innocent, there was nothing wrong in that, was there?

  54

  Dismissing the idea that I might try out my new theory on the mother or grandmothers, I first found Tiberius on statue-watch for Dedu. Min was out of the shrouds, though not his bandages; today he was receiving visitors. Well-wishers had placed posies on the ground in front of him.

  ‘How sweet! Listen, guardian of the Egyptian god, if Laia Gratiana can hire a temple for black magic, can you get me a better one for tomorrow so I can present my solution to the people involved?’

  Tiberius assured me the servants of Min could do anything. I left him to arrange it.

  Next, I went straight to question Pandora. I walked quickly from Apricot Street to the Via Lata. There I saw even more evidence of Domitian’s imminent return to Rome. Viewing stands had been put up along the pavement, making my approach difficult. Even more soldiers carried out even more pointless actions to annoy local residents.

  I needed to finish my case. Any day now the whole area would be thronged with idiots celebrating our heroic leader, his oversexed victorious troops and whatever string of plunder and pathetic captives they threw together to look good. At their approach, hawkers of trinkets and snacks, one-legged vagrants, find-the-Cleopatra dice-cup tricksters and out-of-town prostitutes of both sexes would materialise from nowhere to prey on the crowds. It would be no time to try to piece together a sad little family tragedy. Even the noise level in this area was already unconducive to any attempt at sympathetic explanations.

  I battled my way to near the New Temple of Hope and the New Temple of Fortune. It took me a couple of tries to find the right side street, then once I got my bearings I nipped down to Pandora’s house. Meröe and Kalmis were outside slapping creams on customers, so I nodded and rushed past them up the stairs. I should have had a plan. Well, I did have, sort of: get inside and tackle Pandora.

  I should have had a plan that would work: something to use when the door was opened by the giant maidservant Polemaena, who then announced triumphantly that Pandora was not there.

  ‘Not at home?’

  ‘Not in Rome.’

  The huge, hideous woman loomed above me, filling the whole landing as I waited for answers below her on the stairs. Her wiry hair was tied up in a scarf and from where I stood her need to use a mouthwash was more evident than ever. At least, as she relished her chance to thwart me, she did not bother to be aggressive.

  ‘Where has she gone?’

  ‘She took her poor sick brother to try to recuperate at their place in the hills.’

  The invalid was Old Rabirius, but I refrained from retorting that most of Rome hoped he died. I knew what was going on: the crooked pair had hiked out of town fast when the vigiles’ pressure over Fabulo’s had hotted up.

  ‘And I suppose, Polemaena, you have absolutely no idea when Pandora may be back?’

  ‘There is no need to be sarcastic, ducky.’ She was aping her absent mistress, a true mouthpiece. ‘You are a Druid – so you prophesy!’

  ‘I am a simple handmaid who holds a chalice of benevolent knowledge. Unlike your mistress I do not dabble in the black arts.’

  ‘She makes f
ace creams!’

  ‘That rancid tale!’

  Polemaena stepped back, about to close the door on me. I leapt up the top steps and got my foot in it. Any informer knows these tricks, just in case we are forced to retire and be travelling broom salesmen.

  ‘So, is her boy here?’ As the giantess struggled with me for possession of the front door, I called out towards the apartment interior, ‘Vincentius!’

  It was worth a try.

  It was better than that, because he was there. He heard us puffing and swearing, so he came along to investigate. He had a wrapped vine-leaf snack in one hand and a flatbread in the other. Polemaena still wanted to keep me out, but then, in the face of the grandson’s charm, she cursed me and walked off. While he munched, Vincentius leaned on the frame to talk to me. He made a very handsome doorstop.

  ‘You are here a lot?’ I said, rubbing my bruises from my tussle with the maid.

  ‘In and out all the time. I am spoiled rotten, I admit. My mother says I only go home to her house to catch some sleep and raid her purse. While the old one’s away, I am dropping in for her, to check up on her place.’

  ‘How wise!’ I scoffed, imagining him acting like a lord in Pandora’s absence. The maid was certainly lavishing food on him. ‘Always a risk when a householder has gone away to their holiday villa. You don’t want thieves to smash their way in and wreck your gran’s luxurious home.’

  Vincentius grinned. ‘No one will steal the silver with Polemaena on guard. When my gran comes back, there won’t be a scratch on her furniture. Around here, the Rabirius reputation will be enough protection.’

  ‘I am sure it will go a long way – but you know what happened to Iucundus; your family firm have upset the dregs of the Balbinus gang and they won’t blink twice at your sparkly brand name.’

  Vincentius remained unmoved. ‘The Embankment crew? All sorted. We sent Gallo, our top negotiator, to reason with their leaders. He came back with a pact, fixing new demarcation lines.’

  ‘That sounds like an agreement that will fail.’

  Vincentius shook his head. ‘Flavia Albia, don’t be a pessimist.’ I was watching street wars before this stripling was born, yet I dropped the argument. He then slipped in disingenuously, ‘Have you heard any more of how the vigiles are getting on with their inquiry into who killed Iucundus?’

  The question was posed lightly. He could have been asking about the weather in Liguria or the fish catch on the Tyrrhenian coast. I answered that when, or if ever, he was professionally representing one of the parties involved, the vigiles might disclose their findings, to enable a defence; otherwise, it was none of his business. With a gracious gesture, Vincentius waved what remained of his stuffed vine leaf, accepting this as correct procedure. ‘Well, the Balbini must find their own attorney.’

  ‘I’m sure they already have one!’

  Changing the subject, I said I had new information about Clodia Volumnia buying a love-potion to use on him; once again, Vincentius denied all knowledge. ‘But, hey, Flavia Albia, let’s make you quite sure …’ He even called Polemaena back, so she could verify there had been no sale.

  Polemaena stumped up so fast she must have been listening.

  ‘That silly little thing? All bombast, no brains. As a matter of fact, she did come here, knocking like a maniac; I sent her away. She was easy to scare off. My mistress never even knew about it.’

  It rang true. I could not see a fifteen-year-old pushing her way in past this daunting figure. Clodia must have been wrong-footed before she even said what she had come for.

  I gave up. I told Vincentius about my plan to gather interested parties tomorrow, asking him to come and to bring his friends. I said the location could be had from the salad booth near Apricot Street.

  Vincentius charmingly said goodbye. Polemaena shut the door, not bothering to use charm.

  I went down the stairs slowly. One step at a time, with a pause for thought on each.

  By the time I reached street level, Meröe and Kalmis had finished with the clients I had seen earlier. Kalmis, the older one, was packing up a bag to take samples to demonstrate at a customer’s house. I asked Meröe for something medicinal to put on my foot where my sandal strap had rubbed a blister earlier. She sat me in their long chair, pulled off the replacement sandal, massaged my foot soothingly; she rubbed spider’s webs into the sore place, and topped them off with spotted aloe juice.

  While she was doing this, I sighed and complained that my case had gone awry so I despaired of ever solving it. All the time I seemed to ramble, I was summing up Meröe. She was the young one of the pair, extremely young, as I had previously noted. Although well trained, she was barely old enough to work; make-up and grooming hid the fact. Once I really saw just how immature she was, the way Meröe wore an adult woman’s mask of cosmetics was not beautiful but ghoulish, not natural but a perversion.

  She and Clodia must have been the same age. No wonder they had bonded. I asked about this, making my question inconsequential. Meröe confirmed she and the arbiter’s lass had had a friendship, though she seemed anxious about admitting it. She and Kalmis were supposed to manipulate clients, not to associate with them closely. But with Pandora out of Rome and Kalmis having left us, I felt safe to broach the crucial issue. I talked of Vincentius and wondered about Clodia’s yearning for him. I was nervous in case Meröe shared the crush, which might have muddied the waters; she said she had known Vincentius since he was a boy. That seemed to have inoculated her.

  I waited as long as possible, then plunged in the question: ‘So did Clodia ever actually acquire a love-potion?’

  Meröe paused for a long moment.

  ‘Come on. I sympathise with how she felt. You can tell me.’

  ‘Oh, Albia. She was desperate; she convinced herself it was the only way. I let slip that we keep a secret shelf of binding spells, in unguent flasks that look like special perfume. You know, little glass birds; you have to snap off a beak or a tail to let the liquor out. Well, I should never have told her. After that she kept hammering on at me. Clodia expected to get her own way, so she was making my life a misery. What the heck? I gave her one. Why not? What was wrong in that? I knew it was harmless anyway.’

  55

  I could have tripped back upstairs to ascertain from the unlovely Polemaena whether Clodia ever came knocking here, trying to deliver a package for Vincentius. If so, Polemaena was bound to have intercepted it. But I did not try. For one thing, that woman could do damage, and I was averse to risk. For another, who likes failure? The giantess would never tell me, on principle.

  I had a better idea. Vincentius was ‘Pandora’s boy’ but he lived where he had been brought up: with his mother.

  Her name was Veronica; I think Scorpus had told me. I made Meröe give me her address. I swore the young beautician to secrecy, though that was unlikely to work. Hopefully I could get there before any associate of Pandora’s found out I was going. However, it was not ideal.

  I could have asked at the lettuce booth whether Veronica was a customer of theirs, and perhaps found her address that way, but she wouldn’t use aphrodisiacs: wives of gangsters who have gone to live abroad are famously chaste and loyal, from both necessity and choice. They are not inhabiting a Greek legend; should their husbands ever make it home, they won’t be killed in the bath the way Agamemnon was bloodily axed – even though there is a high probability any gangster will die in a pool of gore some other way. These women, having got their hands on money, send some cash to the husbands in exile but do not allow other men to come near the remainder. The rest of the gang watch them. One slip may lead to an honour killing. They have to be careful with their own appearance, their behaviour and what happens to their absent husband’s share of any loot.

  Insofar as the Quirinal had a rough area, Veronica lived in it. I do not suppose that worried her. Poor streets would be where she had originated. She lived behind a dark, heavily barricaded door, several storeys up above a mean alley. I spoke to
a slave through a grille, then Veronica came to the doorway herself. I never got inside, though what I glimpsed from the threshold was spotlessly clean and well appointed. Veronica had the means; she had made a decent home in which to bring up her son.

  When young, she might have been a trophy. I guessed she was married in her teens to a man she had known from childhood, then her looks faded before she was twenty. Now she was a tiny, tough, plain-faced, empty-eyed ruler of the home. With no spare flesh on her face or upper body, she had the trunk-like legs that are the curse of short women from a working background. I could see that because her skirts were side-slit, her one common gesture. She wore no jewellery (though undoubtedly she owned some) and her hair was plainly tied.

  No beauty products made their way to this home. Looking bare-faced and dressing drably would be a sign that she was true to Rabirius Vincentius, the father of her son – a man she had not seen for years and might never see again.

  Ultimately since her husband had fled she had come under the patronage of Old Rabirius, the clan chief. He might be a distant figure except at formal gatherings. Did she ever dare have a helpful male friend to give advice when she needed to hire a carpenter, or to provide a shoulder when she felt despair? I was not rash enough to ask her.

  I asked to go in to speak privately, but she kept me on the doorstep. In its way, this was more honest than being offered almond slices in some smart parlour where I was simultaneously fed lies. Veronica did not wish to speak to me. She saw me as an interfering troublemaker, to whom she owed nothing. When I congratulated her, genuinely, on the fine job she had done of bringing up her son single-handed, she heard me like stone. She knew. She did not need me telling her.

  Nevertheless, she let me speak, because she wanted to know why I had come. Normally Pandora was the focus of inquiries, so why was I seeking out Veronica? As she withered me with that hard stare, I felt her power. She was in no way subordinate. Veronica, wife of Rabirius Vincentius, ran things. She knew things. She controlled things. I suspected a great deal of money passed through her hands for her husband, information too perhaps. She stayed in the background; her role was unobtrusive. Only the emergence of Vincentius as a successor to the gang’s lawyer had presumably brought his mother new prominence. I reckoned she would handle it.