“I am here to look after her!” Suza had loudly assured him. It was good enough for me. With her have-a-go attitude, muggers would be quickly scared off.
Karus did not talk to maids. He would not even acknowledge that she had spoken. How rude! Suza was obviously thinking. While she mentally tried to phrase a put-down, I noticed a nice bangle in a shop display, but decided against window-shopping. I would note where it was and maybe come back alone. A woman with a strange man cannot show any interest in such things, in case he thinks she expects him to buy it for her, which can only mean he will expect a return.
What a horrible thought.
His motive for the escort duty was a twisted need to find out about my commission. As we walked, he began probing crudely. “So how are you seeing your role in all this, Flavia?”
“I have no intention of stepping on your toes, Julius Karus,” I murmured, playing it sweet. “As you will understand, these people feel they are floundering out of their depth. It’s natural they have made official complaints, which had nothing to do with me, incidentally; I had not been commissioned then. I shall advise them on what is appropriate. Perhaps I can curb their agitation, leaving you and Ursus to get on with the investigation.”
Karus gave me a sideways look, as if he feared I was being satirical. I wrapped my stole around my head, while I kept walking.
“They are desperate for answers,” Karus acknowledged.
“Of course. What is your opinion?” I asked, starting my own digging. “Will this man be caught?”
“Such individuals are always catchable.”
“Not in their minds,” I answered sadly. “The longer they get away with it, the more confident they feel, the more arrogant they are.”
“Untouchable, they believe,” Karus agreed. “But that is when they make mistakes.”
He was right, yet how many more women had to be attacked before this killer made a fatal error? Since he was now talking, I slowed my steps discreetly to allow more time. We had already come across the Aventine tops almost as far as the vigiles headquarters, so I was sheering off to the left. Once we reached the Temple of Diana Aventina, we would be in Lesser Laurel Street where I would be home.
I paused as if subconsciously watching a delivery of wine to a cookhouse, then waited for a laden mule to pass in front of me. “I presume it is correct that killings have been happening for years? Have you any idea how long?”
“Fifteen, could even be twenty,” he conceded, though it was like pulling fingernails.
“And it’s definitely the same man? How many other victims?”
Karus shrugged, trying not to give too much away.
“I imagine record-keeping by the Seventh Cohort has always been deplorable?” I was wooing him, suggesting he had found himself landed in a hopeless situation where, due to others’ incompetence, vital information was simply unavailable to him. “Be fair, though. They don’t have the manpower, or the supervision, let alone enough support from higher up. I take it none of them can be the killer? Their basic term of service is only six years.”
“Right,” agreed Karus. “Some have done more, but not long enough to interest me. Ursus has been with the Seventh for four years.” So Karus had run personnel checks. I wondered if Ursus knew that.
“Then have they any ideas about this killer?”
“Ursus is sure it’s a sailor.”
“Evidence?”
“Only that the area is full of them. He’s wrong,” announced Karus. “The timeline goes back much too far—any sailor would have been redeployed.” Military life was his field, so I was willing to accept what he said.
“What would be the average posting, then, Karus?”
“In the army, it could be twenty-five years in, normally, two to four provinces. I’ll have to check about the navy, but it won’t be longer.”
“There are only two navies. Ravenna and Misenum. We can leave out the Classis Britannica, I dare say. Isn’t it Ravenna they draw the crews from for the amphitheatre shades?”
“My point is,” Karus put me straight, “that sail-riggers who come here for arena duty would not be allowed a shore posting for longer than a year or two. Too cushy. Drag them back to a floating job, before they learn to like it too much. No, Ursus insists on talking to the commander of the marine barracks. He can do that all he wants, but it is not one of them.”
“What about their commander? How long has he served there? A rogue chief of staff has been known, though usually the worst they do is put on a dress and ludicrous rouge, then fornicate with scrubbers in bath-houses.”
“They all hate the post.” Karus remained unsmiling. “None of them ever lasts long before requesting a move.”
“No allure in Rome?” I bet he was wrong—I bet they all had mistresses. “All right, life in a big barracks in the Transtiberina cannot be glamorous. So, we’re back with the vigiles’ normal circle of suspects. Their day-to-day problems in handling it. Realisation that cases were connected will have been slow in coming. And, of course, as more bodies were found, it must have been too easy to dismiss them as prostitutes, women who to many people do not matter.” I sensed a twitch. “Were they?” I slid in quickly. “Were they in fact all prostitutes?”
Karus was finally coerced. “One was a schoolgirl,” he confided. That seemed to count; it really bothered him. He mentioned others: “A flower-shop keeper, who sounds to have been a decent woman. Quite a few where no one knows anything about them, so I expect you would say, Flavia Albia, better not to make judgements just because this pervert killed them.”
“Yes,” I confirmed. He was accusing me of harbouring liberal opinions, which his master Domitian despised, so he was bound to hate it too. But I kept my tone level: “I do say that. Even low-grade working girls are human, surely? I suppose there are high-class courtesans in Rome, drifting around in translucent silks, or money-counting brothel madams who intend to retire to massive villas, and who will do so if they aren’t carried off by disease. But the kind of woman who gets herself assaulted by a punter in a public garden, when she has no protection, not even from a pimp, now she will be doing it for the money in the meanest sense, Karus. She is a woman alone or hitched to a useless man. She does the deed behind a pavilion or under a bush for a few scraps of food to put on the table, invariably for her children. She will never be rich. She’s close to destitute. She will not live long, even without a pervert strangling her so he can watch her die.”
“Well!” said Karus. He did not disagree, but my passion had put a breach between us: too kind-hearted, Flavia Albia. Girlie talk that a man on a mission was not swayed by.
“You know you have to stop this,” I declared.
“I know I do. I will.”
So that was him: practical, half reasonable, utterly arrogant. An agent with no time for failure—and no concept that failure could happen to him.
I knew enough to realise that that might be just what was wanted: he might have the right determination finally to catch this killer. He wanted the kudos; perhaps, for career reasons, he needed it. That could be why, when we reached my house, I allowed myself to thank the hitman for escorting me by inviting him in for a nightcap. Even Karus flashed a look of surprise.
If old Grey Eyes, my husband, had been there, he would have been curious to meet this man. He wasn’t, but Gratus would handle the situation. Nothing awkward would arise. In any case, as soon as the front doors opened, it was clear this was a home full of people, people who were being treated to genial entertainment.
There were oil lamps and even braziers, due to the time of year. Our courtyard was alive with sound and movement. “Ah, that’s nice—a harpist and his band of musicians come sometimes to play for my husband!”
This harpist, a superb citharode, was very famous indeed. Yet if Karus had ever heard of him, he gave no sign of recognition.
That told me something else: Karus worked only in straight lines. A clue had to turn up where he expected it. For him, links were
always joined on a single plain. He was going to miss a chance here.
As we made Karus welcome, I explained that the Fabulous Stertinius had entertained guests at our wedding. On the same day, my husband had been struck by lightning—which Karus also seemed not to know. Either he had not read my security file (every informer has one) or it was badly out of date. I did not expect this hard man to have gone to the Forum to peruse the Daily Gazette society column. Still, his barber ought to have bored him with our story …
Stertinius had been touched that the accident happened after he had played. Now he regularly visited us, so his beautiful music assuaged the mental and physical pain Tiberius suffered after being felled by Jupiter’s bolt. The musicians always made it a social occasion, an improvised practice session, in return for which we fed them. They thought our house a civilised bolthole, one of few they visited from choice. We were proud of that.
Now, since I had brought a visitor, the musicians stopped jamming and moved aside, sitting discreetly in a corner while Fornix brought them a meal. I was starving, but I signalled that I would wait until the agent left. Gratus served Karus one cup of wine, then took the flagon away. I had water.
Talking to Karus socially was one-way traffic. Able only to discuss his work, he was soon favouring me with his theories on murder. He had fixed ideas, no surprise. I could have said in advance what they were: “With men, it’s all about power—inflicting rape, terror, pain and, the ultimate thrill, death. This is very different from a woman who kills. For a woman, it’s always because they say they are doing good. They even seem to persuade themselves of it—that they are nurturing sickly victims who need help, even if the so-called help means putting them out of their misery. Women generally kill the old, babies, the sick. If they do have a real motive, it’s simple: they kill for money.”
I had never been convinced by this. I’d known of too many women who had killed off their husbands just to get rid of them. Tonight, however, I kept quiet. Karus did not want to hear my thoughts. “They may be feeling insecure—relatives have died, or they are being divorced so they feel vulnerable and need a financial cushion. Of course, women very rarely kill—”
At that I snapped. “Face it, man. Women do. Female murderers are just better at it. Women are much cleverer, so nobody spots what they are doing. You think that they don’t exist only because they are never found out.”
That was it for Karus. He rose to go. The Emperor’s hitman had good enough manners not to hang around arguing with a woman in her own home. Or, more likely, I was too fierce for him.
As he passed the table where I had laid out the unearthed scrolls in their various sets, he looked at them with mild curiosity.
“Don’t ask!” I exclaimed fervently.
Julius Karus was not up to much as a spy. He went on his way with his military tread, after not asking.
Once he had left, Gratus murmured to me, “I held back refreshments. He looked as if his favourite finger food is iron nails! Do you want a proper drink now?”
“Juno, yes, please!”
I rushed over to Stertinius. He and the band pushed aside their food bowls immediately, welcoming me into their group. I told them to continue eating, as I would be doing myself. They asked after Tiberius—but I said it was me who needed to talk to them tonight, and it had nothing to do with their stylish arpeggios.
Karus had failed to make an important connection. Once he had annoyed me with his dogmatic theories, I saw no reason to point out what he had missed. The Fabulous Stertinius had been the hired entertainer at the Cluventius birthday party. No one takes much notice of the musicians, but their eyes are everywhere.
Karus could have interviewed key witnesses tonight. Now I would do it. Far be it from me to engage in a contest with the agent over gathering information—yet I would take advantage of this opportunity.
XXX
As I sat down with them, the lyre-player had reached for his instrument, greeting me with an exquisite slither of notes. The flautist and drummer both smiled through their moustaches, while they bowed over the low server around which they had been sitting to eat. All the long-haired group wore their usual exotic robes in vibrant colours with wide, contrasting borders, long-sleeved like eastern viziers’ nightgowns. These were to show white-tunicked Rome that they were artistes, who didn’t give a damn. I noticed they could afford better hem embroidery than I ever had.
Fornix himself brought me a bowl of food. Gratus poured his magical mulsum for everyone, although the musicians stopped his hand when their tots were only half full. It might have been politeness. More likely, their professional approach made them cautious. Their attitude to life was pure. To them, befuddlement would harm their playing.
Night had closed in. It was just about mild enough to stay sitting out, so Gratus quietly lit more lamps. Once they had finished eating, the players’ hands strayed back to their instruments. Our conversation was punctuated by short splashes of melody and beat.
“Hiring you to play seems to attract disasters!” I said ruefully to Stertinius, telling him I knew they had performed at the Transtiberina party. “I need to ask what you all saw at the Cluventius bash. The family have hired me to give them professional advice. Do you mind?”
They did not mind, especially since they knew me; they were intrigued that I might be taking an interest.
The terrible event had shocked them. Stertinius, whose fees were astronomical, even said that after Victoria Tertia was killed he considered waiving the recital charge. However, he usually asked for payment in advance, to avoid being tangled in rich people’s business practice (that is, don’t pay until they have to, and if they can, don’t pay ever). This precaution, he admitted wryly, now spared him a moral dilemma.
As an entertainer who enjoyed his fame, Stertinius had become heavy from good living. He must be forty, or even forty-five. His wiry hair had thinned, while his hands looked to be on the verge of becoming arthritic. That would be a disaster. I knew that while playing to soothe Tiberius he had shared his own fears for the future.
I guessed that with most clients he would remain aloof, though with us he talked, which he did with much intelligence. The thin wind-player and bandy-legged drummer generally pretended they were exiles from colourful homelands, so had no Latin. Even if this were true, I knew they observed and listened. Both had bright beady eyes, which missed little: if anyone made a decent joke, you could see them laughing at it.
They would give me the tenor of that party. I could trust their version. They had had the best possible inside view. “I know you can’t have seen the attack in the Grove but tell me about earlier. Let me reassure you, the net will be wide, but I don’t count you as suspects.”
Stertinius thanked me drily for that. He then gave me a picture of the evening, which he described as well-organised and respectable, though he was satirical about that. But he summed up their audience as pleasant to play for—a rare treat at private functions.
Stertinius had found Cluventius rough and ready, as might be expected of a man whose life had been spent among large draught animals. “With a few measures inside him, he was bellowing and braying himself. When he and his pals cheered at the end of our set, I knew how Orpheus felt playing to animals … yet theirs was honest pleasure.”
He called Victoria Tertia a lovely person—though he did describe her keeping the caterers on a tight rein. “If anyone wiped a drip off a spout with a finger, she made them fetch a clean jug. She was on to it instantly.”
“You too?” I queried, smiling.
“We never need supervision, dear lady! Apart from Fluentius.” Fluentius was the wind-player, primarily a flautist though he carried other instruments—single and double pipes in different sizes and even a large set of panpipes; he seemed proficient on them all. “We had to watch him flirting with the young daughter.”
“No, it was all right,” claimed Fluentius, lazily. “I told her straight she could trust me, though I was taken. But if I didn’t a
lready have five other girlfriends, she would be the one.”
“And how did Cluvia respond?” I asked. “She’s very sweet, and at the time her engagement was close to being finalised. Some young cad in the import-export trade, from what she told me.”
Fluentius rolled his eyes. “Yes, he was there. Pretty at a distance, but looked a loser to me. My bet is he will let her down.”
“He already has,” I revealed sadly. “They’ve backed out, because a family in distress after a murder makes ‘nice’ people flee.”
Fluentius said he would send Cluvia flowers. I told him not to. The last thing Cluventius needed was a daughter running off with a rapscallion from the performing arts. Besides, Fluentius shouldn’t put his five other girlfriends’ noses out of joint.
“They are used to it!” scoffed Stertinius, calling time on the repartee. “Tell us what else you need from us, Flavia Albia.”
I explained that my first thought, before I’d known the specifics of the crime, had been to blame the husband for his wife’s disappearance. Stertinius confirmed that they had seemed perfectly happy together. The musicians knew when Victoria had left for a breather, because it was just after she had made sure the caterers brought refreshments for them.
“Did she tell you it was all a bit much for her?”
“No, but we could see she was tiring. She seemed to be a quiet woman, one who wears herself out looking after people around her. She said she’d be back in a moment if we needed anything. Cluventius was still throwing himself into it. Very loud. Hugely convivial. A time-of-his-life host.”
I shuddered. “Exhausting!”
“Oh, he wanted to celebrate and why not? It was a really good party.”
“And you can confirm he was there at the time his wife must have been murdered.”
The Grove of the Caesars Page 13