The Grove of the Caesars

by Lindsey Davis

  “I don’t like them,” Quietus let himself admit.

  Karus was on it: “That’s it! Now we’re talking. You hate the whores.”

  “Not hate—”

  “You hate them.” Karus was having no dissent. Quietus reacted by trying to stand up. Karus roughly pushed him back on the stool. “Don’t try it!” He signalled to his men. None of them moved. Karus did not need support. All stubble and bullying, he was heavy, a lifelong soldier. In confrontation he had a calm that implied he could break a man’s neck without thinking about it. He throbbed with barely hidden power.

  Quietus lifted his bound hands to his forehead as if wanting to flatten his hair, then dropped them impotently. He must feel that he stood no chance.

  “Admit it—tell me how you hate the whores!”

  “Yes—”

  “You want to wipe them all out!”

  “No—”

  “That’s it! Throw him back in the cell.” As his squad moved to the prisoner, Karus looked up to us. “I’m finished! This is the Caesar’s Gardens killer. He’s filth. A pustule. A fungus growing on society. He won’t need a trial. Send him to the praetor, for transmission to the lions.”

  XLVII

  Karus took his crew off for a drink to celebrate.

  Ursus and I stayed put. We stared down at the empty yard. We had no sense of triumph.

  Eventually I asked, “Might I have a go with him?”

  Ursus shrugged. “What’s to lose?”

  We walked down the steps together. A couple of vigiles appeared, as if to check whether he wanted anything. The rest stayed in their cubicles. They are rough but Karus’s bullying had been too much. The atmosphere was deeply subdued.

  “I’ll have to be with you,” said Ursus. “Security.”

  “That’s fine. Glad to share ideas, if you have any.” He offered none.

  With a jerk of his head, Ursus signalled he wanted a word before I started. He strode over to the huge octagonal fountain bowl where the vigiles filled their fire-fighting siphon and buckets. There he plunged in both hands to wash himself, as if cleansing away moral filth. It was anyone’s guess whether his decency was offended by Quietus or by Karus.

  Ursus washed with vigour. He was like an enormous dog, shaking himself energetically, splashing anyone in reach. I waited until the wild torrents subsided, then scooped water onto my face more daintily. We both had our backs to the cells, though Quietus could probably not see us.

  “What’s special about the group he belongs to?” I wondered, almost to myself. “It could have been any of the garden staff. True, they found Satia, and the superintendent put them top of his list as suspicious. Now Karus has convinced himself that the billhook is a clue. I discount it. Galanthus speaks of something much heavier.”

  “Plus,” Ursus now told me, “one of my men found a rock in the woods that could have blood on it. We can’t be certain.”

  “But all the more reason to accept that Quietus was simply mending the tool … Three men in that group led by Blandus are old enough to be the Pest. Are you going to bring the others in?”

  “No point.” Ursus was blunt. “They will all blame one another.”

  I agreed. We could waste time and drive ourselves nuts with those raddled satyrs. I had a better idea. I told Ursus to have the apprentice fetched instead. “Not here to the station-house—he’ll be terrified. Let him come to that bar your men drink at.”

  “Get him drunk to see if he’ll crack?”

  “Well, we can make out it’s an informal chat, not an interview.”

  “Is he bright?”

  “I would say he keeps his eyes open.”

  Ursus sent a man.

  * * *

  Since we had Quietus, we might as well extract what we could from him while the boy was being fetched and Karus was off the premises. I walked to the door of the holding-cell, which stood open. Quietus was sitting on the ground; there was no furniture. He looked up, more arrogant than a man in his position ought to be, more truculent than many would be after Karus’s grilling.

  He was perfectly ordinary. No one would take him for a monster; he was hardly handsome yet had no hideous features. Hundreds of thousands of workmen in Rome, slaves and free, looked similar.

  “Yes, now comes the soft session!” My idea was to win his trust, although I found that an unpleasant prospect. “I’d like you to come outside again, please, so we can discuss your predicament.”

  Without waiting for a surly answer, I walked back across the portico corridor, out into the exercise yard. It was cold; I huddled in my cloak. Ursus followed with Quietus. Ursus made a gesture for me to take the chair, though I had already done so. It was mine because I was an aedile’s wife—but we informers have our ways. Forget the position of command. Whenever there’s a chance, we rest our legs.

  Quietus was shoved back down onto the low stool, while Ursus stood nearby, feet planted, thumbs in his broad belt.

  I spoke to the suspect conversationally. I never shouted, talked over him, or even stopped him denying guilt.

  “My name is Flavia Albia. We met the other day. I want information; I am not here to judge you.”

  “I’ve done nothing!”

  “Noted. What I would like is to explore whether the evidence really points to you, or if you can add to what is known. The reason you have been arrested was explained by Julius Karus. He thinks you have a suspicious interest in women, and you were caught mending an implement that has blood on it. I want to discuss specifics, especially other evidence.”

  Quietus was sneering, probably at being questioned by a woman.

  “It is in your interests to help.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because they will kill you,” I said baldly. I could hear Uncle Petro saying, “Don’t use threats unless you can back them up,” but with Karus involved there was no more to lose. “Do you want a terrifying punishment for something you have not done? Tell me about the billhook. Where were you, when Karus found you mending it?”

  “By the sheds. Our compound, where you saw us.”

  “It was not at one of the victims’ burial sites?”

  “No.”

  “Or anywhere near them?”

  “No.”

  “Where had the damage to this tool occurred?”

  “Digging in a flowerbed. Not where we found that body, it was another assignment afterwards. Work goes on.”

  “And when the handle broke?”

  “I was jabbing at a big old root. The billhook snapped and it sprang up at me.”

  “You were cut, you say? Can you show us?”

  He held out his hairy arm, pulling off a rag to demonstrate a dirty, jagged-edged wound, several inches long, still wet where the blood seeped. This had clearly occurred today. If it was not properly cleaned and dressed it would go septic. Ursus examined the arm, wrenching up the man’s elbow, then checked the billhook. Blood on it had dried.

  “Looks recent,” I deduced. “Primulus and Galanthus were attacked six days ago. If the tool was used since, the blood would be gone.” Ursus nodded. “The superintendent can confirm the assignment to the flowerbed, if necessary.” At this he nodded again.

  While he had hold of the suspect’s arm, Ursus carried out an experiment. Calling for a volunteer, he had Quietus’s hands unbound, then made him take hold of this vigilis, as if attempting to strangle him. “Don’t grip. If I hear my man so much as gasp, it will be you who dies!” Out came his rule, to measure the hand-spread in the same way as he had on the body of Victoria Tertia. Ursus shook his head. “Lucky for you, you have small paws for a man. This might even dissuade Karus from holding you—but don’t bank on it. He doesn’t believe in science.” Suddenly he gave another order: “Strip him!”

  Vigiles came and wrenched off the gardener’s tunic. It was not purely demeaning; it allowed Ursus to scrutinise him all over. “No bite marks!” he said to me, in a low voice. “It’s not him.”

  Addressing Quietus myse
lf as he struggled back into the garment, I played it frank. “Well, you look to be in the clear. But you should know my runaway boys have been found. That’s why we are looking for human bite marks.”

  “Are they dead?”

  “Assume not. The killer hit them—maybe not with your tool, but if they were hit with a rock instead, you still can’t prove it wasn’t you, can you?” Quietus seemed to take it in. I changed tack, hoping he was ready to cooperate. “Now tell me about Satia’s corpse,” I said. “The group of you who found her yesterday morning, how come you were there? Were you working in that area normally?”

  “Yes. We’re on winter maintenance. Clearing debris. Picking leaf litter. Aerating the soil for early bulbs when they nose through. But we had been ordered to look for a woman.”

  “A search party? Who gave you the orders?”

  “The Super. Karus had ordered him.”

  “Just to be sure, who are we discussing? This was you, with Blandus in charge, plus Rullius and a young lad? Were you all close together?”

  “We hadn’t started. We found the dead woman as soon as we walked up the path.”

  “Did you all spot her at once, or did one point her out?”

  “Someone pointed.”

  “Who?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  “Try, please. Was it you?”

  Quietus made out it was a strain, but he conceded what had happened: “Not me. Rullius had leaned over the fencing. At the same time Blandus let out, ‘Bollocks, we’ve got one!’ A dead body,” added Quietus, unnecessarily enjoying it. I made sure I showed no reaction. “We knew the Pest had been at his old tricks again.”

  “Had you yourself ever found one of these bodies before?”

  “No.”

  “What about the others?”

  “Probably. The boy threw up. It must have been his first. We get enough of the women dumped on us. I don’t know.”

  “Really? Don’t you ever talk about it?”

  “No. We all want to forget.” I looked sceptical; his attitude did not ring true. Quietus reconsidered his answer. “All right. Blandus had found bones before.” I felt now he was attempting to implicate Blandus. “I know, because he always tells apprentices if they come across remains to run and fetch him.”

  “What—he likes bones?”

  “His wife’s got a big dog!” joked Quietus, again hoping to offend me.

  Unimpressed, I simply asked, “You mean they tell Blandus so he can bring in the vigiles?”

  “We always bring the firemen in.” Quietus wanted to establish that they behaved correctly. By now he was not resentful. I was picking through facts. He was answering.

  That did not mean he was unmoved. Sometimes a suspect savours attention, but this one was more stressed than he wanted to show. Underneath, Karus had shaken him. I felt Quietus now saw talking to me as his only chance. In his mind he could hear the arena lions roar. “We always follow routine,” he insisted, after I remained silent.

  I glanced up, pretending to check with Ursus. He gave a faint nod. I wondered if he knew that the gardeners said he just threw reports into a cupboard, ignoring them.

  “Where were you,” I then asked Quietus lightly, “the night before? Before Satia, the last victim, was found dead?”

  For the first time, I saw him hesitate. “You’ll take it wrong.” His dialect was thicker than ever; I had to strain to work it out.

  “No, I told you: I don’t judge. Come on. What were you doing? Where did you spend the evening and where did you sleep?” He would not answer, so I told him a story myself, again speaking unexcitedly: “I had a look around your compound, the day I met your group.” At that, he looked up, indignant. Ursus made a one-fingered gesture for him to stay put, although Quietus never actually moved. “I reckon some of you sleep there. Tell me the truth, Quietus. You should do, because Ursus here will now send somebody to look.”

  Ursus did signal to one of his men.

  “We are going to find out,” I told the gnarled, long-faced suspect. “We’ll find signs of whoever has been sleeping there—and if it is you, we shall find your trophies.”

  “What trophies? I don’t know what you’re talking about!” This seemed genuine; Quietus’s face even registered horror, as if he thought I might mean body parts.

  Ursus put on the big sad smile of an enquirer who knows when somebody is lying. I kept going steadily. “Who slept in the compound two nights ago? Tell me.”

  When Quietus remained stubbornly silent, Ursus finally stepped in. “Are you married?” he demanded.

  “No.” The sudden new tack drew an answer.

  “Ever been?”

  “No.”

  “Can’t afford it? Or just don’t want to?”

  “No point, is there? I can get what I want without the hassle.”

  “Where do you live, then? You do live somewhere!”

  Quietus knew Ursus could find out, even if it took him time. “Some nights I sleep in the work compound. No one ever said I couldn’t. I don’t have to pay room rent.”

  “Anyone else do that?”

  “Some of them. Sometimes.”

  “Which others?” demanded Ursus. Quietus shrugged unhelpfully.

  Re-entering the conversation, I ticked off possibilities: “Your apprentice?”

  Quietus was not going to shake me off, so he admitted, “He stays with his parents. He’s just a lad.”

  “The rest of your team? What about Blandus and Rullius? Are they married?”

  “Both. Rullius never stays over, he goes home. He has a nice family.”

  “Nice families are never nice,” Ursus commented despondently, as if privately to me. “But they are bound to be nice enough to vouch for him.” He turned back to Quietus. “Your team-leader—Blandus?”

  “Blandus and his woman are not getting on.”

  “Not getting on? What is their problem?”

  “Quarrelling.”

  “What about?”

  “Life. Stress. His hours. Him not handing over enough of his pay. What he says about her mother. What she thinks of him. Especially that.”

  “Oh, nothing unusual! Tell us again,” said Ursus, taking over once more and putting on pressure. “Which of you, your team, slept out in Caesar’s Gardens on the night Satia was killed?”

  Quietus applied a helpful expression. “I was in the stable. Blandus is our team-leader, so he has the luxury; he kips in the Super’s office.”

  “Does Berytus know?”

  “Berytus knows nothing about anything! It’s temporary, Blandus says.”

  “How long has he been doing this?”

  “Past six months.”

  “If Blandus has quarrelled with his wife for six months, does that mean he goes with prostitutes?”

  “I shouldn’t think so!” Quietus took pleasure in telling us. “One of the things they fight about is how Blandus can’t manage it, these days.”

  He seemed to think that was an alibi for the team-leader. Ursus and I glanced at each other, knowing it could mean that in order to perform Blandus needed stimuli—rape and murder, for example.

  XLVIII

  A vigiles bar tends to be large, poorly lit and full of empty flagons. The men there are good-humoured, because they have gone off duty. They sit talking amiably about wrestlers or their children, except when they have just attended a large fire, one with casualties. At such times they are silent. They drink hard and use bad language, while sudden fights may flare, spilling out into the street. These are soon over. Best to walk by. Best to let them recover. Theirs is a hard job. They cope in their own ways.

  The gardeners’ apprentice was already sitting with them. Kind-hearted, they had placed a food bowl and beaker in front of him. He was so shy he only toyed.

  Ursus and I walked in casually. He went to order. I sat on a bench beside the lad, hoping a bite might be brought for me. It was. Globuli. Fried curd-cheese balls. I hate them.

  “Thanks!”

&n
bsp; “You’re an informer. Bound to be on the cadge. Dish of the day, and as it’s afternoon now, three for the price of one.”

  “That’s better than the Stargazer where I live.” We appeared to be currently in a saloon called Aphrodite’s Arse. The picture was so faded someone had written it, to remind them where they were. “The Stargazer offers one bowl for the price of three.”

  The globuli were elderly by this stage. Time does not improve fried cheese. Covering up the cheesey roundelos with sprigs of parsley had disguised the damage, but I pulled off the greenery. I also hate limp parsley.

  Food chatter was our strategy for softening up the lad. “I met you, didn’t I? What’s your name?”

  “Gaius.”

  Ursus and I shared a glance. No Roman only supplies his praenomen. Total inexperience. Gaius had barely stopped drinking mother’s milk. Every time anything was said, embarrassed colour flooded his skin, not just his face but his neck and thin bare arms.

  “We want to have a quick chat,” I said, smiling. Ursus echoed my smile, though his was more worrying. “It’s nothing to worry about. That’s why we thought we’d meet you here, not at the station-house.”

  Oddly avuncular, Ursus chipped in: “Gaius looks as if he’d enjoy seeing inside a fire-house. I bet you’d like a go on a siphon-engine, wouldn’t you?” Gaius, who worked with three men like mushroomy tree stumps, looked as if he realised this would never happen.

  I let time pass, gnawing globuli. My jaw was barely up to it. No point telling Ursus that informers on the cadge want soft gourmet rissoles in a perfectly balanced three-pepper sauce, with a side plate of asparagus. At the Aphrodite, rissoles were off. I knew not to embarrass myself by asking.

  “How long have you worked at Caesar’s Gardens, Gaius?” Less than a year. Always on the same team? No, the Super moved apprentices around; he thought they would learn different skills from different people, though the men all seemed to know the same things. How was he, the superintendent? A nice man, said Gaius.

  Ursus chuckled. “I’ve heard him called an idiot!”

  “Actually, Berytus is very kind and knowledgeable.” After slapping down Ursus unexpectedly, the lad was off, an enthusiast: “He was at Alba Longa, in the Emperor’s long terraces at his citadel. Lucky man! That must have been wonderful. Then he was brought to Rome, to help with the sunken garden at the Palace, but it didn’t work out, so he was moved again.”