Graveyard of the Hesperides

by Lindsey Davis

  In our family, we have to avoid allowing my aunt Junia’s husband, the doleful Gaius Baebius, ever to fulfill his lifetime dream of acting as a priest. He once took lessons in sacrificing, but still doesn’t know how to do it. Julia and Favonia were foolishly lining up this pompous uncle, assuming his legendary backache allowed him to function, but I now decided to overrule them.

  Costus, a practiced salesman in a long tunic, ran through his patter. “The best deal is the full threesome: your victimarius to gently lead in the selected beast, your popa to stun it with his trusty mallet, your cultrarius to slit the throat neatly and slash open the stomach for inspecting the organs.” Triple fees, I thought, without rancor. “We can put you in the way of a decent seer to read your entrails. Staberius is who we recommend. Very reliable. Just write out your required omens for him and he always fulfills his brief. You can buy your sheep, porker or bull from us too; beautiful animals, they come from our own farm. Just give advance notice if you want any unusual bird or creature. I warn you now, we can’t get flamingos for love nor money at the moment.”

  “What am I supposed to have?”

  “A pig is most popular for weddings.”

  “Who wants to follow a trend? Can I change to a sheep?”

  “You’re the bride! We have a glut of mutton. Black or white?”

  “It’s a wedding.”

  “Snowy then.”

  “I hope ‘Snowy’ is a tint off your fleeces color chart, not some pet’s name.”

  “Oh you’re a one! Who’s the lucky couple?”

  “My man and me.”

  Costus leaped back, surveying me with what could be new respect—or possibly derision. “Congratulations!”

  “Thank you.” I was amazed how calmly I said that. “The do will be at my pa’s house on the Marble Embankment, below the Aventine.”

  “Absolutely not a problem. Now come and see the boys.”

  “Oh lovely. Is it pick-your-own?”

  I think he suspected his new customer of too much levity.

  *

  Olympus, his boys were lush! It had been a hot day, but in any case, the sacrifice experts liked to show off. They would work barefoot and bare-chested, with wide sashes holding up long wraparound skirts—and this was how they sat around in the backyard, waiting for potential hirers. To butcher a bull you need a very strong physique and steady nerves. They looked seriously up to it. They must achieve their stunning ripples by gymnasium exercise, after which their toned torsos, arms and calves were oiled to display the results. They all had well-tended curly hairstyles and had been manicured. I bet the eager girls gave them free nail buffs. The men now preened like peacocks and gleamed like polished rosewood. You couldn’t have statues of them in your home, it would be too exciting.

  “We train them to behave well with the public,” Costus assured me. “Your guests will find them respectful.”

  That might not be how the bare-chested ones would find my irreverent guests, but by then it would be too late.

  Playing it cool, I took my pick. Things were looking up. My entire flock of female relations, plus those belonging to Faustus whom I had yet to meet, would appreciate the care I had expended on obtaining a decent sacrifice, carried out by trusted experts—with beautiful muscle tone.

  “I look forward to seeing you at my father’s house. Together with Snowy,” I cooed, smiling my gratitude at Passus, Erastus and Victor, my chosen trio of hunks. “Now don’t be offended, but you look like lads of the world…” Though no longer lads, they were far from offended. “So tell me something, if you can. Did any of you ever know a barmaid who worked at the Garden of the Hesperides—name of Rufia?”

  They all did, including Costus.

  VII

  They seemed willing to talk. At least that was my first impression. I admit I was reluctant to harbor doubts about such handsome samples of manhood. A bride is entitled to hanker for the freedom she is losing. Isn’t she?

  Victor said they all drank at the Garden of the Hesperides, had done for years and still did in theory; as soon as it reopened for business they would return. “It’s a good bar.”

  “Would you say you had some special relationship, or were you just ordinary customers?”

  “Just normal.” Their profession gave them a thirst. The Hesperides was good for lunch and evening meals too, plus you could have a flutter on horses and chariots if you wanted.

  “And other things?” I asked, trying to look matter-of-fact. Nobody volunteered an answer, so I added, “Or are you all good, clean-living boys?”

  Erastus said Passus had never been good or clean-living; they all guffawed. He obviously had a reputation for playing around, which perhaps the others envied.

  “Oh, come on, you can tell me. I’m a woman of the world and in my profession I’ve seen everything. If you go upstairs with waitresses—or with waiters, for that matter—it’s your business.” I saw no sign that any of them preferred the male sex, though I kept an open mind. “My only interest is what you can tell me about Rufia, who disappeared.” Still no admissions, so I changed my angle of questioning. “At least if you all knew her, can you describe her for me? So far she is only a name. Was she pretty? A good waitress? Was she well-liked?”

  Erastus did the honors. “She was never much of a looker, but she was good at her job. She got on with everyone. She knew how to be friendly.”

  “Could she be too friendly? Get herself into situations?”

  “Rufia could take care of herself,” Costus weighed in. “She was the one who chucked out troublemakers if ever a strong arm was needed.”

  “A woman had to break up fights? They do have male staff, don’t they?”

  “Natalis and Nipius. But nobody argued with Rufia.”

  “What she says goes,” Passus reinforced his master. So stern had been this legendary waitress, he still used the present tense. “Besides, if Rufia was trying to eject someone and they declined her invitation to leave, everyone else in the bar would come and help her.”

  “Ho, ho! Her word was law?” That was slightly unexpected. “It doesn’t sound as though it would be easy for someone to overpower Rufia and do her in—which must be what happened, if those are her bones in the courtyard.”

  “Overpowering is always doable if it’s tackled the right way,” Passus disagreed. I reminded myself that these experts spent their time persuading enormous specimens of cattle to go willingly to their deaths. It was essential that a sacrifice did not protest, or you had to start again.

  It would have been impolite to suggest the victimarii had murdered Rufia. They seemed too good-hearted. (I know! That old cliché. I would never accept it from a witness, but of course my own judgment was trustworthy…) I momentarily envisaged them hanging a garland around the barmaid’s neck, walking her to an altar with gentle encouragement, then, Kneel down for us, Rufia, don’t worry—whack … stun … whizzo … slit—gather up all her spurting blood in special bronze bowls …

  Presumably not. Whatever happened to Rufia was most likely sudden, messy violence carried out by an enraged acquaintance, or perhaps done by a stranger. A stranger would probably be untraceable now. An acquaintance might be an easier prospect.

  “Did Rufia have a boyfriend?” They sniggered. Apparently not. So much for my most obvious suspect. “Do you find the suggestion amusing?” I pressed.

  “She was not exactly the type,” claimed Erastus.

  Passus added, “No one would have dared.”

  “Being the bouncer? I am gathering that Rufia was a force of nature. Was she quarrelsome?”

  “Not if you did things her way.”

  “You’re implying people generally did? Anyone hold a grudge against her?”

  Without obvious consultation, the victimarii all shook their heads. They were positive. Too positive? Sometimes you just catch a hint of conspiracy. Had I noticed flickers?

  “All sure about that? Well, if you remember anything, please let me know.”

 
They each nodded again, good honest fellows. All not looking at one another.

  Were they simply convinced there had been no grudges? That Rufia was a genuinely lovely girl with a sweet personality, whom everyone liked? A lovely but very strong-armed girl who could (and would) expel louts and generally make people follow orders? I had seen barmaids like that. They enjoy their power. Bars being what they are, I do not blame them.

  “Do you remember that time, when she disappeared?” There were nods, freshly helpful. “Was it known immediately? The same night or next morning? Or did people only gradually become aware she had gone missing?”

  This question seemed to puzzle them. “I suppose it was gradual,” decided Costus.

  “The bar had other staff, so Rufia dropping her shifts might initially pass without disrupting the place?”

  “There was some cursing from the waiters!” Victor grinned.

  “Bars tend to have a shifting complement,” I mused. “Staff do come and go … How quickly did the dark rumors start? The suspicion that she had been murdered?”

  They could not tell me. Stories of her being killed and buried in the courtyard seemed to have grown up slowly until all the world just knew about it.

  “What did the landlord, Thales, have to say?”

  “He harrumphed and made no comment. That was how he was.”

  “Was he suspected from the beginning?” Again, the landlord’s supposed involvement developed subtly. There was no public outcry and no one investigated. Although people guessed Rufia had been killed and he was guilty, no one said so too loudly. “Were people scared of Thales?”

  “He was not a man to cross unless you wanted to be barred.”

  “Oh wonderful! Nobody thought about Rufia, only whether their own drinks were at risk!” It had a horrible ring of truth. “In general, was he violent?”

  “Not particularly,” said Passus, the one who was supposed to have the filthy lifestyle.

  “For a bar owner,” chuckled Erastus, a much quieter character. He had a birthmark down one side of his face that might put off some of the girls. When he was conducting a sacrifice, he would have to mask it with face paint so he looked perfect.

  “Hmm … Do I deduce Rufia did not live on the premises? I know there are rooms above the bar.”

  “When the place is up and running, those rooms are always in use,” said Costus.

  “For travelers to rest their heads—or the purposes I mentioned earlier?”

  “For all kinds of things,” he swore, pretending all these things were of an innocent variety. A sewing club met there? A group of pastoral poets?

  The main point was that Rufia lodged somewhere else, which made it less likely anyone would go and check on her if she failed to turn up for duty. “I imagine she had a room not too far away?”

  “Mucky Mule Mews, I believe.”

  “Desirable area?” I was wry. They shared the joke.

  “Very exclusive!” scoffed Costus. Erastus said his cousin lived there, but he always had, so he didn’t know any better.

  As they told me about Mucky Mule Mews, I could see they were sharing some amusement at the thought of me going there. Was it also dangerous? I wondered. Would there be a risk to me if I went?

  “This could explain what happened to her,” I said. “There are plenty of instances of weary bar staff leaving in the dark, after their workplace finally shuts in the small hours, then being waylaid as they make their way home. Especially women. Robbery may feature if the money’s easy to grab, but perverts are really after sex, sex with a vulnerable lone victim.”

  “They would have spotted her in the bar?” suggested Passus, clearly not liking the thought.

  “Either just that night, Passus, or perhaps they had been watching for weeks,” I told him. “Sometimes they have even made an approach and been rebuffed; more usually they have never spoken to the victim, who has never noticed them.”

  “Scary!”

  “It is. From what you say about Rufia, I would expect her to be streetwise, but she could have been suddenly jumped in a spot where she had no chance of escape, with nobody to hear a cry for help. Anyway, she would be tired after a long evening, off her guard.”

  There was a flaw in this argument, which I did not mention. Why would a killer who attacked Rufia in the street bring back her body to the Hesperides afterward? She could have been buried anywhere, or just left. Why tie the murder so closely to her place of work?

  I felt convinced that whatever misfortune had befallen Rufia, it must have happened at the bar. Either she never left that night, or she herself came back. But unless a lot of people witnessed her death and had since kept strictly silent, the event could only have occurred in the dead of night, after the Hesperides emptied and the other staff had gone home.

  That would fit a fight with the landlord, as the rumors supposed.

  VIII

  I could take my questions no further at this stage. I needed more of a lead. When I left, Costus and his staff escorted me to the door with elaborate gentility. I glanced back and waved. I knew the men stayed there in a group to watch me down the street. While I would like to think that was because they found my questions apt and my person attractive, I suspected they had another motive. My visit had felt vaguely unsatisfactory. They knew something. I for my part did not yet understand enough to probe for it.

  It was likely to be some time longer before Faustus returned. Not only was the Aventine a good step from here, he had given himself too much to do: aediles’ business, wedding plans, fetching luggage and visiting Lesser Laurel Street to see what his workmen were up to. I hoped they would not dig up any more human remains, or I too was liable to be overstretched.

  Of course finding bones was possible in any city, especially in Rome, which had such a long history. The rule against burying a corpse within the city boundary was good public hygiene, but it must always have led to the surreptitious concealment of bodies. It was not necessarily the result of misdemeanor. Many of the poor could not afford a niche in the cheapest columbarium, let alone a tomb in a necropolis. Even to bury ashes in a broken old pot, they would first have to pay for cremation. So, when digging anywhere in Rome, there was a good chance of finding bones that should not be there. Skeletons of babies abounded, though if a child died in its first four days it was permissible to bury the body at home. It was better to tuck your stillborn under your own threshold than cast its sad corpse onto a rubbish heap with the risk of dogs, rats, carrion crows and witches, let alone youths looking for something horrible to kick around the streets.

  I decided that Faustus and I had better try to identify whether the bones we had were truly those of a woman, one who had vanished in living memory. There was no point in me chasing down what happened to Rufia if this was not her at all. By the look of it, the Garden of the Hesperides had been a bar since the Republic, so given what tended to happen in bars, it could have a long series of sad little waitresses who had met untimely ends.

  Now I was despondent. Why had I so easily gotten involved? Why did I never learn?

  *

  I tried a small bathhouse, only reminding myself how disgusting they can be. At your local, you stop seeing the scum. Here, floating dirt and oil lapped in the basins and pools all too obviously, while the floors were slippery with other people’s scraped-off filth. The customers looked like people who peed in the plunge pools.

  All right; you can’t tell from appearance. But they all looked like people who were just asking to be insulted.

  Emerging glumly, I explored more stalls and shops around the Ten Traders area, buying provisions that I carried back to our hired room. The bag of bones silently greeted me; I tucked it away under the bed. While I waited for Faustus I took more note of the location.

  The room was directly above a teeming crossroads. Behind a battered shutter, I found a balcony onto which you could take one step, if you really wanted to stand on a ledge like a pigeon. Teetering there I could see people thronging the Vi
cus Longus, with all the usual extras: smells I tried not to identify, mules braying while their drivers yelled themselves hoarse, strident women arguing with hoarse neighbors, artisans singing as they worked, copper-beaters hammering, carpenters rasping wood with adzes that set my teeth on edge. Someone was scraping out a huge cooking pot into the gutter and a sad child was bawling for attention it would never receive. Nine feral dogs in a pack came rampaging down the road, scarily barking their heads off, then bystanders yelled after the dogs.

  By now I had identified some of the smells, and wished I hadn’t. I braced myself to keep looking because I wanted to get a feel for the neighborhood.

  People came from all levels and the whole fabric of society. Groups of the idle hung about waiting for life to improve, making more noise than seemed wise, given that while I watched a bunch of the Urban Cohorts marched in, looking for people to harass. A few mature women who looked quite respectable were going home with shopping baskets. These women would want places for religious observance, though temples were nowhere in evidence. The closest thing to incense was the pungent after-waft of some public slaves who had been given garlic soup. Perhaps it was so they wouldn’t notice the odor of the dung they were brushing from the road.

  At least it was swept. These folk should try living in Fountain Court, which never was.

  As the afternoon ended and evening began, people of the night started to emerge. Workers in the entertainment trade, bar staff, musicians, odd types who sold themselves in very curious ways, were all heading for their places of work—places that would be loud and lively far into the night, and I bet in this district their customers really lingered. An evening out at a bar was how they socialized and even did business; it staved off the misery of going home, when home was dire. This was not a quiet nook to live in, nowhere to live at all if you had any choice. Many people had none, so these miserable souls, with their children, aged parents and animals, would be venting their frustrations at all hours.