The Ides of April fam-1

by Lindsey Davis

  Tiberius nodded. As I watched him, I thought what an irony it would be if Andronicus was right and he was the killer. Andronicus had been lively and convincing about this, yet now it seemed a crazy idea. Tiberius looked up, perhaps saw I was considering him with a dark interest, and bit into a bread roll with his most unpleasant expression. This man could win the grimacing competition at the Olympic Games.

  We debated my theory that the Aventine killer was a local. I showed Morellus on his map the Y-shaped junction of the Vicus Altus and Vicus Loreti Minoris. The map skin was probably a valuable antique, but the vigiles investigator pulled out an inkpot and marked it up with incident spots. Morellus spent half his working life chasing after stolen property; it had left him with no respect for treasures.

  The other half of his time was given to victims of violence. I was unsure whether he had lost his respect for human life too, but tonight he theoretically paid it the right attention. "As far as we know," he pointed out, "all attacks have been in broad daylight."

  "Wouldn't it make more sense to use the hours of darkness?" I asked. "Don't most repeat killers do that?"

  "Yes, but there's two things against it," Morellus mused. "Fewer people about, so less crowd-cover when he attacks. And once dusk falls, the streets are full of vigiles. He may get the squits at the thought of meeting up with us."

  Tiberius and I for the first time joined forces, as we rolled our eyes at that idea.

  "He likes to go home for dinner," I decided. We were calling him a man, on the basis of Laia Gratiana's possible sighting. "Perhaps he is obliged to go-can he have a bullying wife? She picks on him; he dares not stand up to her. He avenges himself by attacking members of the public, instead of dealing with the woman at home he's scared of?"

  "Or he has a nagging mother;" Morellus corrected me. "Two of his victims are not young."

  "Doesn't explain the oyster boy."

  "If he is getting his thrills sexually, it doesn't rule the boy out," Morellus answered, cynically. Tiberius looked uncomfortable.

  Although he had made no comment while Morellus and I were talking, he had been paying attention. The runner was quietly eating his cheese, cutting off thin slices and savouring the taste. He used the knife Morellus had been cleaning his nails with; I had seen Tiberius wipe it first very carefully on the hem of his tunic. The tunic was the scratchy one he wore a couple of days ago, though he had a softer-looking undertunic this time, showing beneath the bottom hem and sleeves: his layered look. Generals have it on their statues, to signify they can afford a big wardrobe.

  I found myself staring at that cheese. Without a word he cut several slices and put them within my reach. Its texture looked unpromising, but Metellus Nepos must have smoked it. The result was wonderful. I chewed slowly, showing that I liked it, while not extending myself to say thank you.

  My garlic squids had gone. They vanished early; it always was best to have them while some warmth remained, but between the three of us we had had a bit of a race to grab them.

  "He could be a slave," I said, still gently chewing.

  Morellus liked that. "Sent out on daily errands-?"

  "— And does something vindictive while he is out of the house."

  Tiberius just listened in, but he pulled a face to agree it was plausible.

  With no more available evidence to help define our killer, the talk turned to measures for catching him. This degenerated into them planning manpower rotas, which I found boring. I merely sat, lolling forwards on the table. Tiberius and Morellus were exercised about the coming Cerialia Games. The Aventine would be taken over with seven days of public events, which could offer this man cover and new opportunities. Even if we broke the silence about the killings and warned locals to be careful, our district would be visited by many strangers who knew nothing about the warnings.

  At one point when we were taking a breather from hard thought, Morellus looked at me and exclaimed to Tiberius, "She loves this!"

  "Conspiring in dark little rooms full of lamp smoke? She does," agreed the runner. Although normally I would have kicked against two men discussing me that way, somehow it was neither exclusive nor patronising. We were all friends tonight.

  "Beats interviewing supercilious women," I said easily. "Persuading those ladies who run the cult of Ceres to tell me anything useful had all the attraction of scraping up vomit."

  Morellus chortled. "Someone has to do it. Albia, some jobs are just too filthy for us men!"

  "Wimps. The trick is not to let them notice that I'm steering them into actually giving answers."

  "She's Falco's daughter," Morellus mentioned to Tiberius, as if explaining my tradecraft. "Do you know him?"

  "I know who he is."

  Morellus nodded. "She can hold her own." Tiberius must have been starting to get the traditional pain in the guts from his sliver of Xero's rabbit pie; he must be distracted, because he too nodded. Morellus then asked, "What does your pa think, Albia?"

  "Oh don't give me the old song, Morellus. I've been doing my job for twelve years now and I do not need you throwing out that stale line, 'Should we ask someone more experienced-and male-to come in on this?' He keeps his head down nowadays, in case Domitian remembers they are enemies. Anyway, my whole family is entirely obsessed this month with the upcoming Viator auction."

  Tiberius raised one eyebrow. He put down the knife. "That wouldn't be Julius Viator? The fur importer?"

  I nodded. "It's a huge estate being sold off by the heirs. Why- did you know the deceased?"

  "If it's the same man, Tullius does business with him-did, I suppose I should say. Viator was even at our house once. He was young, younger than me certainly." Although it was hard to be exact with all that facial whisker, Tiberius looked in his middle thirties. "I am very surprised to hear you say he is dead, Albia. When did that happen?"

  "Must have been March. I first heard about the auction at a family party." Father's birthday. That reminded me: mine was fast coming up.

  Tiberius was silent for a moment, then went on, "I didn't take to him-he was one of those fellows who spends his whole day exercising… No conversation, unless you wanted to hear how many weights he had lifted, and a complete drag at dinner because he was so careful about his diet."

  "Fit?" asked Morellus-a throwaway comment, but he soon realised it could be significant. "Shit! Young and healthy?"

  Tiberius looked thoughtful. "Fittest man I ever met. Too fit to die! It looks as if I had better make discreet enquiries about this tomorrow."

  Morellus and I caught each other's gaze. Then we too fell quiet.

  The possibility that we might have accidentally noticed another death to count in made us all low-spirited. The meeting broke up.

  I gathered the remaining crumbs and remnants of piecrust into the packet I brought the squids in.

  "Midnight supper?" jeered Morellus.

  "Stray dog." I was taking it to my foxes.

  In view of the hour, the investigator suggested that the runner should escort me home. I sensed what that was: a male hint that Tiberius might be in with a chance. Morellus himself was married with three young children; that would never have stopped him trying it on, but he knew I had met his wife. A nice woman. She had married a bum, though what choice did most women have? But if he played up, Morellus could expect Pullia to hear about it from me.

  Knowing that he himself was ruled out, Morellus was signalling to the runner that the track was clear for him. He would think he was being generous. I don't know if the grubby matchmaker actually winked, but it was well implied. Tiberius looked unimpressed- thank you, Juno! I rejected the offer.

  I strode off alone from the station house, moving fast to make sure I shed the runner. I was making my way to the Armilustrium. There, Robigo must have been hungry. Almost as soon as I put down the food and stepped away, I sensed his presence. On top of the boundary wall I saw his head come up, ears pricked. Soon he came slipping down the wall and was nosing what I had brought him.
r />   I did not stay. I felt suddenly nervous, as if someone was watching me. Robigo, too, seemed to be listening more than usual.

  Luckily Fountain Court was near. I walked fast. When I reached home, Rodan had for once locked the grille. I knew how to pick the padlock, though it was tricky and always took some moments. Once I was inside and fumbling to relock it in a hurry, I looked out through the metalwork.

  Tiberius was standing a few strides away. His feet were planted apart, his arms folded. When he knew I had seen him, he jerked his head, apparently reproving me for taking risks. In a moment, he was gone.

  Of course he would claim he was just seeing I reached home safely. I could not judge his true motives, and felt outraged. I was more unnerved to be followed home by him, than if a stranger had secretly tracked me. I knew that women are most often attacked by men with whom they have a previous acquaintance.

  Tiberius must have seen me with the fox. I really hated anyone from the aediles' office knowing I had that interest. The Cerialia, with its abominable ritual, was close now. And I was planning to do something to prevent them setting fire to any foxes.

  XXVII

  I had breakfast with my parents. If they were surprised by my early arrival, they hid it well, apart from the customary "Darling, you are always welcome-but don't eat all the olive paste!" After that, "Confess then-what are you up to?" soon surfaced. I didn't keep them in suspense. Nor did I pretend it was sheer love that brought me to share their white bread rolls, cold meats and refreshing cucumber dip. I admitted at once that I wanted the background on the big Viator auction.

  By the time I left, equipped with facts, Pa's assessment and the dead man's home address, I knew that he had sold furs from all over the Empire, which no doubt explained why he was acquainted with the plebeian aedile's uncle, a man who hired out warehouses. Importers bring home their gains, then Rome has the cleverest negotiators in the world; these slick leeches never sell to the first comer, but while they haggle their way to the most extortionate deal, the produce has to be put somewhere and kept in good condition.

  I had learned in a brief seminar that even in a country as hot as Italy, there was money in fur. Not only were live animals prized in the arena, the rarity and luxury of skins from big cats, bears, wolves, ermine and even rabbits easily found a market. Julius Viator's grandfather had personally travelled to many provinces; so, too, the next generation as they became more and more specialised and prosperous. More recently, Viator had been able to lead a life of leisure in Rome and instead used troops of agents who went out for him. He could spend all day in a gymnasium because he owned many well-packed stores of pelts. He was a stay-in-Rome young man who, had he lived, was about to start his own family.

  The house sale on his death had made my auctioneering relatives extremely happy. The profits from fur had paid for an enormous collection of exotic furniture, ancient bronzes, gorgeous silverware- ' plus a remarkable amount of what was, in my father's expert opinion, horrible reproduction Greek statuary. Pa was confidently intending to sell even the fakes. People will buy anything, and a hint of fraud just adds to the excitement for some punters. They hope the auctioneer is wrong and they can pull a fast one on him.

  Those who think that don't know the Didius family.

  It seemed odd to visit a house in the course of my enquiries and find it full of my own people. Julius Viator had lived in a sprawling villa, over the Tiber and in one of the better parts of the Janiculan-I mean, not the teeming favela we call the Transtiberina, which is full of dubious immigrants and criminals huddling out of sight of the authorities, but further along, up on the hillside slopes, with elegant views over to the city. My family has a villa, even better placed than Viator's. It's a quiet area. Imperial freedmen retire there to live off their loot. Successful gangsters and fraudsters have big mansions, heavily shuttered and guarded by mean-looking dogs. Retired senators and impresarios lurk, looking over at the city and mourning their lost glory.

  Viator's house had almost been stripped. Our porters came and went in their respectful fashion, carrying out the final pieces to be sold in the Porticus of Pompey, always a favourite auction spot with my late grandfather, Didius Favonius. Supervising was Gornia, who must be ninety now. He had been forced to retire at one point, but when the Saepta Julia burned down a decade ago and a sudden death reduced the family, Gornia wangled himself back in as cover and had never left again. I greeted him, as he tottered about on spindly legs like a stick-insect. He introduced me to one of Viator's staff. Gornia was pretending to let him write notes, though our chief porter always carried lists and costs in his head.

  The fellow Gornia brought to meet me, Porphyrius, was a junior secretary, now redundant. He was a slave, not old enough to be granted his freedom, even if Viator's will had provided for it. He must be facing sale to strangers in the near future, though tried to hide his natural anxiety about what fate might await him. Quietly saddened by the loss of his master, he spoke to me freely and was, I thought, trustworthy.

  I learned that there were no close family members, which normally guarantees that staff like Porphyrius will be reassigned to them. In Viator's case, after brief provision for his wife, his legacies were all left to distant acquaintances, none of whom wanted any of the household slaves. They were also breaking up the family firm and selling its stock, so there would be more disruption for other workers too. An established home and a thriving business, both created over three generations, would become extinct.

  Julius Viator had been married, but recently. The widow had borne him no children and was thought not to be pregnant. This had slashed the amount left to provide for her. She would take away little more than her dowry. Another result of this young man's death, therefore, was that a woman who had never done anyone any harm had to return to her father's house, where she would probably be regarded as a failure for coming home with nothing to show from such a very short marriage.

  Porphyrius said Julius Viator, though not intellectual, had been a good master. He was rich enough to be an idle playboy if he wanted, but he did take an interest in the business. He had had many social connections, if few close friends. Everyone liked him. He seemed to have made no enemies. On the day he died, he came in from the gymnasium as normal, went to his room to change his clothes, and was soon afterwards found lifeless on his bed. He had not complained of feeling unwell and did not call out for help. His sudden death, at twenty-three, was regarded as a tragedy.

  "What do you think caused that death, Porphyrius?"

  "Nobody knows."

  "Did a doctor examine him?"

  "He had not been ill."

  "Was no doctor called to examine the corpse?"

  "There was no reason."

  "Did the funeral director say anything about his abrupt death at so young an age?"

  "Only that there is a lot of it about."

  As I left the house, Tiberius turned up. It really riled him that I beat him to it. Furious, he ordered me not to interfere when he had made it plain he intended to take action. Clearly he was unused to having a rival on a case.

  "Tough. Here's the situation: it fits the pattern. He had been in perfect health. There was no time to call a doctor and the funeral director only spouted the usual pointless platitudes. There is a young widow. I have been told she is devastated. You know perfectly well, Tiberius, I should do that interview."

  "I can handle young widows!"

  "Oh I don't think so."

  We compromised that we would go together. He would wait outside the room, while I went in to put our questions gently to the heartbroken girl.

  She wept a lot. She was only nineteen, completely flummoxed to find herself with such a close bereavement. I interviewed her at her father's house, of course. From running her own large establishment, she had to accept becoming just the little girl at home again, with no real position. Her parents were elderly and though probably kind, they were not up to helping her readjust. She could barely cope with losing her perf
ectly decent husband, let alone being flung back on the marriage market when she had thought her life's pattern was fixed.

  She was not dim. I told her straight that we feared foul play. She became hysterical at my news, but eventually rallied and thought about it more calmly. I could tell that once she was alone, she would continue to brood. It was another aspect of the tragedy. This simple young woman would never escape the horror of her husband's murder.

  From the start, I assumed a third party was responsible. I entertained no thought that the wife herself might have killed Viator (normally this is the first issue to investigate). She would have had no idea how to do it. Besides, there seemed genuine affection there-or at least, regret to have lost him. She gained nothing from his death. In fact, she had lost a lot of freedom as the wife of a very rich man- especially (being cynical) one who was out at the gym all day.

  I could not deduce how much she had loved her husband, but I saw she felt responsibility towards him. In marriage, what more can anybody ask? She would mourn Julius Viator. She would pick over her memory of their life together, rue they had not taken better advantage of the time they had-even, if she loved him enough, wish she had a child by him. He was a man whose only conversation was athletics, described as a dire dinner companion, yet ample tears would be shed in his memory.

  Because the widow could think of no one who had hated Viator, she was now also anxious that the apparently motiveless assailant might home in on her. The killer had not only destroyed her home and shattered her life, he had terrified her.

  XXVIII