Table of Contents
Also by Lindsey Davis
Title Page
Copyright
Rome, the Aventine Hill
The Cast
Rome, the Aventine Hill: March–April AD 89
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Historical Note
Also by Lindsey Davis
The Course of Honour
Rebels and Traitors
Master and God
THE FALCO SERIES
Silver Pigs
Shadows in Bronze
Venus in Copper
The Iron Hand of Mars
Poseidon’s Gold
Last Act in Palmyra
Time to Depart
A Dying Light in Corduba
Three Hands in the Fountain
Two for the Lions
One Virgin too Many
Ode to a Banker
A Body in the Bath House
The Jupiter Myth
The Accusers
Scandal Takes a Holiday
See Delphi and Die
Saturnalia
Alexandria
Nemesis
Falco: The Official Companion
THE IDES OF APRIL
Lindsey Davis
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by
Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Lindsey Davis 2013
The right of Lindsey Davis to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 444 75583 1
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.hodder.co.uk
THE CAST
Neighbours and Family
Flavia Albia ready for anything, expecting
nothing good
Marcus Didius Falco &
Helena Justina her mother and father, typical
parents
Julia and Favonia her younger sisters, normal girls
Postumus their little brother, a very strange
boy
Ferret looking for trouble
Junillus a cousin, deaf but far from dumb
The late Lentullus a good man who died young
Rodan a bad gladiator who won’t die
Prisca a bathhouse proprietor
Serena her small strong masseuse
Chloe and Zoe big strong gladiating girls
The Mythembal family local cover for Albia
Robigo an urban fox
Titus Morellus a vigiles investigator, useless but
useful
Cassius Scaurus his superior, an inferior tribune
Felix Falco’s driver, a decoy
Kicker his mule, a good mover
Piddle, Diddle and Willikins three hens involved in law evasion
The Dead and their Mourners
Lucius Bassus deceased aged three, a tragedy
Salvidia deceased, the client who never
pays
Metellus Nepos a misguided client, who does pay
Celendina an elderly victim who said too
much
Kylo her son, who remembers nothing
Lupus deceased, aged 15, another
tragedy
Lupus’ father and brothers who saw nothing fishy
Julius Viator aged 23, fit, boring and deceased
Cassiana Clara his forlorn widow, hiding
something
Laia Gratiana in the Ceres cult, a woman with a
past
Venusia her maid, saying nothing
Marcia Balbilla a rival cult initiate, a woman of
surprises
Ino her maid, deceased, a touching
memory
A funeral director doing well out of all this
Other Interested Parties
The Goddess Ceres bringer of plenty (of trouble)
Andronicus an archivist, a curiously attractive
prospect
Tiberius an undercover agent, with
questions to answer
Manlius Faustus a plebeian aedile, an unknown
quantity
ROME, the Aventine Hill:
March–April AD 89
1
Lucius Bassus was three years old when his mother took her eyes off him and he ran out of the house to play. They lived on the Clivus Publicius, a steep road on the Aventine Hill, where he was knocked down by a builder’s cart. The cart, which escaped its driver’s control as it sped down the slope, was owned by Metellus and Nepos, an outfit that worked from a yard on the hill. Nobody talked about Nepos; at first I thought he might be an invention for some tax fiddle.
This business was no more shady than most in Imperial Rome. It carried out refurbishments for bar owners who wanted to move up from blatantly sleazy to a pretence of hygiene. The custom was that the Metellus crew would tender for a full deep-clean and fancy renovation, promising to complete in eight weeks max. In practice, every project took two years and they skimped on the fittings. They would re-grout the marble counters, put in a new doorstep, provide a mis-spelt signboard and charge the earth for it. By then their clients, unable to operate in the permanent dustcloud, had lost their custom and were going under. It amazed me that other bar owners saw what happened yet still used the firm, but they did. Over the years Metellus and Nepos had done very nicely out of Roman rot
gut-sellers innocently trusting them. But killing a child, in the close-knit Aventine community where we had some standards, just might be commercially stupid.
Lucius died at once from his injuries. He never stood a chance. He expired on the kerb. Inevitably, at that very moment his distraught mother came out of the house. It helped fuel local outrage.
The ramshackle cart had been overloaded. The draught oxen were both past their best. Their driver was blind drunk, no question. He denied that on principle, the principle being that Salvidia, the vinegary widow who had inherited the shopfitting business from the husband she had driven to his grave, would not pay his wages if he told the truth. There were witnesses, a large group of whom gathered in the Clivus and took an interest, but they all disappeared when a busybody produced a note tablet and started collecting names.
Once the funeral with its pathetic tiny coffin had been held, well-meaning neighbours started to suggest that the family were entitled to payment for their terrible loss. Everyone agreed they should immediately hire an informer to look into the legal aspects. If being hit on the head by a falling flower tub could be worth cash to the victim, what price a child’s life under civil law? Someone (it was rumoured to be the note tablet busybody I mentioned) even wrote up on a wall a plea for concerned citizens who had been present at the accident to come forward. It must have appeared before the first of April, because I saw it that day, the Kalends. The poster sounded official. While not actually offering payment, it implied possible advantage. As a professional, I read it with interest. I found it subtly done.
By then, I had become involved. Any investigator who was favoured by Fortune would be taken on by the heartbroken mother to negotiate compensation. This was a public-spirited task, where a reputable person could maintain a clear conscience: you look into the facts, you put those facts to the guilty party succinctly, you say, ‘I am a top informer, this is meat and drink to me; a toddler is dead and a jury will be weeping into their togas, but nobody wants this to go to court, do we?’ The guilty cough up, and you cream off your percentage.
Not me. Fortune never favoured me and the problem with being a woman was that sometimes I could only obtain business that all the male informers had sniffed and refused. This was one of those months. I was hired by Salvidia. The owner of Metellus and Nepos wanted me to help her beat off the mother’s claim. Typical.
From what I have already said about this construction group, you will guess my employment was on a ‘no win, no fee’ basis. Indeed, I was starting to feel its basis might amount to ‘win, but even then the bastards never pay up’ – like so much of my work, unfortunately. After a week, I was ready to abandon the miserable project, but I had already put in quite a few hours and, besides, I never like to be defeated. The poster asking for witnesses suggested someone else felt the same way.
The wall graffiti included an address where people could make statements, so as my enquiries were stuck, I went along to see if any had done so. My line would be that as I was assisting a party in the dispute, I had the right to ask. As a female I had no rights at all in matters of law, but why let that stop me? Either way, I was hoping to plea-bargain. Anything to have this finished fast, so I could drop the case.
The address was the Temple of Ceres. It was close to my home and office, though on a far grander street than the blind alley I lived in. Anywhere would be finer than that. Fountain Court holds no attractions for the founders of fine religious buildings.
Arranging assignations at temples is common in Rome. For strangers it is neutral ground. For instance, married men find the steps of temples convenient for picking up prostitutes. The grander the temple, the lousier its hangers-on. Inured to the seamy side of our city, the public pass by without noticing. Suggesting a meet at a temple was, I presumed, simply for convenience. Thinking little of it, I went along on spec.
Only when I asked for the contact on the wall notice did I learn he was a big prawn in a purple-edged toga who belonged to an ancient order of magistrates. The Temple of Ceres was their headquarters and archive depository.
I reconsidered. Then I went home and made alterations to my appearance. I was visiting the office of men of great consequence in Rome: men of wealth and power. I did not suppose ‘Manlius Faustus’ had chalked up graffiti on the Clivus Publicius in person, but some minion certainly did it in his name. That minion must have felt confident Faustus would enjoy throwing his weight about. By definition this magistrate was one of those menaces who drive traders wild checking market weights. I had been trained by my father to avoid such types, though in fact those over-promoted snoots don’t tangle with me. I have contacts, but no one that important.
Still, it always pays to respect the opposition. So I changed into a full-length tunic in a neutral shade, not white, not quite unbleached linen, but neat, tidy and unthreatening. It did have an embroidered neckline that suggested money, which in turn hints at a woman with influential men behind her, one who should not be too quickly or too rudely dismissed.
My earrings were plain gold rosettes. I added a row of bangles, to give me confidence. Hair pinned up. Three dabs of a discreet perfume. A large stole: the demure, respectable widow look. I really am a widow, so that part was right.
Mother had taught me how to pose as a meek matron. It was ridiculous and hypocritical, but the act now came as second nature and I could manage it without laughing.
So, feeling convinced that I was as good as them and could handle these bastards, I set off for my first encounter with the plebeian aediles.
2
The Temple of Ceres was so local to me that I normally ignored it. It sat on the northern slope of the Aventine, a short walk halfway uphill from the starting-gates end of the Circus Maximus. A chunky edifice, it was designed in the remote past and looked more Greek than Roman in an archaic way; the heavy grey columns surrounding it had thick bases and curious capitols that, if you care to know such stuff, were neither Ionic nor Doric. I believe the word is ‘transitional’. I don’t suppose the distinction bothered many people; most probably never looked up high enough to notice. But I had spent my childhood a thousand miles from Rome, in a backwoods town that had been laid waste in a revolt and still lacked interesting architecture; when an effort has been made to build something unusual, I pay polite attention.
The truth is, after I was brought to Rome by the family who adopted me, I had to learn fast about the people and the place; as a result I often know more about the myths and monuments than most of the city’s natives. I was about fifteen then, and curious about the world. Education was made available. While being taught to read and write, I devoured facts. Sometimes now it helped in my work. More often, it just made me marvel at the weird history and attitudes of these Romans, who believed themselves masters of the civilised world.
At least they had a history. They knew their origins, which was more than I could say.
The temple was home to a Triad: three gods, bunking up together, all holy and cosy amid the incense and deposited must cakes. In addition to Ceres the Earth Mother, a well-built dame bearing sheaves of corn who was one of the twelve grand Olympian deities, it also housed Liber and Libera, two lesser gods that I bet you’ve never heard of, Ceres’ children, I think. This triple cult was rooted in fertility rites − well may you groan!
Needless to say, an organised body of religious-minded women fussed about the temple. No serious shrine can fail to have such busybodies importantly organising themselves into a sniffy coven; it’s one way local matrons can get out of the house once a week. My grandmother loved it – a bunch of upper-crust women dabbling in neighbourhood benevolence, heads down over gossip, then having wine together afterwards without their husbands daring to disapprove. My senatorial grandmama was a wonderful woman, only surpassed by her plebeian counterpart, whose domestic rule was legendary all over the Aventine. If I mentioned her at the stall where she used to buy roots for her broth cauldron, the greengrocer still mimed running for the hills.
&n
bsp; A temple cult can be a good argument against letting women control things. Although Ceres was bringer of plenty, especially favouring commoners, I found that her devotees included a scrawny bird who had been spoiled from birth and thought herself very superior. Forget liberality. The public slaves who swept the steps and acted as security directed me to her because I was a woman, for which I would not thank them. Possibly they could see I was a different type entirely and they were hoping for a laugh.
Sisterhood did not feature at our meeting.
The supercilious sanctum queen was called Laia Gratiana. The public slave had told me that; she would not introduce herself, in case I dirtied her name by using it. She was fair and I am dark; that was only the start of the distance between us. I told myself she was older than me, though in fact she may not have been. She behaved like a domineering old matriarch with five generations of cowed family who all feared she might alter her will if they as much as sneezed. Her garments were rich cloth, elegantly draped with many folds, though in a revolting puce colour that some sly dyer must have been delighted to offload on an idiot. When she swept up, intent on facing me down, I felt my hackles rise by instinct. I saw she felt the same − in my view, with much less reason.
‘What do you want?’
‘I am looking for Manlius Faustus.’
‘He won’t see you.’
‘Suppose I ask him that myself. I am responding to a public notice he put up.’
The Ides of April: Falco: The New Generation (Falco: The Next Generation) Page 1