The Ides of April: Falco: The New Generation (Falco: The Next Generation)

by Davis, Lindsey

  He was so forgiving towards me this morning, I even wondered if Morellus, or maybe his wife, sympathised with my feelings about the fox ritual. Conceivably, an urban couple might take no joy in horrible old traditions that were rooted in agricultural prehistory. But I would not push it with a vigiles officer. When challenged about any aspect of religion, most people go along with the establishment.

  ‘Leave it alone, Albia,’ Morellus chided, proving my point. ‘You will only make it worse. The aedile’s agents are collecting dogs with pointy noses now, to act as understudies. Kindly give up, woman! My children have just acquired a puppy with rusty-coloured fur. While we’re having to keep him in so the dog-catchers don’t snaffle the poor little beggar, he’s peeing on the floor rugs and driving my wife crazy.’

  I gave him a wry, defeated smile.

  The atmosphere on the streets had changed overnight. Visitors flooded into Rome, wandering about the Aventine not so much because it was a cultural high spot for travellers but because the Temple of Ceres stood here, the festival’s focal point. Workers were starting their holiday. There were more people than usual even this morning and by tonight everywhere would be packed. Bars were open. Hawkers with trays of dubious snacks were roaming about. Garland-girls sat on kerbs, surrounded by mounds of greenery and flowers that were too heavy to carry. Only the race in the Circus Maximus would suck the neighbourhood dry of crowds again. At that point, Morellus would face double anxiety: needing to police the racetrack down in the valley, yet also to keep watch over homes and businesses on the heights that would fall prey to robbers taking advantage of owners’ absence. He was used to it, but he loved complaining.

  We stood on a street corner, gossiping. Inevitably, we talked about our big preoccupation, the random killings. He told me there had been no further street attacks locally, or none he knew about. The authorities had brought in extra manpower, to police the crowds. Morellus was not convinced by the gesture. His instinct told him this madman made his moves for some as yet unknown personal motive, which I agreed. Crowds alone would not draw him. Only if someone he already had in his sights went to the racecourse would he go after them. Even then, it would break his pattern, which was to take his victims while they were engaged in the most ordinary daily occupations.

  Before we parted, Morellus could not help asking, ‘So are you having it away with that scroll-shoveller?’

  ‘I might be.’

  ‘Bit of a character.’

  ‘In vigiles’ parlance, that’s an insult?’

  ‘Too clever. Cocky. I hate that.’

  I was hurt that my judgement was being maligned. ‘You’re a misery. He suits me. Andronicus is bright, witty, appreciative—’

  ‘A lightweight.’ Morellus would not be swayed. He was the worst kind of stubborn, self-opinionated man. ‘Wandering eyes. I bet he two-times you, gal.’

  Stubborn myself, I walked off, burying myself in thoughts of work in order to blot out the annoying conversation.

  There were two things I wished I had done better in this case. One was to speak directly with Laia Gratiana’s maid, Venusia. The other was my mishandled interview with Julius Viator’s widow. Finding myself not too far from her parents’ house, I went back to revisit her.

  Facts: Her name was Cassiana Clara. She had a round face, with solemn eyes, though when she managed the ghost of a smile it was attractive. Neat of figure and well groomed; oils had been lovingly massaged in by maids. Judging by her perfect eyebrows, she tidied away superfluous hair routinely, kept herself nice for the man in her life. There would only be one of course. Well, one at a time. But well-off widows don’t stay lonely.

  I could imagine that Viator would have been happy when his prospective bride was introduced and he stayed content with the marriage.

  The widow was the youngest child of affluent parents, though not so wealthy as her husband’s family. Whatever older siblings she had, they were all married and settling down to lead good lives and produce grandchildren, as parents think they have a right to expect. Clara, who had probably always been seen as less reliable just because she was the baby, had now fluttered back home, in grief and in trouble, unsettling everyone and unsettled herself.

  I apologised for my abruptness last time. I decided to tell her why, frankly mentioning my own bereavement though I kept quiet about how long ago it was. It gave us a bond. We settled down and talked; she was glad of my company. When you suffer a major loss, people treat it like an illness, even though physically you are undamaged. Cassiana Clara, now loitering as a subordinate in her mother’s house, was restricted in her social life. Too sweet to mutter about it, she was secretly bored.

  She seemed at ease in my company this time. Any strangeness about being interviewed by an informer and any shock that her husband had been murdered were over. She had had time to think about Viator’s death, quietly on her own.

  I had anticipated correctly. She had brooded. Then she had been to talk to the slaves who saw her husband that day, in the moments after he came home from the gymnasium. One of them had told her Viator kept slapping at his arm as if he had some irritation; he mentioned that something had scratched him. ‘Like a fish-hook, the slave told me.’ Although Clara seemed to believe it, I had doubts about the fish-hook; by design, it would have remained in the flesh. They leave a big and bleeding tear if they pull out. None of our victims had had a mark of that type.

  I took the slave’s name, though Clara said she doubted he would know much more.

  We talked about the redundant slaves and their plight. Cassiana Clara had now seen for herself how anxious they were about their coming fate, a new consideration for this young and privileged matron. She told me she was trying to find positions for as many as possible in homes she knew, rather than have them consigned to the slave market. She knew enough of the world to understand how evil that would be. A few loyal staff were being absorbed into her parents’ household, one or two were going to her sister. I could not tell how energetically she had applied herself to this task, but I could see the reallocation of labour gave her an interest. I was surprised a girl with that background did it at all.

  I was right about something else: Clara had agreed to be remarried. She was betrothed already to one of the legatees of Viator’s estate, an older man; she had met him and thought him good-hearted. It was not my place to feel saddened.

  I told her to let him know what she was doing about the slaves. ‘He will be impressed by your kindness – a good basis for your marriage.’ She was puzzled. The girl was without guile. ‘Stand up for yourself, Cassiana Clara. You may be much younger than your new husband, but you want to control the keys to the store-cupboard, not some sneery freedman who has worked there for years. Make it plain that you expect to have your place as the mistress. You want a role. You mean to lead a worthwhile life.’ She made no response, but I could see the idea seriously taking root.

  I asked about her marriage to Viator. She spoke about it openly. Yes, his obsession with exercise had placed limitations on their domestic life, but we agreed there were worse things a man could do. Business affairs can be deadly. Drink is bad. She mentioned gambling as a hideous possibility. I alluded to pornography, though when she blushed I did not stress it. I made sure we discussed these things, hoping in vain for a clue to the motive for Viator’s murder.

  Then I broached a new subject: ‘Do you mind if I ask about a particular social occasion? I believe you went to dinner once at the house of a warehouse owner called Tullius and his nephew. The nephew is now a plebeian aedile, though he may not have been then.’

  A guarded look appeared on Clara’s face. She nodded; she said she remembered the dinner. ‘We went once. It was not long before my husband died.’ Her husband died last month, or not long before, going by when my family was commissioned for the auction: March, or late February at the latest. ‘We never went again.’

  ‘Why was that?’ No answer. ‘Well,’ I suggested, ‘men often like to do business in their o
wn settings – by the rostra in the Forum, dinky spots in private cloisters, hidden little eating places beside the Emporium …’ Clara nodded. I waited, then asked gently, ‘Did something happen? Will you tell me about that evening?’

  ‘Is this important, Albia?’

  I could hardly admit, I want to find out if your husband bullied you. ‘To be honest, I don’t know. Odd things turn out to matter sometimes … I have attended dinners like that myself, and not enjoyed them. While the men busy themselves with their politics or work affairs, any female who has accompanied them can feel like an unwanted outsider. And from what I have heard of the aedile’s uncle, he sounds frightful.’

  Clara was lured into confiding that no, she had not found Tullius congenial. ‘Nothing blatantly obvious, Albia. You know; the sort of old man who greets you just a little too warmly, makes you share his dining couch as if the honour of your company is all his …’

  ‘Too feely?’

  ‘Not crudely obvious.’

  ‘Oh yes. They paw you just enough to make you seem like a bad sport for not liking it, but all the same, you spend the whole time feeling very uncomfortable, struggling to edge away from them. Meanwhile all the other men present appear not to notice what is going on, because none of them wants to upset the randy old bastard by taking him to task.’

  ‘He would just laugh it off.’ Clara knew the score. ‘Anyway, it was his house.’

  ‘And of course, in that situation, a wife is obliged to assist her husband’s business interests by putting up with it … All you can do is skip off to the facilities and take your time over coming back to the dinner couches.’ No reaction. ‘Were you the only woman guest? Who else was there? Was it formal, with the full nine places set?’

  ‘No, just an informal supper really. Tullius and his nephew. Julius and me.’

  ‘No one from their staff included at table?’

  ‘Not that I recall.’ Tiberius, who had said he was there, would hate that!

  ‘I have never met the nephew, Manlius Faustus.’

  ‘He is quite nice.’

  ‘Good-mannered?’

  ‘We had a nice conversation about music.’

  ‘How was the food?’

  ‘Very nice,’ said Clara. We laughed. Clara showed a glimmer of realisation that her vocabulary was bland.

  ‘Not nice enough for you to want a second tasting?’

  ‘No, my husband apologised to me afterwards and said we would not visit again.’

  ‘He sounds a decent man.’

  Bad move. The widow creased up, suddenly in tears. ‘He was. He was a wonderful husband. We were not married very long, but Julius was loving and protective and I miss him.’

  We sat quiet while she composed herself.

  ‘What did he have to protect you against?’ I murmured gently. ‘Or whom?’

  ‘Nothing,’ answered the widow quickly. If she had a moment of panic, she was hiding it successfully. ‘No one. That was just a manner of speaking.’

  ‘I heard you were in the garden and he came and fetched you?’

  ‘He had missed me.’

  ‘How wonderful.’ Innocuously I slipped in, ‘Did anything else happen?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Clara. I left it, mainly because I was not sure what I did mean.

  Instead, I said brightly, ‘Changing the subject, I believe you met a good friend of mine that evening! Did you run into their lovely archivist, name of Andronicus?’

  Just as she had over Tiberius being present, Cassiana Clara blanked this. ‘Possibly. I don’t remember.’

  I supposed the memory failure must be because Clara had been so preoccupied with her attempts to evade the grabby Uncle Tullius.

  ‘I wonder about this household,’ I mused. ‘All male, and from what I have heard, rather a lot of unhappiness. Old guilt and current resentment. Did you find the atmosphere seethed—’

  ‘It was fine.’ Clara interrupted as if she could no longer bear to remember the evening. ‘A perfectly ordinary dinner!’ At least that made a change from calling it nice.

  Something had happened. Something she was refusing to discuss with me.

  At that point her damned mother had to intervene. She was elderly, upright, pleasant but firm, and she came into the room on purpose, aiming to get rid of me: Mama thought helpless little Clara had given me enough of her time. She was still grief-stricken and suffering; I ought to be more considerate. There could not possibly be anything else I needed to know; I should say goodbye now.

  A brief glance passed between Cassiana Clara and me, like two girlfriends mildly deploring the older generation. She did not argue with her mother. Perhaps she really was glad to shed me – though I still thought she had been relieved to have a visitor to talk to. Someone who had come to see her specifically, as if she mattered. While she was married, she had mattered to her husband. I believed that now.

  We embraced and kissed, just like old friends; after so much confiding, it had become a necessary ritual. I have little patience for that charade. I would not want her for a friend. I could not dislike her, but I agreed with what Andronicus had said: she was not exactly stupid, but out of her depth. He meant out of her depth when men talked business in front of her, but with ten years between us I felt she was out of her depth with me too. Not enough character or experience on her side to make us equals.

  Perhaps I was snobbish. I certainly felt sorry for her. Before I left, I remembered how anxious Clara had been before, afraid that her husband’s killer might pursue her too.

  ‘I should have reassured you more. Let me do it now. From what we have worked out, he selects his victims randomly. Afterwards he moves on. He never seeks out anyone connected with his previous crimes.’ Well, not apart from Celendina after Salvidia’s funeral, but I had no idea how or why that happened.

  Cassiana Clara gave me an oddly fixed stare. ‘Unless you know who he is, and why he is doing this, how can you be sure, Albia?’

  I did not protest that I was sure because I was the expert and she was just an innocent. She might be right. Sometimes an outsider can be perceptive just because they view an event with new eyes. I would think about what she had said.

  32

  I had no appetite for lunch. I had no interest in anything, obsessed only with what was about to happen that evening with the foxes.

  The Aventine’s mood degenerated. Outsiders, here for the festival, had taken over. Locals were struggling to find places in their regular haunts. We were jostled on our own streets by visitors who seemed to have no sense that they had invaded our ground. Why do tourists never allow space to other people on pavements? Why are they so loud, why be such disrespectful idiots? Do they all leave their brains at home, sitting on a shelf with their good manners, when they pack their travel bags? They climb out of their carrying chairs, right in your way, then stand about, gaping vacantly. They don’t ignore us; they simply do not see us.

  I was not even a Roman but I loathed this influx of grockles. The impact would be temporary but, as every year, it unsettled us.

  A killer who didn’t care who he attacked would find these morons easy pickings, but I doubted ours would take one. They posed no challenge. It would be someone local, someone who had drawn his notice in some way.

  How long since he last struck? Too long, I thought. He must be in need of excitement again. Such killers had regular patterns of behaviour. Assuming he planned in advance, he would certainly be planning a new death now.

  If he did not plan, but acted on sudden urges, the desire for power, the callous sense of power that repeat murderers enjoy, might agitate him at any moment. He could be jabbing at his next victim while I stood here in the Vicus Armilustrium, scowling as I was buffeted by braying idiots in their best tunics, just in from Campania without their brains.

  I went home. I stomped moodily up to my office, as if I wanted to distance myself from the crowds that way. It was not entirely successful, since noise rose between the narrow buildings a
nd seemed amplified when it reached me. For the next few hours, even when I stayed indoors and refused to look out over the balcony, I was increasingly aware of large numbers of people moving about below. For the most part they were quiet so far. The festival involved sacrifice and solemn rites, with a deep religious purpose. And most had yet to find a hole they liked, in which to dig in for the evening and drink themselves silly.

  In any case, there was the race. It was a big event. Horses and riders had been training for a long while. This was the first outing of the season; owners hoped their horses would become this season’s famous winner. Jockeys, too, were eager for fame. Public gambling was illegal – yet big money rode on the outcome.

  My local neighbourhood grew still as everyone flocked to the Circus. The bulk of the Aventine’s main peak lay between Fountain Court and the Circus Maximus, muffling sound partially; yet when surrounding buildings lay quiet on great occasions, we could always make out the distant roar. It started with snatches of distant music as the religious procession entered through the ceremonial gates at the apsidal end further from us, passing under the new triple arches built in honour of the Emperor Titus. Then a slight surge of vocal approval might cover the arrival of our current emperor in his official box, though Domitian’s new elaborate viewing platform, high on the edge of the Palatine in his grand palace, made him almost invisible to the crowd so far below.

  On legal advice I retract that. People had supposedly been thrown to the arena beasts for insulting the emperor in his hearing at the Games. Writing about him critically was as bad.

  There came a lull in the noise, which would be when white-robed women carried out mysterious rites for Ceres; those rites were reserved for female initiates, though one of Rome’s cadre of senior priests, the Flamen Cerialis, would officiate in his cape and pronged headdress, while the plebeian aediles also had a traditional role in the prayers. This would be important for the ambitious Manlius Faustus. Aediles who managed the Games well and won the crowd’s approval could later use their public support to help them gain more important positions. It was not easy to impress a Roman crowd. Indifferent to his glory, many in the predominantly male audience would be still gathering, talking among themselves and assessing their surroundings during this part of the proceedings. They had to endure the rites, but would be bored. You can’t make bets on the sacrifice of a pregnant sow. Indeed, even for a suave audience of hard-nosed Romans who would gamble away their grandmothers, placing bets during this solemn moment is generally frowned upon. Their upright grandmas would have taught them that.