‘Yes. To both questions.’
That was a relief. ‘So,’ I concluded, ‘what do we think about Lupus?’
‘Lupus?’
‘The oyster boy.’
Tiberius chipped in immediately: ‘We buy our shellfish from that stall. Lupus was a cheeky lad; I remember him. Liked to joke with customers, typical barrow boy, pain in the arse sometimes, basically too young to judge when his comments were inappropriate. The Porticus is over by the temple, so if no one else was on that side of the hill but Andronicus had to be at the archive, he would be ordered to pick up supplies. On one occasion, he came home complaining bitterly that a boy had been rude. Took it personally, as he always does. Refused to go again.’
‘Clearly he did go, once too often,’ I concluded grimly. ‘When I interviewed the family they reckoned they saw nobody the day Lupus was killed, but if we paraded Andronicus they might remember him.’
‘They might.’
Tiberius stood up. The subject was affecting him. It was affecting me too, so I also lumbered to my feet. I felt stiff, weary and downhearted. He complained about us sitting in that enclosed stuffy room for too long to be good for thought; he urged that we left the station house and went somewhere with a new view and more air.
In the doorway Tiberius paused, looking at me from close quarters. He could see I was reluctant to go. ‘All right?’
‘Fine.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I will be.’
He waited a beat, but when he saw my chin come up, he steered me into the colonnade and we set off walking.
46
Slowly, as Tiberius and I walked through our city that morning, I recovered my courage. I had lived in Rome for fifteen years, most of them on the Aventine. These were my streets. I became determined not to be driven out of them by fear.
Our steps led away from the riverside, a direction in which I rarely went. We must have taken a turn around the Plane Tree Grove, a rather bare public park near the road that was named after it, though I was so distracted I had no memory of this afterwards. Then we worked across the southern side of the main Hill until we emerged out of the Thirteenth District into the Twelfth, beside the vigiles’ Fourth Cohort headquarters, where I had been entertained by Scaurus and his henchmen. No mention was made of that.
For a long while, we did not talk at all, as we meandered down the wide Street of the Public Fishponds towards the Circus Maximus. Stopping short of a descent right down to the racetrack, we made our way above it instead, along the lower part of the Hill again, back past the two Temples of Venus and eventually that of the flower-and vegetable-covered garden god Vertumnus. I remember I commented to Tiberius on the Temple of Venus Verticordia that only in Rome could the goddess of love and lust be worshipped in a version that was propaganda for sexual purity.
‘Venus the “turner of hearts” towards virtue – meaning women’s chastity, of course,’ I grumbled.
‘Faithfulness in love,’ argued Tiberius, revealing a romantic side.
‘If you believe in it!’
‘You don’t?’
‘I do. My husband was faithful to me, and I to him.’
‘I have noticed you always speak well of your marriage.’
‘Well, it was short!’
‘And a long time ago? – Yet you still wear your wedding ring.’
Wrong. Lentullus and I had never bothered. I explained wryly that I acquired this ring only a few years ago from a house sale my family organised and wore it to imply respectability in my work. Sometimes it may have deterred men, though I had no wish to remind the runner that I ever looked available. It was bad enough that he knew I had attracted Andronicus.
‘Have you ever been married, Tiberius?’ He only wore a signet ring, its symbol a spirited fish-tailed horse. I had seen it when I inspected his scarred hand.
‘Once.’
‘Oh – and never again?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ This man failed to say quite a few things, I was beginning to suspect.
Our meandering had brought us to the lower reaches of the steep Clivus Publicius. We had to pass the house where the child Lucius Bassus had lived, the very spot where he had been run over by the Metellus and Nepos wagon. On the wall where Tiberius had written up his fatal poster calling for witnesses, the family had now installed an oversize memorial plaque. They must have spent the compensation money Salvidia’s stepson paid. A touching message commemorated Lucius:
*
Lived three years, four months, ten days: a little soul who loved only play, returned to the gods of the underworld: his parents’ hopes are shattered.
*
Tiberius muttered impatiently that the Bassus family would have done more good by using the cash for their other children. I felt obliged to murmur, maybe the plaque comforted them. He declared that kind of comfort was overrated.
He pointed out angrily that the door of the house stood open again. Nothing had been learned. Any other infant could have run out into danger.
‘I wonder why anyone bothers!’
‘Do you have children?’ I asked.
‘No, I never had the chance to neglect innocent offspring!’
Tiberius strode on, with me hurrying after. We looped up over the heights, through little streets with markets and fountains at crossroads, under the commanding bulk of the great Temple of Diana of the Aventine, through more local alleys and byways, until we returned to my home area. Much of the time we spent together, I was barely aware of my companion. I was lost in private meditation, sometimes of a neutral kind that serves to empty your brain of trouble, but frequently much darker. We walked; I was reclaiming my right to do so, after a long night and morning of apprehension. Exposing Andronicus had shaken me. What that callous killer had done left me bleak and lacking faith. Worse, before I calmed down on today’s walk, I had been deeply frightened.
Even Tiberius wanted to warn me not to be complacent. ‘Until he is in chains, keep your wits about you, Albia. If you have said or done anything to upset him—’
‘That’s me! Unfortunately, I dropped him. He will not forgive me for that.’
I saw no need to dwell on the end of my love affair. But I did mention that my brother had been dangerously obstreperous with Andronicus last night, probably in the same way that young Lupus once cheekily aroused his loathing, a lad doing what came naturally without realising it threatened his safety. Tiberius thought Postumus should be kept in at home, just to be on the safe side.
He offered no advice about me. Wise fellow.
Everywhere had a bright but relaxed holiday atmosphere. People were having lunch. There was no suggestion Tiberius and I should do that together. Instead, he left me at the Stargazer where I said Junillus would look after me. Looking tired, Tiberius said he had to go home. It had been a kind move to remain with me when we left the station house, although I could tell why he did it. He, too, had needed time to prepare himself for the next action.
‘Andronicus has been kept busy at home with tasks for Tullius. It is time to confront him. Then make an arrest.’
Despite myself, I thought about Andronicus, unwittingly working with the aedile’s uncle while retribution approached. Tullius would know what was going on. He would be aware of the room search, and the evidence discovered; while Tiberius finalised the case, Tullius must have agreed to supervise Andronicus. What would it be? Lists? Rental dates and prices? Reviewing old contracts that could now be used for wrapping up fishbones, or simply dumped with the household rubbish? Presumably a hardbitten old businessman would be able to keep his archivist occupied, without showing signs that formal charges were in the last stages of preparation.
I had no wish to see Andronicus being made a prisoner, no desire to know what would happen to him in the judicial system. There could only be one end for a freedman who was found guilty of unlawful homicide, especially when two of the citizens he had killed – Viator and Salvidia – had been wealthy. Murder carried th
e death penalty. He was not important enough for his trial to be drawn out. The prosecution would be brutal, his defence sketchy. He could hardly rely on the traditional character witnesses to plead for him. Justice would be swift. There was only one outcome. He would be sent to the arena to be torn apart by the beasts.
I would make sure I was away from Rome then.
‘Don’t let it prey on your mind,’ said Tiberius heavily. ‘It is over. You can leave the rest to me.’
Brave, manly words – a declaration which always sounds convincing and never goes wrong, does it?
The Stargazer provided its usual solace. Many a solitary customer had found oblivion there. A beaker of wine helped finish restoring me to full confidence. A second slipped down unheeded. Another made me positively defiant. I believe it is a known effect.
I went to my parents’ house, needing to warn them that they should keep Postumus indoors. Easier said than done, I was informed rather spikily. My brother had become fascinated by the nightly rituals enacted as part of the Cerialia. He sneaked out when he wanted to. I said, stuff that, the horrid little beggar had upset the needle-killer and if they wanted to avoid a fatality, he must be made to obey orders. I may have added that looking after an eleven-year-old boy should surely not be difficult and I was surprised at the lack of discipline regularly applied to him in this airy-fairy house. My words veered to the wild and my logic to the incomprehensible.
It was suggested I might like to have a quiet lie-down, upstairs in the roof garden.
Oddly enough, I did what I was told. I slept for hours. Nobody disturbed me. Who would dare?
When I awoke on the daybed, feeling cold and sluggish, I could tell from the shift in the light that the whole afternoon had passed me by. Noises from the river – the daily racket of unloading, the crashes, stevedores’ cries and squeaks from pulleys – were now fewer. Sounds from the streets below were different from daytime: hardly any donkey bells, more casual conversation. A blackbird sang his heart out on a nearby roof, designating territory.
The air was filling with drifts of hot oil and herbs as evening cookery began in homes and commercial kitchens. If I stayed here much longer I would be obliged to have dinner, with a lot of teasing. I slipped away, shamefaced, and skulked back alone to my own nest, going via Prisca’s baths. The place had just opened formally; they were busy, which saved me having to talk.
At Fountain Court I saw no sign of Rodan. I made my way through the first-floor home of the Mythembal family. Children were wailing, in a room I could not see into. I heard the nightly protests as their weary mother attempted to wash them with cold water, and each one doggedly resisted her until they fell asleep in mid-sob. Locked in their desperate family ritual, none of them were aware of me. I went straight through my own room at the end of the corridor, passed outside to the walkway above the courtyard, climbed the narrow stairs, and fell into my hidden haven. Suddenly I realised how desperate I was to be home, solitary, in this deep silence where only motes of dust were moving. I kept my brain empty. There was nothing left to consider.
In the apartment was a tiny area where I could prepare food. I dipped a beaker into a bucket of cold water, drinking deep. I turned around to my main sitting room, barely aware I was doing it. I stood, looking.
This room was furnished with a wide couch that served as a daybed, its en suite bronze-legged footstool, a couple of elegant inlaid chests, a rug on the floor, a hanging lamp, souvenirs and paintings on the walls. Two high square windows, set in the thick outside wall, let in light.
There was still light that early evening. Enough for me to notice if things were not right. Nothing was missing. None of my possessions appeared to be displaced. But I had a sensation. You know how, when mice have recently taken up residence at the back of a cupboard, you feel their presence even before you glimpse them from the corner of an eye, long before the telltale droppings and the smell?
I had a glass platter that had contained three apples when I last saw it. Now there were two. My sewing box, untouched by me since my birthday, seemed to have moved sideways. Its lid was still down, but when I went over and lifted it, the short piece of ribbon into which I had stuck my sewing needle was now missing.
While I was out this morning, somebody had been in my apartment.
47
I knew who it was, and why he had come. He was looking for me. I would be his next victim.
The doors to my bedroom were closed. Before real fright set in, I crossed with angry strides and threw them open. It could have been a foolish move, but nobody was in the room.
Panic hit me. I left the apartment by the main door, which I generally never used. Clambering over the flower troughs, I ran breathlessly downstairs. Rodan had reappeared from somewhere and was talking to two of the vigiles. It was no surprise when they said they had been sent to warn me: Andronicus must have sensed he was about to be arrested. He had escaped from the aedile’s house.
When I reported that he had already been here, I was told to wait in the courtyard with the second paramilitary: Rufinianus. I knew him. He wrote the notes that time I had the other intruder, the one I stuck with a kitchen knife. Rufinianus was hopeless, yet his presence was comforting. The other man took Rodan. They hurried upstairs, first to search the office, then to work their way down, floor by floor, checking the landings and every other apartment. Rodan would open up the empty ones with the pass-keys my father had reluctantly left with him; if nobody answered at the rooms that were occupied, I knew he would push in the door by leaning on it. If tenants complained, he charged them for having the damage mended.
While I waited with Rufinianus, the lamp boy turned up for his evening duties, lugging a big round amphora of Spanish olive oil. I told him to use every light we had, filling them until they were brimming so they would last as long as possible. He looked amazed at the change of policy, but slowly set about it. The common areas eventually blazed more than stairs and open spaces ever do in tenements, to the shock of the inhabitants.
When the whole building had been searched, we knew Andronicus was nowhere there. I learned that Morellus had started on duty early and was leading the hunt. Rufinianus was despatched to bring him up to date about my unwelcome visitation.
‘Tell him I lost another needle.’
Rodan locked the grille. I was informed that on his return, Rufinianus was to remain in the courtyard. There would be guards all night. For added reassurance, the other man took me to my apartment and walked me through it, rechecking. He gave me the usual sombre vigiles advice to members of the public about keeping shutters closed, locking my doors and admitting nobody I did not know. I reckon he realised that for once somebody was actually listening. He tolerated my quip that what I really had to fear was somebody I did know, then he made a to-do of checking all the hooks and hinges on the window shutters. It made him feel better. Nothing would console me. Once I was left alone, I admit I sat on my couch, trembling.
I had overheard strict security instructions being given to all the other tenants on the first and second floors. Such special attention is never as reassuring as the authorities intend; it makes everybody more keyed up. Not that you ever believe them if, on the other hand, the vigiles assure you there is nothing to worry about. The words, ‘Everything is normal; please go back indoors’ immediately make a neighbourhood jumpy.
I had asked if a message could be taken to my father’s house, about protecting Postumus. ‘Oh yes, he killed a boy before, I believe.’ Clearly the vigiles on the ground had now been briefed in detail.
When Rufinianus did come back from seeing Morellus, he had two other troops with him. I took down hot drinks like a good householder. They were very respectful. I think their unusual good manners were what I found most alarming.
There was nothing else I could do. I lay on my bed all night, fully dressed and generally not sleeping.
48
I did drift off eventually. I awoke later than usual. A strip-wash and change of clothing he
lped make me feel more myself. I managed to drink posca, and ate anything I could find: a nub of loaf, a slice of preserved meat, a handful of wizened grapes.
I refused to touch the two apples; they would be sitting on that dish until they went mouldy.
Although I felt as if I was in mourning, I put on earrings I was fond of (my Etruscan filigree rosettes) and a coloured scarf. I had chosen sensible shoes and a sturdy tunic in heavy-weave linen, then speared up my hair very securely with more bone pins than usual. I was dressing for action today.
A member of the day-shift who was a stranger to me had relieved Rufinianus. He allowed me to leave the building, though with stupid reluctance considering I said I was going to consult Morellus at the station house. The man came with me; I deliberately lost him at the end of Fountain Court. I went to the station house by myself. I refused to be guarded by nincompoops. If that was the best the public budget could afford, I would rather not be guarded at all.
It was so early that on the streets I could see anybody coming towards me or hear anyone behind. Behind was what I had to fear with Andronicus. I walked in the middle of the road, wherever the road was wide enough to provide that extra security, not passing too close to any dark door-or stairways. Occasional stray dogs yawned at me. Sad public slaves swept pavements and I saw a long-faced burglar on his way home, disappointed and empty-handed. A couple of bars that stayed open all night during festivals were bestrewn with out-of-town visitors who were now devastated by their hangovers. One who looked as if he might not revive was being stretchered away on a builder’s pallet.
Morellus was in his enquiry room, collecting in reports. Andronicus had not been spotted.
What I did learn was that Venusia had been brought in from Aricia last night. Late as it was, a covered litter had arrived subsequently, from which descended a rude woman who had a letter Morellus could not refuse, authorising her to see the prisoner.
The Ides of April: Falco: The New Generation (Falco: The Next Generation) Page 27