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

by Davis, Lindsey

  Andronicus crossed Greater Laurel Street. Delivery carts were out and about, now the festival proceedings were over. For a short stretch he confused us by dodging among the carts, then he nipped into a cross street, and was off again, veering past bars and workshops, pushing over a vegetable stall so we were handicapped by streams of rolling cabbages.

  He burst out onto the Clivus Publicius, some way ahead of us. We lost sight of him. Suddenly we saw him again, now riding on the back of a startled mule he had unhitched from an unattended cart. He rode the beast full pelt down the hill away from us, looking back with his face alight with glee, one arm aloft as if wielding a triumphal banner, and whooping taunts. Ironically, we were only yards from where the ox-wagon had killed Lucius Bassus.

  He knew he was safe. Just as we rallied ourselves to follow, a grim troop of Praetorian Guards marched past. The tall togate brutes were unmistakable, with soldiers’ boots showing below their tunics and their swords under their clothes. They never wear full armour inside Rome, but they don’t need to. They had probably been sent to execute some philosopher Domitian objected to for campaigning for a better world, but we would do for starters, just to get them in the mood before the bloody business in their orders.

  Unable to pull up in a timely fashion and with no pillar to hide behind, we had run right in among this noble death squad. The big bored men were automatically unhappy about us. Breathless people running must be running away from a crime. People who give feeble explanations are people who ought to spend time in a cell, getting their story straight on a starvation diet in between visits from the torturer. As for women on the streets in opaque dresses, they need a good seeing to and these were the heroes to do it – one after the other, or several at once if there was no time for orderly queuing. If and when Tiberius argued about my treatment, he would be given similar attention. At the Praetorian Camp there was a scale of reparations, where people with complaints of harassment generally found they would not in fact receive compensation, but would be charged for those old military myths, ‘insult to a Roman officer’ and ‘damaged uniforms’.

  We were in trouble. I assumed any quick thinking would be up to me, though my tired brain refused to cooperate. I was surprised, therefore, when Tiberius straightened up, hauled aside the centurion, a slow beast with ringworm, spoke a few words, showed his signet ring, and signalled to me to come and stand safely beside him. I was being taught new rude words and pawed heavily. One of the men had that clever knack of removing clothes from women without them noticing what he was up to.

  Coins chinked. The centurion demurely uttered, ‘Have a good night then, sir!’, glancing at me as if he assumed I was some blowsy piece Tiberius had paid for by the hour from a ‘manicure parlour’. Neither of us had the energy to set him straight. I was too preoccupied, garment-wise. I had to retrieve one of my shoulder brooches from the gutter.

  The Guards marched on to carry out their important work for the emperor. They left us like two misdelivered sacks, standing alone on the dark pavement.

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  Only much later, after I had been taken home and had flung myself on my bed in complete collapse, did it strike me how peculiar we must have looked there on the Clivus Publicius, so what a lucky escape we had had. Tiberius was not just coughing with exertion, but his face was bruised and cut as if he had been in a professional boxing bout. I had such a sore windpipe I could hardly breathe, while the sweat in my eyes from so much running must have made my cosmetics run. He had lost his cloak early in the proceedings; I never had one. We must have seemed incoherent and agitated even to Praetorians, who are used to meeting all kinds of bad characters, offering them all kinds of lame excuses.

  Using his mysterious influence, Tiberius extricated us. We fell in with some vigiles. I was put in a chair and escorted to Fountain Court. A guard was posted. My brain was alive with wild images of the night. Despite that, I must have fallen into a deep sleep.

  Next day I awoke knowing we had no plans. The situation seemed impossible. Yesterday the cult women had given us a physical focus for our hunt, but today’s rites would all take place in the Circus Maximus. Even if our quarry bothered to go, among two hundred thousand people he would be invisible. He surely would not be so stupid as to attack the

  ceremonies. Otherwise, Andronicus had shown he had no fear of a vigiles’ search – rightly. Even with no funds he was resourceful. If he lay low in the city, he could escape detection indefinitely. He might even flee from Rome. We had somehow to flush him out, and fast. As I struggled to rise, wash and change into normal day clothes, I had no ideas how to do that.

  I went to the Stargazer. Seating myself stiffly at one of the inside tables, I signalled to Junillus for bread rolls and hot mulsum. Of his own accord he brought over the remains of the main cold meat platter; he shook out the ends of various olive bowls among the last slices of Lucanian sausage and shreds of smoked ham on the big dish from which he made takeouts and counter snacks for early workers. My vigiles minder stood upright, having something basic. Eating automatically, I fell into a vacant dream.

  It was a warm day with a breeze, not chilly. Mid-morning, for I had slept in late. No other customers.

  Life seemed bad. No hope, no solution, no point.

  Without me being aware of it, Junillus had gone into the back kitchen, taking crockery to wash. In any caupona it was daily routine. He would be there for a while, starting preparations for the lunchtime rush. The vigilis must have gone out to use the lavatory, then being a man who could never stay quiet, he started talking to, or at least, at Junillus. He had been getting no joy out of me. I could hear him maundering on about the races or another tedious subject, with occasional grunts or short phrases from my cousin, among chopping and scooping sounds as he worked on food. I could not see them. I was alone. As a relative, I would be in charge of the bar if any customers came and I was accustomed to serving myself if I wanted anything, so Junillus would not bother to pop out to check. Junillus and the other man were out of sight and separated from me by several yards, when someone leaned over one of the counters from the street, a mere four feet from me.

  It was Andronicus.

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  Oddly enough, even in this confined space, I felt little fear being alone with him. It was easier to be face to face than menaced by an unseen presence. Anyway, I knew him. Even with a killer, you feel that it matters. You have been friends, so he will not harm you. He will believe you can help him. You loved him once, so he cannot kill you. Alone among the people he threatens, you will be safe.

  ‘Well there you are!’ he exclaimed.

  He had his weight on one elbow, leaning on the irregularly shaped, pastel-coloured pieces of marble that form the crazy patterns of most bar counters. He was giving me the old look, that flash of innocent, open eyes, the wrinkled forehead, the bright, shared, conspiratorial gaze. The past few days might never have happened. He was boyish and mercurial again, acting the man I fell for. This time the attraction failed.

  I kept my voice level. ‘I am surprised you show your face, Andronicus!’

  ‘Why? I have done nothing wrong.’ He would always believe that. It was at the heart of his madness, a disease of his soul. He had no remorse.

  ‘You know what you did. You killed five people – five we know about. Viator, the boy, Salvidia, the old lady, the maid. Were there more?’

  He shrugged. He seemed indifferent.

  ‘Do you admit you killed those people?’

  ‘Why not? None of them is a loss. Don’t grieve. The stiffs deserved it.’

  ‘Were there others beforehand? Or when you heard about the needle killings at the aediles’ meeting did you start then? Did that first give you the idea?’ When he made no answer, I insisted, ‘Andronicus, were there others?’

  He shrugged again. ‘That was all.’ I would never know whether I could believe him.

  ‘So you confess to me, Andronicus? Five people offended you, so you murdered them? You knew poisoned needle
s were being used in an outbreak all across Rome. You reasoned you could do something similar, concealing your crimes?’

  ‘It was not me, I’m just fooling you.’

  ‘It was you.’

  ‘Why do you care?’

  ‘Because I hate injustice!’ I railed at him. His lack of empathy exasperated me. There was no reasoning with him. ‘All of those people were taken from life before their time and for petty motivation. All because you are an emotionless, irresponsible, utterly cold-hearted bastard. Superficially charming – but in truth you are dishonest, arrogant and completely callous.’

  Finally, my agitation shook him. My failure of composure forced him to say, ‘If you are right, then I am sorry for it all.’

  I could see his thoughts already, finding excuses for himself, working up some new story to try out on me. ‘I had a hard life, Albia. You have no idea.’

  ‘Rubbish. I know about hard lives. You were never

  abandoned, starved, beaten, abused. What do you know of

  isolation and hopelessness? Bitter cold, curses, constant fear and misery? You never endured any of that. You have always had a roof and food, you never knew insecurity. Compared to me, Andronicus, as a freedman brought up in a comfortable home and given every opportunity, you were damned fortunate.’

  He would never accept my comparison. He was totally self-centred.

  I was trying not to let him spot me watching for a chance of assistance. For the only time ever, it seemed, nobody at all came walking down either of the streets on whose corner the Stargazer sat. If I tried to attract attention from Junillus and the vigilis, Andronicus could easily reach me before they understood what I wanted. Nothing on my table would make a satisfactory weapon.

  ‘I am trying to understand why, Andronicus. Why are you so resentful, why so unhappy? You are amiable and talented, well thought of as an archivist, with a good post in a prestigious temple.’ A thought struck me. ‘It sounds as if it all went sour for you when Manlius Faustus became aedile. You and he had already had a set-to over the position as secretary that he refused you – you see him as idle and worthless, favoured by his uncle and in high position simply because of who he is. Am I right?’

  ‘Shrewd as ever,’ answered Andronicus, turning it into one of the compliments I now hated. ‘You see it as it is, dear Albia – why him? Most honoured in Rome? Aediles must be among the top hundred officials. What has he ever done for that?’

  ‘Won votes and acted effectively – that’s the system, you know! I think your main quarrel is that he is too strong for you,’ I told him. ‘He sees through you. He won’t do as you want. Were all the terrible things you did to those other people caused by your naked jealousy of him?’

  When I asked an uncomfortable question, Andronicus simply failed to answer me.

  With no way yet to attract help, I was running out of ideas. I did not want to talk to him at all, and it was an effort concentrating on arguments with someone whose mind worked so differently from normal. I dared not take my eyes off him. I knew I was tiring. ‘You found my apartment, I gather. And earlier, you took my needle-case?’

  ‘Just a memento of you,’ Andronicus declared, as if it was a lover’s trophy. ‘You can have it back, if you want?’

  Determined to stop his games, I lost patience and snapped, ‘Don’t lie. You cannot do that. Tiberius has it now.’

  I watched Andronicus adjusting his story, as Tiberius had described. ‘He and I are on good terms. I can ask him for it any time.’

  ‘You’re not on good terms. He won’t give it to you; he needs it as evidence.’

  ‘He would give it to you!’ said Andronicus, smiling in a way I did not care for.

  ‘Do you still have my sewing needles?’

  ‘Probably not. Who knows?’ He did have them. With luck, he had had no opportunity to coat them with anything dangerous.

  I said to him, as if it was perfectly normal, ‘Well, I would offer you refreshments but you know I have to keep a good eye on you, in case you jump over that counter and stick me with a poisoned needle.’

  At that, he gave me a sweet, sweet smile. ‘I used the last one. Used it to kill the vixen.’ He was lying again, because I knew he had been in my apartment and taken the needle on the ribbon after he dispatched the vixen. ‘I had to help her, didn’t I? I did that for you, Albia.’

  ‘I know.’ I remained quiet, despite my anger. What was the point in saying I would rather not have such consideration from a killer? I didn’t need him. I could myself have found a way to do whatever was necessary. When the wounded fox was on the stairs, I could have been brave, held down her head with the broom, carried out the humane deed. ‘Yes, that was your only decent and honest action.’

  ‘And you know, it was horrible to do! Not a woman’s job,’ Andronicus insisted.

  That made me flare up. All my work is thought by some to be unsuitable for women. I hate that attitude. ‘According to you, a woman should only admire men respectfully and submit. Shut up and open up.’

  ‘I never treated you like that, Albia.’

  ‘What you did to me was worse. I was not someone you preyed on for particular ends like Venusia, trying to pick her brains about Faustus, and even stealing her money. You liked me. I do believe it. You wanted our friendship, as much as you ever truly value anything – yet even so, you lied, deceived, manipulated and played with me.’

  ‘You are so hard on me!’ He grinned shamelessly.

  ‘At least you never stole my life savings.’

  He feigned shock. Then he said, unbelievably, ‘Are you telling me it is all over?’

  ‘Of course I am. Be realistic. Our so-called friendship died the moment I began to see through you.’

  Andronicus gave me his jealous frown. ‘So there is somebody else?’

  He would never change. The fault could never be his. He would not accept that he had let himself down, that he had damned himself in a knowing woman’s eyes. He would go through life – whatever he had left of it – continually blaming others. When he blamed someone too angrily, he would remove them. He would plan someone’s destruction, secretly prepare his weapon, stalk them, attack them, then revel in their death as though he had somehow taken a responsibility upon himself – not to revenge his own imagined slights but to cleanse society.

  For rejecting him, he would kill me too, if he could.

  Suddenly, two things happened.

  Junillus came in from the back, carrying a large pottery container of the Stargazer’s horrible daily chickpeas.

  Two men we knew came walking together towards the caupona: Morellus and Tiberius.

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  All three must have seen my predicament at pretty well the same moment. All three started towards me. I heard a whistle, the summons that would make any nearby vigiles come running. Junillus put on a surprising burst of speed for a boy with his arms full of deadweight crockery, containing a hotpot he had just spent effort preparing. He would not want to spill and waste it. Being nearest, he staggered forwards and interposed himself with the pot so Andronicus, who had clearly considered leapfrogging over the counter to come at me, had second thoughts. He had experienced the lunchtime chickpeas; he would not want to argue with that powerful concoction.

  Andronicus had the option of fleeing down the other street, but chose direct attack. He spun around and ran at the others. Instinctively they separated to give him two targets. He chose Morellus. Assuming the hefty Morellus could handle it, Tiberius veered around towards the Stargazer in case Andronicus had harmed anyone there. I was on my feet by now. Morellus briefly grappled with the fugitive, but he yelled when Andronicus stuck something into him. Knowing the outcome of a poisoned needle, Morellus froze in horror. Andronicus escaped. Tiberius checked me, shot a thank-you at Junillus, then bounded back to help.

  Scrambling out to the street, I too reached Morellus. There was a needle still in his arm. He was now gasping for breath in a panic attack. I plucked out the needle, holding it ca
refully by the eye between my thumb and one finger. I dropped it down a gutter drain. Then all I could remember about poison was that folk remedy for snake and scorpion bites: I fetched out my little knife, then slashed across Morellus’ reddened skin so I could squeeze and make him bleed as much as possible immediately. Tiberius put an arm under him and held him up, in case he fainted.

  ‘Avenging Mars, he’s done for me!’

  Tiberius and Junillus were dragging him into the caupona where he could be given more attention. ‘There, Morellus, it was only a gnat bite. Albia has done you much worse damage.’

  ‘Be brave,’ I urged, though I did not blame him. ‘Fight it. Stay with us, Morellus. I’ll ask my uncles the lawyers to sue me for compensation; you want to be here for your payout, don’t you?’

  I knew I was white-faced; the runner did not look much better. Our eyes met, facing up in despair to the fact that Morellus might be beyond help.

  There were vigiles all over the place now; squads of them must have been stationed in nearby streets and alleys, combing the area for Andronicus. A crowd soon gathered, including the usual phony doctors, apothecaries, farriers, barbers and all those other charlatans claiming medical knowledge who hope to make fees from street accidents. Chair-men came at a run, jostling to be first in the queue to ferry any wounded home and charge them extra for alleged blood on their upholstery. All we needed was a seedy informer proffering legal advice, but I had that covered. Ever the professional.

  Morellus was maundering about his wife and children, so he had definitely given up. Junillus brought him a cup of water, which he rejected, so I drank it. I remembered Andronicus had said to me that he had used his last poisoned needle on the vixen. I said this. Morellus calmed down slightly. Over his head, Tiberius was giving me the silent message that he would not trust anything Andronicus claimed, but what poor Morellus needed most was reassurance. Anything: in his line of work, he was comfortable with dishonesty. Either he was safe, or in a short while he would feel a strong need to lie down, then at least we knew he would pass away very peacefully.