I decided he would rather no one spelled that out.
The vigiles pushed back the crowd and ordered people to go home. During the pause while they arranged transport to take Morellus to the station house, I spoke to Tiberius. ‘This is beyond a joke!’
‘Yes. I want to catch him today.’
I reported my conversation at the bar with Andronicus. Tiberius and I were leaning against one counter. Around the tables people were clustering to bandage and fuss over Morellus. At the other counter, a couple of the Stargazer’s regulars had turned up and demanded service as if they had not even noticed what was going on. They never let any emergency interfere with their rights as daily customers. The phlegmatic Junillus served them.
Despondently, Tiberius replayed Andronicus’ history, as if seeking to find some clue to his character. ‘He had always been treated specially, maybe that was the problem. Tullius saw him as extremely bright – which in many ways he is. He was given education and training for a good clerical position.’
‘When Faustus came, after he was orphaned, did things change for Andronicus?’
‘Andronicus may have thought so. Tullius continued to see him the same way, as a first-class slave – but for him, that was all Andronicus ever was or would be, whereas a nephew was a nephew.’
‘Family.’
Tiberius suddenly opened up and confided, ‘Albia, the irony is that Andronicus could have a genuine grievance. Have you noticed his distinctive ears?’
Tragically, I had. I had nibbled them. Andronicus had ears where the tips took an unusual turn forwards, almost as if when he was a baby, the lobes had been folded by a silly nurse with pinching fingers.
‘Uncle Tullius.’
‘What?’
‘Tullius has the same,’ Tiberius told me in a sombre voice. ‘Quite a few slaves in the household have inherited the resemblance.’
‘Tullius fathered him?’ It was hardly unusual. Legally, it would make no difference, because a child in Rome followed the status of its mother. Some slave-owners recognised their children, if they felt real affection for the parties involved, though there was no obligation. I guessed Tullius was a hard man.
‘Imagine what Andronicus’ deranged imagination could make of that!’ mused Tiberius.
I thought failure to notice his probable paternity showed Andronicus was not as bright as he himself believed. The rich master’s natural son? His jealousy of the nephew would have exploded.
Morellus was being carted off. I saw Tiberius exchange words discreetly with some of the vigiles, then he returned to me. ‘I am going to take you safely home.’ By then I was shaky, so disturbed by events that I did not argue.
We walked to Fountain Court, with a couple of vigiles following close. I could not help glancing around nervously; although I spotted no one lurking, I guessed Andronicus would not be far away. We walked in silence.
Outside the old laundry, the alley was the same as usual. The short row of run-down shops opposite had their shutters pushed open but were doing no trade. The ones further down on the same side looked as sleepy. Disreputable blankets hung out over balconies. The Mythembal children were jumping in puddles, puddles that were probably animal urine, but they scampered away when we approached. There was slight sunshine, which in a park would have been pleasant but here just warmed up the midden, stewing its horrible contents and stirring maggots to life. Smells of industrial processes, fishbones and fresh dung shimmered above the irregular pavings.
A stranger would find this place ominous. To me, it was dirty, dank, yet depressingly normal.
Tiberius left me outside the potter’s. He told me quietly that I should spend the day in my own apartment, locking the doors and admitting no visitors for my safety. He said this sternly and made a point of waiting until I agreed the instruction, nodding at him fretfully.
‘Do what I tell you, Albia. Stay in!’
‘Dear gods, you are tyrannical.’
I picked my way alone across the roadway filth. There was no sign of anyone detailed to guard me. I could see Rodan out on a stool in the old courtyard for some reason; he would have been able to see any visitors, had his gummy eyes been open; he looked dead asleep.
As I reached the fire porch I glanced back. Tiberius held up an arm in farewell, then shouted unexpectedly, ‘Better get working, girl! It’s about time you did something useful for your clients in your precious office!’
A moment before he had been telling me to rest up. He really knew how to annoy me. And the whole street must have heard him. It amounted to slander. Muttering, I strode indoors.
Tiberius was becoming as contradictory as the archivist. Imprinted with his first stern instructions, the idea of collapsing wearily in my apartment straight away held great attractions. Still, rebellious as ever, I chose to nip upstairs first. If there were any messages in the office, I could bring them down and work on them. I would decide how my work was done.
I went up, feeling the weariness in my legs as I climbed storey after storey. Amazingly, the rubbish boy must have cleared all the old amphorae off the top landing. I had been nagging him for years. To my annoyance, somebody – him? – had been in the office. The outer door stood open. Not only that, across the room, the balcony door was open too. I wondered if my father was at last having a contractor look at its stability; the ropes were no longer securing its old door. It was a feature that from inside the room you could only see part of the balcony, the part by the door. Strange material was blowing in a breeze that constantly raked it because of the height of the tenement. As this eye-catching stuff
fluttered, I thought a woman was sitting out there until I recognised my own stole, one I always left in the office for when I felt chilly.
I walked over there. The stole had been tied onto a handle of one of the old amphorae. What in Hades was that about? The amphorae, about five of the dusty, heavy things, were all standing out there. So much for the boy tidying. He had just lugged them outside. I would have to drag them back in because the extra weight was dangerous. I bet he meant to heave them over and let them drop in the alley, but could not manage it. I knew better than to try.
We all loved that balcony. I cannot say how many warm evenings it had seen, with members of my family out there in ones, twos or threes for general pleasure or for solace in hard times. I had always adored it. Tempted, I stepped out.
It felt solid enough. True, where it was cantilevered off the side of the building, there were large cracks, enough to have perturbed Father and Uncle Lucius. Oh, but what a glorious amenity, if it was ever safely renovated. I had really missed having it.
This was, as it had always been, the best feature of the Eagle Building. The two dismal rooms tucked up under the roof were almost made desirable by its presence. You could see for miles. The view was fabulous. I gazed once again over the red pantiled rooftops. By some quirk of planning, you could look through a wide gap in the teeming buildings and see right across the River Tiber to the countryside beyond. You could hear the distant hum of life in Rome, catch its exotic miscellany of scents, feel that you were part of a great city and yet isolated in your private place. The sun on my face was marvellous.
I ventured across to the balustrade and looked down. The alley was full of men. One, seeing me appear high above him, began wildly gesticulating, throwing both his arms wide in an urgent movement. Others began looking up, pointing and shouting. Their words were inaudible.
Suddenly I understood. I was unwittingly embroiled in a stupid male plan.
I had to remove myself. Everything was unsafe. I was jeopardising the outcome. Those fools, Morellus and Tiberius, should have told me. Even if they had, though, I would
probably have come up to look; I knew myself and my independence. It was too late now. We were all stuck.
As soon as I set foot back on the threshold of the folding door, a glance at the ropes told me. Each had been severed with single blow, presumably from a fire-axe.
I ought not be he
re. When Tiberius brought me back to Fountain Court, his motive was deliberate and I should have followed his first instructions, ignoring that exaggerated afterthought about the office. I was supposed to have stayed well out of the way.
Andronicus had been set up. I had been used to do it.
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I heard approaching footsteps. I was trapped. I had put myself in jeopardy; it had gone wrong.
Judging the sounds, the man was only one or two floors below now, heading up fast. The apartments on the intervening floors were unoccupied, all locked up. I had nowhere else to go.
I had no weapons. I am not a fighter.
I took the only evasive action. Quickly I slipped into the second room, my archive with the leaky roof, and hid behind its curtain. I was thinking fast. If he came in and didn’t see me here, I had one chance. If I could get out past him, escape behind him, I might manage to be first downstairs. But he had nothing to lose and was light on his feet. The risk that he would catch me and stab me on the steps was too great.
I stood quite still. I heard him arrive outside. He stopped in the open doorway. He must be staring in from the landing.
He moved. His steps passed through the office, taking him to the folding door.
Now he would know I was not on the balcony. I had an instant to act. I slipped out through the curtain and straight across the room. I saw him; pushed him with both hands on the middle of his back; shoved him forwards hard. Surprise gave me time. Desperation gave me strength. I dragged the door closed, me indoors, him outside.
This could only end in disaster. He was trying to force the door leaf open, I was frantically holding on to keep it fastened. He was slim built, but it was a man against a woman and he was now openly violent. The door was a rackety bifold with battered panels, scene of much past mistreatment and even occasional violence. For years, people in drink had habitually crashed into it. Only the awkwardness of that dilapidated woodwork, which had always jammed and refused to operate properly, helped me.
I heard him say something to me. I saw him through the lattice, stepping back against the balustrade. He was about to hurl himself against the door, which would inevitably burst inwards. I jammed myself in the frame, full weight pushing on the door handle. It felt hopeless.
Shouts below. Someone was coming. He would not have time to reach us.
Andronicus was shouting too. He took his planned run at the door. I still managed somehow to keep it closed. He was so frustrated, he jumped right in the air and stamped down with both feet. At his next attempt, I could no longer hold the door, and he dragged it partway open. He was looking straight at me, when we heard a tremendous cracking noise. Vibrations ran through the soles of my sandals. A shudder rippled in the outer wall. He did not understand. I hope he never knew what was happening, though he must have done. I know he screamed. Any time I think about that moment, I can still hear him.
The old balcony split off from the building. The deadweight amphorae and our struggle were too much for the weakened supports. The ancient construction came away from the masonry and fell six storeys. Andronicus was taken with it.
57
A cloud of mortar dust bellied into the room and enveloped me. I swayed off-balance above empty space. As I toppled, strong arms crushed me. Tiberius hauled me to safety. One of us sobbed with shock; it may even have been him.
We heard terrible noises as the balcony landed with its tumbling cargo. Cries sounded in the alley far below. Then silence.
The runner turned me around for inspection. He apologised. I apologised. He meant for not telling me the plan and I meant for not understanding him. That was done. Neither of us would refer to it again.
He told me he had to go downstairs. I understood why. I was to follow as soon as I could. He left me. After his urgent steps faded, I could not bear it there alone and though still feeling fragile, I went down after him.
In Fountain Court there was a mound of rubble, but nothing terrible to see. The vigiles had covered the body. Somehow, no one else was hurt. Tiberius came up quickly and confirmed it was over; that was considerate.
I was taken to my father’s house, where I spent the night and all the next day. Even after the office was made safe again, it would be some time before I wanted to go back, maybe never. Even my apartment held memories. I needed to adjust before I could be comfortable there.
It was the end of the Cerialia, so that night there was a big chariot race in the Circus. It would be the last event in the Games that the aedile had to supervise. He sent my family tickets, but none of us went. I stayed quietly at the town house until after lunch the following day. Everyone was going to our villa on the coast and taking me with them.
There were things I needed from my apartment. I walked back alone early that afternoon, slowly taking the Stairs of Cassius. First, I went to the vigiles station house, where I learned that Morellus had been stricken, but somehow survived. He was at home, and since they said he was slowly rallying, I left good wishes and did not bother his wife, Pullia. Seeking quietness, I made my way to the empty enclosure of the Armilustrium. I seated myself on my usual bench, where I stayed for a long while, reflecting.
I was still there, and beginning to dislike my solitude, when I heard someone approaching. I did not look up. A lone woman should avoid eye-contact with strangers. Not that this was a stranger. I knew the man. I recognised his tread. I knew exactly who he was, even though I had never seen him before resplendent in full Roman whites, complete with broad purple status bands on his luxuriant toga. He looked good. Very good. He could carry robes with confidence. As usual he had no bodyguards, but he needed none. By virtue of his high office, his person was sacrosanct.
Even before I looked, I knew he would have grey eyes and where he supported the toga’s heavy folds on his casually bent left arm, that hand was now permanently scarred. This was, as I expected, Tiberius Manlius Faustus, the plebeian aedile.
58
A corner of his mouth tightened. ‘You realised.’
‘You knew I did.’
‘Sorry about the secrecy. I like to see things for myself.’
‘All the fun of disguise – scruff, stubble, and best of all, low street manners; you can be rude to everyone.’ I played it cool. ‘Luckily I understand, aedile. Our family motto is: If you want something done, there are people you give orders to. If you want it done well, you must do it yourself.’ I could hear my mother saying it; my father worked that way. Helena herself too.
‘You follow family tradition.’
‘I am my own woman.’
Faustus, as I must learn to call him, sounded almost admiring, though being him, not quite: ‘Oh Albiola, you are that!’
Albiola?
My relatives never used diminutives. Even Farm Boy, who as my husband had the right to be sentimental, called me nothing more personal than ‘chick’, which was the same as he called any donkey he was driving, and even a mouse he once had to entice out of our apartment. From the aedile I had no idea how to take it. He saw that and smiled faintly. For a heartbeat I was going to slap him down, but I left it. He had had enough of that from the ex-wife.
Now I understood why he kissed Laia so pointedly the other day. The formal salutation was his right as her ex-husband. He was asserting that she no longer cowed him. He had been penitent for ten years, but was finally finished with guilt.
I moved up, so the aedile sat down with me.
‘What do you want, Faustus?’
‘I was worried about you. I thought you might need comfort.’ I started to deny it, but he cut me off. ‘The truth is, I am tired and depressed myself. I hate what happened. Maybe I thought if I showed up, you might console me.’
I laughed. He endured it. He was tough but tolerant. I liked this man.
So we sat together side by side, slumped and silent for a long while. He was famous for not speaking. I never chatter. I sensed that in his disguise as the runner he had learned to talk to me more than he ever talked to most
people; for my part, I had felt able to be open with him. Yet he and I could communicate without words. Together we abandoned the struggle to remain unmoved in the face of appalling events. Silently, we faced our sad mood, our weariness, even our depression and regret for mistakes. Every time a major investigation ends, there is a period of melancholy. This time that poignancy was personal. At least we were sharing it.
I relayed the news about Morellus. Faustus told me he had been to a follow-up meeting after the festival, receiving congratulations for his contribution. He was modest, but I already knew this year’s Cerialia was accounted a grand success. It would do well for him, though I did now accept he had sought no personal advancement, but acted as a devout man. Even so, he would, I thought, accept any benefits that ensued. I did not believe all his protestations that he lacked ambition. He wanted, he had told me, to live happily and die with greater hope.
For him, seeking the needle-killers would not end here. Many random deaths had occurred in Rome and the authorities would continue searching; Faustus was now seen as an expert, even though he did not relish the reputation. He offered me a commission to assist but, as he clearly expected, I declined. Too close to home.
Then Faustus fumbled under his toga and came out with something from his belt pouch. He dropped a packet in my lap. ‘The state wants to reward you, but who knows when or with how much … This is from me.’ While I investigated, he looked away.
He had bought me a set of sewing needles, well-made bronze that would not rust, with grooved eyes, in several sizes from tenting to fine embroidery. I thanked him, though I was mournful. Now I had to face it; my time with him as the runner had ended. An aedile was different. One of the top hundred. This was goodbye.
‘Dutiful needlework, Albia. Keep you indoors out of trouble, busy in your household.’ I was surprised, both by the aptly chosen gift and the joke.
Suddenly his hand fell onto mine to grab my attention. Beyond the altar to Mars at the centre of the Armilustrium, above the enclosure wall, Manlius Faustus had spotted a pair of pointed ears. I breathed with delight and relief. It was my favourite dog-fox, Robigo.
The Ides of April: Falco: The New Generation (Falco: The Next Generation) Page 31