“No!” pronounced the grandmother forcefully.
“It is not true.” The mother was quieter but just as definite. When I gazed at them, Sentia Lucretia insisted, “I would have known. My daughter was very close to me.”
“Did it exist? Had either of you procured this potion? Did Clodia buy it herself?”
They denied it. Well, they had to. Admission would have made them liable to a sensational court prosecution.
“No such thing ever existed. My husband is absolutely wrong,” said Sentia Lucretia stiffly.
“He says he heard you all discussing the possibility.”
“Not seriously.”
“I have to ask you about it.” I put to Sentia Lucretia again, keeping my tone reasonable. “There had been talk of love-potions, so I must make sure.”
“Only talk!” she reasserted emphatically. Her own mother scoffed under her breath at my continuing to ask.
“You never went to a woman called Pandora—Rubria Theodosia is her real name, I believe?”
“She supplies us with creams on occasion,” the older woman interjected irritably. Perhaps she thought they had better admit that much in case I later proved they had had contact. Marcia Sentilla was intelligent; I could see the thin old tyrant watching how the conversation went, so if need be she could jump in to outflank me.
I wished I had been able to interview Sentia Lucretia on her own, but a request would certainly have been refused. This was her mother’s apartment; her mother was in charge. If anyone (a man) ever tells you Roman women are ciphers, black their eye and tell them otherwise.
It was clear even Sentia was keeping her wits about her. She reinforced her mother’s answer: “All the women in this district buy cosmetics from Pandora. It is normal and harmless.”
“No suggestion of witchcraft?” I snapped. “No backroom fortune-telling? No absolutely certain ways to find out if your lover is true? No summoning of spirits who share the Underworld with the ghosts of your long-lost relatives?”
No pills for virility? No birth-control powders? No secret abortions? No spells to make your rivals grow a crop of pustules and become barren?
“Face cream!” reiterated Sentia Lucretia.
“Nothing else?”
“The occasional mild suppository,” croaked the elderly Marcia Sentilla, as if this admission that she had piles was like owning up to the filthiest vice.
Her daughter looked surprised to hear it.
I breathed in a way that said this gave me a problem. “I shall have to tell you something then. Someone has reported that after Clodia Volumnia was found dead, it was necessary to clear up vomit. I know she was a healthy girl. The only deduction has to be—”
“She ate something that disagreed with her.” Oh, thank you, Grandma, for that unhelpful interjection!
“Chryse told you that?” demanded Sentia Lucretia. “Well, it is nonsense. Chryse doesn’t know what she is saying. She must have forgotten what actually happened on that dreadful day.”
Unlike the old woman, she had not seen me brought here today by Chryse. It was interesting that she guessed who must have told me. She knew. She knew Chryse had had to clean the room. I rebuked her: “Anyone who has had to clear up that kind of mess tends to remember the experience.” Clodia’s mother stared at the floor. “Particularly when there is a new dead body, surely?” Both my companions remained grimly silent.
I let them see what I was thinking. If this became a dispute, a slave’s word would count for little—but a report from me would carry weight.
I asked them to tell me where Pandora lived. They claimed not to know. The cosmetics-seller visited customers in their own homes, bringing samples. Anything they ordered was then delivered by messenger.
“So, you don’t really know if she lives with a coven?” I asked dryly.
I made one last attempt to discover something useful: I asked for the names of Clodia’s friends. No difficulty was raised about that.
“Tomorrow,” Sentia volunteered, “there will be our gathering to mark the end of the Nine Days of Formal Mourning. You can meet them then, meet them all together.”
Since it was evident mother and grandmother were set on attending this memorial, I would also be able to observe Clodia’s parents together. In theory they would be joint hosts. I wondered how they would manage to carry it off, when their friends and relatives would all know he was suing her mother for damaging his slave and the couple were set on divorcing.
At least the scandal might encourage a good turnout.
IX
As I returned to the Volumnius apartment, now walking on my own, I was able to pause for much-needed refreshment. This is essential, as it gives an informer a chance to reflect on evidence. You chew, you think, you have a cup of something to rehydrate yourself, you think some more. Traditionally, you ponder what a grim, ill-paid, dangerous and disreputable job being an informer is. Then you need another drink, something stronger than water.
Down a small side street I found a casual snack bar that was now empty after lunch. The owners had put out a heavy wooden table and seating. Ignoring Domitian’s pavement laws, this arrangement looked pretty permanent. A gaming board with green and white glass counters lay on the table, waiting for customers to come and squabble. All the stools wobbled. Like informers feeling glum, this, too, is traditional. I tried them each in turn, eventually choosing the seat with the best view down the street, even though it was the least stable. I then forgot the view and moved it to where there was most shade, which is accepted snack-bar etiquette.
A saucer of nuts appeared as soon as I went to the counter to consider the menu boards, which were chalked up inside, as usual almost illegible. In the end, I let the waitress suggest what to have. Dish of the day had been a leek pottage, which she described in appetizing detail. It sounded so good they had inevitably run out. Instead, she brought me an anchovy trailed over yesterday’s hard-boiled eggs.
Eggs have their use in my profession. Constipation has its advantages if you don’t have a chance to visit a public lavatory while working—or if you look in at the door, then cannot bear to go inside. My father claims he knew an informer who ate so many eggs, he had a once-a-week appointment with his local apothecary to be dosed with a fierce laxative. Mind you, Falco invents ridiculous stories. Too much time being bored on surveillance, he says. Just crazy, says Mother.
“It’s true—and he went regularly!” is the punchline.
Once my food came, I relaxed and took my time. At first I was not thinking. I cleared my mind and let what I had been told today bed itself in. Instead of going over the case, I worried about Tiberius.
A stray dog arrived quietly. She sat on her haunches near my stool, diffidently gazing up. I ignored her. I grew up with dogs, so I knew not to make eye contact.
“Go away,” I said eventually. She stayed.
*
I had now heard enough to realize that the Volumnius inquiry would be no more straightforward than any others. Beneath the supposed cooperation, something was being concealed. These genteel people were presumably amateurs, who had no idea that in my line of work deception was tragically routine.
I paid my bill, told the dog not to follow, then set off to the next family member. Let another one try to bamboozle me. The more attempts they made, the more chance for me to discover a pattern.
X
Now that I was reconciled to staying on the Quirinal, I bought myself provisions. They were letting me live in their building, but there had been no suggestion that the Volumnii would see me fed. From past experience, I knew better than to expect meals. I was trade. Some informers would have dropped hints and hung around the kitchen staff, but separation suited me.
I spent some time exploring the local stalls. A helpful cold-meat-seller lent me a basket, which I promised to return next day. She was not to know the note-tablets in my satchel already had an odor of Lucanian sausage from other snack packets. My poor bag is quite garlicky; fried prawn
s, smoked cheese and old meat pies can also be detected … Fellow-professionals would find these odors all too familiar, especially Xero’s horrible pies, though if clients get too close they tend to look startled.
I made no mention to anyone of what I was doing in the neighborhood; I knew that the shopkeepers would be more forthcoming when they recognized me on a second visit. No one asked. Only the lettuce-seller wanted to gossip.
This fellow was not visible when I first inspected his neatly arranged produce. I waited for him to appear. Eventually a fat-bellied man in a long tunic trundled out from the back. He was full of complaints about his new assistant, who was happy to spend all day chatting with passers-by, but seemed loath to man the booth when someone wanted to buy something.
I said never mind, it had given me time to admire their statue.
It was some statue.
“That is Min, the Man of the Mountain!”
“Really? Min is quite a man!”
He was larger than life. Specific parts were over-scale. If you can’t guess what I am talking about, you have led a sheltered life.
Min stood by the booth. As an advertisement, he was striking. Over six feet high, nude, black-skinned, Egyptian-looking—and unquestionably manly. Two long feathers on a crown formed an enviable topknot, but what caught the eye, unless you were deeply preoccupied or quite blind, was his massive erect phallus. He encircled this with his left hand while his raised right arm wielded a grain flail. I guessed no one paid much attention to the flail.
“He is a god of fertility and sexual prowess!” explained the stallholder excitedly. Believe me, no explanation was necessary. “See his flail to indicate abundant harvest!” I saw it. “I expect you are wondering why the great god Min is associated with lettuce?”
Unfortunately for him, I had been to Egypt. “No, I am very familiar with your long-leafed fertility salad!” When someone cuts the stem of this lettuce variety, it oozes white juice that looks like … Well, you get the idea. In Alexandria, every time you eat, some perverted server insists on explaining why their blue-green lettuce leaves are good for sex. If you are a woman, they add comments about producing babies. All you can do is cringe.
“You know of the aphrodisiac qualities?” leered the booth man. I quickly grabbed one of Min’s special crop, tossed him a coin and made my excuses.
“My husband needs no help,” I lied, letting myself forget that Tiberius had bunked off. “I like the leaves’ crispness, and they keep well!”
XI
As soon as I entered the courtyard of the Volumnius building in Apricot Street, I met Dorotheus, the slave with his arm in a sling. He was pretending to collect dry leaves that had blown in. He must have been watching out for me; he even said people had wondered why I was away so long. I am used to curiosity, but this was overdoing it.
“Sentia Lucretia and her mother had so many interesting things to tell me!” I crooned. Then I hardened my attitude. “Let’s get something straight. I recommend you and your master don’t try supervising an informer, Dorotheus. We have our methods and we don’t need help. I wanted to familiarize myself with the neighborhood, that is all. Now, show me this room I am to have, will you please?”
He hurried to take me up two flights of stairs. My allocated room was on the opposite side of the courtyard to the family’s first-floor apartment. While this meant I could look across and observe their activities, they in turn could look up and stare at me. At least I had a different entry stair, so I could try to slip in and out quietly. I was none too keen on such close contact. Still, I wasn’t planning to bring in a lover.
The room was snug, a cheap rent if you were paying for it. For free, it was acceptable. All the stories had balconies, so at least you could sit outside, but while I was there with the slave I heard footsteps; the balcony was obviously a thoroughfare.
“I have given you a few bits,” Dorotheus told me, eager to please. He had found me a basic single bed, a tiny table and a battered chair. In view of his broken arm, I would have been concerned for him carrying these pieces upstairs on his own, but a team of workmen on the premises had helped: they were setting out long tables and benches in the courtyard, ready for the Nine Day Feast tomorrow, the final farewell to Clodia.
Without saying I had been invited to the feast by her mother, I mentioned to her father’s slave that I would like to attend, if possible sitting as a discreet observer near the girl’s friends. Dorotheus assured me he would make this happen. My cheery fixer seemed grateful that I showed interest in his work and that I was prepared to talk to him. I wondered whether the family took him for granted. They would treat him better if they ever tried running a household like mine, without anyone so obliging.
I wondered if Dromo had found the petty cash yet and spent it all on almond fancies.
“Are you going to tell me how your arm was broken, Dorotheus?”
“You know I am not,” he replied frankly. “I won’t tell tales. No one intended to hurt me.”
“That’s good, at least. So, are you just too discreet? Or have you been warned not to snitch on the battling grannies?” He just smiled. I pressed him: “You may make out that it’s all forgotten—but I hear your master is suing. That’s no small thing for him to do, especially when the defendant is a relative. As that’s the mother-in-law, I assume it was she who felled you with such painful results?”
“No, it was really his mother who knocked me off balance, unintentionally, though no one takes any notice when I try to tell them…” Volumnius was suing the wrong person. It did not mean his plea would fail, though, I thought cynically. But it added a new tangle to the family problems. “Even if he wins,” moaned Dorotheus, with his first hint of dissatisfaction, “I won’t see any of the money!”
He was right, of course. He was a possession. Compensation would be for his owner’s loss, not his: redress for their slave’s reduced capacity for labor and any decrease in resale value. The law ignores a victim’s pain. Dorotheus was lucky to have been straightened up by a bone-setter and allowed a sling. That will not have been kindness, but to get him back to work faster. Slaves were well treated here—but it was a relative concept.
I left my basket of purchases in my room, took one note-tablet out of my satchel, then made Dorotheus take me down to meet his master’s mother.
*
Volumnia Paulla was in the same cast as her son, though even shorter and stouter. Perhaps about twenty years older, she must have had him when fairly young. In those days, she would have been petite though probably not overweight. Marriage must have brought her a need for consoling sweetmeats. Marcia Sentilla had muttered that Volumnia’s husband had been difficult.
Her current bulk made her waddle breathlessly, so it was difficult to believe she was capable of barging anyone hard, even during her set-to with her rival. Had she swung around suddenly and felled Dorotheus by side-swiping him with sheer poundage? This woman could have been used as a counterweight on a pulley unloading grain sacks.
Like her son, she had ordinary features and a pleasant manner. She took pride in her home, which was run with efficiency. Perhaps she had encouraged Clodia to grow up with the same domestic interests. I guessed she was a tyrant with the local tradesmen but her only granddaughter would have been treasured.
In this apartment I was treated to refreshments as soon as I arrived, although the hospitality was like a sacrifice to some unfussy god; it comprised a thimble of sweetened honey water and two dainty, very dry oat cakes. The little treats arrived without me being asked; it must be what Volumnia Paulla served to everyone who called. Her slaves just did it. I might be trade but I was treated the same as everyone.
She took charge. She began at once with, “So you have been over to the other pair!” Someone, perhaps her son himself, must have rushed to inform her. “I don’t suppose they made any helpful contribution?”
“Had to be done,” I answered with a sigh, as if we two were complicit. “I felt very sorry for your daughte
r-in-law. She is devastated by her grief. Her mother could have been more forthcoming. I found it hard to place her role. Was Marcia Sentilla often over here?”
“In and out on a daily basis—until they both flounced off.” Sniffing at that, Volumnia Paulla leaned forward, at least as far as she could lean, given her waistline. She dropped her voice conspiratorially. “Some widows find it hard to let go, you know. Marcia Sentilla doesn’t know when to stop. Poor Sentia could have done with a lot less of her interfering mama.”
“What about Clodia?”
This grandmother let rip with a peal of tinkly laughter. “Nobody was ever too controlling with our Clodia!”
“A spirited lass?” I made it a neutral question, though I was starting to form a view on the girl.
Perhaps my companion regretted what she had said. She paused and told me Clodia Volumnia knew her mind. Yes, I had been hearing that.
“What about you? Were you and Clodia close?”
“Always. We often had our little chats. I miss them so much!”
“Did she tell you about that boy she liked? Numerius Cestinus?”
“Oh, I knew all about how much she hankered for him. She believed that he liked her, too. When my son put a stop to it, Clodia clammed up more. I suppose she felt I would be on her father’s side—which I was really. I could see his point, even if I tried not to interfere.” Grandmas who say that often poke their noses in. Mine did. Both.
I played disingenuous: “When I interviewed your son, I was trying to spare his feelings as much as possible. I didn’t really like to ask Volumnius Firmus what his objections were.”
“He would never have told you!” his mother snapped back. I had been able to tell he was withholding, though I doubted Volumnia Paulla could be lured into a revelation. Her fluttery performance hid steel.
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