From the sellers, the oil syndicate, the Rabirii then learned of other would-be buyers for Fabulo’s. Unfortunately, these rivals were relics of the old Balbinus gang. Pandora knew one of their women—presumably the one I once saw with her; under cover of a supposed friendship she asked about it, though any interest was denied. When Iucundus popped up and bought Fabulo’s, this Balbinus outfit wrongly thought the Rabirii had outflanked them by putting up Iucundus as a straw man to act for them. So he was killed.
“Wrong place, wrong people, wrong assumptions.” Scorpus had the full vigiles complaisance. “Jealousy, revenge—and a warning. But how come Mamillianus gave up the facts to you, Flavia?”
“Call me Albia, or I’ll kick you. I could say Mamillianus is an old contact of my father, or I could pretend my husband and I established a working relationship with him … But he didn’t tell me.” I smiled. Men were so simple. “I got inside the house by saying I had come to see if his wife Statia arrived home safely. She was dying to know what happened after you broke up the seance, so she had me admitted at once.” She was, as Vestis had told me, all buck teeth and big tits—but hungry for outside contact. A sweet woman married to an arrogant man will often open up if approached directly. She needed friends. She thought I was offering.
“Mamillianus was at home?”
“Yes, he was, whatever his slaves claimed. He heard I was there, so he rushed to shoo me out. He was too late. I never asked him anything—I had already been told everything I wanted to know by his wife.”
LII
Scorpus became rather sniffy about my little triumph. He stomped off, saying that since he had arrested the two fighting grandmothers, he needed to return to his station-house to process them.
“Will you let them go?”
“I don’t want a couple of old biddies in our place, constantly telling my lads to stop swearing. So, yes, I bloody will.”
Only after he left did a server point out to me he had not paid for his drink. Typical. Not wanting a riot, I coughed up myself.
*
It was late afternoon when I walked back toward the Volumnius building, on my way passing the lettuce booth.
A small group of men had gathered to watch the statue-mender at work. He was using a hand drill to pierce Min’s privates, in preparation for affixing an iron support into the god’s empty socket. As he hammered in a metal rod to attach the stand-up, the men in the crowd were feeling it. I saw winces.
I went over and greeted the expert. The courteous man stopped what he was doing, got up off his knees, brushed the dust from his hand and shook mine. “Falco sends his regards.” That was good. Pa and I were friends again.
Tiberius had taken charge of the salad booth while Dedu panicked; his statue having this delicate operation made him as jumpy as a parent with a sick child. My husband was in his disguise clothes but I saw no point pretending not to know him, so I went and kissed him.
“Hello, handsome. Do you have any long-leafed Egyptian lettuce today?”
“Hello, gorgeous. All sold out. We had a sudden run on the glaucous. Dedu had put it on special. I can do you a three-for-two artichoke offer, if it’s of interest…? You survived your seance?”
“Yes. Apparently I lost a man who is connected to a fish-tailed horse, but I found him again. I shall inherit a fortune when my husband dies, but he may kill me off first. I am a sweet-natured, deserving person who has a lot to put up with from people around me. I can’t say more because soldiers burst in and broke it up.”
“Was Laia there?”
“What do you want to know about her for?”
“I don’t!”
“Smart man.”
Old Gray-Eyes then hastily dodged any further flak; he claimed that while selling greens that afternoon, and in the process charming the love-starved housewives of the Quirinal, he had learned something.
“How much celery heart do I have to buy in return for the tip?”
“For you, darling, none.” He winked. “See me after closing.”
I told Dedu his philandering assistant was too cheeky. Dedu obligingly took over the booth so Tiberius could come and talk.
We went up to my room in the Volumnius building. Dorotheus had arranged for a door lock. Since I had been away when it was fixed, the key had been left hanging on the outside. We went in and made a cursory check. Luckily I had not much property. Whatever there was had been closely inspected by someone, though nothing had been thought worth stealing. Apart from a little spending cash, the balance of my fee for the case had already been taken to the Aventine when Tiberius went with Dromo.
“Could be worse.”
“Let’s give this up and go home.”
“Not yet. I have almost cracked the case.”
“You know what happened to Clodia?”
“I think so. What have you found out?”
“I don’t know whether it’s relevant…”
I told Tiberius I would be the judge of that, reminding him this was my inquiry. He grinned, completely unrepentant. He told me that, according to some of his customers (whom he described as the most delightful of women, though they were probably hags), tongues had been wagging about the Volumnii. Volumnius Auctus, Clodia’s older brother who was supposed to be serving in the army, had been seen recently by locals.
“Here? The dumb bum is back in Rome?” That was a turn-up. I might have supposed news of his sister’s death had brought him home to support his parents, but since his legion was over in Africa there had been no time for that. “How come? Do his parents know?”
“Well, that’s the thing. It is thought they do not.”
Tiberius said his informants were wise, observant women who paid attention to detail—“Nosy as hell, you mean?”—so they were not wrong. One had whispered in his ear that Volumnius Junior had been staying with the Cestii. Numerius Cestinus was supposed to be his best friend. Because I was swanning around addressing ghosts with Laia, Tiberius had taken the initiative. Claiming he had gone on my behalf, he had visited the Cestii.
“They are the kind of folk who will willingly take in a friend of their son’s if he has done something wrong and is terrified to tell his own parents. Nightmare acquaintances. They haven’t even bothered to find out what is really going on. They didn’t want to offend the young culprit by asking him. But it’s clear Auctus was either discharged from the army, or he could not tolerate the military life so he is absent without leave.”
“Surely desertion is serious?” I asked.
“It is.” Though never a military man himself, Tiberius looked grave. Aediles are hot on punishments. “He has taken the sacrament, sworn the oath of loyalty. His commander could sentence him to summary execution. That means being stoned by his colleagues or beaten to death with cudgels. In a war zone, his whole unit could be decimated—one man in ten killed by his colleagues.”
“What does anyone know about it? Did the Stoics say anything at all?”
“Auctus turned up, looking half baked and begging to be allowed to stay. Numerius convinced his mother that Auctus should be looked after in secret while he decided what to do next. Welcoming people who are in trouble fits the Stoics’ philosophy. So long as Auctus was prepared to live on nettles, he had a refuge.”
“That’s mothers! Mine would have taken him in too—but Helena Justina would insist his parents were informed that he was safe with friends. Was he there when you went today?” I demanded.
“Nope. Done a runner. He is distraught over his sister’s death, apparently, and became even more upset when he heard about his parents divorcing. While Numerius Cestinus was in custody over the Min prank, Auctus was left on his own. He suddenly took his things—he had arrived with luggage; as a fugitive, he was organized—then he skipped, saying nothing to anybody. No one saw him go; the plait-lady was at her loom; the surly papa was writing seditious literature. The Cestii claim not to know where he is now.”
I thought about this. “How long has he been here? Here
in Rome?”
“Not long. Couple of weeks, thinks the Stoic mother. She asked me, had she done the right thing?”
“Once the Volumnii find out, I imagine they will tell her!”
“I stayed neutral,” said Tiberius, pretending to cringe.
I had pinpointed this Auctus now. “Tiberius, the group of friends must have known all along about him returning. He has certainly been seeing them. He was the ninth body on the triclinium couches when they had their meal at Fabulo’s. Fornax, the chef, told me that the staff heard Clodia was ‘someone’s sister’; I never supposed her brother was actually eating there. This must be the person who was passed off to me as ‘Trebo.’ I could tell that was an invention.” A thought struck me. “I even think I once saw him in a bar, talking rubbish with Cluvius. I couldn’t bear to listen, so I left.”
“Do you think his being in Rome is important?” Tiberius asked.
“Could be.” I was constructing theories fast. Maybe I had had it wrong all along: perhaps Clodia went to the dinner not to moon over other young men, but to see her brother. Did Publius want to see her, though? Cluvius, the organizer that night, had fixed the lottery so that she would not receive a place. Maybe big brother was trying to avoid her. If he was a deserter, he would not want Clodia to find out and inform his parents.
“When Clodia went to Fabulo’s that night,” I speculated, “either she knew in advance that her brother would be there—it could have been a rendezvous they arranged together. Or surprise! She had not known about Publius, but when she turned up uninvited, she found out. If he is trying to hide, he may not have been happy.”
“He may have feared Clodia would give him away.”
“Possibly,” I agreed. “Though more likely, from all I know about her, she would have found the situation very exciting. All he had to do was persuade her it was their big secret.”
“If he has any sense,” said Tiberius, “he will realize he will be exposed eventually anyway.”
“Perhaps he’s not that bright.”
Was Publius one of those who had encouraged Clodia to drink? Or was it him who had stopped the others? There had been suggestions he genuinely cared for her. Fornax had said somebody in the group spoke out and ended the jape. At the end of the night, was her brother one of those who made sure the intoxicated girl was taken home safely?
What happened between them? And what was this brother’s connection with events at home that night, when something had resulted in his sister dying?
One thing was sure, I congratulated my husband: his efforts at the lettuce booth had uncovered new, critical information. Min, the Man of the Mountain, had come good.
LIII
We called it a day. Tiberius and I spent private time together.
Late in the evening we went out for a walk, during which we inspected progress on the statue. Min had been left heavily wrapped in bandages, which quaintly mirrored what would happen to a human patient who endured that kind of operation—were it feasible. We decided the wraps were to prevent slippage. The statue-mender was holding his package in place with clamps and swaddling, while a strong glue mixed with marble dust took hold. Nobody would want a fertility god to set wonkily.
I thanked the patient gravely for his help, then Tiberius swathed the whole statue in cloths to shield him from prying attention. We both had a tender regard for this god. Min had not only helped us learn something material; more importantly, his presence had helped Tiberius. Working in disguise at the lettuce booth, though ludicrous, had taken his mind off his troubles after the lightning strike. Min had restored my man to me.
*
The next day, searching for Publius Volumnius Auctus would be my priority. Overnight, I decided how to tackle this. When Auctus had vanished again, his friend Numerius Cestinus had been locked up with the salad sacks. He could have little to add to his parents’ story and I thought none of the other boys would give up their pal either. Instead, I remembered that among the girls, Auctus was supposed to have a fancy for Ummidia. I found out where she lived and went to see her.
Unfortunately, parental supervision had been tightened. I was allowed to interview the slight, pale-faced creature only in the presence of her mother. That was inhibiting. The most I managed was persuading Ummidia to admit she did know that Auctus had returned to Rome; she was aware that he had stayed for a time with the Cestii but had now left there. Under pressure, she confirmed he had been at the Fabulo’s dinner.
Her mother looked at her sharply over that. Ummidia blanked it. Unlike some of the other girls she was quiet, withdrawn and seemed obliging. Well, that was how she behaved at home. Apparently, her mother believed the act. Accepting it probably saved arguments.
I asked about background. The story I screwed out of Ummidia was that, before he had gone to Africa, Publius Volumnius and she had quite liked one another, though they never did anything about it. Her mother seemed not to object to the general idea—“His father, the bonus vir, is well regarded and I know his poor mother”—yet I felt Ummidia herself was playing down the relationship.
I thought it kind not to ask in front of her mama about the conversation I had overheard Ummidia have with Sabinilla and Redempta, the one where she discussed the flirtability—and perhaps more—of her fencing trainer. However, as I was about to leave empty-handed, I slipped in as if as an afterthought that, being an informer, I would like self-defense skills myself; I persuaded the mother to volunteer who the trainer was. She spoke well of him and his lessons. Ummidia looked subdued, saying nothing.
*
He went by the name of Martialis. Well, he would.
He was a big black man in a crisp white tunic; he had good personal hygiene, sculpted muscles but a nippy physique, and such a modest manner he was almost shy. I first passed off my visit with the self-defense line, admitting I was an informer and asking for details of his fees. I played nervous, saying my parents did not like their daughters to have bladed weapons. “My father says too little knowledge is worse than none; amateurs are only a danger to themselves.”
Martialis nodded sagely. He gave me an inquiring look. I came clean. I mentioned Ummidia, openly saying she was part of an investigation. Martialis said he had not seen her lately. “Boyfriend came back.”
“He did not like her using swords?” I meant, he did not like her seeing you? Martialis understood, though made no comment. I smiled and asked, “Did you know this boyfriend?”
“He seemed all right.”
“I heard he is athletic?”
“A little out of shape.”
“By your standards? Have you seen him recently?”
“Ummidia often talked about him.”
“She may even have said more to you than she disclosed to him.” Deciding Martialis might open up, I pressed him: “I gained the impression she was still trying to work out how she felt about their relationship?”
He shrugged. I liked the way he was keeping their lesson conversations confidential. “The last time she was here, he picked her up after the session. When he came to the gym looking for her, he introduced himself to me very politely. I thought that was good. Honest of him. Together, they looked a sweet couple.”
“Was he on his own that day?”
“No, I think he had a slave with him.” Some people might not have mentioned that; to some, an escort would have been invisible. But I guessed Martialis was only one generation from slavery himself.
“And you haven’t seen Ummidia since?”
“No. That was about two weeks ago. She still has some hours in hand, that her folks paid for up front. I shall be sorry if she stops; she had style, she could concentrate and was developing a nice action.”
“I don’t think her mother knows Ummidia stopped coming to you.”
Martialis said that probably meant Ummidia used “fencing practice” as a cover for seeing the boyfriend without her parents knowing. He said it without bitterness.
He seemed a nice man. If he had been closer t
o the Aventine, I might have gone for lessons with him myself.
*
Little clues. One scrap of information leads you to the next, on a good day. I walked back to Apricot Street, thinking.
At the Volumnius building everything was quiet. The tenants who worked were out working. The rest must be indoors counting their toes.
For once Dorotheus was not skulking, ready to ask me about progress. He might not be on the lookout for me—yet I was looking for him. I had slipped up to my room for a change of sandals, as the ones I had on were rubbing. I happened to spot the lank with his arm in a sling as he came out of his master’s apartment, carrying a bag. He did not look furtive. In fact, he looked so nonchalant, I decided it was all an act: he must be up to something.
Fortunately, I had acquired Roman habits, so I had hung out my bed coverlet on the balcony rail to air. I crouched down behind it. As soon as I could do so unseen, I sneaked downstairs. Dorotheus had almost reached the end of Apricot Street but I picked up his trail and followed him.
On the way, he bought some fruit, which he added to the bag he had with him. It was a cloth sack of some size, though it looked fairly light. A man with a broken arm could sling it over his free shoulder, managing without effort. It bulged, as if stuffed with something soft, like clothing.
Dorotheus seemed in no hurry, a typical house-slave. He passed the time of day with other slaves he knew. He looked in shops. He watched a shouting match between two men with handcarts. Finally, when I was fearing he must turn and spot me, he walked on, ending up at the exclusive, formal apartment where Marcia Sentilla lived.
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