Nemesis - Falco 20

by Lindsey Davis

  Before I could ask, Plotia added, ‘Both not here. Pius and Virtus work up in Rome.’

  That was news. Petronius would be sure it was not good news.

  ‘I’m from Rome.’ I played friendly. ‘What do your men do there?’

  Plotia just shrugged. A Roman wife may be her husband’s closest confidante in theory, but not around here. I guessed marriage was a one-sided contract among the Claudii. Wives had to take foul language, thrashing and forced sex, if I was any judge. Then they bore endless children, who were battered and buggered too. They would all learn to keep their heads down, to judge carefully from bad moods what it was safe to say or do, and never to ask questions. They were bound to have been ordered not to talk to strangers.

  Many a slave knew that existence. Maybe it was how the Claudius men had learned to impose themselves on weaker souls.

  ‘Nobilis have a wife?’ I asked.

  ‘She left.’ At the mention of escape, Plotia looked jealous. Even Byrta perked up. From her perch she was listening to everything. ‘He never recovered.’

  ‘I bet there was all Hades of a row.’ Plotia laughed briefly. ‘Still, she got away from him?’ Neither woman reacted to the way I phrased it. ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘No idea.’ That meant not allowed to tell. ‘Nobilis knows. Antium, I think. She set up with someone else, so Nobilis stopped that -’

  ‘Really! How?’

  ‘The usual way!’ Plotia said scornfully, ‘The girl took refuge with her father afterwards, I heard.’

  ‘What’s her father’s name - and her name?’

  Plotia and Byrta glanced at each other. This information must be on the banned list. Nonetheless Plotia told me the father was a baker called Vexus. The wife was Demetria.

  ‘Does Nobilis now accept her going?’

  ‘Yes - - if “accept” means constantly saying he’ll get the girl one day.’

  I sighed. ‘When did they split?’

  ‘Three years ago.’ And it still rankled with the husband? Demetria must be a brave soul to break free of that control. Or was she so badly crushed that anything was better than life with Nobilis?

  ‘If that’s his house, can I have a look round?’

  ‘He won’t like it,’ Plotia said flatly. Strangely, she then made no objection. It might be part of the Claudian plan to appear helpful whenever they were directly confronted. I took my chance and went to the door. It was unlocked - - almost a jeering invitation to search. Even at that point, entering the house Nobilis lived in sent a shiver down my spine.

  I wondered if the posse from Antium had searched here. It must have done them no more good than it did me. The freedman’s house was crammed with stuff with an obsessive neatness. The collection of rubbish looked as if Nobilis had lined it up in rows, just waiting to upset enquirers by failing to provide clues.

  Plotia came to the door behind me. She was gazing around as if she too had never stepped inside before. ‘He keeps everything. He’s got stuff that goes back decades.’

  That was true, but if Nobilis killed Modestus, he had not kept the statue-seller’s lapis lazuli signet ring. There were no locks of hair from victims, no lovingly cared for boxes of different girls’ underwear. I found no old calendars with scored marks to signify killing days. No bloodstained weapons. No ropes with cut ends that could be matched to ligatures around dead men’s necks.

  I had been an informer long enough to expect disappointment.

  I searched until I had had enough, then I came back outside.

  ‘Find anything?’ called Plotia, now squatting alongside her sister-in-law, with the early evening sun on her face.

  ‘No. Does Nobilis have anywhere else he hangs out? Some special annexe, where he plays boys’ games alone?’

  Both women merely gave me odd looks.

  This place was a shack to me, but maybe it had a subsidiary hovel, some even more secret hideaway where Nobilis committed his worst deeds. If so, either he kept it from his relatives or they were playing dumb. ‘Just one last thing - did either of you see the quarrel with a neighbour called Modestus?’ Both Plotia and Byrta shook their heads, rather too quickly. ‘You know who I mean?’ I insisted. ‘He disappeared after a bust-up here, then his wife came to look for him and now she’s missing too.’ When the women continued to blank me, I said in a sombre voice, ‘Modestus is dead. Murdered - on a journey to petition the Emperor. This isn’t going away, so you may as well tell me. You still deny seeing the argument?’

  ‘Probus and Nobilis talked to the old man.’ For the first time Byrta found her voice. She had a common country accent and her attitude was the wrong side of aggressive. ‘It did get heated - Modestus was an idiot, and pushy with it. Our lads never did anything to him. He just went away.’

  ‘You sure of that?’ I don’t know why I bothered asking. I included Plotia in the question; she was keeping quiet now. She looked away and I knew she was not going to help me. ‘Nobilis and Probus were the ones Modestus argued with?’

  ‘They never touched him,’ repeated the pale, thin woman as if this was a religious chant and if she said a word wrong, some sacrifice would be invalidated.

  ‘That right? I’ll be off then.’

  ‘We’ll tell the boys you came!’ Plotia mocked my wasted effort.

  ‘Don’t do that, please. If there’s talking to do, I’d rather do it myself.’

  Then, Plotia and I shared a brief glance. It was possible I had made a connection with at least one of these drear, isolated women - some bond that might help our investigation later.

  More likely, she was just thinking I was an idiot.

  XXI

  I met my companions as I walked back through the woods. ‘Next time you want to play good officer/bad officer,’ Petro rebuked me mildly, ‘let’s agree it in advance, shall we? You know I hate always being the nice fellow. When is it my turn to put the boot in?’

  I asked if his being sweet to Probus had achieved anything; he growled, ‘Guess!’

  ‘I wish I’d hit him harder, then.’

  ‘Yes, if it helped whatever’s eating you!’ He knew what that was. Petronius was a loyal, affectionate family man. He knew I had grief I had not yet dealt with, and I was guilty about leaving home.

  He smacked me on the shoulder, then we walked side by side. The others watched us warily, letting Petro play nurse. I outlined what the women had told me, not that it moved us forward.

  The others had been carrying out sweeps, searching the woods in wide circles, looking for bodies. We went back along the path, passing the three hutments. Justinus stayed there to search the two women’s homes with Auctus, one of the vigiles. The rest of us moved forward.

  Looking for a good spot to camp because there was no chance we could return to Satricum that night, we were heading for what seemed to be more open country. Justinus and Auctus caught us up, having also had a fruitless search at the shacks. We .kept moving along the boundary fence, distancing ourselves from where the Claudii lived. We found a place where the fence had been broken down and rebuilt; a notice had been erected on the far side, warning off trespassers in the name of Julius Modestus. Despite its fierce semi-legal language, only a short way further on we came upon another boundary breach. A group of wild-looking cattle which probably belonged to the Claudii stood on the Modestus land, eyeing us inquisitively.

  No one said anything, but we kept going, rather than pitch camp too close to the big-horned beef.

  We had a tent, but the ground was too wet and spongy for pegs to grip so we just hung an awning off the side of Nero’s cart. As dusk drew in, I fetched out the ointment Helena had provided. This time there was no grumbling. As insects bothered us incessantly, we all dipped our fingers in the pot and slathered it on. Everyone tugged down their tunic cuffs and tightened their neck-scarves.

  We lit a fire, which may have kept off some of the wildlife, though there was still plenty. We ate a nearly silent supper, not even discussing our plans for tomorrow, because we had
none. Any chance of sleep was finished off by hundreds of croaking frogs. Then cattle turned up too, splashing, huffing and coughing, sounding enormous as they do in the dark. The vigiles jumped up from time to time, to shoo beasts away. Groaning, we tossed and turned all night, between bouts of miserable scratching.

  At first light, people made a move stiffly. Basic ablutions were tackled. Lentullus, a shy soul, went off by himself. Soon a frightened shout alerted us: the Claudius cattle had found him in mid-pee. Although he was country-born, he was no match for these mad-eyed, jittery bullocks and heifers, who were galloping around trying to herd him against the fence. His bad leg had stopped him escaping fast enough.

  ‘Typical Lentullus!’ muttered Justinus, as we all set off to rescue him. It took a while. We had to drive the cattle to the far side of the boundary fence, then we clambered over it and left them safely out of reach. Behind us, they lowed hoarsely in frustration.

  When we made it back to camp, we found a disaster. Straight away we saw that our ox was missing.

  ‘Was he loose?’

  ‘He was not!’ Rectus was quick to clear himself of blame. ‘I had him hitched to the cart.’

  The cart was still there, along with some of our kit, though it was strewn around. The vigiles’ two mules, who were almost uncatchable, stood under a tree looking on.

  ‘How could strangers get Nero to go with them?’

  ‘A bucket of feed would have him trotting off without a murmur.’

  We searched around, following deep, water-filled hoofprints, but the trail lost itself in the maquis. Now we were stuck: miles from anywhere in a dangerous marsh that was inhabited by criminals of every type, knowing somebody must have been watching us - - and they had stolen our ox.

  XXII

  We did keep searching as long as it was feasible. Several more days passed, but we lost heart now we were walking and carrying all our kit. We still had our mules, though once we lost Nero, Corex and Basiliscus had odd looks in their eyes as if they wished they had bolted; Corex had never been a group player anyway. We had to abandon the cart, another expensive loss for the Petronius brothers. Our task came to seem pointless. Nothing that bore any relation to a crime scene turned up. Looking for corpses in that sodden, scratchy, empty area was hopeless. The marshes were endless, horrible, ominous. Without a definite lead, we could wear ourselves out until the flies and disease finished us, yet achieve nothing. Depressed beyond bearing, we took a vote and agreed to give up. We had done our best. We had done more than anybody else had ever bothered to do.

  The trip back took a long time and the first stage, heading back to Satricum, made us more sore-hearted than anything. When, still humping our packs, we passed the shack where Claudius Probus lived, he sniggered openly. He blamed the ox theft on the bandits who were supposed to have colonised the marshes. Curiously, we never saw any sign of such bandits. My guess was that the Claudii had seen off all the competition in these parts years ago. Most bandits are cowards, who avoid serious confrontation.

  When we reached the good road and collapsed at the Satricum inn, the landlord expressed great surprise to see us. However, he was eager to hire us extra mounts, and very conveniently had some donkeys available; the two vigiles went with him to inspect them. Petronius sat set-faced, glaring as if he now thought the landlord was responsible for our loss of Nero.

  Helena’s brother Justinus went indoors to talk to the waitress, Januaria; neither Petro nor I had the heart. He returned looking thoughtful. ‘She was talking about foreigners - that’s anyone they don’t count as local, I suppose. Some foreigners who take a road through the marshes don’t come back; well, not this way.’

  ‘That is because they have had their transport stolen!’ Petro snarled.

  Quintus and I exchanged glances. If the girl had made him think what she said was significant, I trusted him.

  Petronius continued to resist. ‘You head south, because you’re going south. When you get there, that’s where you want to be. So you stay there. In the south.’

  ‘Logical,’ I cracked. ‘For simpletons!’ I was feeling tetchy myself.

  He carried on ranting. ‘It follows that miserable inn-folk to the north don’t see you again. They won’t see me again either, once I get back to Rome.’ Petro took a swig of wine from his beaker, spat, slammed down the cup in high disgust, then strode out, shouting to us all to move. He had had enough of the countryside. He was going home.

  Petronius Longus and Petronius Rectus drove us all mad, maundering on at one another about the value of their stolen ox and abandoned cart. At least that ended when Rectus took his leave at the Via Appia. He returned to his farm in the Lepini hills. ‘He was my bloody ox as well!’ shouted Lucius Petronius after his departing brother.

  I knew why he was so livid. The theft showed him up. He expected another ear-bashing from the cousins who owned part-shares in Nero. They were bound to suggest that an officer of the Roman vigiles ought to be able to hang on to his draught animal, especially when stuck in the middle of wetlands that were famous for criminal activities. ‘My barmy brother was in charge of him - - I should have known what was coming!’

  I was welcomed home quietly. Helena had a sniff at me to ensure I had been using the anti-insect ointment. Ever the thoughtful husband, I had made sure I rubbed in some more just before I turned my door key. Helena herself was still subdued. Once we would have rushed straight into bed together, but with the baby’s death so recent that would not happen.

  I prowled around, checking the house. Things seemed well under control. Helena ran a good household and she had grown up in a senator’s house, full of staff. Slaves from Pa’s house were being tried out here a few at a time. I had never been able to buy good ones because I found the process so uncomfortable, but these seemed to know what was expected of them.

  ‘Just tell me which you want to keep,’ I told her, discussing slaves in order to avoid more painful subjects. Tired as I was, I raised a laugh. ‘I can’t believe I said that!’

  ‘All you need to decide,’ Helena answered drily, ‘is whether you intend to continue your old frugal life, or should I now plan domestic extravagance and show-off socialising? We need more style. I changed from pottery beakers on the breakfast table - - Gaius found some flagrant gilded goblets at the warehouse that I think will pass as morning water cups, though they won’t do when we are entertaining consuls and international trade moguls.’

  ‘Oh I leave all that to you, fruit. Don’t skimp; just commission new from the most fashionable designer.’

  Helena continued the joke. ‘I’m so glad you said that. I’ve found a man who does the most marvellous art glass. I think it is important, Marcus, that our girls grow up knowing the finer things in life - - even if they promptly break it …’

  We tired of playing games. I flopped on a couch and Helena knelt to help pull my boots off. She was simply dressed for home in a long white tunic, with plaited hair just wound in a circle and secured with one long bone pin. My real wealth lay in the love in her eyes. I knew that.

  Albia was still moping; she had stopped throwing perfume bottles at the wall, though she had taken to disappearing out of the house for long periods. Perhaps she went walking by the river, wafting along like a water sprite wronged by some heartless god. When she did come home, Helena suspected she was writing screeds of tragic poetry. ‘I blame myself, Marcus; I gave her the education. Is this to be the Empire’s heritage: putting barbarians at a social disadvantage - - yet equipping them to complain?’

  ‘Any further visits from Aelianus to inflame things?’ ‘No; he’s busy. Father decided that now both Aulus and Quintus are married, it is make or break time to put them up for the Senate.’ That was all I needed: electioneering. Helena grimaced too. ‘I mentioned that it would be inconvenient for you, just when you are tied up with the legacy and need them to assist in your casework. But Papa is giving them one last chance to become respectable - he hopes to inveigle Minas of Karystos into a financial con
tribution.’

  I scoffed. ‘We know Minas better than that, I think!’ ‘Yes, he is as much use to Aulus as an in-law as he was as a professor. I suppose it has struck you,’ Helena murmured warily, ‘that you are now in line to be badgered for money, Marcus.’

  ‘What? Everyone always supposed I wanted your father to pay my debts. Can the senator now be hoping to sponge off me?’

  ‘I believe he may try to talk to you,’ Helena admitted, smiling.

  Thank you, Geminus. Now I was a plebeian-born, middle-class upstart who had to play banker to his aristocratic relatives. ‘Will it cause a family crisis if I say get lost?’

  ‘Not from me,’ said Helena. ‘Neither of my ridiculous brothers is fit to govern a beanfield, let alone the Empire.’

  ‘Then they will sail into the Senate. Perhaps I should make an investment, then demand political favours from them? If a bunch of ex-slaves living on frogspawn can have friends in high circles, why not me?’

  ‘You don’t need favours from anybody, Marcus.’

  I kept my head down for a few days. Life ran its usual furrow in the Aventine, though his tribune was back, so Petronius Longus had too much work at the station house. Invigorated by the sea air of Positanum, Rubella started sniping because Petro kept nipping off to the Forum Boarium, the riverside cattle market, to scrutinise any animals that came in. ‘Just in case Nero turns up.’

  ‘Nero’s long gone,’ I snapped, for which I received a mouthful of bad language. Fine. I told the high-handed Petronius that I had plenty to do at the Saepta Julia. So I immersed myself in my own business. We were not estranged, just having one of those tussles that keep a good friendship fresh.

  Without my restraining presence, Petronius Longus chalked up a ‘missing’ poster in the Forum. It gave Nero’s identifying features: answered to Spot, left-hander when yoked in a pair, dun coloured, four legs, tail, left-eye squint. Petro even drew a mug-shot. His depiction of Nero’s perpetual line of dribble was particularly sensitive, in my opinion. I saw two granary clerks almost wetting themselves as they guffawed over the artwork, but they took it more seriously when they saw what size reward my stubborn friend was offering.