‘Wrong. I had a warrant, and what I took was removed in the presence of the vigiles.’
‘It is private material.’
‘Don’t give me that. Bankers are always appearing as court witnesses -‘ I had subpoenaed plenty myself, when working as a runner for Basilica Julia barristers.
Lucrio seemed far too sure of himself. ‘Only when their evidence is called for by the specific account-holder.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s the law,’ he told me, with some relish. The details of a man’s finances are his personal property.’
‘Not Roman law!’ I was trying it on. But I sensed I had lost this. ‘What I took was possible evidence in a murder case. I assume you care about what happened to Aurelius Chrysippus? He was your chief at the Aurelian. You are his freedman and his agent at the bank - and, I’ve been told, the heir to his fortune?’
‘True.’ His answer was quieter. He might be a freedman but he was bright. He understood the implications of being heir to a murdered man.
‘So you, Lucrio, as heir to a man who has died in very violent circumstances, have now broken into the patrol-house of the vigiles cohort who are investigating the suspicious death? Removing evidence has to look bad!’
‘It is not yours to take - nor even mine to give,’ said Lucrio. He knew his rights. I was shafted.‘A magistrate has been asked to issue an injunction. I merely came to prevent any breach of confidence occurring before the order can be brought here.’ He could have been in court already, pleading for me to be charged a huge fine. ‘It is regrettable that before I arrived in person my staff, being eager to please me and rather excited, did perhaps overreact… though I suggest it was in response to provocative behaviour.’
I sighed. His threat would hold good. The vigiles were known for their tough attitude; being attacked in a patrol-house would garner me no sympathy. People would believe I had caused the trouble. Still, I answered back: ‘I must get the cohort doctor to look at me. I’m stiffening up; there could be a hefty compensation claim.’
‘I shall be happy to pay for any salves he recommends,’ Lucrio professed hypocritically.
‘I’ll take that as an admission of liability.’
‘No, the offer is without prejudice.’
‘Am I surprised?’ I was indeed feeling the pain now, and growing very tired after my ordeal under the mat. I gazed at the freedman; he gazed back, a man used to holding the power position in business discussions. ‘We need to talk, Lucrio. And it’s in nobody’s interests for you to be tied to a pump engine.’
I had regained some kudos by reminding him he was roped up. I was doing well, in fact - until one extra slave who had, unknown to me, been secreting himself behind the spraying arms on top of the siphon engine finally found the courage to act. With a wild cry, he emerged, hurled himself off and fell on me.
He knocked my breath away. It achieved nothing, however. Because at that moment Petronius Longus entered from the street gateway. He was scowling and carrying what looked like the magistrate’s injunction. Vigiles members crowded in after him. They had probably all indulged in a few quick refreshments somewhere, as I had earlier guessed they might. That would explain why they all found it quite so funny to discover a row of slaves sitting with their heads in buckets, a prisoner roped to their siphon, me on the ground not even bothering to resist attack, and one sad man who had briefly thought he was a hero, but who collapsed in fright when he saw the red tunics and had to be revived with kicks from a vigilis’ boot.
Chaos ensued. I lay on my back and let them all get on with it.
Petronius, who was usually the master of a tricky situation, felt highly put out by the injunction; I could see that. (Well, his name had been on the ‘warrant’) He swiftly regained authority when his men discovered that Lucrio’s slaves had set free the bathhouse thief who had been locked in the holding-cell. Instantly, Petro slammed all six slaves in the cell to replace the lost prisoner. He enjoyed himself inventing statutory punishments for what they had so foolishly done.
Lucrio was released and told he could go home. The documents would all be returned to him tomorrow, as soon as men could be spared from fire-watching to wheel the handcart to his house. Lucrio was to report to the patrol-house for formal interview when Petronius Longus returned to duty the next afternoon. We said goodbye to the freedman politely, stretching ourselves as if we were now off home for a good night’s sleep.
As soon as Lucrio had gone, Petro tossed the magistrate’s order in a fire-bucket, then we raced upstairs to the tribune’s room. The slaves had not even found the key on the lintel, and they must have been scared to break down the door. Petronius, Fusculus, Passus, Sergius and I worked all through the night, scouring the daybooks for anything that would implicate either the freedman or one of his clients in wrongdoing. As we worked, we called out the names of any creditors we came across and Passus frantically wrote them down. Most were unfamiliar to us.
Unfortunately, we found nothing that struck us as a possible clue.
XXIX
I SLEPT IN all morning. I was alone when I woke.
Reminded of being a bachelor, in the days when I operated as a one-man informer from my dingy sixth-floor apartment on the other side of Fountain Court, I indulged in a loner’s toilet. I fell out of bed, pulled off my top tunic, shook the grit and debris out of it, then put the same garment on again. I smeared my face with cold water, wiped it dry on my sleeve, found a comb, then decided not to bother with my hair. I licked my teeth: disgusting. I bared them and polished them on my other sleeve. By now, Nux was taking an interest. This was a way of life she had never been allowed to see before; though sluggish and rotund with impending motherhood, she seemed to like the idea. She was a scruff at heart.
‘Ah, sweetheart, you should have known me in my wild days!’
Nux came and lolled against my left leg, puffing slightly. Rome was too hot for a pregnant dog. I gave her a bowl of clean water, then got another for myself. She lapped messily; I did the same. After a search, I managed to find a hard bread roll where Helena had carefully hidden it in order to cause me problems.
Everything in the apartment had been left extremely neat. Helena by her absence was showing the forbearance that meant she was furious. I could remember crawling home, smelling of cinders from the esparto mat; she had squealed with disgust as I fell into bed beside her, chilled and obviously stiff after a fracas of some sort. While we worked at the patrol-house Fusculus had fetched in an offensive array of sausages and cold pies, so I probably reeked of those too. I could not help groaning as my bruises swelled. Helena had not mentioned that I had promised to refrain from fights. She had not said anything, in fact, and I was too weary to attempt to communicate. But now she was ostentatiously not here.
‘We’re in trouble.’
Nux looked up and licked my leg. We had tidied her up since she agreed to abandon the street life and adopt us, but her fur was not exactly washed in rosewater. She had never been a lapdog for the refmed.
‘Where is she, Nux?’
Nux lay down and went to sleep.
I ate my roll. Outside, I could hear Rome going about its midday business while I was the lonely late riser, proud of his relaxed style - and missing everything. Nostalgic for freedom, I pretended to be enjoying the emptiness.
Beyond the shutters, mules brayed and vegetable pallets crashed. Some considerate neighbour was smashing up used amphorae rather than wash them clean; it made a resounding racket. Far above the alley, swifts persistently screamed after midges. I could sense the heat; the sun had been burning for hours. No visitors called. I was the forgotten man. That was the bachelor’s main occupation; suddenly I remembered how dreary it felt.
Eventually the silence and stillness indoors became too much for me. I put Nux on a lead, took myself to a local bathhouse, neatened up, had a decent shave, climbed into a clean white tunic, and went to look for my wife and child.
They were at Ma’s house. Inst
inct took me straight there.
Ma had been looking after Junia’s little son, so Marcus Baebius and Julia were sitting on the floor together drawing on wax tablets. Marcus, at three or whatever he was, seemed content to wield the stylus sensibly, though he did insist on running to Ma to have the wax smoothed for him every time he completed a big funny face. Julia preferred scraping up wax in wodges and sticking it to the floorboards. When they wanted to communicate they managed it by private grunts or by wildly billing each other; Marcus had the excuse of his deafness, but I fear it was my daughter who was the more violent.
Ma and Helena were sewing. That’s always a way for women to look preoccupied and superior.
‘Greetings, dear females of my family circle.’ They surveyed their work at arm’s length and waited for me to amuse them by grovelling. ‘How pleasant to find you so chastely engaged in the duties of devoted wives.’
‘Look who it is,’ sniffed Ma. And don’t call me a devoted wife!’
‘Yes, I know; I’m a disgrace - sorry.’
‘Guilt, Falco?’ Helena was being reasonable, to make me feel worse. I tipped up her chin on one finger and kissed her lightly. She shuddered. ‘Do I detect breath pastilles?’
‘I am always perfumed with violets.’ Not to mention recent applications of tooth powder, skin toner, hair slick and body oils. A man can live well in Rome.
‘You stink like an apothecary!’ commented my mother.
Helena was looking particularly fresh and tidy, a dutiful matron plying the bronze needle as she helped Ma neaten tunic hems. Whoever taught her to sew? As a senator’s daughter it cannot have been in her regular training. She probably asked Ma to give her a rapid lesson this morning just to make me feel bad.
Her eyes danced slightly with mockery as I inspected her. Neatly pinned gown in demure pale blue; particularly modest brooches holding together the sleeves; only a hint of gold neck chain; no finger rings, except for the silver band I once gave her as a love token. Hair in a simple bundle, with a plain republican centre parting.
‘I see you’re acting the injured party.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Falco.’
She always knew exactly what I had in mind.
‘I hope we’re not quarrelling ‘
‘We never quarrel,’ Helena said, sounding as if she meant it too.
We did, of course. Rampaging over nothing was how we acted out the daily domestic round. We both tussled for ascendancy. We both enjoyed surrendering too.
I explained quietly all that had occurred last night at the patrol-house, and was allowed to retrieve my usual status as an unsatisfactory stop-out who was probably hiding a secret life. ‘Back to normal then.’
‘Romancing again,’ said Helena, throwing her eyes up.
Then I said I was going out to interview a suspect in the Chrysippus case. And since Julia seemed perfectly happy feeding wax to Marcus Baebius, Helena said she would leave the baby for a while and come with me. Obviously, I could not object.
Outside my mother’s apartment Helena penned me in a corner of the stairwell and subjected me to a body search. I stood still and patiently let it happen. She examined each arm, scanned my legs, pulled up parts of my tunic, turned me round, twisted my head each way, and looked behind my ears.
‘Caught anything with lots of legs?’
‘I’m sniffing you over like Nux does.’ Nux in fact was looking at her own tail in a bored manner.
‘I told you where I’ve been.’
‘And I’m making sure,’ Helena said.
She touched various bruises one by one, as if counting them up. No army doctor could have been more thorough. Eventually I passed the fitness test. Then she put her arms round me and held me close. I hugged her back like a good boy, meanwhile seeing how much of the smooth republican bun I could demolish before she sensed what I was playing at and felt the hairpins being pulled out.
Good relations re-established, we set off together to find Urbanus Trypho, the playwright Chrysippus had supported, that sneak who thought he could lie low and avoid being interviewed.
XXX
OUTSIDE THE apartment where I had failed to find the playwright last time, a woman was on her knees, washing the common areas. She had her back to us, and since she was being thorough, she had tucked her skirts through her legs and into her girdle - thus giving me a startling view of rump and bare legs.
Helena coughed. I looked away. Helena asked the woman if Urbanus was in, so she stood up, freeing her garments unashamedly, and took us indoors. Apparently, she lived with him.
‘Anna,’ she said when I asked her name.
‘Like Queen Dido’s sister!’ I suggested, trying to interject a literary note. She gave me a level stare that I did not quite like.
Urbanus was an improvement on his colleagues. I could see that he was reasonable, sociable, not too colourful, but unlike most of the others, vividly alive. He looked like a man you could have a drink with, though not one who would annoy you by returning for a party every day.
He was writing - or at least revising a manuscript. Well, that was a new development in the unproductive Chrysippus group. When we came in, he looked up, not annoyed but intensely curious. Anna went across and cleared the scroll away protectively.
He could have been any age in the prime of life. He had an oval face with a balding forehead, and deeply intelligent eyes. The eyes watched everyone and everything.
‘I’m Falco, checking witnesses in the Aurelius Chrysippus death. This is Helena Justina.’
‘What do you do?’ he asked her instantly.
‘I check on Falco.’ Her easy answer intrigued him.
‘Married?’
‘We call it that.’
She sat down with us. Anna, the wife, might have done the same but she had to vanish into another room whence came the cries of squalling children. It sounded like very young twins, at least, and probably another one.
‘You manage to work like this?’ I grinned at Urbanus. ‘I thought poets ran away from domesticity to the city.’
‘A dramatist needs a family life. The big plots always feature interesting families.’ Fighting and breaking up, I thought, but refrained from saying it.
‘Maybe you should have married a girl at home and left her there,’ suggested Helena, with the merest hint of criticising males. He smiled, wide-eyed, like a man who had just been given the idea.
‘And home is where?’ I put to him, though Euschemon had told me.
‘Britain, originally.’ I raised my eyebrows, as he would expect, and he snapped in, ‘Not all the good provincial writers come here from Spain.’
‘I know Britain somewhat,’ I answered, avoiding the natural urge to shudder. ‘I can see why you left! Where are you from?’
‘The centre. Nowhere any Roman has heard of.’ He was right. Most Romans only know the Britons are painted blue and that they harvest good oysters on the southern coast (oysters which can be not quite so good after a long trip to Rome in a brine barrel).
‘I might know it.’
‘A forested place, with no Roman name.’
‘So what’s the local tribe? The Catuvellauni?’ I was being stupid. I should not have asked.
‘Further west. A nook between the Dobunni, the Cornovii, and the Corieltauvi.’
I fell silent. I knew where that was.
That central area of Britain had no desirable mineral mines to attract us, or none that we had yet discovered. But in the Great Rebellion it was somewhere not far north of Urbanus’ home forest that Queen Boudicca and her burning, killing hordes were finally stopped.
‘That’s where the frontier runs,’ I commented, trying not to sound as if I regarded it as a wild area. Trying, too, not to mention the great cross-country highway up which the rebels had streamed on their savage spree.
‘Good pasture,’ said Urbanus briefly. ‘How do you know Britain, Falco?’
‘The army.’
‘There in the troubles?’
‘What legion?’ It was the polite thing to ask. I could hardly object. ‘A sensitive subject.’
‘Oh the Second!’ he responded instantly. I wondered if he had been hoping to get in a dig.
The Second Augusta had disgraced themselves by not taking the field in the Rebellion; it was old news, but still rankled with those of us who had suffered the ignominy imposed on us by inept officers.
Helena broke in, taking the heat off me. ‘You follow politics, Urbanus?’
‘Vital to my craft,’ he said; he had the air of a jobbing professional who would roll up his sleeves and tackle any dirt, with the same gusto as his wife cleaned their hallway.
I took back the initiative: ‘Urbanus Trypho is the name of the hour. I hardly expected such a successful playwright to let his wife scrub floors.’
‘Our landlord is not lavish with services,’ said Urbanus. ‘We live frugally.’
‘Some of your scriptorium comrades are really struggling to keep alive. I was talking yesterday to Constrictus… I watched for a reaction, but he seemed indifferent to his colleagues’ affairs. ‘He reckons a poet needs to save up his cash so one day he can give it all up, return to his home province and enjoy his fame in retirement.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Oh really! So after the excitement of Rome, you are aiming to go back to some valley among the Cornovii and live in a round but with a few cows?’
‘It will be a very large hut, and I shall own a great many cows.’ The man was serious.
Admiring his candour, Helena said, ‘Excuse me for asking but I too know Britain; I have relatives in diplomatic posts and I have been there. It is a relatively new province. Every governor aims to introduce Roman society and education but I was told that the tribes view all things Roman with suspicion. So how did you manage to reach Rome and become a well-known dramatist?’
Ode To A Banker Page 17