Flavia Albia Mystery 09 - A Comedy of Terrors

by Lindsey Davis

  “This is hopeless. What now?” asked Paris. “Do we keep coming every day until we strike lucky?”

  “I don’t think so,” I mused, feeling bored by failure. “No, I reckon the Ephesian and Syracusan are places Murrius tells his wife he goes to. Is he being sneaky, though? What we want is the favourite bar that he never mentions to Nephele—the one he really calls home.”

  “He’s probably sitting in it right now!” Paris agreed glumly.

  The slippery one might be fooling his wife, but I still had ways to track him down. We gave up for that evening. Tomorrow would be another day.

  We came home to a strangely quiet house. Glaphyra had successfully put the boys to bed. Bliss. Well, a short-lived respite. They heard our voices, eluded her and came scampering down to see us while Tiberius and I were talking, but they sat with us quietly and we said they could stay. Tiberius was touched that they wanted to be with us; I thought they were simply playing up, but I let it happen. Soon they became drowsy; we carried them up to their beds again.

  * * *

  Next morning Nephele called on me for a report, as I had instructed. I hid. Even if things had been going well, it would have been too soon.

  Suza was to tell her I was working on the case and see her off, while Paris, whom Nephele had not so far encountered, was to follow her. Even if she dawdled on other errands, he had to stick with her. Once he discovered Nephele’s home address, he would park himself nearby until at some point the husband emerged. Then he would change over and tail the husband.

  To our surprise, this proved unworkable, for a curious reason. My runabout did what was needed. Nephele called on a friend in Dolichenus Street, went shopping, had a pedicure, but with her fondness for the ritual of lunch at home, home she eventually went. Paris identified her house in Greater Laurel Street as we had planned. Straight away he realised this was no use. After a few checks with neighbours, he came home to tell me: “That house is not going to give up Murrius. You and I have been there, Albia. Murrius is no longer allowed in. You and I saw her chuck him out the other day. It’s the place with the parrot.”

  XXIV

  I had stopped caring who had custody of that parrot. If it had any sense it would fly away from both of them and make a nest in the plane tree grove.

  I blame the face pack. No wonder I had not recognised her. Whether it was home-made bean-meal, standard Egyptian clay, or some pricey turmeric-and-frankincense goo she obtained on special order from Silk Road importers, when Nephele was pampering her skin prior to screaming out of a window at her husband, only her eyes showed. Anyway, we had only glimpsed her.

  “Good excuse!” grinned Paris.

  “Not one I’ve ever used before,” I commented wryly.

  I could see it would be an unlikely coincidence if there were two suspicious wives on the same street, whose husbands were both wandering off for lunch elsewhere. Mind you, being cynical, behind Greater Laurel Street’s veneer of respectability, it wasn’t unlikely and there could even be more culprits. We were very close to the Temple of Diana, which Laetilla patrolled, and it has been known for a single predator to run through all the susceptible idiots in a neighbourhood. For one thing, the men tell each other where to find her.

  “At least if we see him, we’ll know him now,” I said. “No one can miss his trashy shoes, or the dodgy look in his eye. But, Paris, has Nephele permanently locked him out?”

  Paris looked troubled. “Now that was strange, Albia. I couldn’t tell. I did my best. None of the neighbours were keen to talk.”

  “Weird! Usually a few people are discreet, but most are thrilled to gossip about a scandal. Especially when it’s fresh—and we do know their marital upset erupted only three days ago. What do the locals say, Paris?”

  “One person thought they had seen him around, apparently same as normal. Then a shopkeeper reckoned they hadn’t set eyes on him lately. Another person said he might be staying with his brother. But when I asked where this brother lives, they shut their trap and rushed away.”

  “We do know he has a nasty brother,” I told Paris. “Maybe this brother lives nearby, which explains why there has been a sighting of Murrius. I’m not going to waste time on that, in case it’s just a theory. If we really get stuck,” I suggested, “we’ll use the trick of sending someone fresh to knock on the door of the house we do know and ask for him.”

  “Suppose he’s not there?”

  “Here’s where we try to find out, Paris. Our messenger will say he has a message for the master but cannot repeat it to anybody else. If Murrius does respond, the knocker-boy pretends he is from Laetilla, who needs to see Murrius urgently. You follow him, Paris, then we discover her address. But if they say Murrius is not at home, the knocker just runs away, like a neighbourhood menace.”

  Paris was impressed. “Good game!”

  “Yes, but I can only do it when I have a team. My father used to be all right: he had so many scruffy little nieces and nephews he could always find a messenger with a clean face. Well, a grimy face with fish-pickle sauce all around its foul mouth, but someone new to the recipients.”

  * * *

  Paris was fired up to experiment. He spent the afternoon coaching Dromo, who was to knock on the door. To me, that was bound to go wrong. But the wife had failed to win me over, so I was losing interest. I didn’t care enough to stop them.

  I said there was no point attempting the trick around midday. The main complaint about Murrius was that he stayed out when his wife wanted him back for lunch. Ideally, Paris should have waited until next morning, but he was too impatient. He and Dromo went off at what Paris thought was the time before dinner when a man-about-town might go out to the baths if he was living at home.

  Hopeful, they hung around in Greater Laurel Street, but no one emerged. The Murrius house stood on a corner beside a narrow entry called Cowrie Court, so Paris worried there might be a side entrance. He walked around the corner to look. He found no discreet door for tradesmen, only the next house along the lane. The size and painted columns on its formal porch advertised neighbours with status.

  Paris stayed long enough to see this significant house had a variety of people coming and going. There were so many callers, it was either a brothel or an after-hours meeting place. He even went into a couch shop to ask about the residents, but a shifty assistant pretended to be busy, which they never are, and claimed not to know. I said upholstery is always a dead-end source. “With fringes on it.”

  Paris decided the house in Cowrie Court was too discreet to be a brothel, since no one thinks twice about such places and, anyway, brothels need to be visible to attract customers. It must be the secret haunt of a trade guild or a dodgy religion.

  The lads plucked up courage for their real task. Dromo sidled over to knock at the Murrius door. He was rejected by an aggressive porter. Surprise! That’s why people have them. Even Rodan would see Dromo off, if he didn’t know Dromo lived with us.

  Paris and Dromo hung about, discussing what to do. While they were still loitering, a small group of large toughs appeared from Cowrie Court and surrounded them. Unsmiling men suggested they were casing the Murrius house for burglary and should immediately leave. Paris quickly apologised. The men began smiling, which Paris said felt even worse.

  Paris and Dromo scuttled back home.

  XXV

  Dromo had a swollen eye. This had nothing to do with being seen off from Greater Laurel Street: revellers had been throwing nuts. When he turned to see who, he copped for it hard. That might only have bruised him, but he rubbed his eye with a grimy fist. Now it was bloodshot and watering. I told him to wash out the dirt, but he took no notice.

  I wanted to know more about the incident with the threatening men. “Who were you bounced by? Did a nervous householder summon the Urban Cohorts, thinking you were suspicious characters? Who could blame them, by the way?”

  “No.” Paris was grumpy. New to this work, he had yet to learn how to weather setbacks. “No one mi
litary.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s a relief. Were you followed back here afterwards?”

  “Probably not. I thought it best just to put my head down and scarper.”

  “I had a look, I didn’t see why not,” Dromo breezed, too gormless to appreciate the danger. “They all just stood on the spot and watched us.”

  “What were they like, Paris?”

  “Very tough household security—long tunics, heavily bunched over wide belts with big buckles. Boots you wouldn’t want a kicking from. Athletes’ strapping for show, on various arms and shins.”

  That could have been my father and Uncle Lucius, spruced up in their favourite gear to go out on a tour of welcoming bars. “Proper athletes? Gladiators?”

  “Sham. But they looked scary.”

  “Liberty caps?”

  “Bare heads. Very short haircuts.”

  “Sharp snipping? Playboy-style?”

  “Arena followers. ‘Shave it close and skip the lotions, barber.’ Pimply chins.”

  “Ugh. So, this barber of theirs skimps on hygiene! Cloaks?”

  “No cloaks. All too hard, no fear of the cold. No fear of any damned thing, we could tell. Coordinated,” Paris listed. “Same expressions. Menace. It was assumed we would not argue.”

  “I follow. Jewellery?”

  “Knuckle-rings the size of figs. One had an amulet depicting a skull.”

  “A lot of bad scars,” Dromo put in, though he had appeared not to be listening.

  “Like old soldiers, Dromo?”

  “No, like brutes who had been in many knife-fights,” Paris spelled out. “You know that saying, ‘You should have seen the other one?’ They hadn’t come from Nephele’s house but someone there opened the shutter and called out, ‘Get rid of them, will you?’ or something. One raised an arm, to signify obeying orders.”

  “Woman’s voice?”

  “Male. Youngish.”

  “Not Murrius, then. And what did you think these men were?”

  “Villains.”

  It was bad news. Even Dromo was quieter than normal, while Paris had been shaken up. He must have had confrontations before, but not in this class. It was only recently that he had witnessed a violent home invasion, in which his old master was murdered. Although his character was steady, he still suffered from anxiety. He tried to conceal it, but I knew. I said quietly that I was sorry I had let the pair of them go out like that.

  “We wanted to go,” the runabout assured me.

  “Yes, and now you don’t want to do it again, Paris! I won’t allow it.” This, I hoped, offered reassurance. There was no point pretending that working on my cases would involve genteel secretarial tasks or watching mild-mannered witnesses from elegant colonnades. Closer supervision was needed. And when there seemed to be a threat, I must take it on myself.

  * * *

  Later that evening, while Tiberius was still out following up the warehouse murder, a visitor came for him. “It’s that man who sells the statues,” Rodan announced. “You had better want to see him, because I’ve let him in and said I’d tell you.”

  Mental jot: training needed. Further comment: you’ll get nowhere. Final note: tell Gratus this is his job!

  Agemathus shambled in, though this time he had felt no need to bring his brother as back-up. The evening was not too cold; our boys were on hands and knees in the courtyard, playing marbles. They had brought Merky in from her stable to watch. “She’s keeping score!” She was eating my pergola climbers.

  I spoke to the sigillaria-seller there in the open. He wanted to ask about payment for information he might supply to Tiberius and Morellus.

  “Vigiles standard rates,” I said inventively—I had no idea. Any handout would be pitiful, that was sure; the vigiles have no real funds. Agemathus seemed satisfied, however. “What do you have for them, Agemathus? Tell me now you’re here. I work with them a lot. I will pass it on.”

  The tall African wriggled his thin shoulders shyly. His manner was quiet. He was smiling, which he did most of the time; it meant nothing significant.

  He had seen a man threatening the nut-sellers. After that body was found in the warehouse, others had started muttering together that they refused to be cowed. One had jeered at an agent who came from the new supplier, trying to recruit him. The defiant hawker refused his stock, turned his back, then walked off.

  “What did the agent do?”

  “Oh, he just stood there looking mean.”

  “There was no violence?”

  Agemathus shook his head slowly. “The nut-seller was fired up and ready for a fight. He knew how the other one was murdered. He knew that man. He was grieving for his comrade and ready to hand out punishment. The agent let him go.”

  “I am glad the seller avoided trouble, but I hope it lasts. Is he known to you, Agemathus?”

  “Rosius.”

  “Well, Rosius defying the new supplier could have repercussions. These people are very dangerous. Tell me, has there been any attempt to lean on you, Agemathus, to change where you obtain your sigillaria? I presume you get your statuettes from someone who actually makes them. Has there been anything different this year?”

  He smiled at me gently again. “Nooo.”

  “Any idea why not?”

  Perhaps he writhed uncomfortably. “The sigillaria come to us from the Campus Martius.” It made sense that the Campus, which I had seen crammed with stalls, would also act as the central distribution point for outlying districts. Night-time on the Campus would be hectic with wagons bringing in Saturnalia toys and trinkets, plus nuts, which runners would then carry to the hawkers, ready to flood Rome with them the next day. Agemathus added, “The producers who bring the little statues to Rome are big men, very strong and sure.”

  “They’ve been doing it long enough! I suspect nobody would enjoy trying to weasel into their cartel. Tell me, have they always been good to you?”

  “Not very good. But they need us to sell the little men. We argue, they argue back at us, but they give us figurines and we give them money, and this year it is the same as always.”

  “You’re saying the new suppliers won’t try shoving them aside? They are afraid to upset your traditional source?”

  “Those new ones will come after us one day.” This sense of foreboding explained why Agemathus wanted to see Tiberius and Morellus. “Rosius has told me who the agent is: a newcomer, a very bad man. His name is Greius.”

  I promised to pass on the details. I asked for a description, but all he would say again was “Bad! Very bad!”

  XXVI

  When Tiberius arrived home, he managed to avoid discussing whatever he and Morellus had been doing. Refusing to be petty, I passed on the Agemathus message nevertheless. Tiberius wrote “Greius” in his note-tablet to follow up next day.

  “You haven’t encountered him?”

  “Not crossed our paths.” He pulled a face. “Yet!”

  He did reveal that while he was out, he had dropped in on his uncle. Tullius was preening himself that he had bought hugely expensive toys to give to the boys for Saturnalia.

  “He would not say what,” Tiberius groaned, “but I know he raided the Emporium. The presents must be frights, something the children will adore but we shall loathe—he admits it. After scouring imports from all over the Empire, Uncle Tullius has grabbed the biggest, loudest, newest toys he could find. He will appear with them before we can stop him, crying, ‘What are rich uncles for, if not to spoil the little dears?’ They will think he’s wonderful.”

  No, I thought, they would be torn, because they already knew he didn’t like them. “Oh dear, if he does this once, they are bound to expect it every year…” I winced. “Is that how he used to treat you?”

  “Of course not. I was sixteen when I came to Rome. He only ever asked me what books I would like, then sent out for those.”

  “I had the impression he always kept his distance?”

  “No, no. He certainly liked to run the bu
siness by himself, then as now, but he was always a decent guardian.”

  I considered possibilities for presents, bearing in mind what my brother Postumus had chosen for himself when small, before he nagged for herbs and crucibles when he was ten, because he had decided to become a hired poisoner. This year he planned on being a gladiator, so had merely demanded gym lessons (plus exercise equipment, a protective belt, two different helmets, arm padding, leg padding, a shield and a trident; I was buying the trident). “I bet Tullius has bought miniature soldiers’ uniforms, with weapons that could actually kill someone.”

  My loved one, a pacific man who had never done army service, shuddered. “Oh, please not! Remember Caligula. He started his descent into madness being dressed up as a little legionary and toddling around the German camps.”

  “Are we bringing up two mad emperors? Perhaps Tullius will think armour’s too ordinary. Perhaps he’s got a shrieking pet monkey they will be frightened of.”

  “Could be. Plenty of exotic animals come into the Emporium. Would a dangerous snake be worse?”

  “No problem at all. I know an exotic dancer who would take it off our hands. If it’s an animal, I bet it’s a crocodile.” I sighed. “Hey-ho. Better start rehearsing our act: ‘Oh, darling Uncle Tullius, that is wildly generous. You really shouldn’t have!’ Then we just have to hope the present dies, or at least breaks.”

  “Either can be arranged,” promised my calm, tolerant husband in gravelly tones. “Larcius has left a really big hammer in the tool store.”

  * * *

  Nobody seemed to have noticed us talking quietly together, which was a rare treat. Something about two people enjoying private moments normally drives other people to interrupt.

  If possible, I would have withheld what had happened in Greater Laurel Street. I would have plied the old excuse of not worrying Tiberius; that really means you want to avoid being pounced on for some foolish deed. I knew Paris might have the nous to keep quiet, but Dromo had no such sensitivity so I owned up sweetly.