Flavia Albia Mystery 09 - A Comedy of Terrors

by Lindsey Davis

  This was my mother, though we shared no blood. Once, when I was living in misery, Helena Justina had made a mercurial decision to pluck me out of it: after a childhood of expecting the worst, I experienced that one tumultuous crash of true good luck. Falco supported her. There was no one in the Empire I would rather have had adopt me. My father had trained me to conduct investigations, while I also learned from him how to buy, sell, evaluate and love antiquities and art, and to scoff at everything as rudely and roundly as I could. This was my mother, though. She had taught me that if someone was in trouble or desperate danger, saving them was your duty. You strode straight in and you kept at it until the job was done.

  “Stop prevaricating. Start writing.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  I loathed being diplomatic. Since the banished priestess was of Germanic origin, I had to pretend fellow-feeling as one who might also originate from the northern tribes; that never came easily. At least since she lived at the shrine as a punishment, I could call on this woman for sympathy with someone else who had been forced into a kind of exile.

  The priestess herself was not entirely a stranger. I had met her. My family had given her refuge briefly during that long-ago Saturnalia; I had carried her a bowl of broth because she was unwell. When my mother and grandmother swept her off in a Vestal Virgin’s carriage to bully the Emperor, there was no room for another passenger, so I had had to stay at home. The priestess never came back, because those strong-willed women secured permission for her to live out her days in a temple, instead of having a date with the public strangler.

  She had once had an affair with an uncle of mine. Nobody talked about that.

  “Should I tell her how he is, Mama?”

  “Only if you lay it on thick that he has six children whom he loves dearly.” Within the family our feeling was “and a wife whose money he loves even more.” Darling good-looking Uncle Quintus, always the charismatic one.

  “Right. I’ll just put All the family send regards and hope you are not yet sick of cleaning out that scruffy old temple.”

  “She is a revered elderly lady there,” Helena scolded. “Anyone who can make wild warriors believe she has the gift of prophecy, enough for them to pull their big bottoms off their feasting benches and roar into war against Rome, can charm spotty acolytes in Latium. I believe she has revamped her temple, making it a very popular sanctuary.”

  “Sausage-sellers and festive lanterns? Not too popular, I hope. I want this hideaway to be discreet.”

  It would be. Nephele had vanished off the map. The German lady, who owed my mother her life, would safeguard my refugee. The only problem for me was that, once again, I was left staring at the crumbs in my breakfast bowl. It was a good bowl, as fine as the best Italian Arretine redware, though one that my parents had been given in Germany. But it was empty. Thank goodness I despise symbolism.

  My client had left Rome. I had no reason for further enquiries into her evil husband. Worse, I had put myself out for her with no payment. My own man was off investigating an absorbing case, but I had no work.

  I did wonder whether to seek guardianship of the tug-of-love parrot.

  Settle down, Albia.

  “You will find something,” my mother consoled me. “You have built a reputation. Just sit tight and someone in need will come to you. Do you want me to ask Falco if he has anything you could help out with?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’m not that desperate.”

  Helena and I laughed together gently.

  XXXIV

  One place I did not want to be hit by flying nuts was halfway up the Stairs of Cassius. As a shortcut from the Embankment, where my parents lived, to the top of the Aventine, where my own house was, those steps were a tough climb even normally. When idiots were tossing missiles, the narrow, worn stone treads became deadly. To stop for breath made me a target. To plough on doggedly helped the nuts sting more. I could hear giggling, but it’s never possible to see who the flingers are.

  Just as nuts have been debased from a cheap festival gift to high-velocity missiles, so liberty has changed from new life given to slaves by their masters into a licence for appalling behaviour. Once in their freedom caps, ex-slaves and troublemakers did as they liked, and they liked annoying others. Horribly for me, using the Steps of Cassius meant passing the Temple of Liberty where the worst culprits gathered. The holiday had yet to start but they were out in force, with their unbleached round headgear keeping their mindless skulls warm. It might be mid-morning, but they all had sour breath and dry mouths from drinking to excess and beyond the night before. Unfortunately, they never quite managed to kill themselves with over-indulgence.

  “Give us a smile, darling!” these half-wits cried, like roofers who knew they were well out of reach or pot-bellied painters way up on scaffolds. “Hasn’t anybody told you it’s Saturnalia, and being serious is banned?” This, inevitably, was followed by offers to liven me up in various disgusting ways.

  I don’t know the answer. Ignore them, they only shout louder to get your attention. Retaliate, and renewed ribaldry billows back at you, like a volcanic cloud. Ask don’t they have mothers and sisters? Their answers will tell you how gruesome their mothers and sisters are. Complain to the authorities and be blacklisted as a prude. Make a gesture— No, never make gestures.

  They are beyond wit. They probably won’t follow you. You have to walk on as fast as possible and know safe places you can dive into.

  Mine was Prisca’s bath-house. There, the proprietor was ready with soft towels, sweet oils and sane conversation. “Can’t you get that girl to do something about your hair for a change? And don’t ask for cakes—it’s too early.” Nobody else was bathing at this time of day so I had the place to myself. The water was not yet truly warm, but the floors were clean. I needed to rid myself mentally not only of the revellers’ catcalls but my client’s troubles.

  After a slow pass through the suite with a borrowed bone strigil, I revived. I joined Prisca in a tiny colonnaded court outside. She was talking to Zoe and Chloe, a pair of female gladiators who practised there. Luckily, I had missed them biffing and banging; the two hearties in their hipster mini-skirts were now sprawled on the ground, recovering. They were short, wide specimens, all mighty thighs and filthy banter. They tended to gorge on sausages, which were always being sold from trays in their hangouts. As combatants, they were not as good as they thought, though they made a big noise about it. As romantic partners they felt compelled to be loud about lesbian sex, just in case any short-sighted men thought they might be available.

  They were all with a man today, in fact, though he was a small one.

  “Have you met Spendo, Albia?”

  “Never had the pleasure—but if you are the legendary estimator, Spendo, I believe my husband knows you?”

  Spendo had been described to me. He was a dwarf, not unique in Rome, but his face had been called “like molten rock,” which was a novelty. The public regard dwarfs with curiosity and even affection, but it would take a strong will to cuddle Spendo on your lap. I could not tell whether he had suffered some terrible event, like being seriously burned, or if he had been born like that. Bad manners to stare, my mother would say—before she came right out and asked him.

  I knew he was ace with an abacus. All our builders spoke of his estimating with awe. They had told me they sent Spendo to price any job they did not want; he was so thorough that the customer would reel away from his figures and drop the idea.

  Today I learned something else interesting: in his spare time, and despite being twisted to one side, Spendo was a keen amateur gladiator. I had never met anyone who looked less suitable—though I was assured by Zoe and Chloe that their fight enthusiast was good because he had to be. Not only small, but physically disadvantaged, he had mastered every arena style and was an obsessive weaponry expert. He made his own arms, so they would be the right size; he had a forge at his house.

  “A forge? I assume you’re not married,
Spendo?”

  “Oh, the wife uses it too. She does glass-blowing—and our daughter makes artisan jewellery. Her enamelling is beautiful. She has a line in Gallic cockerels that are extremely popular. But you were asking about armour…”

  Having just left Helena Justina I continued to be polite, but even she would admit that politeness can be a mistake. Conversation with this crazed hobbyist entailed him explaining all the technical reasons why a secutor’s helmet would be round and smooth, with two small eyeholes to avoid trident thrusts, though limiting vision, which was partly why Spendo himself liked to fight as a Thracian: he showed me in detail his own helmet’s upturned griffon head, his visor and his double side-fastened plume-holders …

  “Then what’s the damage, estimator? Is the unit price for these casques expensive?”

  Spendo gave me a look as if he thought I was being mischievous, though he solemnly assured me his precious helm was custom-made, high-spec and value-for-money.

  “Cut it out, Spendo! I didn’t let you in so you could badger my best customer,” ordered Prisca, finally rescuing me.

  Although Prisca’s was a women-only baths, Spendo had been given access for rehearsals with Zoe and Chloe: they had all been invited—ordered—to be the entertainment at a Saturnalia feast the Emperor was about to hold. I reminded them that our ruler had only just terrified senators—at least all who were mobile enough and not too demented—when he made them endure his notorious Black Banquet. The new dinner, said Zoe and Chloe, would be Domitian’s seasonal gift for everybody else, much less funereal. “Gifties and exotic grub—well, for people who manage to secure invitations. Bootleg tickets are selling at the back of temples, we hear, for as much as if they are written with gold leaf instead of ink.”

  “Officials will have passes. Poets can go, if they promise to write up enough slush afterwards. ‘Oh, oh, Our Master has graciously asked me to dinner—me and a thousand nobodies he calls his friends.’ I’ve never been a fan of soggy finger-food,” I sneered.

  “Free wine!” shrieked Chloe.

  “Chance to wear see-through party robes!” added her girlfriend.

  “Extraordinary light show,” said Spendo, single-mindedly. “They have had military technicians setting up in secret for three days.” He looked modest. “I myself have been advising them. I have been suggesting they could make a big impression with a flame-throwing implement used at the siege of Delium, as reported by Thucydides…”

  “For the Undying Sun?” I asked, to show I did have expertise.

  “Sol Invictus—that could work!” he confirmed, as if excitedly inventing ideas as we spoke. “Enormous sun and other effects to be hurled over the venue—the battery of fire enhanced by use of viscous asphalt from the Dead Sea, King Herod’s heliotherapy health spa. Extremely imaginative.”

  “Sounds unsafe,” quipped Prisca.

  “That’s the thrill,” I assured her. “Spendo, you’d better have the vigiles standing by with buckets of water. And during this stunning lights pageant, you three crazy combatants will scamper among the diners, bashing each other to bits?”

  Prisca and I agreed it was almost worth going to see that.

  * * *

  Time to move. I said I had better go back and see what my husband was up to.

  “He’s not there,” I was at once informed by Spendo. “I called round at yours to see if he has any jobs lined up for me after the festival. Faustus has gone out.”

  “He is down by the Raudusculana Gate,” Zoe filled us in, “interviewing witnesses for his nutty inquiry.”

  I was surprised; Tiberius might be alarmed that everyone here seemed to know all about his efforts. In an investigation it is too easy to suppose you are quarantined from public view; you keep your moves out of sight because so many witnesses try to run away or because you don’t want to throw your dice too soon. Besides, beating your head against a brick wall is a solitary pursuit. “He won’t be pleased to hear half the neighbourhood is keeping tabs on him.” Neither he nor I would normally give out details, but I confirmed it was about the nut inquiry and said he was taking statements after the fire that had killed Rosius and his family.

  “That’s right,” agreed Chloe, nodding at me impatiently. “He has been talking to the grandmother, who is too upset to tell him anything. Then he’s gone to see the dead brother-in-law’s brother.”

  “Who had been at the apartment last evening, having a bite with them. He might have seen something as he left,” Zoe continued. “He’s a real pain in general, but he’s fired up by grief, and will help if he can—at least, if he believes Manlius Faustus is asking questions independently. He won’t talk to the vigiles because they are official.”

  “Stupid punk!” Chloe commented. “That warehouse killing was terrible but what happened to Rosius is utterly awful. The arsonist has got to be stopped.”

  “They do their best,” Prisca put in. She had vigiles’ wives among her customers. “It’s not their fault they are hand-picked idiots.”

  “Under-resourced and under-valued.” I sympathised gently with the Fourth.

  “Under-skilled and over-confident!” Spendo disagreed. “Show them a fire and they can throw water on it, if it happens by the river, but this situation needs a much more sophisticated approach. It’s a puzzle—which won’t be their strength. We all know who the villains are, if anyone could find them, but someone tough needs to tackle the whole problem. If Faustus is up for it, he should be the right man. Energy and attack.”

  “Well, he’s modest, Spendo, but he will be pleased when I say you commended him. What’s the word on the street about these villains?” I asked. I was surprised by the local level of knowledge, and the degree to which the nut-war gangsters and their actions seemed to be subjects for discussion.

  “Relics of the old Balbinus gang,” Spendo answered at once. Morellus had muttered this suggestion to Tiberius and me as if it was a deadly secret. Either the Fourth Cohort was harbouring a mole, or more likely Morellus just told everyone.

  “Really?” I played dumb. “Balbinus Pius died years ago, didn’t he? So who is controlling his crew, these days?”

  “Well, his wife died, that mad hag Cornella Flaccida, but the daughter is still a key participant.”

  “Her husband was called Florius?” As mentioned before, I had a personal loathing of that man. It was a bitter grief I had brought with me from Britain. I wanted to hear of his movements and who was supporting him in Rome. “Wasn’t he forced into exile to avoid charges of racketeering?”

  “Florius Oppicus—a classic case of ‘gone abroad for his health,’” confirmed Spendo, drily. “Fast exit for avoidance purposes. He has to control his forces remotely, but there are couriers, and his men must be skilled at evading censorship. He still wields plenty of influence. His wife, the old crook’s daughter, Balbina Milvia, lives where she has always lived, down near the Circus Max. She may not be seen about much, but anyone will tell you she is still holding the reins for Florius.”

  “Always acted the innocent but is a dyed-in-the-wool associate,” I contributed: family lore.

  “Your uncle once played around with her.”

  Indeed. That was how we knew about her. “True, I believe.” My aunt never let him forget it. “I thought it was a family secret! How do you come by these details, Spendo?”

  The little man laughed, almost to himself. He was silent for a while, then came out with his nugget: “Even the wives and daughters of gangsters need a new roof sometimes.”

  “You price their tiles?”

  “They have tame builders on their payroll, brickmakers who give them free bricks—but, the cost of a roof being what it tends to be, every nice new pantiled area calls for a detailed estimate. My quote is always high, because I am careful. But the ladies in question give their builders the go-ahead, once they finish gasping at my figures. I get my fee. The wise ones even hire me as a project manager.”

  It made sense, though I was amazed. “You have been in t
he house of Balbina Milvia?”

  He was showing off with glee. “Met her. Must have been pretty once. Nice woman. Well, nice enough. You wouldn’t want to upset her. She knows some very nasty people. Husband wasn’t there, of course. Sad for her, but she seems to endure it. No doubt the money helps. And there is no doubt, the moolah still keeps rolling in. Paying for her roof will be no problem.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear!” I gazed at him, letting him enjoy his story. He looked about fifty, under the gnarling. Curly hair on the wild side, but neat dark blue tunic with white braiding. Good mind, wry sense of humour, not as bitter as he might have been, though perhaps an untrustworthy maverick.

  “Yes, I have been in her home. Lovely,” said Spendo, with real appreciation. “Beautifully appointed, high-fashion décor, tasteful drapes. Everything money can buy, from the day she was married until today. I say ‘buy’ though I don’t expect she ever pays for much. Balbina Milvia was dandled by thieves and killers as a baby. Respect for her villainous father and her scary husband must bring her many, many presents. Her bank of treasure chests was formidable, even prettified with Spanish doilies. I have been in her house, I certainly have done—and, if you are interested, I have been on her roof, Albia.”

  I saw no immediate use for this, but I promised to make a note.

  “The main roof will be tight,” Spendo carried on doggedly. This man did adore specialist information. “She will have it fixed up to a decent standard, if she follows my advice. I think she will. She commented that I obviously know what I am talking about. The main truss could be salvaged, but her soffits have gone and half her battens are shot, because the old tiles were too crude and too heavy. Probably some job-lot they pinched in the past, or got on the cheap.”