Enemies at Home (11 page)

None of the hundred manumissions were given reasons. A general heading stated briefly that all these slaves would be rewarded with their freedom ‘for their hard work and loyalty’. Of those on my list, only Libycus and Daphnus were to be freed.

‘Fascinating!’ I checked my note tablet. ‘I wonder how Aviola made his choices? Amethystus and Diomedes are a couple of old lags and won’t be surprised to be excluded. Libycus is an obvious candidate for freedom; he was the personal valet, so they had an intimate relationship. Daphnus not so, however. He’s bright, a go-getter, painfully ambitious, and may have caught Aviola’s eye as someone who deserved a chance. But he is only eighteen, and only a tray carrier. Sextus Simplicius, you must have been to the house often. Do you know Daphnus?’

Simplicius raised his heavy shoulders and looked shifty. He probably did not even know the names of his own tray carriers. Daphnus would have been a silent presence placing a drink in front of him, worthy of less notice than the drink.

‘Others won’t like him jumping the queue. Take Nicostratus, the door porter – a responsible position − he was nearly thirty, so may well have been hoping for his freedom soon. He has died of his injuries, so he won’t have to know …’

Some of Aviola’s deserving slaves had been freed in his lifetime, when they became eligible, the steward for one. Polycarpus and a few others were rewarded for past services with minor bequests.

‘Polycarpus!’ Simplicius recognised his name with enthusiasm. ‘He will be looking for a new position now my poor friend has passed on. To be truthful, I was already eyeing up the situation. There was a rumour that Mucia Lucilia wanted to kick him out and have her own steward take charge. Well, one way or the other, I am hoping to snaffle Polycarpus myself!’

There can be a scramble for good employees after a death, and apparently after a marriage, though I had met his own steward who seemed pleasant and efficient. When I asked what would happen to that man, Simplicius said cold-bloodedly that the fellow would have to accept being pushed aside and sold off. He actually joked that if
he
, Simplicius, was then found murdered, I would know who did it.

I replied that this would be most helpful.

I knew that four of the refugee slaves (the second porter Phaedrus, the attendant Amaranta, the musician Olympe and the philosopher Chrysodorus), plus at least one sent to Campania (the steward Onesimus), had belonged to Mucia Lucilia. I asked Simplicius if he knew anything about Mucia’s will, since Roman law did grudgingly allow a woman to dispose of her own property. He claimed to have no idea, though I screwed out details of a freedman who had acted as her official guardian before she married.

We moved on to an outline of Aviola’s bequests.

In the will as it stood, I was told, there were a number of gifts to close relatives and old friends. There were rewards for the two executors, payments which Simplicius described demurely as ‘generous’. Overall, however, no one person would receive a whacking amount. Freedmen and women were provided with pensions but ordered to continue service to the family in various non-controversial ways. Donations were made to temples. The usual perk was earmarked for the emperor, a bribe to dissuade him from seizing more. Domitian’s reaction could never be guessed in advance, but Simplicius told me no one, not even the paranoid tyrant who ruled Rome, had a real reason to speed up Aviola’s departure to Hades in order to inherit. Their legacies would be welcome yet were not enormous.

As was a wife’s right, an allowance was left to Mucia Lucilia. Simplicius and I discussed the legal problems with both that bequest and her dowry; he intended to take advice (I recommended the Camillus brothers). He needed to know whether Mucia died first. I had to tell him that in my judgement she was killed after Aviola. Since this could not currently be proved, and might never be, Simplicius wanted to obtain a legal opinion that would allow him proceed as Aviola’s executor on the basis they ‘died at the same time’, negating bequests to each other. Possibly there was such a rule.

‘Does this will say how Aviola’s bequest to Mucia Lucilia should be reassigned if she’s no longer alive?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes. Wives can die early …’ Childbirth (Mucia was young enough), accident, disease … ‘The amount would be shared out pro rata among the other beneficiaries. They all get more, therefore – but as they are many, the addition cannot be called significant.’

That would depend on how rich you were to start with, I supposed.

‘As a matter of interest, Simplicius, what happens now to slaves who are
not
freed in the will?’

‘The rural slaves are part and parcel of the farms they work on.’

‘And any others?’

‘Have to be liquidated.’

I was startled by his casual turn of phrase. ‘What?’

‘Sold for their cash value. Some may be taken on by the beneficiaries, for a price set against their legacies. A few may be able to buy their own freedom, according to their assessed value. Otherwise, it’s the slave market for any bummers, special auction for the best.’

‘They would have known this?’

‘Standard practice, my dear.’

There was nothing else I wanted to discuss. The conversation had taken me no further, other than suggesting no beneficiary was likely to have helped Aviola on his way. It cast a little light on why some slaves might have held grudges, but nothing dramatic.

Sextus Simplicius escorted me to the door. He seemed anxious. ‘I should warn you about Mucia Lucilia’s guardian … The man can be a menace – he holds some wild theories. Do not believe everything he may say.’

I like wild people. I thanked Simplicius for the advice – then opted to make the guardian my very next interviewee.

H
ermes was a sixty-five-year-old family freedman. He had a long, narrow head with vase-handle ears. This came with a pinched, unhappy expression, though I bore in mind he had recently lost his patroness, in grim circumstances.

Women have to be assigned a guardian when they have no husband, father or other obvious head of household. Some women are so much under their guardian’s control they marry them, others manage to bamboozle their so-called protectors. As I established when I took Faustus to meet my uncles, I would never have wanted one; I was not prepared to have
anybody
sign my contracts, speak for me legally or invest my capital. Mucia Lucilia had known Hermes since childhood. Perhaps, like so many women I would judge as dimwits, she just accepted the situation – or had she married to escape constraints, thinking Aviola would give her more freedom?

Everything may have been amicable. The picture Hermes gave me was that he and Mucia had enjoyed a friendly relationship and that he organised her affairs with a light hand. Certainly she liked him enough to have kept him as her executor, even when she re-wrote her will recently (which she had done on her marriage, like Aviola); at that time, she could easily have dropped Hermes. If she was nervous about dismissing him, she could always have said her husband made her change.

‘Would you call Mucia Lucilia a woman who knew her own mind, Hermes?’

‘Very much so.’

Not the nervous type then. This was the first I had heard of Mucia being strong-willed. ‘Was she domineering?’

‘Oh no. There was never unpleasantness. Mucia Lucilia got her way very diplomatically … But she had firm opinions and was quick to act when the mood took her.’

‘With Aviola?’

‘With anyone. But being contentious was rare; it was just not her way.’

I insisted on being sure; this was important. ‘Nobody thought of her as tyrannical? She was well liked?’

‘Very much so,’ said Hermes again. I would have left it – had he not added, ‘ – by most people.’

I pricked up my ears. ‘Who disliked her?’ Apparently Hermes failed to hear the question.

Pretending to change the subject I asked what might seem an innocuous question: ‘This probably has no bearing, but if their plans had worked out better, the two victims would never have been at the apartment when the thieves broke in … Do you happen to know why they could not leave for Campania straight after their wedding?’ The freedman leaned back on his stool and said nothing. His silence screamed at me to persist. ‘Hermes, they wanted to go the day before. What stopped them?’

‘
Who,
you mean,’ Hermes said. He pursed his lips, then gave up the answer. ‘Valerius Aviola had been letting someone use his villa. The guest failed to vacate the house when requested – that was why he sent so many slaves on ahead. I believe they had orders to assist with the guest’s packing − by force if necessary. Mucia Lucilia was not prepared to share the accommodation.’

‘Ah!’ So Mucia was firmly putting her foot down – only one day into her marriage. ‘Who was this unwanted guest? And why were they being difficult?’

‘On
why,
I cannot comment,’ returned the freedman primly, indicating the reason was not favourable to the sticking limpet. ‘I can certainly tell you
who
she is.’

She
?
The discovery that Mucia Lucilia refused to share the villa with another woman was intriguing. Had Valerius Aviola kept some long-term mistress secreted away in the country? … I guessed Hermes was about to reveal his wild theory, the one Sextus Simplicius had not wished me to hear, in case I believed it. Normally I have no time for other people’s crazy thoughts. I like to invent any mad theories for myself – and then discount them.

Hermes flushed red with real anger: ‘She was digging her heels in, refusing to go. She was malicious, it was unacceptable, my mistress was adamant and nobody blames her. Flavia Albia, the household slaves had nothing to do with what happened. I can tell you exactly who wanted Aviola and my dear young mistress dead. They thwarted her and she wouldn’t take it. She wanted Aviola’s villa and to get it, she arranged to have them murdered.’

This must be an amazing villa. ‘But, Hermes, who is she?’

‘The most jealous, manipulative, evil, scheming woman you will ever meet – his wife!’

D
iana Aventina!

That blew everything apart. All previous theories had to be reassessed.

Disappointingly, it turned out that Aviola had not been a bigamist. He had been previously married but divorced.

Hermes erupted into an outburst where he claimed the ex-wife was a schemer who had sworn Aviola would not get away with his remarriage. From the moment it was announced, she tried to poison him against his new bride. She was famously vindictive and would stop at nothing, even murder.

I downplayed all this. Alleged evil scheming needed to be thought about later, in private. Damaging someone’s reputation unfairly carries a high premium in Rome, even if you are right to defame them. The worse a person is, the more likely they are to demand compensation and the higher their claim. I knew my legal uncles would advise restraint.

Cautiously, I prised out the facts. Galla Simplicia had married Valerius Aviola in their youth, a marriage that lasted long enough to produce three children. They divorced way back, yet remained in contact because of those children. Young at the time of the split, they were brought up by their mother; she received money for their maintenance and had grown rather too used to this income. She had property of her own but particularly liked Aviola’s handsome and comfortable Campanian villa, where until now she had been allowed to visit, using the excuse that she was taking the children to their family’s holiday home.

‘How old are they now?’

‘All in their twenties.’

‘So maintenance payments to their mother ought to have stopped anyway!’ I bet the new wife had pointed that out to Aviola.

Hermes said there had never been any question that, as Galla Simplicia now claimed, Aviola had gifted the villa to her. It was well known in their circle that it was his own favourite house. He went down there every summer, and it was natural he would want to take a new wife soon after their wedding. Hermes told me (as Sextus Simplicius had not) that this villa specifically formed part of the bequest from Aviola to Mucia Lucilia in his new will. If he died, he intended that the second wife should have it.

I wondered what his previous will had said. Clearly Galla Simplicia would have angled for it. But possibly the villa had been assigned to the children – and probably they would acquire it now.

I could see exactly why Mucia Lucilia had refused to share the place with Galla Simplicia. I would have done the same. Mucia needed to take charge.

I guessed how sourly Mucia must have viewed the heavily entrenched ex-wife, together with Aviola’s now grown-up children. Anyone could guess how much those children must be under their mother’s influence.

But there was a reverse slant. Aviola’s new marriage, after so many years of easy coexistence, would have destabilised the ex-wife’s position. Since they divorced so long before, this change may have surprised her, caught her out. An extreme reaction might have occurred, just as Hermes claimed – yet was it likely?

‘She and Aviola had a screaming row. She tried to bully him, using her children.’ Hermes flushed scarlet with indignation again, even to his outstanding ears.

‘What are the children like?’ Spoiled brats, or I was losing my touch.

‘Ghastly,’ he snapped back. As I thought. ‘Expecting to sponge off their father for life.’

‘Boys? Girls?’

‘Useless boy, two insipid girls. Galla was terrified their father would lose interest, especially if Mucia Lucilia were to bear children who might supplant hers.’

A reasonable fear. Many an older father prefers the fresh little infants of his still-warm second marriage to the ruder, more demanding children of a troubled first union. Galla’s three were old enough to have gone through their charmless adolescence, which can leave permanent bad feeling; in any case, Aviola may never have known his children well. Babies lie in their cradles blowing bubbles like helpless darlings who won’t cost any money, or cause family quarrels, or ever stop loving their besotted papa … Meanwhile the determined second wives are right on the scene, constantly reinforcing the new brood’s claims.