Enemies at Home (15 page)

‘Meat and drink to them. They always know who owns antiques or gilt goblets, who bought a new Greek statue last week, who gave an emerald necklace to his mistress who is careless about locking doors.’

‘Ever killed a householder before?’

‘Certainly not, legate. Why would they need to? Anyone who has heard about the jeweller being poked up the arse with a red hot fire-iron because he tried to stop them grabbing his oriental pearls, just quivers in a corner and lets them walk away with whatever they want. People who think they are about to be a target make sure they go out to dinner and stay away until dawn.’

‘Wouldn’t they go out to dinner and put their valuables in a safe place?’ asked my uncle.

‘No, if you’re targeted it’s better to give in and hand them over. I heard about one man who actually packed up his stuff all ready for them, with helpful labels, and left them a donkey to carry it. Including a driver!’

Justinus whistled quietly. ‘And what strategy are you using to tackle this gang?’

‘Strategy?’ asked Juventus.

‘Operation Bandit King. What’s your action plan?’

The so-called special liaison officer still looked blank.

I thought about my other uncle, Lucius Petronius of the Fourth Cohort, who spent decades trying to bring the hated Balbinus-Florius gang to justice; he had to give up on them, exhausted, when he retired. But he knew what an action plan was. He nagged tribune after tribune to commit funds for such initiatives. A Rome-wide crime-busting scheme, Operation Bandit King had been first set up by Uncle Petro.

Fortunately for Juventus, Camillus Justinus could hide his disapproval of incompetence. I myself pretended to believe Juventus must be diligently monitoring the Rabirius gang so I asked if he could advise us how to make contact.

He was not prepared to come along and introduce us, but in line with vigiles practice, he released one minimum fact: he gave us the name of a bar.

‘H
mm!’ Quintus sized up the place we had been sent to. ‘Pretty moulded acanthus on their lintel, but let’s not be fooled by leaves. This is the kind of thermopolium your colourful father would nickname the Itchy Bum.’

‘He’s never so rude.’

‘Think so? You surprise me!’

We had come straight here from the station house. Otherwise we would have been expected. Inevitably, Titianus, Juventus or some other member of the Second Cohort would have tipped off the gang as a favour. We wanted to do this on our own terms – so we had to get here first.

Justinus might be my mother’s favourite brother, but Helena Justina would thwack him with excoriating rhetoric if she knew he had let me come on this mission. Neither he nor I mentioned that, but it made us both nervous.

The Galatea (its proper name) stood in a quiet side street. You probably think thieves lurk down a dangerous alley, something with a sinister atmosphere; in fact they are just like the rest of us and prefer to drink at a respectable bar with nice tubs of laurels that actually get watered. Calling it the Galatea didn’t mean the owners were interested in myths about statues coming to life, it was an excuse for a sign showing a nude woman.

She was rather pale and skinny, but the painter had given meticulous attention to her bosom. Sign artists are so predictable.

What did single out the Galatea as a rats’ nest was that it was large enough to contain an interior courtyard where illegal transactions could take place out of sight of the public and the authorities. Justinus and I sauntered up to one of the counters like innocent tourists just off the boat from Tarentum. This was clearly not the case, since he still had his toga. It was scrunched up and carried over one arm, but anyone could see what it was and with his tunic broadly banded in purple even the dumbest waiter had to twig he was a senator.

Leaving the two bodyguards streetside at the counter, Quintus and I went in and pretended to study the wall sign with a list of drinks. With expressions of delight we ‘discovered’ the inner garden. We sat down there at a wooden table and spent time trying to decide whether to have fried anchovies or stick with olives. We didn’t make a lot of noise, nothing too obvious.

No doubt some bars that act as gangs’ headquarters show unfriendliness to casuals but at the Galatea they were more relaxed. The waiter ambled up and took our order without blinking. He even recommended the anchovies, though he did not push it. A man at the other table gave us a friendly nod in greeting. The waiter took his time coming back – but only as much time as hopeless waiters anywhere. He was gossiping with a local at a counter, not sending a message to tell some clan chief in the crime community that we were here.

So far, if we hadn’t been told this was a dangerous place, we would not have realised.

‘Must be his first day,’ said Justinus to the other man, winking after the waiter. The otherwise pleasant customer had enormous biceps and a broken nose. But if he was a villain, he was one who had work to go back to. He mopped his chin daintily with a napkin, called for the reckoning, left coppers for the waiter, nodded a goodbye like a man whose mother had taught him manners, and left.

Apart from us, there was now no one else here. Our order came. True to family policy on refreshments, we decided we might as well eat up, not just leave empty-handed.

As soon as we relaxed with our bowls and beakers, a man who looked like an imperial invoice clerk turned up. Half bald, clean tunic, just short of swaggering. The kind who serves forty years in the same position, always at the beck and call of superiors, but knowing his eventual leaving-present will buy him a villa. One with solid silver plumbing fitments.

He came straight to the other table in the garden, clearly familiar with his surroundings. Within seconds the waiter had moved in, swept the board clean of crumbs, placed a bread basket with new rolls and set a beaker ready for the small flask of house wine and the water jug he swiftly brought without the customer needing to specify what he wanted.

Justinus kicked my ankle under the table.

The new man had made sure he was sitting so he could see who else entered. He even moved the heavy bench. Who moves a tavern bench?

Although he ignored our offered smiles, he then gave us a hard once-over. While the waiter brought appetiser bowls (several more than we had received), the man muttered to him and the waiter glanced over at us. He said something, perhaps defensively.

However much this customer looked like a docket-diddler, diddling dockets was not what he did.

A typical late lunch proceeded. It was early afternoon. Anyone in a bar around now had time to spare: those who did not need to work and those whose work involved leisured negotiating. Shippers, retail middlemen, investment advisers, publishers of epic poems – and cut-throat gangsters.

At a point when the waiter was alone at a counter, I got up and walked over to him, carrying a bowl as if I wanted a refill. I asked about the man who was not really a clerk. The waiter supplied the answer I expected. Juventus had named him for us. It was Gallo, a trusted agent of the Rabirii, whom the waiter called ‘local businessmen’. He seemed unfazed at being asked.

I left the bowl on the counter. I walked across to the businessmen’s trusty, sat down at the opposite side of his table, and folded my hands neatly. From our table, Justinus let his gaze follow me, though he went on eating and drinking quietly. He was close enough to hear what was said. The casual way he chucked up olives into his mouth showed that he saw nothing unusual in me approaching a stranger to ask questions. How a highly placed gangster would react remained to be seen.

‘Please excuse me. You are eating and I won’t mess about. I believe your name is Gallo and you can put me in touch with the Rabirii.’ I made sure I spoke with heavy respect. Like my uncle, Gallo continued with his meal, no more concerned than if a wasp had landed on the table. But one wrong buzz and he would swat me. He did not appear to be armed, but I never rely on appearances.

I tried again. ‘My name is Flavia Albia. I am assisting an aedile with his investigation into the recent murders of Valerius Aviola and his wife on the Clivus Suburanus.’ At that, Gallo did flex his eyebrows. Whether it was a comment on the crime, a disparaging sneer at women in general, or at women who said they worked with magistrates, I could not tell.

He wanted to know what I wanted. Until he found out, he would not pose a threat. Afterwards, I would need to be extremely careful.

‘Bullion was taken. The Rabirius organisation is highly regarded for dealing in quality goods of the type that were liberated from the Aviola property. Mind you, if interlopers came onto your ground and carried out a robbery, unsanctioned by you, I imagine the Rabirii are extremely unhappy about it.’

Gallo gazed at me. Though his features were so unremarkable, he had very cold eyes.

I myself would not like to invade this gang’s territory. If another gang had carried out the Aviola theft, and the Rabirii knew, there would be blood on the cobbles. I almost wished there was, because the absence of local warfare suggested the Rabirii were not annoyed with anybody else. If they did the job themselves, it was scary invading their bar.

‘I’ll be frank – if you took the silver, I cannot prove it. As a woman, I may not initiate prosecutions anyway. There will be no repercussions. My interest goes beyond the theft. I am following up the murders − and I don’t believe the Rabirii were responsible. These killings were pointless, drawing attention in a way that your well-run organisation must deplore.’

I had nothing to offer, but I pushed it as brazenly as possible. ‘Surely the Rabirii want this cleared up? It must be offensive to them to have such stupidity happening in their district.’

Gallo tore bread off a loaf segment with his teeth. I don’t think he sharpened his incisors into points with a smith’s file, but he would have done if he had thought of it.

‘All right, just tell me this,’ I cajoled. ‘Aviola’s slaves are being accused of the murders. Perhaps no robbery ever took place and the slaves are bluffing. So was Aviola, or was he not, visited that night by professionals?’

Gallo finished chewing then he answered. ‘Go away, little girl.’

You can amend that mentally. ‘Go away’ was not his chosen verb.

‘F
lavia Albia, you managed that superbly!’

There are times when I can do without a companion who employs a wicked grin. I told Uncle Quintus to go away, using the crude word I had just learned from Gallo.

We did not linger in the Galatea.

Q
uintus Camillus and I walked very slowly back to the apartment. We were both thinking, both not talking.

Dromo had woken up, in a fine panic about where I had got to. Faustus must have really given him stern orders to guard me. He glared at my uncle’s two bodyguards, jealous of anyone else with responsibilities, even though he himself resented being assigned to me. The bodyguards stalked around Dromo too, equally suspicious. They were like a group of dogs, sizing each other up on first meeting, feinting an attack with fangs bared. But each man had an eye on Quintus and me, knowing we would slap them down if there was trouble.

We left them to their devices, and went to sit in the courtyard. We discussed what we could do next about identifying the thieves, assuming they ever existed.

Quintus’ suggestion was predictable: ‘We’ll have to raise our level of engagement with the vigiles. Titianus is a lightweight and Juventus has absolutely no idea. I propose that Manlius Faustus and I hold a speedy face-to-face with the Second Cohort’s tribune. I can send a message now to tell him we are coming. That gives him time to pick his men’s brains; it’s only polite. The tribune can decide for himself, depending on his personal style of management, whether to have those idiots present, or present for part of the time.’

‘You presume “management” is what a vigiles tribune practises,’ I chortled. ‘So tell me – does the Camillus-Faustus personal style include taking me to the meet?’

My uncle wagged a finger. ‘Now you know, Albia sweetheart, if it was up to me … ’

‘Faustus approves of me.’

‘That is definitely my impression! But,’ said Quintus Camillus, turning into a paternalist Roman bastard, like them all, ‘we have to assume the tribune will be traditional. We don’t want to antagonise him, do we?’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Ah, but Albia, we need answers, not moral confrontations.’

‘I like to use confrontations to thrash out answers.’

Quintus remained tolerant. ‘From what I have seen of your work, you can be devious. You try to avoid upsets. Hercules, Albia, let’s face it – you flirt!’

Biting my lip, I made no reply.

After a moment, Quintus added slyly, ‘So are you flirting with the aedile?’

‘You do keep on plucking on the same old lyre, Uncle.’ Quintus was laughing. We had a good relationship and I was honest with him. ‘I flirt when it’s needed, but I don’t flirt with him.’

‘Yes, he seems a little tight. Doesn’t he like your banter?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

I knew all right. Faustus liked it.

Quintus, who was shrewd in the intuitive way of my mother, his elder sister, was still laughing. I reflected privately how glad I was not to be having this conversation with Helena Justina. She could winkle things out of people that they didn’t even know they thought and felt.

It made her a wonderful partner for my father. When I worked with the Camillus brothers, as I did intermittently, we had a similar relationship, but they always tried to take over the investigation. I was better on my own.

I never despaired of finding someone else to share my work in the balanced way my parents tackled commissions together – but I did not expect it to happen.

Quintus borrowed equipment and swiftly wrote letters, one to Faustus which Dromo took, and another to the tribune, carried by one of the bodyguards.

Commenting how quiet it was here (compared to his own lively ménage, with all those children tearing about), my uncle made himself at home. He had a nap, commandeering a bed in one of the good rooms. I sunned myself in the garden.