Enemies at Home (24 page)

‘You’re good.’

‘You too!’ I remarked ambiguously.

I was watching as many bars opposite as I could. Tiberius spent a moment watching me, then he too reapplied himself to surveillance.

I glanced back at him. He steadily scrutinised the exit from the Victorious Soldier and the public counters of the Moon and Stars. I resumed my careful watch on the Ship, the Castor and Pollux, the Cow and the Dead Man’s Fingers.

Roscius emerged through the food counters of the Diana, a workaday thermopolium that seemed to be full of bricklayers. He had somebody with him, a bald man who looked Cappadocian, possibly the subordinate we had earlier seen him leave behind at the Galatea. They strolled together down from the Cispian Hill, with us gently following. We did not bother with the dodging technique, but merely paced ourselves to remain a good distance behind, where we might not be noticed.

They reached the Clivus Suburanus at the Porticus of Livia. They stayed together on the main road as far as the Esquiline Gate, where Roscius waved off the other man. He went on alone through the arch and into the Gardens of Maecenas.

Faustus gripped my elbow, then we quickened our pace and caught up with him.

‘G
oing somewhere? Mind if we tag along?’ Manlius Faustus must have learned this ghastly old line when he pulled in persons of interest for questioning. How many shopkeepers who encroached on pubic pavements had he arrested with that cliché? Perhaps he had first heard Morellus use it.

At least the familiar script made Roscius feel at ease. However, he lost his confidence when Faustus then took us into the Auditorium of Maecenas for our conversation.

We had walked on through the gardens, with the aedile and I either side of the young criminal, until this beautiful place appeared and Faustus moved swiftly to have a word with the curator. I saw money being passed over. Then we were let in.

‘I thought so!’ exclaimed Faustus, grinning at the crook. ‘Nice and big. No one else here. Nobody will overhear us.’

That may not have given Roscius any sense of security.

I knew the building. The Gardens of Maecenas had been built over an ancient graveyard, reclaiming an area that for years had been a famously unhealthy necropolis, full of burial pits of the poor.

My mother once read me a poem about witches haunting this sinister spot under a lonely moon, a terrifying piece of work where cruel hags murdered a young boy: Horace, in spooky mode; he did it gruesomely. I was going through a mystic period at the time, a teen myself, in love with the supernatural without seeing its true menace. Now I despised horrors. Forget plague-ridden burial grounds with bones sticking out of broken old pots. All I wanted were these tranquil and elegant new gardens that had finally resulted from a land-grab by entrepreneurs. The first time I went for a walk in a grand public space after Helena and Falco brought me to Rome, I was astounded. There was nothing like any of these public gardens in Londinium.

All right. There is nothing fancy at all in Londinium.

Some garden-creators were freedmen of the imperial court, those high-rollers with moneybags for eyes, who always know how to fix themselves up with gorgeous property. Maecenas had been different, born a fabulously rich Etruscan, friend of Augustus and great patron of the arts; he made his garden particularly fine, with libraries and pavilions. This became his retirement home, a setting so elegant that the Emperor Tiberius had lived there for a time.

To enter Maecenas’ Auditorium, as it was called, we passed down a long ramp with a herringbone floor. The monument was built substantially below ground, perhaps as a sunken dining room; when they turned on the water, the inner hall was cooled by a cascade that tumbled down at one end, where deep, white marble steps lined a semi-circular apse. Though never a great socialite, I had been here to a couple of events. The body of the hall can take dining couches, but generally it hosts stand-up soirées with drama, music or readings for well-dressed cultural snobs. Very small appetisers are handed round by blank-faced servers from Gaul in identical uniforms. Flute music nobody listens to wavers over the loud hum of pretentious chatter and rattling jewellery. The ticket price makes you wince.

Though originally a private building, the Auditorium could nowadays be hired, and my father once recklessly shared an evening there with a senator he knew slightly, who wrote epic poetry. Their joint recital was even graced briefly by Domitian, in the happy days when he was only Vespasian’s spare heir; back then he had big dreams but no real expectations of becoming emperor.

Do not ask for a critique of Falco’s writing. I am a loving, loyal daughter.

Today we had it to ourselves, a rather over-elaborate interrogation room. The well-proportioned interior was lined with large wall niches that were beautifully painted with garden scenes and landscapes, all exquisitely done in that endearing Roman style where indoor frescos mimic living plants that you can see simultaneously outside. One end of the hall opened onto a terrace with lovely views towards the Alban Hills. Unfortunately, once Alba became the infamous location of our emperor’s citadel villa, nobody could gaze eastwards without the warped image of Domitian brooding in his fortress, planning ways he could make our lives miserable.

This was an unusually sophisticated venue for an interview with a gangster, but none of Roscius’ violent associates would come looking for him here. If he was overawed by the grand setting, it might work in our favour. He looked around, no doubt hoping to identify statues he could steal, though this was strictly a performance space and no art gallery.

Faustus seemed at home. Did he have an unknown life as an arts connoisseur?

For me, it made a welcome change from barracks and bars. But it would not be my natural choice. The place was too busy making its gorgeous presence felt. I prefer a neutral background for grilling suspects.

‘I am not saying anything!’ Roscius began, predictably.

Faustus pointed out that we had not asked anything yet. ‘You don’t want to get on the wrong side of me, Rabirius Roscius. I am more ruthless than you can possibly imagine. You don’t even know the meaning of “vindictive bastard” yet.’

If true, to me it was an unfamiliar side of Manlius Faustus. I knew he could be tough, even unpleasant when someone annoyed him, but otherwise I saw him as a man of steadfast noble virtues, including restraint. Restraint in particular. Unfortunately.

Roscius told Faustus to push off.

Faustus told Roscius he was not going to do that.

I stepped in as a sweet female ameliorator. ‘Roscius, trust me, I advise against upsetting this aedile. There are stallholders all along the Vicus Armilustrium who shit diarrhoea when he goes on a walkabout, even if their special counterfeit corn-measures have been left at home that day. I’m nice. Why don’t you talk to me?’

‘Oh, not “good bastard, bad bastard”!’ snorted Roscius like an experienced hardnut.

‘I have no idea what you mean … But I do know that whoever arranged that attack on a senator three nights ago has knocked over a hive of extremely angry bees. It may not have been announced in the
Daily Gazette
yet, but there are strident calls for a Senate inquiry, with possible intervention by the emperor himself. Everyone in your position can expect a very heavy crackdown. The scrutineers are being urged to go for all the old crime families. Be wise, man! Anyone who cooperates first in the aedile’s investigation may avoid having his door kicked down.’

‘Don’t be so generous, Flavia Albia,’ Faustus joined in, making himself sound scratchy. ‘Why should one gangster escape justice, when we have an opportunity to round them all up? I am just waiting for the formal order, then I shall be scarifying my patch. Every felon on the Aventine is really going to feel this. No scum unturned.’

‘I have heard,’ I said gravely, ‘Rabirius Roscius has more political know-how than some.’

‘Ha! How’s that?’

‘Well, dear Tiberius, this man will surely see that you and I are intent on solving the Aviola case, so for us, the senator-bashing is a separate issue.’ Neither of us had mentioned to Roscius that the bashed senator was my uncle. I guessed Roscius had not yet joined up all the dots in the sketch. Did he know Camillus Justinus had visited Gallo with me? Did he even realise Justinus went to the Second’s tribune with Faustus?

‘If we did solve the Aviola case, Roscius, your name could be omitted from the senator-bashing inquest,’ Faustus returned thoughtfully. He sounded as if he meant it.

‘I presume that would be a relief to the Rabirii,’ I offered to Roscius. ‘They won’t want this commission to take a piercing look at what happened to Aviola. It is very high profile, the victims were well-to-do and the circumstances − such violence, and so soon after a wedding − have attracted the wrong kind of public attention. That’s even without the slaves fleeing to the Temple of Ceres. For Romans, a religious connection makes it so much more sensitive.’

‘And it’s messy!’ quipped Faustus with some glee, as if he revelled in slurry.

Showing signs of alarm, Roscius piped up suddenly, ‘We never done Valerius Aviola. Nor his precious bride neither.’

I refrained from correcting his grammar. He would have been too busy learning how to operate a jemmy to attend a decent school of rhetoric.

Faustus leaned towards him, sounding more reasonable. ‘That so? Do you want to tell me what really happened?’

‘No, I bloody don’t!’ Roscius fell back on the criminal’s professional motto: ‘If you had any evidence, you wouldn’t be asking.’

‘
Evidence?
’ laughed Faustus.

‘Oh, Roscius,’ I suggested gently, ‘you are forgetting this is Manlius Faustus, the infamous plebeian magistrate − and vindictive bastard.’

Roscius was standing with his arms folded, a defensive stance, though his bravado was dwindling. I could see in his eyes he was making wrong decisions almost every time the conversation took a turn. We had been right to approach the junior. Old Rabirius must still be dealing with the gang’s business himself, supported by Gallo. He had not yet exposed Roscius much – not enough for the young man to be able to handle this competently. One day he would know better. He would stand firm and keep denying everything. He would be laughing at us then.

Now he was under too much pressure. We had a few more exchanges on the same lines, until he gave way. He agreed to discuss the night when Aviola and Mucia were killed – though he made one last feeble attempt at a stand: ‘Why are you asking me about it anyway? This is victimisation, totally unfair. You have nothing to link me or my boys to it.’

‘You are the robbery expert,’ Faustus flattered him. ‘The word is, if a big break-in occurs, you are the only one capable. So did you know Valerius Aviola owned a cache of special silver?’

‘Do dogs shit in the gutter? You bet I knew. Wine set, plenty of items, all very pretty. Kept it in his dining room.’

‘Summer or winter?’ I asked, making a show of testing him.

‘What?’

‘Summer or winter dining room!’ Faustus spelled out, sounding irritable.

‘On shelves or display table?’ I asked.

‘If table, three-legged or monopod?’ rapped Faustus.

‘If monopod, marble or fancy wood? Then citron or cedar wood?’

Faustus and I were enjoying the word games, while Roscius clearly felt nervous. Trying to follow our banter made him breathless. ‘Lay off! You’re confusing me …’

‘Oh, forget citron and cedar. Stone beats wood every time for me.’ Faustus kept rambling. ‘Give me Euboean onion-skin marble for setting off silver any day. Lovely green base, good wavy lines …’

‘Stop joshing around,’ I chided. ‘You heard what he said – we are confusing him. Roscius, just tell me, did you know that the family were leaving for Campania?’

‘Yes, I did.’ He answered the simple question with relief.

‘So did you go to the house that night to lift the silver while you could?’

‘We went.’

‘And you took it?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? You got inside?

‘Of course. Sweet as a nut.’

‘So why not take the stuff?’

‘None there. Not a piece of it. We found the dining room all right, but the shelves were standing there all empty.’

Roscius looked awkward and unhappy. In telling this odd story, he seemed unable to decide whether he was embarrassed by failure or defiant because he was innocent of theft. Faustus shot a glance at me, then he took up the questioning. ‘Something happened?’ he asked in a quieter voice than formerly. ‘Get it off your chest, why not?’

Roscius nodded, though he still failed to speak.

Faustus went back to the beginning. In his work as aedile, he must be used to questioning wrongdoers. He was calm, courteous, almost sympathetic. ‘So, let’s start with getting into the house. Is it right that you burst in past the porter?’

Roscius bridled indignantly. ‘No chance! Am I good or not?’

‘Of course; you’re tops. So tell me.’

‘I got us in. My usual method. Did it sweet and quiet. Got past the lock with my special magic.’

‘A pick in the keyhole?’

‘Not saying. Trade secret. Anyway, no one knew we was in their house.’

I stiffened, realising just how much the scenario I had worked on before was wrong. Faustus showed no reaction.

Roscius was suddenly flying. He could not tell his story fast enough: ‘We got in, there was nobody around, we found the room, the shelves were empty, we started searching. Having made it in, we wasn’t leaving empty-handed. Unprofessional! Well, that was what I thought until we knew what had gone down. I was the one that discovered them. Just opened a bedroom door, quiet like, not knowing what might be inside, who I could be facing up to if I was unlucky. There the two of them was. Stark naked and flung out in agony, horribly staring up at me.’

‘Aviola and his wife?’ insisted Faustus. ‘Dead?’

Roscius nodded.

Being so sure of the details previously, I jumped in: ‘But hadn’t you already come across the door porter? Nicostratus? Beaten insensible and lying in his blood, in the long passage from the front entrance?’