Enemies at Home (3 page)

While Faustus outlined the Aviola murders and the slaves’ flight to the temple, I scooted to the kitchen where I organised tisanes and what Father calls nicknackeroony comports. In my relatives’ homes, the wise seek out their own refreshments. Only my mother is a thoughtful hostess. In the Aelianus ménage everything was there if you hunted for it, not just dates and miniature pastries but a perfectly willing little tray carrier. Three hauls of wedding presents had made Aelianus the owner of many matching fancy bowls. His wives tended to abandon the pottery and carry off his cash, insofar as cash existed.

He could have set up a food bowl stall, but lacked the charisma to be a successful salesman. Besides, for a senator, involving himself in retail would be breaking the rules.

I arrived back at the conference just as Faustus finished: ‘So my task will be identifying who really committed the murders, so the slaves can be evicted from the temple without offending the goddess. The Esquiline is not my jurisdiction, but I have been given a free hand.’

‘Oh, you mean
I
find the killers for you, then you sponge me out of the picture,’ I grumbled, asserting myself in the conversation.

Faustus replied quietly, ‘You know I give you credit.’

My uncles observed this exchange shrewdly.

We reclined on couches as we talked. Aelianus ignored the refreshments. Justinus ploughed into his brother’s snacks as if he had eaten no breakfast. Of course he had. In homes full of children, breakfasts go on for most of the morning chaotically.

He mumbled through a mouthful of pastry, ‘We need to remember what Seneca said: “Every slave is an enemy.” Most owners are paranoid that their staff are plotting against them.’

‘So often true!’ Aelianus had gone to another room, returning with his muscular arms full of legal scrolls. He now found his way around the documents by means of papyrus slips that he must have inserted earlier while preparing for this meeting.

Both my layabout uncles enjoyed taking an instruction. They emphasised that until I had seen the location and interviewed those involved, all they could tell us was general law.

‘Today we are just setting out the principles. I hate these cases,’ Justinus complained. ‘The traditional approach was to condemn all the slaves who were in the house. More recently, that kind of mass cull became unpopular and I would argue to have this dealt with liberally. Single out the culpable, but ignore the rest. If this couple were wealthy, are we talking about substantial numbers?’

‘No.’ Faustus shook his head. ‘After their wedding, they had planned to go to a villa that Valerius Aviola owned in Campania. Almost all the household had been sent on ahead. There was some delay, I don’t know what, so the couple were slumming it in Rome overnight with a skeleton staff.’

The small list of suspects had been a sweetener for making me take the job. I would not have agreed if there were big squads to investigate.

Aelianus’ advice was practical and focussed: ‘Start by asking specifically who was in the bedroom. Were any attendants present when the thieves rushed in? If so, they absolutely ought to have defended their master, regardless of risk to themselves. Identify any who failed to help, and any who did try to defend their master but were unsuccessful.’

‘Not forgetting,’ argued Justinus, who never entirely agreed with his brother, ‘those elsewhere who
might
have assisted, but who were unaware an assault was happening.’ He told me to list the Aviola household and draw a plan of the apartment, plotting people’s whereabouts. Well, obviously I would do that. ‘Albia, check who was within earshot. Was it night? Had the whole household gone to bed? Were the newly-weds …?’ He tailed off demurely.

‘At it?’ I suggested, looking helpful.

‘Enjoying a full marriage …’

Most couples in Rome made love with half the household listening in. Often with servants right there in the room. ‘If they were wrestling conjugally,’ I teased, ‘any cries for help might have been mistaken for joyous sound effects.’

Faustus shot me a prudish look, but Justinus simply carried on. ‘If they liked privacy and were alone together, it’s critical whether any slaves nearby could hear calls for help. You might even ask how loudly could the murdered couple shout? What about slaves who were hard of hearing and have an excuse? You see what I mean.’

Aelianus must be growing long-sighted. He leaned back and squinted down his nose at a scroll as he put in his thoughts: ‘The law is usually interpreted as saying that any slaves in the house had a duty to come running. But does “in the house” mean in other rooms or corridors, or does it include the garden or grounds, or even the street outside, if shouts and screams might reach that far? Think about that as you negotiate the apartment.’

I had a vision of conducting aural experiments. Standing in different places and yelling ‘Help!’ while an assistant checked off results on a list …

‘You sound as if you would like to put these questions to a court.’ Faustus looked nervous. He must be hoping the Temple of Ceres would not have to pay for litigation, simply to fund my crazy uncles’ professional curiosity. With slaves, the authorities had probably thought there would be no trial.

‘Good advocates try to avoid lawsuits,’ returned Justinus, smiling.

‘Too expensive?’

‘Too prone to uncertain outcomes.’

‘You distrust juries?’

‘Seen too many.’

‘You said silverware went missing. What about the burglars?’ demanded Aelianus, changing tack.

‘Persons of interest – serious interest, clearly,’ said Faustus.

‘But persons unknown? Aedile, do not involve Flavia Albia in tracing them.’

Before I could flare up, Justinus stressed the point. ‘My niece is special to us, Faustus. My brother and I stand
in loco parentis
when necessary.’

‘Nuts!’ I shrieked. ‘Your brother and you aren’t fit to be
in loco
to a worm!’ I realised the idiots must have talked over the dangers to me before Faustus and I arrived. I had to steer them all off this subject. No informer should allow a bunch of men to quibble about how she conducts her enquiries. ‘Uncle Quintus, you know perfectly well Didius Falco has nominated an old Bithynian freedman as his daughters’ guardian.’ Turning to Faustus, I joked, ‘My father holds the traditional view that any woman without a father or husband should be placed in the care of a lecherous fraud with his filthy eyes on her money − as if my sisters and I couldn’t fritter away our property for ourselves.’

‘I thought Falco chose Nothokleptes, that disaster of a banker he uses,’ grinned Justinus, happily sidetracked. ‘That way, the cash can just be reassigned in a ledger and won’t even need to be physically moved.’

‘He told me he had found a degenerate priest.’ Even Aelianus played the game. ‘One who likes pretending he’s the Pontifex Maximus and beating naughty girls on their bottoms with rods.’

‘I imagine Flavia Albia can run rings around the guardian system.’ Faustus was rubbing a scar on his hand where I had stabbed him with a meat skewer once; he was subtly reminding me how I had once over-reacted to something he said. There was no need to explain that to the uncles.

Aelianus returned to his original caveat. ‘The point is, aedile, we cannot sanction sending our dear niece among violent criminals.’

‘Not an issue,’ replied Faustus, stiffening up. ‘I admire Flavia Albia’s work, and I have witnessed her personal courage, but my intention is to use other means to follow up the burglary.’

He probably just that moment decided. Until the Camilli acted up, Manlius Faustus, the fast-thinking plebeian rich boy, had seen me as a tough, street-savvy worker he could send anywhere. He would have been right. I would have done whatever was necessary. Now, half the inquiry had been whipped away from me.

They agreed that the more tiresome task − detailed interviews with members of the Aviola household − was suitable for me. I groaned at the prospect of mumbling pot-scourers, shrine-tidiers and clothes-attendants, but I let the men enjoy the thought that they could snooze in their studies, overlooked by busts of poets, while I wasted note tablets on domestic minutiae.

In the end they would claim the credit for whatever I learned. Yes, I had been a female informer for a long time. I knew all the disadvantages.

‘It should be simple,’ Uncle Quintus assured me. ‘Remember the proverbial answer:
the cup bearer did it
.’

M
arry in June. May is a month of ill-omen, but once it is over the goddess Juno presides kindly over couples who unite in her festival period, slathering them with good prospects, including fertility for those who can abide babies.

Camillus Justinus and Claudia Rufina had married in May, though that was in North Africa where different gods preside. I was adopted into the family after that, but relatives who pursued the eloping couple were still shocked that during their trip they had to watch another uncle of mine being killed by an arena lion. Even in my family, this counts as an unusual day out. They were all thankful for a bridal bash to take their minds off the screams, despite Claudia’s visible qualms about marrying Quintus. Still, weddings should be traditional and nothing beats watching a young bride riven by huge doubts, does it?

Marcus Valerius Aviola and Mucia Lucilia were a mature couple, so presumably knew what they were doing. They can never have had much anxiety, except in their last frightful moments. Theirs was a perfectly conventional wedding, properly in June. They died on their second night together. I arrived at their apartment a week later. Their funerals had already taken place and unfortunately the apartment had been tidied. I like to inspect a crime scene with any blood or tangled bedsheets still
in situ
.

Manlius Faustus accompanied me to the Esquiline, still intent on finding accommodation for me. My idea was a room above a bar: anonymous, local, quiet by day when I wanted to review my notes, handy for eats, safely full of people at night. My headstrong employer had other ideas. He seemed to think I would drink cheap wine and pick up men. Well, those were traditional male Roman fears about women, and he hadn’t known me very long. I assured him that I like to be sober when I’m man-hunting.

He then came up with a gem: I should stay in the Aviolas’ guest room, at the heart of the inquiry. ‘Rent-free to the temple? What misers! Oh Faustus. You really think it’s wise for me to live where a violent murder was committed?’

‘Dromo will sleep on a mat outside your door each night.’

‘Oh spare me that, aedile!’

Dromo was the slave Faustus took about with him. I knew Faustus’ uncle normally purchased better specimens, so I guessed this loon had turned out badly and been dumped on the aedile, who seemed an oddly docile nephew.

The boy was about sixteen, podgy, sullen, and he smelt. In a city where baths were so plentiful, with many free even for slaves, Dromo must pong on purpose. He certainly didn’t copy his horrible hygiene from his master. Up close, Faustus was sweet and fresh, I happened to know. ‘You can use him as a messenger, Albia. Somebody has to bring me your daily action notes.’

‘Who says I am sending you notes?’

‘I do.’

In our one previous case together, we had both enjoyed the way the magistrate tried to play the stern monitor and I kicked against it. Now I stared him in the eye until eventually he ducked his head like a submissive dog, allowing himself a tight smile.

I told him he ought to smile more often. ‘It makes you look rather appetising.’ He tried to ignore that, though he came close to blushing. The man was fun to tease, although I suspected no one else ever did it. He had been unmarried for years and from the little I knew about the uncle he lived with, his only visible family, Tullius was not the type.

Of course he was entitled to progress reports. It was a routine part of my service. ‘Daily’ might be pushing it, but I was not foolish; until we apprehended the killer, I wanted somebody else to be aware of my movements. Faustus knew it would not give him supervision rights.

Or maybe he thought it did. He would soon learn.

The long stroll over from the Aventine confirmed that Rome really is built on Seven Hills, and they are highly inconvenient. Three, the Quirinal, Viminal and Esquiline, are steep ridges that run down in parallel and dominate the northern part of the city, getting in your way whenever you try moving about. Most easterly is the Esquiline, which lies mainly outside an ancient fortification, the so-called Servian Walls; the rampart overlooks an area that was once unhealthy and full of graveyards, though now some parts have been reclaimed and fancied up. People who think themselves quite grand nestle alongside workshops with unneighbourly trades and the destitute.

On the city side of the old embankment lurks Nero’s Golden House, a madman’s playground that once covered the Forum and beyond. Down at the bottom of the Esquiline stands the Temple of Minerva Medica. Up at the top is the Market of Livia, named after the Empress who also built an elegant Porticus in this region, full of fountains and an enormous vine that covered all the walls. Livia’s Market is by the Esquiline Gate, where the main road that runs under the arch arrives from the once-rough district called the Subura.

On this road, the Clivus Suburanus, Faustus and I found the Aviola apartment. It took us several tries, asking where Aviola lived, so he was not well-known in the district. Faustus played things unobtrusively but when I despaired of his approach, I walked into a bar and mentioned the robbery and deaths; all the gossipy waiters rushed to point out the crime scene.

It was a discreet house with several shops fronting its pavement, between which staircases led to upper levels. As was common in Rome, a substantial building had been divided internally then leased out in as many lucrative units as possible. The best suite occupied most of the ground floor, including an enclosed courtyard. This had been rented for some years by Valerius Aviola, I guessed expensively. Here he had brought his new bride after their wedding. Here they had died, before passion or economic rationale had had any chance to grow jaded.