Enemies at Home (6 page)

‘I am sure he will do that. Sadly, Polycarpus, the likelihood is that the items will be melted down for the value of the metal – in which case that has happened already.’

‘It seems a terrible waste of such beautiful things.’

‘Criminals have limited choices. Occasionally,’ I told him, ‘a well organised professional gang will hide their loot, then keep it as long as they have to, until the heat dies down. Then they may eventually sell it for its artistic value. But even if these robbers use such long-term planning, people died here. Murder attracts attention. What was stolen may stick in the public’s mind. Selling it will be too risky.’

Mentioning the deaths was my cue to move on.

After the attack, Polycarpus had gone into the bedroom and had seen the bodies. He confirmed what I had suspected: Aviola was lying nearest the front edge of the bed, with his wife behind him. Mucia was found close against her husband and had one arm stretched across his body, a defensive, protesting position, as if the new bride was trying to fend off her groom’s attacker.

‘That doesn’t sound as if the killers turned violent because the master and mistress came out and disturbed them. Aviola and Mucia were still in bed. Perhaps the thieves went to see what was in the bedroom, then their victims woke and tried to raise an alarm … They were strangled, I’m told. What with?’

‘A piece of rope.’ So it must have been pre-planned.

‘What happened to the rope afterwards?’

‘Perhaps the vigiles officer took it away.’

‘I shall ask him. Do you remember anything about it, Polycarpus? What kind of rope? Not very thick, I imagine. Thick rope is too stiff to twist around necks with enough torsion to kill someone.’

The steward shrugged. Assessing rope was not for him. There were so many boundaries in household management, I was surprised anything ever got done.

I asked him to show me the apartment’s layout, not mentioning that I had already explored. We took a walk-through. There were no surprises in the main rooms. Now I saw more of the offices. They had a two-oven kitchen, plus the usual pantries and store rooms. I glanced into the latrine. It was decent, though its cleanliness would not have satisfied either of my grandmothers, both women who would walk through Rome for an hour with a screaming toddler, rather than let any of us use a lavatory from which we might catch something.

‘Where do you get your water?’

‘The apartment came with its own well, but when my master first took the lease we found the water is too bad to use. I have to organise a carrier to bring in fresh buckets daily.’ Polycarpus indicated the disused well, in a corner of the courtyard. It had wooden boarding at ground level, over which a stone urn had been placed to deter people from opening it.

‘One thing I notice,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘is that you have little obvious accommodation for your slaves.’

‘What we provide is normal.’ Polycarpus obviously despised me for not knowing how staffed houses work. He showed me a couple of small cells on the service corridor. Numbers of slaves slept there, layered on pallets in wall niches, in much the same way as crockery was stacked on shelves elsewhere in walk-in cupboards. These slaves would have no time to relax at leisure, no personal possessions and absolutely no privacy. One such cell was crammed with mattresses and mats; these could be used on the floor anywhere. ‘Normally the house is full of people looking after the master. They all find space for themselves where they can – the kitchen, corridors, the garden. But they are the master’s
familia
and we make our accommodation versatile, Flavia Albia. When we have no guests, the best slaves may sleep in greater comfort in unused bedrooms.’

‘Well, that raises a question, Polycarpus: did any of the guests at the feast stay overnight?’

‘None. They all live locally and were taken home as soon as the meal ended.’

‘So, let’s go back to the attack. I need details of who was where at that point. What do you know about where the fugitive slaves were sleeping – if that is what they were doing − when the thieves broke in?’

All Polycarpus could say was that Nicostratus, the porter on duty, was by the front door. We went to look. Off the entrance corridor was a tiny cubbyhole, but Polycarpus said neither of the porters liked it, finding it too stuffy and enclosed; they tended to sleep on a mat in the corridor. That was where the wounded Nicostratus had been found.

Otherwise, Polycarpus reckoned that the gardener, Diomedes, generally curled up in the garden or one of the cloisters around it. Then the steward remembered giving permission for the two females, Mucia’s personal attendant and her young musician, to sleep in one of the decent rooms at the front of the apartment. He suspected that Chrysodorus, the philosopher, would have taken it upon himself to sleep in another, probably the one I was now using.

‘Your master had a tame philosopher?’ I kept my expression neutral.

‘My new mistress liked refinements,’ answered the steward stiffly. This was the first hint that there might have been friction between him and the householders, but it was only a hint.

‘Stoic, Cynic or Epicurean? What variety is he?’

‘A bone idle one.’

‘I see. Perhaps he would say he has successfully cultivated an untroubled inner life.’

‘Possibly, Flavia Albia. My feeling is that somebody should give him a kick up his untroubled arse.’

I noticed Polycarpus letting himself express something less bland than normal. It made me think I might enjoy meeting Chrysodorus. It was also a clue to explore relations between the master’s established staff and new people brought by Mucia Lucilia. When I asked, Polycarpus assured me they all got on perfectly together, but he was bound to say that.

We were coming to the end of my meeting with the steward, except that I did mention my unhappiness with the eating arrangements. I instructed him to buy in food for me and Dromo, which I would prepare. If he provided salad and meats, little work would be necessary. He agreed, so we went back to the kitchen where he showed me equipment, crockery and cutlery.

A fire was kept in for hot water. Myla had that job. We found her there, adding firewood in a desultory way. She was the first of the household slaves I met, and I did not take to her. She was a slow drudge with a dreamy manner who accepted my presence in her domain, received instructions to look after me, but said nothing.

The newborn babe lay quiet in a basket. I was curious to ask who its father was, but kept that for another time. Polycarpus was still with us and from what I knew of freedmen with power in a house, he might be a candidate.

The steward treated Myla offhandedly. I had the impression he had given up trying to impose discipline. Myla seemed to be one of those slaves who lived in her own world, and somehow persuaded everyone else to go along with that. Clearly she did the minimum necessary to avoid notice or criticism.

I did not blame her. If I was a slave, I would have behaved the same way.

I
took advantage of the steward believing our talk had gone well. Soon I would finish my initial enquiries, where I maintained a neutral attitude on purpose while I assessed the scene and familiarised myself with the witnesses. Once I began applying pressure, Polycarpus would realise he had failed to ingratiate himself, but for the moment I played grateful.

I fetched a stole and asked him to show me where to find Aviola’s executors; on the way there we could see what the local shops and stalls had to offer and I would point out the kind of provisions I liked.

Out in the streets it was immediately clear that around here Polycarpus had made himself a man of account. Everybody knew who he was. People bustled up to greet him. Whenever we paused at a greengrocer, salami seller or fruiterer, the proprietor dropped what he was doing to attend to us personally. If we failed to stop, traders left their stalls and shops and actually followed us for some distance, offering Polycarpus deals, treats, pleas and samples of their goods. I lost count of the times I was told what a wonderful fellow my companion was. Had he not been a freedman he could have stood as a local tribune and beaten all comers.

It was based on favours, naturally. He must have steadily built relationships along the Clivus Suburanus and nearby, using his importance as controller of Aviola’s domestic budget; in return he could depend on these suppliers, making himself look good at home by miraculously providing whatever his master wanted, even at short notice. He probably had equally smooth dealings with building contractors and so forth.

I saw no coins changing hands; it would all be done on account, with creditors no doubt having to beg for payment weeks in arrears in the classic Roman way. Nor did they yet seem too afraid that with the master dead the account might be closed, though one or two did enquire what would happen now. Polycarpus claimed not to know, implying that if it was left to him transactions would continue as usual.

I was convinced little bonuses passed to him regularly. I don’t criticise. He was a really good steward. Whether I would want someone exercising that kind of influence in my household is another matter.

‘
What household is that supposed to be, Albia?
’ my family would roar. They thought I lived like a vagrant.

The main executor was called Sextus Simplicius and had an apartment in a block three streets from Aviola’s. A door porter let us in; then we saw a polite functionary much like Polycarpus. He told us his master was out on business and made an appointment for me the next day. Polycarpus took the lead in our conversation, of course, though at the end I intervened and mentioned that when I came back I would like to see the will. Eyebrows were raised. I remained calm, simply letting the two stewards know I expected my request to be taken seriously and passed on to the executor.

I could always call on Manlius Faustus to help me obtain sight of the document, though I preferred not to. Who wants to look incompetent?

If Aviola and Mucia really had been murdered by strangers, knowing the contents of the will ought to be routine, simply covering all angles. On the other hand, if the slaves were implicated as the vigiles argued, anything Aviola had had to say about their disposal might be helpful. Which did he trust and value?

I would have liked to know this before my next move but decisions were urgent for Faustus. I was now ready to go over to the Aventine and visit the group in sanctuary.

Polycarpus seemed to think it one of his duties to attend these interviews. You guessed: I refused. I marched him back to the apartment, where instead I picked up Dromo.

‘Why’ve I got to haul myself all that way with you? You can report to Faustus yourself.’

‘Any more backchat. Dromo, and I’ll say he dumped a useless dropout on me, who needs to be reassigned as a dung-shoveller.’

‘Can’t I ask a simple question?’

‘Questions are my job. And if you don’t get a move on, I won’t have time to ask any at the Temple.’

I told him to bring his cudgel in case it was late when we came back. That went down badly. Dromo was afraid of being out in the dark.

I took it to mean my client Faustus rarely went to late-night parties. Intriguing!

My parents owned a few slaves, most of them pitiful purchases with two left feet and ten grades of insolence, so I knew what to expect. Walking with Dromo was tedious. He dragged along, he moaned about how far it was, and I had to keep stopping to make sure he was still there behind me.

Eventually we made it. Back in my home district I cheered up, and when I had a bowl of chickpea broth at a bar counter by the Circus Maximus, I fed Dromo too, which at least made him temporarily stop whingeing.

The Temple of Ceres is on a corner of the Aventine, not far above the corn-dole station. (Pay attention. Ceres is the grain goddess.) Hers is a mighty great shrine with ancient Greek styling, its interior containing three magnificent cult statues funded by fines raised by the aediles. As a centre of plebeian power, this big temple sends a message of defiance over to the aristocratic gods who live on the Capitol. It is presided over by an important Roman priest, the Flamen Cerialis, but it also has a group of female devotees.

Head of the cult was a very old priestess who had been brought to Rome specially from Neapolis because of Campania’s Greek connections. (The rites of Ceres are said to be Greek, though unlike most Romans I have been to Greece and I say that’s pigswill.) Cosying up to the priestess was a dreary bunch of stuck-up local matrons who carried out good works. One of these shrine-nuisances was a bugbear of mine. Just my luck: I ran into her.

An attendant had already told me that the slaves were now at the aediles’ office. To move them out of the religious areas, some dispensation had been arranged, no doubt by the sensible Manlius Faustus. I was heading off to his office when, too late, I ran into the bossiest of Ceres’ cult women. She was a skinny blonde madame who always looked at me as if I was something smelly she had picked up on her expensive sandal. This woman and her brother had inherited a fortune, and if she could have walked around with a placard saying how superior that made her, she would have done it.

‘Laia Gratiana!’ In a previous case of mine, this Laia had made herself thoroughly obnoxious. Neither of us had forgotten. One day I would be compelled to knock her down and jump on her. I could tell you it would be for her own good, but the truth is it would be for my personal pleasure.

‘What are you doing here?’

I explained my business quietly.

‘You had better get on with it then.’

‘Well, thanks for your permission, Laia. I shall do that!’

I left the temple, seething inwardly but trying not to look riled.

‘Cor,’ muttered Dromo, admiringly. ‘You really got up that one’s nose! What have you done to her?’

‘I have no idea.’ I knew perfectly.

‘I bet she’s jealous of you, being so sweet with my master.’ Dromo became excited, thinking he knew a secret. ‘I bet you don’t know who she is, Albia?’