The Ides of April (21 page)

V
iator’s widow was only a year younger than I was when I lost Farm Boy. Her bereavement echoed mine. Normally I see that coming, but this caught me out. Unexpectedly emotional, I strode from the room where I left the girl weeping.

Tiberius was waiting outside. I just summarised the facts, as tersely as possible. ‘She knows nothing new. She never even saw him when he came home. She heard the wailing begin, then they took her to his corpse. She had never seen anyone dead before. All she remembers is her terror. The event fits the pattern. That’s all.’

A new wave of feeling overcame me. ‘Her life is wrecked. She is little more than a child. I was that age when I lost my husband just as suddenly. I know what she still has to go through . . . Don’t speak to me. Don’t follow me. I’ve had enough of you!’

I cannot say what showed in my face, but the way I stormed off must have made a big impression. Tiberius let me go without a word of protest. After I decamped, he must have returned to the aediles’ office and ordered Andronicus straight out to find me.

I was not in the Eagle Building, nor at the Stargazer. Rodan must have suggested where else I might be lurking. I cannot imagine it was Tiberius who told Andronicus, although after the other night the runner did know I had another local haunt: I was sitting hunched in the Armilustrium, on one of the benches, with my stole wrapped tightly round me.

I had not cried, but my mood was so black it startled even me. I knew I should have been more controlled at the widow’s house. That made it worse.

‘Do I dare?’ Andronicus spoke softly, as he joined me. I managed not to be annoyed that he asked permission to join me, and did it so tentatively. First he perched on the bench end; then he shuffled closer and simply kept me company. He seemed to understand it was what I needed. Sometimes you run away by yourself purely so someone who cares will come to find you. Half the time nobody does. That’s the tragedy of life.

When, finally, I looked directly at him, those brown eyes were so sympathetic, I nearly did break down and weep. He pulled a wry face at me. He knew I could be a fury, but I could see it did not frighten him.

I wondered if he knew it was me who stabbed Tiberius through the hand.

After a time I murmured, ‘I appreciate your kindness. Will you be in trouble? Can they spare you from your work?’

‘I’m under orders. I dread to imagine what you must have done to Tiberius. He thinks he’s tough, but he looked properly scared.’

‘I was unprofessional. I let myself be upset, instead of staying neutral.’

‘Want to tell me?’

‘Thanks, but no. My stupidity is not your problem.’

‘You think?’ Andronicus gave me his wide-eyed, rueful look. ‘I have been grabbed by the scruff of the neck, marched out of the archive room, informed that Flavia Albia sees me in a friendly light and may not eat my liver and lights therefore – and so despatched to comfort you. Had I not moved like a startled flea, I would have his boot print on my tunic arse.’

I laughed slightly, thinking I would have liked to witness that little scene.

‘You seem to be spending a lot of time with him,’ muttered my friend, with that edge of complaint he sometimes showed.

‘Jealous?’

‘Absolutely!’

I shuddered. ‘Horrible thought. Don’t be bird-brained. It was work. He thought he could use my female skills. He will not repeat the experiment.’

‘He means to plunder your expertise, then steal the kudos,’ Andronicus warned me. ‘Everything with him is about how
he
appears.’

‘I see that.’

‘So did you help him?’

‘Not enough to be of any value.’

I sighed and relaxed, glad to be with someone I trusted. This was why I had been so badly affected earlier. The lonely young widow reminded me how I used to share my concerns with Farm Boy. Talking my cases through with Lentullus had clarified puzzles for me. He loved listening; I was like a storyteller for him. I had had nothing like that since, which was why I identified so closely with the isolation Viator’s widow felt.

Still, I had someone to confide in now. ‘It’s hopeless, Andronicus. We are trying to solve a series of seemingly unrelated deaths, where even the stricken victims themselves often don’t realise anything bad has happened.’ I paused. ‘Except perhaps one old woman. Celendina. She said my name; she may have been telling her son to involve me.’

‘Did she say anything else?’ asked Andronicus, drawing out the story to help me re-evaluate the evidence. I loved the thoughtful way he was listening.

‘I don’t think so. Even if she did, the son, the only person she spoke to, is unable to remember.’

‘What’s happened to him?’

‘Locked up by the vigiles?’

‘They think
he
killed her?’

‘Possibly. But he could not have killed the others. He never went out of the house.’

‘And otherwise you have no clue about who is doing this?’

I turned my head and gazed at him again. ‘No.’

‘You would never tell me anyway!’ Andronicus grinned.

‘That’s right,’ I agreed, smiling back because I was glad to acknowledge openly that sometimes I had to be discreet. Andronicus shrugged his shoulders. If there were any secrets between us, we were easy with that.

Instead, he begged me to say why I was so upset. Since it was personal, no case-constraints applied, so I chose to tell. I explained about the rush of memory I had when the soft, unformed features of Viator’s bereaved wife and the way she crumpled into tears made me remember my own youth. She had gone past the first stage, refusal to accept what happened, moving on into bewilderment. I knew all that. I knew her panic, finding herself so unexpectedly alone.

‘When it happened to me, I had tripped home innocently from buying garlands for a family event, to find people in the apartment waiting for me. They said there had been a street accident. Lentullus was dead. The next months were terrible – the complete isolation, however much other people sympathise. The fear of being unable to cope with life by yourself, after you have grown used to sharing everything.’ My good friend nodded, full of kindliness. It made me wonder what griefs, if any, he had known himself. Bereaved slaves are often not allowed to show their sorrow, but must continue their duties impassively. ‘Those simple things he would have done, Andronicus – because even a rich fellow must surely sometimes find his wife’s lost earring for her, or take a decision about calling in the carpenter, or settle on cold meats for lunch when she can’t choose. Julius Viator spent all day at the gym, but he must have been home for meals and bedtime, even if all he did was grunt when she spoke to him.’

When I finally stopped, shaken by so much revelation on a subject I never talked about, Andronicus asked in a subdued tone, ‘You think they had a good relationship?’

‘I know they did. It was obvious when I talked to her.’

‘She is young. She will marry again.’

‘She cannot imagine that now.’

Andronicus smiled. ‘And of course
you
did
not
remarry.’

‘I was a breakaway character. Viator’s widow comes from a very conventional family. She is conventional herself. Her parents will come up with some new husband, suggesting that will be a consolation. I suppose she will go along with it. She is soft dough. They will push her into it before she is ready, long before she has stabilised. She will believe that is the right thing for her to do.’

‘You seem more upset about this young woman who at least is still alive than about the dead man,’ Andronicus pointed out.

‘He is gone beyond the living world. He feels no pain.’

‘How did you know the widow is young?’ I asked abruptly, though in fact it stood to reason.

‘She came to our house when Viator had dinner with Tullius.’

‘Did she?’ Tiberius had not mentioned that detail. I supposed he called himself a man’s man. All he said was that he met Julius Viator. An accompanying wife was beneath his notice. ‘You saw her?’

‘Pretty thing, not exactly stupid, but out of her depth when the men got talking. I discovered her moping in the peristyle, all dressed up in her rich clothes and fancy jewellery, dabbling her fingers in a fountain, bored to tears. You know – the men discuss contracts interminably, she’s eyed up the pretty serving boys for long enough, she makes an excuse to use the facilities, then lingers in the garden for as long as she can.’

‘Oh I know that scene!’ I, too, had enjoyed a breath of cold night air in a scented colonnade, on occasions when I wanted to go home, but had to stay at some grim dinner for what passes as politeness. I would amuse myself thinking up hideous ways to cause other guests’ downfall – though in my assessment, Viator’s wife lacked that much imagination.

‘Luckily, along comes a handsome, debonair archivist to take pity and have a chat with her.’

It was my turn to be jealous, though I was better than him at hiding it. ‘You think such a lot of yourself, Andronicus! Did you meet Viator too? Tiberius says he didn’t care for him. What was your verdict?’

‘Thick neck, even thicker brain. Big thighs, big biceps, even bigger opinion of himself. A bully.’

‘What makes you say that? Did he bully her?’

‘No, I wouldn’t say that. But he roared out from the dining room to see what was keeping her.’

‘Was she frightened of him? That was not the impression she gave me.’

‘Your judgement is ever perfect,’ Andronicus flattered me. I basked in his admiration, all too easily perhaps. I was used to people who gave compliments more teasingly, and who shaded them with irony. ‘She was definitely not scared. She returned happily enough to the dining room with him. He slung his hairy arm around her shoulders, she slipped hers round his waist.’ I nodded, reassured. After a moment Andronicus added, ‘Faustus then sent for the flute-player to lighten the mood at the party. Viator and wifey did not stay late. He’d had a drink, he’d concluded some matters with Tullius. I expect he dragged her home for a good shagging.’

‘You can be very crude!’

‘I know these people,’ replied Andronicus. He made it plain he intended it as no compliment.

Not long afterwards, cold and stiffness convinced me it was time to move. Before Andronicus found me. I had worked through my rage and grief; talking to him had helped. I stood up – then quickly sat down again because I had spotted two pert ears above the boundary wall; Robigo, my favourite fox, was sitting there, as perhaps he had been for some time.

Andronicus noticed, and in his astute way, could tell I had a special interest. He too resumed his seat. We said nothing, while I waited to see what Robigo would do. I had put no food out for him, so felt surprised when he came down and rooted round; then there was no sign of movement for some time, yet I had not seen him leave. Eventually I walked over to the spot by the altar where I generally left scraps for him, and discovered the reason. A large animal trap had been positioned where I usually put his food bowl. Robigo was inside, going demented.

Squatting down nearby, I began to speak to him quietly. He froze against the far side of the trap. Andronicus came up behind me to see what was happening. He dropped to his haunches alongside. ‘They are catching foxes for the Cerialia.’

‘Well they are not having this one!’

Although he worked for the aediles, so closely connected with the Temple of Ceres, my friend was sufficiently maverick in his attitude to authority for me not to fear betrayal.

Speaking in a low voice to keep the trapped fox quiet, I told Andronicus about my hatred of the ritual with the burning torches, and my regular feeding of the animals here. ‘Someone must have known! They have played on his trust of me. It’s my fault.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Release him, of course. I need to calm him down first. They can give you a bad bite.’

I stood and walked to the trap, still murmuring to Robigo. He now trembled violently, rolling the whites of his eyes at my approach. He jerked once, but did not run up and down in his prison as he had been doing before I found him. His beautiful coat was wet with frothy saliva; there was blood on his muzzle. He must have tried to bite his way free.

The trap was a long box-shaped wire cage. It looked old and rusty; they must use the same ones, year after year. They put raw meat in one end. When Robigo entered, which he had probably done only after much wary investigation, he stepped on a flap which sprang the door behind him. I had to pull a wire so the door could be drawn up again. I needed to stand to one side and back from the entrance, leaving his escape route clear.

When I ordered Andronicus to stay out of the way, he said, ‘Do you want me to do it?’

‘No need.’

‘I deduce you have played with animal traps before?’

‘I’ll never admit that!’

This year and previously, yes, I had done it. I would wander the Aventine searching for the traps, and I set free as many captured animals as possible. If I found any traps empty, I left them with their doors safely shut.

‘Their ritual is wicked. I do everything I can to stop them.’

‘They don’t just trap creatures locally,’ Andronicus told me. He would be familiar with the arrangements. ‘A grisly old yokel, who sweats and stinks of pigsties, comes in from the Campagna in April, bringing a cartload.’

‘I know. It happens every year. They pay him a bounty for every live fox he supplies. If I can find out where they keep those, I will release them too.’

‘You mean it!’ marvelled Andronicus.

‘I trust you over this,’ I warned.

I did not ask him to help. That would have been a step too far. But he said of his own accord that he would see if he could find out where the Campagna foxes were being closeted by the aediles. They must be in Rome by now.

I had worked up the flap in Robigo’s cage, and could open the door. The dog-fox watched what I was doing, soundlessly. As soon as he knew the way out was free, he streaked through the opening and fled, tail streaming behind him. As always when I set free a trapped animal, I felt the same rush of panic he must have, but then happy relief.