The Ides of April (32 page)

When I was sure he had gone, I emerged from the shadows. In the entrance lobby, after I walked down, a couple of crude oil lamps at floor level shed a sickly glow in feeble patches. It was enough for me to make out Rodan as he stood, looking out through the grille, ox-like but flabby in his ragged one-armed tunic. He heard me and turned, showing no surprise.

We exchanged a long look.

‘Thank you, Rodan. Do not let him in,’ I said quietly. ‘If ever he comes looking for me, say I am not here. Make any excuse.’

Rodan said nothing; he just nodded.

I went back to my rooms. I made sure all the doors were barred. I was not frightened exactly, yet my heart was hammering.

It might be a difficult task to free myself from this situation safely. But I would have to do it.

N
ext morning I wanted to be out of the house, somewhere people could not find me.

I went to the baths, partly to do yet more thinking. That never works. Physically and mentally I was so drained by yesterday, my mind just drifted.

Out of it did come two benefits. One, I was clean. An informer should start a hard day feeling neat. Two, I revived enough to decide on action. I dispensed with the interminable circles of speculation about the killing of Ino, Venusia’s position, the crazy connections to the aedile and his long-ago adultery. Instead, I would use the informing trick that rarely fails: go back and re-check every event where questions still remained.

I went first to see Cassiana Clara. She could clear up immediately Andronicus’ claim that the aedile had tried to assault her. But Fate was against me. She was not at home. I learned she had gone out of Rome (another fugitive?). Clara had not taken refuge in a shrine, but was staying at an estate belonging to her future second husband, at the seaside, way south in Campania.

I could only wonder whether this was to allow her to get to know her fiancé, or if it had some darker explanation. It was definitely too far for me to travel, and I felt the location could have been chosen for that reason. Nobody at the house would tell me more. I was refused admittance to ask questions of her parents. I could only curse the door porter, a bland functionary who hooked thumbs in his belt in a way that said he was used to being cursed and wouldn’t give a fig for it, even if figs had been in season.

I had more success with my next attempt. I looped back over the Hill, using up more shoe leather as I made my way to the Fourth Cohort’s station house; luckily I had made it a day for sensible shoes. I wanted to plead with the vigiles to let me interview Celendina’s son, Kylo. That was assuming he had not been put before a magistrate and sent to an appalling death for matricide.

They still had him. In fact, it looked as if any case against him for killing his mother had been allowed to drop quietly. Hard men have to have a break from being bullies. Kylo was the latest fledgling sparrow who had tumbled into the exercise yard. He had been absorbed into the vigiles. They laughed at him, but they fed him, housed him, let him hang around on the fringes when groups were lolling in the yard. He even went out to bars with them.

If they could slim him down and make him mobile, he might even become a firefighter, though that was a long way off. Meanwhile, the men were using Kylo as a trusty, guarding the bare cells where they locked up temporary prisoners. The large young man looked more threatening than he probably was, and he devoted himself to the task solemnly. He was well able to subdue drunks and hush indignant arsonists. If the vigiles chose to foster him, it was his best chance. So long as no interfering official who needed something to do raised the issue, Kylo now had a job for life here. In a crude way, the vigiles were his replacement family.

They didn’t care if I interviewed him. We sat on the ground together in the inner courtyard. One of the vigiles oversaw the interview, squatting on an upturned bucket, taking no notice, picking his nose. Morellus sauntered up, however; he propped himself against a pillar and pretended to be whittling a stick. Anything I learned, he was determined to know too.

Kylo’s treatment here had transformed him from the terrified prisoner I saw first. The young man had settled and was more confident among people.

I spoke very gently. ‘Kylo, you do remember your mother, don’t you?’ He nodded. A slight frown of perturbation creased his forehead, nothing serious. ‘Do you think about her?’ He dribbled a bit, but wiped it on his arm. ‘She would like to think you do. You must miss her badly. I met her, you know. We had a lovely chat at somebody’s funeral. I thought she was a wonderful lady.’

Kylo was looking uncomfortable but, so far, he understood he ought to talk to me, and not scarper. I carried on, keeping my voice low.

‘You know who I am, don’t you? I am called Flavia Albia.’ He stared at the ground. ‘You saw me once before, Kylo; I came and talked to you. And your new friends here in the vigiles all know me and are friends with me too. But we had never met at the time your mother died, had we? So when something happened to her, I am wondering why you said my name to people?’

Kylo suddenly looked straight in my direction. ‘Do you live here?’ It seemed he could talk, and perfectly well, when he wanted to. I had no difficulty understanding him.

‘No, Kylo, I have my own place. Why?’

‘I was supposed to fetch you.’

‘When your mother was poorly?’

‘She lay down. She said, “I’m feeling funny, Kylo. Kylo, fetch Flavia Albia” – but I didn’t know where I had to go.’

‘Kylo, this is important. Did your mother say why she wanted me?’ He looked confused. ‘Kylo, had she mentioned meeting me that afternoon?’

He pondered. I waited quietly. ‘She always told me about where she had been out. She told it like a story.’

‘So what was this story, Kylo? Can you remember?’

‘Oh I like stories. I always remember them.’

‘I like stories too. Will you tell me this one?’

He seemed wary to begin with, but my smiling stillness reassured him. Kylo sat up and in a rather formal manner related what happened, as if he was a street-corner entertainer reciting folk tales for money in the hat. He made little gestures to indicate new speakers and even altered his voice accordingly. ‘She said, “I met that investigator. Nice little thing. Better than I expected.”’ On the sidelines, I heard Morellus snort at that. Kylo glared at him as if he was a naughty child disturbing the class. ‘I answered, “Oh, that is interesting, Mother.” Then she told me, “When I was leaving, some man was waiting on the road by the tombs. He asked me, ‘Did you see Flavia Albia at the Salvidia funeral?’, but I didn’t like him so I told him to get lost. He really put my back up, Kylo, I really told him!” That,’ said Kylo, ‘is the whole story my mother told me that day.’

I tried not to feel shocked by the connection to me. ‘I bet when your mother decided she didn’t like someone, she could really let rip!’

Kylo and I laughed, thinking about it.

‘And Kylo, one last thing. When your mother started feeling funny, did she tell you she thought someone had done something to her?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Who did she say, Kylo?’

‘Am I supposed to tell you?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘She said, “It must have been him, the nasty little bugger. He jabbed me. The one who asked me if I had seen Albia.” Was it that man?’ asked Kylo.

‘Yes. I’m afraid it most likely was, Kylo. But don’t worry. We are going to catch him and punish him.’

‘The nasty little bugger!’ Kylo roared at the top of his voice, making us all jump.

‘The nasty little bugger,’ I agreed, much more quietly.

Morellus bestirred himself and walked me to the gate. ‘Worried?’

‘Not me.’

‘Don’t be brave, this is serious, Albia. He wanted you. Celendina may have saved your life that day.’

‘At the price of her own.’

‘So yes, it’s serious. You must know him. Why would some perverted bastard want to find you, Albia?’

‘I don’t know.’ I had an idea. ‘Well, look after the son carefully, Morellus.’

‘If we put him behind bars, I’d be afraid you would sneak along and set him free.’

‘Have your little dig!’

‘You would do it.’

‘Oh, I would.’

We stood for a moment, both thinking about other things.

This did not provide identification. Kylo himself had not seen the man. But this showed motivation. A psychopathic killer asked a simple question – ‘Did you see Albia there?’ Celendina disliked his manner. Alone, on a road outside a necropolis at dusk, her first reaction might well have been alarm. Maybe he was too persistent, with a madman’s arrogance and urgency. She snapped. So he was rebuffed with a tart answer by a tired old woman, anxious about the son she had left alone.

‘Celendina took a shine to you, Albia. She tried to protect you.’

‘I thank her for that. But I would not have wanted her to suffer for it. Morellus, do you think he followed her home?’

‘Could be. Judging by the other cases, if he stabbed her by the tombs, she would never have made it back before the poison overcame her.’

‘Then someone in the neighbourhood may have seen him.’

‘Jupiter! . . .I’ll have a go,’ Morellus grumbled. ‘Seeing as it’s you. I don’t know how you persuade me into things. But I will send a couple of lads to the street, to knock on doors and ask.’

I said thank you. I even said it nicely.

‘Morellus, another thing. I tried to see that girl whose husband was one of the victims. She’s out of town, for some reason, possibly significant. You may be able to clear up my query – you have met Manlius Faustus?’ Morellus nodded. He made no comment, yet the look he gave me was distinctly odd. ‘Is he a satyr? Does he prey on women?’

‘
Faustus?
’

‘Are you deaf or just annoying? Does he?’

‘No.’

‘Is that all?’

Morellus said heavily, ‘Manlius Faustus, plebeian aedile, does not grope, grab, fondle, squeeze, tickle up or insert his sanctified diddly-do into women.’

‘He likes boys then?’ I punched back.

‘I doubt it. I doubt it very much. He’s normal. But he likes to keep to himself,’ said Morellus. ‘What a wise man!’

I was intending to leave then, but still lingered.

Morellus gave me the sceptical eye again. I sighed in response. We understood one another. He was so slow he made a snail look reckless, yet after half a day to consider a point, he possessed modest powers of reasoning. ‘What?’

‘Morellus, I think I have made an appalling mistake.’

‘Looking at your face, I’m getting a horrible inkling . . . Jupiter,’ he said again, as I watched him working out what I meant. ‘I think I’m going to wet myself – you know who it is.’ A statement, not a question. He had realised too.

‘I don’t know what to do, Morellus. I have no proof, just that sick feeling when you see the answer. The answer that has been crying out to you all along.’

‘Oh that answer and I are old bloody friends! Come back in,’ ordered Morellus. He had roused himself as much as he ever bothered. I won’t say he had livened up, but his gaze held a dim gleam of interest. ‘You know who you need to talk to. You can use my office. I’m going off-shift.’ Nothing interfered with that. The vigiles’ main shift worked all through the night and were desperate to go home by morning. Apart from the fact Morellus had a wife, three children and that rusty-coloured puppy who would all want to climb all over him, the man was dead beat. ‘I pass his house. I’ll tell him.’

‘He might not be there.’

‘He will. They’ve all been up until midnight, watching those plays. The black god of the underworld bursting onstage in his thundering chariot and snatching the pretty virgin while she gathers flowers. Who would miss that? All the audience is on the edge of their seats, hoping for a real rape of a real virgin. Real snorting horses. Real screams. Real blood. The finest Roman theatre.’

‘As far as I know, you animal, even in the name of culture, they don’t show live deflowerings of maidens during solemn religious drama.’

Morellus chucked me under the chin. ‘Hot stuff, this year’s Cerialia. I heard that wide boy Faustus wants to popularise it, show something scandalous to bring in a new audience . . . Wait in my room. There’s a nice map you can look at, so you don’t need to read any confidential scrolls. If you play with my stylus, don’t break the point or I’ll stop your dress allowance.’

I knew what the dozy article was doing there. Lightening the atmosphere, in his heavy-handed way. Telling me I would be safe here while I waited.

I watched him buzz off down the street, and by his standards, he was on the verge of running.

W
hen Tiberius strode into the enquiry office, he had dropped the pristine white flash of the other evening in favour of a street-style tunic that looked as if he’d filched it from a bathhouse manger while road-making slaves were cleaning themselves up. What made me really stare was that he had had all his facial hair scraped off. He looked almost unrecognisable.

The smartened vision took a seat, on the other side of Morellus’ wooden table from me. I had been sitting alone for much less time than I expected. Although as he arrived he gave no sign of haste, once Morellus spoke to him about me Tiberius must have covered ground fast. I was unexpectedly grateful.

I gave him a survey. Barbering had revealed a good face, one that would stand daily familiarity. Neither too plain, nor too handsome to be trusted. With a few forgivable tweaks, a sculptor could make it noble. Straight nose, firm mouth, strong jaw, astute expression, those watchful grey eyes I already knew. The tanned skin of the Roman working class, who spend most of their day out-of-doors.

He endured my examination, though coloured modestly. That was good. Today I needed to like him, or at least not actively dislike him.

‘You shave up well.’

Typically, he ignored my compliment. ‘I have been looking for you.’ He leaned forwards on his elbows, resting his chin on his hands. ‘Things to discuss.’

‘Me too.’ I acknowledged that we would now work in partnership again after our recent tiff. ‘I went to Aricia.’