The Ides of April (40 page)

We all loved that balcony. I cannot say how many warm evenings it had seen, with members of my family out there in ones, twos or threes for general pleasure or for solace in hard times. I had always adored it. Tempted, I stepped out.

It felt solid enough. True, where it was cantilevered off the side of the building, there were large cracks, enough to have perturbed Father and Uncle Lucius. Oh, but what a glorious amenity, if it was ever safely renovated. I had really missed having it.

This was, as it had always been, the best feature of the Eagle Building. The two dismal rooms tucked up under the roof were almost made desirable by its presence. You could see for miles. The view was fabulous. I gazed once again over the red pantiled rooftops. By some quirk of planning, you could look through a wide gap in the teeming buildings and see right across the River Tiber to the countryside beyond. You could hear the distant hum of life in Rome, catch its exotic miscellany of scents, feel that you were part of a great city and yet isolated in your private place. The sun on my face was marvellous.

I ventured across to the balustrade and looked down. The alley was full of men. One, seeing me appear high above him, began wildly gesticulating, throwing both his arms wide in an urgent movement. Others began looking up, pointing and shouting. Their words were inaudible.

Suddenly I understood. I was unwittingly embroiled in a stupid male plan.

I had to remove myself. Everything was unsafe. I was jeopardising the outcome. Those fools, Morellus and Tiberius, should have told me. Even if they had, though, I would
probably have come up to look; I knew myself and my independence. It was too late now. We were all stuck.

As soon as I set foot back on the threshold of the folding door, a glance at the ropes told me. Each had been severed with single blow, presumably from a fire-axe.

I ought not be here. When Tiberius brought me back to Fountain Court, his motive was deliberate and I should have followed his first instructions, ignoring that exaggerated afterthought about the office. I was supposed to have stayed well out of the way.

Andronicus had been set up. I had been used to do it.

I
heard approaching footsteps. I was trapped. I had put myself in jeopardy; it had gone wrong.

Judging the sounds, the man was only one or two floors below now, heading up fast. The apartments on the intervening floors were unoccupied, all locked up. I had nowhere else to go.

I had no weapons. I am not a fighter.

I took the only evasive action. Quickly I slipped into the second room, my archive with the leaky roof, and hid behind its curtain. I was thinking fast. If he came in and didn’t see me here, I had one chance. If I could get out past him, escape behind him, I might manage to be first downstairs. But he had nothing to lose and was light on his feet. The risk that he would catch me and stab me on the steps was too great.

I stood quite still. I heard him arrive outside. He stopped in the open doorway. He must be staring in from the landing.

He moved. His steps passed through the office, taking him to the folding door.

Now he would know I was not on the balcony. I had an instant to act. I slipped out through the curtain and straight across the room. I saw him; pushed him with both hands on the middle of his back; shoved him forwards hard. Surprise gave me time. Desperation gave me strength. I dragged the door closed, me indoors, him outside.

This could only end in disaster. He was trying to force the door leaf open, I was frantically holding on to keep it fastened. He was slim built, but it was a man against a woman and he was now openly violent. The door was a rackety bifold with battered panels, scene of much past mistreatment and even occasional violence. For years, people in drink had habitually crashed into it. Only the awkwardness of that dilapidated woodwork, which had always jammed and refused to operate properly, helped me.

I heard him say something to me. I saw him through the lattice, stepping back against the balustrade. He was about to hurl himself against the door, which would inevitably burst inwards. I jammed myself in the frame, full weight pushing on the door handle. It felt hopeless.

Shouts below. Someone was coming. He would not have time to reach us.

Andronicus was shouting too. He took his planned run at the door. I still managed somehow to keep it closed. He was so frustrated, he jumped right in the air and stamped down with both feet. At his next attempt, I could no longer hold the door, and he dragged it partway open. He was looking straight at me, when we heard a tremendous cracking noise. Vibrations ran through the soles of my sandals. A shudder rippled in the outer wall. He did not understand. I hope he never knew what was happening, though he must have done. I know he screamed. Any time I think about that moment, I can still hear him.

The old balcony split off from the building. The deadweight amphorae and our struggle were too much for the weakened supports. The ancient construction came away from the masonry and fell six storeys. Andronicus was taken with it.

A
cloud of mortar dust bellied into the room and enveloped me. I swayed off-balance above empty space. As I toppled, strong arms crushed me. Tiberius hauled me to safety. One of us sobbed with shock; it may even have been him.

We heard terrible noises as the balcony landed with its tumbling cargo. Cries sounded in the alley far below. Then silence.

The runner turned me around for inspection. He apologised. I apologised. He meant for not telling me the plan and I meant for not understanding him. That was done. Neither of us would refer to it again.

He told me he had to go downstairs. I understood why. I was to follow as soon as I could. He left me. After his urgent steps faded, I could not bear it there alone and though still feeling fragile, I went down after him.

In Fountain Court there was a mound of rubble, but nothing terrible to see. The vigiles had covered the body. Somehow, no one else was hurt. Tiberius came up quickly and confirmed it was over; that was considerate.

I was taken to my father’s house, where I spent the night and all the next day. Even after the office was made safe again, it would be some time before I wanted to go back, maybe never. Even my apartment held memories. I needed to adjust before I could be comfortable there.

It was the end of the Cerialia, so that night there was a big chariot race in the Circus. It would be the last event in the Games that the aedile had to supervise. He sent my family tickets, but none of us went. I stayed quietly at the town house until after lunch the following day. Everyone was going to our villa on the coast and taking me with them.

There were things I needed from my apartment. I walked back alone early that afternoon, slowly taking the Stairs of Cassius. First, I went to the vigiles station house, where I learned that Morellus had been stricken, but somehow survived. He was at home, and since they said he was slowly rallying, I left good wishes and did not bother his wife, Pullia. Seeking quietness, I made my way to the empty enclosure of the Armilustrium. I seated myself on my usual bench, where I stayed for a long while, reflecting.

I was still there, and beginning to dislike my solitude, when I heard someone approaching. I did not look up. A lone woman should avoid eye-contact with strangers. Not that this was a stranger. I knew the man. I recognised his tread. I knew exactly who he was, even though I had never seen him before resplendent in full Roman whites, complete with broad purple status bands on his luxuriant toga. He looked good. Very good. He could carry robes with confidence. As usual he had no bodyguards, but he needed none. By virtue of his high office, his person was sacrosanct.

Even before I looked, I knew he would have grey eyes and where he supported the toga’s heavy folds on his casually bent left arm, that hand was now permanently scarred. This was, as I expected, Tiberius Manlius Faustus, the plebeian aedile.

A
corner of his mouth tightened. ‘You realised.’

‘You knew I did.’

‘Sorry about the secrecy. I like to see things for myself.’

‘All the fun of disguise – scruff, stubble, and best of all, low street manners; you can be rude to
everyone
.’ I played it cool. ‘Luckily I understand, aedile. Our family motto is: If you want something done, there are people you give orders to. If you want it done well, you must do it yourself.’ I could hear my mother saying it; my father worked that way. Helena herself too.

‘You follow family tradition.’

‘I am my own woman.’

Faustus, as I must learn to call him, sounded almost admiring, though being him, not quite: ‘Oh Albiola, you are that!’

Albiola?

My relatives never used diminutives. Even Farm Boy, who as my husband had the right to be sentimental, called me nothing more personal than ‘chick’, which was the same as he called any donkey he was driving, and even a mouse he once had to entice out of our apartment. From the aedile I had no idea how to take it. He saw that and smiled faintly. For a heartbeat I was going to slap him down, but I left it. He had had enough of that from the ex-wife.

Now I understood why he kissed Laia so pointedly the other day. The formal salutation was his right as her ex-husband. He was asserting that she no longer cowed him. He had been penitent for ten years, but was finally finished with guilt.

I moved up, so the aedile sat down with me.

‘What do you want, Faustus?’

‘I was worried about you. I thought you might need comfort.’ I started to deny it, but he cut me off. ‘The truth is, I am tired and depressed myself. I hate what happened. Maybe I thought if I showed up,
you
might console
me.
’

I laughed. He endured it. He was tough but tolerant. I liked this man.

So we sat together side by side, slumped and silent for a long while. He was famous for not speaking. I never chatter. I sensed that in his disguise as the runner he had learned to talk to me more than he ever talked to most people; for my part, I had felt able to be open with him. Yet he and I could communicate without words. Together we abandoned the struggle to remain unmoved in the face of appalling events. Silently, we faced our sad mood, our weariness, even our depression and regret for mistakes. Every time a major investigation ends, there is a period of melancholy. This time that poignancy was personal. At least we were sharing it.

I relayed the news about Morellus. Faustus told me he had been to a follow-up meeting after the festival, receiving congratulations for his contribution. He was modest, but I already knew this year’s Cerialia was accounted a grand success. It would do well for him, though I did now accept he had sought no personal advancement, but acted as a devout man. Even so, he would, I thought, accept any benefits that ensued. I did not believe all his protestations that he lacked ambition. He wanted, he had told me,
to live happily and die with greater hope.

For him, seeking the needle-killers would not end here. Many random deaths had occurred in Rome and the authorities would continue searching; Faustus was now seen as an expert, even though he did not relish the reputation. He offered me a commission to assist but, as he clearly expected, I declined. Too close to home.

Then Faustus fumbled under his toga and came out with something from his belt pouch. He dropped a packet in my lap. ‘The state wants to reward you, but who knows when or with how much . . . This is from me.’ While I investigated, he looked away.

He had bought me a set of sewing needles, well-made bronze that would not rust, with grooved eyes, in several sizes from tenting to fine embroidery. I thanked him, though I was mournful. Now I had to face it; my time with him as the runner had ended. An aedile was different. One of the top hundred. This was goodbye.

‘Dutiful needlework, Albia. Keep you indoors out of trouble, busy in your household.’ I was surprised, both by the aptly chosen gift and the joke.

Suddenly his hand fell onto mine to grab my attention. Beyond the altar to Mars at the centre of the Armilustrium, above the enclosure wall, Manlius Faustus had spotted a pair of pointed ears. I breathed with delight and relief. It was my favourite dog-fox, Robigo.

I had left scraps, never hoping any fox would come. Now Robigo sat up there, watchful but relaxed. Almost as soon as I saw him, he decided to slip down the wall. We stayed quiet and observed: those busy paws brought him to what I had left to be eaten, his nose low. He was close enough for us to see his amber eyes, white muzzle, whiskers, black-tipped tail. He ate, then unusually sat there, looking casual. He yawned. He engaged in rapid scratching of the fur behind one of his black ears.

All the time, I felt Faustus’ hand, heavily on mine as if he had forgotten it was there. Only when Robigo had silently streaked away did he release me.

The time had come to go. When I stood to leave, rather abruptly, Faustus screwed himself upright and steadied my elbow. That last afternoon, I was reluctant to break from his company. I wanted to take him to my apartment. Today, he was one man I would welcome there. Was it because he carried the aura of power? Or simply because his maturity and steadiness appealed to me?

My instinct said he wanted to come with me. It would be for inevitable reasons. I wanted to go to bed with him, to make spine-cracking, shout-aloud love so we obliterated recent pain and memory. He wanted consolation too; he had said so. It could be a once-only. We were strong people.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, rather intensely.

‘Not really.’

I said he could see me back to Fountain Court, if he was desperate to be useful. ‘Nuts, olives – a little afternoon delight?’

We were standing close. I liked the faint smell of him. Close to, it was a lotion so light it could almost be the natural scent of clean skin.

He dropped his forehead lightly onto mine. ‘Don’t tempt me!’

Why not?

I knew some reasons. His history said he could be passionate, but the past had made him wary. He was rich, occupying an élite position; he needed an unsullied image. I was on a vigiles’ watch-list. No aedile with ambitions could afford the risk.