The Ides of April (6 page)

This haven of mine had always been the best apartment in the block. It was small, just three good rooms, one with a firebox which I used for heating drinks, though I rarely cooked properly because for one thing I had never learned, and anyway I did not want the place to end up full of smoke. I had equipped it over the years with quite fine and comfortable furnishings thanks to my family’s trade in antiques. When I came home after any trying day, it gave me peace, refreshment for the soul and solace. It was my place of happy memories.

I went in, fastened the door behind me, threw off my clothes and fell on the bed to sleep. Very few people would know where I was. Only nightmares would ever trouble me, and that night thankfully there were none.

N
ext morning I was upstairs in my office bright and early. My heart felt a small patter of excitement. I did the silly things that fill in time, like emptying the rubbish bucket, tidying the letters you cannot be bothered to answer, and playing dice solitaire.

I heard Rodan and the visitor coming. From several floors down, Rodan was grumbling breathlessly and giving the impression he was likely to pass out. If ever he brought up some undesirable who turned out to need manhandling, I would have to do the heavy work. I would have to expel the troublemaker myself then climb back up and tow the wheezing Rodan down.

Luckily this visitor was friendly. Like everyone, he had failed to pace his climb upstairs so I heard him exclaim with relief as he reached the top level. There he would have passed an ancient collection of empty amphorae, before arriving at the battered door. I whipped it open. My heart bumped at the slim figure and eager expression of the charmer I met yesterday.

Andronicus was still looking at the indicator tile, with its mystic crescent moon. People around here thought I was a Druid. They were stupid, but I let them. Clients admire an exotic background.

‘Andronicus! What a surprise – thanks, Rodan – you can go now . . .’ I shoved Rodan out as fast as possible, while the archivist stood in the doorway and stared around my outer room.

I had made it a very different boudoir from the crude masculine den I inherited. You can do so much with soft furnishings. An informer should not interview people in a bare hole like some bar’s back room where the pimps and gamblers congregate. Well, not unless all your clients are gamblers and pimps. That can happen. Ours is a low trade.

The tiny space was now arranged for cosy discussions. I had my own high-backed chair, a basketwork throne which showed clearly who would be in charge. A couch where
agitated clients could slump and pour their hearts out had a colourful spread, with loose cushions they could hug nervously as they told their tales. There was a small round wooden table with an inlaid top, on which refreshments could be served, once we had agreed those important little details about my payment. On a shelf stood carefully chosen pieces of Greek art. Loans from the auction house, these were regularly rotated. Art always implies taste and trust. Art
suggests you may have received these lovely things as gifts from previous clients, who had cause to be very grateful. It is much more subtle than nailing up written commendations, which people always imagine are fakes you wrote yourself.

Art, if sufficiently solid, can also be used to thump the heads of any crass men who molest you.

‘How good to see you.’ I took my seat and indicated the couch for him. ‘Somebody called last night when I was unavailable . . .’

‘Not me.’ I thought Andronicus wanted to hide how keen he was. ‘Where were you then?’

He had a slight frown between those wide-set, almost over-intense eyes. I felt too cheerful to worry. It was just
conversation anyway. ‘With family.’

‘No lover?’ This man took the direct approach. He gave me a twinkle to show he knew it was an impudent thing to ask.

Long practised, I parried with humour. ‘Oh, the one with the yacht is out of town, detained for customs infringements last I heard, and they reckon he won’t get away with it this time. The actor let me down as well; he was getting all frothed up with a group of rich old widows. He’s given himself a hernia, lifting the contents of their jewel caskets . . .’

‘You read a lot of satirical poetry?’

‘No, I write my own lines.’

I had no lover at the moment. I had had no one for a long time, but a girl should never sound too available. Not on a first tryst. I had my self-respect.

Andronicus abandoned the grilling. Opposite me, he settled in a relaxed pose, one arm along the couch’s backrest. I liked the way he had made himself at home. We assessed one another, both pretending not to. I still found him delightful.

‘Sorry,’ he said, reading my mind. ‘Of course you ask the questions here!’

I kept it light. ‘Indeed I do. I would not want to waste my carefully learned interrogation skills . . . What brings you?’

‘She goes straight to the point!’ He leaned forward earnestly. ‘There has been a development. I wanted to be first to tell you.’

‘You care! I’m thrilled . . . So what’s the news?’

‘Salvidia is dead. Someone from her family − a nephew − came to inform Faustus yesterday evening.’

I chose not to enlighten my new friend that I knew of the woman’s death already, nor did I correct him on the real status of Metellus Nepos. I liked Andronicus, but did not know him well enough − yet − to break my rules. Say nothing that you need not say.

‘That’s shocking, Andronicus. She was hardly old. What happened?’

‘Just reached the end of her thread, apparently. Must be annoying for you to lose a client. That’s why I thought you would like to know – no point wasting any more of your time on her.’

‘Yes, thank you.’ I thought he could not have been present when Nepos and Manlius Faustus were talking. The Nepos I met would undoubtedly have mentioned to a magistrate his nagging doubts about how his stepmother died. I wondered how Faustus had reacted. Tried to put him off?

‘This “nephew” came to the aedile’s house? How did you come to be there?’

‘I live there.’ He had been a slave there, presumably. You can deduce a lot from what family freedmen prefer not to tell you. Some are brazen about their origins; well, slavery is not their fault. Yet I could tell Andronicus was quite sensitive. He was never going to say the words ‘slave’ or ‘freedman’ in connection with himself. ‘It is his uncle’s house; on and off, Faustus has lived with his uncle since boyhood.’

‘He is not married?’

‘Divorced.’

‘A parting for mutual convenience, or was he caught out with a kitchen maid?’

‘There were rumours . . . He left his wife rather quickly, and had to surrender the dowry. I’ve never been able to squeeze out of him anything to explain what happened; there’s a conspiracy of silence in the family.’

‘Read his diary?’

‘Bastard doesn’t write one.’

‘The man’s a disgrace – tell him he has responsibilities to clarify matters for his caring household!’

‘Well, if he strayed from the marriage, he behaves like a sanctimonious prig now,’ Andronicus grumbled.

‘No mistress then?’

‘Never even fingers the girl who makes his bed.’

‘So she thinks he has lovely manners – but she’d rather he tried it, so she would get a big Saturnalia present! And the uncle?’

‘Oh a different mullet entirely. Tullius is a bit too randy in his habits to be tied down to marriage. You know the type − jumps any slave of any age, male or female; has even been known to stand up after the appetisers, leave the room with a serving boy, hump the lad in the anteroom and saunter back for the main course as if nothing has happened, taking up the conversation where he left off . . . Flavia Albia, you do rack the questions up. I am impressed!’

‘Just habit. I apologise.’

‘Oh I don’t care if you want the scandal on Faustus . . .’

‘You haven’t told me any scandal about Faustus,’ I corrected him.

‘No, he’s a cold fish.’

‘If I ever have to meet him, I would like to be primed with some salacious background!’ I had now confirmed that Andronicus really disliked Manlius Faustus. His manner with me generally was so open that I could tell he was being reticent about his poor relationship with the aedile. Of course, that aroused my interest, though I let it pass, temporarily. Andronicus thought me direct, but I could be very patient. ‘So, Andronicus – last night?’

‘Faustus had this visitor – people sometimes bother him on business after dinner.’

‘He is good about it? Doesn’t mind being cornered at home, when he’s relaxing?’

‘I’ve never known him relax! He takes a pious attitude to “duty”. He loves to suffer. And I expect he was curious.’

‘Whereas you didn’t care at all what Salvidia’s nephew wanted?’ I teased.

Andronicus raised his eyebrows so his forehead wrinkled, looking fake-innocent. ‘When Faustus gets up and abandons a nutmeg custard for a mystery caller, I do tend to follow and put my ear to the door.’

‘You need to know what he’s up to?’

‘I like to keep a kindly eye on him.’

In some homes, freedmen take that much interest for dubious reasons, hopeful of causing friction between family members, planning blackmail even. Luckily the good-natured way Andronicus joked about it would have reassured even Faustus.

He suddenly became more serious. ‘I did have an interest, Albia. The fact is, I myself had had a grisly run-in with that awful woman. I can hardly bear to remember it. Salvidia came to see Faustus, but he was out of the office. I had to deal with her. She was furious about the wall poster, the one asking for witnesses to the child’s death. She laid into me something terrible. Left me shaking.’

‘Oh poor you!’

‘As if it was my fault!’ Andronicus still seemed upset. Having met Salvidia, I could imagine why. ‘She was a pest. Her arrogance was simply unacceptable. I thought she was going to attack me physically.’

‘I expect she was afraid there would be consequences after the accident.’ Manlius Faustus could come down heavily on her building firm, to punish them for negligence. Overloading carts and having drunken drivers were areas of interest for aediles. ‘Had you told Faustus about how she confronted you? Was he sympathetic?’

‘According to him, my job is always to be helpful to members of the public.’

‘He doesn’t know much about the public.’

‘Albia, how true! When her nephew arrived to speak to him, Faustus ordered me to sit tight. I wasn’t having that. He went to speak to the visitor; I sneakily followed him.’

‘You thought there was some trouble arising from your altercation? Why would a relative feel he ought to inform a magistrate Salvidia had died, Andronicus?’

‘No idea.’ The archivist shrugged.

‘Maybe,’ I suggested disingenuously, ‘he is prepared to pay the compensation that has been demanded for little Lucius Bassus. So he thinks the poster calling for witnesses should be taken down now? Hush things up? If he means to carry on the construction business, being named as an organisation that has killed a child besmirches its reputation. And if he wants to sell up, he has even more need to hide what happened so he can ask a good price for a going concern.’

‘I can think of another motive for him paying the compensation. He wants to prevent the company being fined for negligence,’ retorted Andronicus.

‘That’s possible.’ Since Nepos was my client, I felt obliged to keep my tone neutral.

‘Oh you have such a trusting nature!’ smiled my companion, unaware that I had simply preferred not to sound too clever. He composed compliments like many men: clichés I found embarrassing. ‘So where does that leave you regarding Salvidia? You can stop working on her case now?’

What a generous friend. He seemed so keen to spare me unnecessary labour. ‘If the compensation is paid, I am redundant. Unluckily for me, Salvidia had tied me to a no win, no fee contract.’

Andronicus cocked his head on one side. ‘Upset?’

‘No. A child was killed. I never liked the case.’

The archivist rose to his feet, looking pleased with my answer. ‘So! Since that vile termagant is out of the way and your work is over,’ he offered, ‘maybe you might come out and have lunch with me?’

I had work. But I knew how to pace it. Suddenly I became the kind of woman who goes out to lunch with a man she only met yesterday.

I let him choose where. Juno be praised he did not go for my aunt’s place, though we did walk past it.

He picked an eatery with an interior courtyard, secluded from street noise and well run, so it was pleasantly busy with a clientele of commercial customers. We had a light lunch, fried fish and salad, water with it. We talked and laughed. He made no moves. I valiantly refrained from making moves on him, though I was tempted. A woman has needs. Mine had not been met for a long time. Too long. I really liked him and was ready for adventure.

Afterwards he went back to the aediles’ office. He had a nice line in looking regretful that he had to leave.

Left alone, I walked to an ancient piazza called the Armilustrium, where I sat for a long time, thinking about life.

T
he Armilustrium was the shared name of a festival and a sanctuary. The place was an old walled enclosure, sacred to Mars, the Roman god of war. From time immemorial, it had been where weapons were ritually purified in March and October, the start and end of the fighting season. After each ceremony there would be a big parade down to the Circus Maximus: all noise and triumphalism. Romans love to make a racket.

Since the enclosure served as a parade ground during the spring and autumn ceremonies, it was kept mainly bare, although there was a shrine at one end, a permanent stone altar in the centre and a couple of benches for the benefit of old ladies. In one corner was alleged to be the ancient tomb of Titus Tatius, a Sabine king who had ruled jointly with Romulus for a period, thousands of years ago. As a foreigner, he had been buried here on what was then the outsiders’ hill; an oak tree shaded his resting place. It must have been renewed. Even oaks don’t last that long.

In between festivals, the Armilustrium often lay deserted. I liked to come into the enclosure and sit out here. It was better than a public park where you were constantly irritated by lovers and rampaging schoolboys, beggars and mad people pretending to be lost as an excuse to engage strangers in conversation. There was hardly any litter here because the populace never wandered about with food in their hands, and nor was there that worrying smell of old dog dirt that tends to waft over even the most formal gardens if people are allowed to exercise their pets.