The Ides of April (9 page)

I often ate breakfast at a bar called the Stargazer, but on days when I attended to chores I just munched whatever stale bread roll I found at home. I took one out with me when I went to the laundry. I chewed slowly; it was so old and hard, I risked breaking a tooth.

I picked up the previous bundle and went straight to Prisca’s bath house, a civilised all-female establishment, where I was able to gain admittance even when they were closed. None of them are supposed to open in the morning, but I was a regular and welcome to use either the gymnasium or the library at any hour. Prisca herself let me in, with one of her pleasant greetings: ‘I see your hairdresser’s on strike again! And if you don’t mind me mentioning this, Flavia Albia, it could be time now to start tucking yourself up in a bustband.’

What is it about baths that makes people think they have a right to be insulting?

She just wanted to sell me a band. There was nothing wrong with my figure, any man would agree. I was shorter than I might have been if I had had a better childhood, but by the time my chest grew, I had been adopted by the Didii and given a decent diet. Physically, I developed late, but enough. I seemed to be still growing well into my twenties. Fully mature now, I kept trim; everything was in the right place, whatever Prisca implied.

I tossed my quadrans onto the money bowl, made a gesture that could pass for friendly if Prisca was exceedingly short-sighted, then with her cackling after me I barged through into the changing room, hurled off what I was wearing, grabbed a modesty towel and headed for the main facilities.

The bath suite was on the right; it was simple row of tepid room, steam room and cold room with a plunge bath. On the left, a small court opened out with colonnades where people could relax sensibly or work themselves into a froth with exercise. A couple of hard-bitten women dressed in combat gear were huffing about with fancy little bucklers and wooden swords, making themselves a spectacle. I don’t object to female gladiators, but if such hopefuls must adopt butch sports I expect them to have enough self-respect to fight decently; these were hopeless. I refused to gawp because I figured that was what the silly madams wanted.

Prisca had followed me. ‘You should be able to find a bit of warmish water left from last night. Why don’t you come at a sensible hour? Do you want someone to scrape you down?’

‘I’ll manage.’

This was hard on the girls who tried to earn a few coppers wielding a strigil for customers who could not drag off their own bathing oil, but Prisca had known me long enough; I don’t know why she asked. I always brought my personal strigil, a nicely curved, comfortable bone one, and at the moment I was using up a little flask of plain almond oil I had had from one of my sisters last Saturnalia. Prisca made no money from merchandise with me. But she knew I was no trouble and if she kept on my good side, I would keep paying the entrance fee. She was a good businesswoman.

She sat down on the ledge in the steam room with me; when things were quiet she liked a chat. I put up with it because she could be a useful source of gossip.

She was a sparely built woman in her late middle years, always in a long sleeveless tunic, permanently damp and clinging, and with rope-soled toe-post sandals. I had only ever seen her in the same jewellery: a gold chain with a greenish tinge and heavy hoop earrings. Despite regular attempts to discover her background, I still had no idea how she came to be running this bath house. It would not surprise me to find she had jumped some male owner, whether her husband or someone unrelated, holding his head under the water in the plunge pool until she drowned him, then she just quietly took over. It was her decision to make it women-only. Most baths had sessions for both sexes, kept separate by different times.

Although Prisca remained fully clothed, I did not object to her watching me at my ablutions. She saw enough bodies to be indifferent. My sisters always giggled about this place, claiming it was a club for lesbians. They were fourteen and sixteen, so found that idea dangerous and thrilling. In fact most other customers were working women, some not even prostitutes, but honestly employed as freelance embroiderers, midwives or fish-scalers. Mothers of schoolchildren came here for some peace and quiet. Worn old aunties muttered over their oil flasks, trying to use as little as possible to save money. Any of these could possibly belong to the Grecian sisterhood, or flirt with it, but at Prisca’s there was no higher proportion than in ordinary society, and they were no more visible.

‘Who are the two toughs in the garden?’

‘Zoe and Chloe. They’re harmless – even though they think they terrify everyone. What you working on? Anything interesting?’ Prisca knew what I did. Sometimes she shuffled clients my way.

‘Nothing special.’ I was always discreet. ‘My last employer just died on me.’

She laughed. ‘You do know how to pick ’em!’

‘Apparently people are dropping dead before their time, for no reason.’

‘Is that so?’ Prisca showed no interest. If there was a crisis, clearly news had not reached the bathhouse circuit. I was interested, because baths are where most rumours first pop into life.

I finished my routine and Prisca left me to it. I dried off, put on one of the clean tunics I had fetched from the laundry, then sat by myself in the colonnade. The show-offs with swords and shields had gone, so I was alone. That suited me. I liked certain people, but otherwise was naturally reclusive. I could hear Prisca and her various slaves moving about and occasionally speaking to each other, but no one bothered me. I did not think about my work, I just restored my spirits peacefully.

If I had come later, I would have had a session with Serena, the best physical manipulator on the Aventine, but she tended to work in the evening when the baths were officially open. Combing my hair dry in a patch of sunshine served to calm me almost as much as a massage. The long slow strokes always reminded me of those first months after I was brought to Rome. I very quickly got to know all of my new female relatives; they were numerous, and I learned to dread the heavy-handed ones. Every time any of them visited our house, I would be passed across to be worked on. Most women in Rome own a nit-comb and are adept at using it.

I have dark hair which, unfortunately, gives no clue to my original nationality. I will always remember the first time Helena washed it for me: her firm but kindly touch as she made me endure the warm water on my tender scalp, while I whimpered and wriggled, then the wonderful clean scent of rosemary as she rinsed and untangled everything. She could have had a slave look after me, but she had chosen to foster me, so she herself carried out all the unpleasant tasks of cleaning me up and taming my wild habits. I wanted so desperately to be mothered, at first I could hardly bear to trust her in case our new relationship abruptly ended. It took me years to realise that motherhood did not come to her naturally; she saw it as a duty and would much rather have been reading, or spending time with her husband.

She loved us now. No, that sounds wrong; she had always given us love, willingly and amply, but she
enjoyed
us more, now we were older and she could talk to us as equals.

She had hated it when I left home to make my own life as an informer, seeing my exit as her own failure. But she too was a dogged, independent spirit; I had learned that from her. Undoubtedly, she was proud of me now. I often went home and consulted her about my work.

Thinking about her, I decided to have lunch with Mother today.

The girls were out, visiting friends, and our brother was having lessons, so I stayed for hours, talking and not talking, just spending time together. Just when I was thinking I should leave, the girls reappeared, full of excitement; then Father came home from the auction house, so we all adjourned to the roof terrace for the ceremony of hearing about his day. Many bowls of olives later, I declined the offer of dinner, and made my way back up the Hill to Fountain Court.

I was in a good mood. Most of the day had gone by, but who cared? That is the bonus of being freelance. You can make your own hours – always an excuse for working no hours at all.

My mood improved even more when Rodan emerged to tell me that Metellus Nepos had called while I was away, and had left something for me. He had brought my payment for the work I did for Salvidia, plus extra for when he hired me himself. He had even presented me with a sample of his cheese too. Such a civilised man. Immediately my benign feelings towards him reasserted themselves.

It was too late to apply myself to work, and since I didn’t know how long Nepos would remain in Rome now the funeral was over, I decided to trip around to Lesser Laurel Street, tell him his offerings had been safely received and say thank you.

That was when I found him in a terrible tizzy. He was about to visit the house of a neighbour who had died, just after she attended his stepmother’s funeral. Celendina was her name. I had not known that previously, but I gathered she was the old woman I had talked to at the necropolis. That alone gave me a reason to accompany Nepos and pay my own respects – even though he and I both knew I was going along out of professional curiosity. Celendina had been perfectly well yesterday, a self-sufficient body who had stood at the side of the pyre without complaint until she had to leave. I could still see her in my mind’s eye, as she toddled off home at a good pace. Although she was elderly, Nepos and I were both amazed to learn she had died barely hours afterwards.

Nepos was very upset. I could not blame him. There seemed a striking similarity to what happened with his stepmother. Neither of us thought it was a coincidence.

Celendina had lived just around the corner. As I walked there with Metellus Nepos, I tried calming him, to little avail.

Some well-disposed neighbour had supplied a couple of small cypress trees to stand either side of the doorway. People who lived locally were keeping a sharp eye out for visitors, as they do when something odd has happened and they don’t want to miss what follows. We soon had several helpful persons presenting us with information.

It was a night and a day since the old woman had been found dead. Her body was no longer at the house but had been taken away by the undertaker – an officially supplied one. Somehow the vigiles had become involved at the scene. From what we heard, I realised their removing the body was for a corpse-inspection, in a case of presumed foul play. But this sounded different to what occurred before with Salvidia, at least in the neighbours’ version – a sorry tale that only emerged slowly as people started to feel uncomfortable about it.

It was her son Celendina had lived with and vigiles’ suspicions centred on him. As I had deduced, he had been not right from birth; we were told that only people who knew him very well could communicate with him. He was never able to go out, and had grown into a strange, heavy lump who became upset if he was alone for too long, so that was why his mother left the funeral early. Sometimes in the past a neighbour had minded him for Celendina, but I could tell they had never liked doing it. No one wanted to take over full-time care of him now. Motherless, his future was uncertain.

The son, Kylo, was no longer at the house. The neighbours said people had been drawn there last night by him screaming and shouting. They broke in and found him with his
mother’s lifeless body, violently shaking her. Everyone at once assumed something had gone wrong between them and he must have killed her. In such circumstances, people easily turn against a man with mental difficulties. Uproar ensued. The vigiles arrived. Now Kylo was in custody, accused of his mother’s murder.

One peculiarity of the events was that, although no one could make sense of most things Kylo said, when they found him he distinctly said several times: ‘Flavia Albia’. My name.

I
made sure I got to the vigiles before they came looking for me.

Our local cohort was the Fourth. Their headquarters was in the Twelfth District, over in the Piscina Publica, by the Aqua Marcia. They had sub-barracks too, one of which covered the Thirteenth, here on the Aventine. I knew it well. I had been coming here as long as I had lived in Rome, so it held no terrors for me.

You could tell you were approaching the barracks by the number of gloomy drinking bars. The complex had a pair of huge gates, which led into a courtyard stacked with equipment for firefighting, which was the vigiles’ primary purpose. Their other interest, in crime, had developed when the patrols who went out sniffing for smoke at night kept running into muggers and burglars as those evil-doers carried out their own nightly patrols. The vigiles started to arrest them. So law and order became an additional function. It would be nice to think that made Rome a safer place, but only halfwits would believe it.

The force was composed of ex-slaves, volunteers who each served six hard years then gained the privilege of citizenship – if they survived. They were led by ex-soldiers, one of whom in the Fourth had been an uncle of mine. He was now officially retired, though whenever he managed to give my aunt the slip, he still hung around the station house like a disapproving ghost, on the excuse of unfinished business; there was a particular gangster he had failed to catch. It continued to obsess him.

Like many community organisations, there was never enough money allowed for the vigiles’ upkeep, while they also had no prestige and so no incentive to excel. This gave the men a hangdog, shabby air; they could often be seen lolling against a siphon engine in some quiet alley, pretending to wait for a call-out, but eating snacks and chatting up loose women. They had a humourless tribune, who roosted in the main building in the Twelfth, while Titus Morellus was now in charge of investigations in our local depot. He was typical – overweight, shaved head, lazy attitude. He was not quite as sweaty as some of the others, though they all smelled.

‘Flavia Albia! Don’t you come here begging for favours.’

He knew who I was. That is to say, in vigiles’ terms, he knew who my father and uncle were (best pals, who had cooperated on many a case in their day – a day that was past now, though not according to them). I would hardly have counted here, but for a lucky breakthrough on an old inquiry: my own reputation rested on that time I exposed a doctor who drugged his women patients and then interfered with them. A couple of them had got together afterwards and asked me for help. Unfortunately, that was ten years ago and we were running out of men who remembered it. The vigiles have short memories. Although in theory they build up local expertise and a detailed record of previous cases, in fact their interest only extends to this week’s tasks. Half the time they are not even interested in those.