Deadly Election

35

Soon I was cursing Gornia. He thought he was doing right, but I could have survived without the help he chose to summon. I had been in the aediles’ building for about an hour. They were treating me politely. Everyone knew I knew Faustus. He had stayed behind to conclude business with the Urbans.

I had calmed down and was ready to laugh with him about him smartly removing me from a tricky situation. I was sitting in the courtyard. It had greenery. Patchy had been gorging himself on topiary, so when I reckoned he was about to burst, I sent him back with his boy, saying Gornia could ride him home if he wanted. I knew that first, once Faustus and the soldiers left the porticus, Gornia and the lads would make a bonfire of the strongbox and cook themselves a grilled supper over it. I was sorry to miss that.

Faustus took his time. While I was still waiting for him, I heard a horribly familiar voice in the entrance hallway: Petronius Longus, my father’s best friend, his army buddy and long-time collaborator, husband to Aunt Maia, a retired vigiles investigator, frankly a man with not enough to do these days. To Gornia, he would seem the obvious person to extricate someone from custody. Not to me.

‘Some bugger who doesn’t know how to wipe his arse is holding my niece here!’

Good start, hoary uncle. The sensitive approach.

They let him in. No wonder. He was tall, solid and sure of himself. His once-brown hair had dulled to grey but his step remained sprightly and he paid attention to barbering. His boots were still the kind the vigiles wear for kicking people. Retirement hadn’t mellowed him; it just gave him more time to make a nuisance of himself where he thought nuisance was required. That was most occasions, in Petro’s opinion.

He was my father’s age, just shy of fifty. Like Falco, he had always thought he knew it all, and nowadays he was even more certain the world was full of idiots and deviants.

He did not bother to hug me but sprawled on a bench, making himself at home. ‘So you’re in trouble! What’s going on?’

Unfortunately, I saw Faustus enter the courtyard quietly at that moment. He must have popped into his office and was now casually dressed. I made ‘be careful what you say’ gestures, which could have applied to either, then prepared to introduce them.

They did not bother with me.

‘Lucius Petronius Longus, ex Fourth Cohort of Vigiles. You can call me “sir”.’

‘Manlius Faustus, plebeian aedile. You should call me “sir”, but I won’t insist.’

‘A smart talker! You’re the latest lover-boy?’ growled Petronius, incorrigibly.

‘Better ask Albia.’

‘Juno!’ Seething, I shot Faustus an apologetic look. ‘I apologise for my uncle.’

‘Wait until you meet mine.’ Faustus feigned amusement. From what I knew, his own uncle, Tullius, had a crude reputation.

Mine carried on, impervious: ‘Your pa was checking up on some incomer, last time I saw him. Is this the dubious character?’

‘I heard I was given the once-over,’ Faustus intervened. ‘Any idea what Didius Falco found out?’

Uncle Petro laughed, suggesting something terrible. He probably had no idea.

‘Leave the aedile alone. He saved my life,’ I protested.

Petro gave Faustus a sharp look. ‘That true, son?’

Faustus kept it light. ‘No need for a big proclamation. I found her dying on the floor so I picked her up, put her to bed and looked after her until her mother came.’ He failed to spell out that he had not summoned my mother until a week later.

‘That would be how Helena Justina came across you in her daughter’s bedroom.’

‘Oh, it didn’t go down well?’ Faustus twinkled like a lad about town.

‘We all heard about it! Still, she’s a big girl now.’

I complained, ‘I am twenty-nine, an independent widow – and I am sitting here!’

‘That’s right,’ agreed Uncle Petro, ever unflappable. ‘Able to get into all sorts of trouble − and old enough to know where to look for it.’ Warmed by his fine riposte, he settled his big frame more comfortably. ‘So now you’re in a pickle and I have to help you out.’

‘While you’re here, I expect you’d like a drink,’ Faustus suggested to him.

‘Now you’re talking!’ Holy Vestals, the boys were bonding.

Faustus waved up the only slave who was still around, the others having disappeared when the evening grew late. After a word in his ear, the boy went off. Petro filled in time by asking, ‘Who do you normally deal with in the Fourth?’ To him, his old cohort was the only one worth mentioning. He still mentioned it a lot.

‘Titus Morellus, though he’s currently on sick leave.’

‘Took a blow at work, I heard?’ Morellus had inherited Petro’s job, allowing my uncle to look superior about his successor’s supposed delicate health. ‘How do you find him?’

‘Fine, when he’s available. He was struck down by a poisoner, nearly croaked. Albia and I were working that case.’

Petronius shook his head at me. ‘Was that when you wrecked the old balcony? Plenty of memories were lost that day …’

‘You and Father glugging wine on it and talking about women.’

‘Sometimes even drinking the health of women we love and admire!’ Petronius reproved me. He had not finished interrogating Faustus: ‘So your remit covers both the Twelfth and Thirteenth regions here on the Aventine?’

‘Plus the Transtiberina,’ Faustus dutifully supplied.

‘Good luck with that!’

‘Yes, it’s lively. I also look after half the Field of Mars, mainly theatres and porticos. A colleague handles the Pantheon and the Saepta, with all things north. With the Transtib and Circus Flaminius, obviously I liaise with the Seventh Cohort who are, between us two, a bit of a shower.’

‘I’d not quarrel with that! Have much to do with Scaurus of the Fourth?’ Petronius quizzed.

Faustus merely emitted a choking noise. When evaluating a cohort tribune, contempt was the correct response. Uncle Petro brightened further as the returning slave brought a flagon and two cups. He must have fetched them from indoors – he hadn’t had time to go to a bar.

‘I like a man who keeps a private stash in his office − and is prepared to share it. Fetch us one more beaker, son,’ my uncle told the serving boy, nodding at me. He added to Faustus, with a heavy wink, ‘I don’t approve of women drinking, but after fifteen years in this family, I bend with the wind.’

‘Best practice!’ Faustus poured politely for my uncle and me, himself waiting for the extra cup.

Lucius Petronius quaffed, then admitted surprise at how good the aedile’s private wine was. ‘Setinum?’

‘You can never go wrong,’ Faustus acknowledged modestly.

Petronius stretched out his long legs, as if ready to pass a whole evening there. Faustus copied the action. With no rehearsal, my presumed lover was making himself an acceptable prospect. All he had to do now was actually want to woo me.

Petro was finally ready to start the real discussion. ‘Let’s get down to business. Neither of us likes what Albia does, but it keeps her happy. She earns a bit of pocket money, though she doesn’t need the income. Her father’s an auctioneer, for Jove’s sake! She stays out of trouble – Falco and I have taught her that. She helps a few lamentable souls, where nobody else would bother. Between friends, I know she must be on your watch list of disreputable professions, but everything this one gets up to is harmless, I can vouch for that.’

I groaned. Lucius Petronius was acting the retired squaddie. He would drop the right word, as he saw it – and bury me much deeper. ‘Oh, Petro, let me handle things myself, will you? Nothing is worse than some grey-haired, gnarly has-been who believes he knows the ropes, but whose day has passed.’

‘She speaks her mind,’ my unwanted referee growled at Faustus. ‘Think you can handle it?’

Faustus gave him a resigned shrug − exactly what was called for. There was no point in fighting Lucius Petronius, and the aedile was wise to accept it.

‘Let me fill you in. I was there in Londinium when Falco and Helena first hauled this nipper off the streets,’ Petro confided, as if to a long-time drinking crony. ‘The pair of them thought here was a poor urchin they could civilise. Good people, but ludicrous.’

‘You believe civilising Albia is hopeless?’ Faustus asked meekly. A deceptive man, his grey eyes were conveniently veiled by the shadow of a pergola. Aediles enjoyed the very best of civic gardening at their headquarters.

‘No, I believe they did a good job!’ snarled Petro. ‘She’s not a bloody Druid. She never hangs up mistletoe or croons at the moon. She can read, she dresses nicely, her heart’s in the right place. People can take her anywhere. Well, almost. I wouldn’t push it myself. She’s a girl, she can be unpredictable. Once a month she’s a termagant. Believe me, I’m father to several and I know what I’m talking about … What I’m saying is, wherever she came from, Albia is ours now, so you treat her decently.’

Faustus was deadly quiet. ‘Albia is safe with me.’

‘Ah, but are you safe with her?’

I saw Faustus smile faintly. ‘Who knows? My fear is, your Albia could break my heart … But I believe she gives her loyalty to very few, and when she does, she is tenacious.’

My uncle considered that. I considered it myself.

I wondered if there was any point in me speaking on my own behalf. Deciding not, I served myself more wine. Faustus stretched out his arm for me to slosh him a top-up. Our familiarity was instantly observed.

‘So what’s your plan, Aedile?’ quizzed Petro. ‘Arresting Albia? Whatever’s that for? You’re a handsome package: I don’t suppose this is the only way you can get women?’

Faustus let him tease. ‘Petronius Longus, you know how things pan out in the Porticus of Pompey after dusk. The place pretends to be sophisticated, but that’s crap.’ Now he in turn spoke as a colleague. Two men of the law-and-order world. Compatriots in crime-fighting. ‘The louts were hunting for a riot. Social dross adores a rumpus. Tensions run high in hot weather. Consequence: we had a roughhouse.’ My uncle looked jealous to have missed it. ‘Somebody had found a corpse, which always leads to silly behaviour. Judging the mood as dangerous, I took Albia into custody for her protection.’

‘No charges, then?’

Faustus looked surprised. ‘What would I charge her with?’

‘Some magistrates I’ve bumped noses with would think of something.’

‘Holy shit, I hope not. Don’t force me to write out a damned docket!’

‘Damned hassle …’ Petronius approved. Since he had finished off the Setinum, he was ready to move. ‘Everything seems quiet enough.’

‘Certainly is up here. So,’ Manlius Faustus suggested, ‘I can take Flavia Albia home to her apartment and see Rodan locks the gate behind her safely.’

‘Good try, hopeful Cupid!’ Uncle Petro scoffed. ‘No, thanks. This is a respectable young woman and I am her male relative, in loco parentis for the legendary Falco. I shall take that madman’s daughter to ours for a bite of dinner, then escort her to her horrible dosshouse. No need for you to trouble, Aedile. No need at all.’