Enemies at Home

19

‘Hmm!’ Quintus sized up the place we had been sent to. ‘Pretty moulded acanthus on their lintel, but let’s not be fooled by leaves. This is the kind of thermopolium your colourful father would nickname the Itchy Bum.’

‘He’s never so rude.’

‘Think so? You surprise me!’

We had come straight here from the station house. Otherwise we would have been expected. Inevitably, Titianus, Juventus or some other member of the Second Cohort would have tipped off the gang as a favour. We wanted to do this on our own terms — so we had to get here first.

Justinus might be my mother’s favourite brother, but Helena Justina would thwack him with excoriating rhetoric if she knew he had let me come on this mission. Neither he nor I mentioned that, but it made us both nervous.

The Galatea (its proper name) stood in a quiet side street. You probably think thieves lurk down a dangerous alley, something with a sinister atmosphere; in fact they are just like the rest of us and prefer to drink at a respectable bar with nice tubs of laurels that actually get watered. Calling it the Galatea didn’t mean the owners were interested in myths about statues coming to life, it was an excuse for a sign showing a nude woman.

She was rather pale and skinny, but the painter had given meticulous attention to her bosom. Sign artists are so predictable.

What did single out the Galatea as a rats’ nest was that it was large enough to contain an interior courtyard where illegal transactions could take place out of sight of the public and the authorities. Justinus and I sauntered up to one of the counters like innocent tourists just off the boat from Tarentum. This was clearly not the case, since he still had his toga. It was scrunched up and carried over one arm, but anyone could see what it was and with his tunic broadly banded in purple even the dumbest waiter had to twig he was a senator.

Leaving the two bodyguards streetside at the counter, Quintus and I went in and pretended to study the wall sign with a list of drinks. With expressions of delight we ‘discovered’ the inner garden. We sat down there at a wooden table and spent time trying to decide whether to have fried anchovies or stick with olives. We didn’t make a lot of noise, nothing too obvious.

No doubt some bars that act as gangs’ headquarters show unfriendliness to casuals but at the Galatea they were more relaxed. The waiter ambled up and took our order without blinking. He even recommended the anchovies, though he did not push it. A man at the other table gave us a friendly nod in greeting. The waiter took his time coming back — but only as much time as hopeless waiters anywhere. He was gossiping with a local at a counter, not sending a message to tell some clan chief in the crime community that we were here.

So far, if we hadn’t been told this was a dangerous place, we would not have realised.

‘Must be his first day,’ said Justinus to the other man, winking after the waiter. The otherwise pleasant customer had enormous biceps and a broken nose. But if he was a villain, he was one who had work to go back to. He mopped his chin daintily with a napkin, called for the reckoning, left coppers for the waiter, nodded a goodbye like a man whose mother had taught him manners, and left.

Apart from us, there was now no one else here. Our order came. True to family policy on refreshments, we decided we might as well eat up, not just leave empty-handed.

As soon as we relaxed with our bowls and beakers, a man who looked like an imperial invoice clerk turned up. Half bald, clean tunic, just short of swaggering. The kind who serves forty years in the same position, always at the beck and call of superiors, but knowing his eventual leaving-present will buy him a villa. One with solid silver plumbing fitments.

He came straight to the other table in the garden, clearly familiar with his surroundings. Within seconds the waiter had moved in, swept the board clean of crumbs, placed a bread basket with new rolls and set a beaker ready for the small flask of house wine and the water jug he swiftly brought without the customer needing to specify what he wanted.

Justinus kicked my ankle under the table.

The new man had made sure he was sitting so he could see who else entered. He even moved the heavy bench. Who moves a tavern bench?

Although he ignored our offered smiles, he then gave us a hard once-over. While the waiter brought appetiser bowls (several more than we had received), the man muttered to him and the waiter glanced over at us. He said something, perhaps defensively.

However much this customer looked like a docket-diddler, diddling dockets was not what he did.

A typical late lunch proceeded. It was early afternoon. Anyone in a bar around now had time to spare: those who did not need to work and those whose work involved leisured negotiating. Shippers, retail middlemen, investment advisers, publishers of epic poems — and cut-throat gangsters.

At a point when the waiter was alone at a counter, I got up and walked over to him, carrying a bowl as if I wanted a refill. I asked about the man who was not really a clerk. The waiter supplied the answer I expected. Juventus had named him for us. It was Gallo, a trusted agent of the Rabirii, whom the waiter called ‘local businessmen’. He seemed unfazed at being asked.

I left the bowl on the counter. I walked across to the businessmen’s trusty, sat down at the opposite side of his table, and folded my hands neatly. From our table, Justinus let his gaze follow me, though he went on eating and drinking quietly. He was close enough to hear what was said. The casual way he chucked up olives into his mouth showed that he saw nothing unusual in me approaching a stranger to ask questions. How a highly placed gangster would react remained to be seen.

‘Please excuse me. You are eating and I won’t mess about. I believe your name is Gallo and you can put me in touch with the Rabirii.’ I made sure I spoke with heavy respect. Like my uncle, Gallo continued with his meal, no more concerned than if a wasp had landed on the table. But one wrong buzz and he would swat me. He did not appear to be armed, but I never rely on appearances.

I tried again. ‘My name is Flavia Albia. I am assisting an aedile with his investigation into the recent murders of Valerius Aviola and his wife on the Clivus Suburanus.’ At that, Gallo did flex his eyebrows. Whether it was a comment on the crime, a disparaging sneer at women in general, or at women who said they worked with magistrates, I could not tell.

He wanted to know what I wanted. Until he found out, he would not pose a threat. Afterwards, I would need to be extremely careful.

‘Bullion was taken. The Rabirius organisation is highly regarded for dealing in quality goods of the type that were liberated from the Aviola property. Mind you, if interlopers came onto your ground and carried out a robbery, unsanctioned by you, I imagine the Rabirii are extremely unhappy about it.’

Gallo gazed at me. Though his features were so unremarkable, he had very cold eyes.

I myself would not like to invade this gang’s territory. If another gang had carried out the Aviola theft, and the Rabirii knew, there would be blood on the cobbles. I almost wished there was, because the absence of local warfare suggested the Rabirii were not annoyed with anybody else. If they did the job themselves, it was scary invading their bar.

‘I’ll be frank — if you took the silver, I cannot prove it. As a woman, I may not initiate prosecutions anyway. There will be no repercussions. My interest goes beyond the theft. I am following up the murders − and I don’t believe the Rabirii were responsible. These killings were pointless, drawing attention in a way that your well-run organisation must deplore.’

I had nothing to offer, but I pushed it as brazenly as possible. ‘Surely the Rabirii want this cleared up? It must be offensive to them to have such stupidity happening in their district.’

Gallo tore bread off a loaf segment with his teeth. I don’t think he sharpened his incisors into points with a smith’s file, but he would have done if he had thought of it.

‘All right, just tell me this,’ I cajoled. ‘Aviola’s slaves are being accused of the murders. Perhaps no robbery ever took place and the slaves are bluffing. So was Aviola, or was he not, visited that night by professionals?’

Gallo finished chewing then he answered. ‘Go away, little girl.’

You can amend that mentally. ‘Go away’ was not his chosen verb.