Enemies at Home

23

I emerged from the long corridor and crossed the atrium. Myla had uncharacteristically deigned to appear; she was clattering bowls and scraping leftovers in the dining room. This commotion had driven out Faustus. He was standing in the courtyard, head thrown back, apparently enjoying the night air.

I fetched a light stole and was about to join him when someone began banging on the front door. I could hear it was Dromo, who was shouting at the top of his voice as if he thought he would be left outside all night. I went.

As soon as I opened up, the slave sauntered past me as if nothing had perturbed him, but then he ran into his master. Faustus had followed me; from his look of alarm he must be remembering how the porter was attacked that night when, if the story was correct, Nicostratus mistakenly let the wrong people indoors.

Unexpectedly, Faustus took his slave to task. ‘Where in Hades have you been, Dromo? A simple bathe should not take so long. In future, come back promptly. I do not want Flavia Albia having to answer the door to you when it’s late and could be dangerous!’

He rarely sounded so sharp. Dromo hung his head, like a child reluctantly playing sorry, but sulking.

‘Don’t look like that,’ Faustus ordered, keeping his voice level. ‘You were in the wrong, Dromo.’

The slave improved his expression then slouched off to lie on his mat. We heard him muttering complaints under his breath to some imaginary friend.

Manlius Faustus breathed deeply a few times to recover his calm. We took the two seats that were still outdoors. I selected the x-stool, letting Faustus have the chair.

‘I saw Quintus off on his way,’ I said, making light conversation while Faustus settled. ‘He wasn’t making excuses, you know; he really does involve himself in the bedtime ritual. Neither he nor Claudia are strict and it can be hectic persuading six self-willed infants to quieten down. But Uncle Quintus is a soothing presence. Luckily his children like him.’

This produced an interesting reaction from Faustus. ‘I gather you and he are on close terms?’ The aedile’s tone was almost carping, and it was not a hangover from his spat with Dromo.

I assessed him, surprised to find him assessing me. Sometimes he could seem dour. Sometimes he made it plain he thought me flighty.

‘Just family,’ I answered gently, yet he scowled.

Where did this come from? Had somebody been gossiping? It could be Titus Morellus, from the vigiles Fourth Cohort on the Aventine. Morellus had harassed me a few times officially, a penalty of being an informer; the idiot now believed himself an expert on my history. Faustus knew him. Had Morellus told Faustus that I once had a yen for one of the Camillus brothers?

I decided that if the aedile wanted to know which it was, he would have to ask me.

He chose not to.

I therefore did not tell him it was Aulus who had let me think we were best friends then broke my heart. Nor did I say that I was only seventeen, so of course I got over it years ago.

I had been married since then. The poor lad was killed in an accident. Faustus damn well knew I spoke very fondly of my husband.

If I was cool, he deserved it. ‘Aedile, you wanted to review the case?’

‘You set me a task, remember.’ Now he sounded himself again, humorously feigning anxiety about his orders. ‘I was to ask the slaves how they made their escape.’

‘What do they say?’ I was not myself yet, though I don’t suppose he noticed.

‘Once Titianus was about to accuse them, they waited until dark then made a bolt on foot. You wondered how Nicostratus managed; they put him in a carrying chair that belonged to Mucia Lucilia. The other men took turns on the rails so they could hurry through the streets as fast as possible.’

‘Why did they take him? The severity of his wounds exonerated him from not helping his master.’

‘Phaedrus, the other porter, claims Nicostratus did not want to be left behind alone. Amaranta and Olympe told me they had not realised how bad his condition was; they imagined they could look after him.’

‘And do we know whose idea it was to flee?’

‘They were vague. My feeling is the steward put them up to it.’ So Polycarpus really was more loyal to the slaves he supervised than to his master. Interesting!

‘Or who suggested the Temple of Ceres?’

‘Chrysodorus. The philosopher.’ For once Manlius Faustus sounded unsure of himself. ‘Is it significant?’

‘Probably not.’

‘I wish I had pressed the point.’

I made him a reassuring gesture. ‘He will probably dodge the question … There must have been interesting discussions among those slaves — I wish we could have sight of that playscript!’

Since I had been keeping him up to date with my daily reports, there was little else for us to discuss. My client seemed satisfied I was doing my best, repeating that I should take whatever time I needed.

Faustus then talked to me about his own work. I knew something of his preoccupation with the city’s plague of random killers, so he shared the latest developments; he even asked advice. This was a sensitive subject, highly confidential. I was furious to notice Myla as she went from the dining room to the kitchen, slowing up and obviously trying to listen in.

Faustus saw her too. He stopped talking. He was naturally reticent, so when he took me into his confidence − which in fairness to him, he had always done more than I expected − I resented someone else interrupting. Was it another illustration of ‘Oh, that’s just Myla’? She acted vague, yet habitually eavesdropped?

If so, whether she exploited what she heard or was just nosy, I would have sold the woman and not put up with it. I bet Mucia Lucilia shared my antipathy.

As she sashayed along a colonnade, swinging her hips, Myla was giving Faustus an obvious sexual invitation. I might as well not have been present.

Manlius Faustus was a rare man; he disliked unsought attention of that kind. He even picked up his chair and moved it around, so his back was turned on the colonnade. The action seemed automatic. I was not sure he realised he had done it.

He and I sat in silence for a time, the way you can only do with a friend. I suppose that was when I seriously acknowledged to myself that although I disliked him when we first met, I liked Faustus much more now. How much more I would not contemplate. Best not make the same mistake as Myla.

It was late, clearly time for him to make a move. Unlike my uncle, who anyway lived nearer, he admitted he was so weary after a tedious day of meetings, he felt reluctant to walk. To reach his house, he had to trek all the way up the Aventine and across the heights.

He would never have asked, but I made it easy for him: ‘You have no bodyguards with you. You might not keep your wits about you if you’re tired. Stay here. Go back in the morning. Who is going to mind?’

I told him where to find a bedroom. It was the one Quintus commandeered that afternoon, though I did not say so. Faustus took himself off gratefully. I sat on outside, merely bidding him a quiet goodnight.

I changed to the more comfortable chair, still warm from his presence. I stayed for a while there in the courtyard, wondering if Faustus would return. He did not. That did not surprise me.

My mischievous uncle may have left us together on purpose − such a waste of thoughtfulness. Still, Holy Venus. How bad was it to be spurned because a man was tired?

I was still there, unintentionally drowsing, when another commotion woke me. People — several this time — were in the street outside, hammering on the door for attention.

Manlius Faustus shot from his room. He pushed me behind him as he unzipped the grille and cautiously looked out. When he demanded to know who was making such a disturbance, we heard it was slaves from the Camillus brothers. Aulus had sent them. They had horrible news.

As Uncle Quintus made his way home that evening, he and his bodyguards were ambushed. His men managed to drag him to their house, but Quintus had been hurt.

Oh dear gods. It was Nicostratus all over again. My imagination filled with the terrible image of the door porter’s corpse, covered with blood from those many gruesome wounds, those injuries from which he never recovered consciousness. The injuries that killed him.