Enemies at Home

6

I started awake.

Furniture was being scraped across the mosaic floor. The doors were being forced inwards.

I had slept longer than I thought; there was sufficient daylight for me to interpret this and woozily decide to put a stop to it. Bloody Dromo. He had worked his matted head through the crack between the doors, ignoring any risk to his brain. Not wanting to desecrate my favourite knife, I threw a pillow at him.

‘Can I go out for my breakfast?’

‘For one happy moment, Dromo, I thought you were bringing me some.’

‘I’m a messenger, that’s not my job.’

‘What happens normally about your breakfast?’

‘I get it in our kitchen of course. Our house is proper. That’s if I don’t have to drag out after my master and get thrown an old crust at that horrible place he hangs around with you.’

‘It’s the Stargazer. And your master does not “hang around”, he drops in for business occasionally.’

‘I thought the pair of you were smooching.’

‘I do not smooch magistrates; I have more class. And you ought to know the aedile better.’ I wondered if Dromo had ever seen Faustus dally with women. I couldn’t imagine it, but men who seem moral can be a disappointment. In fact, from experience I would say they generally are. ‘Go on then. Use the bar directly opposite the house; don’t wander off.’

‘I haven’t got any money.’

What a whiner. Still, it was not his fault. Slaves have to be trusted first; I could see why Faustus would avoid giving this back-chatting boy any petty cash. I answered mildly, though won no thanks for it. I told Dromo to go ahead and I would come to fix up a daily tab for him.

Faustus could pay. I would eat separately at a better-looking bar further down the street, then Faustus could pay for that too.

Service was slow on the Clivus Suburanus. Eating was slow too, since even the apparently superior bar served very hard bread. Lucky for them that I had grown up in the hopeless backstreets of Londinium. I had known far worse.

By the time I returned to the apartment, the freedman Polycarpus was tapping his foot, delighted to look down on me because I had kept him waiting.

Whatever he thought, I know my job. I became impressively businesslike. I marched him to a pair of seats that I had already put out in the courtyard. I had clean waxed tablets ready. I had planned my questions. I drew out the background information I wanted, giving Polycarpus no chance to bluster that he had to keep confidences.

Valerius Aviola had been in his early forties. His money came from land; he owned productive country villas, which either brought in rent from tenants or he ran them himself and took all the profits. Mucia Lucilia, the new trophy wife, was fifteen years younger; she came with attractive inherited wealth. They had known one another socially, an acquaintance that matured naturally into a convenient marriage. They shared friends, who were delighted for them.

I nearly asked if they had previously been lovers, but it seemed irrelevant and I chose a different question. ‘Did you think they would be happy?’

‘Yes,’ said Polycarpus.

The wedding ceremony took place where Mucia had lived on the Quirinal Hill, then Aviola brought his bride home for their first night. A feast for friends was held here the following evening. It ended at a reasonable hour, because the couple were planning to travel to Campania early next morning. They retired to bed. Polycarpus saw the borrowed kitchen staff off the premises, then checked everything was in order before going home. The slaves were well behaved, he told me, and not given to rioting; so he assumed the household would settle down quietly when he left.

The intruders battered their way in through the front doors. They surprised and severely beat the duty night porter, who was Nicostratus (now at the Temple of Ceres); he was discovered lying bloody and unconscious by his colleague Phaedrus (ditto). Phaedrus raised the alarm. At first it was thought only that a display of fine silver had gone missing. Then Amaranta, Mucia’s attendant, went in to wake her mistress and tell her what had happened. She discovered the bodies.

The stolen silver, a wine service, was itemised for me by Polycarpus at my request. He dictated a list, which I wrote down, wondering if he was illiterate. I had expected him to bring a written inventory.

He described four sets of double-handled drinking goblets, two to each set, in different sizes; four patterned beakers in two sizes; two trays; eight small round drinks coasters with little tripod goats’ feet; assorted jugs, two with hinged lids; a large and a small strainer, pointed and pierced; two ladles; a very large wine-mixing bowl.

The items had been collected over time, but were all of high quality and fine design. This bullion had stood on a display cabinet in the summer dining room; it had remained here to be used in the wedding feast, or it would have been safely parcelled up and sent away for the couple’s intended summer in Campania.

‘Were any other valuables in the house?’

‘Not really. All the sculpture and vases had been sent to the villa. Our mistress had her jewellery in the bedroom. That was not taken.’

‘Did they even look at it?’

‘No, the casket appeared untouched.’

‘What have you done with it?’

‘Given for safe keeping to the executors.’

‘I shall need to be introduced to them.’

It seemed the robbers knew exactly what they were looking for — the silver − and where it would be. They may also have gone to the bedroom in order to find the jewellery, only giving up that idea in panic after the murders. ‘So, let me just get this straight,’ I said, not looking up from my note tablet. ‘You were intending to send the silverware to the summer villa after your master and mistress left? First the cups and jugs were used at the feast, after which things were presumably washed up in the kitchen … so, Polycarpus, why was this silverware replaced on the display shelf, rather than packed up ready to go?’

‘The hour was too late. I felt whacked; we were all exhausted after the wedding.’ Polycarpus spoke defensively, looking as if he was unused to having his actions queried. ‘I had it taken out of the kitchen because the staff were on loan and I wasn’t prepared to trust them. Then the most discreet thing to do at that time of night was quietly store it as normal. The master and mistress were to go by litter to the city gates at first light and pick up wheeled transport there. I myself would come in to pack any final items, then we had a cart ordered for drive time.’

In Rome, apart from some exceptions, carts are banned in the day in order to ease congestion. What Polycarpus said sounded reasonable.

‘Were you going to Campania?’

‘Er, no. There is another steward at the villa. I would have the summer to myself.’ Was there a flicker of feeling when he said that?

‘And the slaves who had stayed here after the wedding — were they meant to travel south?’

‘They were expecting to go with the last baggage cart.’ Polycarpus seemed to hesitate, though he carried on. ‘Then I was to close up the house.’

‘What about Myla, who was on the verge of producing?’

‘Not her. Arrangements had been made.’

‘So the house would be locked up during the summer. And if these thieves knew about the silver, they may have realised that night was their last chance to grab it for a long time?’

Polycarpus sighed. ‘Presumably … And before you ask, no, I was never aware of any of our staff talking to outsiders about our valuables. Nor had I seen anyone suspicious watching the house.’

‘The vigiles asked you those questions?’ It was their usual approach. As an approach it often works, though as any vigiles enquirer would know, the weaknesses are that none of the staff would admit to Polycarpus that they had loose tongues, and most professional burglars are unobtrusive when they case a joint. ‘The vigiles like to believe items like this stolen silver may reappear and help identify the thieves,’ I mused. ‘But I am not hopeful.’

The steward continued, ‘The man who came to investigate, Titianus, said the collection must have been stolen to order. He thought it was taken for someone who had been here as a guest, saw it and liked it. But surely, the point of owning treasure is to display it? This supposed guest would never be able to show it off or people would know he stole it. So why bother?’

I agreed. ‘From your description, this stuff is also too distinctive to show up at auction. I know people in that business. Questions would be asked.’

‘Titianus assured me a list would be circulated to jewellers and auctioneers.’

‘I am sure he will do that. Sadly, Polycarpus, the likelihood is that the items will be melted down for the value of the metal — in which case that has happened already.’

‘It seems a terrible waste of such beautiful things.’

‘Criminals have limited choices. Occasionally,’ I told him, ‘a well organised professional gang will hide their loot, then keep it as long as they have to, until the heat dies down. Then they may eventually sell it for its artistic value. But even if these robbers use such long-term planning, people died here. Murder attracts attention. What was stolen may stick in the public’s mind. Selling it will be too risky.’

Mentioning the deaths was my cue to move on.

After the attack, Polycarpus had gone into the bedroom and had seen the bodies. He confirmed what I had suspected: Aviola was lying nearest the front edge of the bed, with his wife behind him. Mucia was found close against her husband and had one arm stretched across his body, a defensive, protesting position, as if the new bride was trying to fend off her groom’s attacker.

‘That doesn’t sound as if the killers turned violent because the master and mistress came out and disturbed them. Aviola and Mucia were still in bed. Perhaps the thieves went to see what was in the bedroom, then their victims woke and tried to raise an alarm … They were strangled, I’m told. What with?’

‘A piece of rope.’ So it must have been pre-planned.

‘What happened to the rope afterwards?’

‘Perhaps the vigiles officer took it away.’

‘I shall ask him. Do you remember anything about it, Polycarpus? What kind of rope? Not very thick, I imagine. Thick rope is too stiff to twist around necks with enough torsion to kill someone.’

The steward shrugged. Assessing rope was not for him. There were so many boundaries in household management, I was surprised anything ever got done.

I asked him to show me the apartment’s layout, not mentioning that I had already explored. We took a walk-through. There were no surprises in the main rooms. Now I saw more of the offices. They had a two-oven kitchen, plus the usual pantries and store rooms. I glanced into the latrine. It was decent, though its cleanliness would not have satisfied either of my grandmothers, both women who would walk through Rome for an hour with a screaming toddler, rather than let any of us use a lavatory from which we might catch something.

‘Where do you get your water?’

‘The apartment came with its own well, but when my master first took the lease we found the water is too bad to use. I have to organise a carrier to bring in fresh buckets daily.’ Polycarpus indicated the disused well, in a corner of the courtyard. It had wooden boarding at ground level, over which a stone urn had been placed to deter people from opening it.

‘One thing I notice,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘is that you have little obvious accommodation for your slaves.’

‘What we provide is normal.’ Polycarpus obviously despised me for not knowing how staffed houses work. He showed me a couple of small cells on the service corridor. Numbers of slaves slept there, layered on pallets in wall niches, in much the same way as crockery was stacked on shelves elsewhere in walk-in cupboards. These slaves would have no time to relax at leisure, no personal possessions and absolutely no privacy. One such cell was crammed with mattresses and mats; these could be used on the floor anywhere. ‘Normally the house is full of people looking after the master. They all find space for themselves where they can — the kitchen, corridors, the garden. But they are the master’s familia and we make our accommodation versatile, Flavia Albia. When we have no guests, the best slaves may sleep in greater comfort in unused bedrooms.’

‘Well, that raises a question, Polycarpus: did any of the guests at the feast stay overnight?’

‘None. They all live locally and were taken home as soon as the meal ended.’

‘So, let’s go back to the attack. I need details of who was where at that point. What do you know about where the fugitive slaves were sleeping — if that is what they were doing − when the thieves broke in?’

All Polycarpus could say was that Nicostratus, the porter on duty, was by the front door. We went to look. Off the entrance corridor was a tiny cubbyhole, but Polycarpus said neither of the porters liked it, finding it too stuffy and enclosed; they tended to sleep on a mat in the corridor. That was where the wounded Nicostratus had been found.

Otherwise, Polycarpus reckoned that the gardener, Diomedes, generally curled up in the garden or one of the cloisters around it. Then the steward remembered giving permission for the two females, Mucia’s personal attendant and her young musician, to sleep in one of the decent rooms at the front of the apartment. He suspected that Chrysodorus, the philosopher, would have taken it upon himself to sleep in another, probably the one I was now using.

‘Your master had a tame philosopher?’ I kept my expression neutral.

‘My new mistress liked refinements,’ answered the steward stiffly. This was the first hint that there might have been friction between him and the householders, but it was only a hint.

‘Stoic, Cynic or Epicurean? What variety is he?’

‘A bone idle one.’

‘I see. Perhaps he would say he has successfully cultivated an untroubled inner life.’

‘Possibly, Flavia Albia. My feeling is that somebody should give him a kick up his untroubled arse.’

I noticed Polycarpus letting himself express something less bland than normal. It made me think I might enjoy meeting Chrysodorus. It was also a clue to explore relations between the master’s established staff and new people brought by Mucia Lucilia. When I asked, Polycarpus assured me they all got on perfectly together, but he was bound to say that.

We were coming to the end of my meeting with the steward, except that I did mention my unhappiness with the eating arrangements. I instructed him to buy in food for me and Dromo, which I would prepare. If he provided salad and meats, little work would be necessary. He agreed, so we went back to the kitchen where he showed me equipment, crockery and cutlery.

A fire was kept in for hot water. Myla had that job. We found her there, adding firewood in a desultory way. She was the first of the household slaves I met, and I did not take to her. She was a slow drudge with a dreamy manner who accepted my presence in her domain, received instructions to look after me, but said nothing.

The newborn babe lay quiet in a basket. I was curious to ask who its father was, but kept that for another time. Polycarpus was still with us and from what I knew of freedmen with power in a house, he might be a candidate.

The steward treated Myla offhandedly. I had the impression he had given up trying to impose discipline. Myla seemed to be one of those slaves who lived in her own world, and somehow persuaded everyone else to go along with that. Clearly she did the minimum necessary to avoid notice or criticism.

I did not blame her. If I was a slave, I would have behaved the same way.