Enemies at Home

7

I took advantage of the steward believing our talk had gone well. Soon I would finish my initial enquiries, where I maintained a neutral attitude on purpose while I assessed the scene and familiarised myself with the witnesses. Once I began applying pressure, Polycarpus would realise he had failed to ingratiate himself, but for the moment I played grateful.

I fetched a stole and asked him to show me where to find Aviola’s executors; on the way there we could see what the local shops and stalls had to offer and I would point out the kind of provisions I liked.

Out in the streets it was immediately clear that around here Polycarpus had made himself a man of account. Everybody knew who he was. People bustled up to greet him. Whenever we paused at a greengrocer, salami seller or fruiterer, the proprietor dropped what he was doing to attend to us personally. If we failed to stop, traders left their stalls and shops and actually followed us for some distance, offering Polycarpus deals, treats, pleas and samples of their goods. I lost count of the times I was told what a wonderful fellow my companion was. Had he not been a freedman he could have stood as a local tribune and beaten all comers.

It was based on favours, naturally. He must have steadily built relationships along the Clivus Suburanus and nearby, using his importance as controller of Aviola’s domestic budget; in return he could depend on these suppliers, making himself look good at home by miraculously providing whatever his master wanted, even at short notice. He probably had equally smooth dealings with building contractors and so forth.

I saw no coins changing hands; it would all be done on account, with creditors no doubt having to beg for payment weeks in arrears in the classic Roman way. Nor did they yet seem too afraid that with the master dead the account might be closed, though one or two did enquire what would happen now. Polycarpus claimed not to know, implying that if it was left to him transactions would continue as usual.

I was convinced little bonuses passed to him regularly. I don’t criticise. He was a really good steward. Whether I would want someone exercising that kind of influence in my household is another matter.

‘What household is that supposed to be, Albia?’ my family would roar. They thought I lived like a vagrant.

The main executor was called Sextus Simplicius and had an apartment in a block three streets from Aviola’s. A door porter let us in; then we saw a polite functionary much like Polycarpus. He told us his master was out on business and made an appointment for me the next day. Polycarpus took the lead in our conversation, of course, though at the end I intervened and mentioned that when I came back I would like to see the will. Eyebrows were raised. I remained calm, simply letting the two stewards know I expected my request to be taken seriously and passed on to the executor.

I could always call on Manlius Faustus to help me obtain sight of the document, though I preferred not to. Who wants to look incompetent?

If Aviola and Mucia really had been murdered by strangers, knowing the contents of the will ought to be routine, simply covering all angles. On the other hand, if the slaves were implicated as the vigiles argued, anything Aviola had had to say about their disposal might be helpful. Which did he trust and value?

I would have liked to know this before my next move but decisions were urgent for Faustus. I was now ready to go over to the Aventine and visit the group in sanctuary.

Polycarpus seemed to think it one of his duties to attend these interviews. You guessed: I refused. I marched him back to the apartment, where instead I picked up Dromo.

‘Why’ve I got to haul myself all that way with you? You can report to Faustus yourself.’

‘Any more backchat. Dromo, and I’ll say he dumped a useless dropout on me, who needs to be reassigned as a dung-shoveller.’

‘Can’t I ask a simple question?’

‘Questions are my job. And if you don’t get a move on, I won’t have time to ask any at the Temple.’

I told him to bring his cudgel in case it was late when we came back. That went down badly. Dromo was afraid of being out in the dark.

I took it to mean my client Faustus rarely went to late-night parties. Intriguing!

My parents owned a few slaves, most of them pitiful purchases with two left feet and ten grades of insolence, so I knew what to expect. Walking with Dromo was tedious. He dragged along, he moaned about how far it was, and I had to keep stopping to make sure he was still there behind me.

Eventually we made it. Back in my home district I cheered up, and when I had a bowl of chickpea broth at a bar counter by the Circus Maximus, I fed Dromo too, which at least made him temporarily stop whingeing.

The Temple of Ceres is on a corner of the Aventine, not far above the corn-dole station. (Pay attention. Ceres is the grain goddess.) Hers is a mighty great shrine with ancient Greek styling, its interior containing three magnificent cult statues funded by fines raised by the aediles. As a centre of plebeian power, this big temple sends a message of defiance over to the aristocratic gods who live on the Capitol. It is presided over by an important Roman priest, the Flamen Cerialis, but it also has a group of female devotees.

Head of the cult was a very old priestess who had been brought to Rome specially from Neapolis because of Campania’s Greek connections. (The rites of Ceres are said to be Greek, though unlike most Romans I have been to Greece and I say that’s pigswill.) Cosying up to the priestess was a dreary bunch of stuck-up local matrons who carried out good works. One of these shrine-nuisances was a bugbear of mine. Just my luck: I ran into her.

An attendant had already told me that the slaves were now at the aediles’ office. To move them out of the religious areas, some dispensation had been arranged, no doubt by the sensible Manlius Faustus. I was heading off to his office when, too late, I ran into the bossiest of Ceres’ cult women. She was a skinny blonde madame who always looked at me as if I was something smelly she had picked up on her expensive sandal. This woman and her brother had inherited a fortune, and if she could have walked around with a placard saying how superior that made her, she would have done it.

‘Laia Gratiana!’ In a previous case of mine, this Laia had made herself thoroughly obnoxious. Neither of us had forgotten. One day I would be compelled to knock her down and jump on her. I could tell you it would be for her own good, but the truth is it would be for my personal pleasure.

‘What are you doing here?’

I explained my business quietly.

‘You had better get on with it then.’

‘Well, thanks for your permission, Laia. I shall do that!’

I left the temple, seething inwardly but trying not to look riled.

‘Cor,’ muttered Dromo, admiringly. ‘You really got up that one’s nose! What have you done to her?’

‘I have no idea.’ I knew perfectly.

‘I bet she’s jealous of you, being so sweet with my master.’ Dromo became excited, thinking he knew a secret. ‘I bet you don’t know who she is, Albia?’

‘I know who she was.’

She was Faustus’ ex-wife. Laia Gratiana left him because he had an affair (I had not been surreptitiously delving; Faustus told me himself). It happened ten years ago, but the embittered divorcee still harboured a grudge. I supposed it was subconscious, but she looked highly annoyed to find me assisting Faustus. It would suit her best to see him fail in his task.

Well, that made up my mind. If I had anything to do with this, Manlius Faustus would not fail.