Enemies at Home

10

I went back to the Esquiline in a carrying chair. Faustus paid the fare in advance. Expenses up front? That was civilised, for a client of mine.

He kept Dromo, saying he would send him over tomorrow with a Stargazer breakfast and other supplies. A take-out from the Stargazer had many drawbacks, but the street-food I knew was still better than what I had found so far anywhere around the Clivus Suburanus.

Arriving at the Aviola building, the carriers bunked off smartly, leaving me in the street. Now I had a quandary. The apartment doors were closed and locked. One door porter was dead, the other in sanctuary. Thank you, gods!

Knocking failed to induce the girl Myla to let me in; I suspected the dozy lump would not have responded even if she heard me. Hades, I was thinking like an owner: blaming a slave simply because she lacked vivacity.

I tried that trick with a hairpin, which never works. I had a go with my paring knife. I even walked around the block, looking for the usual weak point, a back entrance. No luck.

I stayed calm. A lock-out could easily have happened at home in Fountain Court, where the ridiculous porter Rodan often fastened up, vanished and went deaf even to tenants and legitimate callers.

It was evening, but not so late that I felt anxious, even though I was alone and very tired. At least this helped me envisage how the robbers must have faced their break-in: the apartment’s narrow entrance through the street-front shops meant only these double doors would give access, and they were strong. They were designed to look formidable; the lock was a serious one, needing a good key. A sliding spyhole would allow a porter to look out at visitors, but although it was wooden (some doors have a metal grille) it was so small there was nothing to gain by smashing it.

I would have done if it would do any good. Every girl should be ready to find a stray brick — and to use it.

I knew the steward lived somewhere up above. However, I might not need to go knocking at the other apartments to find him. Three of the shops were closed up now, but one showed light. When I approached and called out, there was a pause, then two men of North African appearance pulled open their shutter a crack and looked out cautiously.

I guessed these were Libycus’ cronies. When I mentioned him, they let me in and sat me down politely on a stool that they brushed clean. They realised he was in big trouble. I made sure they knew that if he was innocent I might help him, so it would be good to assist me.

They were leatherworkers. Not tanners; the smell of hides in preparation is outlawed from city centre neighbourhoods. Leather was supplied to them. These men cut out and put together purses, belts and other fancy goods, punching them with patterns and creating tassels. They had this typical workroom unit, from which they could also make sales. Finished goods hung on strings all around. At the back, steps led up to a mezzanine level where they slept.

I had not expected to continue my enquiries at this time of night, but you take what fate offers. So I learned that with a background in common, Secundus and Myrinus had made friends with Libycus at the baths; knowing these premises were empty and suitable for their business, he passed on a tip. Since they moved in, if ever Aviola didn’t want him, Libycus popped along to see them. They confirmed his story of visiting their shop on the night of the murders.

‘When he left you, was that only because the hour was late — or had you heard a disturbance?’ They said Libycus left because he was nervous in case his master wanted him. Worn out, Secundus and Myrinus then fell into a dead sleep. According to them, they knew nothing about the tragedy until next morning.

Well, that was possible.

Myrinus went up to fetch Polycarpus for me. When the steward came down and let me into the apartment, he was perfectly respectful, went ahead and set out lamps. I suggested he ought to supply a key; he promised to attend to it next day.

‘Do you know those leatherworkers?’

‘They seem a couple of good boys.’

Polycarpus asked how I had got on with the fugitive slaves. I confined myself to saying ‘we held useful discussions’. The slaves were not the only people who could be tight-lipped.

I was pretty sure Polycarpus believed himself capable of winkling more out of me, but he was professional enough to drop the subject. Maybe he guessed that if he didn’t, I was professional enough to thump him. Also, if he showed too much curiosity, it might look significant.

‘Do you feel any great loyalty to the fugitive slaves, Polycarpus?’

‘Yes, I feel responsible for them, as their supervisor. We all belong to the same household — one where I was a slave myself once. It counts, Flavia Albia.’

As Aviola’s freedman, he was supposed to feel more loyalty to his master, but was that really the case? If the slaves were in trouble, how far would Polycarpus go to protect them? Would there ever be a situation where he took their part against his master?

Something to ponder as the inquiry proceeded.

After I was sure Polycarpus had left, and before I went to bed, I made further checks. As I had thought: there was no damage on the front doors or their fancy frame.

Something else failed to fit too: as far as I could tell by the tiny light of an oil lamp, there were no bloodstains on the corridor floor. It was black and white mosaic, with extremely small tesserae, neatly laid. Given the blood Nicostratus must have shed, I would expect to see indelible marks in the grouting, even if the floor had been deep-cleaned. I must double-check tomorrow in the light. Maybe Nicostratus managed to struggle away from his attackers and into the apartment — yet Phaedrus had definitely told me he found his colleague lying unconscious in the entrance corridor.

I was unsure whether this was good news or bad, but I had now identified the first inconsistencies.