Enemies at Home

17

I went for my planned interview with Galla’s son.

Marcus Valerius Simplicianus was twenty-five, an age when ambitious young Roman men can be awarded political positions. But this waste of space would not be standing for office. The only thing he would work hard at — very hard — was avoiding work.

His mother thought he was wonderful. Everyone else saw through it, but that did not impinge on Valerius, who himself happily believed the myth.

I thought it was extremely unfair that the gods had given this ning-nong-ninnying noodle such beautiful eyelashes.

He had lashes like an unweaned prize calf. Most women I knew would drool with envy. One or two would drool all over him, because of his eye decorations, though I myself was repulsed. I like effective men.

The remaining parts of Valerius are not worth noting. I could see only slight resemblance to his mother, a pleasant-looking woman, nor did he share any facial features with the ceramic plaque of his republican-style father. So much for art.

He had an annoying voice. His nasal whine was even more trying because he could not pronounce his ‘r’s. Either he could not manage it because of a real defect, or he simply could not be bothered to speak properly. I thought it an affectation.

Of course I was not prejudiced against him, which would be unprofessional. He was a witness, possibly a suspect. I therefore remained entirely neutral about the idle, no-good, exasperating, spoiled brat.

‘You look as if you don’t like me!’ So he was not entirely an idiot.

We had a short, brisk interview. I asked bluntly if he had wanted to kill his father; he looked amused at the suggestion and denied it. Believing in himself so much, Valerius Simplicianus was unable to imagine his papa ever doing him down − which meant he really did lack motive. His line was, ‘The old man could be annoying, but when all was said and done, we got on fine.’

In other words, since Aviola could not possibly take against such a perfect heir, the heir had no reason to murder his father. Did he?

Weight was against him. His skinny wrists would never manage the steady force needed to strangle someone.

So I asked about his mother and how people were saying she harboured murderous thoughts. To that, Valerius replied in the same languorous, unconcerned tone: ‘Well, the old lady goes off into a world of her own sometimes, but she wouldn’t harm a fly. She’s horribly distressed about what happened − and really you ought not to hound her.’

I said I was sorry if his mother felt hounded. All anybody wanted was to discover the truth about this terrible crime. ‘Me too!’ answered the wonderboy, speaking very earnestly. He had put on his serious face. He leaned towards me and seemed to think he had cleverly deflected my enquiries.

His mother came into the room at that point. There was no point tying to dissect the son while Mama was supervising.

Since the executor, Simplicius, had been keeping quiet about the ex-wife and children when I spoke to him, he had of course misled me on Aviola’s will. I now ascertained from Galla Simplicia that when Simplicius vaguely spoke of ‘a number of bequests to close relatives and old friends’ this included recognition of his three children. Being an effete wastrel, Valerius knew in full what he was due. (They have to. How else will they live? Besides, legacy-hunting is a very Roman occupation.)

He seemed oblivious to the implications of admitting he had known he would come into money when his father died, though I could tell from his mother’s narrow expression that she was well aware it made him a suspect.

I took my leave.

I still had an open mind about Galla Simplicia. I needed evidence. If she had plotted, then let her think she had escaped, while I dug deeper.

I doubted that she killed the couple herself. Strangulation can be a woman’s method, but not when it involves more than one person at a time — well, except when a deranged mother kills all her infant children. Aviola and Mucia together could have driven her off. More importantly, Galla Simplicia did not have the physical strength to have beaten the door porter, Nicostratus. More than one attacker must have taken part, and whoever did it really knew how to inflict fatal damage.

That presumably indicated robbers — though it might not. I was supposed to be investigating the slaves, and if they really were guilty, I must start wondering whether any robbers had been involved at all that night. Or was the story a cover-up?

I wanted to pursue that. Manlius Faustus had insisted that my commission was not to include contact with criminals. That wouldn’t stop me if it was needed.

However, so long as there are alternatives I am not foolish. I had not yet tried consulting the vigiles. Perhaps they had wise words to offer on this case (feel free to guffaw). Then, if I did decide to go behind my employer’s back, at least the vigiles could tell me first which ghastly local gangsters might have been involved. But I presumed they had questioned the usual suspects.

I had to steel myself to visit the Second Cohort. For a woman, even talking to the vigiles means a trial of courage and personality, especially in a strange district. I needed to get this over with before I lost my nerve.