Enemies at Home

28

Failing to find that silver left me downhearted. It had to be key to the mystery. While it might yet turn up a few pieces at a time in some dodgy backstreet homeware shop, the longer those goblets stayed missing, the less chance we had of finding them and we were missing the big clue as to who came into the apartment and carried out the murders.

If the Rabirius gang never took the loot, I had to accept that the vigiles investigator Titianus had been right all along: this must be an inside job. I badly wanted to best Titianus. But suppose he was right and the slaves were guilty: what had they done with the items they stole? Those who fled surely did not rush through the dark streets to the Temple of Ceres carrying a sack full of rattling bullion.

Well, it was just possible. We would look really silly if the lost property had been hidden there in plain sight all along. I would ask Faustus, the next time he was in the Temple, to double-check the display cases of gifts to the goddess. People deposited treasure to win themselves divine favour (or at least the glutinous thanks of the priests).

No, I do not care for priests. My father taught me to distrust them, whether they are members of the public holding office to further their ambition, or devious professionals with filthy morals and an eye for behind-the-cult-statue liaisons.

Yes, some priest must have upset my papa badly. Though Didius Falco can take against members of other professions just because they have a wart or are wearing pea green. Actually I agree with him over green.

Enough of this rambling — another thing my father taught me. You are supposed to witter on about nothing important, while the answer to your problem pops into your mind.

Look, even a brilliant informer can believe in crackpot routines. Father had them. I had them. You do your work your own lousy way, legate, and leave us to solve our cases in ours.

I admit, I had hit the low point here: that moment in an inquiry when frustration and even boredom threatens to make you abandon it. I had to remind myself that I was hired to report to Manlius Faustus that the slaves at the temple could be proven innocent. The truth threatened to be that I could not prove it — and maybe they were not.

It seemed impossible to say that any of the refugee slaves, except the deceased porter Nicostratus, were certainly not involved in strangling their master and mistress. Even Nicostratus could have been part of a conspiracy to steal the silver.

I kept returning to him. Even allowing a scenario where Aviola and Mucia were killed by their slaves for one of the normal reasons slaves turn against masters, I was unable to explain the first attack that night. However I looked at it, what happened to Nicostratus was an anomaly. Who killed him? Who beat him up so violently he died of his injuries — and why?

I supposed it was feasible that the other slaves conspired against Aviola and Mucia, but Nicostratus remained loyal to the couple and refused to join in. So the others may have turned on him. Perhaps they carried him away with them because if he regained consciousness he could tell the vigiles what the rest had done? But that was no surety because he could still have told the temple authorities.

If the other slaves had murdered Aviola and Mucia, they cannot have been tender-hearted. Why in that case did they not finish off Nicostratus straightaway?

Another curious aspect: why was Libycus, Aviola’s bodyslave, out of the house? If he was part of a conspiracy, what was the point of him being off-scene when the killing took place? Had he too objected to killing Aviola, whom he had served so intimately for so many years? Did somebody suggest he go and see his friends in the shop, to get him out of the way?

Supposing Libycus refused to contemplate killing Aviola, how did Amaranta feel about disposing of Mucia Lucilia? Of course male cynics will tell you women are more bloodthirsty. But she seemed a perfectly decent young woman to me.

You may think I am bound to say that. Not me. I am ready to believe the worst of anyone. I judge by feel and instinct, the informer’s precious tools. My gut said Amaranta was hoping to be freed in the near future, which gave her no motive for murder. Far from it. Her mistress’ sudden death had removed all her hopes. I could not imagine that sharp girl, with the fancy hair plaits and plenty of men hankering, would jeopardise her prospects.

I thought back to the day I interviewed the slaves. When I saw them at the aediles’ office there had been no sign of tensions between them. Even though I had now been told there were ructions in this household, the small group had sat together quietly, dull-eyed and anxious over their fate, but as far as I could tell they were bonded, a single entity. Some — Amaranta, Phaedrus the other porter, Chrysodorus the philosopher, Olympe the girl musician — came from Mucia Lucilia’s previous house; the rest had a long-term service with Aviola. Some had general duties in the house or garden; others carried out more personal services. Some — Amethystus and Diomedes — seemed reconciled to a life of slavery; others were hankering for freedom and perhaps very close to obtaining it. Had they not told me, I would have been unable to distinguish.

Did this mean they were indeed bonded — through joint involvement in the crime?

After mulling until my brain was in turmoil, I left the apartment. I had no wish to stay there that particular night, especially since I had mislaid Dromo. Last night’s violence against Quintus Camillus had made me jumpy.

I ventured out of doors nervously. To my relief, as I scanned the street for anyone from the Rabirius gang, I spotted the foreman Faustus had sent for the search. He was finishing snacks at a bar with his men, so I asked to join them as they made for home. Escorting me to where the Camillus brothers lived hardly took them out of their way to the Aventine.

At the Capena Gate I found that Uncle Quintus was awake, up to a point. He had chosen to dull his pain with a large goblet of Chian red wine. This, he claimed, was a more natural and cheering painkiller than medicine — and anyway the Chian was ready to drink. Lying on multiple pillows, with offspring sprawled around him telling him stories and playing quiet games among themselves, he smelt curiously of turpentine balms when I leaned in to kiss him. He was not making much sense, though seemed easy in himself.

I found Claudia Rufina in a salon with Aulus’ first wife, Hosidia Meline. These two well-dressed women from ancient civilised provinces, Spain and Greece, regarded me as a wild barbarian since I came from Britain. Meline had a habit of teasingly calling me a druid. The Romans had invited, cajoled and coerced most gods of the Mediterranean into their city, no doubt to cover themselves in case the Olympic pantheon were not truly the tops. At no point had they brought the druids. Nor would they.

The elegant ones told me Aulus had gone out. On occasions he surprised us with brief bursts of social manoeuvring; today he wanted to move among his peers, canvassing support for the speech he intended to make about gangland criminals.

‘I hope I was not expected to invite that aedile to lunch!’ Claudia said, at which Meline shook her head. In cahoots, these two senatorial wives openly shunned Faustus for his plebeian status, even though he belonged to a family that had been established and wealthy for years, and was himself the holder of a high office. ‘I know he is your client, Albia …’

‘And a friend!’ I snapped, letting my aunt see what I thought of her bad manners towards Faustus. It made me change my intention of staying here another night.

I asked to borrow escort slaves. I would have reclaimed Mucia’s carrying chair, but Claudia informed me it had already been collected, by Polycarpus. He had told her that it was a valuable asset which he needed to keep carefully for the executors.

‘I am appalled that you were put into a vehicle with dried blood on the seat, Flavia Albia. Whoever was murdered there? I was glad to see the back of the thing. My children kept playing in it … Your own boy is still here, if you need an escort.’

I managed to find Dromo, who had stayed at the Capena Gate because nobody instructed him to do anything else. I dragged him with me up to the Aventine. First we went to the aediles’ office, but Faustus was absent. If he had been denied lunch by Claudia, he probably needed an early dinner. I knew where he lived, but was leery of visiting him at home.

Instead I went to Fountain Court. ‘Cor, this is a dump!’ Dromo informed me, in case I had not noticed. I told him to doss downstairs with the porter.

I took myself to the haven of my own apartment. This was indeed a dump, but I felt overdue for a night in my own bed. I had been away from home for five days; after that time any woman needs to refresh herself with a change of earrings.