Enemies at Home

2

I had seen the aedile coming − always a good idea with magistrates who can impose large fines. Anyone who runs a market stall, anyone with a pavement outside their premises, anyone whose profession is heavily regulated (any prostitute, for instance), loathes aediles. Informers like me avoid them. My relatives who ran the Stargazer would not thank him for eating there, given that part of his job was the regulation of bars. They would not thank me either. They would think he had chosen it because he knew it was my local.

I had first met Faustus a few weeks before, working jointly on an investigation and sometimes putting our heads together in this very caupona. I had known him to go about in disguise, though not today. He was a solid man in his mid-thirties, who came down the drab street with a steady tread. He had no flashy train of attendants, relying on his purple-striped tunic to deter trouble-makers. Aediles were not given bodyguards. They were sacrosanct, protected by religious laws. Besides, he was obviously tough; even when he was preoccupied, Faustus looked as if he punched his weight. That was assuming people even noticed him; he was not the kind of official who made a lot of noise wherever he went.

He cannot have expected to see me sitting at a table. He thought I was with my family at our villa on the coast, though I had recently come back to Rome because I was tired of sun, sand and fishing expeditions. Before anyone wonders, I was not hankering for Faustus. I might be a fancy-free widow, but a magistrate was way out of my league.

‘Flavia Albia!’

‘Manlius Faustus.’

Formal name terms. After he ordered a bread roll with Lucanian sausage, the Stargazer’s only deal that morning (or any morning), he took a seat at my table, though he asked permission first.

‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Always a pleasure.’

‘Good to see you.’

‘You too, aedile.’

Play acting. We were both unsure. The last time we met, I made embarrassing advances, which Faustus sensibly rejected. Despite my gaffe, the aedile had expressed a hope we might work together again. Being polite, I thought. Still, here he was in my aunt’s horrible bar.

Manlius Faustus had responsibilities for neighbourhood law and order — fair trading, clean streets, quiet baths and decorous brothels. I knew he was currently advising magistrates in other districts too, as they tackled a rash of random street killings that were happening throughout Rome. We lived in troubled times. The Vesuvius calamity, a decade ago but still vivid in the memory, had shaken people. We now had a paranoid emperor, who at just short of forty was still young enough to inflict many years of dread upon us. Our empire’s borders regularly came under attack from barbarians, so there was constant unsettling military talk. The city was also full of bitter satirists, outlawed philosophers and pouting poets who had failed to win prizes. In this climate all kinds of madness flourished.

As for me, I was a private investigator. Don’t point out it’s an unusual job for a woman; after twelve years, I had heard that enough times. I was hired by clients who wanted help when life went wrong — or sometimes before it happened: parents checking out gold-diggers their silly daughters had fallen for; small traders whose rivals were stealing business; litigants searching for witnesses to back them up in court; executors of wills who feared they were inheriting large debts. Many of my enquiries led to divorce. Most clients were sad people: either hopeless idiots who had caused their own predicament or well-meaning innocents who had been targeted by fraudsters.

Faustus glumly tapped his bread roll, which was definitely yesterday’s. He looked around. The Stargazer stood on a corner, with the usual arrangement of crazy-patterned marble counters at right angles where, come lunchtime, big pots of unappetising broths would attract more flies than customers. Inside, a wonky shelf had been nailed to a wall, using too-short nails. Beakers in various sizes were perched on it, ready to crash off when the fixings gave way. A faded sign on one wall offered varieties of wine, with illegible notes of their prices. Falernian was permanently listed, though always ‘sold out’ if you asked for it. Mostly the bar was visited by local labourers in search of cheap scoff. They would stand in the street, snatching a bite and a drink. Sit-down diners were rare.

Old Apollonius, who called himself the head waiter, leaned on one counter and stared into space. My aunt or my cousin would come in later; Aunt Junia was an abrasive character who should never have been running a bar, but her son, Junillus, made the best of this sad place.

A stray dog snuck in for a sniff around; she didn’t like it and left quickly. The second table indoors was empty, which was all too normal.

Making conversation, I described to Faustus my boredom with sun and seaside stuff. He patiently listened, then told me about the double murder on the Esquiline and needing to remove the fugitive slaves from the temple. He never gave much away, but I could tell he felt despondent.

He was sturdy, in the way of plebeian Romans, though taller than many and not bandy-legged. He had that way of implying he thought himself affable, while in fact remaining reticent. His eyes were grey, which does happen; mine were too, though his had no blue tint but were entirely pale, like the mist that comes off the Tiber at dawn. His dark hair was not yet tinged with grey, though gave the impression it might be soon. When he bothered to shave and spruce up, he was a fine-looking man. He had bothered today.

Faustus speared his sausage slice on the point of his own pocket-knife then gingerly tasted it. Even the Stargazer could do little damage to a bought-in Lucanian, so he cheered up. I reached over and pinched a gherkin that Apollonius had plonked on as a garnish. Faustus let me do it but quickly nipped up the other gherkin himself. We were easy together, for some reason that I never troubled to analyse.

He started complaining that the Esquiline, where the Aviola couple were murdered, was not his patch. When a group of new aediles began their year in office, they divided up Rome, each hoping to get areas that produced high revenues. They couldn’t take the income home (well, not legally), but public service is all about ‘my record is shinier than yours’. Each wanted to win the fines challenge. Success would attract votes if ever they stood for election again, or at least they might be rewarded with some minor priesthood.

Faustus had managed to get jurisdiction of the Aventine, home ground for both of us and a busy hive of wrongdoers. The Esquiline was one of the other Seven Hills, lying beyond the Circus Maximus and the Forum. It was not an area I knew well and Faustus seemed to think little of it.

‘I need to find out what really happened in the apartment that night, Albia. If the slaves are exonerated, they can go home. We are stuck with them until then.’

‘You’re even stuck with them if they are guilty — they have sought asylum.’

‘Don’t I know it! I have to prove somebody else is guilty.’ As Faustus leaned back in his seat and considered me, I saw where he was heading: ‘I don’t have the time; I need an agent.’

‘What about the vigiles?’

Succinctly, Faustus described Titianus of the Second Cohort.

‘Well, I can’t help you,’ I warned, getting in first. ‘I welcome new work, but not an exhausting trek over there every day.’

Faustus smiled sweetly. I was too experienced to fall for that. ‘I could organise some accommodation nearby,’ he offered. ‘And for assisting the Temple of Ceres, your fee would be worth having.’ I was tempted. I was short of work after my holiday. The temple could afford to pay well, since it benefited directly from all the fines the aediles slapped on people. ‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘It’s fascinating, Albiola. You know you want it.’ It always disturbed me when he used that diminutive, which he had invented.

I outlined for him why no informer would do this: the impossibility of tracking down the burglars now Titianus had muddied the trail, the difficulties of making slaves give reliable answers, the need for speed, the risks of any inquiry that was conducted in the public eye …

‘You are exactly the woman. Discreet, shrewd and no-nonsense,’ Faustus flattered me.

‘Damn you, Tiberius.’ I was not being over-familiar; he used his first name when working incognito, as he had been when I first met him.

‘I am delighted you accept. Do you need a written contract?’

‘I believe I do,’ I answered coldly. ‘Let me draft it; then I can specify draconian terms.’

Faustus grinned as he ordered up more breakfast. He could afford to be cheerful. His troubles were over. Mine were just beginning.

At least he told Apollonius to bring Lucanian sausage for me too. ‘Make that with big Colymbadian olives on the side and double gherkins!’ I growled, exploiting my new employer, who agreed it with a look of resignation.

To be honest, I fancied working with him. He was an interesting character.

I was already planning where to start. I told Faustus that the first thing the Temple of Ceres must pay for was decent legal advice. I happened to know two lawyers who were no more devious than normal and who, for the kind of money a religious body paid, would certainly oblige.

My uncles. Yes, I know what I said about never working with relatives, but the Camillus brothers were always so skint they would welcome this.