Graveyard of the Hesperides

XXVII

I felt as distrustful as when I had seen her earlier with the Dardanians. Close to, she was around fifty, with the air of an angry matriarch even if in fact she was not a mother. She was at least as old as Lepida, and much unhappier in her spirit.

She carried a powerful aura, full of confidence. She looked like someone who would matter-of-factly drown unwanted kittens. She might also drown me, if I happened to offend her and there was a handy barrel.

From time to time, people passed in the street, though nobody gave us a second glance. That could mean that once they identified Menendra, they were careful to look away.

“You!” Her voice was throaty. Either she made a habit of yelling at people or she had spent too much time amid the smoky oil of late-night lamps.

“Me?” I queried demurely, stalling.

“Yes, you! The magistrate’s bint.” Faustus would smile at that. I gave her my I am my own woman stare. My attempt was as much use as trying to wash a dog that’s rolled in dung without getting dirty yourself.

She came nearer. I would have stepped back but I was already against the bar counter. Menendra was a hard-faced ratchet who could not be called attractive, though she looked as if she had never been held back by that. She wore a dark green gown with a fierce belt, but she had let her body run to seed so her belly flopped over it. The necklace hanging heavily from her dry, creased neck must have cost plenty, though if she had money she did not waste it on skin lotions. She also wore large metal earrings of an exotic ethnic type. Taking those together with her accent, wherever she originated was a long way from Rome.

I never despised anyone for that.

“You want to speak to me?”

“Yes, I do, if you can find me a moment, dearie.” I could see this woman forcing herself to sound milder. She wanted something, or she wanted to make me do something; it would be bad policy for her to start out too rough. I was equally uncomfortable. Everything about her, including the lurking heavies, made me feel too dainty. The urge to simper and tuck in locks of hair felt strong, though I have never been a hair-twiddler, thank you, Juno.

“Well, I am Flavia Albia, as you seem to know. And you are…?”

“Menendra.” I gave no sign of having heard the name, but asked what she did. She ignored that, so I asked what she wanted. “Just a word to the wise, dearie.” This is the usual euphemism when somebody is warning you to back off. I played innocent. She kept pressing. “You don’t want to get yourself in any trouble, do you?”

I refused to understand her. At moments like this, I like to be my mother’s daughter: educated, well-off, well-mannered, sweet-natured … Well, maybe not sweet-natured. I pursed my lips slightly, but I folded my hands gently at my waist and raised my eyebrows, looking merely amused at her tone of voice. Then I simply waited. I wanted to see how far she would commit herself.

It was an interesting situation. Menendra clearly struggled, as if she was addressing me in a foreign language. The codes she normally used with people she bullied-and I reckoned bullying was her medium-were not working. She was desperate to make me comply; she did not know how to go about it. She had a reputation, but I seemed to have no fear of it. She saw that an open offensive would be counterproductive. Since I was a magistrate’s woman, anything stronger than wheedling would be risky, because Faustus could come down very heavily on her.

I refused to help. Let her flounder. Let her wonder whether I was too dense to see what she meant-or actually laughing up my sleeve at her.

“Now listen, dearie. You just tell that man of yours, whatever happened was a long time ago and it’s better for everyone not to stir it all up again.”

“Why don’t you tell him?” Even to myself I sounded haughty. “Of course he will ask what is it to you? Were you involved? What do you know about the people we have found dead?” I paused for a single beat. “Did you kill them?”

Still controlling her manner, Menendra gave me a reproachful look. “Now, you don’t want to go around accusing people of killings.”

I stopped being a nice senator’s granddaughter. “It’s what I do.”

She blinked.

I smiled with false sweetness. “We seem to have got off on the wrong foot. Shall we try again? I am formally investigating the events that led to six bodies being buried in the courtyard of this bar. Manlius Faustus, the plebeian aedile, wants to know who they are and who put them there. Apparently, you don’t think we should interfere, but you’re too late. As soon as the first bones turned up, that was the end of keeping things quiet. So, before we discuss the corpses, Menendra, why don’t you tell me about yourself and your connection with the Hesperides? I have heard you act as a supplier to the local bars. Fruit was mentioned.”

“Fruit?” Menendra now definitely thought I was making mock.

If what she really supplied was flesh for the upstairs-room trade, “fruit” could be a witty word for it. But Menendra lacked my sense of humor. I noticed that after her first outburst of disgust, she failed to correct me. To me, that confirmed what she traded was sexual. “I am in commerce, yes that’s right. I work with all the neighborhood bars. They all know me very well.” But for what? She had no intention of explaining.

“And they don’t mess with you!” Flattery was worth a try. But again she completely ignored it. This was a hard, shrewd woman who expected to be in control.

“Were you at the Garden of the Hesperides on the night the six people died?”

“I was not.” Menendra spoke with a nasty smirk, daring me to try to prove otherwise. I felt sure she would lie to me. If I was ever to put her at the scene that evening, someone else would have to tell me. First I would have to find them, then convince them it was safe to risk Menendra’s wrath.

“Did you know Rufia?”

“Who told you that?”

“I can’t remember,” I bluffed. A wise informer protected her sources. Otherwise, if Menendra got to them with her hints about keeping quiet, backed up with her heavies’ meaningful looks, those sources would dry up rapidly. “Several people.”

“Yes, I knew Rufia, knew her very well. What of it?”

“Do you believe one of those bodies they dug up is her?”

“Well she vanished, didn’t she?”

“She did so quite unexpectedly?”

“I heard that.”

“Somebody tried to burgle her old room last night. I wonder what they were looking for?”

“Oh, what can it have been?” sneered Menendra, not even troubling to deny her involvement.

“Rufia isn’t the only puzzle. There are five more bodies. That night she disappeared a group of salesmen were in the bar. You’re in commerce. Do you know anything about them, or who they were?”

“I never heard about any salesmen.” Really? Nothing she said was reliable; she actually flaunted that.

“Rufia looked after them.”

“You seem to know all about it, Flavia Albia!”

I knew damn all, and this witness was not helping. I recognized what was going on. Her aim was to find out how much I did know, but not to enlighten me further.

I toughened up again. “Oh I think you are the one who knows, Menendra. So if I can hand out quiet advice myself, it is let me find out by my own civilized methods. Don’t compel me to call in the men with hot irons and weights.”

“You don’t scare me!” She leaned toward me, full of menace. “I said, leave it all alone!” She intended to petrify me. She turned to her two heavies, her intention plain.

“Call them off, Menendra.” Measuring distances by eye, I let her know I could get to her before her men could get to me. Then I spoke like a street urchin who had taken part in every kind of street fight: “Scram them! Or I’ll pull out your eyes with my bare hands before your brutes can move a step.”