The Ides of April

XXXIII

Next morning was the thirteenth day of April, the Ides. It was a long day for me, and in due course I was to see that it was the pivotal point of my enquiries. It was also my birthday, although when I woke in the morning I had forgotten about that. When you live alone, all days are equal.

It began mundanely. A domestic day. I made life hell for the boy who swept the stairs, the water carrier, the lamp provider and Rodan. Supervision of lacklustre male staff is the traditional role of a Roman woman, in a business, on a farm, in the home. We hold the keys. We organise the rota. We know where to lay hands on equipment when it is needed. We keep things running smoothly, while the half-baked and the blatantly bone-idle mess about. Men are convinced they run the Empire. The Empire would collapse without us.

Throwing my weight around perked me up. I then changed the covers on my bed, sorted my wardrobe, tidied my jewellery box. I went to the baths, scrubbed myself harder than usual, layered on moisturising oils, let a girl arrange my hair exotically, invested in a manicure, let myself be lured into a pedicure as well, had some overdue depilatory work done, and slowly relaxed.

Prisca appeared. "I've heard all about those murders you're involved with!"

"Ah, word has got out now?"

"I'll say! When are you going to catch him?"

If I knew that, I thought glumly, I would be out putting a neck-collar on the bastard right now. The bathhouse owner did not want to hear me speaking reason. Public hysteria was now rife and according to Prisca there were hundreds of victims. For once, I felt a mild sympathy with Manlius Faustus for having wanted to keep this epidemic of deaths a secret.

The killer was a mad poet, I was curious to learn. He had a grudge against anyone born on Thursdays, whom he stabbed with specially made silver stilettos. Prisca had been told this nonsense by an ointment-seller on Lupin Street whose nephew worked in the tax office.

"Are you telling me murderers are notorious for not turning up to be taxed?" I scoffed. "And I suppose he has a harelip, a crooked toe and his star sign is Aquarius? Oh, come off it. None of the victims had a stab wound, Prisca. I think he must use poison." I decided right at that moment. His weapon was too small to inflict noticeable damage; he must use a small piercing device of some sort and coat it with a deadly paste like that used on hunters' arrows. The poison was what eventually finished off the victims. But it was not the same as hunters used, because theirs paralysed before death and we had no reports of that. All we knew was that it must be swift-acting.

"Poison!" Prisca rushed off, brimming over with excitement that she had a chance to tell other people something new.

By this evening, the mad murderer would have a golden alabastron containing a deadly potion made by Cappadocian dwarfs from a recipe handed down through thirty generations, to which there was no antidote except moonbeams, and he would identify himself by etching a Greek letter onto the foreheads of all his victims as they twitched and gasped their last. The Omega Killer had been born, and it was my fault.

I slipped into a clean tunic and laced shoes, then disappeared from the baths to apply myself to proper enquiries.

When evidence is sparse, you have to dig, dig, dig away at what little you have. Once again, I trudged to the apartment of Laia Gratiana and attempted to see her maid, the elusive Venusia.

They had set their hearts on disappointing me. This time I was told that Venusia was no longer there. She had been sent away "for a rest" to one of her mistress's estates in the country. I could not tell whether this was a disguised punishment, or a reward for good service. In a week when her mistress was taking part in an important festival, it seemed odd that anyone on Laia's staff whose duties involved such personal care should leave Rome. What woman lets her maid vanish the very moment she herself will be on public display at ceremonies in the Circus Maximus? Come to that, what maid wants to miss such an occasion? The chance of receiving a festival thank-you present, or better still a cash-in-hand gratuity, must be hard to pass up.

Apart from the usual reluctance to allow me indoors, the situation at Laia's apartment did not favour casual visitors today. During the Cerialia it was a custom in plebeian high society to issue dinner invitations to other swanks. Laia Gratiana and her brother were to host a large dinner party that evening, so the entrance was full of flustered slaves wielding long poles to sweep spiders' webs from the ceiling and plaster cornices, while others sponged the floor at the same time, causing everyone to be at risk of falling off stepladders, slipping on the wet marble, or having a pole land on their heads. Meanwhile a bunch of effete contractors were mincing around with dining-room decorations and having a quarrel with a steward about their bill.

When somebody screamed, "Who sat on the poppies and the wheat-ear crowns?" I thought it time to leave.

It was the wrong time of year for poppies. Even wheat, that other traditional symbol of Ceres, would be at planting stage, not harvest. The items must be fakes.

The professional decorators ("thematic banquet designers' as they called themselves) had had an exciting idea of using snakes, like the twin serpents that pulled Ceres' chariot as she searched for Proserpina, her kidnapped daughter. Nobody of taste and social standing wants live snakes in their lovely home, so fake ones had been created by a tousle-haired young man who enjoyed crafts.

Oh dear.

Nevertheless I made an attempt to talk to him, helping him lay out his structures, which I admired politely because I knew he would be desperate for approval and nobody else would have troubled. We had a conversation about making the display floats for military triumphs. We talked about the Cerialia chariot, which would have even larger snakes. I asked about his hopes for the future. I wrote down his name on a note tablet in case I could ever put a commission his way. At least, I said that was the reason.

Then I told him I myself felt a little rebuffed and a great deal frustrated because of the Venusia problem. And he told me he had overheard somebody mention that she had gone to Aricia, where there was an ancient shrine to Ceres.

Too far to travel, unfortunately. Still, it might be handy to know.

I needed to be cheered up by seeing Andronicus. I badly wanted to be chased around a small room by a man with a determined gleam in his eye.

I went to the aediles office, but a public slave who was very slowly picking up leaves in the courtyard told me nobody was there. I left the slave collecting his leaves individually, then placing them in a bucket one by one as if they were very thin-shelled eggs.

I could ask for Andronicus at the aediles house. He was a free citizen. His friends could call round. I had never been closely involved with a freedman before, but surely that was one point of being freed? A freedman's friend might have to go in through a side entrance, but visiting him was surely possible…

I decided against. Manlius Faustus remained an unknown quantity and I felt diffident about straying too close. But the idea was tempting. Worm my way into somebody's house? I tried not to imagine members of my family urging me to do it. Hades, I had been trained to take that kind of risk as an informer.