Enemies at Home (10 page)

I hate this aspect of my work − glimpsing other people’s lives and becoming angry about it. I have never managed to teach myself that if people choose to be stupid, it’s their affair. I wanted to yell at Fauna to sort her bastard husband out.

As soon as she let me in I realised there was not much chance this couple upstairs had seen anything below on the night of the attack. They rented a cramped two-room apartment lit only by small high windows, so when she heard me experimenting Fauna had had to stand on a stool and crane out. For the tenants at ground level this was good, because it meant their courtyard was not really overlooked. For me it was a disappointment.

Fauna said the dinner party itself had been sedate, but later on they had been bothered by a lot of noise, until Lusius, her husband, actually got out of bed to look. Lusius peered out first, then Fauna shoved him off the stool and took a turn. In the dark, they could not really see what was going on.

‘I glimpsed figures running to and fro with lamps. About the time we had a peek, it all quietened down anyway.’

‘Could that have been when the steward turned up?’ I wondered. ‘Polycarpus – he would have sorted out the chaos … Do you know him, Fauna?’

‘They live on this level, but the other side of the building, above the street. I know her slightly.’

‘His wife?’

‘If that’s what she calls herself. He’s had her salted away there for years.’

‘Ah!’ So Polycarpus had not waited to gain his freedom before he started his own household. ‘He says he just happened to go back that night and then discovered the crime.’

Fauna shrugged. ‘I don’t know. While I was looking, people were still talking, but in very low voices. We went back to bed. We never even realised the vigiles had been until next morning. Some fellow came up to see if we heard anything. He didn’t really want to know, in case it meant he had to do something useful.’

‘Never mind him then, can you describe the disturbance for me?’

‘Yelling to start with. Bumps and shunts later. When it first kicked off someone was really angry.’

‘How many voices?’

‘Well, it must have been several. They say a gang of robbers came—’

‘No, no; don’t tell me what you
suppose
you heard. I need what you really did hear.’ She looked baffled by my distinction. ‘All right. Let me ask something else, Fauna. This is important. Did you at any time hear Aviola or his wife calling out for help?’

‘Well, someone wanted the world to know he was upset. A man’s voice, bellowing furiously. That was what really worried us first and made Lusius go to look … He’s dog tired in the evening after work; it takes a lot to get him out of bed. The bawler must have been Aviola, mustn’t it?’

‘Could well be …’ Or anyone. ‘You don’t remember hearing a woman?’

‘No.’ This time she was certain. ‘No, I never heard a peep from her. You know, Albia, we couldn’t tell what in Hades was happening; we never thought it was as serious as it turned out. To be honest, there had been such a lot of bother to do with the wedding, Lusius and me just thought it was more of the same. That lot, they had grown to be a menace lately – there was always something going on.’

‘What kind of thing?’

‘People having a go.’

‘At each other?’

‘Right.’ Fauna thought about it. ‘There always seemed to be someone sounding off, and then somebody else telling them to shut it.’

‘Not just the staff clattering and throwing their voices too loudly? Some don’t see the point of going about their work quietly. Houses can be lively places.’

‘Ha! My father was a roofer. Nobody beats roofers and scaffolders for shouting … There was a lot more commotion lately than there used to be. We knew they was all going away for the summer, and we was looking forward to that, I can tell you. Lusius keeps saying he’ll go down and complain, but he’s too bone idle to do it.’

‘Probably not much point now,’ I murmured.

‘No, I suppose not. Someone new will move in. I hope we get a quiet family … What’s going to happen to them slaves?’

I shook my head resignedly.

‘Aviola didn’t seem to get a grip,’ complained Fauna. ‘Once, a couple of the men was having a pottery fight, it sounded. But he just asked them to stop, really mildly. I blame him. He ought to have sorted them out properly.’ It was indeed a householder’s duty to control and prevent quarrels. ‘Still,’ Fauna giggled. ‘When you get married, if you are given any presents, people seem to choose horrible things − then you get stuck with them for years because you can’t upset your hubby’s awful auntie if you chuck ’em out. Perhaps Aviola was glad to see one or two of his wedding presents broken.’

‘I bet he was,’ I smiled in return. ‘ – Remembering some of mine!’

But playing the sympathetic wife and widow failed to squeeze anything more useful out of her.

I
t often happens on a case: the first story you hear seems straightforward, yet it soon starts to show cracks. First the tale of what happened to the door porter did not add up. Now, despite Polycarpus assuring me all was harmonious among the workforce, here was contradictory news of disturbances and pottery fights. Back at the apartment, I poked around in the rubbish store but found no smashed dinnerware. It might already have been carted off to a tip.

I was due to see Aviola’s executor, but had time to prepare lunch; a snack stopped Dromo muttering. He was worse to look after than my young brother.

In the kitchen I found Myla feeding her baby, so I took my time and had a closer look at her. As slaves go, she was fairly clean and tidy, with features that suggested she came from an eastern province like Syria or Judaea. I had seen very beautiful Syrian women, with wide-set eyes and straight noses down which they looked with imperious awareness of their own stunning looks. Myla had a heavier face; in another ten years she would be jowly. Even so, she had the imperious expression; for no obvious reason she appeared full of self-belief.

Polycarpus had bought in some basics for me, a loaf, plus boring hard-boiled eggs and salad leaves, though among the stuff Manlius Faustus had sent over were treasures: a crock of good honey, squids in brine and another stone jar of best quality olives. I created a warm drink with the honey and some wine vinegar I found on a shelf. While I stirred it over the fire, I was able to tackle Myla.

When she finished nursing and laid the child in its basket, I dutifully viewed the wrinkled, milky creature. The poor little thing was a girl. I said how sweet she was. This failed to impress the mother.

‘So, Myla, are you going to tell me who her father is?’

The mother hunched up at the question, looking as if she had not heard, or more likely did not even know the answer.

‘Is this your first?’

‘No.’

‘How many have you had?’

‘Some.’

‘What happened to the others?’

‘Gone.’

I couldn’t tell if that meant dead, sold, or sent to Campania. A slave’s children would all be slaves too, of course. Myla had no rights over her babies.

I tried asking her about the night of the murder. She had little to say –
surprise!
– apart from maintaining that when it all kicked off she was trying to sleep, in the slaves’ quarters. Nobody was with her. She had such an air of oddity and distance, I wondered if the others avoided her.

She said she had heard an upset going on, but she could barely move due to the late stage of her pregnancy. Anyway, she claimed she was too frightened to look out.

I felt myself taking against her. A man might be attracted by the faint suggestion she would resist nothing sexually. I was harder. If she had given me information, I would have assumed it was unreliable. I gave up on her.

At the appointed time, I trotted around the corner to see Aviola’s executor. I had made sure I looked like an independent free citizen: strands of gold necklace and floret earrings, with deft applications of make-up and perfume. This was to show I was respectable – or in Roman terms, that my associates had money. I always wore a wedding ring, and introduced myself as a widow. Widows are treated with respect in traditional societies. Mind you, I never banked on it.

Sextus Simplicius was at home. He saw me in his private library. He seemed wary, so I made much of my connection with Manlius Faustus. I had to judge that carefully, however. I didn’t want Simplicius running off to deal with the aedile direct.

Sometimes being female works in my favour. Some men find it exciting to engage with a woman − so long as they can tell themselves the meeting will arouse no bile in their suspicious wives (I mean, the wives don’t have to know about it). If Simplicius had one, he did not invite her to business discussions. In fact, throughout my investigation I was never to meet her.

I spotted scrutiny that made me sit far enough away to prevent any touching. Given a free choice, I would flatten gropers with a lump hammer. But when I need information I have to work around this problem more politely.

This man must be about the same age as Aviola, who had been a close friend. Simplicius told me there was another executor, also a friend, currently away on his country estate. That was fine, unless it made this one too anxious about speaking to me. There was neither opportunity nor time for them to confer and I wanted him to be frank.

Once we were seated I took a good look at him. He was portly, a man who lived well. Their whole circle probably did, because when he produced a plaque with portraits of Aviola and Mucia, Aviola looked the same type. Aviola and Simplicius had strong Roman faces with deep maturity lines and an air of directness, in the style that is labelled ‘republican’. That means the subject has an old-fashioned short temper and expects someone else to pick up after him. Society sees such people as harmless, or even decent and approvable. When one is murdered, like Aviola, society is horrified. ‘If him, perhaps me next!’

Such bullies will claim to have simple honesty − though they are equally proud of their crookery. Their wives never speak out of turn, yet usually spend what they like and run rings around these men. The men know it, moan about it to their cronies, yet accept it as normal. They tend to have strong mothers, mothers who remain close, mothers who would give them hell if they divorced.

You may think that was a lot to deduce from a formal wedding picture, but Simplicius was there right in front of me, embodying what Aviola must have been like.

Yes, Aviola had had a mother until recently; I asked. Was she a strong influence? Yes, she had been.

Mucia Lucilia was portrayed in the traditional way as a bland, pretty cipher; since my family deals in art, I knew better than to trust this plaque. On it, she had her veil over her head, one hand placed in that of her new husband to show they were married, and a sweet, meek gaze. This may not mean a woman is submissive in real life. Normally all it tells the viewer is that she is really admired for bringing a good dowry to her marriage.

According to Sextus Simplicius, they were a delightful couple. I smiled discreetly. When you need to dig, start slowly.

Despite my request via his steward, he failed to show me the will. However, he answered whatever I asked about it – or so I thought at the time.

It would be a public document so I restrained my immediate annoyance; I could find it eventually – but I itched to scan that scroll myself if it was in the house. Perhaps Sextus Simplicius thought I could not read. Women he knew would all have secretaries. My adoptive mother was highly literate and had expected me to be the same. Once Helena Justina learned her alphabet (which seems to have been when she was about four), she speed-read and speed-wrote anything for herself; that was what she taught me. My father did possess a secretary, but the man spent his time moaning that no one gave him enough to do. The concept of letting a scribe note down your shopping list or recite a poem at you, with intonation
he
chose, was unknown in our house.

The current will was very recent. Aviola made a new one when he married Mucia Lucilia.

‘I have been considering this subject,’ Simplicius declared, in a self-conscious, pompous way. Every time he shifted in his seat, a faint spearmint miasma wafted my way. Some diligent body slave kept him pleasant for his public. ‘His household knew that he was revising the document, so there
may
have been discussion of the contents. I was at the apartment when the lawyer brought the scroll to be signed; we had the usual gathering of witnesses. It was finalised in private, behind closed doors.’

I told him which slaves were under suspicion; Simplicius said none, not even the scribe Melander, was in the room for the will-signing. ‘Only witnesses were admitted. Mucia Lucilia was present, though of course she took no part.’

I managed not to growl at that. ‘Simplicius, it looks as if Aviola and Mucia were murdered by robbers, but if Aviola’s slaves attacked him as the vigiles suggest, I have to consider if the new will caused disgruntlement. There will have been talk about it, as you say.’

‘Unfounded rumours can influence staff,’ he agreed.

I said, ‘I am interested in two aspects. Were there any large bequests, ones that might make someone want Aviola dead in order to cash in? Don’t alarm yourself. This is something we always have to consider, when somebody dies in bad circumstances. Also, what does he have to say about his slaves? Who did he intend to liberate, for example?’

‘Or
not
!’ added Simplicius heavy-handedly, wafting more lotion scents in my direction. I smiled as if I thought him extremely astute.

Yes, I was ashamed of using flattery. But it is undeniably useful.

Valerius Aviola owned several hundred slaves, mostly of the rural type, working as agricultural labourers on his estates. He intended to free a hundred, the most he was allowed.

At this point, Sextus Simplicius finally had someone fetch the scroll and while I sat tantalised by its proximity, the scribe read out the hundred names. Juno, I had to listen to every one, even though most had no relevance because they worked on Aviola’s country estates. I chewed the end of my stylus, trying not to let my eyes glaze over.