Enemies at Home (17 page)

‘You respect that view?’ I demanded.

‘I have to. In my role, I must work amicably with other law authorities.’

Justinus was watching us tangle.

‘Of course. So you must.’ I withdrew my objection gracefully. Faustus looked slightly alarmed by the ease with which he brought me round. Justinus hid a chuckle.

The men seemed to have convinced themselves that there was no organised crime involvement. Someone possessed the loot, however, so they had persuaded the Second’s tribune to order further enquiries at places where such silver might be sold on, putting extra pressure on retailers. Although Faustus had pretended to be satisfied that Titianus and his team had looked for the lost wine set at the apartment, he would tomorrow bring men of his own to carry out a discreet new search: a search of this house, plus the adjoining apartments and shops, then extending to the rest of the street if it could be done quietly.

‘I’ll tell my men not to be heavy-handed. Titianus need never know we have doubled up on his work. Householders won’t go running to him to complain.’

‘It’s certainly not the normal way of conducting an apartment-to-apartment search!’ I commented.

At this point, Uncle Quintus stretched and hauled himself off the couch. He begged to be excused; he wanted to go home in time to see his children put to bed. He was a good father, but even if that had not been the case, Claudia Rufina ruthlessly extracted a certain domesticity as payoff for his slightly untrustworthy past.

Faustus said he wanted to talk to me about the case, so I took Quintus to the front door. I said goodbye and watched him depart. He cut a good figure: taller than average, slim and raffishly good-looking, with his hair still dark as it flopped over his brow, and that ever-easy manner.

His two bodyguards had made themselves friendly with the leatherworkers. Quintus, naturally, strolled up to where they were all sitting on stools outside the shop and introduced himself. He shook hands with Secundus and Myrinus, a nice courtesy. I waited, and sure enough when he set off homewards, with the bodyguards limping behind him, Quintus Camillus Justinus had a tawny leather drawstring bag tucked beneath his arm, a handsome present to placate his wife. I expect he paid for it – but not the normal price.

A cluster of men were leaving a bar; otherwise the street was empty. It was still not late, a warm June night. Rome at its most benign.

I
emerged from the long corridor and crossed the atrium. Myla had uncharacteristically deigned to appear; she was clattering bowls and scraping leftovers in the dining room. This commotion had driven out Faustus. He was standing in the courtyard, head thrown back, apparently enjoying the night air.

I fetched a light stole and was about to join him when someone began banging on the front door. I could hear it was Dromo, who was shouting at the top of his voice as if he thought he would be left outside all night. I went.

As soon as I opened up, the slave sauntered past me as if nothing had perturbed him, but then he ran into his master. Faustus had followed me; from his look of alarm he must be remembering how the porter was attacked that night when, if the story was correct, Nicostratus mistakenly let the wrong people indoors.

Unexpectedly, Faustus took his slave to task. ‘Where in Hades have you been, Dromo? A simple bathe should not take so long. In future, come back promptly. I do not want Flavia Albia having to answer the door to you when it’s late and could be dangerous!’

He rarely sounded so sharp. Dromo hung his head, like a child reluctantly playing sorry, but sulking.

‘Don’t look like that,’ Faustus ordered, keeping his voice level. ‘You were in the wrong, Dromo.’

The slave improved his expression then slouched off to lie on his mat. We heard him muttering complaints under his breath to some imaginary friend.

Manlius Faustus breathed deeply a few times to recover his calm. We took the two seats that were still outdoors. I selected the x-stool, letting Faustus have the chair.

‘I saw Quintus off on his way,’ I said, making light conversation while Faustus settled. ‘He wasn’t making excuses, you know; he really does involve himself in the bedtime ritual. Neither he nor Claudia are strict and it can be hectic persuading six self-willed infants to quieten down. But Uncle Quintus is a soothing presence. Luckily his children like him.’

This produced an interesting reaction from Faustus. ‘I gather you and he are on close terms?’ The aedile’s tone was almost carping, and it was not a hangover from his spat with Dromo.

I assessed him, surprised to find him assessing me. Sometimes he could seem dour. Sometimes he made it plain he thought me flighty.

‘Just family,’ I answered gently, yet he scowled.

Where did this come from? Had somebody been gossiping? It could be Titus Morellus, from the vigiles Fourth Cohort on the Aventine. Morellus had harassed me a few times officially, a penalty of being an informer; the idiot now believed himself an expert on my history. Faustus knew him. Had Morellus told Faustus that I once had a yen for one of the Camillus brothers?

I decided that if the aedile wanted to know which it was, he would have to ask me.

He chose not to.

I therefore did not tell him it was Aulus who had let me think we were best friends then broke my heart. Nor did I say that I was only seventeen, so of course I got over it years ago.

I had been married since then. The poor lad was killed in an accident. Faustus damn well knew I spoke very fondly of my husband.

If I was cool, he deserved it. ‘Aedile, you wanted to review the case?’

‘You set me a task, remember.’ Now he sounded himself again, humorously feigning anxiety about his orders. ‘I was to ask the slaves how they made their escape.’

‘What do they say?’
I
was not myself yet, though I don’t suppose he noticed.

‘Once Titianus was about to accuse them, they waited until dark then made a bolt on foot. You wondered how Nicostratus managed; they put him in a carrying chair that belonged to Mucia Lucilia. The other men took turns on the rails so they could hurry through the streets as fast as possible.’

‘Why did they take him? The severity of his wounds exonerated him from not helping his master.’

‘Phaedrus, the other porter, claims Nicostratus did not want to be left behind alone. Amaranta and Olympe told me they had not realised how bad his condition was; they imagined they could look after him.’

‘And do we know whose idea it was to flee?’

‘They were vague. My feeling is the steward put them up to it.’ So Polycarpus really was more loyal to the slaves he supervised than to his master. Interesting!

‘Or who suggested the Temple of Ceres?’

‘Chrysodorus. The philosopher.’ For once Manlius Faustus sounded unsure of himself. ‘Is it significant?’

‘Probably not.’

‘I wish I had pressed the point.’

I made him a reassuring gesture. ‘He will probably dodge the question … There must have been interesting discussions among those slaves – I wish we could have sight of that playscript!’

Since I had been keeping him up to date with my daily reports, there was little else for us to discuss. My client seemed satisfied I was doing my best, repeating that I should take whatever time I needed.

Faustus then talked to me about his own work. I knew something of his preoccupation with the city’s plague of random killers, so he shared the latest developments; he even asked advice. This was a sensitive subject, highly confidential. I was furious to notice Myla as she went from the dining room to the kitchen, slowing up and obviously trying to listen in.

Faustus saw her too. He stopped talking. He was naturally reticent, so when he took me into his confidence − which in fairness to him, he had always done more than I expected − I resented someone else interrupting. Was it another illustration of ‘Oh, that’s just Myla’? She acted vague, yet habitually eavesdropped?

If so, whether she exploited what she heard or was just nosy, I would have sold the woman and not put up with it. I bet Mucia Lucilia shared my antipathy.

As she sashayed along a colonnade, swinging her hips, Myla was giving Faustus an obvious sexual invitation. I might as well not have been present.

Manlius Faustus was a rare man; he disliked unsought attention of that kind. He even picked up his chair and moved it around, so his back was turned on the colonnade. The action seemed automatic. I was not sure he realised he had done it.

He and I sat in silence for a time, the way you can only do with a friend. I suppose that was when I seriously acknowledged to myself that although I disliked him when we first met, I liked Faustus much more now. How much more I would not contemplate. Best not make the same mistake as Myla.

It was late, clearly time for him to make a move. Unlike my uncle, who anyway lived nearer, he admitted he was so weary after a tedious day of meetings, he felt reluctant to walk. To reach his house, he had to trek all the way up the Aventine and across the heights.

He would never have asked, but I made it easy for him: ‘You have no bodyguards with you. You might not keep your wits about you if you’re tired. Stay here. Go back in the morning. Who is going to mind?’

I told him where to find a bedroom. It was the one Quintus commandeered that afternoon, though I did not say so. Faustus took himself off gratefully. I sat on outside, merely bidding him a quiet goodnight.

I changed to the more comfortable chair, still warm from his presence. I stayed for a while there in the courtyard, wondering if Faustus would return. He did not. That did not surprise me.

My mischievous uncle may have left us together on purpose − such a waste of thoughtfulness. Still, Holy Venus. How bad was it to be spurned because a man was
tired
?

I was still there, unintentionally drowsing, when another commotion woke me. People – several this time – were in the street outside, hammering on the door for attention.

Manlius Faustus shot from his room. He pushed me behind him as he unzipped the grille and cautiously looked out. When he demanded to know who was making such a disturbance, we heard it was slaves from the Camillus brothers. Aulus had sent them. They had horrible news.

As Uncle Quintus made his way home that evening, he and his bodyguards were ambushed. His men managed to drag him to their house, but Quintus had been hurt.

Oh dear gods. It was Nicostratus all over again. My imagination filled with the terrible image of the door porter’s corpse, covered with blood from those many gruesome wounds, those injuries from which he never recovered consciousness. The injuries that killed him.

‘I
s he alive?’

The slaves knew nothing.

I realised what had happened. Those men I saw earlier departing from that bar opposite were not innocent drinkers, but criminals. Watching the house. Waiting for someone to leave, with specific orders to look for a senator. The Rabirii sent them after us. The men tailed Justinus until he reached a suitable spot, then brutally set about him.

It was no random act. It was a warning. We had taken too much interest.

‘Tiberius, I have to go!’

‘Stay here, where you are safe.’

‘Was Nicostratus safe? Aviola and Mucia Lucilia?’

‘Albia, do as I say, please.’

‘Don’t give me orders.’

‘Only advice.’ Well, aedile, that is always irritating.

We were standing in the street by then. The damned man was so stubborn with me, he might as well have been one of my family. I was trying to break away and he was trying to shepherd me back into the house. I wanted to kick him, but I was wearing only house slippers. Besides, I would never have aimed right, as I havered in panic over whether to pelt straight off to the Camillus house or first rush indoors for shoes I could run in.

People were looking out of windows and doorways. The disturbance brought Polycarpus’ wife down.

‘Dromo – come. With your cudgel, fool!’ Faustus finally went along with me. I calmed down. Better he decided to help me than I rushed off by myself. I knew from experience he made a good ally.

Polycarpus must be out but, assuming responsibility on his behalf, Graecina produced a carrying chair. It must be Mucia’s, sent back by the Temple of Ceres after the slaves ran off. It had been kept in a lock-up while attempts were made to clean Nicostratus’ blood off the seat. Not very successfully, I noticed.

The steward’s wife also gave us a lantern-carrier, a callow lad who worked for her, and a cloak of her own – I was shaking – which Manlius Faustus bundled around me, a practical man, ignoring how angry I had been with him. He noticed I was on the verge of tears and murmured, ‘Don’t go jittery. This is not your fault.’

‘I don’t jitter. Let me go. I need to go.’

‘I am coming with you. Get in –
go, go!’
He was shouting not at me, but the Camillus slaves who would be carrying the chair containing me.

Thank the gods it was downhill to the Capena Gate. It felt as if we were travelling across half Rome, a rough journey at the speed they ran, and I was so keyed up I soon felt sick. We had to scramble from the Fourth district, past the Fifth, across the Second and into the Twelfth. At least it was not as far as the Aventine.

It was a quiet evening by Rome’s standards. The streets were negotiable. The Rabirius gang had done their worst for one night. Nobody attacked us.

When we arrived, the men took the chair right into the house and I fell out of it in the atrium, almost before they were stationary. Someone gestured to a room. Quintus, stripped and sporting livid marks, was lying on a couch.

Aulus was attending to his brother. He had rejected the family doctor, a freedman they kept for dosing the children, who had tried to use lambswool for cleaning the wounds, only to be ordered away in case fibres killed Quintus with an infection. The doctor was still maundering on about this, while Aulus explained his reasons through gritted teeth, apparently not for the first time.