Enemies at Home (26 page)

I was ready to leave myself. I told Dromo he could stay behind and rest his tired feet. He could take one hour off (this presumed he could work out how long an hour was). Then, he was to see if he could do anything useful for Graecina and if not, I suggested he got together with her slave Cosmus.

‘Oh no! I’ve seen him gawking around the place like a dopey bum. He’s just a nipper.’

‘He looks almost as old as you. Be boys; pal up with him for a while, will you?’

Dromo stared at me. ‘Is this for your work? You telling me to squeeze him for gen?’

‘I am saying, get to know him a bit if you can.’

‘Have I got to be a spy?’ I must be insane. Sending in Dromo was like army engineers setting up a catapult with a wonky wheel on a very steep slope with no ballast.

‘Just see what you think.’ I had remembered that my uncle’s young son had taken against Cosmus, when he was over there. Would Dromo feel the same? Perhaps Cosmus would be different with a fellow slave to how he had behaved with privileged, aristocratic children.

‘That dog of his sounds vicious!’ Dromo complained, though he did look interested in what I had asked him to do. Well, almost.

For a change, instead of going down towards the Caelian, I walked a northern route to the Aventine – Clivus Suburanus, Clivus Pullius, Clivus Orbius, on to the top end of the Forum, then around the back of the Palatine on the river side, through the meat market to the corn station, and up the hill to the Temple of Ceres from the Trigeminal Gate. I must be growing homesick. I ended up very near my parents’ town house although since they were away at the coast I did not drop in. I had no wish to visit their home-sitting slaves. My favourites were Helena’s favourites too, and had gone with the family.

Faustus was not at the aediles’ office. Nobody had seen him all day. I hoped he was not annoyed that I turned down his offer of assistance with the interviews. More likely, he thought I was getting ideas about him.

Fine by me.

The nine survivors were in the office garden as usual: those two old workshy cronies, Amethystus and Diomedes, had marked out a board in the dust and were playing a game with pebbles for counters, watched in a desultory way by the ambitious young Daphnus and his twin, the dim scribe Melander. In another group, the African Libycus was talking to the women, Amaranta and the girl Olympe. Phaedrus, the tall German litter bearer-cum-porter, was sitting by himself, acting as if he wanted a sculptor to turn him into a Defeated Barbarian. Chrysodorus was on his own too. He was lying on his back on some grass, with his eyes closed and his hands folded on his chest, as if he was waiting for the pains of life to be over. The awful little dog, Puff, had curled up beside the philosopher, oblivious to his loathing.

I marched over to them and called for attention. First, I announced that Polycarpus was dead. Keeping an eye on as many as possible, I told them how he had been killed. I heard subdued muttering, and noticed a few glances from one to the other, but no significant reaction. Few workers are truly sorry when their supervisor comes to a bad end.

I mentioned that this did not affect their position. ‘You were here. In fact it happened yesterday morning, while I saw you all, so I can even vouch for you myself.’ One or two still looked subdued; after all, they were still indicted for the murders of their master and mistress. The killing of Polycarpus, a freedman, hardly made a difference.

I had thought carefully how to approach my next task. I informed them as a group that ‘new information’ had been supplied by a witness. Then, assisted by the public slaves who guarded them, I interviewed each slave individually. I did it the same way as before, not letting them return to the others afterwards. As the waiting group decreased, the remnants had an opportunity to discuss among themselves, and perhaps to worry, what I might have been told.

With each, I began by stating angrily that I knew they had lied. Nicostratus was not attacked by robbers bursting in, because the robbers entered discreetly and they never even saw him. Valerius Aviola and Mucia Lucilia were dead
before
Nicostratus was attacked. The robbers did not find, let alone steal, the silver.

Every slave stuck doggedly to his or her original story. They refused to explain discrepancies. None had any idea, they claimed, why the robbers said they failed to encounter Nicostratus nor could they tell me who removed the silver wine set, if it was not thieves.

Diomedes who, according to the tale, had been lying in the courtyard in a drunken stupor with Amethystus, claimed the searching robbers must have stepped right over them. ‘Must have tiptoed like dancers, very light-footed!’ he quipped. His impudent implication was that Roscius and his men were lying about what they saw, or did not see.

Only Amaranta and Olympe, together with the young scribe Melander, seemed frightened that this new evidence was casting doubts on their story, though none of them changed it. All the others stuck to their bluff.

Daphnus, the bright tray carrier, fiddled with his amulet and did query why this witness of mine had not come forward before. I said he had not wanted to get involved, which seemed to satisfy Daphnus. Most people think giving evidence about a crime will rebound on them and cause too much trouble.

It was left to Chrysodorus to challenge me outright. ‘So,’ he proposed, ‘you have nine of us saying one thing and one person supplying new evidence – yet you automatically believe the singleton? Numerical probability is against you, Flavia Albia. And who is your surprise witness? Am I to deduce that if he can speak for the robbers, he is a robber himself?’

I had to admit he was. ‘Intriguingly, Chrysodorus, you are alone in working that out! How pleasing to find a philosopher with a genuine enquiring mind, and willing to engage in debate. Something to be said for intellectual training.’

‘Your informant is a person of such admirable character, Flavia Albia!’

‘Now you are speaking like a lawyer, which does not endear you to me. Keep your irony to yourself, please. I’ll do the rhetoric, if any is needed.’

‘Let me speak in a cruder argot then – if this man avows the robbers did not take the silver, is that not what a criminal is bound to say – especially if he wishes to stop you looking for his loot?’

‘A good point – though I believe him. He was undoubtedly honest about seeing the bodies. The scene horrified him. He had the shakes even talking about it. So I do accept he legged it empty-handed, in shock.’

I thought about this. I was certain Roscius had taken part in violence before. Even killing might not be new to him, though perhaps serious damage to others was mainly inflicted by the enforcer, Gallo. Even if Roscius was present during fights, I bet he normally left any victim behind, on the street or in a bar, possibly with a lot of spilled blood, yet either still alive and crawling, or else abandoned merely unconscious: the way it was meant to happen in that street attack on Uncle Quintus.

Roscius could distance himself from that. What affected him with Aviola and Mucia was their nakedness and their agonised faces. The memory of their dead faces would stay in his mind for a long time.

I had not even seen them, yet his horror affected me.

I sat writing up a report to leave here at the office for Manlius Faustus.

While I was doing it, the slaves must have held an urgent conference. I did hear raised voices, reaching me in waves. I wrote more slowly, allowing them time.

At length, a guard knocked on the door and told me a deputation wanted to see me.

T
here were three of them: Amaranta, Libycus and Phaedrus.

I was not surprised to see Amaranta as a ringleader. She was a quicksilver hopeful, with years to enjoy ahead of her if she escaped this unscathed – and she had organising skills. Libycus, the other body slave, made a natural partner to her now. Phaedrus, who had not budged on his original story when I talked to him again, was unexpected.

Of those who did
not
come, the hard-drinking gardener and the man of all work – Diomedes and Amethystus – were bound to keep well out of anything tricky. Olympe was too young; Amaranta, being motherly, might even have told her to hang back. I would have expected Daphnus, so I wondered if there was unknown coolness between him and Phaedrus.

Chrysodorus surprised me by his absence, given that he was the only one to tackle me beforehand over the new evidence. Still, although philosophers reckon to address the issues of all mankind, most are loners and many are awkward socially. He may have upset the rest and been rejected as a co-commissioner. Or he may have pulled out in a huff.

I was still working in the office that Faustus used. I stayed where I was, on a reading couch. They stood. Of course they did. Making use of furniture is the sign of superiority in Rome. Men of power all sit their podgy posteriors on thrones and ceremonial stools. The mistress of any house has her armchair. Even an informer gets to recline when addressing a hangdog trio of slaves. The only unusual thing here was that I bothered to think about it.

I waited for them to speak. Amaranta had been chosen as their spokeswoman. ‘Flavia Albia, we have not been entirely straight with you.’

I raised my eyebrows. Informers should always take the trouble to keep their brows plucked. So much easier to express genteel scepticism, if you have neat arches for the uplift.

Since Amaranta had fallen awkwardly silent, I said, ‘Why am I not surprised to hear that, Amaranta? So, what secrets are you about to give up to me?’

‘We think we ought to explain about what the robber has told you.’

‘Indeed, I think the same. You should.’

‘We need to say why he never saw any of us.’

‘That’s right. You do.’

‘We were all there really. In the apartment.’

‘Yes, you must have been.’

‘We were having our supper.’

‘All together?’

‘Yes, Albia.’

‘And where was this meal taking place?’

‘In the oecus. There wasn’t room to squash in anywhere else.’

I swung my legs around, turning to sit up, with my feet on the floor. It gave me a view of them straight on. Bangles chinked as I leaned on the end of the couch, one-elbowed. I tugged at an earring thoughtfully, easing its hook.

As excuses go, this was not bad. They had no way of knowing (for I had mentioned it to none of them) that Roscius told Faustus he remembered lamplight in the Corinthian oecus. Amaranta had just unwittingly confirmed that.

I discussed what they were now saying, drawing out a portrait of a house that went to sleep with the master and mistress, only to reawaken once they were settled; a house that lived a second life – a life where the slaves held sway. In many homes this happens, so it was a credible tale. Sometimes it is perfectly harmless, because staff are permitted some form of private existence and their nocturnal sociability causes no disturbance. Sometimes riot occurs. That was not what Amaranta wanted me to believe.

According to her, the loaned kitchen staff departed. Polycarpus went home too.

‘He did not eat with you?’

‘No, never.’ It would have been his private relaxation time, in his own apartment, with Graecina and their children. His escape. A luxury only a freedman could have. ‘We quite liked him living somewhere else,’ Amaranta admitted. I did not blame them. Every evening the steward’s departure must have given them an hour or so of something close to freedom.

‘Who made your food?’ I slipped in.

Amaranta must have thought quickly – though not fast enough. ‘Myla.’

I laughed out loud. ‘Oh, come off it! Not only was she squeezing out another baby, foisted on her by who knows who, but the idea of
Myla
providing a meal for ten people is ludicrous. When I am there, I can barely get her to bring me a cup of water.’

The trio were silent.

I refused to accept their version. ‘No, Myla could not have produced your dinner.’

Libycus piped up. ‘It was not cooked food, just bits. We collected a few comports from the kitchen. The leftovers. Myla had scraped it together for us on serving dishes, that’s what Amaranta meant.’

‘Ah, a cold collage to mix and match …’ My favourite meal.

‘The master had never minded his slaves taking unwanted food,’ Libycus stressed, looking anxious.

‘I suppose, Libycus,’ I said encouragingly, ‘that was why you personally came home, after you went out and saw your two friends?’ He was eager to embrace the suggestion – and he was faking when he did so. Myrinus and Secundus had told me he was afraid to stay out longer, in case his master wanted something.

I was still thinking about how a group of slaves could take over the best space in the house and enjoy themselves there. How they did it, apparently, while terrible events happened right next door …

‘We were not doing any harm,’ Amaranta assured me, pleadingly. ‘The same thing used to happen in our old house, before Mucia Lucilia was married. She knew what went on. At our house, Onesimus used to arrange it, then he would be with us.’ I knew that Mucia’s steward was still a slave. ‘Just a meal, Albia. People have to eat.’

‘So you want me to accept that this nightly gathering was habitual?’ I was not intending to cave in too easily.

‘Well, some of us had only been at that apartment for two days.’

‘Yes, some of you came when Mucia Lucilia was married … So this kind of meal after hours was not yet a ritual for the conjoined households, but could have become one? You wait until your master and mistress retire for the night. Then you collect somewhere. Eat, drink a little too, if Amethystus can liberate a flagon from the household supplies. I imagine you would only be able to talk very quietly; no laughter, no music, no noisy tiffs.’ So very unlike dinner in most Roman families! ‘Passing bowls around in virtual silence. Not letting spoons knock on pottery. Putting things away and washing up afterwards extremely gently – but making sure you do it, so the mistress doesn’t take exception in the morning. Then you all went creeping off to bed, as if the house had never had its second life.’