Enemies at Home (35 page)

‘I don’t grass up naughty boys, Tiberius.’

‘That’s a relief to all of us!’

‘Why, what have you done?’ Dromo demanded of the aedile, who gave him no answer. He just sat there, as he did, with that pleasant face giving nothing away like some fisherman on a wharf waiting for a bite on his line, knowing it would eventually happen.

I said, ‘I am sure your master was speaking hypothetically.’

‘What?’

‘A joke, Dromo!’ I squared up and continued. ‘It could have been a girl, by the way. My little sweetheart niece Aelia finds things she is not supposed to …’

‘Some girls are into everything,’ remarked Faustus obliquely.

I sniffed. ‘Polycarpus could well have fetched back the chair too soon, because you, super-efficient Tiberius Manlius, had arranged for a much more detailed search to take place here.’

‘Yes, and you certified my search was thorough! So the silver was not found because? …’

‘It was still at my uncle’s house while the search was going on. Polycarpus was on his mission to fetch it. I bet when he brought the chair back, he was horrified to hear you had searched again. The day he died, he had been moving the silver to the well, a safer hiding-place.’

‘You think his killer discovered him doing it?’

‘It seems likely. I wonder if they had a quarrel over this silver? The one thing I can say is this,’ I told Faustus. ‘On the night of the attack, Polycarpus and the others organised a spectacular cover-up. It involved the steward and slaves disguising the crime as a burglary.’

Faustus held up a hand. ‘Did they know real thieves had made an attempt? Roscius?’

‘Maybe they knew, though I think it was an extraordinary coincidence. Aviola and Mucia had been killed – for whatever reason and by whomever; we don’t know yet. The slaves went into the oecus to decide what to do. They may have known that if they stayed outside in the courtyard people like Fauna and Lusius, the neighbours upstairs, could hear what was going on. While they were indoors, Roscius broke in. He never saw the slaves, but perhaps they
saw him. They all kept quiet. Once the burglars fled, some quick-witted slave – or Polycarpus – worked out that this was their deliverance. They could blame these robbers for everything – murders included.’

‘So that was when, and why, the slaves first concealed the silver?’

‘Yes, I bet it had been in the kitchen. Roscius never went in there. Polycarpus had the wine set washed by his own people, after the slaves who came with Gratus had all gone home. Everything was probably upside-down on a draining board, drying.’

Faustus sat quiet for a while. ‘It was a good try. But with the cover-up, the slaves have only made things worse.’

‘That will be your problem,’ I told him, sympathetically. ‘I shall show what happened; you must advise the authorities at the Temple of Ceres how to respond. My uncles may provide a legal steer.’

‘Thanks for landing me in it!’ Faustus growled, yet sounded lenient.

‘Nothing has changed since we started; it’s the slaves who have caused your problems.’

‘Do you have any idea who committed any of the murders?’

‘I have a few thoughts.’

‘Was it Myla?’

‘I doubt it. I want to have one last attempt to urge the fugitives into a confession. One tell-tale would be enough. Is there any chance you could offer an amnesty, if I make someone sing out the real song?’

Faustus frowned. ‘I disapprove, but it has been talked about in official circles.’

‘It would be in the style of our beloved emperor,’ I reminded him. ‘Buying evidence. Making prosecutions look good. Ensuring the outcome of trials …’

‘So modern! Give out a big reward and set the informant free.’

‘Is that what I can offer?’

‘I suppose so.’ He sighed.

‘Right. I’ll see what I can do with them.’

‘Make it tomorrow morning. You need to be sober.’

That was what I had intended. I looked sullen.

‘Sorry!’ said Manlius Faustus, rather unexpectedly.

He was learning to read me.

Faustus sat leaning his chin on one clenched fist. Looking over his knuckles, his eyes went to Dromo, still standing with us unnoticed.

‘Sit, Dromo. Sit and join the family.’

Dromo looked as startled as I was. But why not? A man’s slaves formed his
familia,
his wider household. You may wonder why would Manlius Faustus choose to extend the privilege to an idiot, but how many people have real blood relations who are idiots or far worse?

Dromo did not seek inclusion, nor expect it, but he only needed to be asked once. He sat down.

Faustus and I both surveyed him. It seemed to me the boy was different. He had that subtle alteration that happens with a teenager, marking their shift from child to adulthood. One day you look at them and see a new person. I glanced at Faustus; I reckoned he saw what I thought.

‘I gather this young man did something brave today; he saved a baby,’ Faustus told me. ‘I know he found the event upsetting. I brought him to see if you could help him come to terms.’ Dromo must have told him what I said, that old story from Britain.

‘Why did she want to take the baby with her?’ Dromo had no sense of timing. When he wanted to ask something, he burst straight out with it. Inexperience. Lack of observation. I doubted he would ever improve.

I had sent him to Faustus because Faustus ought to look after him. Why was I now lumbered? But both Faustus and Dromo were waiting for me.

I sighed. ‘Dromo, as far as I understand it, some desperate parents who are contemplating suicide feel they cannot leave their children behind to suffer.’ I did not tell him that others, especially in bitter divorces, think
if I can’t have them, he or she won’t have them either
… I had been involved in cases like that. The law said a child belonged to its father; in practice, many infants went with their divorced mothers – Aviola’s three (well, his legitimate three) were typical. Once in a while, a couple could not reconcile themselves to either solution. I would try to mediate, though I was normally hired by one side to find dirt in order to prevent their antagonist having custody.

‘Will that baby know what her mother did?’ asked Dromo, very subdued.

‘Who can say? By the time she is old enough to understand, people around her may have forgotten. In any case, the people she grows up with may not know – I believe she is to be sent to a happier life on a farm in the country.’

‘The country?’
Dromo was disgusted. ‘I think I did the wrong thing.’

‘No, Dromo.’

‘I bet you blame your mother for leaving you.’

I felt myself grow tense. ‘I may have done from time to time, but no longer.’

‘Why not?’

‘I came to realise my parents must have loved me. I was not abandoned from choice. They may have known they would be killed. If they did survive the rebellion, they may have tried desperately to find me afterwards … I grew up an extremely unhappy person, but I am not now.’

‘What changed you?’

‘Something I saw many years later.’

‘What?’

‘Dromo, don’t pry any more,’ murmured Tiberius. In my view, it was high time he intervened.

Dromo was still glaring at me, wanting answers.

I sighed again, then gave in again. ‘Dromo, have you heard about the huge volcanic explosion in Campania? Have you heard about the great fire in Rome later that same year?’

He had. Everyone knew about Vesuvius, and though an infant at the time, Dromo had been in Rome during the fire, safe up on the Aventine, which escaped the inferno. Since I had been drinking, today I lost my usual reserve. I told Dromo what had happened in our family that year, and how it changed me.

My father had a favourite nephew, Larius, a talented fresco painter, who worked at Stabiae on the Bay of Neapolis. He lived there on and off; despite a few wild episodes, he had a local wife and a family. When Mount Vesuvius so catastrophically erupted, he was the kind of fixated artist who would have tried to finish his wall, even though the whole house where he was painting faced violent destruction. As soon as we heard about the eruption, my father went to see if he could find Larius, though he never did. Falco spent weeks there, in anguish as he tried to dig down through twenty feet of mud or ash. He could never find any trace. We decided the whole little family must have tried to escape too late; Larius was killed, along with many other people, most of whom were never found.

Shortly afterwards, a huge fire in Rome destroyed many monuments, including the Saepta Julia, a gorgeous two-storey gallery where we had a family antiques business. Father worked there with another nephew, Gaius, who had always seemed a tricky, fly-by-night character, though the ragamuffin had a heart of gold. When the fire came tearing through the district, Gaius became a hero; he refused to run and save himself but stayed to help other people. The roof collapsed while he was still in there. The firefighters never recovered his body.

‘So we lost both brothers, but that did not mean nobody cared. Dromo, when I saw how desperately my father struggled to find Larius, how he raged over his helplessness, how long he kept up the search, and then when I saw how distraught everyone was over losing Gaius, I found some faith. I was able to believe that when I was a lost baby, I had that same degree of love. I no longer hated my parents for abandoning me; I stopped feeling bitter. I saw I was fortunate to have been saved, and eventually to be rescued a second time by the fine people who are my family in Rome.’

‘Will Myla’s baby think she is fortunate?’

Dear gods, I doubted that. ‘I hope so, but who knows?’

Faustus, who had listened in silence to my story, leaned forwards to his boy. ‘You must thank Flavia Albia for telling you this … The point is, Dromo, only Fortune can know what will happen to any of us, including that baby you saved.
You
cannot tell. What matters for you is that when you had to choose, you did what your conscience told you was right. You gave Myla’s baby a chance.’

‘You have to answer to yourself, Dromo,’ I added, seconding his master. ‘You saved her because your own human kindness required it.’

Dromo had started to squirm now. He looked self-conscious about sitting in the chair. His eyes glazed a little; he was losing interest in talking. Personally, I was amazed he had managed to last this long.

‘So that’s it, isn’t it?’ He looked from Faustus to me then back to his master. ‘In that work you do, you and Albia. On the night in this apartment when those people were murdered, the slaves here ought to have tried to help them. Because even slaves like us ought to have human kindness. And they didn’t, did they? None of them?’

Yes, said Faustus. That was it.

I
cannot claim to have achieved much else that day.

The aedile was leaving to return to the Aventine. Faustus stood and gazed at me. ‘I ought to be more respectful. I do admire your expertise −’ Thank you, aedile; that is what I like from a client. ‘− especially with a splitting hangover!’

I had not reached even the real beginning of the hangover, but his teasing praise worked better than the usual Roman cure of parsley. For one thing, you were supposed to eat the parsley before you started drinking, which I had failed to do. I read in an encyclopaedia that topping a canary and deep-frying it in olive oil for breakfast does the trick – if you want a crunchy, fat-filled methodology. It probably worked because you had to jump around so much while you were trying to catch the birdie …

I could not decide how serious Faustus was, so I replied stiffly. ‘I have been edging towards answers for a while.’

I probably had been, though you never sit around thinking,
Oh,
I am edging towards answers
here, using my admirable expertise
… I had been lucky. On the other hand, controlling your luck is part of an informer’s professional toolbag. Had I been unlucky, I would have soon faded from the scene.

‘Who were those women, incidentally?’ Faustus asked. ‘Friends of yours?’

‘My drinking pals? Witnesses and suspects.’

‘Suspects?’

‘Not high on the list. Having a little nip together helped me rule them out.’

Faustus managed not to humph.

He left. Since he was an aedile, I trusted him to take the silver away with him. On his way down the Clivus Suburanus, he would return it to Sextus Simplicius, to be reabsorbed into the Aviola estate. Dromo went with him as escort. An aedile may be sacrosanct, but it was crazy to hope he could carry a large sack, obviously full of bullion, down a public street yet not have it snatched from his sacrosanct grasp by irreligious criminals. And then have his skull kicked in by them, for taking a stupid risk.

As soon as Dromo came back and I had let him in, I went to bed. Clearly this was never going to happen with Manlius Faustus. Had I been sober, that thought would not even have occurred to me. Perhaps.

For some reason, as I lay awake, I thought back to the bar where we kissed. He was just play-acting. Just as well. If I had an affair with a magistrate, what trouble that would cause! I had no idea how I would ever confess to my father, whose views on the elite were firm and frequently stated. Still, I believed Faustus would not kiss and tell, and if there is one thing loving daughters learn early, it is how to keep secrets …

Not relevant, Flavia Albia.

Next day I prepared to finish my case.

Out of bed early. Stand-up wash, in cold water. There was not even the lukewarm pan that Myla used to tend in her desultory way. Dromo complained. I explained to him that now she was gone, somebody else had to do her work. He could have stirred up embers and put pots on trivets. I, however, could not because I felt queasy and should have been looked after by those whose duty was to tend to me.

‘You mean my master?’

‘Crazy caryatids! −
You,
Dromo!’

‘I thought so!’ he muttered, in my hearing, though as if to himself or the imaginary companion who shared his thoughts when he was unhappy. ‘
“Being nice to Dromo”
was never going to last!’