Enemies at Home (9 page)

Squirming, the messenger admitted he was regularly given the necessary
quadrans
. I asked what he did with it. Dromo whimpered that he saved up until he had enough money for a cake.

Faustus looked angry, though I think he was also trying not to laugh. ‘Let’s not be harsh,’ I intervened. ‘While you are working for me, Dromo, use the money properly, then each time you clean off, I will buy you a cake myself.’ Some baths have their own pastry shops, or at least a hawker with a sweetmeat tray.

Dromo had no idea when to keep quiet. ‘Can I choose my own?’

Faustus rolled his eyes, but I agreed.

Faustus and I sat down for a review of the evidence.

‘You’re going soft,’ he said as we arranged ourselves, nodding towards Dromo who loafed at a distance.

‘Not as soft as you, putting up with him. I have a brother and cohorts of cousins. I know boys.’ It was men who got the better of me − sometimes. I shuffled my note tablets, so Faustus would not read that thought.

My report took time. Halfway through, one of the aediles’ public slaves appeared, bringing a tripod table and a supper that Faustus must have pre-ordered. A change of scene would have been welcome to me after such a long set of interviews, but if we had walked out to eat in a public place we might have been overheard.

It was pleasant enough in the courtyard. As part of a magistrates’ office, it was there for display; in order to show the benefits of well-run government under our benign and wondrous emperor, its garden was better kept than that at the Aviola apartment. With food, drink and a sympathetic listener, I relaxed. For me, coming from a very different climate, one great joy of Rome was how you could sit with friends and family out of doors late into the evening.

Once I had reported, I was happy to sit quiet. Manlius Faustus was famously taciturn; he seemed in no hurry to be off home, so he sat on with me. The slave who had served our food came to take away empty bowls, bringing us a beaker of wine each and a jug to water it to taste.

Faustus raised his cup in a good-mannered salute, to which I responded.

‘I suppose time is still of the essence, Tiberius?’

‘Take all the time you need. Let’s get it right.’

Faustus was capable of fending off the authorities. That was good, because today’s interviews had given me some unease about this case. ‘Don’t book the arena lions quite yet – but you may have to.’

Faustus turned to me, on the alert. ‘Something bothering you, Albia?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Talk it through.’

‘Well … interviews need absorbing. You tend to take people’s first answers literally; you concentrate on whether their stories are probable … To be honest, I am not used to talking to slaves, except a few I know well at home.’ My parents were liberal owners; their staff were outspoken to a fault. ‘I’m sure I have not been told the whole story by these suspects. But they are slaves and I’m a stranger. They are bound to hold things back.’

‘Being under threat of death would make anyone anxious,’ Faustus mused.

‘They need me to help them – so why be quite so wary?’ I mentioned something I found particularly odd. ‘Start with this − did you see Nicostratus, the porter who died? I agree with the doctor: the beating he took was excessive. I’d like to show you, if you haven’t seen.’

‘No longer here. The rules say any dead slave must be removed within two hours.’

‘From your office?’

‘From anywhere. It must derive from an assumption that slaves are polluted by their condition, not normal human beings.’

‘Do you think that?’

‘No. I believe slavery is an accident of fate. All people are born the same. Some are enslaved, the rest of us are lucky … What do you think?’ I made no reply. Even though we were easy together, I had no intention of telling him that I had nearly been sold into slavery once. Faustus did not press it. ‘I did see Nicostratus when he was still alive,’ he said. ‘I agree; the violence used on him needs to be explained.’

I had a theory. ‘Nicostratus had let Libycus out of the house to socialise with friends.’ Faustus listened. ‘The story is that the robbers “broke in” – but is that true? There is no sign of damage on the front doors. I shall double-check tomorrow for repairs, but I don’t expect to see any.’ Faustus nodded. ‘So I wonder if Nicostratus accidentally let in the thieves, thinking it was Libycus returning. When the porter saw his mistake, he probably started yelling – and that’s why they turned rough.’

‘Sounds right … This is your only anxiety?’

‘No. I am sure the survivors are hiding more, Tiberius. I can’t tell – yet – if it is a conspiracy, or whether each slave has their own secret.’

‘I trust your intuition,’ Faustus answered. ‘Take time to dig deeper.’

‘If you approve … Won’t we just hate it, if the vigiles are right and the slaves did it?’

That would leave Faustus stuck with them in sanctuary – though I guessed if we proved they committed murder, the temple authorities would take a hard line. ‘You hired me to show the slaves were innocent. But it begins to look as if they must all have ignored the fracas – and that makes them guilty.’

I
went back to the Esquiline in a carrying chair. Faustus paid the fare in advance. Expenses up front? That was civilised, for a client of mine.

He kept Dromo, saying he would send him over tomorrow with a Stargazer breakfast and other supplies. A take-out from the Stargazer had many drawbacks, but the street-food I knew was still better than what I had found so far anywhere around the Clivus Suburanus.

Arriving at the Aviola building, the carriers bunked off smartly, leaving me in the street. Now I had a quandary. The apartment doors were closed and locked. One door porter was dead, the other in sanctuary. Thank you, gods!

Knocking failed to induce the girl Myla to let me in; I suspected the dozy lump would not have responded even if she heard me. Hades, I was thinking like an owner: blaming a slave simply because she lacked vivacity.

I tried that trick with a hairpin, which never works. I had a go with my paring knife. I even walked around the block, looking for the usual weak point, a back entrance. No luck.

I stayed calm. A lock-out could easily have happened at home in Fountain Court, where the ridiculous porter Rodan often fastened up, vanished and went deaf even to tenants and legitimate callers.

It was evening, but not so late that I felt anxious, even though I was alone and very tired. At least this helped me envisage how the robbers must have faced their break-in: the apartment’s narrow entrance through the street-front shops meant only these double doors would give access, and they were strong. They were designed to look formidable; the lock was a serious one, needing a good key. A sliding spyhole would allow a porter to look out at visitors, but although it was wooden (some doors have a metal grille) it was so small there was nothing to gain by smashing it.

I would have done if it would do any good. Every girl should be ready to find a stray brick – and to use it.

I knew the steward lived somewhere up above. However, I might not need to go knocking at the other apartments to find him. Three of the shops were closed up now, but one showed light. When I approached and called out, there was a pause, then two men of North African appearance pulled open their shutter a crack and looked out cautiously.

I guessed these were Libycus’ cronies. When I mentioned him, they let me in and sat me down politely on a stool that they brushed clean. They realised he was in big trouble. I made sure they knew that if he was innocent I might help him, so it would be good to assist me.

They were leatherworkers. Not tanners; the smell of hides in preparation is outlawed from city centre neighbourhoods. Leather was supplied to them. These men cut out and put together purses, belts and other fancy goods, punching them with patterns and creating tassels. They had this typical workroom unit, from which they could also make sales. Finished goods hung on strings all around. At the back, steps led up to a mezzanine level where they slept.

I had not expected to continue my enquiries at this time of night, but you take what fate offers. So I learned that with a background in common, Secundus and Myrinus had made friends with Libycus at the baths; knowing these premises were empty and suitable for their business, he passed on a tip. Since they moved in, if ever Aviola didn’t want him, Libycus popped along to see them. They confirmed his story of visiting their shop on the night of the murders.

‘When he left you, was that only because the hour was late – or had you heard a disturbance?’ They said Libycus left because he was nervous in case his master wanted him. Worn out, Secundus and Myrinus then fell into a dead sleep. According to them, they knew nothing about the tragedy until next morning.

Well, that was possible.

Myrinus went up to fetch Polycarpus for me. When the steward came down and let me into the apartment, he was perfectly respectful, went ahead and set out lamps. I suggested he ought to supply a key; he promised to attend to it next day.

‘Do you know those leatherworkers?’

‘They seem a couple of good boys.’

Polycarpus asked how I had got on with the fugitive slaves. I confined myself to saying ‘we held useful discussions’. The slaves were not the only people who could be tight-lipped.

I was pretty sure Polycarpus believed himself capable of winkling more out of me, but he was professional enough to drop the subject. Maybe he guessed that if he didn’t,
I
was professional enough to thump him. Also, if he showed too much curiosity, it might look significant.

‘Do you feel any great loyalty to the fugitive slaves, Polycarpus?’

‘Yes, I feel responsible for them, as their supervisor. We all belong to the same household – one where I was a slave myself once. It counts, Flavia Albia.’

As Aviola’s freedman, he was supposed to feel
more
loyalty to his master, but was that really the case? If the slaves were in trouble, how far would Polycarpus go to protect them? Would there ever be a situation where he took their part against his master?

Something to ponder as the inquiry proceeded.

After I was sure Polycarpus had left, and before I went to bed, I made further checks. As I had thought: there was no damage on the front doors or their fancy frame.

Something else failed to fit too: as far as I could tell by the tiny light of an oil lamp, there were no bloodstains on the corridor floor. It was black and white mosaic, with extremely small tesserae, neatly laid. Given the blood Nicostratus must have shed, I would expect to see indelible marks in the grouting, even if the floor had been deep-cleaned. I must double-check tomorrow in the light. Maybe Nicostratus managed to struggle away from his attackers and into the apartment – yet Phaedrus had definitely told me he found his colleague lying unconscious in the entrance corridor.

I was unsure whether this was good news or bad, but I had now identified the first inconsistencies.

N
ext morning I was busy. Fortunately Faustus sent Dromo quite early. He seemed subdued and biddable. I wondered whether he had been ticked off.

Breakfast in hand, I set about close inspection of floors. I felt like a picky housewife, looking for a reason to beat somebody. Someone else here must be equally meticulous, because what I was looking for proved very hard to spot. Eventually I did make out a patch in the hall, where something that might be blood had been cleaned as successfully as possible, though darkened mortar remained between the tiny marble pieces. Back in the narrow entrance corridor I still found no marks.

Further exploration led me to a store room used for collecting rubbish, where someone had dumped a bloody mattress of the thin, lumpy type the slaves used. This must have been Nicostratus’ bed, where he was put after he was attacked. I gave it a tug, but recoiled. I was trained to be inquisitive, but some jobs are too disgusting.

A thought struck me. If the porter was that badly hurt, however had he travelled to the Temple of Ceres? Faustus could help me out on that. I would write a report this evening, setting some homework: Faustus must ask the slaves how they escaped and reached the Aventine (on foot, presumably) – then specifically, how did the semi-conscious Nicostratus manage to cross half Rome with them? Maybe they carried him, but it was a long way.

Given that Nicostratus was the only suspect with an excuse − he was too physically hurt to help his master and mistress – why did he want to go?

I spent much of the morning diligently carrying out the experiments the Camillus brothers had suggested. I stood Dromo in the best bedroom, beside the bed where the murders occurred. I then went to each place where a slave had claimed to be asleep or drunk during the attack. I signalled when I was ready: ‘Now, Dromo!’ At which, if he was paying attention, Dromo yelled back, ‘Help! Help!’

Each time his cries were audible. Of course Dromo had already heard me calling his name in the other direction … Still, a good informer double-checks.

I had not replicated the effects of drink or sleeping medicine, which some suspects claimed to have taken, but the kind of lawyers who might be defending the slaves (assuming slaves are given lawyers, which I doubted) were unlikely to query that. Drink or drugs put them at fault anyway.

While I went through this probably pointless exercise, I noticed someone looking down from a small window in one of the upper apartments. A woman poked her head out wondering at the shouting. I called up and made contact, then once I had finished my checks I found the way via the stairs from the outside street and interviewed this neighbour.

Her name was Fauna. She was a worn-looking party of thirty or forty, wife of a vegetable porter at the nearby Market of Livia. ‘That’s where he is now, of course – unless the bum has given them the slip and slunk off somewhere.’

Fauna had a wrinkled tunic and bare feet, at least at home, with a whole armful of tacky bangles that implied her husband brought one for her out of guilt every time he visited a brothel. Or perhaps he just had little money and appalling taste. Surely if he did frequent brothels, he must have seen better jewellery even on the worst whores?