Graveyard of the Hesperides (6 page)

“They would have spotted her in the bar?” suggested Passus, clearly not liking the thought.

“Either just that night, Passus, or perhaps they had been watching for weeks,” I told him. “Sometimes they have even made an approach and been rebuffed; more usually they have never spoken to the victim, who has never noticed them.”

“Scary!”

“It is. From what you say about Rufia, I would expect her to be streetwise, but she could have been suddenly jumped in a spot where she had no chance of escape, with nobody to hear a cry for help. Anyway, she would be tired after a long evening, off her guard.”

There was a flaw in this argument, which I did not mention. Why would a killer who attacked Rufia in the street bring back her body to the Hesperides afterward? She could have been buried anywhere, or just left. Why tie the murder so closely to her place of work?

I felt convinced that whatever misfortune had befallen Rufia, it must have happened at the bar. Either she never left that night, or she herself came back. But unless a lot of people witnessed her death and had since kept strictly silent, the event could only have occurred in the dead of night, after the Hesperides emptied and the other staff had gone home.

That would fit a fight with the landlord, as the rumors supposed.

 

VIII

I could take my questions no further at this stage. I needed more of a lead. When I left, Costus and his staff escorted me to the door with elaborate gentility. I glanced back and waved. I knew the men stayed there in a group to watch me down the street. While I would like to think that was because they found my questions apt and my person attractive, I suspected they had another motive. My visit had felt vaguely unsatisfactory. They knew something. I for my part did not yet understand enough to probe for it.

It was likely to be some time longer before Faustus returned. Not only was the Aventine a good step from here, he had given himself too much to do: aediles' business, wedding plans, fetching luggage and visiting Lesser Laurel Street to see what his workmen were up to. I hoped they would not dig up any more human remains, or I too was liable to be overstretched.

Of course finding bones was possible in any city, especially in Rome, which had such a long history. The rule against burying a corpse within the city boundary was good public hygiene, but it must always have led to the surreptitious concealment of bodies. It was not necessarily the result of misdemeanor. Many of the poor could not afford a niche in the cheapest columbarium, let alone a tomb in a necropolis. Even to bury ashes in a broken old pot, they would first have to pay for cremation. So, when digging anywhere in Rome, there was a good chance of finding bones that should not be there. Skeletons of babies abounded, though if a child died in its first four days it was permissible to bury the body at home. It was better to tuck your stillborn under your own threshold than cast its sad corpse onto a rubbish heap with the risk of dogs, rats, carrion crows and witches, let alone youths looking for something horrible to kick around the streets.

I decided that Faustus and I had better try to identify whether the bones we had were truly those of a woman, one who had vanished in living memory. There was no point in me chasing down what happened to Rufia if this was not her at all. By the look of it, the Garden of the Hesperides had been a bar since the Republic, so given what tended to happen in bars, it could have a long series of sad little waitresses who had met untimely ends.

Now I was despondent. Why had I so easily gotten involved? Why did I never learn?

*   *   *

I tried a small bathhouse, only reminding myself how disgusting they can be. At your local, you stop seeing the scum. Here, floating dirt and oil lapped in the basins and pools all too obviously, while the floors were slippery with other people's scraped-off filth. The customers looked like people who peed in the plunge pools.

All right; you can't tell from appearance. But they all looked like people who were just asking to be insulted.

Emerging glumly, I explored more stalls and shops around the Ten Traders area, buying provisions that I carried back to our hired room. The bag of bones silently greeted me; I tucked it away under the bed. While I waited for Faustus I took more note of the location.

The room was directly above a teeming crossroads. Behind a battered shutter, I found a balcony onto which you could take one step, if you really wanted to stand on a ledge like a pigeon. Teetering there I could see people thronging the Vicus Longus, with all the usual extras: smells I tried not to identify, mules braying while their drivers yelled themselves hoarse, strident women arguing with hoarse neighbors, artisans singing as they worked, copper-beaters hammering, carpenters rasping wood with adzes that set my teeth on edge. Someone was scraping out a huge cooking pot into the gutter and a sad child was bawling for attention it would never receive. Nine feral dogs in a pack came rampaging down the road, scarily barking their heads off, then bystanders yelled after the dogs.

By now I had identified some of the smells, and wished I hadn't. I braced myself to keep looking because I wanted to get a feel for the neighborhood.

People came from all levels and the whole fabric of society. Groups of the idle hung about waiting for life to improve, making more noise than seemed wise, given that while I watched a bunch of the Urban Cohorts marched in, looking for people to harass. A few mature women who looked quite respectable were going home with shopping baskets. These women would want places for religious observance, though temples were nowhere in evidence. The closest thing to incense was the pungent after-waft of some public slaves who had been given garlic soup. Perhaps it was so they wouldn't notice the odor of the dung they were brushing from the road.

At least it was swept. These folk should try living in Fountain Court, which never was.

As the afternoon ended and evening began, people of the night started to emerge. Workers in the entertainment trade, bar staff, musicians, odd types who sold themselves in very curious ways, were all heading for their places of work—places that would be loud and lively far into the night, and I bet in this district their customers really lingered. An evening out at a bar was how they socialized and even did business; it staved off the misery of going home, when home was dire. This was not a quiet nook to live in, nowhere to live at all if you had any choice. Many people had none, so these miserable souls, with their children, aged parents and animals, would be venting their frustrations at all hours.

Looking down the smaller street that crossed the Vicus, I could see a couple in a clinch against a grimy wall down one alley while in another a cluster of men had their heads together as if inspecting stolen goods. Going into the alleyways was only to avoid being trampled. They did not care who was watching. Their activities were carried out in full view and even the heavy boots of the Urban Cohort soldiers failed to make them pause. I had better not let my lover take the air on our skinny balcony, or he would be faced with a crisis of conscience. He had enough to do, without wanting to clean up another aedile's patch.

Fortunately, when he finally arrived it was dark, though as I let him in I saw him look back over one shoulder rather thoughtfully. He had his slave, Dromo, grumbling under the weight of luggage they had brought for us. I fed them both, then took Dromo to the Hesperides where he would have to sleep in any space he could find. When I returned to the room, Faustus was lying on the bed, spark out.

I stretched beside him quietly. He woke enough to murmur. A light kiss on my forehead from him served for our goodnight. We were so close now, we had already passed beyond needing to fuss. I spent a few moments thinking how hard the mattress was and then, lying close against his side, I too tried to sleep.

No use. I spent many more moments listening to the hubbub from outside. Added to the unfettered hum of voices, the Romulus had live music; on hot August nights like this the castanets and tambourines were brought out into the street, where the clientele joined in with stamps and clapping. The Four Limpets competed with a solo lyre, well-played if you like loud, weeping string instruments in the hands of a mad dramatic singer. Meanwhile a persistent pest with panpipes traveled around all the bars, tootling at drinkers until they paid him to move on.

At least I was getting the measure of this district at night, the low-grade noisy hot spot where poor Rufia was said to have been murdered.

Eventually Tiberius sensed through his slumber that I was struggling to find rest. He roused himself enough to gather me closer with one arm, then dropped off again immediately. I lay with my head on his shoulder, thinking about this. He had passion, when not poleaxed by weariness. Even tonight, he wanted to grip me tightly, as if I might escape him while he was lost in dreams. So here we were, utterly at ease together. Together for life now, I knew it. I would not need the wedding augur to foretell this by peering at a dead sheep's liver.

Not that it would hurt to have him prophesy happiness to our families. They didn't believe us. Tiberius was right: maybe the relatives would have more faith if a stranger in a dirty head veil told them.

Smiling to myself at the incongruity of having a husband I agreed with, finally I fell asleep.

 

IX

The Ten Traders street life gave me nightmares.

As a rule, I tried not to dwell on the unfairness of my childhood, an orphan of the Boudiccan Rebellion, living among unaffectionate people and then fending for myself as a scavenger. Sounds assailing me here threw me back to the cold unpaved streets of Londinium, where I once haunted dingy eating houses for any crust to stave off hunger, among the dross of degenerate tribes, transient merchants, unhappy soldiers and criminal incomers.

I started awake, with a dry mouth and fast heartbeats. If I tried sleeping again straightaway, the bad dream would return. Slipping from the bed, I went and stood by the balcony.

The streets below lay in darkness. The noise had dropped, the musicians were silent, yet a low burr of steady voices told me people were still here. No one even tried providing streetlights in such an area, and where there was an occasional oil lamp for bar customers, it gave only a tiny blur of light that barely covered the table or counter it was set on. As my eyes grew accustomed, I could see waiters still moving to and fro with trays on their shoulders. I thought I heard the sharp click-clack of gaming counters, with cries of reaction as dice were thrown. I scanned the darker shadows, imagining I glimpsed some waif cringing in an alley, as I had once done.

“What's wrong?” Tiberius thought something outside had disturbed me.

“A bad dream.”

I heard the soft approach of bare feet, felt warm arms come around me from behind—comforting, not controlling. “Be easy,” he murmured. I leaned back against him, accepting his affection.

“What goes on down there on those streets was my world once.”

He said nothing. That was Tiberius Manlius. Perhaps he sighed a little.

“Did you know?” I persisted.

“Always been obvious.” He took one of my forefingers to a scar on his palm where once, before I knew him well, I had stabbed him with a fish skewer. “Nicely brought-up young ladies from regular homes do not do that.”

“So you want danger and thrills from me?”

“I just want you. I don't think you are dangerous, not to people you love.” After a moment he added, “Your mother told me I ought to know you had a very bleak childhood.”

For a moment I was angry with Helena, before I saw that she was protecting me. She did not want Faustus to find out later about my experiences. No hope and no safety. The physical blows, emotional famine, rape by a brothel-keeper … All Tiberius knew from me was that afterward I had had a happy marriage, though tragically short.

“She gave no details,” he said. Nor did I now. I was not ready to risk it. Maybe I never would be. Even so, I muttered, “Helena Justina warned you for good reasons. What did you say to her?”

“I told her I grieve for your suffering, which I had always suspected, but I love you as the woman you are. You can tell me,” he offered in a low voice, still standing behind me. One of the soft things we had said when we first acknowledged our feelings was that we could tell one another anything. Mostly we did so, though people fool themselves. It's always dangerous. Even the best of men might find my experiences impossible to live with.

“Not now.” Tiberius thought he could bear anything but I was loath to test his tolerance. “I try to forget.” Of course I never would entirely. You are made by your past.

Can you be remade by the present? I turned around to embrace him, enjoying the shape and feel of this body I was learning to know, moulding myself to his ribcage and stomach. We were both naked. Until recently I had slept in an old under-tunic; probably he had done the same. Now, except for a few days a month, that seemed unnecessary.

We kissed gently, then I went back to bed with him. My bad memories were hovering nearby, but the nightmare would not reimpose itself tonight.

Tiberius held me close. “While I live, Flavia Albia, you will be safe. If I have any influence, you will be happy.”

“I know.” I was always happy with him, and being happy makes you feel safe.

 

26 August

Seven days before the Kalends of September (a.d. VII Kal. Sept.)

Five days before the wedding of Tiberius Manlius Faustus and Flavia Albia

 

X

Breakfast was our special time. This had started when we would meet as if by chance and sit together in my aunt's caupona. At the Stargazer, you had to converse to stop losing your grip on life. Talking together was easy, we had found, even though we were both by nature reticent. So, we became friends over the Stargazer's granite bread and fatty meats. I would watch Faustus mentally assessing how the waiter, whoever it was that day, had given us the least possible number of olives he could serve without having the pottery saucer thrown at his head. Those bite bowls are small but carry weight, as any scavenger knows. I had had them flung at me, back in Londinium.