The Ides of April (18 page)

‘We have never met.’ I gave her a bright smile. Bright enough to worry her, if she was jealous. ‘I take my instructions from his staff. I presume you must know him socially?’

‘His uncle is on friendly terms with my brother,’ replied Gratiana dismissively. Women like that are practiced at denying unpleasant history. She had blotted out her failed marriage.

She knew I knew. She hated me for it. I am never unreasonable. I did not altogether blame her.

I
walked over and had a look at the Vicus Altus. Just a street. Nothing unusual or significant. I walked back.

When I finally returned to the Stargazer, Tiberius was still there, with the draughtboard unused in front of him. The counters were still in their leather bag, as if he had never taken them out. He looked as if he had been depressing himself, perhaps continuing to think about the aedile’s failed marriage.

In the moment before he glanced up and spotted me, I had a chance to assess him. Some customers in bars are clearly vulnerable, especially if they are preoccupied; not him. I noticed, for instance, that Trinius the pickpocket made no attempt to sidle up, and I thought it unlikely any drunks would be troublesome.

In the few days I had known the runner, he can never have visited a barber; that unpleasant stubble of his had become full-face untended growth. Andronicus was bearded too – Hades, they must have more beards at their house than an academy of Greek philosophers. Andronicus’ light gingery hair was carefully trimmed. From a short distance away, it was undetectable. In no way did it hide his features. The runner was darker. I could see nothing of Tiberius but those wary grey eyes.

‘Sorry it took a while. I am surprised you are still here.’

‘I knew you would come.’

I explained about going over to the other side of the hill to inspect the crime scene. ‘You know the Vicus Altus?’ Tiberius bluffed, but I could see he was unable to place it. I enjoyed laying out my expertise: ‘It’s a short, narrow street, above and parallel with the Embankment, back of the big Temple of Juno the Queen.’ Still no reaction. ‘It runs off the bend in Lesser Laurel Street.’ Tiberius sat up. ‘That’s right,’ I told him quietly. ‘If we are looking for the same killer for the four odd deaths we have identified, this is his beat. Right by where Salvidia and Celendina lived. We don’t know exactly where either of them was attacked, but the location is significant. They too may have been jostled by him in the Vicus Altus.’

‘But what about the oyster-shucker?’

‘Still nearby. The stall is down on the flat, it’s true – but it’s in the Trigeminal Porticus – that’s right below the Temple of Ceres. Every event we have identified happened in the Aventine’s north-west area. It narrows the search.’

While Tiberius was looking thoughtful, I told him I had warned Laia Gratiana that she and the other cult ladies should not walk about unless they had bodyguards present; she claimed they were using chairs or litters now. Inevitably, she said it as if I was exceeding my authority in giving her advice, especially as she had thought up the safety measure first.

The runner was drawn to murmur, ‘Sounds like her!’ He made the comment to himself; there was no sharing with me.

I said what Laia Gratiana had told me about the incident with Ino. Tiberius let me talk in full, never interrupting. I finished. He remained silent.

‘How did I do?’ I queried, mildly satirical because I thought I had handled things excellently.

He sucked his teeth. ‘Did you question Laia Gratiana’s own maid?’

Privately, I cursed. When I suggested this, Gratiana had snapped that it was unnecessary. ‘Oh,
you
would have insisted!’ Tiberius nodded, so I felt unprofessional. He was right; we had so few witnesses that I should have interviewed the girl as well, whatever her mistress wanted, just in case she saw something additional.

Some informers would have dashed this aside, but I admitted immediately that I was at fault. I said I could go back and do it.

He seemed to lose interest. I could tell by the way he was holding his hand that the wound I gave him with the skewer was hurting. I told him he should go home and rest up.

He stood up. For a tough man, he was visibly demoralised this evening. ‘Yes, this is sore. Don’t trouble to apologise, Albia.’

‘I am not sorry.’

Tiberius overruled me with one of his knowing looks. ‘You are!’ he said.

He abruptly left the caupona without a goodbye. I thanked the gods I was not obliged to have a lot to do with him.

I
n view of the scepticism the aedile’s man showed, I was determined to prove myself. The following morning, I did return to Laia Gratiana’s apartment and asked to see her maid, whose name I learned was Venusia. She was out with her mistress. The older slave, the one who had left the room when Gratiana saw me, came and talked. She seemed sensible. (This impression can be
so
deceptive!) She wanted to say that she had tackled Venusia about what happened, and the maid insisted she had not noticed any assailant.

‘Is she a good girl?’

The elderly woman looked torn. Still, she was a good sixty herself and would probably distrust anybody under thirty. ‘She has always been very loyal to the mistress.’

‘Oh?’

‘She speaks up, if she sees anything wrong . . .’ It sounded as though this referred to some old incident or a trait that might be deplored perhaps, but if so, the woman was not telling. I could imagine a scenario where the older woman was tight-lipped and conservative, while the younger one babbled more thoughtlessly.

I mentioned how Marcia Balbilla’s maid, Ino, had a follower.

‘I’m not surprised – you know what young girls like Ino are like.’

I said I did. I tried not to think about Andronicus while we were speaking.

‘Fools for the men, so many of them!’

‘Oh yes!’
Me too, me too . . .
‘Tell me – is Venusia like that?’

‘Not unless the silly thing has managed to keep her cupid well hidden.’

Privately, I could see why Venusia would do that, and not just because she worked in an environment where the habits of slaves were minutely scrutinised by their elders, with stern rules prescribed by mean-minded owners. It’s not only slaves who need to be discreet. Any woman who talks about her lover before she has known him for at least five years is asking to finish up by finding she’s a fool.

I did pursue the issue of Venusia further, dutifully trotting over the Hill to the Temple of Ceres where the old woman said Gratiana had gone with the maid, but I just missed her there too. A certain class of witness can be guaranteed to be annoying. Rich blondes, for instance.

Time to write up my report.

For this, I did not return to Fountain Court as usual, but went to my parents’ house and dictated it to Katutis, Father’s highly trained Egyptian secretary. Often underused at home, he was thrilled. He penned it in ink on papyrus, to look good – perhaps the most expensive client report ever. Father saw the work in progress and almost laughed himself sick.

I climbed back up the Aventine, carrying the elaborate scroll, which Katutis had labelled on the outside
Highly Confidential
, tying it up with strings, to which he appended wax security seals. Luckily, I have a seal. It’s an old coin set on a finger ring. It shows a British king, with horrible clumps of spiky hair, looking as if he can’t wait for helpful Roman invaders to ship in some decent barbers.

By taking the Stairs of Cassius, I was able to walk down the Vicus Altus on my next errand: delivering the report. I was well swathed that day, since I had known I was visiting women who made much of being respectable. That morning I had even wondered whether to borrow the eldest daughter of the Mauretanians who lived on the first floor of the Eagle Building; I did pass off this silent ten-year-old as a chaperone occasionally. Today, I decided, as usual, that it was too much bother. Instead I had just lumbered myself with a huge stole, the kind that’s as big and as warm to wear as a toga but shows oodles of respect when you visit smart women. Out on the streets I could snuggle in it unrecognisably – head covered, face and body attractions all neutralised, nothing but fingertips showing.

So, as I slipped up the Vicus discreetly, I was able to spot Tiberius, lurking. He had abandoned last night’s noticeable white bandage and sling, and instead had his wounded hand in a grubby-looking, frayed piece of material, perhaps torn from a worn-out tunic. He was mooching, no doubt looking for our killer, just as I was. We had both made ourselves seem like slaves going about our business in the invisible way slaves do on Roman streets. Nobody else would have given either of us a second glance, though of course I saw him.

I could have handed my report to the runner, but I had better ideas. I wanted to go to the aedile’s office in the hope of finding Andronicus.

Thrills! He was there.

We were both delighted at finally meeting up again. Andronicus amused me with choice words about Manlius Faustus, who had been keeping him on a short rein these past few days. I saw that my friend had the freedman’s dilemma: on being manumitted from slavery, he could take himself off and be his own man, with whatever love life he chose, but then he would have to take big financial risks. Go into business with very little start-up capital. Face possible failure. If, instead, he wanted to remain in secure employment with people who knew him, he was stuck with the fact that his patrons, as they now were, expected to order him about. He had some rights to their protection, but in return his duty to them meant he must be obedient. I could see that Andronicus did not possess the necessary humble character to accept this. He found his position extremely frustrating.

I unwound my hot person from the confining folds of my stole. He greeted the process with the excitement of a child unwrapping a present. As soon as he saw the scroll, he seized it from me, chuckling over the confidentiality notice and the seals.

I explained: ‘Although your Faustus ordered the vigiles to deter me from my private assignments, the confused man has now hired me himself. That is my formal report for him.’

‘And you have given it,’ joked Andronicus, ‘to the one person who is capable of undoing the strings, reading the secrets, and replacing the seals undetectably!’

‘Ah yes.’ I did have second thoughts, though briefly. But I trusted him. ‘I suppose counterfeiting legal seals is the first thing an archivist learns!’

‘No, the first is how to hide your beaker of posca in a scroll-box quickly, if your master walks in.’

Posca, which is little more than vinegar or wine spoiled by bad storage, is a slave’s drink. I did not comment. I knew he would hate being reminded – and would hate me being too aware of his past.

Taking my right hand, he examined my seal ring. After comparing it to the marks in the wax, he kept hold of my hand. I like a masterful lover, but felt awkwardly conscious that we were in a public office. In Rome, only very low-grade people – or very drunk nobles – make love in public. For his part, Andronicus seemed to enjoy the danger of being discovered.

‘Luckily,’ he said, gazing into my eyes from a rather close position, ‘I do know what is going on. People are being attacked in the street. There have been high-powered meetings involving all the aediles, occurring for some time now. Three out of four of them are hoping they can delay any action until their term of office ends, sticking the problem onto next year’s stooges. Our Faustus has to be different. He has made this his personal mission. He wants to catch the Aventine killer, and if he fails, the idiot will be broken hearted.’

‘Maybe he is right. Don’t the public deserve protection?’

‘Of course.’ Andronicus had his distracted look, almost as if he had been intending to give a different reply. I reckoned he had a low opinion of the public – for which I could not entirely blame him. The more of them I met, the more I despaired.

‘Is Faustus here today?’

‘No, thank Jupiter.’

‘Any of the other three?’

‘Naturally not. You don’t think these golden boys
work
, do you, Albia?’ Andronicus pulled me close, beginning some gentle neck-nuzzling. He smelt of an attar that must be expensive; I was amused to find he liked such luxuries and had money to buy them. ‘So what have you discovered for the sad man?’

‘Oh it’s all there,’ I murmured back, still trying to keep one eye on the door in case someone came in. I do have standards. I have never liked smooching in public. I want to relax and give my all. I like comfort too. I was certainly willing to give my all to Andronicus, but not backed up against the money-chests in a magistrates’ public office. Who wants a rusty old hasp in the ribs? ‘You will see, if you do break the seals . . . I was asked to interrogate Laia Gratiana.’

‘Over that incident where her friend’s maid died?’

I was glad Andronicus had heard about it, without me needing to reveal a confidence. ‘Yes, I get all the wonderful jobs . . . I had to force myself to be polite.’

‘Poor you! She’s a cow. I can’t bear taking documents to the temple when she’s swanning about in her Queen of Heaven mode.’

‘I managed.’

Andronicus then mused, ‘Laia Gratiana, eh? – You know she and Faustus share a murky past?’

‘Hence me being sent for her statement.’ Wonderful though it felt to be in his arms again, I had no intention of telling Andronicus that Laia Gratiana may have seen the killer. Nor would I pass on what Tiberius had confided in me regarding that ancient divorce.

‘Yes, he will run vast circles to avoid any contact with the haughty Laia – and she won’t ever approach him either. Something went on there, Albia. I would give a lot to know exactly what it was!’

To sidetrack my inquisitive friend (and to try to ignore where his hands were wandering), I mentioned my wise theory that if either of the maids had a secret liaison, she would have kept it to herself, given my view that any woman should avoid boasting about her lover. We fantasised comically: ‘You know − either he’s on the verge of dumping her unexpectedly, to fulfil his real ambition of joining the legions or of going on a long sea voyage—’