The Ides of April (2 page)

Only when I asked for the contact on the wall notice did I learn he was a big prawn in a purple-edged toga who belonged to an ancient order of magistrates. The Temple of Ceres was their headquarters and archive depository.

I reconsidered. Then I went home and made alterations to my appearance. I was visiting the office of men of great consequence in Rome: men of wealth and power. I did not suppose ‘Manlius Faustus’ had chalked up graffiti on the Clivus Publicius in person, but some minion certainly did it in his name. That minion must have felt confident Faustus would enjoy throwing his weight about. By definition this magistrate was one of those menaces who drive traders wild checking market weights. I had been trained by my father to avoid such types, though in fact those over-promoted snoots don’t tangle with me. I have contacts, but no one that important.

Still, it always pays to respect the opposition. So I changed into a full-length tunic in a neutral shade, not white, not quite unbleached linen, but neat, tidy and unthreatening. It did have an embroidered neckline that suggested money, which in turn hints at a woman with influential men behind her, one who should not be too quickly or too rudely dismissed.

My earrings were plain gold rosettes. I added a row of bangles, to give me confidence. Hair pinned up. Three dabs of a discreet perfume. A large stole: the demure, respectable widow look. I really am a widow, so that part was right.

Mother had taught me how to pose as a meek matron. It was ridiculous and hypocritical, but the act now came as second nature and I could manage it without laughing.

So, feeling convinced that I was as good as them and could handle these bastards, I set off for my first encounter with the plebeian aediles.

T
he Temple of Ceres was so local to me that I normally ignored it. It sat on the northern slope of the Aventine, a short walk halfway uphill from the starting-gates end of the Circus Maximus. A chunky edifice, it was designed in the remote past and looked more Greek than Roman in an archaic way; the heavy grey columns surrounding it had thick bases and curious capitols that, if you care to know such stuff, were neither Ionic nor Doric. I believe the word is ‘transitional’. I don’t suppose the distinction bothered many people; most probably never looked up high enough to notice. But I had spent my childhood a thousand miles from Rome, in a backwoods town that had been laid waste in a revolt and still lacked interesting architecture; when an effort has been made to build something unusual, I pay polite attention.

The truth is, after I was brought to Rome by the family who adopted me, I had to learn fast about the people and the place; as a result I often know more about the myths and monuments than most of the city’s natives. I was about fifteen then, and curious about the world. Education was made available. While being taught to read and write, I devoured facts. Sometimes now it helped in my work. More often, it just made me marvel at the weird history and attitudes of these Romans, who believed themselves masters of the civilised world.

At least they had a history. They knew their origins, which was more than I could say.

The temple was home to a Triad: three gods, bunking up together, all holy and cosy amid the incense and deposited must cakes. In addition to Ceres the Earth Mother, a well-built dame bearing sheaves of corn who was one of the twelve grand Olympian deities, it also housed Liber and Libera, two lesser gods that I bet you’ve never heard of, Ceres’ children, I think. This triple cult was rooted in fertility rites − well may you groan!

Needless to say, an organised body of religious-minded women fussed about the temple. No serious shrine can fail to have such busybodies importantly organising themselves into a sniffy coven; it’s one way local matrons can get out of the house once a week. My grandmother loved it – a bunch of upper-crust women dabbling in neighbourhood benevolence, heads down over gossip, then having wine together afterwards without their husbands daring to disapprove. My senatorial grandmama was a wonderful woman, only surpassed by her plebeian counterpart, whose domestic rule was legendary all over the Aventine. If I mentioned
her
at the stall where she used to buy roots for her broth cauldron, the greengrocer still mimed running for the hills.

A temple cult can be a good argument against letting women control things. Although Ceres was bringer of plenty, especially favouring commoners, I found that her devotees included a scrawny bird who had been spoiled from birth and thought herself
very
superior. Forget liberality. The public slaves who swept the steps and acted as security directed me to her because I was a woman, for which I would not thank them. Possibly they could see I was a different type entirely and they were hoping for a laugh.

Sisterhood did not feature at our meeting.

The supercilious sanctum queen was called Laia Gratiana. The public slave had told me that; she would not introduce herself, in case I dirtied her name by using it. She was fair and I am dark; that was only the start of the distance between us. I told myself she was older than me, though in fact she may not have been. She behaved like a domineering old matriarch with five generations of cowed family who all feared she might alter her will if they as much as sneezed. Her garments were rich cloth, elegantly draped with many folds, though in a revolting puce colour that some sly dyer must have been delighted to offload on an idiot. When she swept up, intent on facing me down, I felt my hackles rise by instinct. I saw she felt the same − in my view, with much less reason.

‘What do you want?’

‘I am looking for Manlius Faustus.’

‘He won’t see you.’

‘Suppose I ask him that myself. I am responding to a public notice he put up.’

When I stood my ground, it unsettled her. Grudgingly, she deigned to mention that the aediles worked from an office in a side street alongside the temple. I guess she only told me because I could have found out easily from anyone.

We parted on poor terms. If I had known then that Gratiana and I were to have history, I would have felt even more sour.

My two romantic little sisters believed that being so carefully dressed up as I was that afternoon guaranteed that you would meet the love of your life. Not today, apparently. My first encounter was certainly dire; while I sized up a nondescript building that must be the aediles’ headquarters, a male menace barged out into the street and crashed into me. He snorted with irritation. It was his fault, absolutely. He was too busy hunching up to make himself look like a nobody, an effect he achieved without trying. The shifty blaggard was all hemp tunics and chin stubble. Absolutely not my type. Sorry, hopeful sisters!

‘Oh, don’t bother to apologise! − Is this the aediles’ office?’ He refused to answer, skulking off head down. Rubbing my bruised arm, I sent a soldier’s gesture after him, though I fear it was wasted.

As I tripped inside the building, I replaced a scowl with my bright-eyed charming face, to impress any occupants. There was no one in sight.

Small rooms led off a dark little entrance hall. Beyond it was a meagre courtyard with a miniature fountain in the form of a shell. It produced a trickle of water that glugged in pathetic hiccups, then leaked into a trail of green slime down the outside of the collection bowl. Mosquitoes clustered hopefully.

I stood still for a moment, listening. I didn’t knock or clear my throat. My father was a private informer too, and according to some (him, for example), he was the best in Rome. I was trained to take my chance, to open doors, to look around.

You always dream of finding an unattended diary that reveals an eye-watering love affair – not that I ever had. Everyone was too careful now. Under our latest emperor, when people committed adultery – as they did like rabbits, because he was a despot and they needed cheering up – they did not write down details. Domitian saw it as his sacred role to punish scandalous behaviour. His agents were always looking for evidence.

Repression had spread to the aediles. Encouraged by our austere and humourless ruler, the market monitors were extra conscientious these days. They were cracking down on docket-diddling, fraudulent weights and pavement-encroachment, though their most lucrative target was prostitution. Here in their lair, I saw massive armoured chests, where all the fines from miserable bar girls could be stored. Bar girls were fair game for the purity police. Traditionally, whenever a waitress served a customer a drink, he could order a bunk-up as a chaser. That’s if he wanted to catch the crabs or risk having to slip an officer a backhander if the authorities paid that bar a surprise visit, looking for unregistered whores – and inevitably finding them.

Bribes, I presumed, would go straight into the aediles’ belt pouches. Could Manlius Faustus be paid off with a bung, I wondered? How much of his income came from sweeteners?

The building smelled of dust. It was a place of unused reference scrolls and faded wall maps. Old wooden benches inhabited uncomfortable interview rooms in which members of the public, hauled in for questioning, could be made to feel guilty about the kind of rule infringement everyone expects to get away with. One thing startled me: a cage containing leg irons, though currently no prisoners.

Someone had turned up behind me.

‘I see you are admiring our facilities!’ I spun around. The charmer, who was neat and suave, purred appreciation of my physical appearance. He pretended to assume I had come for a guided tour. ‘His eminence has already cleared out the captives today, so I can’t show you any, I’m afraid.’

Some days the sun just comes out and lightens your world. We understood one another immediately. That magic spark.

I gazed at him, a pleasant experience. He was roughly my age, not a real redhead but he had gingery-brown eyes, hair, eyebrows, beard and moustache, even the fine hairs on the backs of his hands and his arms – the complete matching set. Background? – hard to say, though his accent was cultured. If he worked in a public office he was almost certainly a freedman, probably first-generation. I don’t despise ex-slaves. I could be one myself; I shall never even know.

‘The used gruel bowl looks recent.’ I nudged it with my toe. The toe had been pedicured; my sandal was new. I often wore shoes more suitable for a lame old lady, laced from front to ankle, in case I had to do a route march; on this visit I had treated myself to more feminine footwear. The soles would make a mark if I kicked someone, but the uppers consisted of just two thin gold straps on a toe-post. If this clerk was anything of a foot fetishist, my high instep would set his pulse racing. ‘I’m glad I am not compelled to steal the keys and set someone free behind your back.’

‘You sound as if you would really do it!’ he murmured admiringly.

‘That’s me.’

The tips of his ears had a little turn forward that gave him character, which I could tell involved personality, humour and intelligence. His slim build suggested a plain life; like me, he had probably known struggle. What I liked most was that he looked as if the sun came out for him too, when he found me in their anteroom. I fell for it happily.

‘Andronicus,’ he introduced himself. ‘I work here as an archivist.’

‘Hundreds of records of market fines?’

‘That would be tedious!’ Andronicus said, although I myself had been neutral. Scrupulously-kept public records can be a windfall in my line of work. I never despise bureaucracy. ‘The plebeian aediles receive decrees from the Senate, which they must deposit for safekeeping next door in the Temple of Ceres. All those records become my responsibility.’ He was exaggerating his own importance, though I did not blame him. ‘I tend them devotedly, even though no one ever asks to consult anything.’

‘But of course if you ever did misfile a scroll or let a mouse nibble one, that would be the only occasion ever that some pompous piece in purple would requisition it.’

‘You know the world!’ Andronicus’ grin was rueful and charming; he was very aware of that. ‘Life has its high spots. Sometimes, the aediles hold a meeting, all four of them – we have two plebeians and two patricians, as I am sure you know. To save them getting ink on themselves, I then have the privilege of being their minutes secretary. I bet you guess that means compiling action notes that none of the spoiled boys will carry out.’

I knew he was playing me, or he thought he was. Even though I was enjoying the moment, I never forgot that men were sneaky. ‘Do you always flirt with visitors?’ I asked him.

‘Only the attractive ones.’ He was respectably dressed; his tunic was clean, not even splattered with ink – yet he managed to give the impression his thoughts were dirty. I liked him enough to share them, though I didn’t show it.

‘Ah don’t expect me to fall for blather, Andronicus. I spend a lot of my time explaining to inane women that plain male treachery is the reason their husbands have vanished. Even though my clients’ husbands are always supposed to be the loveliest of men, none of whom would harm flies, nevertheless, my enquiries tend to show they have uncharacteristically run away with a bar girl. A piece with an ankle-chain, invariably. And by then, five months pregnant.’

‘Ooh,’ the archivist crooned. ‘Are you part of the emperor’s morality campaign? Do you take these absconders to court?’

‘No, I track down loose husbands for abandoned wives who can’t afford to go to law. My clients have to settle for battering the bastards with heavy iron frying pans.’

‘I get the impression you hold the men down while it happens?’

Andronicus was smiling broadly. Why spoil his party? I smiled back. ‘That’s my de luxe service . . . You mentioned your superior,’ I hinted broadly, dragging us back to the point of my visit. ‘I think it’s him I need to see. Is the notable who calls himself Manlius Faustus available? Or are you going to spin me the old line – “sorry, you just missed him”?’

He gave me a wry gleam. ‘Faustus is, genuinely, out. I hardly dare say this, but he did leave the building just before you came.’

‘Not that lout who nearly knocked me over on the step?’