The Ides of April (24 page)

As I entered the Eagle Building, I caught a glimpse of some animal slinking away on the far side of the yard. It could have been a dog or cat. I hoped it was the vixen I had once watched bring her four cubs to exercise. She had lain under the steps on guard, looking exhausted by motherhood, while her boisterous offspring spent a good hour playing tag together, jumping on and off old washtubs delightedly.

I told Rodan to lock up the grille and not allow anyone to come in tonight unless they lived here. ‘Does that include friends of yours?’

‘I have no friends, Rodan.’ This was a myth I liked to project: informers are moody, lonely folk. What informer can expect clients, if she is known for frittering away her time in a cheery social circle? ‘If one of my lovers turns up, I’m not in the mood. Snubbing him will just make him more keen tomorrow, won’t it?’

‘What lovers?’ asked Rodan, looking puzzled.

Later, and not unexpectedly, I did hear Andronicus calling out. He sounded none too sober. Despite him rattling at the grille, Rodan must have been snoring on his pallet and never answered. One way and another, I was not ready for a first night of passion. Setting free the foxes together had thrilled me, but I was piqued by events at the Stargazer. I buried my head under the pillow until what passed for silence fell on Fountain Court.

I knew I had acted against my own interest. That surely proved I was in love, or at least in lust. Tiffs and tussles are mandatory. I was old enough to know how it works. This is how you test whether an affair is serious, as it provides the meat and muscle for the anguished poetry. You have to have pointless separations in the mating process, don’t you?

I
awoke knowing it was now twelve days into April, which the Roman calendar describes as the day before the Ides. This was the start of the Cerialia festival. The organisers would hold sacrifices at the temple and a great horse race in the Circus; tonight would end with the ritual of the burning foxes. There was no longer much I could do about that.

I tried. I never give up.

I walked about the Aventine, searching for traps. They had placed more, presumably because they were now desperate. Each trap had a member of the vigiles on guard unobtrusively nearby, pretending to drink at a bar counter or leaning against a wall and using a twig as a toothpick.

I was returning home despondently when I met Morellus. He bore me no hard feelings for yesterday, if only because he was too lazy to want to create a charge-sheet. He was convinced of my guilt, but realistic; without witnesses, his case was weak – not that that counted too much in a Roman court. He knew I could call on good people to speak for me, so whatever theatricals a prosecutor came up with, once my defence heavies began their sweet-talk, the case would be thrown out. My lawyers were the kind who would then demand remuneration for the ‘false’ accusation . . . Of course they would. The people I knew specialised in compensation claims.

He was so forgiving towards me this morning, I even wondered if Morellus, or maybe his wife, sympathised with my feelings about the fox ritual. Conceivably, an urban couple might take no joy in horrible old traditions that were rooted in agricultural prehistory. But I would not push it with a vigiles officer. When challenged about any aspect of religion, most people go along with the establishment.

‘Leave it alone, Albia,’ Morellus chided, proving my point. ‘You will only make it worse. The aedile’s agents are collecting dogs with pointy noses now, to act as understudies. Kindly give up, woman! My children have just acquired a puppy with rusty-coloured fur. While we’re having to keep him in so the dog-catchers don’t snaffle the poor little beggar, he’s peeing on the floor rugs and driving my wife crazy.’

I gave him a wry, defeated smile.

The atmosphere on the streets had changed overnight. Visitors flooded into Rome, wandering about the Aventine not so much because it was a cultural high spot for travellers but because the Temple of Ceres stood here, the festival’s focal point. Workers were starting their holiday. There were more people than usual even this morning and by tonight everywhere would be packed. Bars were open. Hawkers with trays of dubious snacks were roaming about. Garland-girls sat on kerbs, surrounded by mounds of greenery and flowers that were too heavy to carry. Only the race in the Circus Maximus would suck the neighbourhood dry of crowds again. At that point, Morellus would face double anxiety: needing to police the racetrack down in the valley, yet also to keep watch over homes and businesses on the heights that would fall prey to robbers taking advantage of owners’ absence. He was used to it, but he loved complaining.

We stood on a street corner, gossiping. Inevitably, we talked about our big preoccupation, the random killings. He told me there had been no further street attacks locally, or none he knew about. The authorities had brought in extra manpower, to police the crowds. Morellus was not convinced by the gesture. His instinct told him this madman made his moves for some as yet unknown personal motive, which I agreed. Crowds alone would not draw him. Only if someone he already had in his sights went to the racecourse would he go after them. Even then, it would break his pattern, which was to take his victims while they were engaged in the most ordinary daily occupations.

Before we parted, Morellus could not help asking, ‘So are you having it away with that scroll-shoveller?’

‘I might be.’

‘Bit of a character.’

‘In vigiles’ parlance, that’s an insult?’

‘Too clever. Cocky. I hate that.’

I was hurt that my judgement was being maligned. ‘You’re a misery. He suits me. Andronicus is bright, witty, appreciative—’

‘A lightweight.’ Morellus would not be swayed. He was the worst kind of stubborn, self-opinionated man. ‘Wandering eyes. I bet he two-times you, gal.’

Stubborn myself, I walked off, burying myself in thoughts of work in order to blot out the annoying conversation.

There were two things I wished I had done better in this case. One was to speak directly with Laia Gratiana’s maid, Venusia. The other was my mishandled interview with Julius Viator’s widow. Finding myself not too far from her parents’ house, I went back to revisit her.

Facts: Her name was Cassiana Clara. She had a round face, with solemn eyes, though when she managed the ghost of a smile it was attractive. Neat of figure and well groomed; oils had been lovingly massaged in by maids. Judging by her perfect eyebrows, she tidied away superfluous hair routinely, kept herself nice for the man in her life. There would only be one of course. Well, one at a time. But well-off widows don’t stay lonely.

I could imagine that Viator would have been happy when his prospective bride was introduced and he stayed content with the marriage.

The widow was the youngest child of affluent parents, though not so wealthy as her husband’s family. Whatever older siblings she had, they were all married and settling down to lead good lives and produce grandchildren, as parents think they have a right to expect. Clara, who had probably always been seen as less reliable just because she was the baby, had now fluttered back home, in grief and in trouble, unsettling everyone and unsettled herself.

I apologised for my abruptness last time. I decided to tell her why, frankly mentioning my own bereavement though I kept quiet about how long ago it was. It gave us a bond. We settled down and talked; she was glad of my company. When you suffer a major loss, people treat it like an illness, even though physically you are undamaged. Cassiana Clara, now loitering as a subordinate in her mother’s house, was restricted in her social life. Too sweet to mutter about it, she was secretly bored.

She seemed at ease in my company this time. Any strangeness about being interviewed by an informer and any shock that her husband had been murdered were over. She had had time to think about Viator’s death, quietly on her own.

I had anticipated correctly. She had brooded. Then she had been to talk to the slaves who saw her husband that day, in the moments after he came home from the gymnasium. One of them had told her Viator kept slapping at his arm as if he had some irritation; he mentioned that something had scratched him. ‘Like a fish-hook, the slave told me.’ Although Clara seemed to believe it, I had doubts about the fish-hook; by design, it would have remained in the flesh. They leave a big and bleeding tear if they pull out. None of our victims had had a mark of that type.

I took the slave’s name, though Clara said she doubted he would know much more.

We talked about the redundant slaves and their plight. Cassiana Clara had now seen for herself how anxious they were about their coming fate, a new consideration for this young and privileged matron. She told me she was trying to find positions for as many as possible in homes she knew, rather than have them consigned to the slave market. She knew enough of the world to understand how evil that would be. A few loyal staff were being absorbed into her parents’ household, one or two were going to her sister. I could not tell how energetically she had applied herself to this task, but I could see the reallocation of labour gave her an interest. I was surprised a girl with that background did it at all.

I was right about something else: Clara had agreed to be remarried. She was betrothed already to one of the legatees of Viator’s estate, an older man; she had met him and thought him good-hearted. It was not my place to feel saddened.

I told her to let him know what she was doing about the slaves. ‘He will be impressed by your kindness – a good basis for your marriage.’ She was puzzled. The girl was without guile. ‘Stand up for yourself, Cassiana Clara. You may be much younger than your new husband, but
you
want to control the keys to the store-cupboard, not some sneery freedman who has worked there for years. Make it plain that you expect to have your place as the mistress. You want a role. You mean to lead a worthwhile life.’ She made no response, but I could see the idea seriously taking root.

I asked about her marriage to Viator. She spoke about it openly. Yes, his obsession with exercise had placed limitations on their domestic life, but we agreed there were worse things a man could do. Business affairs can be deadly. Drink is bad. She mentioned gambling as a hideous possibility. I alluded to pornography, though when she blushed I did not stress it. I made sure we discussed these things, hoping in vain for a clue to the motive for Viator’s murder.

Then I broached a new subject: ‘Do you mind if I ask about a particular social occasion? I believe you went to dinner once at the house of a warehouse owner called Tullius and his nephew. The nephew is now a plebeian aedile, though he may not have been then.’

A guarded look appeared on Clara’s face. She nodded; she said she remembered the dinner. ‘We went once. It was not long before my husband died.’ Her husband died last month, or not long before, going by when my family was commissioned for the auction: March, or late February at the latest. ‘We never went again.’

‘Why was that?’ No answer. ‘Well,’ I suggested, ‘men often like to do business in their own settings – by the rostra in the Forum, dinky spots in private cloisters, hidden little eating places beside the Emporium . . .’ Clara nodded. I waited, then asked gently, ‘Did something happen? Will you tell me about that evening?’

‘Is this important, Albia?’

I could hardly admit,
I want to find out if your husband bullied you
. ‘To be honest, I don’t know. Odd things turn out to matter sometimes . . . I have attended dinners like that myself, and not enjoyed them. While the men busy themselves with their politics or work affairs, any female who has accompanied them can feel like an unwanted outsider. And from what I have heard of the aedile’s uncle, he sounds frightful.’

Clara was lured into confiding that no, she had not found Tullius congenial. ‘Nothing blatantly obvious, Albia. You know; the sort of old man who greets you just a little too warmly, makes you share his dining couch as if the honour of your company is all his . . .’

‘Too feely?’

‘Not crudely obvious.’

‘Oh yes. They paw you just enough to make you seem like a bad sport for not liking it, but all the same, you spend the whole time feeling very uncomfortable, struggling to edge away from them. Meanwhile all the other men present appear not to notice what is going on, because none of them wants to upset the randy old bastard by taking him to task.’

‘He would just laugh it off.’ Clara knew the score. ‘Anyway, it was his house.’

‘And of course, in that situation, a wife is obliged to assist her husband’s business interests by putting up with it . . . All you can do is skip off to the facilities and take your time over coming back to the dinner couches.’ No reaction. ‘Were you the only woman guest? Who else was there? Was it formal, with the full nine places set?’

‘No, just an informal supper really. Tullius and his nephew. Julius and me.’

‘No one from their staff included at table?’

‘Not that I recall.’ Tiberius, who had said he was there, would hate that!

‘I have never met the nephew, Manlius Faustus.’

‘He is quite nice.’

‘Good-mannered?’

‘We had a nice conversation about music.’

‘How was the food?’

‘Very nice,’ said Clara. We laughed. Clara showed a glimmer of realisation that her vocabulary was bland.

‘Not nice enough for you to want a second tasting?’

‘No, my husband apologised to me afterwards and said we would not visit again.’

‘He sounds a decent man.’

Bad move. The widow creased up, suddenly in tears. ‘He was. He was a wonderful husband. We were not married very long, but Julius was loving and protective and I miss him.’

We sat quiet while she composed herself.

‘What did he have to protect you against?’ I murmured gently. ‘Or whom?’

‘Nothing,’ answered the widow quickly. If she had a moment of panic, she was hiding it successfully. ‘No one. That was just a manner of speaking.’

‘I heard you were in the garden and he came and fetched you?’