The Ides of April (35 page)

The Stargazer provided its usual solace. Many a solitary customer had found oblivion there. A beaker of wine helped finish restoring me to full confidence. A second slipped down unheeded. Another made me positively defiant. I believe it is a known effect.

I went to my parents’ house, needing to warn them that they should keep Postumus indoors. Easier said than done, I was informed rather spikily. My brother had become fascinated by the nightly rituals enacted as part of the Cerialia. He sneaked out when he wanted to. I said, stuff that, the horrid little beggar had upset the needle-killer and if they wanted to avoid a fatality, he must be made to obey orders. I may have added that looking after an eleven-year-old boy should surely not be difficult and I was surprised at the lack of discipline regularly applied to him in this airy-fairy house. My words veered to the wild and my logic to the incomprehensible.

It was suggested I might like to have a quiet lie-down, upstairs in the roof garden.

Oddly enough, I did what I was told. I slept for hours. Nobody disturbed me. Who would dare?

When I awoke on the daybed, feeling cold and sluggish, I could tell from the shift in the light that the whole afternoon had passed me by. Noises from the river – the daily racket of unloading, the crashes, stevedores’ cries and squeaks from pulleys – were now fewer. Sounds from the streets below were different from daytime: hardly any donkey bells, more casual conversation. A blackbird sang his heart out on a nearby roof, designating territory.

The air was filling with drifts of hot oil and herbs as evening cookery began in homes and commercial kitchens. If I stayed here much longer I would be obliged to have dinner, with a lot of teasing. I slipped away, shamefaced, and skulked back alone to my own nest, going via Prisca’s baths. The place had just opened formally; they were busy, which saved me having to talk.

At Fountain Court I saw no sign of Rodan. I made my way through the first-floor home of the Mythembal family. Children were wailing, in a room I could not see into. I heard the nightly protests as their weary mother attempted to wash them with cold water, and each one doggedly resisted her until they fell asleep in mid-sob. Locked in their desperate family ritual, none of them were aware of me. I went straight through my own room at the end of the corridor, passed outside to the walkway above the courtyard, climbed the narrow stairs, and fell into my hidden haven. Suddenly I realised how desperate I was to be home, solitary, in this deep silence where only motes of dust were moving. I kept my brain empty. There was nothing left to consider.

In the apartment was a tiny area where I could prepare food. I dipped a beaker into a bucket of cold water, drinking deep. I turned around to my main sitting room, barely aware I was doing it. I stood, looking.

This room was furnished with a wide couch that served as a daybed, its en suite bronze-legged footstool, a couple of elegant inlaid chests, a rug on the floor, a hanging lamp, souvenirs and paintings on the walls. Two high square windows, set in the thick outside wall, let in light.

There was still light that early evening. Enough for me to notice if things were not right. Nothing was missing. None of my possessions appeared to be displaced. But I had a sensation. You know how, when mice have recently taken up residence at the back of a cupboard, you feel their presence even before you glimpse them from the corner of an eye, long before the telltale droppings and the smell?

I had a glass platter that had contained three apples when I last saw it. Now there were two. My sewing box, untouched by me since my birthday, seemed to have moved sideways. Its lid was still down, but when I went over and lifted it, the short piece of ribbon into which I had stuck my sewing needle was now missing.

While I was out this morning, somebody had been in my apartment.

I
knew who it was, and why he had come. He was looking for me. I would be his next victim.

The doors to my bedroom were closed. Before real fright set in, I crossed with angry strides and threw them open. It could have been a foolish move, but nobody was in the room.

Panic hit me. I left the apartment by the main door, which I generally never used. Clambering over the flower troughs, I ran breathlessly downstairs. Rodan had reappeared from somewhere and was talking to two of the vigiles. It was no surprise when they said they had been sent to warn me: Andronicus must have sensed he was about to be arrested. He had escaped from the aedile’s house.

When I reported that he had already been here, I was told to wait in the courtyard with the second paramilitary: Rufinianus. I knew him. He wrote the notes that time I had the other intruder, the one I stuck with a kitchen knife. Rufinianus was hopeless, yet his presence was comforting. The other man took Rodan. They hurried upstairs, first to search the office, then to work their way down, floor by floor, checking the landings and every other apartment. Rodan would open up the empty ones with the pass-keys my father had reluctantly left with him; if nobody answered at the rooms that were occupied, I knew he would push in the door by leaning on it. If tenants complained, he charged them for having the damage mended.

While I waited with Rufinianus, the lamp boy turned up for his evening duties, lugging a big round amphora of Spanish olive oil. I told him to use every light we had, filling them until they were brimming so they would last as long as possible. He looked amazed at the change of policy, but slowly set about it. The common areas eventually blazed more than stairs and open spaces ever do in tenements, to the shock of the inhabitants.

When the whole building had been searched, we knew Andronicus was nowhere there. I learned that Morellus had started on duty early and was leading the hunt. Rufinianus was despatched to bring him up to date about my unwelcome visitation.

‘Tell him I lost another needle.’

Rodan locked the grille. I was informed that on his return, Rufinianus was to remain in the courtyard. There would be guards all night. For added reassurance, the other man took me to my apartment and walked me through it, re-checking. He gave me the usual sombre vigiles advice to members of the public about keeping shutters closed, locking my doors and admitting nobody I did not know. I reckon he realised that for once somebody was actually listening. He tolerated my quip that what I really had to fear was somebody I
did
know, then he made a to-do of checking all the hooks and hinges on the window shutters. It made him feel better. Nothing would console me. Once I was left alone, I admit I sat on my couch, trembling.

I had overheard strict security instructions being given to all the other tenants on the first and second floors. Such special attention is never as reassuring as the authorities intend; it makes everybody more keyed up. Not that you ever believe them if, on the other hand, the vigiles assure you there is nothing to worry about. The words, ‘Everything is normal; please go back indoors’ immediately make a neighbourhood jumpy.

I had asked if a message could be taken to my father’s house, about protecting Postumus. ‘Oh yes, he killed a boy before, I believe.’ Clearly the vigiles on the ground had now been briefed in detail.

When Rufinianus did come back from seeing Morellus, he had two other troops with him. I took down hot drinks like a good householder. They were very respectful. I think their unusual good manners were what I found most alarming.

There was nothing else I could do. I lay on my bed all night, fully dressed and generally not sleeping.

I
did drift off eventually. I awoke later than usual. A strip-wash and change of clothing helped make me feel more myself. I managed to drink posca, and ate anything I could find: a nub of loaf, a slice of preserved meat, a handful of wizened grapes.

I refused to touch the two apples; they would be sitting on that dish until they went mouldy.

Although I felt as if I was in mourning, I put on earrings I was fond of (my Etruscan filigree rosettes) and a coloured scarf. I had chosen sensible shoes and a sturdy tunic in heavy-weave linen, then speared up my hair very securely with more bone pins than usual. I was dressing for action today.

A member of the day-shift who was a stranger to me had relieved Rufinianus. He allowed me to leave the building, though with stupid reluctance considering I said I was going to consult Morellus at the station house. The man came with me; I deliberately lost him at the end of Fountain Court. I went to the station house by myself. I refused to be guarded by nincompoops. If that was the best the public budget could afford, I would rather not be guarded at all.

It was so early that on the streets I could see anybody coming towards me or hear anyone behind. Behind was what I had to fear with Andronicus. I walked in the middle of the road, wherever the road was wide enough to provide that extra security, not passing too close to any dark door- or stairways. Occasional stray dogs yawned at me. Sad public slaves swept pavements and I saw a long-faced burglar on his way home, disappointed and empty-handed. A couple of bars that stayed open all night during festivals were bestrewn with out-of-town visitors who were now devastated by their hangovers. One who looked as if he might not revive was being stretchered away on a builder’s pallet.

Morellus was in his enquiry room, collecting in reports. Andronicus had not been spotted.

What I did learn was that Venusia had been brought in from Aricia last night. Late as it was, a covered litter had arrived subsequently, from which descended a rude woman who had a letter Morellus could not refuse, authorising her to see the prisoner.

‘Laia Gratiana? What a pain!’ I sympathised.

‘Well, I tried to stop the lads from scratching their itchy bum-cracks in front of her, but Hades, this is a working barracks, Albia! What did she expect?’

‘What happened?’

‘I was not party to the discussion. It was short and nasty, judging by the prisoner’s state afterwards. I had to get the medico to dose her with a poppy cordial – which she, of course, eagerly took to. Madame herself emerged from the cell looking like a goddess of war, saying she had obtained everything we needed.’

‘Being Laia, she made it sound as though any idiot could have done the questioning and saved her the trouble?’

‘Right! She obviously wasn’t going to tell me, Albia, because I am just the man charged with tracking down the perpetrator, so that would be too bloody helpful, wouldn’t it? She swanned away, ordering me to inform the aedile she will supply the details at his office, today mid-morning. Lucky him! Nobody was to go to her house to bother her.’

‘I could try,’ I volunteered, though not looking forward to it.

‘Don’t waste effort,’ Morellus counselled me. ‘What’s another hour or two?’

‘Long enough for Andronicus to kill again.’

‘Well that should be all right then. It’s
you
our friend is after next, and you’re here, aren’t you, darling?’

I could not even raise the energy to order him not to be patronising.

‘All safe and snug with me in my private office,’ mused Morellus. ‘We could have a bunk-up, if you have time to kill?’ The flabby great lump was just raising my spirits by offering.

In lieu of bunking up, he took me out to an oily foodhall where the vigiles had meals when they went off duty, sat me on a bench in the corner behind a fortress-wall of large men, and gave me a second breakfast, this one of elephantine size. He called it the full Roman. It had all the refinement and quantity of a meal barbarians would devour before riding out on a three-day rampage.

I had to sit in the Armilustrium to let the stodgy feast go down. I did not see Robigo. I had glimpsed no foxes since the night of the burning-torch ritual. I knew my Robigo had probably been killed in the Circus.

At mid-morning I went to the aediles’ office. A worried slave told me Laia Gratiana had already arrived, but she had ensconced herself with Tiberius and they were not to be disturbed. Had she been more bearable I would have barged in anyway, but in her case, I decided to forego the cheeky option. I would wait until the miserable cow departed, and get the facts direct from the runner. It was bad enough putting up with him.

I had nowhere else I wanted to be, so I waited in their courtyard. It felt wrong, being at the aediles’ headquarters without Andronicus. I was glad to be alone while I dealt with that pang. Still, it would kill the demon. This was just a public office. Like them all, the furniture was dingy and the bastards made you hang about.

I had declined refreshments, which was a mistake because I soon felt violently thirsty after the vigiles breakfast. There had been slabs of cured gammon and even the doorstep slices of bread were salty; it was food for men who sweated themselves to wraiths in firestorms. Biffing away the mosquitoes that habituated the fountain, I took a drink of water there after which, since the flow was glugging feebly, I found a stick and began poking the outlet to make it run better. It is a tradition in my family that wherever we go we improve people’s water features for them, whether they invite us to or not. You do have to make sure you don’t block the thing entirely by mistake, or at least not when they are looking.

Laia and Tiberius must have taken refreshments, because while I was bent over working my water magic, a slave collected their empties. When he carried out the tray, he left the door open behind him. I could then overhear a low murmur of voices. Knowing this was confidential material, I tried not to listen, though not very hard.

Morellus was keeping Venusia in a small, bare, smelly cell, where she could hear horrible noises nearby of men being beaten, drunks screaming, and other unpleasant sounds she could not even identify. She became frantic. The mere appearance of Laia Gratiana, playing the concerned mistress who might use influence to have Venusia released, had been enough to break her. In tears, Venusia had admitted what she claimed was the whole story: Andronicus had made her acquaintance, seduced her, and subsequently made a fool of her. He had even conned the foolish woman out of her life savings. Laia gave Tiberius details which were horribly familiar to me, concerning the archivist’s tactics. By the sound of it, he had even taken Venusia for lunch at the same place he once took me.