Enemies at Home: Falco: The New Generation - Flavia Albia 2 Read online

  Table of Contents

  Also by Lindsey Davis

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Map

  The Cast

  Rome, the Esquiline Hill: June AD89

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Also by Lindsey Davis

  The Course of Honour

  Rebels and Traitors

  Master and God

  A Cruel Fate

  The Falco Series

  The Silver Pigs

  Shadows in Bronze

  Venus in Copper

  The Iron Hand of Mars

  Poseidon’s Gold

  Last Act in Palmyra

  Time to Depart

  A Dying Light in Corduba

  Three Hands in the Fountain

  Two for the Lions

  One Virgin too Many

  Ode to a Banker

  A Body in the Bath House

  The Jupiter Myth

  The Accusers

  Scandal Takes a Holiday

  See Delphi and Die

  Saturnalia

  Alexandria

  Nemesis

  The Flavia Albia Series

  The Ides of April

  Enemies at Home

  ENEMIES AT HOME

  Lindsey Davis

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Lindsey Davis 2014

  The right of Lindsey Davis to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 1 444 76662 2

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  THE CAST

  Friends and Acquaintances

  Flavia Albia escaping a holiday, on the case

  Aulus Camillus Aelianus a legal adviser, her uncle

  Quintus Camillus Justinus ditto, more raffish and popular

  Claudia Rufina still his wife, against all odds

  Hosidia Meline Aelianus’ first ex, Claudia’s crony

  Helena Justina a force to be reckoned with

  Tiberius Manlius Faustus a plebeian aedile, with a problem

  Laia Gratiana another ex-wife, just a problem to herself

  Apollonius a very old waiter

  The Dead and their Associates

  Valerius Aviola a happy bridegroom (dead)

  Mucia Lucilia his lucky bride (dead also)

  Polycarpus their loyal freedman and steward

  Graecina his wife, a home-maker

  Sextus Simplicius Aviola’s friend and executor

  Hermes Mucia’s guardian and executor

  Galla Simplicia a single mother, a legacy-hunter

  Valerius, Valeria and Simplicia the children she brought up single-handed

  Fauna and Lusius neighbours who saw something

  Secundus and Myrinus neighbours who heard nothing

  Crime and Punishment

  Titianus diligent investigator of the Second Cohort

  Juventus anonymous, on special duties, do not ask

  Unnamed their cohort tribune, disposition unknown

  Cassius Scaurus caring tribune of the Fourth Cohort

  Fundanus on contract for torture and burials

  Old Rabirius a shadowy capo

  Young Roscius a coming threat

  Gallo fixer and trusty, do not trust him

  A prisoner a dead man

  Slaves, various

  Dromo, Gratus, Libycus, Amethystus, Diomedes, Daphnus, Phaedrus, Nicostratus (not for long), Chrysodorus, Melander, Amaranta, Olympe, Myla (and a baby), Gratus, Onesimus (off the scene), Cosmus

  Pets

  Puff a spoiled lapdog, a bad girl

  Panther itching for trouble, a good boy

  ROME, the Esquiline Hill:

  June AD89

  1

  Even before I started, I knew I should say no.

  There are rules for private informers accepting a new case. Never take on clients who cannot pay you. Never do favours for friends. Don’t work with relatives. Think carefully about legal work. If, like me, you are a woman, keep clear of men you find attractive.

  The Aviola inquiry broke every one of those rules, not least because the clients had no money, yet I took it on. Will I never learn?

  One warm, starry June night in the city of Rome, burglars invaded a ground-floor apartment on the Esquiline Hill. A large quantity of fine domestic silverware was taken, which people assumed was the primary target. The middle-aged couple who rented the fashionable suite had married only recently, which made what happened to them more poignant. After the robbers left, their bodies were found on the marital bed, amid signs of violent struggle. Both had been strangled.

  The dead couple were wealthy enough to merit an investigation, a privilege that was generally thought too good for the poor, though it was normally available to victims who had left behind influential friends, as was the case here. Enquiries were first assigned to a vigiles officer, Titianus of the Second Cohort. In fairness, Titianus was no more inept than most vigiles. He knew that two plus two made four – unless he happened to be preoccupied with watching a good cockfight, when he might inadvertently say five. But he had a decent record of arresting pickpockets in the Market of Livia. For about two hours he even thought that trying to solve a double murder was exciting. Then reality set in.

&
nbsp; Titianus found it impossible to identify the thief or thieves. After asking around a bit, he turned his attention to the household, declaring that this must be an inside job. Inevitably his gaze fell on the owners’ freedmen and slaves. The freedmen were mature, articulate and well organised; that was how they had managed to gain their liberty and how they now bamboozled Titianus. The slaves were more vulnerable: younger and naive, or else older and plain dim. Nobody ever said any of them had threatened their master and mistress, but to a law officer in Rome any culprits were better than none and with slaves no real proof was necessary. They could be accused, tortured, prosecuted and executed on simple probability. Titianus put on a clean tunic to look good, then went and announced to his cohort tribune that he had the answer. The slaves did it.

  The slaves got wind of their plight. They knew the notorious Roman law when a head of household was murdered at home. By instinct the authorities went after the wife, but that was no use if she was dead too. So unless the dead man had another obvious enemy, his slaves fell under suspicion. Whether guilty or not, they were put to death. All of them.

  The good thing about such systematic capital punishment, occurring in public of course, was that it helped make other slaves, of whom there were hundreds of thousands in Rome, more well behaved. The proportion of masters to slaves was very small so nobody wanted this big slave population to get the idea of staging a rebellion. In our city it had been decided not to dress slaves in any distinguishing way, because then they might realise the power of their own numbers.

  Many owners lived in constant fear of slaves turning against them. You cannot batter loyalty into a sullen, captive foreigner and neither can you even guarantee that kindly treatment will gain their gratitude. In Rome, executing slaves who betrayed their masters was extremely popular therefore. At least it was among the slave-owning classes.

  Terrified, and with good reason, some of the accused slaves bolted from the elegant Esquiline house and took refuge a distance away at the Temple of Ceres. By tradition, this monument on the Aventine Hill offered a haven for refugees. They could claim sanctuary, be kept safe and even hope to be fed.

  In theory, the authorities fostered the great temple’s famous role as a focus of liberty and protector of the desperate. However, nobody wants to take fine ideals too far.

  In a swift, panic-stricken meeting just after dawn, the issue of how to get rid of the fugitives was handed to a magistrate whose duties gave him close connections to the temple. His name was Manlius Faustus, one of that year’s plebeian aediles, and I knew him. I liked his methods. He always stayed calm.

  Charged with solving the problem, Faustus solemnly agreed with the Temple of Ceres authorities that it was important to take the correct action. This situation could easily turn ugly. They wanted to avoid censure. The public were shouting for a solution, preferably bloody. The Daily Gazette had already asked for a quotable comment and was about to feature the story in its scandal section; publication would fire lurid Forum gossip. The unseen eye of the emperor was probably on the Temple. Faustus had been handed a rather hot platter here.

  As this dutiful man tried to come up with ideas, he walked to a bar called the Stargazer. There, while he pondered the meagre choice for breakfast, he ran into me.

  2

  I had seen the aedile coming − always a good idea with magistrates who can impose large fines. Anyone who runs a market stall, anyone with a pavement outside their premises, anyone whose profession is heavily regulated (any prostitute, for instance), loathes aediles. Informers like me avoid them. My relatives who ran the Stargazer would not thank him for eating there, given that part of his job was the regulation of bars. They would not thank me either. They would think he had chosen it because he knew it was my local.

  I had first met Faustus a few weeks before, working jointly on an investigation and sometimes putting our heads together in this very caupona. I had known him to go about in disguise, though not today. He was a solid man in his mid-thirties, who came down the drab street with a steady tread. He had no flashy train of attendants, relying on his purple-striped tunic to deter trouble-makers. Aediles were not given bodyguards. They were sacrosanct, protected by religious laws. Besides, he was obviously tough; even when he was preoccupied, Faustus looked as if he punched his weight. That was assuming people even noticed him; he was not the kind of official who made a lot of noise wherever he went.

  He cannot have expected to see me sitting at a table. He thought I was with my family at our villa on the coast, though I had recently come back to Rome because I was tired of sun, sand and fishing expeditions. Before anyone wonders, I was not hankering for Faustus. I might be a fancy-free widow, but a magistrate was way out of my league.

  ‘Flavia Albia!’

  ‘Manlius Faustus.’

  Formal name terms. After he ordered a bread roll with Lucanian sausage, the Stargazer’s only deal that morning (or any morning), he took a seat at my table, though he asked permission first.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Always a pleasure.’

  ‘Good to see you.’

  ‘You too, aedile.’

  Play acting. We were both unsure. The last time we met, I made embarrassing advances, which Faustus sensibly rejected. Despite my gaffe, the aedile had expressed a hope we might work together again. Being polite, I thought. Still, here he was in my aunt’s horrible bar.

  Manlius Faustus had responsibilities for neighbourhood law and order – fair trading, clean streets, quiet baths and decorous brothels. I knew he was currently advising magistrates in other districts too, as they tackled a rash of random street killings that were happening throughout Rome. We lived in troubled times. The Vesuvius calamity, a decade ago but still vivid in the memory, had shaken people. We now had a paranoid emperor, who at just short of forty was still young enough to inflict many years of dread upon us. Our empire’s borders regularly came under attack from barbarians, so there was constant unsettling military talk. The city was also full of bitter satirists, outlawed philosophers and pouting poets who had failed to win prizes. In this climate all kinds of madness flourished.

  As for me, I was a private investigator. Don’t point out it’s an unusual job for a woman; after twelve years, I had heard that enough times. I was hired by clients who wanted help when life went wrong – or sometimes before it happened: parents checking out gold-diggers their silly daughters had fallen for; small traders whose rivals were stealing business; litigants searching for witnesses to back them up in court; executors of wills who feared they were inheriting large debts. Many of my enquiries led to divorce. Most clients were sad people: either hopeless idiots who had caused their own predicament or well-meaning innocents who had been targeted by fraudsters.

  Faustus glumly tapped his bread roll, which was definitely yesterday’s. He looked around. The Stargazer stood on a corner, with the usual arrangement of crazy-patterned marble counters at right angles where, come lunchtime, big pots of unappetising broths would attract more flies than customers. Inside, a wonky shelf had been nailed to a wall, using too-short nails. Beakers in various sizes were perched on it, ready to crash off when the fixings gave way. A faded sign on one wall offered varieties of wine, with illegible notes of their prices. Falernian was permanently listed, though always ‘sold out’ if you asked for it. Mostly the bar was visited by local labourers in search of cheap scoff. They would stand in the street, snatching a bite and a drink. Sit-down diners were rare.

  Old Apollonius, who called himself the head waiter, leaned on one counter and stared into space. My aunt or my cousin would come in later; Aunt Junia was an abrasive character who should never have been running a bar, but her son, Junillus, made the best of this sad place.

  A stray dog snuck in for a sniff around; she didn’t like it and left quickly. The second table indoors was empty, which was all too normal.

  Making conversation, I described to Faustus my boredom with sun and seaside stuff. He patiently listened, th
en told me about the double murder on the Esquiline and needing to remove the fugitive slaves from the temple. He never gave much away, but I could tell he felt despondent.

  He was sturdy, in the way of plebeian Romans, though taller than many and not bandy-legged. He had that way of implying he thought himself affable, while in fact remaining reticent. His eyes were grey, which does happen; mine were too, though his had no blue tint but were entirely pale, like the mist that comes off the Tiber at dawn. His dark hair was not yet tinged with grey, though gave the impression it might be soon. When he bothered to shave and spruce up, he was a fine-looking man. He had bothered today.

  Faustus speared his sausage slice on the point of his own pocket-knife then gingerly tasted it. Even the Stargazer could do little damage to a bought-in Lucanian, so he cheered up. I reached over and pinched a gherkin that Apollonius had plonked on as a garnish. Faustus let me do it but quickly nipped up the other gherkin himself. We were easy together, for some reason that I never troubled to analyse.

  He started complaining that the Esquiline, where the Aviola couple were murdered, was not his patch. When a group of new aediles began their year in office, they divided up Rome, each hoping to get areas that produced high revenues. They couldn’t take the income home (well, not legally), but public service is all about ‘my record is shinier than yours’. Each wanted to win the fines challenge. Success would attract votes if ever they stood for election again, or at least they might be rewarded with some minor priesthood.