A Capitol Death Page 10

  Gratus pursed his lips, assessing how the boy’s statement was received. It was his first day. He was playing it gently. I trusted him to take a stand when needed. He was efficient and urbane.

  I went across to the big bench. “Tiberius Manlius once made the mistake, Gratus, of taking Dromo to a play, which had a clever slave who ran rings around everybody else.”

  “Dromo secretly controls the household?” suggested the steward, drily.

  “We all love a comedian. Don’t we, darling?” I asked. Tiberius opted out of comment, as usual ignoring the fact that Dromo was a problem, his problem. However, he shoved the boy off the bench to make room for me. I had to brush away cake crumbs from the seat.

  The new dog had sensed conflict. She stood on the edge of our circle, trembling. I pointed to her. “That dog has been cruelly treated in her former life. She hates raised voices. Let us all try not to threaten her, shall we? Dromo, you must continue to take instructions from your master. If ever you are unsure of anything, you may come to me for help—or now you can ask Gratus.”

  I held out my hand to Barley. After hesitation, she walked over to me, sitting down close.

  “Good dog,” said Tiberius, receiving a tail twitch for it. “All safe.”

  “See how kind your master is!” I urged Dromo, who scowled.

  Change of subject. Stiffening theatrically, Tiberius assumed the attitude of an offended husband. “Flavia Albia, welcome home, you gallivanter! I hope I am not to be subjected to a string of appalling visitors, all asking me to rein in my wife!”

  “Oh, you liked the Praetorian?”

  “Not much. You dumped me in it there.”

  “That is what I have you for. But you offered. What did he want, darling?”

  “Who knows?”

  Gratus made a discreet gesture that he would leave us to our conversation. Although he gave Dromo no hint to do likewise, Dromo decided of his own accord that he would slink off too. Tiberius winked at me. As an afterthought, Gratus called back, “A lady visited, who said she is your mother. She told me this is a madhouse; she offered me a very good post with her instead.”

  “Theirs is worse,” I replied gaily. “She was lying in order to steal you.”

  “She seemed a pleasant woman.”

  “That’s a trick she uses.”

  Gratus went off, smiling. Even on a brief first acquaintance, he had worked out what kind of mother I had. I felt glad Helena Justina had met with favour. The last thing any household wants is a steward who skirmishes with your relatives. We did enough of that ourselves.

  Left alone, Tiberius and I relaxed. He had a scroll case with him, a fancy silver one his uncle had given him, though he had not raised its lid. I leaned over to rearrange a cushion behind him in case he was in pain. He accepted the attention.

  He told me Nestor had been a mixed bundle of attitudes. Self-righteous but evasive. His lofty Praetorian excuse for visiting was that he needed to check whether I, a woman parading herself on the Capitol, had had a genuine reason for being there. Could it really be true that my husband had sent me? What kind of husband would do so? Why? And did Manlius Faustus know that I was out on my own, unaccompanied?

  Tiberius sounded dry. “I replied that if Nestor was suggesting that a woman who roamed about near temples might be looking for sexual dalliance, it was none of his business—and only my business if you start bringing home more money for it than I earn myself.”

  I mimed a horrified gulp. “They never joke. He’ll have you—he will accuse you of pimping your nearly new bride.”

  “Oh, I think he was too intent on whatever brought him here.”

  Tiberius was annoyed about it. Nestor wanted me called off, just as the palace clerk, Aepolus, had done previously. Tiberius had assured the guard I was acting with full authority. Nestor must give any assistance I requested.

  “I managed to shoot in a few questions for you, about Gabinus on the Capitol. Nestor knew him. He knew he was living in the hut, though he tried to belittle how much contact they had. I pointed out that Nestor ought to have stopped and searched those odd business contacts that have been reported. He looked as if I had caught him out for not doing it.”

  “He could be in on the deal,” I suggested. “Gabinus and his business contacts could have bribed the guard to look the other way.”

  “That would not surprise me.”

  Nestor had fidgeted about for an hour at our house while Tiberius politely engaged with him. He could be very patient. Nestor kept blathering that it was his job to look for evidence. He insisted this task should be his, not mine, but as soon as Gratus arrived home, the guard left. He seemed leery of having his conversation witnessed.

  Tiberius sent him off with a strong warning that Nestor had to allow me on the Capitol or the Arx if I needed to go there. “I said I would send an official note about it to the Praetorian prefects.”

  “That should alert them to Nestor’s antics.”

  “So I thought! He knew what I was up to with the suggestion. Maybe he will rein back. I like your steward,” Tiberius then told me. “He and I have arranged a signal now, for when I need awkward people to be pushed on their way.”

  “What signal?”

  “I’m not telling you, woman! I can’t have you spotting it when I want Gratus to get you off my back!”

  He was joking.

  He’d better have been.

  “All right. Thank you for taking on the guard.” Tiberius shrugged. “One thing, though,” I broached. “When you gave me this case, you cryptically said, ‘Watch out for Nestor.’ How did you know about him in advance?”

  Tiberius pretended guilt. “Sorry! When the aediles were debating the Tarpeian death, Nestor presented himself at the Temple of Ceres. Even at that point, he was trying to take the investigation off our hands.”

  “Why didn’t you accept his offer?”

  “We are a civic body.” For once my husband sounded pompous. “We chose not to deploy the military … Well, we thought he had a cheek,” grumbled Tiberius. “We weren’t going to let some damned soldier with his own agenda muscle in.”

  Typical. SPQR in lovely action.

  * * *

  It was my turn, so I described my afternoon at the Diribitorium and how I had been allowed a go in the triumphal chariot. That caused a mild huff, as I had expected. Trying out the quadriga could not be a privilege for girls!

  “Were you scared, Albiola?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “You can tell me. It’s a very grown-up toy.”

  “I loved it.” I can bluff. “I wanted to take a turn around the Campus Martius, but the gilder had to work on the decoration.”

  Thinking about the suggestion from Lalus that Gabinus had a wife, I decided I would go up to the Palatine. Quartilla was right that Gabinus probably had to live officially within call, in case the Emperor or one of the imperial court needed a chair or carriage. Even while Domitian was away, he had left a forceful empress behind in Rome; Domitian’s imperial niece Julia had recently died, but perhaps other entitled ladies would need to take tisanes with the Vestal Virgins or secretly visit their lovers.

  I had a mad moment wondering if Gabinus, who would know where his bearers took the women, might have tried to blackmail someone. Had he been silenced to avert a scandal? It seemed unlikely. Everyone said Domitia Longina, the Empress, was more likely to boast than feel guilty if she had affairs outside her marriage—tricky though marriage to Domitian must be. He did once kill an actor in the street because he believed the man had slept with Domitia. He then divorced her, but recalled her because he missed her. The Empress never publicly commented on any of it. That proud woman would have no truck with a meddler.

  In fact, discretion must be a requirement of Gabinus’ job. Since he had been in post for some time, I reckoned he must have been good at it. He could keep his mouth shut. I had to hope he had not hidden his wife with the same amount of discretion.

  Tiberius offered to co
me out with me. We had a light supper first, during which I asked him what turned out to be a dangerous question. “Lalus was telling me about borrowing racehorses for the chariot. I cannot believe I don’t know this, but which Circus faction do you support, my darling?”

  Any bride should ascertain this crucial fact before her wedding. How many of us ever ask in advance? Never mind, How much is your dowry?; Where are you going to live?; or Do you want children? Never mind, even, Can his mother share your house? Your husband’s team will dominate your daily life, not only in debates at breakfast, though that will be bad enough: if he supports the wrong faction, there will be hideous rows with your male relations. Saturnalia may have to be cancelled.

  My father and all the men he values have always sided with the Blues. With the Greens, the Blues have most supporters. The Reds and Whites, though older, are much less prominent. Domitian, a keen racegoer, had added the Purples and Golds, least followed of all.

  Tiberius confessed he had a mixed family heritage. Uncle Tullius was for the Whites, his father and grandfather had been Reds men. He had decided to strike out on his own to resolve this conflict.

  “What does that mean?” I was already apprehensive.

  “I suppose, when the shouting starts, I stand up for the Golds.”

  “The Golds?” I stared, to see whether he was teasing me. He was serious. I view the races as a mindless occupation, yet I was shocked.

  “They were new.” Tiberius was unrepentant. “Somebody had to.”

  “Voluntarily?” This might be grounds for divorce. “It’s not even an unfortunate family tradition you inherited. You chose to follow them? Never,” I said, “just never let my father know his daughter loves a man who follows the Golds.”

  XVIII

  We took the dog. I talked to her. Always have an alternative for light conversation when you go for a walk after supper. Cover any frostiness with your human companion.

  To reach the Palatine we had to drop down from the Aventine, then take a long loop around the Circus Maximus. The racetrack’s proximity didn’t help.

  The Golds. Even I knew how, despite the Emperor’s support, his two new factions had never taken off—all right-thinking people shunned them.

  I could hardly believe what he had said. On the other hand, that was him all over. I had married an eccentric, unorthodox crank. Worse: it was the second time I had done so. I started to think I was attracted to freaks.

  “Barley, Tiberius Manlius is an utter nut.”

  “What for?”

  “You know!”

  Those grey eyes were mischievous. He was enjoying this.

  * * *

  The palace was the place to go. I’d got that right.

  Among the more famous marbled spaces in Domitian’s new development were darker, older ranges of rooms and corridors. These had a sinister history, not so far surpassed by any excesses of our current ruler, though he was working up to it. For a hundred years the Palatine had been the scene of murder, envy, ambition, treachery and blood. Mad men and miserable women lived here. Many died too. They were starved, beaten, poisoned, stabbed by soldiers, worn down by disloyalty, kicked during pregnancy, assassinated.

  This was also the haunt of the imperial freedmen who ruled Rome and the Empire, mainly unseen, generally with success. Alongside them, clustered like bats in an oddly elaborate cave, hundreds of slaves existed. There were hairdressers, pearl-threaders, poison-dispensers, wine-tasters, bed-makers, lamp-fillers, wardrobe-keepers, lyre-twanglers, sauce cooks. These anonymous beings mopped the marble, swept the courtyards, carried trays, waved fans, endured buggery, listened out for plots. Among them, in an only slightly mud-encrusted mews down under the crumbly salons of the long-gone Emperor Tiberius, lurked a set of mule-drivers, litter-bearers and grooms, who formed that gnarly team, the imperial transport corps.

  In the mews there was a sense of expectation. Our Master was back. Those who had slumbered all summer with little to do were warily wakening. When Tiberius and I turned up, the drivers and bearers thought we were trouble, so they were happy to speak to us once they learned we were not. They ruffled our dog between the ears and told us anything we asked.

  They had known Gabinus well; they knew his deputy, Egnatius. Egnatius had not yet been along to see them, not since his elevation to transport manager. He was now too busy running the Triumph from the special command post on the Capitol. Although the drivers and carriers spoke of him with more warmth than they showed towards Gabinus, they were not eager for the new boy’s inspection. Once Egnatius turned up, it would signal that the Emperor was back in residence. Enough said.

  Yes, Gabinus and now Egnatius were supposed to be on call for the Emperor at all times, night and day.

  Yes, a billet had been assigned to Gabinus here. But, of course, in quiet periods he sloped off and stayed out. No, nobody ever knew where he went. All palace staff did it. Somebody would cover for him. Yes, even for Gabinus. You have to have a life.

  Here in the mews it was known that Gabinus was connected to a woman, who had convinced herself, then tried telling him, that their on-off relationship was a marriage. He used to laugh about it. Sometimes she nagged him for money; he even gave her some, though not often. Not often enough, she used to claim. Naevia her name was, but no one knew where she hung out. Down in the town. Could be anywhere.

  She had come up here once. Ponticus, a boy, the yard-sweeper, had seen her.

  She was carrying a baby, but Gabinus had joked she must have borrowed it for the occasion. He was like that, all heart. He got rid of her, bawled at her, even threatened to hit her, ordered her not to come bothering him at his work. He must have done the trick with his bellowing because they never saw her again.

  “I saw her,” Ponticus piped up. “She was at his funeral. By herself. Weeping all through it, probably not for Gabinus but herself.”

  “So he did have a funeral?” I asked, wondering if anyone could tell me who had paid for it. Nobody knew. Tiberius tried to extract details of the funeral director, but they could not tell him that either. Gabinus’ corpse was very quickly burned, with no feasting afterwards.

  “Who received the ashes?”

  Nobody here. His colleagues had certainly not wanted them.

  Afterwards, a groom with no common sense had tried to persuade the lads to chip in for a memorial plaque, which they normally did for someone from their circle; everyone had stuck their hands into their belts and walked away quickly when they saw the collector coming.

  “Did you have any reason to suspect that Gabinus was depressed?”

  “No.”

  “No idea he might have killed himself?”

  “Oh, he never did that! He wasn’t the type.”

  “Anyone here have a reason to shove him off the Rock?”

  “Nobody liked him, but no one would have risked trying. If it didn’t work, Gabinus would have had them for it.”

  “If there was a tussle, could he have resisted? Was he strong physically?”

  “Not very. He was too idle. He liked telling other people what to do. And he enjoyed his drink too much.”

  “Did he have debts?”

  “Not specially.”

  “Where did he hide his nest-egg?”

  “What nest-egg? He spent everything on whores or he drank it. Mainly the drink. A flagon never answered back. He liked that.”

  “Did he ever have other visitors? People he was doing business with, on the side maybe?”

  “Not here. If he was fiddling, he’d meet them somewhere more secret. He wouldn’t have wanted us to see anything going on.”

  “Would someone have landed him in it, if they knew?”

  They smiled. You bet someone would.

  I asked if we could see the room Gabinus slept in. Since Tiberius was a magistrate and I had asked so nicely, yes, we could.

  * * *

  Gabinus might have been the man in charge but he had the usual cramped, windowless quarters, little bigger than a dr
y-goods cupboard. A narrow bed, a crooked stool, a couple of leather bags with straps, containing a spare tunic and toilet items. A set of dice, in a little purse with counters. Often-mended boots. Three flagons: two empty, one nearly so.

  “That’s not many empties for somebody who drank a lot. If he went out to bars did he meet anyone special to drink with?”

  His fellow workers did not know. Since nobody talked to him, he would never have said.

  There was a slight sour smell, though that could be because nobody had opened the room since Gabinus died, which was now a couple of weeks ago.

  We found a stylus and note-tablet, though the pages were empty. No diary, no plaques with family portraits, no lists, no calendar, no bills. Gabinus had left no written records.

  “Very unhelpful!”

  “Very normal.”

  Many businesses in Rome are run on memory alone. This is especially the case with disreputable ones. If Gabinus was involved in something he was not supposed to do, why would he keep evidence?

  The property we inspected could have belonged to anyone. It was cheap and impersonal. That might have meant Gabinus kept other things elsewhere, but I thought it more likely this was all he had. All he bothered with. He was a man who cared for no one else: that was clear from everyone I had spoken to; he probably cared little for his own comfort and pleasure. Truculence and bloody-mindedness were his only character traits. Anyone would say his sudden death was no loss.

  XIX

  It had been a long day. I was exhausted. As I discreetly monitored Tiberius, I knew he was tired too. We came up from the bowels of the palace and slowly made our way home.