Graveyard of the Hesperides Page 11

  Liberalis appeared to be shitting roof tiles. He fell back on pompously asserting, “I am not talking to you. I will only speak to a magistrate!”

  I had learned never to argue with a man who tried to go over my head. I led him quietly back over the road to see the aedile.

  *

  Manlius Faustus had not yet left. He leaned against a door frame, listening to me explain how our witness was feeling demoralized. “Darling, he doesn’t believe I, as a mere woman, can know all the ins and outs; he will only trust your judgment.”

  “Fair enough!” said Faustus to the anxious landlord, briefly calming him but causing me momentary trepidation. As Liberalis relaxed, Faustus then turned back to me. “So what do you want to ask him?”

  “Oh, you are just acting in concert!” Liberalis complained.

  Smiling, Faustus reached over; he took my right hand in his own for a moment, the traditional pose of married couples. “We speak as one, my friend. Well, Flavia Albia? The floor is yours.”

  “I want a neutral questioner!”

  “Of course you do, Liberalis.” Faustus remained unmoved. Annoyingly, he agreed with the landlord’s protest while not allowing it. Classic Roman justice. “That is the bonus of you having two of us. Checks and balances. I am happy to be present, if you request it. You gain the benefit of a witness—while afterward, when I discuss you with my wise young wife, we shall have a double perspective as we evaluate your answers.”

  Once more, he signaled for me to begin. Liberalis resigned himself.

  *

  I didn’t gloat; it never helps. I remained grave.

  “When we interviewed you previously, Julius Liberalis, we were considerate. You happened to be the unlucky owner of premises where a woman had met an untimely end. She died long before you took over. You gave the impression you were too young at the time to know anything about it, while perhaps not even being in the bar that night.”

  I saw Liberalis lick dry lips. He followed up with that nervous twining he did with his silvered hair. I was not making eye contact with Faustus. This was my interrogation. He stood very still and let me proceed alone.

  “Now we know there were many corpses. If Rufia is one of them, her death appears to be associated with the murder and concealment of the others. So, the conclusion has to be, that night a terrible event happened. A big fight went down, Liberalis. This was no private altercation between the landlord and a staff member. Not a domestic incident at all. It was planned. It would have been loud, crude and highly organized, and it could only have been carried off with helpers. At the time you were practically family—you told us you and Old Thales were related.” He had said “distantly,” but also that he was the obvious heir from a long time back. “I want to know now, with no more prevarication, what you have to say about this.”

  “I can’t change my answer. I won’t. I know nothing.”

  I grew much tougher. “I think you were there.”

  “Not me.”

  “I believe you were in on it.” He was only intending to repeat his denial so I cut straight across him: “Who were the ‘salesmen’ I have been told were in the bar that night?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Were they trying to sell specific goods to Thales, or was their presence coincidental? They just happened to seek their evening entertainment here?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know who they were or what they wanted. I was not party to management at that time. Sometimes I came in for a drink because I lived nearby, but Old Thales did everything his own way and kept it all to himself. How the bar ran was never my business.”

  “Well, if that’s true, you can help me find people who were taking notice! I want names. Who were the other customers that night?”

  “I don’t even remember which night!”

  “Don’t lie. This was a major event for the Hesperides. Even if the bar was a den of criminal violence in those days, this deed would have stood out as extraordinary. Anyone close to Thales—as you admit you were—would know all about this drama. Six people died. Six people were then stripped and buried, very efficiently. Six graves were raked smooth by somebody with nerves of iron, then tables were set out upon them so it all looked innocent. To anybody who was there, the night must be unforgettable.”

  Liberalis shook his head. He was highly distressed.

  “You know who those bodies are.”

  Another head shake. He could not even bring himself to speak the lie out loud.

  “You know who killed them.”

  This shake was smaller and tighter, barely visible.

  “You know why.”

  Almost nothing this time. He was holding on and holding in, but I could see him shaking. I saw panic. I saw fear. He could not bear to remember. Whatever had happened here was a horror from which he had hidden for years. He still dreaded to think about it.

  Now I was certain: I was not the only sleeper in the Ten Traders district who had suffered nightmares after we found Rufia.

  XXII

  Sometimes you have to back away and leave them with their anxiety for a time. Of course you then risk finding them hanging from a beam in a barn. That way they will never answer your questions.

  Since we were in the barn-free city, I hardened my heart. I sent Julius Liberalis off, advising him to think about his responsibilities. Faustus said dourly that he would ask Macer if the Third Cohort had an empty cell. I played the kindly one, for once. Pretending to intercede with my brusque fiancé, I told the landlord to go home, quickly. “You’re not under arrest yet. Come and see us when you are ready to talk.”

  This established that he knew that we knew he did have something to say.

  He left.

  *

  Still maintaining his austere persona, Tiberius Manlius now set off for the Aventine. With the manner of a particularly pompous consul, all he gave me was a nod, no kiss. I blew him one, exaggerating the gesture. Unless he softened up, his paint-supplier was in for a sharp meeting with snap decisions. I ran after them and called out to Dromo to make sure his master had a midday snack to relax him, because I didn’t want us ending up with myrtle when oyster shell would be a better foil for the oxblood features. The slave looked at me as if I were even crazier than normal; Tiberius kept walking but raised an arm in salute. Even though he had his back to me, I knew he was grinning.

  I stood behind the counter of the Hesperides, watching them go, feeling intense. Once before, I had sent off a husband for an ordinary morning walk, then had him returned to me, dead before lunchtime. I would never entirely recover.

  “Take care,” I whispered, though Tiberius could not hear me. It was a charm for myself. What’s the point of supposedly being a druid if you cannot chant magic to protect those who are dear to you? Take care, my love. Dromo, take care of him. Come back to me …

  I stayed where I was for a time, thinking. Life is uncertain. Tragedy can strike unexpectedly. Five wives, if the victims were all married men, once lost their husbands forever in this bar. Five women somewhere must by now have accepted they were widows.

  I turned around, looking back toward the courtyard while I imagined it previously. The workmen were out there now, reinstating the garden area; I was able to erase them mentally, taking myself back to that night ten years ago.

  The garden was most likely where the trap was sprung. Outside in the street beside the marble-topped counter would have been too visible and too risky—the intended victims might break away and escape. Inside would muffle any noise, though shouts and screams were probably routine around here. Subduing five men would be a difficult prospect, even if the attackers could rely on surprise. The aim must have been to take them out fast, before they could react. Whoever planned the attack would have wanted to prevent a real fight ever starting. That would cause too much damage, damage that would be obvious to customers the next day—wounds on the attackers, breakages that would need to be replaced before the bar could operate.

  The Gar
den of the Hesperides had opened as usual the following morning, that was clear from statements. Everything had looked fine. No one, no ordinary member of the public, had realized anything had happened there.

  Five men disappeared, but it would seem that nobody ever came looking for them.

  Strangers? Up from the country or, more likely, foreigners. Men who had never been here before? Or men who had been before, yet nobody at home, wherever that was, knew of their links to the Ten Traders district in Rome, let alone their connection to this specific bar.

  Had it been too far to come looking, too expensive to make the journey, had any chance of finding out what had happened been too uncertain?

  Alternatively, perhaps these men’s deaths had served as a warning. No one came searching because people were too scared of the same fate befalling them.

  That seemed unlikely. Old Thales sounded like a social menace, but not particularly scary. If I thought someone like him had murdered five people I knew, I would not hesitate to wreak revenge.

  Not everyone was like me. Just as well, you may say.

  All right, if you were a peace-loving, timid type yourself, you could at least report the crime to the authorities. This was Rome, city of ancient justice. Well, it was Rome, city of interminable legal wrangling. You could hire a barrister to sue all Hades out of Thales. If you had the money, you could demand justice.

  If not, you would have to make a complaint to the vigiles. That was not entirely pointless. The Third Cohort were shirkers, but for sudden disappearances and presumed killings, they might at least prepare a scroll so as not to be caught out if anything else happened later. Cover your backs, my uncle Lucius would say. Write up some notes, so you have notes to consult, notes to present if and when your case is raised again by busybodies.

  Macer had apparently known nothing about a past crime until he came and saw the bodies. Possibly he had now gone back to his station house to hunt up old reports, though I wasn’t confident.

  If the five men could afford to travel here, their associates at home probably had access to funds too, so ought to have been able to follow them. I reckoned the associates could not have known where to come.

  And what of the woman? If it was Rufia, she had lived here. When trouble started, did she get in the way? Did one of the aggressors kill her accidentally? Or was she deliberately punished by someone for being too friendly with the victims? More likely, with one victim in particular? This was harsh, but it would by no means be the first time a jealous man had lashed out and murdered a woman on those grounds. Come to that, it wouldn’t be the first time a man had planned it in advance.

  Why was her head removed, and what happened to it afterward?

  *

  I turned around so I was facing the street again. No one outside had spotted me. Everyone knew the bar was closed, and I was standing still beside a post that held up the roof. No one had any cause to look over this way. I was not noticed.

  From there I could see across to the Romulus, now empty, and beyond it the Four Limpets. At the Limpets, I recognized Nipius and Natalis, leaning on the bar counter, not serving but apparently having a late breakfast themselves. At a table in the street were Artemisia and Orchivia, though they seemed to have finished eating. Artemisia was leaning forward on her elbows, yawning, Orchivia sprawled backward. Another woman stood on the edge of the pavement, talking to them. She looked less blowsy, definitely older.

  I had the impression they knew her, though the relationship was muted. They appeared to listen as required, but were taking little notice. She spoke to them; they let her talk. I could not make out any response. Well, I knew they were a stroppy pair.

  While I watched, the older woman glanced across the street. I was uncertain whether she noticed me. Three mules, all laden with heavy grain sacks, came to a halt between us while their drovers called at the Romulus; whether for delivery or for refreshments was unclear. The woman broke off her conversation and swiftly took herself off in the uphill direction, patting a mule on the rump as she passed. The Four Limpets was far enough away that if I had started after her, she would easily have lost me. Besides, the beasts were in my way. I let her go.

  For some reason I felt that I had just seen Menendra, the woman the Dardanians had mentioned before, who once knew Rufia. If so, this Menendra had no desire to talk to me.

  XXIII

  A public slave came down the Argiletum, sweeping. When I say he came down the road, it was a slow progress, with many stops to stand still and gaze around pointlessly.

  I had somewhere in mind to investigate. Not wanting to alert any bar staff to my intention, I asked the slave if he knew Mucky Mule Mews. Normally no one spoke to him. I politely ascertained that he did understand Latin, since it is not always certain that they can talk our language. Some public slaves look after temples or imperial baths, so they tend to be of acceptable quality, but the rest are cheap labor given menial, dirty tasks that even the poor don’t want; many public slaves are as bad as that implies. This one was sent out every day by himself, so someone must trust him. Still, where would he run to? Who would pay him anything for his snaggled old broom if he stole it?

  He grew jumpy in case I was suggesting he ought to have used his broom in the mews. I reassured him. Once his panic receded, he gave me directions. I thanked him, donated a copper for his pension fund and set off. His directions were wrong. I have no reason to think he did that on purpose, though my father, who is deeply suspicious of everyone, would have been certain.

  Once I realized, I asked again of passing locals. I had reasoned Rufia lived fairly close to her work, so the alley I wanted must be nearby. It was. Nothing had been lost, except a few moments’ anxiety on my part because I dislike ending up somewhere I don’t know, without planning to be there. In the end I found the place.

  It was no worse than Fountain Court, but I was so used to my own horrors I barely noticed them. Not so here. Even if the road sweeper had been ordered to this deplorable cul-de-sac, one man with a besom could never have achieved much. There must be a stable hereabouts. I had never seen such high piles of mule dung. They looked old; they smelt fresh. Any mules who created these deposits were probably half-wild and spiteful-tempered. Their drovers could well be the same.

  I looked around, making sure I knew where the exit was and how deep the potholes on the way to it were. I did not want to find myself stuck down this lonely alley with a feral animal-driver, let alone a bunch of them. I knew what they would be like. No teeth, big whips, depraved ideas. If Rufia had had to make her way down here every night in the dark, I knew why she had become aggressive. I felt weary and angry just imagining what she went through.

  Perhaps late at night when she came home, the drovers would all be snoring in the stable. And perhaps they were in truth sweet-natured, honest heroes who would come running to the aid of any female in distress … I would not want to test their response to screams. The swine would come running all right—every man of them pulling up his tunic, whooping with glee, ready to join in the gang rape.

  It was very quiet at the moment. I felt glad of that.

  *

  At first I thought no one could live here. Blank black walls loomed above me on both sides. Gradually I began to spot dark doorways in the filthy walls that shadowed the dank, unpaved lane. There were arched windows too, their brickwork caked with centuries of dirt and pigeon guano. Shops may have lined the street once, but were long gone; nor could I hear any sounds of manufacturing. I pulled my skirts in tight, trying to avoid puddles of ominous liquid. I wished I was not wearing jewelry. I took off my necklace and put it away in the satchel where I kept my note tablet.

  It struck me that nobody knew I had come here. Tiberius would say I should always tell him where I was going; he would be right. I must learn to do it. Well, one day perhaps, but I had survived on my own for twelve years so I saw no urgency for change. I had no intention of living in my husband’s pocket like his little pet mouse. He would have to get u
sed to that.

  If nobody else knew I was coming here, at least no one with bad intentions would have trailed me; no one would have come ahead to lie in wait. Only the people who lived here posed any danger.

  They did not seem to exist. It was excessively quiet. To reach this place I had only walked down a short side street, yet the racket on the Vicus Longus was completely muffled by the intervening buildings. Though the mews was grimy and oppressive, as a professional myself I could see that a woman who worked late and who wanted somewhere to sleep undisturbed by day might find the isolation helpful. Rufia could have overlooked its sordid aspects, much as I did at Fountain Court. It would take a brave acquaintance to come bothering her at home. Any stalkers who followed her unbidden might give up at the end of such a horrible alley. In view of the time since Rufia had disappeared, I nearly gave up myself. What was the point of hoping somebody here would remember her?

  I jumped: a shadow came out from a doorway. Quite suddenly I was passed by a little arthritic old woman with a basket on one arm. Such an ordinary apparition, her sheer normality was startling. I pulled myself together to run after her, calling out: “Granny, stop, will you!”

  She looked round, squinted at me with near-blind eyes, then told me to get lost. If she could have scuttled away, she would have done. Instead, she kept going, at her slow but steady pace. Here was a ninety-year-old biddy in flat shoes and a ragged stole going out for a melon and a pinch of powder to take away her pains. She had no intention of talking to a strange young woman, let alone of being helpful.

  “You must have known Rufia!”

  The only reply was a humph. She would have said that if I had asked the way to the Forum, told her she had come into money, or pretended her landlord wanted to put up her rent. Her own long-lost love child would have received the same angry rebuff. She managed to creak up into the side street ahead of me and was gone on her way.