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

  Leaving the two bodyguards streetside at the counter, Quintus and I went in and pretended to study the wall sign with a list of drinks. With expressions of delight we ‘discovered’ the inner garden. We sat down there at a wooden table and spent time trying to decide whether to have fried anchovies or stick with olives. We didn’t make a lot of noise, nothing too obvious.

  No doubt some bars that act as gangs’ headquarters show unfriendliness to casuals but at the Galatea they were more relaxed. The waiter ambled up and took our order without blinking. He even recommended the anchovies, though he did not push it. A man at the other table gave us a friendly nod in greeting. The waiter took his time coming back – but only as much time as hopeless waiters anywhere. He was gossiping with a local at a counter, not sending a message to tell some clan chief in the crime community that we were here.

  So far, if we hadn’t been told this was a dangerous place, we would not have realised.

  ‘Must be his first day,’ said Justinus to the other man, winking after the waiter. The otherwise pleasant customer had enormous biceps and a broken nose. But if he was a villain, he was one who had work to go back to. He mopped his chin daintily with a napkin, called for the reckoning, left coppers for the waiter, nodded a goodbye like a man whose mother had taught him manners, and left.

  Apart from us, there was now no one else here. Our order came. True to family policy on refreshments, we decided we might as well eat up, not just leave empty-handed.

  As soon as we relaxed with our bowls and beakers, a man who looked like an imperial invoice clerk turned up. Half bald, clean tunic, just short of swaggering. The kind who serves forty years in the same position, always at the beck and call of superiors, but knowing his eventual leaving-present will buy him a villa. One with solid silver plumbing fitments.

  He came straight to the other table in the garden, clearly familiar with his surroundings. Within seconds the waiter had moved in, swept the board clean of crumbs, placed a bread basket with new rolls and set a beaker ready for the small flask of house wine and the water jug he swiftly brought without the customer needing to specify what he wanted.

  Justinus kicked my ankle under the table.

  The new man had made sure he was sitting so he could see who else entered. He even moved the heavy bench. Who moves a tavern bench?

  Although he ignored our offered smiles, he then gave us a hard once-over. While the waiter brought appetiser bowls (several more than we had received), the man muttered to him and the waiter glanced over at us. He said something, perhaps defensively.

  However much this customer looked like a docket-diddler, diddling dockets was not what he did.

  A typical late lunch proceeded. It was early afternoon. Anyone in a bar around now had time to spare: those who did not need to work and those whose work involved leisured negotiating. Shippers, retail middlemen, investment advisers, publishers of epic poems – and cut-throat gangsters.

  At a point when the waiter was alone at a counter, I got up and walked over to him, carrying a bowl as if I wanted a refill. I asked about the man who was not really a clerk. The waiter supplied the answer I expected. Juventus had named him for us. It was Gallo, a trusted agent of the Rabirii, whom the waiter called ‘local businessmen’. He seemed unfazed at being asked.

  I left the bowl on the counter. I walked across to the businessmen’s trusty, sat down at the opposite side of his table, and folded my hands neatly. From our table, Justinus let his gaze follow me, though he went on eating and drinking quietly. He was close enough to hear what was said. The casual way he chucked up olives into his mouth showed that he saw nothing unusual in me approaching a stranger to ask questions. How a highly placed gangster would react remained to be seen.

  ‘Please excuse me. You are eating and I won’t mess about. I believe your name is Gallo and you can put me in touch with the Rabirii.’ I made sure I spoke with heavy respect. Like my uncle, Gallo continued with his meal, no more concerned than if a wasp had landed on the table. But one wrong buzz and he would swat me. He did not appear to be armed, but I never rely on appearances.

  I tried again. ‘My name is Flavia Albia. I am assisting an aedile with his investigation into the recent murders of Valerius Aviola and his wife on the Clivus Suburanus.’ At that, Gallo did flex his eyebrows. Whether it was a comment on the crime, a disparaging sneer at women in general, or at women who said they worked with magistrates, I could not tell.

  He wanted to know what I wanted. Until he found out, he would not pose a threat. Afterwards, I would need to be extremely careful.

  ‘Bullion was taken. The Rabirius organisation is highly regarded for dealing in quality goods of the type that were liberated from the Aviola property. Mind you, if interlopers came onto your ground and carried out a robbery, unsanctioned by you, I imagine the Rabirii are extremely unhappy about it.’

  Gallo gazed at me. Though his features were so unremarkable, he had very cold eyes.

  I myself would not like to invade this gang’s territory. If another gang had carried out the Aviola theft, and the Rabirii knew, there would be blood on the cobbles. I almost wished there was, because the absence of local warfare suggested the Rabirii were not annoyed with anybody else. If they did the job themselves, it was scary invading their bar.

  ‘I’ll be frank – if you took the silver, I cannot prove it. As a woman, I may not initiate prosecutions anyway. There will be no repercussions. My interest goes beyond the theft. I am following up the murders − and I don’t believe the Rabirii were responsible. These killings were pointless, drawing attention in a way that your well-run organisation must deplore.’

  I had nothing to offer, but I pushed it as brazenly as possible. ‘Surely the Rabirii want this cleared up? It must be offensive to them to have such stupidity happening in their district.’

  Gallo tore bread off a loaf segment with his teeth. I don’t think he sharpened his incisors into points with a smith’s file, but he would have done if he had thought of it.

  ‘All right, just tell me this,’ I cajoled. ‘Aviola’s slaves are being accused of the murders. Perhaps no robbery ever took place and the slaves are bluffing. So was Aviola, or was he not, visited that night by professionals?’

  Gallo finished chewing then he answered. ‘Go away, little girl.’

  You can amend that mentally. ‘Go away’ was not his chosen verb.

  20

  ‘Flavia Albia, you managed that superbly!’

  There are times when I can do without a companion who employs a wicked grin. I told Uncle Quintus to go away, using the crude word I had just learned from Gallo.

  We did not linger in the Galatea.

  21

  Quintus Camillus and I walked very slowly back to the apartment. We were both thinking, both not talking.

  Dromo had woken up, in a fine panic about where I had got to. Faustus must have really given him stern orders to guard me. He glared at my uncle’s two bodyguards, jealous of anyone else with responsibilities, even though he himself resented being assigned to me. The bodyguards stalked around Dromo too, equally suspicious. They were like a group of dogs, sizing each other up on first meeting, feinting an attack with fangs bared. But each man had an eye on Quintus and me, knowing we would slap them down if there was trouble.

  We left them to their devices, and went to sit in the courtyard. We discussed what we could do next about identifying the thieves, assuming they ever existed.

  Quintus’ suggestion was predictable: ‘We’ll have to raise our level of engagement with the vigiles. Titianus is a lightweight and Juventus has absolutely no idea. I propose that Manlius Faustus and I hold a speedy face-to-face with the Second Cohort’s tribune. I can send a message now to tell him we are coming. That gives him time to pick his men’s brains; it’s only polite. The tribune can decide for himself, depending on his personal style of management, whether to have those idiots present, or present for part of the time.’

  ‘You presume “management” i
s what a vigiles tribune practises,’ I chortled. ‘So tell me – does the Camillus-Faustus personal style include taking me to the meet?’

  My uncle wagged a finger. ‘Now you know, Albia sweetheart, if it was up to me … ’

  ‘Faustus approves of me.’

  ‘That is definitely my impression! But,’ said Quintus Camillus, turning into a paternalist Roman bastard, like them all, ‘we have to assume the tribune will be traditional. We don’t want to antagonise him, do we?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Ah, but Albia, we need answers, not moral confrontations.’

  ‘I like to use confrontations to thrash out answers.’

  Quintus remained tolerant. ‘From what I have seen of your work, you can be devious. You try to avoid upsets. Hercules, Albia, let’s face it – you flirt!’

  Biting my lip, I made no reply.

  After a moment, Quintus added slyly, ‘So are you flirting with the aedile?’

  ‘You do keep on plucking on the same old lyre, Uncle.’ Quintus was laughing. We had a good relationship and I was honest with him. ‘I flirt when it’s needed, but I don’t flirt with him.’

  ‘Yes, he seems a little tight. Doesn’t he like your banter?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  I knew all right. Faustus liked it.

  Quintus, who was shrewd in the intuitive way of my mother, his elder sister, was still laughing. I reflected privately how glad I was not to be having this conversation with Helena Justina. She could winkle things out of people that they didn’t even know they thought and felt.

  It made her a wonderful partner for my father. When I worked with the Camillus brothers, as I did intermittently, we had a similar relationship, but they always tried to take over the investigation. I was better on my own.

  I never despaired of finding someone else to share my work in the balanced way my parents tackled commissions together – but I did not expect it to happen.

  Quintus borrowed equipment and swiftly wrote letters, one to Faustus which Dromo took, and another to the tribune, carried by one of the bodyguards.

  Commenting how quiet it was here (compared to his own lively ménage, with all those children tearing about), my uncle made himself at home. He had a nap, commandeering a bed in one of the good rooms. I sunned myself in the garden.

  Polycarpus turned up, mithering about my visit that morning to his wife Graecina. I had half-expected him to check up. The steward was the type who needed to involve himself and be in charge. Now he wanted to satisfy himself first-hand that nothing had been said that he himself would have concealed.

  ‘Routine questions, Polycarpus. I just wondered if you could give me any useful background on Galla Simplicia. You must have had many dealings with her while she and Aviola were married, perhaps even since they divorced. I would value your opinion.’

  ‘Did my wife say something?’ he asked narrowly. Justinus had left his toga on the second chair, so the steward had to remain standing; he was a little put out and awkward. Excellent!

  ‘Nothing untoward.’ I presumed he had been told that in my talk with Graecina I had speculated on Polycarpus helping Galla Simplicia.

  I tried to be honest with myself. Was I feeling prejudice? Did I want to think he was involved, because I had taken against him? ‘Polycarpus, we haven’t talked about your master’s ex-wife and children. Why didn’t you mention them?’

  ‘You didn’t ask.’

  ‘I was never told they existed! You could have said. So, come on – share your views.’

  Polycarpus pulled a non-committal face, though what he said was pretty clear. ‘She looks soft, but she’s hard.’

  ‘Why did they divorce?’

  ‘She was a handful. He found it all too much. From little things he said, I think he was relieved to live as a single man again.’

  ‘But not permanently … Did he miss having a companion in bed?’

  ‘There are ways around that.’

  ‘Do you know what ways Aviola found? Assuming he did?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  He must know, but Polycarpus would not say it to me. I presumed this was the usual nonsense of men ganging up.

  I changed tactics. ‘What about the suggestion that Galla Simplicia was so aggravated by Aviola remarrying, and the possibility he might have more children, that she arranged his murder?’ The steward looked startled – or at least made a good show of it. ‘Do you believe it?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘You never found her vindictive?’

  ‘I never found her violent. Or that stupid,’ he added. He was shifting from foot to foot, though he appeared to be talking straight. ‘She likes to play the innocent in formal matters, business matters, yet Galla Simplicia is very intelligent.’

  ‘She used to twist Aviola to her will?’

  ‘Yes − and I thought,’ Polycarpus confided, ‘she reckoned she could continue to get around him even after he remarried.’

  I said that, having met her, I too thought that very likely. Of course continuing to obtain whatever she wanted meant Galla Simplicia had no motive to kill.

  I probed Polycarpus on the subject of her cousin, the executor. ‘Is it true you hope to be offered a position by Sextus Simplicius?’ Apparently the offer had now been made. Polycarpus said that since he was still so shaken by his old master’s death, he had kindly been given time to consider. This was not so generous to the existing steward, Gratus, on whose side I found myself. ‘Does your past experience of Galla Simplicia make you at all wary of working for her family?’

  ‘Maybe!’ the Aviola steward agreed with a wry smile, as if to tell me that was why he had asked for a moratorium. He was unwilling to speak further. I ended the conversation and let him go.

  Shortly afterwards a message came that the tribune would make time for my uncle and the aedile. Clearly Quintus knew how to pen a graceful request for an interview. I admit, I myself could never have persuaded a tribune to see me on my own initiative. Senators have unfair advantages.

  I had the idea of inviting my uncle and Faustus to join me for supper, in order to tell me what they learned. Quintus happily accepted and said, hinting, that he would be sure to bring the aedile with him. I replied coolly that then he could see for himself how there was nothing between us.

  ‘Ah, that’s a shame!’

  That kind of annoying so-called humour is why I ought to stick with my rule, never work with relatives.

  22

  While my client and uncle were engaged in masculine business, lucky boys, I was left with time on my hands. I took Dromo out with a shopping basket, bought and prepared us a meal. I could do that. I refused to see this task as demotion. I enjoy supper with friends, especially on a fine June evening. Someone has to check that the shellfish are fresh.

  One thing I like about Rome is that women go to dinner along with their men. Aulus Camillus’ first wife, Hosidia Meline, who came from Greece, expected to be left at home, and even when there was a party in her own house she tried to hide away. She felt uncomfortable when we encouraged her to join in. My mother had taught me that I must never accept being left out. Only a man who wanted me to be at his side as his equal was worth considering. In my own house, I was always to be the hostess.

  This was not my house, but I issued the invitation, so it counted as the same.

  When they appeared, Uncle Quintus greeted me with a fond kiss on the cheek, so Manlius Faustus followed his example, more diffidently since he was not a relative; still, it was unforced.

  I led them to Aviola and Mucia’s summer dining room. There were three formal couches, big cushioned three-seaters, so we spread ourselves and flopped on one each. I had laid out the food and drink on the central serving table. It was a stretch, but we helped ourselves, in the absence of slaves. Dromo had moaned that he had to go to the baths again. Myla could have served us, but she had made herself invisible all afternoon. I wondered if that was what people meant when they said ‘Oh
, she’s just Myla’ – she had a faultless instinct for when to keep out of the way?

  It must have been in all our minds that this was where the feast took place on the night of the murders. The room was decorated in sea-green and white, a delicate palette, with refined panels of garden scenes, where an occasional painted dove frolicked on a scalloped fountain. The frescos looked new, as if redone for the wedding. I wondered if Mucia Lucilia had instigated that – the new wife, beginning to exert her influence?

  Empty buffet shelves would once have held the stolen silver wine set. We had to eat and drink from pottery. But the pottery here was glossy red-glazed ware from northern Italy, with elegant scenes of hares and running antelopes. In this household, even the items left behind when the rest was packed up for Campania were more than decent.

  I had folded back the wooden doors, which made the room airy and gave a sense of space. The view of the courtyard needing prettying up; Mucia cannot yet have started on that.

  Perhaps on the feast night they hired tubs of topiary and draped the place with garland swags. There would have been lights. By the time of the attack, if witness statements were correct, the lamps had been put out, most probably removed; I had seen them, now routinely stacked in a store room. No doubt as soon as the guests left, someone went around and saved lamp oil. That was the kind of household Polycarpus ran. It could have been done while the debris was being cleared and the table goods washed in the kitchen.

  The feast ended at a reasonable hour, then my guess was that the tidying up happened at some speed. The master and mistress had an early start next morning and they were eager for bed. They would have wanted all domestic bustle to be out of the way and the house quiet.