Graveyard of the Hesperides Read online

  “Flavia Albia’s been telling me she had a run-in with that Menendra.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The miserable hag who comes around.”

  “Oh her!” scoffed Sparsus.

  “She’s a one,” agreed Serenus. “She can see we are nowhere near finishing, but she’s always on the niggle.”

  The workmen had a kind of easy acceptance that the world was full of idiots, whom they had to fend off patiently. They possessed technical expertise while all members of the public were irritating amateurs. People love to stare at holes in the ground. They think they know all about hole-in-the-ground engineering and management. Works in a bar made it worse because gormless passers-by could so easily prop themselves against the marble counters, leaning in to ask time-wasting questions.

  “So why is the finish date so vital to Menendra?” I queried, not expecting answers. “Do you know what she does?”

  “Sells them their olives?” guessed Serenus. At least it was a variation on fruit.

  “Ever seen her bring a storage amphora to any of the bars?”

  Serenus looked offended at my persnicketiness. Proving a theory with evidence was new to him. If he continued to work for Faustus, he would have to sharpen up.

  “I can ask her,” volunteered Larcius. “The next time she invades the site, nagging about when we’re handing it back to Liberalis, I shall say, ‘What do you need to know for?’ Then she’ll tell me.”

  He was an innocent.

  I just told him if he could find out, I would be grateful. He seemed proud to take charge of this task.

  The day was growing very hot. The men said that once they finished lunch they were to close up and gently trek over to Lesser Laurel Street. I did wonder what exactly Tiberius was having them do there, but he would show me in his own time.

  I left the bar, went to our hired room and had a quiet lie-down.

  XXX

  I skipped lunch myself. Failure dulls my appetite.

  In the room, I peeled off my tunic, kicked off my sandals, then lay down on the pallet that passed for a bed, perspiring. The midday heat oppressed me. Today there was so much humidity in Rome, it was difficult to breathe. I knew I would fall asleep from sheer exhaustion, but first I would relax. I would empty my mind, to let my opinion of the case restructure itself naturally. Mulling is an informer’s best weapon.

  It was clear that people knew more about what happened at the Garden of the Hesperides than had originally seemed likely. Both the new landlord and Menendra were concealing information. Liberalis, at least, may have been present when the dead met their fates. Menendra knew far more about Rufia than she wanted me to discover.

  Since Rufia was such an enigma, I revisited what I knew about her one-time protégée. Artemisia and Orchivia knew Menendra, though this morning at the Four Limpets their attitude to her had looked truculent. If she knew they had already met me, I wondered if she had been trying to persuade them to put the frighteners on for her, with them refusing? With those two, being uncooperative was their normal reaction to anything.

  Menendra was a wily, self-assured piece. The two girls were stroppy, but younger. Had she tried to control them? Had they rejected her? Was it possible that what Menendra sold to the bars was organized sexual talent—but sometimes the talent rejected her services? The Dardanians, with their youthful experience in the Danube forts, would not easily submit to a brothel mother. Not when they reckoned they could find punters for themselves.

  Others might go along with it. A system could exist. Was running the bar girls—and boys—a trade that Rufia once dabbled in? Since her disappearance, had Menendra taken over? It would explain why Menendra was so interested in when the Hesperides would reopen, bringing back a lucrative bar into her market. Lepida at the snacks stall had said providing extras to customers had become very professional. There must be a lot of money to be made.

  I did not suppose Menendra’s business was invoiced, or that she paid taxes on her profits. So long as she could say she herself was not working as a prostitute, she would never need to be registered with the authorities. That could mean she operated below their line of sight; Rufia must have done so too. Macer of the Third Cohort knew what happened in bars in his area, but he seemed unaware how it was controlled. From what I knew of the vigiles, their idea of “local knowledge” was being able to find their own station house.

  Rufia, who had supported Menendra when she came to Rome from Lycia, may have taught her the business. Had Rufia used her as an apprentice, let Menendra become a trusted assistant—only to be removed because she was in Menendra’s way? Was Menendra behind Rufia’s disappearance?

  Menendra would still have been junior, but it was not impossible. The younger woman might even have attached herself to Old Thales and used sexual favors to persuade him to dispose of her less attractive rival. Menendra was leathery now, but ten years ago Thales may have welcomed an offer from her to oust the stroppy Rufia.

  When Menendra went to search Rufia’s room, it may have been in case Rufia had left something incriminating behind. A diary or letters saying Rufia had been nervous that Menendra was trying to supersede her? Seemed unlikely.

  Usually people who conduct a search like that are seeking valuables. Surely if Menendra thought Rufia had left treasure behind, she would have looked before—as soon as Rufia had gone missing. Why now? Because of Tiberius and me poking our noses in. But Menendra’s search attempts had been very obvious, and ultimately bungled. Just because she ran a network of sex slaves did not mean she was intelligent. Going around with ugly bodyguards did not make her clever. Her burglary only drew attention. A truly shrewd woman would have kept out of sight.

  *

  All this was one theory. I had already wasted time on others, and there could be more yet. But I began to feel more content. Finding new questions always peps me up. Satisfied that I had my new line of inquiry, I dozed off.

  In the suffocating summer heat, I slept much longer than I meant to. By the time I woke, the temperature had cooled and become more pleasant. Sounds from the street outside had changed from lunchtime lethargy to late-afternoon reopening time. Bathhouse bells rang to proclaim that water was hot and doors open.

  After my previous poor experience, I decided against the bathhouse, but stripped off and washed down with a cloth and bucket of water. I dressed, changed my shoes, then went out. Briefly forgetting that the workmen had gone over to the Aventine, I made my way automatically to the Hesperides. On the threshold I remembered that nobody was here this afternoon, but by then I had spotted that the passage from the bar to the courtyard had been opened up and someone had aimed something heavy at a corner of the counter, denting and cracking the marble pieces. The old door with which the men secured the passage had been pushed aside.

  Everything sounded quiet enough, though investigating on my own would be stupid. That didn’t stop me. It was too early to expect our night watchman. I made a tentative entry. When I stepped out into the garden area, I found a scene of devastation.

  Horrified, I swore out loud. All today’s work had been destroyed. It must have been done with brute force, for most of the workmen’s tools had gone with them to Lesser Laurel Street. That had not deterred the intruders. The careful trench that was meant to form the water feature had had its neat sides trampled down, then spoil and rubbish kicked in. Formwork to hold a poured concrete wall had been pulled away, so the as yet uncured mixture was setting in an irretrievable mass. I went across to look, in case I could push back the wooden shuttering, but there was nothing I could do. The gate to the back alley stood open; I did close that.

  I felt distressed for Tiberius. He had lost time on his job here while his men too would be upset to see this carnage. I would have sat down and sobbed but, to complete the mess, all the old bar furniture lay scattered and smashed.

  The message was clear. This was not casual mucking about by local menaces. It was crude, deliberate and shocking. Yet ultimately it seemed
pointless. Whoever had done this intended to warn us to stop our investigation. All they had really achieved was to advertise that questions were worth asking. And I now believed the perpetrators of the old crime were still in this locality.

  Some criminals have no idea that all they have to do is nothing. Lie low, and if there was never evidence in the first place, no more will appear.

  Start sending messages, and we will know interested parties are definitely out there.

  *

  I was angry and anxious. Then, just when I was making attempts to tidy the broken benches, someone else arrived, coincidentally adding to our problems.

  It was a couple who looked very out of place in this area. They turned up in a hired litter, which they kept waiting, ready for a fast exit. They were not hopelessly imagining they could buy drinks; they had come here on a mission. She told me she was looking for her brother, Tiberius Manlius. Oh dear. Our wedding guests had begun to arrive.

  For her big visit to the city, Fania Faustina was wearing white, with modest jewels. When she was younger, people must have told her she had a sweet nature, on which she still traded, though she was losing it more every day. That was due to her husband, by name Antistius. He was in a brown tunic, accessorised with bumptiousness. Nobody could ever have called him sweet.

  “This is a monumental mess!” He surveyed the scene superciliously. “I didn’t expect Faustus to have much idea, but it’s a lot worse than I imagined!”

  Manlius Faustus was right. His brother-in-law was detestable.

  I brushed down my skirts. Dusty and flustered, there was no chance that I looked a convincing bride for an aedile, but I had to introduce myself. I watched my bridegroom’s sister wondering whether she ought to kiss me, then she decided it was not yet called for. That caused relief on both sides.

  Since there was nowhere to sit, we stood around awkwardly. My new in-laws explained they had arrived that day with others in their party whom they had left with Uncle Tullius, though they were hoping Tiberius was intending to house them all somewhere else, in view of Aunt Valeria’s rigid antipathy to his uncle. Thanks to my sisters, I knew about that. I was able to express sympathy, though I pretended I was unsure what the alternative plans were …

  I did know my mother had been hoping this influx of strangers would not happen so soon. She had tried to convince herself only the austere aunt who loathed Tullius would request somewhere else to stay. Aunts were absorbed into our household whatever they were like, but I could picture my father’s expression when exposed to Antistius.

  These country folk had wasted no time. As soon as they hit Rome, in between eagerly searching for Tiberius, they had managed to acquire at enormous expense (they told me) many tickets for a cithara recital by a famous musician, the fabulous Stertinius, to which everyone was now invited as their contribution to the wedding celebrations. They thought it was a fine way to meet my family. My mother would agree politely, though again, I feared what Falco would say.

  I had heard of the popular lyre player, but no one I knew would have gone to hear him. I had no idea how Tiberius would view being made to sit through a public concert by a musician of the moment, without any warning, at the end of an extremely long and physically exacting day. With the bar’s destruction, his day had become much worse than he yet knew.

  “We tried to find my brother at his new house, where we had been assured he was, but nobody answered when we called,” said his sister, sounding peevish.

  “Well, that’s builders for you.” I shrugged.

  “We were definitely informed he would be there,” her husband complained, in high irritation. “I don’t know how long we stood in the street banging at the doors.”

  Not only Tiberius, but all his workforce ought to be at the house now. I had a sudden inkling that he had looked discreetly through a grille, could not bear to face the brother-in-law, so told the workmen to stay quiet while he hid inside … “Are our doors beautifully painted now?” I asked serenely. “Tiberius has gone to endless trouble choosing the color scheme…”

  “That’s hardly the point,” Antistius growled.

  Until now I had not felt domestic, but I found myself hoping these visitors had not touched our doors while they were wet and permanently smudged them with fingermarks. It would be sickening to remember Antistius every time I got out my door key.

  Nevertheless, I knew what I must do. I smiled as if I meant it, gushing how thrilled we would be to go to the sought-after concert by the extremely famous cithara player. I can be charming. My mother taught me. If you can act, it is easy, at least with people who have never met you before.

  Luckily we were all distracted then. I had misjudged Trypho, our night watchman, when I assumed he had not been on guard. Now he hove into view, limping down the street, with blood all over him. Ignoring my future relatives with a fine sense of who mattered, he told me that he had found an intruder wrecking the works, so he had beaten up the man, then chased him off.

  “What did he look like? Will you know him again, Trypho?”

  “He’ll have a smashed nose. You bet I will.”

  “Good. Come and be mopped up. Fania Faustina, do please excuse me while I attend to this emergency in your brother’s absence…”

  It would have been good to think my new in-laws were impressed by the competence and composure of the bride who was joining their family. But they just made it an excuse to scamper into their litter, then order its bearers to hare off.

  XXXI

  It is generally accepted that the cithara is an extremely demanding instrument. To most people that means it is difficult to play. Even those who adore its softly stroked strings in the hands of a skilled performer may find themselves in a situation where enduring the music is hard. I mean, when dragged to a concert by people you don’t know.

  At least a promised couple can sit together and discreetly hold hands. If Tiberius began dozing, I could squeeze his paw to keep him more or less awake. If my head lolled upon his shoulder, he could shake me upright.

  It started not too badly, as we were preoccupied by disrupting everyone else while we took our seats. Originally we were even joined by Uncle Tullius; his niece and family did not omit inviting their host. However, Tullius took one horrified look at the stairs we were to climb, then beetled off to buy himself another ticket; he ensconced himself among the business community in their excellent seats lower down and we never saw him again all night. Everyone else was slightly relieved.

  Fania Faustina thought my sisters were lovely. Her husband too was giving them the eye. Julia and Favonia pretended not to have noticed, though there would be a lot of giggling back at home in private. For now, their whispered discussion was all about ghastly young men in the audience.

  My mother clearly felt Tiberius’ Aunt Valeria was sensible and not half as tricky as she had been painted. Shawled up and reeking of liniment, Valeria knew when to fetter her bile; she could play the sweet old lady, she just didn’t believe in doing it. She had managed to win my parents’ good opinion so tomorrow she could shuttle to their house. She did foolishly say she could only stomach a little light gruel for breakfast, to which Mother responded gaily that mornings were casual at our house. Auntie Valeria was welcome to visit the kitchen and brew up her own gruel just the way she liked it.

  My father loudly said they had no room for anyone else. They did, but the three small boys were whiny and Falco prides himself on intolerance. It had been claimed the little boy in-laws were keen to meet my brother Postumus. That was before someone told their parents he had just been sent home in disgrace after a foray into the Circus of Gaius and Nero while in the custody of his birth mother, a snake dancer. His visit had ended abruptly when he involved himself in the escape of a lion, a fire, an accidental death, financial strife and several divorces. He was a lonesome child, who liked adventures.

  Our side made jokey comparisons between the ancient Theater of Marcellus, the concert venue, and the circus that Postumus had sup
posedly burned down. Postumus maintained it had only been a little fire and was all the lion’s fault. Fania Faustina and Antistius expressed alarm, while we all smiled mysteriously.

  My weird little brother was to be in charge of their precious boys in my bridal procession. They would carry flaming torches, a tradition that could so easily go wrong. Postumus assessed his proposed team with cold unfathomable eyes. That was how he looked at everyone, though the Antistii seemed worried that their innocent heirs were being consigned to a maniacal tyrant. They missed the point. My brother, who was twelve but had grand ideas, believed the wedding was for his personal glory. He intended to run the torchlit walk smoothly, to reflect well on him. If the three whiners failed to meet his standards, they were out.

  Plectrum-wielding intervened, thank you divine Apollo of the golden hair and lovely sandals.

  The cithara music was amazingly beautiful and transporting, or so said the commentator who introduced the repertoire. Many of the audience did assume attitudes of being carried away by rapture. Not our lot. Most were still muttering in undertones, unaware that the concert had started.

  I smiled at Tiberius. He smiled at me.

  Gazing up at the theater’s fine architecture as announcers told us we would be treated to the poignant Phrygian and mournful Hypodorian modes, I drifted into my own reverie. My relatives settled down, after other members of the audience clucked reproaches.

  We were in one of the largest theaters in the world, at least it had been until the Emperor Vespasian created the Flavian Amphitheater to outshine them all. Coolly clad in travertine, it had ancient grandeur, with elegant arches on each of three classic pillared tiers and its upper level decorated with huge marble theater masks. The building was fitted with the usual ramps and tunnels that enabled spectators to leave the theater rapidly, though of course one was expected to remain in one’s seat during the performance or be deemed a barbarian. The stone seats were surprisingly comfortable, especially if you had the forethought to bring a cushion.