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

  Faustus had managed to get jurisdiction of the Aventine, home ground for both of us and a busy hive of wrongdoers. The Esquiline was one of the other Seven Hills, lying beyond the Circus Maximus and the Forum. It was not an area I knew well and Faustus seemed to think little of it.

  ‘I need to find out what really happened in the apartment that night, Albia. If the slaves are exonerated, they can go home. We are stuck with them until then.’

  ‘You’re even stuck with them if they are guilty – they have sought asylum.’

  ‘Don’t I know it! I have to prove somebody else is guilty.’ As Faustus leaned back in his seat and considered me, I saw where he was heading: ‘I don’t have the time; I need an agent.’

  ‘What about the vigiles?’

  Succinctly, Faustus described Titianus of the Second Cohort.

  ‘Well, I can’t help you,’ I warned, getting in first. ‘I welcome new work, but not an exhausting trek over there every day.’

  Faustus smiled sweetly. I was too experienced to fall for that. ‘I could organise some accommodation nearby,’ he offered. ‘And for assisting the Temple of Ceres, your fee would be worth having.’ I was tempted. I was short of work after my holiday. The temple could afford to pay well, since it benefited directly from all the fines the aediles slapped on people. ‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘It’s fascinating, Albiola. You know you want it.’ It always disturbed me when he used that diminutive, which he had invented.

  I outlined for him why no informer would do this: the impossibility of tracking down the burglars now Titianus had muddied the trail, the difficulties of making slaves give reliable answers, the need for speed, the risks of any inquiry that was conducted in the public eye …

  ‘You are exactly the woman. Discreet, shrewd and no-nonsense,’ Faustus flattered me.

  ‘Damn you, Tiberius.’ I was not being over-familiar; he used his first name when working incognito, as he had been when I first met him.

  ‘I am delighted you accept. Do you need a written contract?’

  ‘I believe I do,’ I answered coldly. ‘Let me draft it; then I can specify draconian terms.’

  Faustus grinned as he ordered up more breakfast. He could afford to be cheerful. His troubles were over. Mine were just beginning.

  At least he told Apollonius to bring Lucanian sausage for me too. ‘Make that with big Colymbadian olives on the side and double gherkins!’ I growled, exploiting my new employer, who agreed it with a look of resignation.

  To be honest, I fancied working with him. He was an interesting character.

  I was already planning where to start. I told Faustus that the first thing the Temple of Ceres must pay for was decent legal advice. I happened to know two lawyers who were no more devious than normal and who, for the kind of money a religious body paid, would certainly oblige.

  My uncles. Yes, I know what I said about never working with relatives, but the Camillus brothers were always so skint they would welcome this.

  3

  I sent a message to warn them. The aedile provided an errand boy. Even though Faustus was nominally alone, any man of affairs has an attendant, who tags along then sits on the kerb outside, waiting for orders. They squat there unnoticed among all the other slaves who are kicking their heels while their masters lurk in bars. At night, some streets are lined with rows of cute little boys asleep on their lanterns; in the day, pavements are clogged with liveried flunkeys, playing board games in the dust. High numbers make their owners look swanky. Faustus genuinely did not care about that, but had a lad with him for convenience.

  Later that morning I took the aedile to meet my mother’s younger brothers. They occupied a pair of houses at the Capena Gate, which sits in the old Servian Wall, just past the end of the Circus Maximus. Faustus and I walked down from the Aventine together in silence, but as we ducked under the dripping arches of the notoriously leaky Claudian Aqueduct, trying to cover our heads, I briefed him.

  ‘They are Aulus Camillus Aelianus, senior of the two, and Quintus Camillus Justinus. We’ll go in first to see Justinus then we’ll probably adjourn to Aelianus’ house.’ Faustus failed to ask why I preferred to start with Justinus. That saved me having to tell him. ‘Justinus is very much a family man; no one gets much quiet thinking done where he lives. His brother’s house is the opposite, as dead as an old tomb in a necropolis. He is on his third wife, but the marriage is failing.’

  ‘That’s sad,’ Faustus observed conventionally, steering me around some of the beggars who lurked under the aqueduct. ‘Children?’

  ‘Fortunately no.’ Aelianus, an awkward character, would probably have been a high-handed father. ‘Both my uncles are in the Senate, although it was a big financial struggle. I don’t know all the details, except that my father contributed.’

  ‘Generous.’

  ‘He had worked with both. Still does. You know how Roman families operate.’

  Faustus nodded. He himself lived with an uncle; they shared business interests and perhaps other sins. ‘The Camilli are now a partnership?’

  ‘Yes, but on sometimes spiky terms.’ The pair had matured slightly when they hit their late twenties and came good as court prosecutors, which is almost a respectable career. But they were temperamentally different and Justinus had once eloped with Claudia Rufina, a Baetican heiress who had really come to Rome to marry his brother. Years later, it still rankled. The brothers were thirty-nine and forty now. Old enough to be consuls, though for them it would never happen. They lacked the right political friends. My father reckoned that was what made them decent and likeable.

  ‘Are they good, or just your uncles?’

  ‘They are good.’ They really were. He gave me a look. ‘Honestly, Faustus.’

  ‘And you work with them?’

  ‘Sometimes a case benefits from a woman’s touch.’

  Yes, and sometimes those two casual lads were just too lazy to do the legwork themselves.

  Camillus Justinus’ house looked half-painted; I could not remember any maintenance being done since my grandparents’ time. We were admitted by an age-old Janus who had rudely forgotten my name even though I had cursed him a hundred times before. A desultory housekeeper showed us to a salon where a sleepy serving boy just stared at us. Faustus and I exchanged glances; we were both thinking about slaves and their habits today.

  Claudia, my aunt, popped her impressive nose around a door, rattled an armoury of bangles, evaluated Faustus, and disappeared. She was well-groomed and jewelled up (Spanish olive oil money) but she flapped about the house with the long-suffering air of a mother of six whose husband was more loyal to her bank-boxes than to her.

  My uncles turned up together. They looked furtive, as if they had been gossiping about how I came to know an aedile. A slew of young children tumbled into the room with them; Justinus rounded up his offspring and shooed them out again, arms wide, like a farmer penning heifers, yet he somehow projected gravitas. Aelianus looked as if he had indigestion, which was understandable in a man who had just sworn that his third marriage was absolutely the last, and who was brooding on how he would have to hand back yet another dowry. Despite having already spent it.

  I performed light-hearted introductions: ‘Aulus Camillus Aelianus: trained in Athens and Alexandria, past son-in-law to the eminent law professor and legendary social drinker, Minas of Karystos.’ Aelianus scowled, not because he was ashamed of being taught by that great Greek symposium boozer, but at my allusion to his first wife. The rest of us once viewed Hosidia Meline as an interloper, but her father had shamelessly divorced her from Aelianus in order to marry her to someone richer; insultingly, it was a mere six months after Aelianus wed her. But that was long enough for Hosidia to form a warm friendship with her fellow foreigner, Quintus’ wife, and now she was never out of their house. This deeply irritated Aelianus.

  ‘Quintus Camillus Justinus: trained in Rome and at what he calls the University of Struggle. At least it has cheap fees.’ Lovely Uncle Quintus, the bette
r-looking younger one. Affable, talented, everyone adored him, even his put-upon wife. That was how the rascal got away with being rascally.

  ‘Tiberius Manlius Faustus: plebeian aedile.’ Faustus nodded and said nothing, though I knew he was not shy.

  Just outside the doors, rioting children ended their game in ear-splitting wails as one fell over and pretended he had hurt himself. We hastily migrated to Aelianus’ house through a communicating door.

  Our new location was peaceful and neat, with swept floors and up-to-date wall frescos, but it always had a cold, unscented emptiness. If I had lived there, I would have filled it with puppies, fed birds in the garden, and hired a lyre player. Then I would have evicted Aelianus and had an affair with a furnace-stoker.

  Let us not discuss my tragic history with Aulus Camillus Aelianus.

  While Faustus outlined the Aviola murders and the slaves’ flight to the temple, I scooted to the kitchen where I organised tisanes and what Father calls nicknackeroony comports. In my relatives’ homes, the wise seek out their own refreshments. Only my mother is a thoughtful hostess. In the Aelianus ménage everything was there if you hunted for it, not just dates and miniature pastries but a perfectly willing little tray carrier. Three hauls of wedding presents had made Aelianus the owner of many matching fancy bowls. His wives tended to abandon the pottery and carry off his cash, insofar as cash existed.

  He could have set up a food bowl stall, but lacked the charisma to be a successful salesman. Besides, for a senator, involving himself in retail would be breaking the rules.

  I arrived back at the conference just as Faustus finished: ‘So my task will be identifying who really committed the murders, so the slaves can be evicted from the temple without offending the goddess. The Esquiline is not my jurisdiction, but I have been given a free hand.’

  ‘Oh, you mean I find the killers for you, then you sponge me out of the picture,’ I grumbled, asserting myself in the conversation.

  Faustus replied quietly, ‘You know I give you credit.’

  My uncles observed this exchange shrewdly.

  We reclined on couches as we talked. Aelianus ignored the refreshments. Justinus ploughed into his brother’s snacks as if he had eaten no breakfast. Of course he had. In homes full of children, breakfasts go on for most of the morning chaotically.

  He mumbled through a mouthful of pastry, ‘We need to remember what Seneca said: “Every slave is an enemy.” Most owners are paranoid that their staff are plotting against them.’

  ‘So often true!’ Aelianus had gone to another room, returning with his muscular arms full of legal scrolls. He now found his way around the documents by means of papyrus slips that he must have inserted earlier while preparing for this meeting.

  Both my layabout uncles enjoyed taking an instruction. They emphasised that until I had seen the location and interviewed those involved, all they could tell us was general law.

  ‘Today we are just setting out the principles. I hate these cases,’ Justinus complained. ‘The traditional approach was to condemn all the slaves who were in the house. More recently, that kind of mass cull became unpopular and I would argue to have this dealt with liberally. Single out the culpable, but ignore the rest. If this couple were wealthy, are we talking about substantial numbers?’

  ‘No.’ Faustus shook his head. ‘After their wedding, they had planned to go to a villa that Valerius Aviola owned in Campania. Almost all the household had been sent on ahead. There was some delay, I don’t know what, so the couple were slumming it in Rome overnight with a skeleton staff.’

  The small list of suspects had been a sweetener for making me take the job. I would not have agreed if there were big squads to investigate.

  Aelianus’ advice was practical and focussed: ‘Start by asking specifically who was in the bedroom. Were any attendants present when the thieves rushed in? If so, they absolutely ought to have defended their master, regardless of risk to themselves. Identify any who failed to help, and any who did try to defend their master but were unsuccessful.’

  ‘Not forgetting,’ argued Justinus, who never entirely agreed with his brother, ‘those elsewhere who might have assisted, but who were unaware an assault was happening.’ He told me to list the Aviola household and draw a plan of the apartment, plotting people’s whereabouts. Well, obviously I would do that. ‘Albia, check who was within earshot. Was it night? Had the whole household gone to bed? Were the newly-weds …?’ He tailed off demurely.

  ‘At it?’ I suggested, looking helpful.

  ‘Enjoying a full marriage …’

  Most couples in Rome made love with half the household listening in. Often with servants right there in the room. ‘If they were wrestling conjugally,’ I teased, ‘any cries for help might have been mistaken for joyous sound effects.’

  Faustus shot me a prudish look, but Justinus simply carried on. ‘If they liked privacy and were alone together, it’s critical whether any slaves nearby could hear calls for help. You might even ask how loudly could the murdered couple shout? What about slaves who were hard of hearing and have an excuse? You see what I mean.’

  Aelianus must be growing long-sighted. He leaned back and squinted down his nose at a scroll as he put in his thoughts: ‘The law is usually interpreted as saying that any slaves in the house had a duty to come running. But does “in the house” mean in other rooms or corridors, or does it include the garden or grounds, or even the street outside, if shouts and screams might reach that far? Think about that as you negotiate the apartment.’

  I had a vision of conducting aural experiments. Standing in different places and yelling ‘Help!’ while an assistant checked off results on a list …

  ‘You sound as if you would like to put these questions to a court.’ Faustus looked nervous. He must be hoping the Temple of Ceres would not have to pay for litigation, simply to fund my crazy uncles’ professional curiosity. With slaves, the authorities had probably thought there would be no trial.

  ‘Good advocates try to avoid lawsuits,’ returned Justinus, smiling.

  ‘Too expensive?’

  ‘Too prone to uncertain outcomes.’

  ‘You distrust juries?’

  ‘Seen too many.’

  ‘You said silverware went missing. What about the burglars?’ demanded Aelianus, changing tack.

  ‘Persons of interest – serious interest, clearly,’ said Faustus.

  ‘But persons unknown? Aedile, do not involve Flavia Albia in tracing them.’

  Before I could flare up, Justinus stressed the point. ‘My niece is special to us, Faustus. My brother and I stand in loco parentis when necessary.’

  ‘Nuts!’ I shrieked. ‘Your brother and you aren’t fit to be in loco to a worm!’ I realised the idiots must have talked over the dangers to me before Faustus and I arrived. I had to steer them all off this subject. No informer should allow a bunch of men to quibble about how she conducts her enquiries. ‘Uncle Quintus, you know perfectly well Didius Falco has nominated an old Bithynian freedman as his daughters’ guardian.’ Turning to Faustus, I joked, ‘My father holds the traditional view that any woman without a father or husband should be placed in the care of a lecherous fraud with his filthy eyes on her money − as if my sisters and I couldn’t fritter away our property for ourselves.’

  ‘I thought Falco chose Nothokleptes, that disaster of a banker he uses,’ grinned Justinus, happily sidetracked. ‘That way, the cash can just be reassigned in a ledger and won’t even need to be physically moved.’

  ‘He told me he had found a degenerate priest.’ Even Aelianus played the game. ‘One who likes pretending he’s the Pontifex Maximus and beating naughty girls on their bottoms with rods.’

  ‘I imagine Flavia Albia can run rings around the guardian system.’ Faustus was rubbing a scar on his hand where I had stabbed him with a meat skewer once; he was subtly reminding me how I had once over-reacted to something he said. There was no need to explain that to the uncles.

  Aelianus
returned to his original caveat. ‘The point is, aedile, we cannot sanction sending our dear niece among violent criminals.’

  ‘Not an issue,’ replied Faustus, stiffening up. ‘I admire Flavia Albia’s work, and I have witnessed her personal courage, but my intention is to use other means to follow up the burglary.’

  He probably just that moment decided. Until the Camilli acted up, Manlius Faustus, the fast-thinking plebeian rich boy, had seen me as a tough, street-savvy worker he could send anywhere. He would have been right. I would have done whatever was necessary. Now, half the inquiry had been whipped away from me.

  They agreed that the more tiresome task − detailed interviews with members of the Aviola household − was suitable for me. I groaned at the prospect of mumbling pot-scourers, shrine-tidiers and clothes-attendants, but I let the men enjoy the thought that they could snooze in their studies, overlooked by busts of poets, while I wasted note tablets on domestic minutiae.

  In the end they would claim the credit for whatever I learned. Yes, I had been a female informer for a long time. I knew all the disadvantages.

  ‘It should be simple,’ Uncle Quintus assured me. ‘Remember the proverbial answer: the cup bearer did it.’

  4

  Marry in June. May is a month of ill-omen, but once it is over the goddess Juno presides kindly over couples who unite in her festival period, slathering them with good prospects, including fertility for those who can abide babies.

  Camillus Justinus and Claudia Rufina had married in May, though that was in North Africa where different gods preside. I was adopted into the family after that, but relatives who pursued the eloping couple were still shocked that during their trip they had to watch another uncle of mine being killed by an arena lion. Even in my family, this counts as an unusual day out. They were all thankful for a bridal bash to take their minds off the screams, despite Claudia’s visible qualms about marrying Quintus. Still, weddings should be traditional and nothing beats watching a young bride riven by huge doubts, does it?