Pandora's Boy Page 23

  “And can you help me with another young man?” I asked. “There is supposed to be one in the group called Trebo.”

  “Never heard of him!”

  “But you know the others?”

  “I avoid them all, along with their ghastly parents. I keep to myself!” claimed Redempta’s father, with gruff pride.

  I wondered how that fashionable young socialite, with her heavy swathe of shining hair and her endless gossipy trivia among the mindless sisterhood, would cope with enforced rustic life. Had Redempta anticipated being trapped with this traditional parent? Would he want to teach her plowing? Or how to birth lambs? He would probably marry her off to some dull relative or friend’s son in a small provincial town. Perhaps among the farriers and apple-sellers, if Redempta was lucky, the town would possess a hairdresser.

  Before he left, the crusty dictator gave me a lecture. I ought to be informed by someone honest exactly what I was dealing with. I had seen enough to find few surprises in what he said.

  He was full of exasperation that I had not seen the situation for myself (or so he assumed). He explained that on the Quirinal, loud behavior was nothing new. In their day, the young group’s parents had behaved with the same amorality as their offspring now. He gave me names. He cited love nests and loose practices. He described a whole earlier-generation web of pointless talk and empty relationships, all leaving a trail of unhappiness.

  “At least no one died!” was his final remark, before he stumped off.

  No, not quite final. Back he came. “You want to look into the brother, missie! There’s more to that business than anyone is saying.”

  *

  Afterward, to lighten the tension, Tiberius murmured, “I did not introduce myself as your husband. I could not face being told what a useless swine I am, not keeping you locked up at home.”

  I replied, like a modest, obedient wife, “Oh thank you, darling.”

  XLIV

  There was something I had to do. I left Tiberius at the stall, where Dedu opened up even though Min had yet to be remastered. Customers began to appear almost at once, curious enough to gossip with Tiberius as he served them. I left him playing the chatty assistant.

  I turned down the steep slope of the Quirinal toward the Saepta Julia. I needed to see my father before he heard from someone else that the contacts he had suggested had turned out so badly. One was revealed as a defector to the dark side of crime. The other had been murdered.

  I felt the death of Iucundus was my fault. It sickened me. The Rome that could harbor such acts seemed more alien than usual, a miserable, lawless city.

  Lost in dark thoughts, I registered little on the way, until I came into the religious area that lay between me and the Saepta. A great Temple of Isis had been erected by Domitian; it commemorated his narrow escape from death during the civil war when, as a very young man, he had taken refuge in the modest shrine that had existed previously. The new building was an exotic, rectangular edifice, graced with obelisks and sphinxes in its forecourt; it shared its plot with a showy Temple of Serapis. I had intended to walk between them, emerging through a quadriform arch that straddled the Porticus of Meleager, an art gallery along one side of the Saepta.

  My way was blocked by soldiers.

  With no explanation, they were shoving aside pedestrians, forbidding entry to the cult temples. For some reason, I remembered hearing that, in the years before I came to Rome, while they were awaiting their Triumph for the conquest of Judaea, Vespasian and Titus had spent the night before their big procession at this Temple of Isis. My grandfather, the auctioneer, used to joke that he had wished they devoted themselves less to prayer and pious vigil, but had instead slipped out and bought trinkets from him at the Saepta.

  Something was going on again. I had a sinking feeling of what it must be. He was back: Domitian. Barriers were being erected along the pavements. Stalls were being forcibly removed. Crude hooks for garlands were being hammered into beautiful buildings. It ought to be a happy moment but everyone, even his legionaries, looked strained.

  The troops swarmed everywhere, thrusting themselves in the way of the populace. They looked like scarred campaign veterans, probably born and brought up in the provinces, so all in fact new to Rome. Few officers were in evidence, or people might have made complaints about aggressive behavior and unnecessary secrecy. Well, brave people might have done it. Courting the notice of these full-of-themselves boyos in red was not for me.

  I tried to walk through another way. South of the Egyptian temples, Domitian had created a new complex, his Porticus of the Divine Ones. This took the form of a long enclosure, lined with colonnades, with a peaceful and refined interior that had columns and altars. At the nearer end to me, it was closed off architecturally by two small temples in honor of his deified father and brother, Vespasian and Titus; the temples were joined by an ornate arch, dedicated to Domitian himself. He could not yet officially call himself deified. Perhaps it would never happen. Or maybe, some hopefully thought, it would be soon … His arch was twice as prominent as his illustrious relatives’ temples.

  The soldiers had blocked off the entrance to the Porticus of the Divine. Fortunately, just this side of Our Master’s personal arch stood a neat temple and library named for Minerva, the unhappy patroness of learning he had made his personal goddess. I assumed the vague air of someone who wanted to consult a library book. When no one was looking, I managed to scoot round the Minerva buildings, nipping up a crooked street in front of the Temple of Serapis. That way, I made it to the Saepta Julia at the Diribitorium end.

  *

  Even in the galleries, scatters of soldiers were wandering about. They were staring a lot, when not fingering gold artifacts in open shops. The jewelers, some of whom I knew, sweated as they counted potential losses. Because of the military presence, even normal customers were thin on the ground. Smart-thinking art and antiques dealers had locked up and gone off somewhere, but many were reluctant to leave unattended shops. Most legionaries can bend bars; many can pick locks.

  In this heavy atmosphere, I knew what to expect. My father was in a foul mood. He smiled when he saw me, though he soon saw I was depressed myself. We shared our gloom.

  Falco confirmed the word on the streets: Domitian now viewed himself as a conqueror and was about to reappear in Rome. He would not announce himself for sure until he had to, because that was how Domitian worked. Uncertainty was his element. Fear was his weapon. Everyone along the Via Flaminia and Via Lata felt apprehensive because it was known that the Emperor expected a Triumph. Even he could not decree this honor for himself; he had to wait for the weak-willed Senate to award it. The Senate, wimps to a man, were only waiting to be told when he wanted it to take place.

  My father paused expectantly. I confessed what I knew about Mamillianus, which appeared to surprise him, then I said what had happened to Iucundus.

  Falco and I held the conversation I expected. It began with, that was the last bloody time I should expect any favors from him, moving on in jerks from there. Intricate byways of oratory were traversed with vivid skill. Passion was expended voluminously. I rode it out at first but eventually I lost my own temper, claiming that the killing was not my fault. It must have been obvious why I was so angry, blaming myself, because I felt it was. We had a helpless shouting match. I wept. My father cursed. However, he was no longer cursing me.

  He gave me an old loincloth to dry my eyes on, not saying whose it was. Then he took me out to a bar, one the Triumphal soldiery had not yet discovered, where we sat together miserably for a long time.

  XLV

  When I returned to Apricot Street, evening had fallen. It was not very late, but the day had been long and unhappy. Ready for bed, I passed by the lettuce stall, which was closed. I saw Tiberius and Dedu having a companionable bite at the bar, so I went over to say that my father would send his statue-mender tomorrow to inspect Min.

  The brown dog was sitting with them; she twitched the thin end of her tai
l at me.

  “You are not my dog!”

  I had sounded so tetchy that Tiberius refrained from his usual wink at the hopeful creature. He did not ask how things had gone with my father, but I told him anyway.

  “Falco and I are friends, just about. Of course he has thundered that he will personally seek out whoever killed Iucundus. Like you, he immediately announced it was not a girl’s job, but one for proper men, so I should get out of his way and let him sort it. He will march in on Scorpus at the station-house to inform him of this fine decision. Fortunately, Scorpus knows him. I suppose he can deal with a furious informer who wants to take over.”

  “Did you tell Falco about the new initiative, with the special agent?”

  “That just infused my pa with more excitement; he has to show specials his own expertise and rant that they are crap.”

  “Well, I was not impressed with what the vigiles are doing. Leave him to it,” Tiberius grunted, keeping a careful lack of emphasis in his tone in case I flipped.

  He came back to my room with me. It was more to provide comfort than with any aim of amorous activity.

  I was glad he was there. Somebody had been in.

  Too tired to take notice of anything, I did not immediately realize. As we made brief preparations for the night, I decided it was time to give Tiberius back his signet and wedding rings from their cord round my neck. As I untied the cord wearily, I fumbled. Tiberius was able to get hold of his hippocampus signet, but I dropped the shiny wedding ring. It rolled under the bed. I would have scrambled after it, but he himself went down on his knees, reached under, recaptured his gold ring—and with it brought out something sinister.

  I nearly snatched it from his hand, rather than have him touched by such a filthy object.

  Hidden beneath my bed had been a small human image. The naked female figure had feet and hands bound behind its back in painful positions. Pins were stuck in the eyes, the breast and other places.

  Tiberius dragged out the pins. It made no difference to me. My voice sounded dull, but I told my husband that it would take more than some witch’s voodoo doll to influence a Druid.

  XLVI

  I was almost too tired but I stayed sane. Curses only work if the victim believes in magic. Witches cannot dominate a determined skeptic. I smashed the hideous thing, then threw the pieces out over the balcony. I went to bed, where in the warmth of my husband’s arms I tried to forget our discovery and pretended to sleep.

  Tiberius was more troubled, even though occult practices left him as unmoved as they did me. His beliefs were rooted in the Roman tradition, where good gods feel a caring compassion for hapless human beings, yet we control our own fate.

  That we had had an intruder mattered, however. That someone was wishing harm on me would bother him. From now on he would be anxious; that was part of his love. He stayed awake for some time, until my own refusal to be frightened must have reassured him so he dozed off.

  He would brood, I knew it. For that reason, that reason only, I loathed whoever had done this.

  Even while I was falling asleep, my mind was reassessing my position. The men were right to warn me off tangling with gangsters. I prided myself that in my work I weighed up risks; you can always get it wrong, but as a professional I would refuse anything that looked overtly dangerous. Instead, I took on straightforward document searches, I worked out financial problems for widows with little knowledge of the world, I tracked down rogues who abandoned their children—though once found, I stood back to let their wronged wives batter them with big household utensils. Half the time, those wives went back. Few overcame their embarrassment and rehired me when their men subsequently did another bunk. As they did. Of course they did. I could have told their foolish women. Well, usually I did so, because warning them not to trust the bastards again was part of my professional service …

  I should not take on Anthos and Neo. Calling to account whichever angry criminal had sent them required some tougher force than me. The killers would probably flee; they should be pursued by an armed posse. With a feud looming between the Rabirius and Balbinus gangs, I ought to keep my head down, and probably I would. There was only one circumstance in which I planned to take action: if Florius returned. Florius, the vicious brothel-keeping entrepreneur who once lured, imprisoned and raped me. Florius, with whom I would have my reckoning, however long I had to wait.

  It did cross my mind to wonder whether some similar experience to mine had befallen bright, unworldly, attention-seeking, excitement-yearning Clodia Volumnia. Grooming might cause a horrified child to do away with herself; or if she had resisted, murder might have been her punishment. But no. Clodia was fifteen. That was too old for Florius. Florius snatched fresher meat.

  I reminded myself that Clodia Volumnia was the reason I was working here. I had come here to bring her justice. I now saw that nothing in this area of Rome was as civilized as it pretended to be. Among the Imperial monuments, the big houses of reclusive tycoons, the memories of long-gone demagogues and colonial adventurers lurked every kind of corruption. The supposedly sweet, healthy air of the Quirinal hid the smells of loose morality, casual betrayal and even gangland conflict. Against this background, almost certainly unaware of it, a young girl had lived and sadly died. I was now determined to expose as much local sickness as possible—beginning with the truth about the death of Clodia.

  XLVII

  Everything I did next morning was brisk. I was in no mood for nonsense.

  Tiberius had gone to the lettuce stall. I knew perfectly well he was looking forward to meeting the statue-mender. Any kind of work with natural materials appealed to him; he wanted to know how the stone piece would be reattached. After that, he promised he would visit the First Cohort to inquire about official progress on the murder of Iucundus. I could have gone, but he would probably get more out of Scorpus.

  I strode across the courtyard to the Volumnius apartment. Firmus was out. I instructed Dorotheus to search everywhere, looking for any further witchery, then to be extra-vigilant for intruders. “Someone broke into my room yesterday. I want you to have a new lock fixed.”

  “There isn’t a lock—”

  “You said it! I want one. I want to see it all secure the next time I go back there.” I sounded as if any lack of diligence would result in his other arm being in a sling too. I had lived in a large tenanted building; I knew how to tackle landlords and their henchmen. Be nice, until they really get your back up; then slap them down.

  Well, all right, my landlord at the Eagle Building used to be my father. But even though my space there was rent-free, I never cut him any slack when I lived in his ghastly slum property. So I would not lower my standards for these people.

  Thinking about the natural spiky relationships between fathers and their feisty daughters, I calmed down slightly. In the absence of Clodia Volumnia’s papa, I conducted a further interview with her nursemaid, Chryse. We had not spoken since my first day on the case. At that point, I had been handed the clean version of the story: she was a joy and pleasure to her friends, she was obliging to all … Now I knew different. I went through all the new material I had gathered on the supposedly virtuous Clodia:

  •   She was a handful, given to tantrums, had inveigled one grandmother into buying an expensive present, was stroppy with her mother, manipulated everyone she could, bamboozled her innocent papa

  •   She was a hanger-on to a very unsuitable group, all older and more sophisticated

  •   She had dropped her alleged passion for Numerius Cestinus as easily as he dropped her; she then mooned after Vincentius, the worldly lad-about-town from a criminal family

  •   She made a habit of climbing out of her room in secret, running off for escapades

  •   She was seen drunk in public while out unsupervised the night she died; some of her so-called friends encouraged this stunt

  I took things gently with the maid. There was nothing to gain from antagonizing h
er. I pretended to sympathize with Clodia’s struggles, which were those any growing girl might go through. However, I pointed out that there was no chance that Vincentius wanted her. She was too innocent to interest him and he came from a very different background.

  Once I opened up the subject, I saw it was no surprise to Chryse. I said Vincentius had run through several girls, that he stuck with none, that he boasted of his casual attitude to women. His only virtue was that he had tried to minimize contact with the adoring Clodia.

  Chryse confirmed that Clodia had fallen into her crush precisely because Vincentius was unattainable. She was at the time still tearful over Numerius, but open to any new obsession. Always willful, never showing sense, she harbored this infatuation while trying to keep it secret. Chryse knew; Clodia’s mother suspected; her grandmothers must have had inklings; her father never guessed.

  “Clodia was very immature?”

  “Of course she was. She was fifteen. He is very good-looking, Albia, extremely polite; he is charming. Clodia had led a sheltered life. He was like a god to her.”

  Guardians always think their charges lead sheltered lives. I took that claim at face value. To me, Vincentius was not even a demigod, but a nice-mannered pretty boy, too sure of himself and could be lippy.

  “She was after him the way some girls pursue gladiators, Albia. She wanted his picture, she followed everything he did, she spent all day imagining things about him—though if he had ever looked her way she might have fainted.”

  “So, Chryse, think on: Vincentius would not entertain Clodia’s crush. He was surrounded by beautiful, mature young women with all too obvious social skills. Why would he look at a gauche child? Besides, because of his family, who expect to influence his choices, he never commits himself. Vincentius must find a partner only within his own community, safeguarding the life and practices of his own tight tribe. I presume you know who they are? He has had an education, he mingles in respectable society—yet he remains very much part of the criminal world he comes from. His closeness to Pandora, his grandmother, is an indication. Even his legal training is meant to prepare him for his future as one of them. How much of this your Clodia knew, I cannot say—but she will have felt the impossibility of her love. If she wanted to attract this young man, what could she do?”