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

  I gave myself a quick scrape, basic ablutions, no relaxation. Deep thought was impossible. I had almost made up my mind that Myla would not be a serious suspect. I had to re-examine her, but her words yesterday weighed with me. It was in her interests to have had Aviola alive.

  Shivering but clean, I emerged from the bath house which was a deadbeat place with half-blocked drains and mean towels. Even slowing to twitch my tunic where it clung to my damp body, it was a rapid walk to the apartment. I stopped only to buy bread, by now feeling peckish.

  My meal was not to be. As I drew near the apartment, I could see figures engaging in agitated behaviour outside. Instinctively, I speeded up.

  Fauna, the woman I had met from the apartment upstairs, was excitedly talking to Myrinus. ‘You’ve missed all the excitement!’ she exclaimed to me as soon as I was near enough. She was lapping it up, though the leatherworker looked more sombre.

  They told me Graecina had come down that morning, carrying out routine checks the way Polycarpus used to do. After exchanging a few words with Myrinus and Secundus as they opened up their shutter, she went into the apartment. A short while later, the two men heard her having a furious argument with Myla. Much of it was audible through the back of their shop. They did not hear how the commotion started, but when they ran to listen, they could tell Myla’s imminent sale was the subject. Graecina was insisting it had to happen – so replacing Polycarpus as the agent of Myla’s doom.

  ‘Graecina made the mistake of saying, “Don’t expect me to be as soft as he was.” She went for her!’ Fauna was almost jumping up and down in her excitement.

  ‘What? Myla? Went for Graecina?’

  ‘You’re right – who knew she had that much energy? Except between the sheets …’ muttered Fauna cattily. ‘No, Albia, it was horrible. She ran into the kitchen and brought a big pan of hot water from the hearth. She threw it over Graecina. Her screams were awful; that was when I came running down.’ Fauna must have been on her stool looking, while the argument took place. She caught my eye, then added guiltily, ‘To see if there was anything that I could do.’

  Myrinus said Graecina rushed out of the building, badly scalded. In terrible pain, she was tended by the two men from the shop, and had now been taken by another neighbour to an apothecary for treatment.

  ‘So where is Myla?’

  ‘That’s the thing!’ cried Fauna.

  ‘She burst outside,’ Myrinus explained. ‘She saw me and Secundus – we were standing here, wondering what to do. We were nervous of approaching her.’ It was noticeable that no one thought to send for the vigiles. Neighbourhood problems are not resolved that way.

  ‘I’d hardly ever seen her out in the street,’ said Fauna. ‘I was here with poor Graecina when Myla came out. She gave a shriek, then shouted something, and ran down the road.’

  ‘What did she shout?’ I had a bad feeling.

  ‘She said, “Tell them I did it then! Tell Albia she can blame me!” then she belted off down the Clivus like a mad thing.’

  ‘Oh, Juno! Did she have the baby with her?’

  ‘In her arms.’ Myrinus knew this boded ill. ‘I told Secundus to run right after her and try to catch her. He’s nippier than me. He took your lad, Dromo.’

  ‘Dromo? Where had he been holed up?’ I asked crossly. Myrinus nodded to the bar opposite, where Dromo was allowed to have his breakfast. ‘Fine. Never mind him. This is bad news, Myrinus. You thought she meant something?’

  ‘I know she did,’ Myrinus confirmed. ‘She screamed it at us, Albia: “I killed them all! – and now I’m going to kill myself!”’

  I delayed only long enough to slip indoors and haul on walking shoes. Then accompanied by Myrinus, a man of conscience, and Fauna, a woman of curiosity, I hurried down the Clivus Suburanus in the direction Myla was last seen taking.

  If anyone went far enough that way, it led them to the river.

  45

  It was a long walk if you were desperate, or even for concerned parties like us, hastening, fraught, wanting to prevent tragedy. It was one straight road after another, all the time having to shove through meandering crowds, dodge pavement obstacles, stand out of the way for soldiers, litter-bearers and hot pie-sellers with enormous trays. Clivus Suburanus, Clivus Pullius, Clivus Orbius, the push across the top of the Forum and the curve round by the Theatre of Marcellus … the same route I took yesterday at a much more sedate pace, on my way to re-interview the fugitives.

  If someone was in despair and suicidal, who knows? With their mind in turmoil, this distance might fly by. Or it might be the longest walk of their life – which for Myla it surely was in every sense. In life, she hardly went outside. Seeking death, she crossed most of Rome. It seemed she knew where people went for the purpose. It was the Pons Aemilius, from which so many have fatally cast themselves into the brown Tiber waters.

  We were too late.

  As we approached, we could make out the body. Boatmen or wharfingers must have dragged her out, so she was now lying under the celebratory arch erected by Augustus. Up above, the inscription proclaiming how that emperor had devotedly rebuilt this ancient bridge; below, the dripping corpse of a non-citizen. Nobody bothers to read the plaque. Nobody bothered with the corpse. People were walking past on their way to the meat market or Tiber Island, barely noticing the scene. Secundus and Dromo were there. Hardly anybody else stopped to look. It was just a dead slave.

  I knew better than to blame myself, though I cursed my failure last night to see her desperation. I knew she was angry and bitter and probably afraid. I could not see her despair. Perhaps I failed to look for it. I should have done.

  Myla must have been so used to showing impassivity, she could hide her feelings even when she was asked to explain them. Thank goodness, I did give her an opportunity. This may be your last chance … now is the time to tell me …

  No use.

  Secundus, who had wept with frustration at his failure to stop the tragedy, rushed up to Myrinus, gripping his friend’s shoulders, talking rapidly in a harsh foreign language: Punic. I recognised it from the Mythembals, neighbours of mine at Fountain Court. Myrinus let him talk, but translated scraps for me. ‘They only caught up here … She was on the parapet … They could not prevent her …’

  I thought of the baby. Had the child been bowled away in the current, unseen by rescuers? Then I saw: Dromo was holding her. He stood white-faced, speechless, with the little bundle grasped between the spread fingers of both hands. He looked terrified of dropping her.

  ‘He got it,’ Secundus said, changing into Latin as he saw me look. ‘He got it off the mother. He saved its life.’ I made a small gesture, offering to take her, in case Dromo wanted to be relieved. He was as yet unable to relinquish his responsibility.

  Then the child upset him by beginning to cry, that forceful, endless, new baby wailing. She was less than two weeks old. She had so little hope of survival without a mother, most people would say it would have been better if the baby had died as well. Not me. I shall never have the luxury of condemning an abandoned child. I was one once myself.

  Had her mother even given her a name? Someone else would do that. Even if Myla had chosen one, none of us knew it.

  We did not have to wait there long. Authority swept into action. Tragedies happened regularly at the Aemilian Bridge. Arrangements to remove the corpse were swift. Without us being aware anyone had sent for them, men in red tunics, ringing a bell, scampered up like a troop of dwarves in a theatre. Synchronised and determined, they dragged off the body, using their traditional ropes and hooks. It was the same as the removal of dead gladiators in an arena. It is not meant to be respectful. Such carcases are taken away like dead animals. I could not look. Pedestrians merely stepped aside to let them through, then carried on walking along the Marble Embankment.

  Well, that man Fundanus had told me: the funeral director. A slave suicide must be removed from the city within one hour. You have to prevent pollution by contact with those who
are less than human.

  At least Myla would be spared the use of cruel implements to make her tell the so-called truth. For what it was worth, she had ‘confessed’ already. I felt doubtful. Confessing to a crime whilst under the burden of unbearable despair had about as much validity as confessing under torture, surely? It was some sort of cry of pain – but not one I trusted. Still, in theory, my case was solved. Myla killed those people. She had said so.

  She had left me with few ways to test her claim. Was this what she intended? I was certain of one thing; if Myla did not kill them herself, then she damn well knew who did.

  46

  Dromo squatted on the kerb, still clutching the baby. I crouched down by him.

  ‘Aargh – she’s done something!’

  ‘They do … hand her to me, Dromo.’

  He could not give her over fast enough now. I sat the baby on my knees, holding her fragile torso, surveying her. She seemed so surprised, she stopped crying. She wore a tiny tunic that seemed to be made from a floorcloth, and a fibre bracelet that looked like a pulled thread from a different garment.

  ‘Oh, little one! You may grow up to be a beauty, and let us hope you do, but at this moment you are all milky pooh and snot – and far from pretty. I am your sister in misfortune and I tell you, sweetheart, this is where you start out on your own. The good thing is that every day you live through, every gain you ever make, will be better than the absolute nothing you possess today.’

  I saw Dromo looking at me in wonder.

  ‘You want to know what I am talking about, Dromo? Well, my dear, this is a sad story, but I will tell you. You must decide for yourself if it had a happy ending … When I was a baby myself, in faraway Britannia, the native tribes had a terrible grievance so they rose up in rebellion. They burned Roman cities and massacred their inhabitants. I was found all alone, not much bigger than this child, screaming in the ashes of a half-built town called Londinium.’

  ‘Where were your parents?’

  ‘Dead, for certain.’

  ‘Killed by the barbarians? Did they just leave you behind or had they dropped you by accident?’

  ‘Those who found me always said I had been hidden carefully.’

  ‘What happened to you after?’

  ‘People took me in, because finding a live baby when all around had been destroyed and burnt seemed like a miracle.’

  ‘How did you come here?’

  ‘The first people were no good in the end. Better, more generous people one day became my Roman family.’

  ‘So whose baby were you?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know?’

  ‘There is no way I shall ever find out.’

  ‘Are you going to have her?’ Dromo then demanded gruffly, indicating Myla’s baby. I could tell he really thought I would. I suppose to him it seemed obvious.

  ‘I never take in strays.’

  Even a puppy would be too much for me, and I like dogs. Plenty had given me entreating eyes, even dogs of obvious character. But I was realistic. Tied to a baby I stood no chance.

  When I was much younger I might have taken this poor tot home to Mother, but I now realised what a burden that would be. Helena Justina would do it if I pleaded; she would do it out of love for me. That didn’t mean it was right to ask her.

  ‘Understand, Dromo, the baby is not mine to adopt. She is an orphan, yet she is a slave − which makes her someone else’s property. Taking her would be theft.’

  The innocent boy really wanted to believe he had saved the child for a decent life. ‘If she is worth money, they will look after her?’

  ‘I dare say.’ I had already heard this babe being discussed by her owners, so I had doubts. She was Aviola’s daughter: posthumous, and damned by his legitimate heirs.

  We clambered to our feet, with Secundus, Myrinus and Fauna, preparing to leave.

  ‘I never saw somebody die, right in front of me,’ Dromo announced. He was white-faced, needing to share his shock.

  I answered him quietly. ‘If you want to talk about it later, we can do that. Here is my advice, don’t brood. Right now, it is better for you to keep busy. I have a little job for you. While we are so near, please go up the Aventine and tell Manlius Faustus what has been happening. You can find your way. Over the market – don’t slip in the blood. There’s the Trigeminal Gate waiting for you, then straight up to Ceres.’

  ‘You have to write it all down, what you want to tell him. The messages I take are written.’

  ‘Get a grip, Dromo. You can describe what you saw this morning. You were there and I was not.’

  Dromo remained agitated. ‘No, he likes it written by you; he has a laugh, the way you put things.’

  ‘Well, none of this is hilarious, so you can go and tell your master for me.’

  Dromo still gnawed away. ‘I’ve seen him read your tablets, having a good chuckle—’

  ‘Not today. Go, Dromo.’ I had nothing to spare for the slave boy; I wanted Faustus to see his distress and take over. Faustus ought to comfort him. The boy belonged to him, so he must do it. I had my own sadness to deal with.

  I watched Dromo set off, stumbling over his feet in his unhappiness. Then the rest of us began to trudge homewards with the orphaned baby.

  Behind us, ships plied upon the river, people went to the cattle market, the vegetable and flower markets, the Temple of Fortune and the Temple of Portunus, while the hot June sun beat down upon the bridge, where the pavement was already drying.

  47

  Galla Simplicia, to whom rumours flew like messenger pigeons, was waiting for us on the apartment doorstep. A carrying chair stood nearby, with two carefully matched bearers; a couple of maids were flittering about in attendance. She had the full parade. Galla seemed to grow in importance daily, as she reclaimed her position as the matron who mattered.

  She said she had come to see Graecina, after being told she was scalded. From what Graecina had told me about Galla, this closeness was new, though useful to the freedman’s widow. I saw it as one way Galla was reasserting herself in the family from which she had once been divorced.

  Just as we arrived, Graecina returned from having treatment for her blisters. Full of concern, Galla took her into the ground floor apartment, along with Myla’s baby, whom she took from me as her property. Fauna tagged along indoors too. The inquisitive neighbour did not intend to miss a moment.

  I stopped behind for a moment to talk to Myrinus and Secundus. I had a point I wanted to take up with them.

  ‘Right, my boys! You need to explain yourselves …’

  They plumped down on stools in their shop, heavy-hearted. Men are so easily deflated by a bad experience. I stayed on my feet, arms folded, anxious to knock their knowledge out of them while they were emotionally low. As I had said to Dromo, it helps to stay occupied. I was not drained in the same way as them; after what happened to Myla, I felt bitterly businesslike.

  ‘Don’t think I missed this. Earlier today, Myrinus, you let slip something significant. When Graecina and Myla had their fight indoors this morning, you said you heard it from the back of your premises. So you can hear anything noisy that goes on in the Aviola apartment?’

  They looked shamefaced. On an earlier occasion they had said it was impossible. I told them if they answered honestly now there were unlikely to be consequences. They must have heard that kind of lie before, but they could see there was no escape. ‘It’s me or the vigiles – and the vigiles will not ask you nicely!’

  They came clean. Their mezzanine sleeping ledge was in a half-way, half-height nook at the back, which they went into via a short ladder; through a poorly-built wall Secundus and Myrinus could hear quarrels, fights, dogs barking and music – any loud or sharp noises. They were not bothered by events in daily life. Normal sounds went on like all the background hum of Rome: the cries, creaks, bells, barks, crowing, mooing, whistling, laughter, singing, hammering, barracks trumpets, mystical incantation and sexual moan
s that we all lived with on a daily and nightly basis. But they would take note of any real excitement from inside the apartment.

  ‘I have been told there was quite a lot of that!’ I commented. I felt sour. I liked this pair and was sorry they misled me earlier.

  On the night of Aviola and Mucia’s dinner party, after the guests left, Secundus and Myrinus had sat in their shop with their friend Libycus. He was saying goodbye. He knew he was either going to Campania the next day with his master – or else he was listed to be sold at the slave market.

  ‘He thought that was a possibility?’ The two leatherworkers nodded. ‘Really? I thought Libycus had been with his master for years, worked intimately with him, and was so much trusted he is due to be freed under Aviola’s will?’

  Secundus and Myrinus said that was true, yet it could never be relied on. Neither of the personal attendants felt safe. Mucia Lucilia had been afraid Amaranta was so pert and attractive it was dangerous to keep her, in case Aviola was tempted. He in turn, the two friends confided with sweetly coy expressions, was none too keen on having a handsome black man in the house. I assumed this was because of North Africans’ reputation for sexual prowess, which was not mentioned to me by these polite men, though naturally I had heard of it. Who hasn’t?

  Mucia and Aviola were thought by Libycus to have struck a bargain: ‘I’ll sell mine, if you sell yours.’ He suspected they would both ruthlessly get rid of their body slaves, and buy new, unthreatening ones. Slaves are supposed to be loyal to their masters; masters have no moral requirement to be loyal back.

  With this unjust threat of sale hanging over him, his friends said Libycus had been glum that night. As they all had a drink, he sank into deep thought. In the absence of conversation, even from the shop it had been perfectly possible to hear terrible shouting start up in the apartment. Whoever it was sounded crazily angry.

  ‘Out of control?’

  ‘Screaming mad at somebody.’

  ‘Just one person?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Was it a woman?’