A Comedy of Terrors Page 24
“Oh!” I groaned. “The same as she had to put together on her husband when she was finagling me. Have you still got the notes?” I was eager for facts about that nephew.
“Threw them away when she dropped me.” Damn.
Paris came back, bearing no olives but a small dish of nuts. We were far enough from the Aventine; we sniffed them, inspected them in case of mould, then ate them despondently. They were not actually rancid but dried up and tasteless. Another customer reached in rudely. We passed the dish over.
“What can you tell me about this nephew the sister’s marrying, Naevius?”
“Nothing. I never did anything about him.”
“What had Nephele said?”
“Can’t remember. Oh, he’s twenty-five. He drinks in, well, in a bar somewhere. He keeps a little apartment four floors up on Dolichenus Street.”
“That’s a place I keep hearing mentioned, for some reason.” For one thing, his crony had told Pinarius to bring the money to him there.
“I dunno why. I never bothered to go.”
“Well, what happened over Nephele hiring you? Disappearing act?”
“No. I would not have been surprised, but she did turn up to say sorry, no deal, goodbye. Her sister was determined to go ahead with the wedding in January—Nephele seemed very annoyed over it—so goodbye to me. That was it.”
I told him I had met the sister, Berenike. I had gained the impression she was jumpy about her coming marriage.
“That’s families!” snorted Naevius. “There will be work for someone, then. Once the party is over, it will all collapse.”
Paris brought him a new goblet, from staff who were so harassed they had no idea what anyone’s bill should be or who had paid; they were just sloshing liquid into cups, which you had to hope had had a wash after the last drinker. Then they let customers take full cups away for themselves. Offering to settle up caused them too much bother.
Paris and I said goodbye to Naevius, then started for home. I already had a feeling this might turn into a night when I needed a cool head.
* * *
As we negotiated the crowds, I was not really thinking as we walked, not to begin with. That is when your brain often takes on the effort of its own accord.
Mine had privately realised that I had done only half the adding up. That young man Pinarius had given me all the clues, but I was so excited about having tied his cocky girlfriend-juggling, debt-dodging friend to Murrius and Caesius, I’d forgotten what Pinarius had also said: the Cornelli had loaned out his friend. Quintus had been given a job. He had a career, one that Pinarius reckoned he had learned all too well. He had no need to renege on the goldsmith: he was apprenticed, trained, given free rein, earning—in fact, he was working for somebody so powerful even his own father was leery of upsetting the man.
I could hear in my head Murrius sneakily saying, “He has never worked for us.” A wicked technicality. Denying knowledge was a lie. Murrius had lied to us, of course he had—he was a hardened criminal. The young man in question was theirs all right. His nephew. His brother’s son. And Quintus Cornellus Junior was the bully, the murderer, the new mobster’s agent: Greius.
The only good thing I could see here was that Cornellus Greius might be about to come unstuck. The new wife he intended to cheat on and her sister came from a dangerous family; they had a brother people were afraid of. He, presumably, was the secretive serious criminal Greius was working for.
This was the lead that Tiberius and Morellus needed. Trust me to find it when they were both getting drunk out of their skulls.
XLVII
When we arrived home, buffeted by street merriment, another unwanted visitor had sneaked in. Rufinianus, the vigilis on recall from retirement, had shimmied past Rodan and made himself at home. It was still early evening, but I was ready to relax and unwind. I ground my teeth at the sight of his portly figure lounging on our courtyard bench while he filled himself with dainties from the kitchen. I could not bear the prospect of one of his terminally tedious lectures.
He had the grace to wipe crumbs from that small, straight mouth. He had cleared his patera so well, I could not even tell what kitchen treats he had been gorging. Dromo, still dressed in his gourd suit, was sullenly in attendance; everyone else had vanished. Paris promptly followed their example. Dromo grumbled that he was only waiting for somebody to let him out of his costume before he went up to his sleeping mat on the balcony. I unfastened him. He scarpered. I was left, stuck with Rufo.
Rufinianus had dropped in because of his invitation to the cohort party. Some irresponsible joker had told him that Petronius and Tiberius would take him to the secret venue.
“I am sorry, they left together hours ago. The drinks are supposed to be tonight, but you know how it works. They will have started already.”
“I’m in no hurry. So long as I get there at some point.”
I was terse. “Listen, I don’t know where they went, Rufo. Now I have something I want to think about.”
He stretched lazily. “Well, I can wait, in case they send a message back for me.”
“Won’t happen. Set off by yourself and ask people in the street where the riot is.”
I was growing desperate, but he insisted; he could update me on what he had been doing. I felt tempted to say the nuts inquiry was not my pistachio, but curiosity won. Perhaps he could add to my theory. “What’s new, then?”
He settled in for a long narration. “How far are you with the story, Flavia Albia?” Even the way he asked that set my teeth on edge.
I tried to speed him up: “Gaius Murrius and his nastier brother Quintus, plus their dubious sister Laetilla are not who you want. I’m with my uncle’s assessment: Petronius Longus, always tops, says nut-scams are not the brothers’ style. Murrius and Co are simply long-term traditional loan sharks, preying on long-term traditional futile victims in the long-term traditional disgusting manner. But the key man to capture is a Cornellus: strong-arming nut-sellers, causing that warehouse death and setting up the Rosius arson. I presume Morellus has you looking as a priority. He’s Greius. The nephew.”
“Whose?” Rufo, never good with names.
“Murrius. Greius is the son of Caesius. Keep up! We had Murrius here today, lying his head off, but I’m certain. Murrius claims to know nothing about Greius and his new activities. I expect the father, Caesius, would say it’s not Cornellus business—even Greius will deny everything, of course. Spill!” I commanded.
“Spill what?”
“Greius, you idiot. Usual tips: name, age, appearance, haunts, associates and filthy habits.” I was quoting from my conversation with Naevius. I decided not to confuse Rufo with talk of bachelor apartments. “I know he’s a randy cheat. He’s also violent, cold, ruthless and contemptuous of authority. Classic.”
“Well, that would be how he has been taught,” said Rufo.
“Taught? You sound in the know. So what dark tycoon is his mentor?”
“There’s a particular firm where the head of household returned from abroad. He had to re-establish. He must have approached the Cornelli to supply a fixer.”
“So whose trusty wingman did Greius become, Rufo?”
I never expected him to answer, but it came out: “Greius is with Appius Terentius.”
For once, Rufinianus had stunned me. “You’ve got his name?” It is always disconcerting when one of the vigiles does something competent. Rufo was matter-of-fact, but I reeled. “Who is this?”
“The next king of filth—that’s what he wants. He is working very, very hard to get there. Word is he acquired Greius as a favour on both sides. Let us be brothers from now on. Send me your boy—he can be my trainee, my second-in-command, my trusted aide…”
“I originally imagined Greius as somebody’s freedman, but that’s much higher status. The Cornelli are not to be trifled with. Is Greius with Terentius as a hostage? I’ve got him close, so you won’t step on my toes, and my own men will leave yours alone…”
I sniffed. “I presume he acquired the necessary pull when he had those nut-sellers killed.”
“Yes, revenge jobs tend to earn kudos,” Rufo agreed, in his solemn way.
“If Terentius enjoys having a baby-burner for his henchman, that’s really bad. Does Morellus know who Terentius is? Tiberius Manlius? Or have you only just found out?”
“Just found out. When I see them at the drinks, I’ll pass it on—if they want to listen on a social occasion.”
“Never mind the social occasion. They’ll rip your head off for this! Recalling you was a dream, Rufo. Even the tribune will tick your bonus without even blinking. Who told you?”
“A man in a bar.”
“What’s his name?”
“He was a man at the counter; he was trying to get a round in, but the barman wouldn’t look at him. We got talking while we waited. That means, by the rules of drinking, he didn’t have a name.”
“How reliable was he? Drunk or sober?”
Rufinianus gave me a pitying look. “Flavia Albia! There is a climate of fear on the Aventine.” He loved clichés. That time when he took my statement about having killed the would-be rapist, this Rufinianus even told me I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. On the other hand, when he pushed himself, he could manage rational thought: “If he had been sober, he would never have told me!”
I managed not to say the bleary man must have supposed Rufo was too slow to pass on the information. Luckily, I would now do that.
“Get your cloak, Rufo.”
XLVIII
The vigiles had been in existence for more than a hundred years. That was quite long enough for these skilled lads to establish entertainment rules. The first was: no man should reveal the venue to his wife. There were very good reasons for that. For a start, wives were never invited. That, too, was a sensible precaution.
It made finding them tonight a problem. Trailing Rufinianus, a compliant stooge, I first went to see Morellus’s wife, Pullia. No answer. Neighbours told me she had taken her children to hear ghost stories. Next I tried Aunt Maia, where I did discover Pullia and the young Morelli, since it was Maia who was hosting the ghost party. Her children were grown and Petro’s grandson was still a baby but Maia was clinging to the role of cohort mother, even after Petro stopped working. The tribune’s wife was out of the picture (she left him: everyone could see why) and Pullia must have decided it was easier to give way to the stronger woman.
Maia took a swift dislike to Rufo, although as she waded towards me through toddlers she tried to drag me in for must-cake.
“No, thanks. You have too many snotty infants crawling about. You could have invited mine!” I said frostily. “They know how to blow their noses, but I could have told them to sniff so they fitted in.”
“Too young.” Maia Favonia was ever a frank woman. She added unnecessarily, “Too whiny!” Before I could return another dusty comment, she fixed me. “I see you are calling them ‘mine’ now, Flavia Albia!”
“And I see you’ve hired the terrible Zoilus as your spook,” I sneered. “How many years has that old fraud been going whoo-hoo! in vain attempts to scare people?”
“Too long,” admitted Maia. “He never tries to fiddle with the little boys, but that is all you can say in his favour. I’m getting a clown next year. Olympus, I’m too busy to chat, woman. Some have already started throwing up—and that’s not the children; it’s their pie-eyed mothers. What do you want, Albia?”
“Where can I find the men’s drinks party?”
“None of us managed to prise it out of them.” Some years the wives did, then flew in like a dark flock of harpies, ready to pick flesh from bones. Maia laughed drily. “Give it time, then try the Urbans.”
She meant that when neighbours complained about the disturbance, with no vigiles available, the Urban Cohorts would be summoned instead. At the moment, the night-duty Urbans would be sitting snug in their barracks up by the Nomentana Gate, awaiting the customary call. The normal job of these brutes was to dispel riots. They threw themselves into it. But traditionally, when they turned up at a vigiles party to demand less noise, the cohort grabbed them by their fancy uniforms, told them not to be silly, then filled them up with wine until their big-thighed, strong-kneed, hard-booted legs crumpled under them. The Fourth could bring off this feat in half an hour; their boast was that, with the Urbans, it was not even necessary to doctor the wine. However, I assumed they did.
I had no intention of crossing the whole city, south to north, tonight. Forget the Urbans. I had one last place to try: I dragged Rufo, who claimed his feet were hurting, downhill to the Embankment. At my parents’ house, Falco had slipped out while acting mysterious, so I knew he was at the Fourth Cohort’s bash. Mother had gone to her brother’s to take presents for the children. My sisters were at a clam bake. We were greeted by my brother, aged twelve, charging at us, dressed as a gladiator over a lopsided loincloth.
“Bad boy! You opened your presents early!” He had four names already, but told me he wanted his stage alias to be “Turbo.” I held the so-called whirlwind at arms’ length while he writhed enthusiastically. He was a solid child, but untrained. In an arena situation he would have been dead on the sand in minutes.
“I can put all the things back neatly. I couldn’t wait. It’s not my fault, Albia. Everyone knew what I might do if nobody was here looking after me.”
“Where is your tutor—where’s Vitalis?”
Postumus hung his head. “Lying down.”
I peered in through his helmet visor. “Oh, no! Have you hurt him with your trident?”
“Only slightly,” admitted Postumus. A slave nodded confirmation. Since Vitalis should have stopped him digging out tomorrow’s presents, I wasted no more sympathy on the young man.
Postumus did not know where the vigiles were, but he had been told where the girls had gone in case an emergency happened (they often did, with him left home alone). I took him with us. Julia and Favonia would groan at having to care for him, but he was several years younger and they were always kind-hearted towards him.
He refused to change out of his arena outfit; I accepted it once he said the girls had gone to their party dressed as mermaids. He would not be the only boy in Rome who had found his festival gifts ahead of time, or been given them early to stop him nagging. Luckily it was the kind of night when passers-by barely noticed me walking through the streets holding the hand of a bare-chested, trident-bearing child with a wide leather belt over his underwear, who could not see properly out of a crested helmet and who kept grunting fight cries.
The clam party was full of teenage girls, drinking mock cocktails of water faintly coloured with wine, while they ate big clams and lobsterettes, combed each other’s long hair and thrillingly discussed the boys they knew. Or the Adonis they all wanted to know, who disdained to speak to them. And the bad lads they had been ordered never to fraternise with, for reasons they simply could not imagine. Plus Longidius, whose staring scared them …
I felt old.
My arrival caused a frisson, but as soon as they saw who I was they all ignored me. I was another generation, though for once, these days, was not categorised as a mother.
Julia and Favonia were in good form since they had the prettiest necklaces and had made themselves the best sea-creature tails. They gathered in Postumus graciously. Of course they knew, being steely wheedlers from whom no secrets could ever be kept, exactly where the vigiles were. They gave me directions, without even needing bribes.
As I left, I heard one of them tell their friends, “She’s Albia. She came from Britannia, but she is all right, really.”
I was still enough of a girl myself to
be delighted by this accolade.
XLIX
The vigiles loved a party. I had heard many tales, though had never yet witnessed their annual get-together; the stories did not exaggerate.
They were in a large warehouse. It was the one that belonged to my husband’s ex-brother-in-law because, of course, it was known to be empty since Tiberius had burned the mouldy nuts. Salvius Gratus must eagerly have hired it out again, foolishly believing troops were safe tenants. I could have warned him, but since he was Laia Gratiana’s brother, I might not have done so.
On the way, Rufinianus had tried to regale me with facts, concerning giant clams found in the Indian Ocean that were three feet across and, he said, man-eaters. At first I humoured him, but soon I gave up. I was in a cross mood when we reached the right place, but all bad temper soon faded.
You could not help but love these men. I knew they dressed up. Sometimes they had crazy costumes. The main dress code for the troops was traditional, which meant a synthesis, or flimsy Greek dinner gown. This is in the Saturnalia rulebook, supposedly. Look it up in your encyclopaedia. Nobody I knew ever did it. Nobody I knew even owned one. The sight of several hundred short, sturdily built, astonishingly hairy men, all flaunting their greasy bits through brightly coloured cheesecloth was mythical. Sweat shone all over them in the hot environment; syntheses that had once been loose were now clinging. Unless you have seen massed buttocks and balls trapped in transparent gauzes, you have not lived.
Some troops had topped off their outfits with liberty caps, though others chose crowns. The crowns were radiant if possible, in honour of Sol Invictus, the Undying Sun; many of their encircling rays were vicious spikes that would eventually cause damage to property or people. To be different, one maverick had a live chicken tied on his head. A lintel had fallen down on him once in a fire so he was never normal afterwards. It happened six years before, but the cohort doctors, being public officials, had not yet got around to assessing him, due to a mix-up with his referral forms.