A Comedy of Terrors Read online

  If Greius didn’t show, the vigiles need take no action. They would not tackle an associate, not even the secretive leader whose attaché Greius had become. No point. Organised crime is structured deliberately: no orders that Greius had given would be traced back to Terentius. In fact, we would be lucky if arson and murder could ever be linked evidentially to Greius himself.

  At midnight we entered the five-day break. Public business was suspended. The vigiles were off duty and, if asked, they would claim that crime had a holiday as well. That, they knew perfectly well, was untrue. Crime never sleeps.

  They would make no new enquiries tomorrow either. Tomorrow, and halfway into next week, those fire-fighting law-and-order troops would be famously out of it. While they all slept it off, it was beginning to look as if everything would be up to me.

  * * *

  Next morning, I was first up again. Was this to become my routine? I fed the dog, then went to see the donkey. She was not in her stable. Trying not to panic, I returned from the yard to find Gratus. Rubbing his eyes, he said Fornix had visited his brother on the Quirinal last evening; he had taken Merky and her panniers; he would come home this morning via any markets he could find open. I had previous reason to think that when the fraternal cooks had a night out together it would be a hard one.

  The boys ran down, squealing that it was Saturnalia at last. I put them into their new knitted liberty caps, then, since nothing was happening, they quietened down. Dromo was still snoring on his mat up on the balcony, but Tiberius roused himself. He sat up on the bench, very slowly. While many Romans were holding vacuous hangover discussions—how about crunching a fried canary or, for the really brave, a sheep’s stomach and owl’s eggs?—we gave him half a cup of goat’s milk and nobody tried to talk to him.

  “You missed a bit of an incident out in the street last night,” Gratus told me. Tiberius opened one eye to listen but closed it again. “All good fun. A goldsmith apprehended a customer who owed him money. He’d waited too long and finally given up. Jumped on the debtor with a bunch of slaves, tied his hands behind his back, then carried him away, with everybody yelling.”

  Thoughtful, I asked, “What were they yelling?”

  “The goldsmith was declaiming, ‘I am sick of your whole damned family!’ Word on the street says he had trouble over pieces that were commissioned by Murrius.”

  “And the one he’s snaffled?”

  “Bawling up the street as they dragged him off, ‘Tell Pinarius to bring me bail!’ Seems unlikely to happen, now the holiday has started.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “No, it won’t,” Gratus assured me, grinning. “It is known on the street that Pinarius Senior has taken his whole family to a lakeside villa, so they can spend Saturnalia playing at sailors—someone has lent the father a rather sleek monster yacht.”

  “Being out on a lake is such good fun! Especially in December. Gratus, do we know what the goldsmith is called?”

  “Hieronymus.”

  I fixed Gratus. “Any reason you can say that?”

  My steward pulled his discretion face, but after a swift glance at Tiberius, he muttered anyway, “I went on an errand to his workshop.”

  I too glanced at Tiberius, who was holding his milk beaker with both his eyes closed, probably waiting out the moment when he would feel safe to move. “Buy anything?” I schmoozed the steward.

  “Don’t get your hopes up!” Gratus chuckled. “Hieronymus was too busy to take on new work for husbands who are leaving things too late.”

  “Story of my life!” Untrue. When your father is an auctioneer, you never lack for jewellery. All you need is someone who can mend fastenings and glue back stones. “Since you know the shop, run on another errand, please,” I instructed Gratus. “Tell this goldsmith to keep his prisoner locked up, even if bail is provided. The young man may have powerful forces looking after him, though. He is called Greius. His father is Cornellus Caesius. If Heironymus can just keep hold of him for us to collect him later, that would be useful.”

  I knew a lot more about the “two chains” debtor now. I was on to him. His criminal activities would soon be under scrutiny, but he had other sins to explain. By the time his old mucker Pinarius returned from sailing on his father’s yacht, his two-timing friend Quintus Cornellus would be in serious trouble. That was not only with us: he had to negotiate the women he was two-timing, plus his and their dangerous male relatives. Worst of all, I thought he might have to extract himself from a gangland eruption of his own deadly making.

  LI

  Like a good wife, I went to my husband. I prised his clenched fingers from the milk beaker, then took his hand. “Why don’t you go up to the bed and sleep some more?”

  “I must see that man. The man whose name you brought.”

  “Terentius? Love, Appius Terentius is a serious operator. You are in no condition to interview a man like that.”

  “Then I’ll have to arrest him without bothering to ask questions. Do it the Morellus way. On spec. Him and his murderous sidekick. Gerius.”

  “Greius.”

  “Greius.”

  “Greius is a Cornellus. I told you and Morellus last night but you weren’t up to listening.”

  “Io, Saturnalia!”

  “I-diddly-io. If he’s ever at home, Greius lives in Cowrie Court with Caesius. You can pick him up when you feel better—though currently a goldsmith has him in custody.”

  Tiberius stood up, but quickly sat down again. He rubbed his forehead with two fingers, groaning. I said he would feel better soon. “Soon” was pushing it, but I had seen him recover even after he was taken out to a bar by my father, when he had first presented himself as a son-in-law. Tiberius groaned at me again, and agreed to stagger upstairs for another lie-down. Left behind, I sat by myself: thinking time.

  * * *

  I supervised at breakfast, making a claim that Tiberius would join us later.

  “Tomorrow?” suggested Paris, grinning. “Your guests are missing too.”

  “Travellers’ dispensation.”

  “And the fellow may need to work out how to fit his leg on!”

  “Have I got to wear the gourd suit yet?” demanded Dromo.

  “That is for you to say, Dromo. The King decides everything, then tells the rest of us.”

  “I’m not going to put it on. Everyone will look at me.”

  “Whatever you say, Your Majesty.”

  Suza and Paris were sniggering. The boys were agitating to run upstairs and watch Corellius trying on his leg, so I told Suza to go along to the Murrius house—Paris could tell her where it was. Suza was to ask politely whether it was convenient to bring the boys to see the parrot as their festival treat.

  I gave her instructions, saying that while the boys were looking at the famous bird, she could peel off to ask Nephele’s maid about hairstyles. She was thrilled. “Then see what else you can find out.” She cantered off eagerly, holding hands with Gaius and Lucius. Glaphyra remained at home, grimly knitting.

  I had kept Paris with me because I had plans. In the event, we acquired an extra. While I was gathering note-tablets, Rufinianus arrived.

  “How is the aedile this morning?”

  “Poorly.”

  “Did he survive the merriment?”

  “He should live.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “No. What about you?” I was surprised to find Rufo bright, breezy and deeply annoying.

  “Oh, I never have much of the wine. I learned my lesson over that. I go to those dos for the company, really. By the way, it all kicked off after you two left: they nearly burned the warehouse down.”

  I whistled. “How come? They seemed prepared. I saw them take in the siphon-engine.”

  “Oh, yes, they had it,” agreed Rufo, with a laugh, “but the lads had to scout around neighbouring buildings for water.”

  “Forgot to fill it?”

  “That mad dwarf Spendo had been doing experiments. He’s full of
ideas for a big spectacle of light he wants cohort help with. The crazy fool had emptied the tank for some reason. Don’t ask me. Once he starts talking, it’s all gobbledygook to me.”

  I managed not to laugh at Rufo being outdone by another self-opinionated expert. “Is anything left of the warehouse?”

  “Walls. Blackened walls, with a furious owner jumping up and down among the cinders this morning.”

  “I take it the party must have been cut short?”

  “Oh, no. We carried on. It only smelt a bit, though most of the lads were coughing while they got their drinks in.”

  “What kind of state,” I ventured, “will Titus Morellus be in today?”

  Rufo looked solemn. “Same as your own man, I should guess. Worse, because he stayed longer.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “So,” he said, with his usual complacence, “that’s it for now. Neither will be up to hauling Terentius in. They’re stymied anyway,” he concluded. “We need an address. Still, we should roust him out eventually.”

  “You reckon? Was that him I saw bringing his dinner napkin to munch olives with your lovely tribune yesterday?”

  “I heard it was. I never spoke to him.”

  “Now could be your chance!” I said.

  I waved my crucial notebook. Paris stood smirking beside me because he knew what I meant. We had both remembered that scene way back: how when Agemathus the sigillaria-seller played his great trick on his brother, Paris and I had interrogated that ghastly slave, Sagax. Sagax wore a runaway’s collar that named his master as Terentius. If it was the right man, then if the slave had told the truth, the address where the crime lord lurked had been snugly residing with me ever since. While Tiberius and Morellus were suffering, I could at least go there, make local enquiries, and identify the right house.

  * * *

  I threw his cloak at Rufinianus, while I fixed a brooch on mine. My husband and his crony might be taking a breather, but when the men need respite, the women take over. This fine edict is probably enshrined in the Twelve Tables of the Roman legal system.

  Cassius Scaurus had known where to send his party invitation. Rufinianus had not thought of that. But no need to disturb the tribune if he had a sore head today. Appius Terentius had no hiding place from me.

  I set off briskly, my companions scurrying alongside. Paris was well up for this, though Rufinianus was horrified. In fairness, he was probably right: the exploit might be incredibly dangerous.

  “Should you do it, Flavia Albia?”

  “Absolutely. Seasonal role reversal. While Faustus is out of action, I adopt his authority. If the Empress Livia could rule the whole Empire for Augustus while he was travelling, I can take a few preliminary notes. Let’s get there and move along the casework.”

  “You can’t deputise for an aedile!” The shocked Rufo meant because I was female. I was female enough to ignore that. “You had better not try to arrest a suspect.”

  “No, you’re the vigilis. I shall let you do that.”

  Rufo nearly wet himself. He was probably still wearing his party loincloth from yesterday, so that would be doubly unfortunate. “Oh, no!”

  “Only joking, Rufo.”

  “Anyone who wants this man to talk needs to know what they are doing. Titus Morellus plans big interrogations carefully in advance.” That was the first I had ever heard of Morellus being thoughtful and organised.

  “Me too. My plan is, march in on Terentius and rattle him.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I shall start an initial probe, then the lads can crawl along there officially once they’re fit again. You can protect me if he turns nasty. He won’t be expecting anyone today—and he will be totally stunned that it’s me.” Stunning him was the only reason I dared to go anywhere near. The closer we came to his house, the more I began to regret my bravado. I had not really intended to knock on his door and announce myself, but even being spotted in the vicinity asking questions could be a fatal error.

  Rufinianus perhaps sensed me weakening. He stopped arguing and produced a rejoinder. “By the way, Flavia Albia, I don’t know if anyone has told you, but a tragedy was discovered this morning. That sigillaria-seller died last night. That Agemathus.”

  LII

  Well done, Rufinianus! It worked. I stopped dead in the street.

  Immediately I rallied. “Oh, this is more festive fun, Rufo. Agemathus has already been ‘dead’ once this week. Last Saturn’s Day he committed mock-suicide with a fake knife. He always plays tricks with his brother, you know.”

  “No, he is dead,” insisted Rufo, at his most humourless. “I’ve seen him.”

  “Like I saw the ‘corpse’ last time?” I threw back. “Then he went missing mysteriously, didn’t he, Paris? We found the pair of them afterwards, celebrating how well the trick had gone, while they laughed themselves silly about it.”

  “He’s not laughing. Agemathus is dead, Flavia Albia.”

  I cooled the satire. Suddenly this was serious. Now I thought the sigillaria-seller must have met with genuine misadventure: foul play, the foulest. He and his brother had been informing on the nut-scammers. Agemathus had given us the name of Greius; so had Greius found out and taken revenge?

  Rufinianus sounded sombre as he told his tale. He had been out and about early, since he wished he was still working. He hung about the cohort like a pompous limpet. Being recalled from retirement had made him award himself extra status. Knowing no one else in the cohort would be active, Rufo had taken all their responsibilities upon himself.

  He was coming through that fountain piazza this morning when he heard someone shouting. He went into the building to investigate. He found the corpse on the bed. It was too late to revive Agemathus, but Rufo sent to ask a vigiles doctor to come and pronounce. When I knew him before, he would never have done that. Yet now while the troops slept off their wine in their cribs at the station-house, like big smelly babies, Rufo behaved like a legate.

  “Then what?”

  “Then I carried on to your house, where I had been coming in the first place. The doc will attend. I know he’s available. He’s at the station-house for when the lads start rolling in, too sickly for duty. I called in there myself and he was mixing up a big vat of headache linctus, all ready to dose them. None of them will be awake for hours yet, though.”

  “Never mind that. When you found Agemathus what was there to see? Did he have a knife between his shoulders and a lot of home-made blood?”

  “No. He was just lying there.”

  “Face down again?”

  “Face up. Mind you,” said Rufo, “that could have been because the person who found him had turned him over.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Some weasel the two brothers have lodging with them. He wanted the bed—they give it to him in the daytime if they are out working.”

  Paris was anticipating me quizzically. He knew what I was bound to say. I duly said it: “Come along, then. I shall have to go and take a look myself.”

  * * *

  We marched across the same piazza with its dribbly fountain, up the same sour stairs and in through the sticking door to the brothers’ bare room. Agemathus was truly dead. Even in December, flies were finding him. There was no knife, no blood, no sign of injury by other methods. He looked like a man who had died in his sleep. Of course, in my line of work nobody does that, but it was, after all, Saturnalia when all rules are broken.

  The empty sigillaria tray had been leaned against a wall. The lodger, shaken, sat on the stool. He was a thin, charmless workman in an extremely sweaty tunic, who stoked the furnace at a bath-house near Prisca’s, though not actually hers. She would never have taken him on because he looked likely to make himself a spyhole to stare through at the naked women.

  He was genuinely too upset to invent or to lie when I questioned him. “I was asleep yesterday evening.”

  “On the bed?”

  “On the floor. I heard somebody knock. Agemath
us opened the door, then he sounded off with ‘Oh, it’s you!’ and he went out.”

  “And it was who? Any idea?”

  “Yes. His brother.”

  “Victor? I thought he lived here. Why was he knocking?”

  “He was messing about. He did a loud rap, like a debt-collector.”

  “Right. Do you know where they went?”

  “The Orion’s Dog.”

  “They like that bar, I know, but how can you be sure?”

  “Agemathus called over his shoulder to ask would I like to come along with them.”

  “Did you go?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good. You can tell me how they spent their evening. Then what happened?”

  “Agemathus started to complain he was feeling unwell. Then he came home.”

  “By himself?”

  “No, Victor told me to bring him.”

  “Which you did?”

  “Yes. He lay down on the bed, but he seemed all right, and I went out again. I trolled around some other places, having a drink or two on my own. I came home in the dark, a little bit merry.” He was, in my opinion, still totally paralytic. However, he gave the impression that was normal for him. He would say stoking was thirsty work. I would say he wouldn’t have been so thirsty if he hadn’t got so drunk.

  “Did you speak to Agemathus?”

  “No. I was trying to be quiet. I just curled on the floor, thinking he’d go out in the morning.”

  “Was his brother back at the room?”

  “I didn’t think so. Agemathus never said anything, never made a sound. I passed out. When I woke up this morning, I found he wasn’t even breathing. Agemathus was lying dead.”

  “And Victor?”

  “Not here. Still at the Orion’s Dog, I bet. It wouldn’t be the first time he just stayed there and kipped behind the counter.”

  Rufinianus asked officiously about the cohort medic he had sent for. The stoker confirmed the doc had already been. He’d inspected the body, snorted, then gone to the Orion’s Dog to tell the brother what had happened. I led my group downstairs, then we went to the bar ourselves, followed by the stoker who was hoping for another drink.