A Capitol Death Read online

  Then Lemni was murdered too. I suspected it was linked, but I had no idea who had done that or why. The vigiles had arrested someone. Pointless: it would never come to court.

  At least if I learned nothing else, I could report all that to the aediles with an air of finality. End of inquiry. Call it a family tragedy. Rome should move on. Thank you, Albia, here’s a reward for solving very little!

  They would hardly be surprised by sketchy details. Most people thought informers were always useless.

  The litter swung on, making me queasy. I tried to take my mind off it.

  I knew what Quartilla had meant about men who collected metal fittings. Rivets, studs, hooks, hinges, bosses, loops, ferrules, tangs … Rattling made them feel masculine, because their ornamentation was heavy to wear. Among retired or off-duty soldiers, a bangle or a fine nielloed silver belt let them show off their high army pay so they felt superior to civilians. For other men, who lacked a military background, flummery let them pretend.

  As for lacing, it was not entirely “foreign,” as Quartilla thought: I knew it was the standard way of fastening the front of a soldier’s cuirass. The plates of lorica segmentata were front-tied with a double-ended, criss-crossing cord from gullet to waist.

  I had seen nothing like that recently. There were soldiers who came and went every day, all over the Capitol. Like the legionaries who were making a nuisance of themselves along the Via Flaminia, they carried no visible weapons because within the city soldiers must be unarmed. They were in plain red tunics. Their armour must be rusting in a heap somewhere, a dragon’s hoard of girth hoops, collar plates and shoulder guards. Legionaries’ front ties probably never had aglets because they passed through fairly large fixings. Anyway, if the ends frayed, any soldier I ever knew would stick the wobbly fronds together with a blob of spit.

  I did know this. I was married to a soldier once. Wounds had forced him out of the army, but Lentullus thought of himself as a legionary until the day he died.

  The soldiers on the Capitol were transitory lads. Given a task in the morning, they were moved elsewhere by noon. I had seen them around a lot, but never recognised the same ones twice. It was unlikely any of them had even encountered Lemni, let alone wanted to kill him.

  Whoever did kill him had wanted to do it very much. Every aspect was deliberate. Chucking Lemni off the Tarpeian Rock was planned. Gemellus was right. The Rock was the point.

  Thinking again about soldiers, only one stuck himself up on the tops regularly: the Praetorian guard, Nestor. I had seen him in a couple of cloaks, though never laced into one. I thought I had seen him in brown, though I mainly remembered a green garment, brooched on one shoulder, which was the guards’ standard fashion in Rome. As far as I knew, Nestor had barely met Lemni. I saw no reason why he would have attacked him.

  Besides, all Praetorians ignored the rules. They did carry weapons. They did not care who knew; they actually liked letting people know. With everybody else unarmed, they revelled in it. Nestor was constantly flashing his gladius, like the bully he was. So why would Nestor have hit Lemni with a mallet, when he could have used his own sword?

  The litter lurched again.

  What else could I ask? Where else could this task go?

  Unhappily I began to accept that I had covered all the possibilities.

  * * *

  We reached my parents’ house. Stiff and sickly, I was helped out of the litter, a courtesy only so the bearers could unravel me from armfuls of precious things, without incurring damage to the treasures. Never mind my welfare. I was expected to make my own way up the Aventine steps to home.

  “There’s no way we are staggering up that cliff! You’ll see your pa later, by the way. He told us he would snaffle that dead goose. Unless it was carried off by some horrible plague, he’s going to bring it over later. It can be roasted on a spit at your house; he says you have a courtyard that is absolutely made for the job. And you have a celebrity chef to cook it. So everyone is coming for a feast at yours after the Triumph. That will be tomorrow tonight, won’t it?”

  “How nice!” I remarked sarcastically. Fortunately our courtyard had no fig tree to be set on fire. “Right, I’m glad I’ve got you here. Tomorrow morning my husband, the aedile, needs to be collected from the Temple of Isis after he greets the Emperor. He has been quite unwell—”

  “We heard about the lightning bolt!”

  “Then you understand. I know Falco will agree to this. Please pick up Tiberius Manlius and bring him safely to our house. If you wait in the Meleager Porticus he’ll find you. He’s very sensible.”

  Guffawing that carrying someone sensible would make a nice change, they readily agreed, since it clinched their invitation to our feast. “You are not to worry about the rest of the food and drink,” they reassured me. “People will bring everything. Falco said he knows you are a poor new bride with a tight-purse husband.”

  Somewhat coolly, I thanked them for the ride then said I must be off, since my miserly husband was more important than my father seemed to think. Tiberius Manlius would need me to help arrange his toga tonight since he had to go out before dawn to greet the triumphal Emperor. When I saw him, I had better warn him we were offering open house.

  “That’s all that matters, isn’t it?” the bearers told me happily. “Family!”

  LV

  I let myself in, to be met with silence. I might as well still have been living alone. My entire household was missing—even the dog kennel was empty.

  I walked through the atrium. Out in the courtyard, Tiberius and henchmen of his had been making trestle tables. That was a bonus of living next to a building yard: wood always to hand. One table had already been finished. It was positioned centrally, standing there as a template. Though rough, it had been covered to see how it would look, while other folded cloths were piled on it, magicked here by somebody. My mother, I guessed.

  I continued exploring my tomb-like home. My father’s a fast worker. In the kitchen, a dead goose already lay on its back on a platter, neck off, feet off, plucked. A bucket contained its down, which would make superb cushion-stuffing. Another bucket, under an upturned platter, probably contained bits Fornix had removed. Intestines? I preferred not to look. If this deceased honker was the one called Florentina, at least she looked anonymous. I never like eating creatures I recognise.

  Emerging from the service corridor, I crossed to the yard door. When I opened it Drax, the watchdog, walked to the end of his chain, gave me one wag, then lay down to sleep again. He must have had a busy day getting excited, because a firepit and huge metal cooking spits had been created in the middle of the yard. At least that meant my house would not burn down, or not until the yard had long preceded it.

  I walked back then shouted loudly, “Barley, come off that bed!”

  For a moment the silence continued. Then soft, skittering paws announced my pet, scrabbling down the stairs from the next floor, half guilty but more pleased to see me.

  “Where are the people, Barley dog? Why aren’t they all here squabbling?”

  She wriggled. I fussed her. Answer came there none. I let her follow me back upstairs, then we went to sleep on the bed together. There was a nice warm patch where she had been before. Hardly was I comfortable and dropping off, when the household began to pile back noisily.

  Dromo brought water buckets that he had filled at a nearby fountain, a precaution for the firepit. He was taking a dangerous interest in that, telling me all the ways the fire must be looked after, as if he thought he would be in charge. Suza, still whoffing, sauntered home from the baths, swinging the oil-flask I had given her. Apparently, despite my instructions to be escorted, she now went by herself. Apparently she was entitled to have a manicure at Prisca’s on my tab.

  Fornix and Gratus walked in together, followed by slave-boys from local provision suppliers, carrying enormous baskets, wheeling handcarts with amphorae, and grinning. I pointed out that they were a bit premature because the feast was not u
ntil tomorrow; they looked surprised that I quibbled.

  “Yes, Gratus, but I have been told people are bringing stuff, all we shall need.”

  “Never wise to rely on promises.” The steward must have been caught out before. “Do you know how many your father has invited?”

  “I have no idea. I haven’t even seen him.”

  “Fortunately,” replied Gratus, somewhat heavily, “I did see Falco when he dropped off the goose, so I interrogated him.”

  “A throng?” I said in that case, I was confident I could leave preparations in his capable hands. Gratus agreed: he liked to be given his freedom. We understood each other. I had known that when I hired him.

  I agreed we owed the world a party. “My parents gave Tiberius Manlius and me a magnificent wedding feast. We should have followed up with entertainments ourselves, but when a bridegroom is struck by lightning, you tend to imagine you have been let off.”

  “Deferred!” said Gratus, smiling wisely. “By the way, I have not yet questioned Fornix about his previous experience. Will he know how to cook this goose?”

  At that moment Fornix emerged from his kitchen corridor, carrying something on a titbit saucer. He overheard Gratus. There was a tense stand-off between the round, bulky cook and the tall, slim steward.

  I quickly explained to Gratus that, although it seemed unlikely for people like us, Tiberius and I had secured the services of a master. “Fornix was previously the top chef at Fabulo’s, a celebrity restaurant over on the Quirinal, where his culinary feats were legendary. Gratus, I should have mentioned this earlier. You have come to a favoured, almost fashionable home.”

  “I can roast a goose!” For once, Fornix was dour. He knew his worth.

  “I am slavering with anticipation, dear Fornix!” Gratus assured him, tactfully vanishing with eel-like sinuosity.

  “Save him a wing,” I murmured to my chef. “He was not to know.”

  Fornix ignored that. They had issues to negotiate. Running a household was such fun.

  Getting over his coolness, Fornix told me he was planning a pre-triumph supper for Tiberius and me: curly lettuce in a mask of goose fat, sprinkled with chopped goose gizzard, which, when prepared by him, was a heavenly delicacy.

  “Yum! I am really glad we have you, Fornix.”

  “You can cut the flattery! While I was cleaning the bird, madam, I found something. Since your father said I was to look out for any signs the goose had died of disease, I thought you would want to know.”

  With a small flourish, Fornix proffered his saucer. I recoiled.

  “This was in the crop. She must have eaten it, couldn’t digest it, and it slowly killed her. Poor thing,” added the chef, kindly. “Still, it means we can safely roast her.”

  I thanked him. Then I asked him to clean the item since I had better keep it. He was surprised—even more so when I explained that he had just found me a clue.

  The poorly goose Florentina had died because she had eaten a long, narrow piece of fabric. In form it was tubular. Even after being inside a goose for several days, it still looked like a lace with a frayed end. Its colour was a rustic brown. And when laid near the aglet I found on the Auguraculum, it still matched the single thread that was caught in the bent metal.

  LVI

  Tiberius came home hot and bothered from his last meeting about the Triumph. I sent him out to the baths. He came home again, cool, clean and cursing.

  We sat in the courtyard. Fornix produced the goose gizzard salad, plus other perfect snippets. Gratus poured wine. He had chosen a good one. Tiberius settled.

  “What a stinking day. The Greens have been bellyaching to the City Prefect that their faction was unfairly locked out of tendering for the chariot horses. They were shunted on to the aediles because nobody else knew what to do. We ruled that nothing improper had occurred. The Whites’ team will be used tomorrow with the Reds’ in reserve, according to advice received from experts. The Greens stormed off, muttering that this was a lousy fix by supporters of the Golds.”

  “Word has got out then, darling?”

  “What word?” he growled.

  “Was your name on the response to the complainants?”

  “Yes, I happened to sign it.”

  “It was your day to have the pen? Or do the other three aediles simply know when to dodge?”

  “I don’t follow your logic.”

  “The Greens are loons, but I expect they have scouts to research a complaint. Everyone does it. If you had a murky past, love, they would probably try to blackmail you.” Unsaid went the fact that his past was of a less pious shade than his present. Tiberius had topped it off by marrying an informer, but that had been announced in the Daily Gazette, so was no use as sleaze.

  “The bloody Greens can leave my past alone. I need another drink!” Gratus whipped in to pour. I warned Tiberius to stay sober, since it was only a few hours until we had to dress him up formally. He groaned. Sipping slowly, he grumbled more quietly, “It was all that damned freedman, Aepolus. Remember the ghastly man who came here? He lobbed the complaint our way. I put it down to spite because you treated him so snippily.”

  “I can’t see it. But, just in case, I apologise.”

  “You are so reasonable! So…” he asked, lightly enough, “… what’s new, precious? Have you solved your case?”

  I reminded Tiberius it was his case first, then pretended to have reached conclusions for him. All of my household drew in closer to hear of my progress, like children waiting for a bedtime story. Even Barley curled up against my foot.

  I summarised everything I knew. Although it had felt like endless struggle, I was surprised how far I had advanced while out on my own today. The certainties I had reached while in Pa’s litter sounded good. Impressed, they all listened without interrupting. Once I had finished, I picked clean the last nut saucer, which I had balanced on my knee. Dromo licked out a salad bowl. He managed it without slurping. The boy was learning.

  As twilight fell upon our tired but peaceful gathering, a blackbird sang full-throatedly from a ridge tile, claiming territory. Our enclosed space was quiet, a private haven, although on the Aventine noises were always audible. This was the Hill of Freedom, centred on the Temple of Liberty; raucous celebration happened even though it was rarely from liberated slaves. All Rome was now collecting itself for tomorrow’s festivity; the Aventine stood apart, yet that never stopped the party here. Raw life, some of it even happy, resounded everywhere.

  Tiberius had watched me listen. As if I had spoken aloud, he began to talk about this too. “Here we are in our cut-off courtyard, but we can hear music and laughter, smell other people’s food grilling, catch the air of expectancy.” For a quiet man, he had moments when he enjoyed talk, playing the paterfamilias. I was simply happy he was pain-free and could do it. “I’m thinking about those other peaks, the Arx and the Capitol. Sweetheart, how different a picture you give for them. No streets, no tenements, no shops, no stalls, no baths, not even brothels. Nobody lives there, apart from a few caretakers. So what do those people do, Albiola, when they want to be sociable?”

  I laughed. “They go down the Hill for a drink. Some of them meet up with exactly the same cronies, every night. They aim for the same ghastly bar, like a ritual, even if they have to wait hours for their pal. Everyone seems to do this.”

  Tiberius looked quizzical. “Do they all congregate at the same place?”

  “That I don’t know. The one place I heard named is the Centaur, which people admit is a dump, but it stays open all night.”

  Tiberius chewed his thumb.

  Until now, Suza had heard us in silence. I had noticed her taking it all in. She fixed on not only what was said but how we said it. Her capacity for absorbing manners and behaviour was immense—the complete opposite of Dromo, who would never own any sensitivity, so never any tact. Suza had already learned how to hold her fingers when she ate, even drying them on her napkin—if she remembered she had one.

  She le
aned forwards. I might have imagined it, but a faint waft of murex shell escaped. I hoped it was diminishing, or would do soon. She was less bouncy than when she had come here, less forward, less loud. If Suza had been invited to a house where an obscenity was used every other word, she would be aping that. But no: “I believe I have heard something about the Centaur,” said Suza, as if in an elocution lesson.

  “What’s that, Suza?” asked Tiberius, in surprise.

  As she became excited, she lost her new intonation. “That night I was on the Capitol. When Gabinus had got rid of my people, he was very short with me. As soon as Ostorius and Cincia left, he mumbled, ‘We have to make this quick, girl. I am due at the Centaur for a drink.’ Then he said, ‘With my brother.’ At first I thought he meant showing me the temples had to be quick, but I soon learned he was after the other thing.”

  I breathed slowly. Tiberius swirled wine in his beaker.

  “Gabinus had a brother!” I murmured. Picking up on sudden tension, Suza looked stunned that she had caused it.

  Tiberius raised his eyebrows. He drawled, with deliberate thoughtfulness, “So, Flavia Albia, information queen, what do we know about him?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No conniving swine I have talked to ever managed to tell me some brother exists.”

  Tiberius put down his cup on a portable table. He stood up slowly, stretching. “Right. Since I have to be ready to applaud Domitian’s conquering, I need a nap first. Here’s what I suggest. I ought to start off early in case the crowds are very thick—but if my loving wife wants to come too, I should like that. Just to see me on my way to the walk of misery,” he pleaded winningly. “If we can get near the start nice and early, then before I pack you off home again, there should be time, darling Albia, to stop at a bar for a drink.”

  I smiled. “So much for me putting you into your toga, then jumping back between the sheets for a luxurious lie-in! Well, fighting Barley for the bed. Do you have a bar in mind? Some favourite, perhaps?”