A Comedy of Terrors Read online

  He seemed afraid of the gangsters, yet he was obsessed by them. “I am a ghost, I am bodiless—those beings are faceless.”

  “No, they are men. They just keep their hats pulled down and burrow into their cloaks, Zoilus.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “They are men, Albia.” He could be sensible, though he enjoyed being a spirit so much you could never rely on normality lasting. Anyway, he was always so hungry it made him light-headed.

  He was nibbling now, a flat round cake made by my own cook, Fornix. Suddenly he put it back on the platter, pulling a face. “Nuts!”

  “What is wrong with nuts?” Tiberius asked casually, leaning against a cupboard.

  “Nuts make you sick,” Zoilus muttered.

  “Some do,” Tiberius agreed, as if conversing generally. “I heard of a warehouse that was full of bad ones. They were taken out and burned, so no more people would be poisoned.”

  “Nuts!” mused Zoilus again, his pale face showing up amid folds of his shroud even in the kitchen gloom.

  “The men who keep nuts in the old shop are wicked people,” I said. “They use fire, and fear, and fight with planks that have vicious nails stuck in them.”

  “Fire and fear.” Zoilus turned over the words as if tasting them. “Planks with long nails. The man comes with his key so they can bring their bad nuts.”

  “We know about the man with the key.” Tiberius was grave, but unthreatening. “Cornellus Greius. There are spirits now in Hades because of him. Zoilus, he kills people. I know he does. You are quite safe to talk about it with me.”

  “He kills people,” repeated the ghost, then added almost soundlessly a confirmative breath of “Whoo…”

  Tiberius straightened up off the cupboard. He told Zoilus quietly: “Greius organised a fire where an entire family lost their lives. Before that, he had a man murdered in a warehouse. Somebody, and we know this, was sleeping in a colonnade. That person must have seen what happened, the night Greius and his people brought a nut-seller to the place and shovelled him into a walnut sack.”

  The spook-impersonator stared at him with dead eyes.

  “Was that you, Zoilus?” Tiberius kept his tone level.

  “No-how.”

  “Anybody hiding there,” I joined in gently, “must have been terrified. They must have run away. Now they hope Greius and his foot-soldiers never find out that they saw what happened.”

  “Somebody saw,” murmured Zoilus.

  “Will you tell us?” I pleaded.

  Suddenly the ghost spoke out: “They hauled a man into the warehouse. He was screaming. They kept shouting. I ran away then.”

  “Before you ran, did you recognise anyone?” Tiberius asked.

  Despite his ethereal aspects, Zoilus grasped what we needed. “I knew the leader. I knew him again, that man from the lock-up who threatened to burn me alive. When he came into the nut warehouse, I knew where I had seen him. That was why I ran away—so he would not see me.”

  “Greius was in charge of the people who put the nut-seller into the walnut sack?”

  “He was,” confirmed Zoilus. Then, to our surprise, he added, like any normal witness, “He told them to kill him. He is Cornellus Greius. He does not work with the brothers and the woman. He acts with another man, whose name terrifies everyone. Those two are going to take over everything, so all things will have to happen in the way they say. Do you know what it means?”

  “Murder,” listed Tiberius heavily. “Extortion, corruption of public officials, illegal gambling, infiltration of legitimate businesses, labour racket schemes, tax fraud and investment manipulation.”

  “All kinds of racketeering,” I continued. “Smuggling, fraud, robbery, bribery, assault, weapons, poisons, fencing stolen goods, prostitution, pornography and theft.”

  “Terentius and Greius,” Tiberius stated.

  “Appius Terentius.” Zoilus shuddered, not from the chill of the Underworld but real fear. “King For Ever. It will happen soon. He is going to take over the Emperor.”

  LVIII

  We let Zoilus return to the family. Soon, candles would be lit ceremonially, festive decorations seeming to dispel fears. But bright lights always make the shadows seem darker.

  Tiberius and I stayed together in my parents’ kitchen. We pulled out battered stools from under the counter. The permanent fire on the cooking bench enabled us to see each other’s troubled faces. Its glow shone on copper and brass, even the iron tools, deep-cleaned of rust this week, with the smallest dried-on sauce traces scraped out of knives’ and strainers’ deepest handle crannies. All the silver was upstairs being used. Otherwise comports and craters, often collected in distant provinces, would have sat with this shining battery on old stone shelves.

  The wafts from cooking had died down or been fanned out of the room. Only rich scents surrounded us. Herbs hung from strings, among hams that were kept on hooks to absorb smoke from below. There were pervasive undernotes of olive oil and spices, sun-dried fruits and fish, stored grains and vegetables, currently in much larger quantities than normal. There was the inevitable hum of fish-pickle from its sticky-rimmed amphora. When people who have known poverty are suddenly able to stock their pantries, they tend to buy everything they see. Equally, we never threw away blunt meat-shears or a chipped pestle because once things that broke or went missing could not have been replaced. This was the hub of the house, which would service large numbers of people through many rich meals this month.

  My mother was a senator’s daughter but, even so, the legend went that she came to my father with only one chest of possessions. He himself had had almost nothing at the time. Nowadays I could understand that they had taken on undesirable clients and dangerous commissions purely because of financial pressures. Falco joked about it. Joking was his only way to cope. My method was different: I would be morose.

  I might have seemed morose now, but my brain was active. Thoughts chuntered, falling into working patterns. When I was ready, I said, “Talk about this? I can see how it is.”

  Tiberius nodded. He listened, clearly with me.

  “The Cornellus brothers, Murrius and Caesius, with their sister Laetilla, are old-school money-lenders, descended from others. They have a well-worn format for their business, with guaranteed clients or we can call them victims, the kind of destitute people who will always exist. These Cornelli are relatives of the old Balbinus Pius gang. Laetilla knows and gossips with Balbina Milvia—visits her house down by the Circus.”

  “Keep going,” said Tiberius.

  “The Cornelli work on the Aventine. They show no signs of wanting to expand their range. They are rich enough, they are powerful enough within the sphere they occupy, and they have chosen not to attract attention from the authorities. However!”

  “However!” echoed Tiberius, giving me a slight smile.

  “They have ties with another group, the Terentii. That clan leader is a secretive figure, but a man who impresses on everyone how cruel he is. He has a different attitude to expansion. And he has two sisters, sisters he deploys to strengthen his place in the underworld.”

  Tiberius joined in: “Terentia Nephele and Terentia Berenike.”

  “Right. Then there’s Greius. With three siblings all active in the loans business, the Cornelli may have had no room for anyone else with ambitions—and, dear gods, he is ambitious in so many ways! So his relatives gave up their promising scion to work with Appius Terentius.”

  “Perhaps,” suggested Tiberius, “Terentius was threatening to shove in on their operations so, rather than have a territorial battle, the Cornelli reached an accommodation. They could keep the loans, while leaving Terentius whatever else he wants. Greius is the mutual pledge to honour this. Sending him across bought Terentius off, and ensures boundaries are respected.”

  “He also grew into a dangerous love-rat, though only we seem to know that!” I exclaimed. “The Cornellus brothers work with their sister. Women connected to Balbinus Pius always were powerful figures in
the old gang. But I think Terentius may be more old-fashioned. His sisters are merely ciphers to him.”

  Tiberius laughed. “Big mistake! Comes along a handsome lover and chaos erupts.”

  “Right! So Appius Terentius returned to Rome,” I mused, “and needed a reliable leg-man. Thanks to the Cornelli, he obtained a treasure. Quintus Cornellus Greius: born with all the confidence of his own heritage, but now gaining added punch. Perhaps unintentionally, he became an ideal field agent. Greius helped create a new racketeering structure, mainly through violence. It looked the perfect partnership.”

  “And yet Greius, with his love-life, threatens family disaster,” Tiberius concluded.

  I had thought of something arising from that. “Nephele—remember her odd first visit to me? She kept harping on about how we had lost Sheep, telling me how dangerous the situation was? I thought Murrius had sent her to spy and issue threats, but it’s more likely to have been her lover, Greius.”

  “Seems right,” Tiberius agreed. “The threat from Terentius will be against them now. An internal bust-up must be coming. Might that help us smash the rackets?”

  “Yes,” I argued, “it will, because you can’t eradicate organised crime using normal methods. Gangsters are too well set up for avoiding prosecutions. My uncle learned the only hope is to trick them into some technical offence—or, as a last resort, fix your jury.”

  “How soon will full revelations hit the family?”

  “Nephele’s maid will let something slip. Greius has a friend who told me Caesius already suspects what’s going on. He has begun trying to impose control. I wonder whether Caesius, tough as he is, feels nervous about upsetting Terentius?”

  “Greius has moved over,” Tiberius suggested. “Caesius may be afraid he could reject his own family.”

  “Not if Terentius explodes over Nephele and Berenike. And other trouble looms over Greius when his uncle faces how Greius has been harping on the wrong lyre.”

  “Murrius knows someone is her lover,” said Tiberius. “I think he guesses who.”

  “He and his brother were muttering at the vigiles’ party,” I told him. “When Terentius arrived, it looked to me as if they might be anxious in case he already knew of the affair. I made a bad mistake with Nephele,” I admitted. “Now she’s stuck, I’d say. All that talk of how she was terrified of her husband may have a grain of truth—but it’s her brother Terentius she’s really afraid of. What will he do, when he’s devastated that she has bust up all the links he arranged to the Cornelli—and, moreover, committed this sin with his trusted agent? This is the worst personal betrayal.”

  “My hope,” said Tiberius, “is that if we charge this stupid young man with the killings and arson, Greius will find himself out on his own. Neither the Cornelli nor Terentius will give him the classic resources that protect gangsters from justice.”

  I hoped he was right, but warned, “Don’t rely on that, love. He will get his bent lawyer. Bribes will be laid out for young Greius. Witnesses will fade away and evidence will be tampered with. They may even spring him and conceal him. His relatives and his chief may decide that, whatever he’s done, he is one of their own.”

  Tiberius understood, but grumbled, “If they rescue him, I hope they still punish him. I can live with seeing his corpse turn up in a salt pan by the Via Ostiensis.”

  We fell silent. Both of us knew we were preparing for action. Then we were interrupted.

  LIX

  Still enjoying his holiday role as a slave, my father swung into the kitchen to collect a large platter. He did have to pretend we were enjoying a romantic tryst after we’d sorted out Zoilus. We let him carry on about it.

  “You’re not drinking!”

  “Tiberius is feeling he can never face a wine cup again.”

  “You married a wimp!”

  “He was all right until he went partying with you and Petronius.”

  Falco paused. I waited.

  “He had a word with me last night.”

  Unsurprised, I replied easily, “I was asking about Appius Terentius. Petro said someone called Appius Priscillus once nearly did for you. But you did for him?”

  For a moment I thought we would get nothing. Then the holiday slave could not help himself: he turned back into Didius Falco, anything legal considered, good refs, cheap rates. “Priscillus: a rat-faced, heartless property tycoon who made all the other stinking magnates smell as sweet as Paestum roses. He left,” said Falco. “He left when I told him to. He won’t be coming back. Petro believes he’s dead, incidentally.”

  “Trial?” asked Tiberius.

  “No trial. But he was guilty. Without him, his personal hoard was broken up. His best house, of many spectacular mansions in a fabulous portfolio, the house he actually chose to live in, had the best views in Rome. From the first time I saw it, I coveted that house. Up on the Janiculan and, I’m delighted to tell you, it ended up with me.”

  “Grandfather’s villa?” I was surprised. “Were you given it as a reward?”

  “No, simple daughter. Vespasian never filled the Treasury by handing out free gifts. I paid good money,” Falco said. His voice was sombre. “If relatives of Appius Priscillus have returned to Rome, having had a proper purchase ceases to be galling and becomes a good idea. If your suspect is half as bad as mine, I advise you never to tell them that we’ve got the house. Don’t upset such people. I was all right. I knew what I was doing. I’ll tell you what Petronius Longus told me: wear a body-belt under your tunic and keep a dagger down your boot. Since you’re just a couple of amateurs, take back-up.”

  He took his leave, but immediately reappeared. The platter swung dangerously on his hip as he posed in the doorway, a practised move. “Don’t mention to your mother anything about this chat.”

  He was gone. As always, the room felt smaller and less interesting once he left us.

  * * *

  Peace descended. Tiberius threw back his head and addressed the smoky kitchen ceiling. “So! Tradition—this is the moment at the height of a great family occasion when my beloved wife drops her ceremonial duties. Sorry, an interesting clue came up. I have to rush … Flavia Albia scampers off into the night to confront a suspect!”

  I smiled softly. “Saturnalia,” I reminded him. “Role reversal. Your turn this time.”

  “Ooh, I am a good family man. I could never do anything like that!”

  “Try it!” I mouthed, seductively.

  Old Grey Eyes rose to his feet from the potboy’s stool where he had been sitting. He held out his hand to me. “We have been working the same case, it seems.”

  “I had nothing else to do. And I like to keep an eye on you.”

  “You were always with me,” he promised. “I did everything your way, with you in my thoughts.”

  “I can live with that.” I shrugged.

  “Time for resolution,” Tiberius confirmed. “You may be surprised that Morellus and I have discussed what to do and planned it. Let’s hope the vigiles aren’t as hung-over as they bragged they would be. Today’s the day. We both believe that on the first day of Saturnalia, none of them will be expecting us.”

  “You’re skipping from my parents’ feast?”

  “Oh, yes—and, being a good son-in-law, I even warned your mother earlier. I want to seize Terentius and Greius.”

  “Agreed,” I said promptly. “I will let you go—but only if you take me.”

  You may think he could have refused me. But Tiberius knew that if this was a climax there was no chance I would stay behind. Besides, to spring his surprise he needed me. I was still the person whose note-tablet contained that record from Sagax of where Appius Terentius lived.

  LX

  Right at the start of all this, I had learned something about our chief suspect: he locked inscribed metal collars around his slaves’ necks. I’ve done a runner. Grab me and take me home to Terentius to receive your reward.

  Nobody I knew ever did that. We sent our staff out looking like normal p
eople. If they ran away we might try to find them, but on the whole we sighed and left them to it, generously hoping no harm befell them. Most slaves sensibly stayed with us. They were humans, whom Fate had treated unkindly. We would treat them better. We dressed them for warmth and decency, we fed them the same food as us, we provided education, training them up to support themselves when eventually we freed them. Appius Terentius, we could be sure, had never freed a slave in his life.

  We knew we were going into a different world from ours. Our aspirations were to survive and to work hard for a good life; the gangster’s intention was to gain wealth by preying on others, never satisfied by what he battered out of them. We had skills and social position: personal strengths, but with responsibility. He was gaining a much cruder power, unhampered by ethics. We respected regulations, even when we satirised them. He broke the rules as if there were none. What drove him was greed. Greed, plus belief in his own right to dominate. We had private hopes; he had terrible public ambitions. Tonight, as we were about to learn, he would begin acting on those. It would be up to us to stop him.

  * * *

  We went with back-up. Even to visit his house, we took a small armed guard. Weapons are banned within the city, but I could tell that our men were carrying. In his position as an aedile, which did not give him powers of physical punishment, Tiberius Manlius was never accompanied by lictors. No wide-shouldered men carried bundles of rods ahead of him, walking single file and shouting, “Watch out!” to the public. He had to clear his own path through crowds and find his own bodyguards. Rome is a pragmatic city, though. When he needed security, security materialised.

  From the parents’ house, he had led me up the hill past the Temple of Ceres, the aediles’ official base, where without fuss he collected a group of staff who appeared to have been waiting there until he needed them. They looked well trained, willing to be called upon and, despite the season, hardly at all drunk. If they had taken wine, they could handle it. They followed us quietly.