A Capitol Death Page 4

  “Did you know the dead man previously?”

  “We never heard his name,” said Lemni.

  Larth, the augur, abruptly roused himself, though he had to fight off a yawn. “I nodded greetings to the man on occasions. He had something to do with transport, I believe.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Officials have identified him.”

  “He had been working out of the hut alongside Jupiter Custos.”

  Larth meant the temple caretaker’s accommodation. That one-time hovel has been turned all magnificent. Its striking upgrade commemorates how the young Domitian’s life was saved when he was hidden overnight on the blazing Capitol. Afterwards, Domitian converted the grim kiosk where he had cowered for hours into a whole new temple. Presumably the caretaker did not live in the shrine, but some adjacent cubicle. If he was lucky, it too had been gratefully upgraded.

  “I know it.” I explained: “I am familiar with the precincts here. Thanks to the deified Vespasian, doughty old chap, my father was for several years Procurator of the Sacred Geese of Juno.”

  “Quite an honour,” returned the augur, perhaps satirically. The old emperor had certainly seen it as a laugh. Nevertheless, Pa was diligent: the geese had never had their welfare so tenderly nurtured, and he claims the honky avians loved him for it.

  “Vespasian had a gift for finding the right man for a job.” I simpered.

  “Indubitably.” I thought Vespasian might have chosen Larth, the augur, though probably not Lemni. “Do we remember your father?” Larth hinted.

  “Marcus Didius Falco.”

  Oh, yes, they knew him! Falco would have transited the Arx like a rackety comet. A glance passed between them. However, the polite sky-watchers made no comment.

  “So how come the dead carts-organiser was using the new élite hut? What did the caretaker feel about that?” I wondered. “Did he want a sub-tenant? Are they bunking up in the same rustic bed and sharing humble meals? Surely he cannot be happy.”

  “He was incandescent,” confirmed Lemni, enjoying the suggestion that the transport man behaved badly to the caretaker. It was my first proper hint of a possible motive. “He was very harshly ejected.”

  “You did know the sweeper? You heard his complaints?”

  “Too right! He now has to trudge up the hill every day to carry out his duties, which is very inconvenient, especially after he used to be right on the spot. This has upset his whole routine. He grumbles at anyone who will listen. Seated in the tent, we were at his mercy.”

  I tutted sympathetically. “Not still the same man who hid Domitian?” I asked.

  “No, his grandson.”

  “Jobs for the boys? I beg your pardon, I mean of course ‘a hereditary position.’” We all smirked. “Still, Domitian loves to remember how his skin was saved all those years ago … So where has the displaced caretaker put himself?”

  “He went home to his mother.”

  “Ah! Is his mother happy with that?”

  “No, she thought her great fledgling had safely flown the nest. She gave his room to a lodger who acts as her lover, so his nose has been put out of joint. She has been coming up here herself, sounding off about it like a pre-menstrual harpy.”

  Lemni finished eating. He handed me half a roll he did not want. I chewed it thoughtfully. The bread was good, but the strong cheese tasted as if it had been sliced with a knife that had recently cut onions. “So tell me,” I mumbled, when my mouth was empty enough, “whose bright idea was it to park a transport man on the Capitol? Surely it’s a road to nowhere.”

  “His own.” The augur came to life again. He spoke with doleful disapproval, even though his role in life was to be a neutral conduit for divine will.

  “How come?” I wheedled.

  “He was like that.” Even augurs can be drawn. When they are not pronouncing on the prospects for war or peace, they like gossip as much as anybody. “Upstart. Full of his own importance. It was to do with the Triumph. The carts and draught animals are kept down in the Campus Martius, but he thought he rated fine views and a high-end site-hut.”

  “Made his nasty presence felt,” added Lemni. “He loved kicking out the keeper. Of course we are above tittle-tattle, but he was objectionable to anyone he bumped into. Everybody hated him.”

  “You too?”

  “He kept away from us.”

  “Bullies like that can spot someone handy, Lemni!” Flattering him, I licked my fingers clean as I finished the roll. “I was asked to investigate a suggestion that this charmer may have been murdered. What you describe sounds like motive.”

  Both men tipped their heads and nodded. I asked whether they had witnessed any portents that foul play was due on the Capitol.

  “None,” said the augur. “But no one asked us to look.”

  That sounded like a get-out clause. They must be used to surprises. They have to pronounce on natural phenomena, exciting events like tornadoes, trees falling down on windless days, fish dropping from the sky. “What, no ravens cawing loudly, He’s a complete bastard. Someone’s got it in for him? You are no help!” I teased. “Still, in my line, what’s new?”

  “That stuff is a bit old hat,” Lemni joshed back. “These days, if a lion whelps in the street we just call in the aediles to capture the mother and cub for public safety … I bet you love a victim who was unpopular with everyone,” he said, grinning. “Such a large cache of suspects!”

  “I like a challenge,” I replied, as I got to my feet. “I see I am in for days of disgruntlement from this man’s enemies. I wonder how many will tell me they loathed his guts yet swear they never gave him the heave-ho off Tarpeia’s Rock. All of them will gloat at me that I can’t prove anything against them, at the same time as they assure me they are ecstatic that he is dead…”

  Lemni winked. Then he offered to arrange a private observation to ask the gods about my chances. Those two must be busy entrepreneurs: they had denarius signs in their eyes. I guessed their freelance work funded a huge investment portfolio—if I accepted their offer, I foresaw my budget withering.

  I declined gently. I was already starting to believe my inquiry would be hopeless. I noticed they never suggested their bird- or star-watching could actually find evidence. “I have my own methods. Let me give it a try solo. Thank you, amiable ones. I have enjoyed our chat, but since you have no clues for me, I must tiptoe across to sniff around the janitor’s hut where the dead man had been living.”

  They both reared to their feet in polite farewell. The augur bowed. Since lightning was so much a part of their work, Larth even asked whether I would like him to consult the gods about my husband’s recovery. Lemni, who had spotted my scepticism earlier, was quick to say we could have mates’ rates.

  “You act for private citizens a lot?” I asked, as one freelance to another pair.

  “Top-sector obs, with attractive money-off discounts. A certificate of prophecy on special papyrus for a small extra fee. Full reviews from satisfied clients. Answer a few simple questions and you are guaranteed to be accepted. Bird of choice.”

  “From a specific selection?”

  “Crow or eagle. Or on our most basic fee-scale, which we do not recommend to you, Albia, Larth will do you any flock that passes over.”

  If they thought they could swing it on me, this off-colour pair had been living in the Citadel’s rarefied atmosphere too long. But I said I would ask Tiberius, even though I guessed he would decide we preferred the future to come as a surprise. “My husband is very traditional.”

  “Oh, tight with his cash!” quipped Lemni.

  “No, the aedile has always been generous with me.”

  “Understandable!” cried the augur, sounding just the wrong side of flirtatious while he eyed me up as if I were a particularly rare alignment of planets.

  I had been squeezed in a tent with two dubious men for long enough. I lowered my eyes modestly and escaped.

  VII

  Ostentation does not impress me. While I walked dow
n through the Grove of Asylum and up the other side, I shot baleful looks at the Temple of Jupiter Best and Greatest. It is too huge. Four times as large as the Temple of Juno behind me, garish with its golden roof and plated doors, flashing its massive topknot of a four-horse chariot, then there is more: as well as that careering quadriga, the three gods sit enthroned on the pediment, above a totally excessive glittering spread eagle, while on either side of them thrash other two-horse vehicles, carrying sun and moon divinities. In Olympus there is no escape from your relations. Gods from that fractured family also cluster on the roof, thinking about how lovely they look and where to go next for a love affair …

  At ground level the sanctuary needed a good clear-out. As well as the bright white hexastyle double colonnade in front, with its single side colonnades, our emperor had dumped up here four ancient columns created from the rostra of captured ships. People collect this clutter then need to find a home for it. The entire walled precinct, covering most of the hill, was clogged with shrines, statues, altars, and as many trophies from forgotten wars as could be squashed in.

  By comparison, the replacement hut, renamed the Temple of Jupiter Custos, Jupiter the Guardian, was neat and tasteful. It had an altar illustrating Domitian’s night of adventure on beautifully cut marble panels. Jupiter extended a protective arm above the grateful Flavian youth as he courageously eluded capture. My mother corresponds with a doctor in Alexandria who suggested that extreme terror when Domitian was eighteen might have triggered his paranoia. Helena Justina had had to destroy the letter since anybody paranoid would call it treason.

  The caretaker who hid him was not pictured. Still, he won his perks. The pretty little shrine of Jupiter Custos was sited in the lee of the big temple. Attached to the shrine was a modest staff lodging. Perhaps any caretaker was now obliged to keep a pile of rugs, under which any fleeing princelings could be concealed.

  * * *

  Some people say Domitian was hidden by a kennel-keeper. Rubbish! They have consulted the wrong encyclopaedia, some trove of lightweight scholarship that claims the caretaker looks after the dogs that historically guarded the Capitol. Idiots. Those would be the dogs that failed to bark when invasion threatened—which is why Juno’s geese, who did raise the alarm, are treated regally and carried in processions on purple cushions. Centuries later the geese are still there, still doing a great job as thuggish security guards. Trust me, the dogs were banished. Consider this, easily fooled encyclopedia-readers: no frugal Flavian emperor will pay twice for the same service.

  Enough. I could calm down. Other people were getting themselves worked up.

  * * *

  Two men were having an argument. Listening in, I waited for them to finish. When they seemed disinclined to pause, I took out a waxed tablet and pretended to make notes.

  Being watched by a quiet woman with a scathing expression will eventually stop most men having a spat. For one thing, they end up wanting to sound off at her instead. Also, no one in Rome likes a stranger who turns up and carefully writes things down, in case something they have done or said gets reported to Domitian.

  They stopped. They stared at me.

  They were, I had gathered from their furious quarrel, the caretaker, who wanted to reclaim his hut, and the stand-in transport manager, who had grabbed the place from his dead colleague. Like his predecessor, the new bully meant to stay put. So long as he lingered, the caretaker would come here every day and give him hell for it. As the augur indicated, there would be no compromise.

  Once they paused, I told them who I was and what I had been hired to do. I suggested the cart-organiser should go inside the hut where he could play with his logistical lists, while I had a few words with the caretaker. Later, I would come and talk transport. Neither liked it, but they were so curious, both grumpily agreed.

  * * *

  My first witness, the caretaker, was a pug-nosed, curly-haired precinct watchman of the standard swarthy type. Squat of build and short of polish, he was either an ex-slave himself or had slavery in his pedigree. He looked as if they had carved him out of bedrock; he behaved like the king of the heights. His name was Callipus. He was the kind of worker who moans that he has a one-man job that is very lonely—whereas in fact he spends all day leaning on a broom talking to people. He wore a neutral-coloured tunic with one sleeve missing, a man pretending to do manual work, though I guessed his duties were light.

  I took no notes. I let him rant. I am famously intolerant, but I do sometimes quietly watch witnesses unburden themselves. It fills in time while I am wondering what the heck to ask them next.

  I learned that he was employed to guard the mighty Temple of Jupiter, together with its environs on the Capitol, though he did not have to patrol the Arx: Juno Moneta had her own staff. His patch included the Temple of Faith, the Temple of Vejovis, many altars and statues, including the monumental altar dedicated by the Senate when the Empress Livia was seriously ill. There was also a famous contentious trophy that showed a Numidian prince called Jugurtha being handed over to Rome, an episode of murder, bribery and betrayal: Marius and Sulla in bitter rivalry over who deserved the triumph, thereby sparking civil war. My trophy is better than your trophy. My war is justified.

  The caretaker kept the area clean and tidy. He prevented theft. His duties were to shoo away vagrants, shout at drunks, kick pickpockets, and try at least to deter the usual idlers who hang about hoping to pick up someone for sex. Shrines are sordid places.

  I had assumed Rome’s great temples were mainly at risk because of their huge deposits of treasure, gifted by the grateful over many centuries. Gold, said my witness, could be locked down in the vaults. Stealing from the cella upstairs—statuary, precious vessels used in sacrifice or a goddess’s earrings—was such a serious crime that it was rare. The real worry for state authorities was a secret one: temples contain weaponry. Returning generals offer up arms they have seized. Since Rome, a self-professed warlike nation, was founded seven hundred years ago, there is a monstrous amount of this military paraphernalia. None can ever be removed. It is a gift to the gods.

  You bet it is. Generals’ wives don’t want that terrible clutter in their fashionable homes.

  What the weaponry meant, Callipus told me, was that Rome’s fear of armed mobs could easily come true: all any rebel or gangster needed to do was break into a few temples and grab the mouldering trophies of their ancestors. One aspect does deter them, though: most Romans would not be seen dead carrying curly foreign swords and sickles or wearing exotic barbarian armour.

  The Roman “trophy” was familiar to me: a tall frame made of crossed bundles of javelins, an empty breastplate stuck up like a very fancy scarecrow, with a helmet balanced on top, shields and flags added according to taste. A couple of these monuments were rusting away in the open air on the Capitol, pieces so old that, although in theory thieves could snaffle them, any leather was ready to disintegrate and even the ironwork would shatter under stress. No robber was likely to bother.

  That explained, I thought drily, why if you wanted to murder an obnoxious transport manager, you wouldn’t bother stabbing him with some ancient blade that might snap. You would push him off a rock instead.

  “This is my busy time. It’s always hard when we have a triumph,” grumbled Callipus. “Every temple is thrown open so the gods can join the party, and there is endless talk of weapons. It gives the wrong people all the wrong ideas.” I nodded sympathetically. He careered on: “Well, you see what I’m saying, Flavia Albia. I need to be here on the spot. I need to be really vigilant. And that swine landed me in it with my mother as well. She has already had enough of me and I can’t bear the idiot she lives with. So the transport man had no business heaving me out of my proper hut like he did.”

  Callipus had wound up and come back to the point of his own accord.

  “Let’s get to him!” I said, breaking in anyway to remind him I meant business. “Tell me all about this interloper.”

  His name was Gabin
us and he was a right stinker.

  “Thank you, Callipus. You are the first person who has provided me with anything factual about the dead man.”

  There was more. Much more.

  Gabinus was a pushing-and-shoving, throwing-his-weight-about, chancing-his-arm general menace. He was short and hated anyone to mention it. He was skinny, pigeon-toed, rumpled, ill-shaven, near-sighted and deaf to reason. He had mean beady eyes and a country accent. He wore a red tunic with black braid. He believed all women would fall at his feet; surprisingly, some did. He also had dodgy-looking business contacts who came up to see him here at all hours.

  “Who were they?” I managed to ask.

  “No idea.”

  “Isn’t it your job to monitor oddball visitors?”

  “No, not at the moment. With Domitian due to come up to the sanctuary, a Praetorian has turned up to do identity checks.”

  I would need to speak to him. Internally I groaned. I hate Praetorian guards.

  “This is just what I don’t need!” Callipus wailed. “People of all sorts wandering about here when we are trying to get the place nice for the Emperor’s do.”

  He gave me a look. I was a person of dubious sort, wandering about. Luckily in my work suspicion of me is normal. I gave him a look back. I have interviewed a great many suspects. I ignore what they think. Even the ones who can think tend not to be trained in philosophy.

  Crunch time: “Thank you for such a detailed portrait. I can certainly see why he annoyed you. So, Callipus, let me ask: if somebody shoved the ghastly Gabinus off Tarpeia’s Rock—was it you?”