Flavia Albia Mystery 09 - A Comedy of Terrors Page 8

  I explained that my plebeian prince had tied up his limited collateral in construction projects; it was up to me to cover home comforts and bills. Naevius shook his head and suggested I should have gone for a consul who had too many olive groves to count. Then he offered, “There is a seek-and-find that’s being hawked around, if you are interested.”

  “I know that kind of job!” I scoffed. “When an informer offers to pass on work rather than hogging it himself, he’s either too busy—clearly not your situation, if you don’t mind me saying so—or this job is so dire he can’t face it.”

  Naevius told me anyway: a priestess was trying to trace her twins, lost as babies in a shipwreck and carried off by raging waves in two directions.

  “Where?”

  As good Romans, we shared a Greek joke: “Epidamnum maybe.”

  “Epidaurus?”

  “Could be Ephesus.”

  “I think you mean Metapontum.”

  “No, I say it was Corinth.”

  “That’s capital! When were those twins lost? How long ago was this shipwreck?”

  “Twenty-five years.”

  We both guffawed. She hadn’t a hope. Neither of us would be daft enough to touch it.

  XIII

  Another informer wandered along the arcade and talked to Naevius. I could tell his trade from his hangdog air and the old fish-pickle down his tunic. He should ask for a comb for Saturnalia. His eyes were piggy, his belly bulging, his manner shifty. I didn’t know his name. He had stopped to quiz us on whether we had work, worried in case someone else in the profession might be doing better than him.

  “Overloaded!” Naevius had seemed too honest for this. I was impressed.

  Taking my cue to bluff, I looked mysterious while I murmured, “Can’t give any details. Upper-crust people. Confidentiality agreement.”

  Naevius shot me an admiring look; he would use that line in future. “Aedile’s wife,” he whispered to the other man. “She has special access to the cream of the jobs.”

  I simpered. “Only until January, Naevius! Then he’s at a loose end and I shall be all on my poor little lonesome again. Who knows how I shall manage?”

  Naevius knew. I would never rely on my husband, or anyone else, to find me commissions; even solo I fixed myself up with a good portfolio. Continuing to tease the deadbeat, he then asked, “How is your love-life, my old pomegranate? Making any progress?” That was enough to send the sorry specimen scuttling off into the twilight.

  “An idiot,” Naevius assessed him. “He brings me his troubles, when I have time to waste listening.”

  “You are a good, consoling friend. What were you prodding him about?”

  “He has his hopeless eye on a singer, smart, attractive, she even finds him a catch for some terrible reason.” I winced. “I think he got her into bed once, but he cannot or will not follow through. She is bored and in despair of him. The first festival offer she gets, the stunning soprano will disappear for ever into someone else’s life story.”

  “And he will have no idea why!” I agreed.

  We discussed why many investigators are hopeless with relationships. It was too easy to blame the antisocial hours, poor pay, danger, weather, stress and drink. Naevius, who was my kind of philosopher, complained, “In our job you need empathy, staying power, understanding of people. Is it impossible to apply those skills to your own life? I don’t see why every other informer fails to commit himself, fails to organise a regular home with his slippers by the bed, keeps missing promised appointments with his girl—”

  “Especially if it’s her birthday or it was supposed to be dinner with her mother,” I added.

  “You’ve met these fellows! Classic mismanagement. He forgets the time, he doesn’t read letters, he rushes off from meals because he’s just had a clever thought about a suspect, then, worst crime of all, he is deaf to the vital question of where they should take their summer break.”

  Again, I agreed. “A lot of our colleagues never let go and take a holiday at all. But, Naevius, I’ve known informers who could pinpoint any suspect, all while they had a twinkle in the eye, hilarious gossip and the know-how to mend shutters. Those bright stars generally manage to sort out their lives. They’re gold. Yet we both know your average private agent always falls for the wrong woman. Even if he does find a good one, he simply can’t bring himself to approach her, so she slips away.”

  “Don’t women informers choose the wrong man too?” Naevius argued back. It was fair. Such even-handedness was surprising in a cynical man who did legal work.

  “Oh, yes! Even I have picked losers enough times.”

  “But you are married now.”

  “So I am. I slipped out of character! The gods weren’t happy—poor thing, he was struck by lightning.”

  “I heard. Only you, Albia!” I really could not see why half the world said that, as if my weird choices were a Forum legend. Naevius continued jokily: “I was surprised to see you out and about today. Rumour says you’re stuck at home these days. Haven’t you adopted children?”

  “You keep up with the news!”

  “It’s the job, dear. So, what is this foolishness, Albia?”

  “Husband’s nephews. Poor little ducklings left motherless. They are staying with us for a while,” I said, boot-faced. “Their father is alive, he’s useless, but we have not formally adopted.”

  “Yet!” Naevius teased, with a grin. “You will make them a lovely mother.”

  I stiffened. “Why not annoy me properly? Do not hold back, Naevius. Tell me this will stop me being an informer. Juno, just say—in case I haven’t noticed for myself—it must be the end of everything!”

  Naevius, wise man, decided he would hold back. He sat on his stool looking calm. This must be how he reacted at difficult moments when advising clients in tribunal cases. A judge might be impressed.

  We changed the subject. “Have you heard any whispers about a nut-sellers’ war, Naevius?”

  “Not my area of expertise. But no. Surely you are too wise to mix with something like that, Albia?”

  “Husband. Along with the vigiles.”

  “And you are working with them?”

  “No. I am waiting for them to be totally stuck. Then I want to show them how it’s really done. In the meantime, they let me stay around looking ornamental. I can hand around the snacks bowls.”

  “No wonder you need work of your own! Don’t worry,” said Naevius. “The crazed clients are all out there, Albia. Daft people are bitterly thinking they have had enough, while telling themselves they may as well wait until after Saturnalia, now it’s here. Some may really do something about their problems in the New Year. We shall be seeing enough clients then. We always do.”

  Naevius promised to tell me if he heard anything about nuts, and we parted company.

  I crossed the darkened Forum, skirted the Palatine, the meat market and the far end of the Circus Max, reached the Aventine, then began to climb the hill. I could hear the hum from bars increasing, as other businesses closed and early-evening drinkers gathered. The Clivus Publicius, my route uphill, generally had a few lights showing. At least its more unfriendly dogs had been taken in. The young man I saw yesterday demanding his money back from Pinarius was still nagging him angrily in a shadowed doorway.

  “I could have retrieved that cash for you by now!” I called. I don’t think he heard me. He was too intent on ranting, while Pinarius continued dodging the issue.

  Further up the road, outside a caupona with flares lighting its counter, the shyster who had been locked out of home by his wife was now being harangued by a goldsmith who was owed cash for a necklace—perhaps commissioned for the wife, though more likely to give to that floozy at the Temple of Diana. I heard no mention of the parrot.

  At the corner of Lesser Laurel Street, I met Dromo. He had been sent out to my parents’ house to look for me; when he turned up there my mother must have returned home after the candelabrum incident. Helena Justina had told D
romo he would never catch up if he came after me to the Saepta. Besides, he might get lost (she was a good judge of slaves). She told him to go home, where I would return eventually. Although he obeyed Helena, Dromo was hanging around out of doors, kicking his heels, not wanting to go in to report he had failed to find me.

  “Well, here I am, Dromo. You won’t be in trouble, but I wish you had a lantern. What was urgent?”

  “Tiberius Manlius only wanted me to say he has finished the lock and stopped spitting flames, so you can come home now.”

  I chuckled, then set off briskly to give this interesting man a hug.

  On the home approach, I had already taken off my cloak and fetched out my key when I stopped. Gratus had hung a light in the porch. Below it, something lay on our top doorstep. The thing was face up, looking at me. For a moment my brain could not take this in. An animal head. Familiar from the dark mark on the long face, it was our animal’s, hacked off and bloody. Our disembodied friend, now with her eyes glassy in death: Sheep.

  XIV

  Though rarely squeamish, I stood there transfixed. Sheep? Positioning our butchered pet for one of us to find was vile. A planned assault. I was horrified.

  Gaius and Lucius must have looked out and seen us coming. As children’s happy voices came closer from indoors, Dromo realised I could not move. He snatched my cloak from over my arm, dropped it and gathered up the ghastly head. Almost at once the boys tumbled out to greet us, followed by Gratus, who had opened the door for them. Dromo swung the hideous bundle behind himself, acting so nonchalant that even sharp-eyed little Gaius did not spot it.

  Gratus saw. “Some terrible message to Tiberius Manlius,” I muttered to the steward. “After his actions last night, I fear.” The boys were pulling my hands, dragging me indoors to look at decorations. Dromo flashed Gratus a look into his bundle; Gratus blenched. Less troubled, Dromo sauntered off across the courtyard with his usual dreamy attitude.

  “Albia, Albia, look, look!”

  Holly, a tree sacred to Saturn in his winter role, now hung above doors and was wrapped around pillars with swathes of cypress and ivy. The garlands twinkled occasionally with moons and stars. Gratus went around carefully lighting oil lamps and candles. I dutifully feigned joy. “Ooh! Somebody did a lot of work here while I was out. Now listen, boys. Those constellations really belong to Falco and Helena, but my sisters have very kindly said they can be yours now.”

  What Julia and Favonia had really screamed was: “Eeurgh, we don’t want that awful old tat, Albia! We went and bought brilliant new ones from the Campus Martius—sooo much more stylish!” Learning how to buy things on my parents’ credit had transformed my sisters into shopping harpies.

  They had warned me my brother had made some false eyes. I did not tell the boys that, since Postumus would want to jump out to scare them himself. Besides, right now the thought of eyeballs made me feel sick.

  I freed myself from the children, needing to find Tiberius. However, I took a decision without him. If our house had attracted the wrong attention, we needed security. I called Dromo. “I want you to go to Fountain Court. You know where it is, don’t argue. Take your handcart; you’ll be bringing someone’s possessions back.”

  “What is it? I don’t want to go on any horrible errand.”

  He was right: it was horrid.

  “Dromo—fetch Rodan!”

  XV

  A classic Roman townhouse turns inwards. It has high walls, generally blank or with only small, barred or shuttered windows on the outside. Its principal rooms form a semi-public space, glimpsed through the guarded doorway with its traditionally rude porter, but there is no real free access. To be invited inside is a privilege; how far visitors can penetrate is a measure of their prestige. Deliveries often arrive at the back, which can be a weak point. Burglary is a routine problem in Rome. Safety and privacy matter—as do the traditional horrors of keeping out wives’ adulterous lovers, daughters’ seducers, slaves’ pesky light-fingered cronies and stray dogs.

  Dogs are a popular home accessory, however. Often a big one with a spiked collar growls at the main entrance—or, at least, people have a jolly mosaic showing one. The fact that a black and white pictorial cur may be a house’s only security measure proves Romans may be masters of the civilised arts—but it has not made them sensible.

  Mind you, you have to live. The freeborn do not want to feel they live in prisons.

  We had Barley, who was little more than a shy lapdog, and Drax, who barked loudly but had gone on holiday. Sometimes we were protected by have-a-go Trypho sleeping in the yard. Currently he was away too. Now we were to have a donkey with an untested reputation for seeing off intruders—and Rodan. It would not be enough. Tiberius sent Paris to find Larcius, who supervised his workforce, hoping he had not yet gone on holiday. (No, because first his ladyfriend had to despatch her husband to visit his auntie in Beneventum.) Extra masonry to raise the height of the yard wall must be built up tomorrow. Also, Larcius had to surrender the outbuilding that had been his site office, as Rodan would now live there.

  Rodan turned up that evening with Dromo, then straight away went home again. Before he agreed to live with us, he would have to get used to the idea. He hadn’t even brought his things.

  Tiberius had dealt with him. I let the man of the house address the problem. “Of course you can choose, Rodan. We are entirely in your hands. But you could be very happy here—warm family environment, easy work, few visitors to process, lots of back-up from Gratus and the other staff. Take it or leave it.”

  Rodan chose to leave it. Unfortunately, on the way here, Dromo had told him that we also had criminals coming in to steal from us, then leaving us bloody messages in the very doorway he was supposed to guard. Rodan, the pathetic chicken, was scared to come.

  Tiberius braved out the situation, assuring everyone we had good new locks. In private he confessed to me that the locksmith had said these were top-of-the-range mechanisms, but if a previous lock had been skilfully picked, the same people could get past any replacement. They must own the secret tools that locksmiths carry for opening up when feckless owners lose their keys.

  Tiberius also admitted how, after I left that afternoon, he had given up struggling and called in the locksmith. The new locks had been properly installed, which apparently was a rapid job, if you knew what you were doing. There had been nothing wrong with the mechanism: the locksmith admitted he had thought the key he gave me might be stiff. Had he come in the first place, he would have dealt with it on the spot and we need never have known there was a problem …

  I gazed at my husband gently.

  “I love you,” he said, looking meek. He knew the talk.

  “I know you do, my darling. And I love you too. I shall let you tell your nephews that their precious sheep has died.”

  “Do we need to say anything?”

  “Their sharp little ears catch any gossip. They are bound to hear something so let’s be honest.”

  Tiberius scratched his ear uncomfortably, but he was a good man so he went and did it. Soon Lucius had rushed up to his bedroom, crying for his mother all over again, while Gaius buried himself in the stable; if anyone approached, he threw himself among the straw and yelled that he hated all of us. Until today we had been making progress, but now we were back where we started in the long bereavement process.

  At least this meant we had our hands full; we could spare no time for dwelling on the severed-head threat. Criminals can be very blinkered. They do not grasp that a householder and his wife have neither time nor energy to respond to stupid gestures. We are fully taken up with real domestic issues: how to persuade everyone to come for their dinner, then how to get them all to bed afterwards.

  Dinner, thank the gods, was mullet. No sign of mutton cheeks with onion and carrots, sheep’s tongue confit, pickled eyes or brains. Bedtime passed off with no more kicking, yelling and escaping to play downstairs again than usual.

  “I wonder how Cornelia, mother of t
he Gracchi, handled daily life?” I said to Tiberius. “There she goes, annoying woman, primly mouthing, ‘These are my jewels’—but did her two jewels never act up like hysterical little monsters when they did not want to go to bed?”

  He was feeling the strain. “You are being very good about all this. I will buy you a necklace for the festival—if that doesn’t make me a cliché guilty husband.”

  “Don’t. A woman cannot wear necklaces with children around her, or she’ll end up strangled. I want hand cream, please, and a massive flask of some top-strength sleeping drug.”

  Tiberius nodded. He smiled. “Hand cream it shall be. All I need is a hint.”

  So, I told him he was a lovely man and he told me to come here.

  * * *

  Later, when the house lay dark and silent, cocooned in bedroom privacy I found myself remembering a pottery model that had once come through Father’s auction house. He reckoned its origin was Gaul. It showed a miniature bed, with a man and a woman fast asleep in each other’s arms under a blanket; their dog lay curled up on their feet. Forget that tired label “votive offering,” as is often applied. It was simply a lovely object. I never saw it catalogued; I suspect Falco pulled it out for Helena.

  Before that memory, I had been having more troubled thoughts: anxiety about our home being under assault by gangsters. The men who took Sheep probably knew we had children in the house: they could be threatening them next. They had been inside our property; they might come in again. No protection strategy is ever foolproof.

  I felt upset, though for me fear was old news. Alone on the streets of Londinium, I had once known every terror there is. Many of them came true. But that was long ago, and in a distant province.