Lindsey Davis - Enemies at Home

A reasonable fear. Many an older father prefers the fresh little infants of his still-warm second marriage to the ruder, more demanding children of a troubled first union. Galla’s three were old enough to have gone through their charmless adolescence, which can leave permanent bad feeling; in any case, Aviola may never have known his children well. Babies lie in their cradles blowing bubbles like helpless darlings who won’t cost any money, or cause family quarrels, or ever stop loving their besotted papa … Meanwhile the determined second wives are right on the scene, constantly reinforcing the new brood’s claims.

‘Galla Simplicia is a shrewd woman?’

‘Brutally,’ snarled Hermes.

‘Even so, to want two people dead seems extraordinary, let alone make it happen in such a terrible way. Are you certain Galla would do that?’

‘Absolutely!’ he assured me.

Without enthusiasm, I mused aloud that I would now have to trek to Campania, in order to interview this woman. Hermes barked with harsh laughter. According to him, Galla Simplicia would have heard that Aviola was dead, and was bound to be hot-footing it to Rome to make a claim on the estate.

‘Sit tight and you will soon meet her, whirling in to cause trouble!’

I could hardly wait.

I returned to Sextus Simplicius’ house, with angry words in mind, but he was ‘not at home’. I bet he had gone out on purpose, in case I came racing back to roar at him for withholding information. Alternatively, he was in, but not to me — hiding behind a door until I went away. I hoped he got cramp.

It was the steward who spoke to me. It would be wrong for me to inform him he might be displaced by Polycarpus, but he seemed shrewd. I suspected he knew his job was threatened. I felt sorry for him, and I wondered if an unhappy man might open up.

I sighed, genuinely weary. ‘Oh dear. I am running around in circles over this Aviola business. I just learned about his ex-wife, Galla Simplicia, and I desperately need to ask your master for more details. There is a rumour she is troublesome, and on her way to Rome.’ The steward, Gratus, smiled slightly. ‘I need some background, Gratus, before I have to run up against her … Still, I won’t ask you questions that you shouldn’t answer.’ Of course I planned to do just that.

Gratus, who was slim and rather elegant, opened his hands in an ironic gesture. ‘Flavia Albia, I cannot possibly give an opinion of the lady … and I warn you, my master won’t spill secrets.’

‘Oh? Are they on friendly terms? I suppose while she was married to Valerius Aviola she was part of the same circle, and may still be …’ I made it sound as if I was musing to myself.

‘She will stay with us,’ Gratus murmured, as if he too were talking aloud to himself. ‘I have the bed made up already …’ Then he enjoyed telling me: ‘Galla Simplicia and my master are first cousins.’

I offered my hand formally and shook his. It was acknowledgement for this help, while indicating I could not possibly offend him with anything so uncouth as a bribe.

Gratus definitely knew Polycarpus was about to steal his job. He was still a slave; there would be nothing he could do about it. I wished I knew someone in need of a good household steward to whom I could recommend him.

I had had a busy day. Returning to the Aviola apartment, I felt in no mood to prepare detailed notes for Manlius Faustus, but Dromo was hanging about expectantly, wanting to take my report.

First I found my oil flask and went out to some nearby baths, taking Dromo too. There was just time for me to have a quick wash and scrape in the women’s hour, then when the bell rang to announce men’s time I waited in a colonnade, scrawling brief notes for the aedile, while the messenger washed. I had promised him a cake, and was true to my word.

Dromo still smelt — of more than chopped nuts and custard.

‘How many tunics do you have, Dromo?’

‘One.’

I added a postscript to my notes: kindly supply your stinky boy with a spare garment! Please treat as urgent and make sure it has been laundered. Do this for me, most admirable Tiberius, so I can apply myself with a clear mind to the monster ex-wife. Should be good value. You know you want details.

I had no idea whether Faustus enjoyed gossip. If not, I could teach him. All you need is curiosity and a sense of humour. He had those.

Dromo sauntered off with my report, slavering over his pastry and getting custard on the note tablet.

I took a layered date-slice back with me to the apartment. Why should a slave have all the treats?

On the way I bought a hot pie too. This is not good nourishment, but the informers’ creed says the demands of our work compel us to live off unsuitable street food and large amounts of drink. Our life is hard. Some really like to suffer, so they attend experimental harp concerts or dangerous political readings, but after a day’s serious investigating, you risk falling asleep and wasting the ticket price.

I bought a flagon of cheap wine. You have to keep up the image.

Later, I was glad I stayed in or I would have missed a visitor. Galla Simplicia had rushed to Rome, where the minute she had dumped her travelling hat in her cousin’s spare room, she came straight here to view the scene of the crime.

If the murder of Aviola and Mucia was her crime, as Hermes believed, this stupidly drew attention to herself. Still, any woman who does arrange to have her ex-husband violently taken out by professional robbers must have a touch of the brash.

I guessed who she was, though she looked a perfectly ordinary woman. That’s evil schemers for you. If all those who plotted had talons and Medusa snake hair, identifying them would be too easy.

I had heard voices; I emerged from my room unnoticed. I stood quiet in the colonnade and watched.

Myla must have let her in. They were now on the oppos-ite side of the courtyard with their backs to me. Myla was waiting while the visitor squared up and went into the bedroom where the couple had been killed. I read in Myla’s slumped stance that she was unhappy about the situation, but of course she made no objection. Myla was too lethargic. For her part, Galla Simplicia had an air of determined authority, even viewed from behind.

Some women neglect their back view, but this one was pert, cinched and ringletted. Her coiffure must have taken half a day. I wondered if she had it done specially to come to Rome legacy-hunting.

It struck me that if Myla had been in this household for a long time, then Galla Simplicia had once been her mistress, giving her orders — and possibly even forming a sympathetic bond.

I stepped forward to stand between the columns, so as soon as Galla re-emerged she saw me. Myla immediately took herself off; it was the first time I had seen her walking, which she did with a languorous sway. Galla shot a tetchy glance after her (so I could see no residual friendship), then came towards me across the courtyard as if she belonged here and meant to send me packing.

I got in first. ‘Excuse me! Can I help you?’ I called out, implying who let you in without permission, and what do you think you are doing? ‘My name is Flavia Albia; I am working for the aedile Manlius Faustus. This is a crime scene, if you don’t know. We are not permitting ghoulish viewings. I will have to ask you to leave.’

Galla Simplicia braved it out well. She pulled her stole over her head, modestly burying her face in the material as if genuinely horrified by the hideous events. I could see her assessing me as she peeked out. ‘I meant no offence. I wanted to see where my husband died.’ For someone supposedly vindictive, her voice was surprisingly weak. A high, decently-spoken but thin voice: I took against it.