Lindsey Davis - Enemies at Home

‘He wouldn’t!’

Maybe Galla asked him, but Polycarpus hadn’t mentioned it to his wife. I always assume men do not tell their wives anything those wives might disapprove of.

Think about it. If Galla Simplicia restored friendly relations with Polycarpus by persuading her cousin to offer him a job, then Polycarpus, the all-knowing, wheeling, dealing facilitator, might have been able to tell Galla who the criminals were around the Clivus Suburanus. If he didn’t know to start with, people Polycarpus knew could tell him.

I had seen him operating. He could work out how to make contact. Adept at dropping the right word in the right ear, he could fix a secret meet. I bet the neighbourhood’s chief gangster either knew who Polycarpus was, or had sidekicks willing to vouch for him. After which, employment is always welcome to businessmen, including gangsters. It would be short work for them to tender for the job, agree a price, claim a deposit, programme the work, receive the necessary victim-profile and a sketch plan of the apartment, then do the deed.

Polycarpus would have been able to arrange for someone to open the door. Maybe the timescale of his trip downstairs ‘on a whim’ was all wrong, and he came for this purpose.

Maybe he unlocked the door himself.

On the other hand, maybe Polycarpus was exactly as he made out: an honest, hardworking, loyal long-term servant of a master who might yet have resisted the beseeching of his misguided new wife. Aviola might never have replaced Polycarpus with Onesimus as Mucia wanted. Sextus Simplicius could have got this wrong. Or Onesimus might make a hash of the work in Campania and lose his chance.

Even if Aviola was ready to dump Polycarpus, maybe Polycarpus remembered too much about Galla from the old days. He might not want to work for her cousin.

Even if he did, surely Polycarpus still had more sense than to assist Galla Simplicia with a crime that carried a death sentence?

Ideas were jumping up like sand-flies. But I concealed them from Graecina, who had concerns of her own. A young child started mithering in another room, so I took my leave.

I went for my planned interview with Galla’s son.

Marcus Valerius Simplicianus was twenty-five, an age when ambitious young Roman men can be awarded political positions. But this waste of space would not be standing for office. The only thing he would work hard at — very hard — was avoiding work.

His mother thought he was wonderful. Everyone else saw through it, but that did not impinge on Valerius, who himself happily believed the myth.

I thought it was extremely unfair that the gods had given this ning-nong-ninnying noodle such beautiful eyelashes.

He had lashes like an unweaned prize calf. Most women I knew would drool with envy. One or two would drool all over him, because of his eye decorations, though I myself was repulsed. I like effective men.

The remaining parts of Valerius are not worth noting. I could see only slight resemblance to his mother, a pleasant-looking woman, nor did he share any facial features with the ceramic plaque of his republican-style father. So much for art.

He had an annoying voice. His nasal whine was even more trying because he could not pronounce his ‘r’s. Either he could not manage it because of a real defect, or he simply could not be bothered to speak properly. I thought it an affectation.

Of course I was not prejudiced against him, which would be unprofessional. He was a witness, possibly a suspect. I therefore remained entirely neutral about the idle, no-good, exasperating, spoiled brat.

‘You look as if you don’t like me!’ So he was not entirely an idiot.

We had a short, brisk interview. I asked bluntly if he had wanted to kill his father; he looked amused at the suggestion and denied it. Believing in himself so much, Valerius Simplicianus was unable to imagine his papa ever doing him down − which meant he really did lack motive. His line was, ‘The old man could be annoying, but when all was said and done, we got on fine.’

In other words, since Aviola could not possibly take against such a perfect heir, the heir had no reason to murder his father. Did he?

Weight was against him. His skinny wrists would never manage the steady force needed to strangle someone.

So I asked about his mother and how people were saying she harboured murderous thoughts. To that, Valerius replied in the same languorous, unconcerned tone: ‘Well, the old lady goes off into a world of her own sometimes, but she wouldn’t harm a fly. She’s horribly distressed about what happened − and really you ought not to hound her.’

I said I was sorry if his mother felt hounded. All anybody wanted was to discover the truth about this terrible crime. ‘Me too!’ answered the wonderboy, speaking very earnestly. He had put on his serious face. He leaned towards me and seemed to think he had cleverly deflected my enquiries.

His mother came into the room at that point. There was no point tying to dissect the son while Mama was supervising.

Since the executor, Simplicius, had been keeping quiet about the ex-wife and children when I spoke to him, he had of course misled me on Aviola’s will. I now ascertained from Galla Simplicia that when Simplicius vaguely spoke of ‘a number of bequests to close relatives and old friends’ this included recognition of his three children. Being an effete wastrel, Valerius knew in full what he was due. (They have to. How else will they live? Besides, legacy-hunting is a very Roman occupation.)

He seemed oblivious to the implications of admitting he had known he would come into money when his father died, though I could tell from his mother’s narrow expression that she was well aware it made him a suspect.

I took my leave.

I still had an open mind about Galla Simplicia. I needed evidence. If she had plotted, then let her think she had escaped, while I dug deeper.

I doubted that she killed the couple herself. Strangulation can be a woman’s method, but not when it involves more than one person at a time — well, except when a deranged mother kills all her infant children. Aviola and Mucia together could have driven her off. More importantly, Galla Simplicia did not have the physical strength to have beaten the door porter, Nicostratus. More than one attacker must have taken part, and whoever did it really knew how to inflict fatal damage.

That presumably indicated robbers — though it might not. I was supposed to be investigating the slaves, and if they really were guilty, I must start wondering whether any robbers had been involved at all that night. Or was the story a cover-up?

I wanted to pursue that. Manlius Faustus had insisted that my commission was not to include contact with criminals. That wouldn’t stop me if it was needed.

However, so long as there are alternatives I am not foolish. I had not yet tried consulting the vigiles. Perhaps they had wise words to offer on this case (feel free to guffaw). Then, if I did decide to go behind my employer’s back, at least the vigiles could tell me first which ghastly local gangsters might have been involved. But I presumed they had questioned the usual suspects.

I had to steel myself to visit the Second Cohort. For a woman, even talking to the vigiles means a trial of courage and personality, especially in a strange district. I needed to get this over with before I lost my nerve.

‘I’m glad to know I haven’t lost my touch!’

Uncle Quintus, the handsome, likeable one of my Camillus uncles, surprised me by arriving at the Aviola apartment. I was just slinking out, with a stole wrapped around me to look like a respectable matron. He claimed he had guessed what I would be up to. I kept mum and glared.