Lindsey Davis - Enemies at Home

This was not my house, but I issued the invitation, so it counted as the same.

When they appeared, Uncle Quintus greeted me with a fond kiss on the cheek, so Manlius Faustus followed his example, more diffidently since he was not a relative; still, it was unforced.

I led them to Aviola and Mucia’s summer dining room. There were three formal couches, big cushioned three-seaters, so we spread ourselves and flopped on one each. I had laid out the food and drink on the central serving table. It was a stretch, but we helped ourselves, in the absence of slaves. Dromo had moaned that he had to go to the baths again. Myla could have served us, but she had made herself invisible all afternoon. I wondered if that was what people meant when they said ‘Oh, she’s just Myla’ — she had a faultless instinct for when to keep out of the way?

It must have been in all our minds that this was where the feast took place on the night of the murders. The room was decorated in sea-green and white, a delicate palette, with refined panels of garden scenes, where an occasional painted dove frolicked on a scalloped fountain. The frescos looked new, as if redone for the wedding. I wondered if Mucia Lucilia had instigated that — the new wife, beginning to exert her influence?

Empty buffet shelves would once have held the stolen silver wine set. We had to eat and drink from pottery. But the pottery here was glossy red-glazed ware from northern Italy, with elegant scenes of hares and running antelopes. In this household, even the items left behind when the rest was packed up for Campania were more than decent.

I had folded back the wooden doors, which made the room airy and gave a sense of space. The view of the courtyard needing prettying up; Mucia cannot yet have started on that.

Perhaps on the feast night they hired tubs of topiary and draped the place with garland swags. There would have been lights. By the time of the attack, if witness statements were correct, the lamps had been put out, most probably removed; I had seen them, now routinely stacked in a store room. No doubt as soon as the guests left, someone went around and saved lamp oil. That was the kind of household Polycarpus ran. It could have been done while the debris was being cleared and the table goods washed in the kitchen.

The feast ended at a reasonable hour, then my guess was that the tidying up happened at some speed. The master and mistress had an early start next morning and they were eager for bed. They would have wanted all domestic bustle to be out of the way and the house quiet.

At our own little feast, Manlius Faustus, Camillus Justinus and I had been silent. We all gave proper respect to meals and were rather introspective anyway, each perhaps pondering the day’s events.

When the moment arrived to talk, my two companions praised my hospitality. It is always good to have your efforts noted. I let them vie with each other over showing good manners. Neither was a slimy flatterer. They both knew I was not taking it seriously.

Work occasionally had such sociable moments, often over a meal. It made me realise that although I managed well alone, I would like things to be different. Mind you, only in the right circumstances. According to my little sisters, I have impossibly high standards.

Justinus and Faustus took turns at narrating what they had learned from the tribune. Although he had not added much that was new, he coloured in some details about the gang and their influence. The tribal chief was ‘old Rabirius’, a vindictive degenerate going on eighty, whose habits were as filthy as his attitude was hard-bitten. He was born into crime; he had links with all the traditional organised crime families.

I glanced at Uncle Quintus. ‘Yes,’ he confirmed quietly. ‘His family tree runs inexorably into that of the late unlamented bugbear, Balbinus Pius − their mothers were sisters.’

Balbinus Pius had been a leading gangster who, after years of violent trafficking, thievery, the sex trade, illegal gambling and intimidation had been tracked down by my father and Uncle Petro. After his death, when his criminal empire was carved up and handed on to willing associates, most was inherited by his son-in-law, a cursed man called Florius. Many years ago and far from Rome, I fell into the clutches of this Florius. I hated him, with good reason. Even the thought of him, or anyone connected to him, agitated me.

Justinus did not explain to the aedile. I never talked about the past but Faustus was shrewd. He had caught the nuance.

My uncle, frowning, chewed an apple and fell silent as he remembered past adventures. Manlius Faustus, looking thoughtful, took up the story.

Like the Balbinus empire, the Rabirii ran lowlife bars, also engaging in stealing and prostitution rackets, much of which took place in those bars. Profits often came from minor theft too − street crime such as snatching purses, even knocking people over and grabbing their small change. Their men raided baths. The women stole from shops, leaning across counters or in through windows. The whole clan took advantage of tipsy crowds at arena festivals or religious processions, though mainly they homed in on markets. Markets provide all kinds of opportunities.

‘Petty thefts add up,’ Faustus said. ‘They also carry out a great deal of house-breaking. They have been doing all this for generations and are experts. Old Rabirius receives a share of whatever his associates obtain, so he is a very wealthy and powerful figure.’

The Rabirii rarely dabbled in white-tunic crimes such as fraud. In a city full of spies and informants, where the emperor welcomed snitches, they kept out of the authorities’ sight, never passing on information unless it served their own purpose. They were tight. They dealt with their own quarrels, and did so harshly. They operated according to a tough moral code, a code based on terror, using both extreme mental pressure and physical pain. Like many cruel people, they pretended a high belief in family — though that only meant their own; their creed excluded any respect for the families of their many victims.

If they really had stolen the Aviola silver, it would be documented by accountants who worked on their payroll, slickly disguising their procedures and real income. Needless to say, the income would never be reported as taxable, though in this they hardly differed from many legitimate businesses in Rome. The Rabirii also had access to metalworkers who would melt down illicit goods and to fences who would slide items back into sleazy retail outlets when that would be more profitable. But if the silver here had been stolen to order, that didn’t seem to fit their usual methods.

‘They work for themselves and avoid contact with “respectable” people.’

‘Does that mean,’ I asked Faustus, ‘they are not for hire — even for murders?’

‘No, they hand out plenty of violence, but the tribune thought they would be very unlikely to act as paid killers.’

‘And anyway, I suppose even they might feel sentimental about killing a new bride!’

Faustus smiled at me. ‘I doubt the Rabirii are ever sentimental.’

Justinus agreed. ‘No, and they initiate their own crimes. It is a matter of pride not to carry out dirty work for others. That they see as menial. They do commit many robberies, and they do kill. However, mostly they go for other members of their own community, as a result of professional or family grudges.’

‘I presume they escape justice for that,’ I replied bitterly, ‘because the authorities simply think one less villain has to be good news.’

‘Exactly,’ said Faustus. ‘Feuds are common. Retaliation is fast. Bad feeling may simmer for decades, though if an act of violence or vengeance is seen as justified, everyone regards it as fair punishment and quickly forgets.’