Lindsey Davis - Enemies at Home

‘So as we thought,’ I summed up, ‘given their record for house-breaking, the Rabirius gang might carry out the kind of robbery that supposedly took place here − but even so, they are very un likely to have killed Valerius Aviola and his wife.’

Both men nodded.

‘One other thing though. What about beating up the porter?’

Faustus seemed prepared for my question. ‘The tribune felt the Rabirii were quite capable of such violence, but they would never inflict it without a good reason. Unless there is something we don’t know, they would have had no social interaction with Aviola, and the porter himself, Nicostratus, would be way below their line of vision.’

‘Did the tribune suggest any other villains who might have robbed the house?’

‘No, he backed Titianus on that. Even if it was a rival gang, the Rabirii would by now have imposed a punishment − and very publicly, to reassert their supremacy.’

I tested another angle: ‘Could they harbour mavericks? Upstarts, who want to challenge the old man?’

‘Olympus, you do like to cover every feasible idea, Albia!’ Faustus in fact looked impressed. ‘It is possible. We were told there is a nephew, Roscius, the youngest of a large brood — brought up a favourite, and now testing his muscle. He specialises in burglary rather than street crime or brothel-mongering. So yes,’ Faustus concluded, ‘this nephew may be changing the pattern. The vigiles view him as the coming man. The tribune does not want to tackle him yet. His policy at present is to let Roscius run, while keeping him under observation. He won’t agree to any premature confrontation.’

‘You respect that view?’ I demanded.

‘I have to. In my role, I must work amicably with other law authorities.’

Justinus was watching us tangle.

‘Of course. So you must.’ I withdrew my objection gracefully. Faustus looked slightly alarmed by the ease with which he brought me round. Justinus hid a chuckle.

The men seemed to have convinced themselves that there was no organised crime involvement. Someone possessed the loot, however, so they had persuaded the Second’s tribune to order further enquiries at places where such silver might be sold on, putting extra pressure on retailers. Although Faustus had pretended to be satisfied that Titianus and his team had looked for the lost wine set at the apartment, he would tomorrow bring men of his own to carry out a discreet new search: a search of this house, plus the adjoining apartments and shops, then extending to the rest of the street if it could be done quietly.

‘I’ll tell my men not to be heavy-handed. Titianus need never know we have doubled up on his work. Householders won’t go running to him to complain.’

‘It’s certainly not the normal way of conducting an apartment-to-apartment search!’ I commented.

At this point, Uncle Quintus stretched and hauled himself off the couch. He begged to be excused; he wanted to go home in time to see his children put to bed. He was a good father, but even if that had not been the case, Claudia Rufina ruthlessly extracted a certain domesticity as payoff for his slightly untrustworthy past.

Faustus said he wanted to talk to me about the case, so I took Quintus to the front door. I said goodbye and watched him depart. He cut a good figure: taller than average, slim and raffishly good-looking, with his hair still dark as it flopped over his brow, and that ever-easy manner.

His two bodyguards had made themselves friendly with the leatherworkers. Quintus, naturally, strolled up to where they were all sitting on stools outside the shop and introduced himself. He shook hands with Secundus and Myrinus, a nice courtesy. I waited, and sure enough when he set off homewards, with the bodyguards limping behind him, Quintus Camillus Justinus had a tawny leather drawstring bag tucked beneath his arm, a handsome present to placate his wife. I expect he paid for it — but not the normal price.

A cluster of men were leaving a bar; otherwise the street was empty. It was still not late, a warm June night. Rome at its most benign.

I emerged from the long corridor and crossed the atrium. Myla had uncharacteristically deigned to appear; she was clattering bowls and scraping leftovers in the dining room. This commotion had driven out Faustus. He was standing in the courtyard, head thrown back, apparently enjoying the night air.

I fetched a light stole and was about to join him when someone began banging on the front door. I could hear it was Dromo, who was shouting at the top of his voice as if he thought he would be left outside all night. I went.

As soon as I opened up, the slave sauntered past me as if nothing had perturbed him, but then he ran into his master. Faustus had followed me; from his look of alarm he must be remembering how the porter was attacked that night when, if the story was correct, Nicostratus mistakenly let the wrong people indoors.

Unexpectedly, Faustus took his slave to task. ‘Where in Hades have you been, Dromo? A simple bathe should not take so long. In future, come back promptly. I do not want Flavia Albia having to answer the door to you when it’s late and could be dangerous!’

He rarely sounded so sharp. Dromo hung his head, like a child reluctantly playing sorry, but sulking.

‘Don’t look like that,’ Faustus ordered, keeping his voice level. ‘You were in the wrong, Dromo.’

The slave improved his expression then slouched off to lie on his mat. We heard him muttering complaints under his breath to some imaginary friend.

Manlius Faustus breathed deeply a few times to recover his calm. We took the two seats that were still outdoors. I selected the x-stool, letting Faustus have the chair.

‘I saw Quintus off on his way,’ I said, making light conversation while Faustus settled. ‘He wasn’t making excuses, you know; he really does involve himself in the bedtime ritual. Neither he nor Claudia are strict and it can be hectic persuading six self-willed infants to quieten down. But Uncle Quintus is a soothing presence. Luckily his children like him.’

This produced an interesting reaction from Faustus. ‘I gather you and he are on close terms?’ The aedile’s tone was almost carping, and it was not a hangover from his spat with Dromo.

I assessed him, surprised to find him assessing me. Sometimes he could seem dour. Sometimes he made it plain he thought me flighty.

‘Just family,’ I answered gently, yet he scowled.

Where did this come from? Had somebody been gossiping? It could be Titus Morellus, from the vigiles Fourth Cohort on the Aventine. Morellus had harassed me a few times officially, a penalty of being an informer; the idiot now believed himself an expert on my history. Faustus knew him. Had Morellus told Faustus that I once had a yen for one of the Camillus brothers?

I decided that if the aedile wanted to know which it was, he would have to ask me.

He chose not to.

I therefore did not tell him it was Aulus who had let me think we were best friends then broke my heart. Nor did I say that I was only seventeen, so of course I got over it years ago.

I had been married since then. The poor lad was killed in an accident. Faustus damn well knew I spoke very fondly of my husband.

If I was cool, he deserved it. ‘Aedile, you wanted to review the case?’

‘You set me a task, remember.’ Now he sounded himself again, humorously feigning anxiety about his orders. ‘I was to ask the slaves how they made their escape.’

‘What do they say?’ I was not myself yet, though I don’t suppose he noticed.

‘Once Titianus was about to accuse them, they waited until dark then made a bolt on foot. You wondered how Nicostratus managed; they put him in a carrying chair that belonged to Mucia Lucilia. The other men took turns on the rails so they could hurry through the streets as fast as possible.’