Lindsey Davis - Enemies at Home

You may think I am bound to say that. Not me. I am ready to believe the worst of anyone. I judge by feel and instinct, the informer’s precious tools. My gut said Amaranta was hoping to be freed in the near future, which gave her no motive for murder. Far from it. Her mistress’ sudden death had removed all her hopes. I could not imagine that sharp girl, with the fancy hair plaits and plenty of men hankering, would jeopardise her prospects.

I thought back to the day I interviewed the slaves. When I saw them at the aediles’ office there had been no sign of tensions between them. Even though I had now been told there were ructions in this household, the small group had sat together quietly, dull-eyed and anxious over their fate, but as far as I could tell they were bonded, a single entity. Some — Amaranta, Phaedrus the other porter, Chrysodorus the philosopher, Olympe the girl musician — came from Mucia Lucilia’s previous house; the rest had a long-term service with Aviola. Some had general duties in the house or garden; others carried out more personal services. Some — Amethystus and Diomedes — seemed reconciled to a life of slavery; others were hankering for freedom and perhaps very close to obtaining it. Had they not told me, I would have been unable to distinguish.

Did this mean they were indeed bonded — through joint involvement in the crime?

After mulling until my brain was in turmoil, I left the apartment. I had no wish to stay there that particular night, especially since I had mislaid Dromo. Last night’s violence against Quintus Camillus had made me jumpy.

I ventured out of doors nervously. To my relief, as I scanned the street for anyone from the Rabirius gang, I spotted the foreman Faustus had sent for the search. He was finishing snacks at a bar with his men, so I asked to join them as they made for home. Escorting me to where the Camillus brothers lived hardly took them out of their way to the Aventine.

At the Capena Gate I found that Uncle Quintus was awake, up to a point. He had chosen to dull his pain with a large goblet of Chian red wine. This, he claimed, was a more natural and cheering painkiller than medicine — and anyway the Chian was ready to drink. Lying on multiple pillows, with offspring sprawled around him telling him stories and playing quiet games among themselves, he smelt curiously of turpentine balms when I leaned in to kiss him. He was not making much sense, though seemed easy in himself.

I found Claudia Rufina in a salon with Aulus’ first wife, Hosidia Meline. These two well-dressed women from ancient civilised provinces, Spain and Greece, regarded me as a wild barbarian since I came from Britain. Meline had a habit of teasingly calling me a druid. The Romans had invited, cajoled and coerced most gods of the Mediterranean into their city, no doubt to cover themselves in case the Olympic pantheon were not truly the tops. At no point had they brought the druids. Nor would they.

The elegant ones told me Aulus had gone out. On occasions he surprised us with brief bursts of social manoeuvring; today he wanted to move among his peers, canvassing support for the speech he intended to make about gangland criminals.

‘I hope I was not expected to invite that aedile to lunch!’ Claudia said, at which Meline shook her head. In cahoots, these two senatorial wives openly shunned Faustus for his plebeian status, even though he belonged to a family that had been established and wealthy for years, and was himself the holder of a high office. ‘I know he is your client, Albia …’

‘And a friend!’ I snapped, letting my aunt see what I thought of her bad manners towards Faustus. It made me change my intention of staying here another night.

I asked to borrow escort slaves. I would have reclaimed Mucia’s carrying chair, but Claudia informed me it had already been collected, by Polycarpus. He had told her that it was a valuable asset which he needed to keep carefully for the executors.

‘I am appalled that you were put into a vehicle with dried blood on the seat, Flavia Albia. Whoever was murdered there? I was glad to see the back of the thing. My children kept playing in it … Your own boy is still here, if you need an escort.’

I managed to find Dromo, who had stayed at the Capena Gate because nobody instructed him to do anything else. I dragged him with me up to the Aventine. First we went to the aediles’ office, but Faustus was absent. If he had been denied lunch by Claudia, he probably needed an early dinner. I knew where he lived, but was leery of visiting him at home.

Instead I went to Fountain Court. ‘Cor, this is a dump!’ Dromo informed me, in case I had not noticed. I told him to doss downstairs with the porter.

I took myself to the haven of my own apartment. This was indeed a dump, but I felt overdue for a night in my own bed. I had been away from home for five days; after that time any woman needs to refresh herself with a change of earrings.

Since I was up on the Aventine, next morning I walked over to the aediles’ office beside the Temple of Ceres. First I went into the temple, to check for myself whether the Aviola silver was there among the donated treasure. No luck.

I would have liked a catch-up with my client, and perhaps a sociable breakfast, but Faustus was still absent. He might have been at a meeting, though realistically no magistrate works every day. The point is to hold the office so it goes on your record of honours. Faustus seemed more conscientious than most aediles, but no one expected him to flog himself carrying out public duties. He was a rich boy. His uncle ran the family business, owned the house where they lived, let Faustus draw money as he wanted. He had never been in the army, so this would be the first time in his life (at thirty-six) that any demands were made on him.

What a shock that must have been.

I was feeling bitter.

I took another look at the fugitive slaves, not with much sympathy. I warned them this could be their last chance to tell me anything that might prove their innocence. The Temple was unlikely to allow them sanctuary much longer, whatever tradition dictated. The attitude in Rome was that somebody had to be punished for the deaths of their master and their mistress. I had failed to identify anyone else, so they were still chief suspects.

Most listened with little reaction. One or two looked shifty, especially Amaranta and the girl Olympe, but I had no leads for further questioning and I was not in a mood to listen to frightened sobbing.

‘So we are running out of options,’ said Chrysodorus, the philosopher who had to look after the lapdog. Puff wheezed out a languid bark. Chrysodorus glared vitriol at Puff. ‘Bad girl! Albia, all I ask is make it quick. I can accept that life is merely a stroll to the cremation pyre, but please spare me hooks and ropes and naked flames.’

‘Torture, Chrysodorus?’

Chrysodorus explained his gloom: a specialist contractor had been to the office, wanting to tender for squeezing information from the slaves if the temple kicked them out. Hearing Chrysodorus telling me about it made them all more agitated. Daphnus, the ambitious tray carrier, reckoned that had Manlius Faustus been at the office that day he might have accepted the contractor’s blandishments and handed everyone over.

I assured them Faustus was a benign wimp who didn’t believe inflicting pain made people tell the truth.

That was guesswork, though I had seen him be devout when organising a religious festival and he had told me he refused to see slaves as polluted by their condition. I thought it unlikely he would suddenly lose interest and end my commission; he had to answer to the temple, for one thing. Still, I never entirely trusted clients. Just in case my work was about to be cancelled, I asked the contractor’s address and went to have a proactive chat with him.