Lindsey Davis - Enemies at Home

He was called Fundanus. His premises were down in the valley, on the nearest side of the Circus Maximus, below the Temple of Mercury. His primary business was that of a funeral director. The area was notoriously frequented by whores. Fornicating with their backs against the wall below his signboard, the night moths may have found that gave their tired trade a special frisson. I expect he buried the ashes of plenty of those sad women.

As I reached his yard, where carts, biers and headstones were arrayed, a mixed group of men, wearing matching red tunics, hurried out past me. I had seen this uniform on running men in Rome before, though never knew what it meant. Sometimes one of them was banging a bell.

Fundanus explained cheerily. ‘My men, fetching in a body — see the hauling hooks? The bell is to let people know we are coming. They want to jump out of the way quick, to avoid a corpse that’s contaminated by slavery. A bed-maker in Cyclops Street hanged herself this morning.’

‘When a slave dies, the corpse has to be removed in two hours?’ Faustus had told me this.

‘Only one hour if the silly bastard pulls the rope trick,’ Fundanus corrected. ‘Well, twisted sheet in this case, to be strictly accurate. My fellows should make the deadline, but we’re pushing it. People are so thoughtless. They arse about after they discover a body, discussing what has happened — when it’s obvious — and all the while, precious time is flying. I could lose my licence if I miss the deadline.’

‘Why did she do away with herself?’

‘Couldn’t endure any more from the master.’

‘You mean sex?’

‘Fucking morning, noon and night.’

‘He was not married?’

‘Where have you been? Of course he was. The wife said the bint had to put up with it, since it kept him happy.’ Presumably, that saved the wife from having to endure the pervert herself. Confirming my dire view of this family, Fundanus said, ‘He likes to beat the wife as hard as the slaves if she crosses him. So she lets him do whatever he wants — provided he’s doing it to someone else.’

He led me into the cabin where he normally seated the bereaved when they came to make arrangements. We took stools, not quite touching knees. He apologised for being unable to offer me mint tea, but said the serving boy had gone off as one of the red tunics. Feeling fastidious in this environment, I assured him that was fine.

He had a face like a root vegetable at the end of a hard winter. His humanity was just as shrivelled. The man was a plebeian, no doubt of it. That meant he came from the same rootstock as my father or Manlius Faustus. Their ancestors used their wits to build up businesses — warehouses and auctioneering. These were businesses where they could keep their hands fairly clean while generating filthy lucre from the uppercrust who sneered at them for being in trade — all of whom, it is fair to say, were themselves as bent as a discarded nail.

Fundanus had stuck at the filthy end of society, in a profession where everybody hated what he did. He had a stroppy attitude, and clearly enjoyed being awkward.

It is perfectly possible even Fundanus thought his job was a boil on the world’s bum. Still, he put up with it, never thinking of retraining in some more pleasant area — say, as a tunic-maker, a poet, or in the pastry trade. The man was overweight, under-endowed with muscle or brains, and outclassed by every sewer-rat who ever poked his nose out of a drain.

I noticed that his warts looked as if they had been infected with putrefaction from a long-time dead body. I told myself not to be squeamish, then told him my connection with the Aviola slaves.

Fundanus explained his own interest, a man who liked to hold forth. Yes, he was a funeral director, but he had a lucrative sideline in punishing and executing slaves.

‘This is for private customers?’ I asked.

‘Can be. Someone has a slave who needs keeping in order, kindly chastisement, we can supply the necessary.’

‘What would that be?’

‘Posts, chains, ropes. Floggers too — my operatives can work with the cross or the fork.’ I did not need to ask; the slave victims would be either nailed to a wooden cross or hung on a very ancient device called the fork. Then they would be flogged to as near death as their owner chose — or actually until they died. They were property. An owner could dispose of his slave; killing them was frowned upon nowadays, but theoretically it could still happen. ‘We make one charge, applies across the board − four sesterces each man, whether for a fork operative, a flogger, or an executioner.’

‘That’s fair.’

‘I don’t muck about,’ claimed Fundanus smugly. ‘Of course on a public contract, different rates apply. A magistrate gives the orders, we supply crosses as standard, plus free nails, pitch, wax, tapers, anything else required. All covered by our retainer. Copy of the rules hung in the premises.’ He gestured to it.

I admired his certificate and said I was glad to see a public role being properly administered. ‘This is not an area where sloppiness can be tolerated.’

‘Right, young lady!’ Oblivious to my satire, Fundanus decided to set me straight about my own commission. ‘I expect this will come as news to you. Those slaves, that whingeing bunch who’ve got themselves bed and board at the temple’s expense, ought to have gone to their master’s aid. Me, I support extending blame to all the little shits under one roof. We have to fight the enemy, both within and without.’

‘Might they not have been loyal servants who were unable to do anything?’

Fundanus gave me a pitying look. ‘I can tell what sort of home you were brought up in!’ My parents would have been proud to hear that, especially as he clearly meant ‘among dangerous philosophers, who think all beings born on earth have value’.

‘I try to see both sides,’ I murmured, feeling my mother’s influence.

‘That was what I meant!’

‘I am sorry,’ I apologised meekly, mentally writing a curse tablet against this man.

‘Let me tell you a few things about the world, my girl. We cannot let these people get the upper hand. Slaves have to be forced to protect their masters by the threat of their own death if they don’t. They ought to come running without thought for themselves whatever’s going on − including throttling, strangling, being thrown over a cliff, or struck with any stick, missile, blade or other weapon.’

He must have seen this list in an edict somewhere. I wondered if the weapons would include fireships or military catapults. I merely said, ‘Seems comprehensive.’

‘Oh, it’s not ideal. It doesn’t cover poisoning − because the argument goes, how would they know? Pathetic! Or once the effects of a poison become obvious, it’s too late and what could they do? With a master’s suicide, the sentence only applies if the slaves are on the spot at the time and could prevent the attempt.’

‘Understandable.’

‘What,’ asked the funeral director, lowering his voice as some mark of respect, ‘happened to the victims in the tragic circumstance under review?’

‘Strangled. With a piece of rope.’

He nodded, with grim satisfaction. ‘That would be covered.’

‘I know.’

‘As I said. Your bastard clients should have gone to help.’

I didn’t bother to contradict him that Faustus was my client, not the slaves. ‘They all say they didn’t hear anything. No cries for help.’

‘Mule-dung. I’d clean out the lying snots’ earwax with a lighted taper … Anything useful been done to them so far? What has been tried?’

‘Just intense questioning.’

‘You are having a laugh!’

I admitted I was serious, but promised that when the time came to use proper methods, he would be the chosen operator.