Lindsey Davis - Enemies at Home

‘You’re good.’

‘You too!’ I remarked ambiguously.

I was watching as many bars opposite as I could. Tiberius spent a moment watching me, then he too reapplied himself to surveillance.

I glanced back at him. He steadily scrutinised the exit from the Victorious Soldier and the public counters of the Moon and Stars. I resumed my careful watch on the Ship, the Castor and Pollux, the Cow and the Dead Man’s Fingers.

Roscius emerged through the food counters of the Diana, a workaday thermopolium that seemed to be full of bricklayers. He had somebody with him, a bald man who looked Cappadocian, possibly the subordinate we had earlier seen him leave behind at the Galatea. They strolled together down from the Cispian Hill, with us gently following. We did not bother with the dodging technique, but merely paced ourselves to remain a good distance behind, where we might not be noticed.

They reached the Clivus Suburanus at the Porticus of Livia. They stayed together on the main road as far as the Esquiline Gate, where Roscius waved off the other man. He went on alone through the arch and into the Gardens of Maecenas.

Faustus gripped my elbow, then we quickened our pace and caught up with him.

‘Going somewhere? Mind if we tag along?’ Manlius Faustus must have learned this ghastly old line when he pulled in persons of interest for questioning. How many shopkeepers who encroached on pubic pavements had he arrested with that cliché? Perhaps he had first heard Morellus use it.

At least the familiar script made Roscius feel at ease. However, he lost his confidence when Faustus then took us into the Auditorium of Maecenas for our conversation.

We had walked on through the gardens, with the aedile and I either side of the young criminal, until this beautiful place appeared and Faustus moved swiftly to have a word with the curator. I saw money being passed over. Then we were let in.

‘I thought so!’ exclaimed Faustus, grinning at the crook. ‘Nice and big. No one else here. Nobody will overhear us.’

That may not have given Roscius any sense of security.

I knew the building. The Gardens of Maecenas had been built over an ancient graveyard, reclaiming an area that for years had been a famously unhealthy necropolis, full of burial pits of the poor.

My mother once read me a poem about witches haunting this sinister spot under a lonely moon, a terrifying piece of work where cruel hags murdered a young boy: Horace, in spooky mode; he did it gruesomely. I was going through a mystic period at the time, a teen myself, in love with the supernatural without seeing its true menace. Now I despised horrors. Forget plague-ridden burial grounds with bones sticking out of broken old pots. All I wanted were these tranquil and elegant new gardens that had finally resulted from a land-grab by entrepreneurs. The first time I went for a walk in a grand public space after Helena and Falco brought me to Rome, I was astounded. There was nothing like any of these public gardens in Londinium.

All right. There is nothing fancy at all in Londinium.

Some garden-creators were freedmen of the imperial court, those high-rollers with moneybags for eyes, who always know how to fix themselves up with gorgeous property. Maecenas had been different, born a fabulously rich Etruscan, friend of Augustus and great patron of the arts; he made his garden particularly fine, with libraries and pavilions. This became his retirement home, a setting so elegant that the Emperor Tiberius had lived there for a time.

To enter Maecenas’ Auditorium, as it was called, we passed down a long ramp with a herringbone floor. The monument was built substantially below ground, perhaps as a sunken dining room; when they turned on the water, the inner hall was cooled by a cascade that tumbled down at one end, where deep, white marble steps lined a semi-circular apse. Though never a great socialite, I had been here to a couple of events. The body of the hall can take dining couches, but generally it hosts stand-up soirées with drama, music or readings for well-dressed cultural snobs. Very small appetisers are handed round by blank-faced servers from Gaul in identical uniforms. Flute music nobody listens to wavers over the loud hum of pretentious chatter and rattling jewellery. The ticket price makes you wince.

Though originally a private building, the Auditorium could nowadays be hired, and my father once recklessly shared an evening there with a senator he knew slightly, who wrote epic poetry. Their joint recital was even graced briefly by Domitian, in the happy days when he was only Vespasian’s spare heir; back then he had big dreams but no real expectations of becoming emperor.

Do not ask for a critique of Falco’s writing. I am a loving, loyal daughter.

Today we had it to ourselves, a rather over-elaborate interrogation room. The well-proportioned interior was lined with large wall niches that were beautifully painted with garden scenes and landscapes, all exquisitely done in that endearing Roman style where indoor frescos mimic living plants that you can see simultaneously outside. One end of the hall opened onto a terrace with lovely views towards the Alban Hills. Unfortunately, once Alba became the infamous location of our emperor’s citadel villa, nobody could gaze eastwards without the warped image of Domitian brooding in his fortress, planning ways he could make our lives miserable.

This was an unusually sophisticated venue for an interview with a gangster, but none of Roscius’ violent associates would come looking for him here. If he was overawed by the grand setting, it might work in our favour. He looked around, no doubt hoping to identify statues he could steal, though this was strictly a performance space and no art gallery.

Faustus seemed at home. Did he have an unknown life as an arts connoisseur?

For me, it made a welcome change from barracks and bars. But it would not be my natural choice. The place was too busy making its gorgeous presence felt. I prefer a neutral background for grilling suspects.

‘I am not saying anything!’ Roscius began, predictably.

Faustus pointed out that we had not asked anything yet. ‘You don’t want to get on the wrong side of me, Rabirius Roscius. I am more ruthless than you can possibly imagine. You don’t even know the meaning of “vindictive bastard” yet.’

If true, to me it was an unfamiliar side of Manlius Faustus. I knew he could be tough, even unpleasant when someone annoyed him, but otherwise I saw him as a man of steadfast noble virtues, including restraint. Restraint in particular. Unfortunately.

Roscius told Faustus to push off.

Faustus told Roscius he was not going to do that.

I stepped in as a sweet female ameliorator. ‘Roscius, trust me, I advise against upsetting this aedile. There are stallholders all along the Vicus Armilustrium who shit diarrhoea when he goes on a walkabout, even if their special counterfeit corn-measures have been left at home that day. I’m nice. Why don’t you talk to me?’

‘Oh, not “good bastard, bad bastard”!’ snorted Roscius like an experienced hardnut.

‘I have no idea what you mean … But I do know that whoever arranged that attack on a senator three nights ago has knocked over a hive of extremely angry bees. It may not have been announced in the Daily Gazette yet, but there are strident calls for a Senate inquiry, with possible intervention by the emperor himself. Everyone in your position can expect a very heavy crackdown. The scrutineers are being urged to go for all the old crime families. Be wise, man! Anyone who cooperates first in the aedile’s investigation may avoid having his door kicked down.’

‘Don’t be so generous, Flavia Albia,’ Faustus joined in, making himself sound scratchy. ‘Why should one gangster escape justice, when we have an opportunity to round them all up? I am just waiting for the formal order, then I shall be scarifying my patch. Every felon on the Aventine is really going to feel this. No scum unturned.’