Lindsey Davis - Enemies at Home

‘I have heard,’ I said gravely, ‘Rabirius Roscius has more political know-how than some.’

‘Ha! How’s that?’

‘Well, dear Tiberius, this man will surely see that you and I are intent on solving the Aviola case, so for us, the senator-bashing is a separate issue.’ Neither of us had mentioned to Roscius that the bashed senator was my uncle. I guessed Roscius had not yet joined up all the dots in the sketch. Did he know Camillus Justinus had visited Gallo with me? Did he even realise Justinus went to the Second’s tribune with Faustus?

‘If we did solve the Aviola case, Roscius, your name could be omitted from the senator-bashing inquest,’ Faustus returned thoughtfully. He sounded as if he meant it.

‘I presume that would be a relief to the Rabirii,’ I offered to Roscius. ‘They won’t want this commission to take a piercing look at what happened to Aviola. It is very high profile, the victims were well-to-do and the circumstances − such violence, and so soon after a wedding − have attracted the wrong kind of public attention. That’s even without the slaves fleeing to the Temple of Ceres. For Romans, a religious connection makes it so much more sensitive.’

‘And it’s messy!’ quipped Faustus with some glee, as if he revelled in slurry.

Showing signs of alarm, Roscius piped up suddenly, ‘We never done Valerius Aviola. Nor his precious bride neither.’

I refrained from correcting his grammar. He would have been too busy learning how to operate a jemmy to attend a decent school of rhetoric.

Faustus leaned towards him, sounding more reasonable. ‘That so? Do you want to tell me what really happened?’

‘No, I bloody don’t!’ Roscius fell back on the criminal’s professional motto: ‘If you had any evidence, you wouldn’t be asking.’

‘ Evidence? ’ laughed Faustus.

‘Oh, Roscius,’ I suggested gently, ‘you are forgetting this is Manlius Faustus, the infamous plebeian magistrate − and vindictive bastard.’

Roscius was standing with his arms folded, a defensive stance, though his bravado was dwindling. I could see in his eyes he was making wrong decisions almost every time the conversation took a turn. We had been right to approach the junior. Old Rabirius must still be dealing with the gang’s business himself, supported by Gallo. He had not yet exposed Roscius much — not enough for the young man to be able to handle this competently. One day he would know better. He would stand firm and keep denying everything. He would be laughing at us then.

Now he was under too much pressure. We had a few more exchanges on the same lines, until he gave way. He agreed to discuss the night when Aviola and Mucia were killed — though he made one last feeble attempt at a stand: ‘Why are you asking me about it anyway? This is victimisation, totally unfair. You have nothing to link me or my boys to it.’

‘You are the robbery expert,’ Faustus flattered him. ‘The word is, if a big break-in occurs, you are the only one capable. So did you know Valerius Aviola owned a cache of special silver?’

‘Do dogs shit in the gutter? You bet I knew. Wine set, plenty of items, all very pretty. Kept it in his dining room.’

‘Summer or winter?’ I asked, making a show of testing him.

‘What?’

‘Summer or winter dining room!’ Faustus spelled out, sounding irritable.

‘On shelves or display table?’ I asked.

‘If table, three-legged or monopod?’ rapped Faustus.

‘If monopod, marble or fancy wood? Then citron or cedar wood?’

Faustus and I were enjoying the word games, while Roscius clearly felt nervous. Trying to follow our banter made him breathless. ‘Lay off! You’re confusing me …’

‘Oh, forget citron and cedar. Stone beats wood every time for me.’ Faustus kept rambling. ‘Give me Euboean onion-skin marble for setting off silver any day. Lovely green base, good wavy lines …’

‘Stop joshing around,’ I chided. ‘You heard what he said — we are confusing him. Roscius, just tell me, did you know that the family were leaving for Campania?’

‘Yes, I did.’ He answered the simple question with relief.

‘So did you go to the house that night to lift the silver while you could?’

‘We went.’

‘And you took it?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? You got inside?

‘Of course. Sweet as a nut.’

‘So why not take the stuff?’

‘None there. Not a piece of it. We found the dining room all right, but the shelves were standing there all empty.’

Roscius looked awkward and unhappy. In telling this odd story, he seemed unable to decide whether he was embarrassed by failure or defiant because he was innocent of theft. Faustus shot a glance at me, then he took up the questioning. ‘Something happened?’ he asked in a quieter voice than formerly. ‘Get it off your chest, why not?’

Roscius nodded, though he still failed to speak.

Faustus went back to the beginning. In his work as aedile, he must be used to questioning wrongdoers. He was calm, courteous, almost sympathetic. ‘So, let’s start with getting into the house. Is it right that you burst in past the porter?’

Roscius bridled indignantly. ‘No chance! Am I good or not?’

‘Of course; you’re tops. So tell me.’

‘I got us in. My usual method. Did it sweet and quiet. Got past the lock with my special magic.’

‘A pick in the keyhole?’

‘Not saying. Trade secret. Anyway, no one knew we was in their house.’

I stiffened, realising just how much the scenario I had worked on before was wrong. Faustus showed no reaction.

Roscius was suddenly flying. He could not tell his story fast enough: ‘We got in, there was nobody around, we found the room, the shelves were empty, we started searching. Having made it in, we wasn’t leaving empty-handed. Unprofessional! Well, that was what I thought until we knew what had gone down. I was the one that discovered them. Just opened a bedroom door, quiet like, not knowing what might be inside, who I could be facing up to if I was unlucky. There the two of them was. Stark naked and flung out in agony, horribly staring up at me.’

‘Aviola and his wife?’ insisted Faustus. ‘Dead?’

Roscius nodded.

Being so sure of the details previously, I jumped in: ‘But hadn’t you already come across the door porter? Nicostratus? Beaten insensible and lying in his blood, in the long passage from the front entrance?’

Roscius blinked. ‘Never saw him. Never saw nobody.’

‘What?’

‘This is the true juice.’ Roscius was determined for us to believe him. Though he prided himself on being hard, remembering the deathbed scene had moved him. ‘I let out some yelp, I can tell you.’

‘All right.’ Faustus knew how to imply he believed the story.

‘Flying phalluses, tribune, your honour, that was terrible. Who did it? I see you looking at me, but me and the boys, we don’t do nothing like that. Why would we? My boys came up and had a gawp as well — they wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t let them have a look to see — then we legged it like runners racing up a stadium. Got out the way we had got in. Went for a bloody big drink, I can tell you.’ He shook his head in disbelief, appalled. ‘The couple must have been going at it and never heard anybody come in the room. What a way to go. The old man had made an effort. He was half off the bed, part way under her. It looked as if she had wanted to save him, threw herself over him, trying to protect him — probably hampered him, getting in his way. She must have been pleading to the one who did it. But they put that bit of rope around her throat and did her too, poor naked cow. Gods in Olympus, it was really terrible.’