Lindsey Davis - Enemies at Home

‘We need to reflect,’ Faustus decided.

‘Speak for yourself, aedile! I need to jump on this straightaway or it will drive me crazy.’ He smiled a little. I rushed on: ‘I shall have to re-interview those deceitful beggars urgently. This afternoon I’ll look over my notes from their first examinations, then I shall come up to the office for a showdown.’

‘Want my help when you speak to them?’ asked Faustus, seeming keen to be involved.

‘No, thanks. I took the initial statements; I prefer to do the follow up myself.’ He was the client. It was my commission.

He agreed to leave it to me. Perhaps he looked put out. I could not tell if he knew I was blaming myself for previously believing lies. He must concede I did have a sense of trouble earlier. I had told him then that I felt the slaves were holding something back; something was not right.

The aedile and I stayed briefly in the Auditorium, each considering the implications, though independently and without further discussion, while finely judged torrents of cool water splashed elegantly over beautiful white marble in the background.

Eventually we emerged, into a Rome full of glaring warmth and light. We picked up Dromo, who had stayed kicking his heels outside. All today he had been following us around at a distance, barely noticed by his master or me; that was the normal life of a slave. Faustus had whistled to him a couple of times when we were about to change venues. I hoped Dromo had not seen that moment of theatre between Faustus and me at the bar, but he gave no sign of it.

Faustus set off alone on the long haul back to the Aventine. I walked to the Aviola apartment. The streets were quiet, towards the end of lunchtime. The sun was hot, so even though it was not far I went slowly, keeping to the shady side. Dromo plodded along behind me, apparently too tired even to be distracted by pastry stalls. When I took a drink from a fountain, he did. When I set off again, he trudged behind obediently. I had to trust him to keep an eye out for trouble, because I was too deeply preoccupied with what Roscius had said.

At the apartment I flopped in a chair in my room, chin down, fanning myself with the top of my tunic. This only stretches the neck of the garment. It never cools you. I needed to jump in a freezing cold fountain, nude, then come out to high-class attendants fanning ostrich feathers …

I had gathered my previous note tablets though felt too drained to begin on them. I was no stranger to starting all over again on a case, but it is dreary. For once, Dromo went to the kitchen and brought me a tray of lunch. It was only because he could see I had no interest in fetching my own; he knew that unless I had something, there would be nothing for him. I accepted the tray and remembered to thank him, at which he found the energy to mime being startled.

Revived, I read up my notes. While I was going over the old interviews, voices disturbed me. Galla Simplicia and Sextus Simplicius — Aviola’s ex-wife and his executor — had heard about Polycarpus. She had come with condolences for Graecina; he no doubt accompanied her out of curiosity. I thought I had better be present, though I kept out of sight to begin with.

Galla had sent Myla to fetch down the widow. When Graecina came, Galla embraced her with every sign of affection. Grief had now descended on Graecina. The poor woman occupied her own, newly terrible world. I was impressed by the steady way Galla Simplicia talked to her and consoled her. She asked questions about how Graecina was coping and how she would manage in future; she made suggestions about the funeral, offering help. For once, I saw an extended Roman family operating properly: the mistress (a role Galla had taken up again with alacrity) kindly looking after the wife of one of their freedmen.

I could not fault her. And this was the woman people said had wanted to murder her ex-husband and his bride. Unintentionally, Galla Simplicia did herself some good with me that afternoon.

Her cousin wandered about the courtyard at a loose end. I slipped along a portico, as if by chance, and greeted him. Since he had now lost his intended new steward before Polycarpus even started in the post, I asked whether he would now keep Gratus, but when people once make up their minds to dismiss a staff member, they tend to go through with it. Simplicius insisted Gratus was still to be ‘let go’ via the slave market.

It struck me Gratus might have had a motive to dispose of his rival Polycarpus. However, since Gratus was to be sent packing whatever happened, and he probably knew that, all he would have gained was revenge. It can bring joy to the bitter or indignant, but Gratus never struck me as that type. His measured attitude had been why I thought him a good steward.

Still, what did I know? I had let a bunch of household slaves fool me with an elaborate fiction whose purpose I had yet to uncover.

Myla was hanging around, taking too much interest in Simplicius just as she had with Faustus the other evening. Galla then called to him and they left.

Galla Simplicia had ignored Myla. She seemed completely involved with Graecina, which was worthy work. But afterwards, I did wonder if she hustled her cousin away on purpose.

I was ready to leave myself. I told Dromo he could stay behind and rest his tired feet. He could take one hour off (this presumed he could work out how long an hour was). Then, he was to see if he could do anything useful for Graecina and if not, I suggested he got together with her slave Cosmus.

‘Oh no! I’ve seen him gawking around the place like a dopey bum. He’s just a nipper.’

‘He looks almost as old as you. Be boys; pal up with him for a while, will you?’

Dromo stared at me. ‘Is this for your work? You telling me to squeeze him for gen?’

‘I am saying, get to know him a bit if you can.’

‘Have I got to be a spy?’ I must be insane. Sending in Dromo was like army engineers setting up a catapult with a wonky wheel on a very steep slope with no ballast.

‘Just see what you think.’ I had remembered that my uncle’s young son had taken against Cosmus, when he was over there. Would Dromo feel the same? Perhaps Cosmus would be different with a fellow slave to how he had behaved with privileged, aristocratic children.

‘That dog of his sounds vicious!’ Dromo complained, though he did look interested in what I had asked him to do. Well, almost.

For a change, instead of going down towards the Caelian, I walked a northern route to the Aventine — Clivus Suburanus, Clivus Pullius, Clivus Orbius, on to the top end of the Forum, then around the back of the Palatine on the river side, through the meat market to the corn station, and up the hill to the Temple of Ceres from the Trigeminal Gate. I must be growing homesick. I ended up very near my parents’ town house although since they were away at the coast I did not drop in. I had no wish to visit their home-sitting slaves. My favourites were Helena’s favourites too, and had gone with the family.

Faustus was not at the aediles’ office. Nobody had seen him all day. I hoped he was not annoyed that I turned down his offer of assistance with the interviews. More likely, he thought I was getting ideas about him.

Fine by me.

The nine survivors were in the office garden as usual: those two old workshy cronies, Amethystus and Diomedes, had marked out a board in the dust and were playing a game with pebbles for counters, watched in a desultory way by the ambitious young Daphnus and his twin, the dim scribe Melander. In another group, the African Libycus was talking to the women, Amaranta and the girl Olympe. Phaedrus, the tall German litter bearer-cum-porter, was sitting by himself, acting as if he wanted a sculptor to turn him into a Defeated Barbarian. Chrysodorus was on his own too. He was lying on his back on some grass, with his eyes closed and his hands folded on his chest, as if he was waiting for the pains of life to be over. The awful little dog, Puff, had curled up beside the philosopher, oblivious to his loathing.