Lindsey Davis - Enemies at Home

I shook hands with the steward and on Graecina’s behalf thanked him for his attention to everything today.

The last person to leave was Sextus Simplicius. He told me he would like to know as soon as the investigation was closed. He was eager to close up the apartment, sell the contents and terminate its lease. That was more urgent now Polycarpus was not around, though Simplicius had asked Graecina to keep an eye out, temporarily. She must have seen how her husband ran things. I made a mental note to suggest to her becoming a concierge as a way of earning. Another good deed for the unfortunates I had met in the course of the case.

‘I gather,’ I said to him, ‘you are ready to sell off the slaves?’

‘Any who survive your enquiries without being executed!’ Sextus Simplicius agreed. ‘Not to mention you-know-who.’

Indeed, he did not mention Myla by name but I noticed she was lurking in a colonnade again and heard him.

Since funerals are night-time events, it was now very late. Dromo was pointedly ‘asleep’ on his mat. Fake snores made it clear he was not intending to take a report to Faustus now — not that I would have sent him out on his own in the dark.

Despite the time, as soon as Simplicius left I called out to Myla. She would have been able to tell from my tone there was no point in playing deaf. So she shuffled up at her own slow pace, complaining rudely, ‘I was going to bed!’

‘So am I in a minute,’ I retorted, not letting her see how she vexed me. ‘This cannot wait. I want a serious chat with you.’

Analysing how I felt towards Myla, I could not decide whether I was sorry for her plight or simply felt too much distaste — not distaste for what she had done with Aviola, where she had no choice, but for the attitude she adopted in consequence. I had noticed her looking hopefully at other men who might take her on. I despise women who rely on men entirely for their own existence. I like men, never think otherwise. Today, seemingly hours ago, I had kissed one with memorable pleasure. But a woman should keep her self-respect — because if she does not, men will all too easily lose their respect for her.

I had had a few moments to think through my new information.

‘I have been hearing about how things were here, Myla. I know this household looked good on the surface but there were all kinds of jealousies and bad feeling. It is the same in many houses in Rome; some are far worse. But here a master and his bride were murdered.’

I saw Myla’s face set. As faces go, hers would have been acceptable but it was ruined by her constant surly expression. Perhaps she kept a better one for Aviola.

Perhaps he was not interested in her face.

If I wanted to be generous, I could say it was possible the very way he had made use of her over the years accounted for her graceless manner. She may not always have been so miserable with the world.

‘I am intrigued,’ I told her. ‘All those slaves who went to the Temple of Ceres, the slaves who are accused of the murders, had little reason to have turned on their master. Whereas you, Myla, have managed to be excluded from the investigation even though you had a big motive.’

Myla still said nothing, though she had been vocal enough when she argued with the Simplicii. She stared at me truculently, and I knew why. There was nothing she could do about me. She ogled men who came here, presumably hoping to gain their protection in the limited way at her disposal. I was a woman. I was an enemy over whom she had no power.

‘You know you are shortly going to the slave market. You were already listed for sale, before your master died. This may be your last chance, Myla. If your master had led you to believe something different, now is the time to tell me.’

When she yelled at Valerius Junior, Myla was bursting with grievances. Even though he was a young man with limited experience, Valerius saw trouble coming and immediately walked away. I would listen to her grudges, but I think she knew I would not respond in the way she wanted.

‘I was promised my freedom,’ Myla declared.

‘Did he say that exactly?’

‘It was understood.’

‘Ah, that tricky situation! Almost certainly not understood by Aviola … I hope you were not expecting him to honour unspoken promises, Myla?’ She seemed silly enough.

‘Yes I was! I was going to be a freedwoman and then he would have married me. He was just waiting for the right time.’

‘Oh, Myla! And while he was waiting for this mythic moment, he happens to have married someone else?’ I did not believe Valerius Aviola ever made such a promise to Myla, or even hinted. I knew too much about the kind of women he chose as his wives; this slave was not what he wanted. Possibly Myla raised the issue and he avoided answering. Perhaps he answered bluntly but she would not listen. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. After so many years of you being a convenience, why had he never changed things before? Myla, you were fooling yourself.’

‘No! He said this baby would be born free.’

‘Did he really say that, or was it just what you wanted? I think you convinced yourself of something he never intended. If he had, he left the formalities dangerously late.’

A child follows the condition of its mother; when Myla gave birth as a slave, her daughter was a slave too. Many people take a lax attitude to this rule, but it is asking for legal problems in future. Of course many lawyers earn a good living from that. Informers too, frankly.

‘That was the wife, stopping him,’ Myla claimed. ‘The wife thought she had got rid of me, but she was wrong. I never would have gone away.’

‘I’m sorry, Myla, I think you would have done — but in any case you will be sold now.’

‘I won’t go!’

She was deluded. They had intended to sell her, and they would. If she refused to comply, force would be used. She would be dragged out, hysterical and screaming. Originally it was supposed to happen once Aviola and Mucia were safely travelling. Polycarpus would have organised her removal from the apartment, then a vicious slave-master at the market would have taught her the realities with a knotted whip.

‘How old are you, Myla?’

I could tell by her face that she was uncertain, but she said crisply, ‘Almost thirty.’

This was my own age; I had a year to go. The slaves who would soon be entitled to be given or to buy their freedom were at the same stage of life as me. I liked the ones who were determined to achieve something better, using their talents. Not this one.

All this woman had to show for her life was a string of children she could never see again and a man who, she really must know, had cared nothing for her. Myla might have been groomed to do his bidding when she was barely into puberty; she could have carried ten pregnancies by now, only to be dumped with a child at the breast.

I could not let that influence me. ‘Yours is a tragic story, but I cannot exonerate you simply because you are unhappy. I need to know if you attacked your master, Myla. You had the most reason to lash out and kill Aviola — and his wife too.’ Particularly the wife, if Mucia instigated the plan to sell Myla.

‘Not me!’ Myla answered in a drab yet defiant voice.

‘Listen! You need to understand that you are under suspicion of murder.’ I was warning her formally.

‘I don’t care what you say.’

I saw exactly why the family all thought the best way to deal with her was to shed her. A slave needs to be obliging. Having to ingratiate herself even though she thought she had rights was the curse of Myla’s slavery, yet the only way she would survive was to accept the position. Stupidly, she kept railing. ‘I was at full term. I couldn’t move. Anyway, he was my only hope of a future, anyone who thinks I hurt him is mad. It was the last thing I wanted. I wanted him left alone. I was lost once he was dead. Whatever you think, I needed him alive.’