Lindsey Davis - Enemies at Home

Forcing myself to move, I walked over to the well in the corner. It had been boarded over with a set of wide planks, butted up against one another. Someone did a neat job. I pulled up one of the edge planks, which were smaller, trying not to get splinters as I held the end, then turned it as I heaved it over away from me. The top must have been scrubbed. The underside no one had bothered to clean. There the wood was covered with dark, rust-coloured stains, which I knew must be dried human blood.

‘As I thought! Well done, Albia.’

The planks must have been taken up before. I was sure the boarding on this well was lifted when Manlius Faustus sent his men to search. They looked down inside. I knew they found nothing. The extremely neat re-covering for safety had been their work. Very soon afterwards, unless I was mistaken, Polycarpus must have had some of the boards up again briefly for his own purposes.

Even if they noticed these stains, Faustus’ men would have thought nothing of them on old wood. They had been ordered to look for stolen silver — not to search, as I was doing, for a murder weapon. I had found it: this was the plank deployed in the attack on Nicostratus.

I had not finished exploring. Next, I hauled aside the featureless stone urn that always stood on the boards to deter access. This took me some time. I could have ruined my back. Since my father runs an auction house, I had been told how to prevent injury when moving very heavy objects. The best way is, get large men to do it. Otherwise, I was too tipsy to remember how to apply myself and too eager to stop now. I dug in my heels, grasped the top lip and eventually pulled the thing right over. I jumped back, quick, to save my toes. Then I rolled it in a big curve along the ground. This was not an approved method, and it damaged the urn, but I was trying to work fast.

Sweating, I rested for a moment. One by one I pulled, pushed or edged out the remaining boards. They were not excessively heavy, though the large ones were awkward for a drunk who did not want dirt on her tunic. Eventually, I had the well opened up completely. I won’t say it was no work for a woman, because we do what we have to do, but inebriation did not help. Even so, stubbornly I shifted the whole lot.

I knelt on the edge and peered down. People in my family have the horrors about holes underground, especially wells. I tried that trick everyone does, gently tossing a small pebble down. It was not deep. A splash soon came from the dark water below.

The sides were straight and smooth. If this had been a source of water in regular use, someone would have built a top frame, with a winding handle. As it was, I saw a big iron hook at the top of the side wall. Attached to the hook was a rope, going right down into the water.

I had to lie on the ground to take hold of the rope safely. I was still wobbly. Standing, I could easily have tumbled in head first. Ropes are heavier than you expect and this one felt as if it held a lead bucket. Drawing it up was so difficult, I dropped it once, but it was still safely tied to the hook so I started again, keeping a more careful hold of the rope. In the end I managed to extract the bucket, along with its not-unexpected contents. It was wooden, but it contained a sack, which was what had been heavy. I hauled the sodden bucket and sack onto land, collapsing in a warm heap beside them. At least there was plenty of cold water trickling off, which I could smear over my face and neck to cool myself down.

Stiff wet twine tied the neck of the sack, then also tied the sack to the bucket to prevent it falling out. This posed a challenge for my tired fingers. But again, I was not defeated. I brought out the contents, drained them of well water, then set about arranging them like a diligent housewife.

When Manlius Faustus and the boy strolled back into the courtyard, I had cleared away the debris of our drinking bout. I was sitting in one of the chairs, half asleep. I opened my bleary eyes just in time to see them take in the glittering spread I had organised to welcome them.

Covering the tops of two small portable tables, their metal shining as they dried in the sunlight, were jugs, drinking cups, coasters, strainers and even spoons: a distinctive array of high quality decorative silverware. The ‘stolen’ silver that Roscius had said he could not find. The silver that was supposedly the cause of all that happened to Valerius Aviola and his bride, their door porter and probably their steward too.

The aedile strode across the courtyard, stood and looked down the well. ‘I’ve seen you do some things, Flavia Albia, but this beats everything for stupidity!’

‘It worked. Look what I found.’ I waved an arm over the silver. ‘So much for praising my brilliant perspicacity.’

Faustus came back and sat down with me. ‘Stop it!’ I thought he was talking to me, then realised he was admonishing himself. He turned to me, appealingly. ‘Albiola, you terrify me. I could have come back and found you drowned in that well.’

‘You love to accuse me of behaving badly!’

‘Don’t do it then.’

To look reasonable, I made a sketchy apology. ‘I ought to have waited. Still — congratulations?’

‘I might go that far.’ He sounded sombre, but that was better than his punishing mode.

Dromo stood at his shoulder, jaw dropping at the beauty I had laid out. I raised one of the fancy goblets, into which I had poured the last quarter-inch of Galla’s fine Caecuban wine. There must have been well-water still lurking in the cup; it tasted less fine now. Nevertheless, I drained it and told Faustus how good the Caecuban had been, though sadly for him it was finished.

‘You have drunk enough for both of us.’ Faustus was impervious. He fumbled at his belt and produced a small packet. ‘This came for you.’

‘From whom?’

‘Your aunt, Claudia Rufina, with a tart message saying she was very surprised you had not gone along to enquire how Justinus is doing.’

‘Someone would tell me if he died.’ Faustus scowled. He ought to know I was not that hard-hearted. ‘Oh Claudia was simply too mean to send a messenger all this way. I’ll be charitable, and say maybe she thought a messenger would more easily find the aediles’ office.’

‘She said she did not know where you were working.’

‘Nuts. She should have asked Uncle Quintus.’

‘Right.’ Faustus reined in a little. ‘I sent a deferential note on behalf of both of us, claimed you were caught up and could not reach the Aventine. In case you want to know, I received word your uncle is progressing well.’

‘Good.’ I too backed off: ‘Thank you for excusing me.’ He in turn made a graceful gesture. ‘So what’s this thing she sent, aedile?’

‘How should I know?’ he answered tetchily. ‘It is addressed to you. I was told your aunt took it from one of her children.’

With a grunt, I opened the paper, an old bill. Inside was one of the silver coasters from the Aviola wine set, a small circular stand, with three little curly legs.

‘Well, that fills in another part of the puzzle.’ As Faustus gave me an enquiring look, I explained. ‘My aunt mentioned that her children kept playing in the carrying chair that I was loaned when Justinus was hurt … This tells me the silver stayed hidden because it was moved around.’

‘In the chair?’

‘Underneath the seat. When I raced over to Capena Gate that night, I was actually sitting on the stuff!’

Faustus whistled. ‘On the night Aviola was killed, the silver was hidden in the chair?’

‘Seems so. The chair was either already stored in an empty lock-up shop, or was put there that night. When Titianus and his men arrived at the crime scene, they searched, but only the apartment.’