Lindsey Davis - Enemies at Home

Faustus sucked his teeth. ‘They would say, believing the silver was long gone with thieves, they had no reason to look elsewhere.’

‘Lazy bums! So in the lock-up it stayed for days, until Graecina offered me use of the chair. I guess she had no idea what was hidden in it. When she told Polycarpus she had lent me the chair he must have been beside himself. I thought it was odd that a busy steward went in person to reclaim the chair, and went so soon too. He must have been shitting bricks — sorry, very perturbed — because he remembered the silver was inside. Presumably, Polycarpus thought the loot might be discovered, so he chased off to retrieve it. One of my dear little inquisitive nephews had been playing in the conveyance. But the little boy failed to tell his mama, when she caught him with the coaster, that he had seen a whole load of other things under the removable seat.’

‘Well, don’t snitch on him.’

‘I don’t grass up naughty boys, Tiberius.’

‘That’s a relief to all of us!’

‘Why, what have you done?’ Dromo demanded of the aedile, who gave him no answer. He just sat there, as he did, with that pleasant face giving nothing away like some fisherman on a wharf waiting for a bite on his line, knowing it would eventually happen.

I said, ‘I am sure your master was speaking hypothetically.’

‘What?’

‘A joke, Dromo!’ I squared up and continued. ‘It could have been a girl, by the way. My little sweetheart niece Aelia finds things she is not supposed to …’

‘Some girls are into everything,’ remarked Faustus obliquely.

I sniffed. ‘Polycarpus could well have fetched back the chair too soon, because you, super-efficient Tiberius Manlius, had arranged for a much more detailed search to take place here.’

‘Yes, and you certified my search was thorough! So the silver was not found because? …’

‘It was still at my uncle’s house while the search was going on. Polycarpus was on his mission to fetch it. I bet when he brought the chair back, he was horrified to hear you had searched again. The day he died, he had been moving the silver to the well, a safer hiding-place.’

‘You think his killer discovered him doing it?’

‘It seems likely. I wonder if they had a quarrel over this silver? The one thing I can say is this,’ I told Faustus. ‘On the night of the attack, Polycarpus and the others organised a spectacular cover-up. It involved the steward and slaves disguising the crime as a burglary.’

Faustus held up a hand. ‘Did they know real thieves had made an attempt? Roscius?’

‘Maybe they knew, though I think it was an extraordinary coincidence. Aviola and Mucia had been killed — for whatever reason and by whomever; we don’t know yet. The slaves went into the oecus to decide what to do. They may have known that if they stayed outside in the courtyard people like Fauna and Lusius, the neighbours upstairs, could hear what was going on. While they were indoors, Roscius broke in. He never saw the slaves, but perhaps they saw him. They all kept quiet. Once the burglars fled, some quick-witted slave — or Polycarpus — worked out that this was their deliverance. They could blame these robbers for everything — murders included.’

‘So that was when, and why, the slaves first concealed the silver?’

‘Yes, I bet it had been in the kitchen. Roscius never went in there. Polycarpus had the wine set washed by his own people, after the slaves who came with Gratus had all gone home. Everything was probably upside-down on a draining board, drying.’

Faustus sat quiet for a while. ‘It was a good try. But with the cover-up, the slaves have only made things worse.’

‘That will be your problem,’ I told him, sympathetically. ‘I shall show what happened; you must advise the authorities at the Temple of Ceres how to respond. My uncles may provide a legal steer.’

‘Thanks for landing me in it!’ Faustus growled, yet sounded lenient.

‘Nothing has changed since we started; it’s the slaves who have caused your problems.’

‘Do you have any idea who committed any of the murders?’

‘I have a few thoughts.’

‘Was it Myla?’

‘I doubt it. I want to have one last attempt to urge the fugitives into a confession. One tell-tale would be enough. Is there any chance you could offer an amnesty, if I make someone sing out the real song?’

Faustus frowned. ‘I disapprove, but it has been talked about in official circles.’

‘It would be in the style of our beloved emperor,’ I reminded him. ‘Buying evidence. Making prosecutions look good. Ensuring the outcome of trials …’

‘So modern! Give out a big reward and set the informant free.’

‘Is that what I can offer?’

‘I suppose so.’ He sighed.

‘Right. I’ll see what I can do with them.’

‘Make it tomorrow morning. You need to be sober.’

That was what I had intended. I looked sullen.

‘Sorry!’ said Manlius Faustus, rather unexpectedly.

He was learning to read me.

Faustus sat leaning his chin on one clenched fist. Looking over his knuckles, his eyes went to Dromo, still standing with us unnoticed.

‘Sit, Dromo. Sit and join the family.’

Dromo looked as startled as I was. But why not? A man’s slaves formed his familia, his wider household. You may wonder why would Manlius Faustus choose to extend the privilege to an idiot, but how many people have real blood relations who are idiots or far worse?

Dromo did not seek inclusion, nor expect it, but he only needed to be asked once. He sat down.

Faustus and I both surveyed him. It seemed to me the boy was different. He had that subtle alteration that happens with a teenager, marking their shift from child to adulthood. One day you look at them and see a new person. I glanced at Faustus; I reckoned he saw what I thought.

‘I gather this young man did something brave today; he saved a baby,’ Faustus told me. ‘I know he found the event upsetting. I brought him to see if you could help him come to terms.’ Dromo must have told him what I said, that old story from Britain.

‘Why did she want to take the baby with her?’ Dromo had no sense of timing. When he wanted to ask something, he burst straight out with it. Inexperience. Lack of observation. I doubted he would ever improve.

I had sent him to Faustus because Faustus ought to look after him. Why was I now lumbered? But both Faustus and Dromo were waiting for me.

I sighed. ‘Dromo, as far as I understand it, some desperate parents who are contemplating suicide feel they cannot leave their children behind to suffer.’ I did not tell him that others, especially in bitter divorces, think if I can’t have them, he or she won’t have them either … I had been involved in cases like that. The law said a child belonged to its father; in practice, many infants went with their divorced mothers — Aviola’s three (well, his legitimate three) were typical. Once in a while, a couple could not reconcile themselves to either solution. I would try to mediate, though I was normally hired by one side to find dirt in order to prevent their antagonist having custody.

‘Will that baby know what her mother did?’ asked Dromo, very subdued.

‘Who can say? By the time she is old enough to understand, people around her may have forgotten. In any case, the people she grows up with may not know — I believe she is to be sent to a happier life on a farm in the country.’

‘The country?’ Dromo was disgusted. ‘I think I did the wrong thing.’

‘No, Dromo.’

‘I bet you blame your mother for leaving you.’

I felt myself grow tense. ‘I may have done from time to time, but no longer.’