Lindsey Davis - The Ides of April

I was unhappy about it. "There is no witness to what he is supposed to have done, no proper evidence. You call this justice?"

"No," said the man quietly. "The neighbours were throwing rocks at the house. They were all set to tear him apart. We call it protective custody."

As I left, Morellus emerged from an interview room and called out to me. "His Eminence wants a word with you. I have orders to take you over to the Twelfth."

He meant Cassius Scaurus, the tribune, the humourless one. Scaurus ran his cohort the same way as his predecessors did; the method was to put up his feet in the main station house over in the Piscina Publica while he thought up ways to cream off the budget for his personal use. He ruled this outstation by the fine tradition of leaving it to look after itself.

I knew a truly serious interview would entail me being tied to a bench or chair and subjected to endless shouted questions in a very violent atmosphere. It was unlikely they would use their heated metal implements to inflict unbearable pain, though it could not be ruled out. The aim was to force a confession. Any confession. It did not have to be true. Why niggle about details?

"What does he want?"

"The proverbial few questions."

"Help with your enquiries? Is he authorising the full torture package?"

"He has to get a chit from the Prefect for that," Morellus admitted, as if he thought I might find this comforting. "I had the impression your interview will be limited to basics-horrible threats and mental cruelty."

"Delightful! So when are you coming to collect me?" I asked thoughtfully.

"When I get around to it," Morellus told me. His tone was heavy with the suggestion that it would never happen. I hoped he did not expect a reward for "forgetting" to do it-especially sexual favours. Perhaps he took a lenient attitude out of respect for my father and uncle. That may have figured partly, but the real reason was that he loathed the tribune.

"Right. Don't expect me to come quietly."

"No, I'll arrive mob-handed."

"I don't suppose there is any point in me asking what I am supposed to have done, Morellus?"

He laughed.

Hunching my shoulders, I threw my stole round them angrily. "And you still expect me to believe you when you say that there is no funny business going on?"

Morellus paused. The flabby, lackadaisical brute really did hate that tribune to a horrid degree. "I suppose, Flavia Albia, if I wanted to upset the old man by taking the initiative, I could start asking around about mysterious deaths."

I was satisfied. I despised him, but the dregs of being a good officer had somehow survived in him. He could do a decent job when he chose. He would also be deeply annoyed if he discovered that his superior had been keeping him in the dark. If Morellus did uncover any funny business happening on the Aventine, which the tribune had failed to mention to him, then because of his deep-seated loathing of Cassius Scaurus, there was a good chance Morellus would pass on the details to me.

"Well, Flavia Albia-you're hiding quite a history!"

There was only one way to offset my depression: lunch. I had come to the Stargazer, the neighbourhood snack-bar my relatives had owned for years, where the aediles' archivist now discovered me. Rodan probably told Andronicus where I would be and, as I greeted my new friend with a lightly pattering heart, for once I blessed the porter.

Andronicus flopped on a bench opposite. Junillus, the young waiter, came to see what he wanted. Being Junillus, he just stood silently, with a waxed tablet poised for writing orders. He had an apron. He had cocked his head. It was obvious why he was there.

When Andronicus said nothing, Junillus walked off, presumably thinking the customer needed more time. I noticed the archivist moved the purse on his belt to a more central position, instead of on his hip. That conveniently told Trinius the pickpocket where to find it, once Trinius had finished glugging his mulsum and wanted to lift the price of tomorrow's drink before he left. "The waiter seems a bit off…"

"Deaf." Still upset after the vigiles, I was terse.

"All right! I only meant all waiters can be odd."

"Junillus is deaf. Which means he grew up dumb. And in case you are thinking of moving us on to some dump where the staff pass for normal but they spit in your pottage and cheat on the bill, he is my cousin."

The archivist waved a hand airily around the caupona. "Ah! A family business?" I could see him thinking what a shabby dive it was. At the Stargazer, even the cobwebs had cobwebs. Sometimes they wafted in a breeze, as if the spirits of old customers were crying out for rest.

Andronicus looked serious-his way of announcing a joke. "I presume that even if it doesn't get you a discount, they flick the flies out of the dish before serving you?"

"If they remember." I finally calmed down. "Never order the special here; it means specially burned." I signed to Junillus that Andronicus would have the same as me: dish of the day (chickpeas, it was always chickpeas), with lettuce on the side, a hard-boiled egg crumbled over the lettuce and a beaker of their not-exactly-Falernian. "See-that was easy."

"Of course. Albia, I understand. He is only deaf. It doesn't make him stupid."

Junillus, who could lip-read or at least interpret moods, gave us an irritated look and loafed off to the kitchen. He was a handsome boy of maybe seventeen, with a tolerant personality. I had a special bond with him. He too had been adopted into the Didii, after his disability must have become apparent and his birth-parents dumped their deaf baby in a rubbish skip. At least they chose a well-maintained one. He survived. My father found him. My childless aunt took him. She needed somebody to dote on; her husband was useless.

It was Junillus who had renamed the place the Stargazer. He was right that there was no point calling it Flora's-its previous incarnation-now that nobody remembered who Flora had been. He had acquired a wall painting of an ugly fish with its eyes on the top of its head and a big mouth, to advertise. I thought it looked rather like Uncle Gaius, Junillus' father, though I never said so.

"In fact he is extremely intelligent," I stated, still defensive.

"Presumably he needs to be," returned Andronicus in a quiet, sensible voice. He was diligently winning back my friendship. I saw no need to make that difficult.

To justify my bad mood, I mentioned my problems today with the law and order boobies. "Just a technicality. But when they flaunt their power, they are a menace…" His food came. I waited while he sized it up and had a taste. At the Stargazer they were not ambitious, but they could manage hard-boiled eggs. "So! What did you mean about my 'history,' Andronicus? Has someone been spreading malicious rumours?"

As Junillus retreated to the counter, he executed a silly dance, for my benefit; he was indicating that Andronicus was of an even worse standard than my usual class of follower. Andronicus happened to catch this from the corner of his eye. In his most teasing manner he commented, "I suppose it's inevitable your family will mock any man-friend they see you with!"

"Saturnalia will be fun," I agreed, not disputing his definition of himself. "By then sisters, aunties, Mother's dressmaker and the pet monkey should all have seen us around together. My life won't be worth a nutshell."

"I think you'll cope." Andronicus had laid down his spoon, probably with relief, as the sour chickpeas hit his tastebuds; my aunt was still using up a sackful she must have bought the year Vesuvius erupted. He spoke in a low, more intense voice. "From what I heard this morning, you are tough. And an interesting character… You don't seem perturbed that you have been discussed by people?"