Lindsey Davis - The Ides of April

From the start, I assumed a third party was responsible. I entertained no thought that the wife herself might have killed Viator (normally this is the first issue to investigate). She would have had no idea how to do it. Besides, there seemed genuine affection there-or at least, regret to have lost him. She gained nothing from his death. In fact, she had lost a lot of freedom as the wife of a very rich man- especially (being cynical) one who was out at the gym all day.

I could not deduce how much she had loved her husband, but I saw she felt responsibility towards him. In marriage, what more can anybody ask? She would mourn Julius Viator. She would pick over her memory of their life together, rue they had not taken better advantage of the time they had-even, if she loved him enough, wish she had a child by him. He was a man whose only conversation was athletics, described as a dire dinner companion, yet ample tears would be shed in his memory.

Because the widow could think of no one who had hated Viator, she was now also anxious that the apparently motiveless assailant might home in on her. The killer had not only destroyed her home and shattered her life, he had terrified her.

Viator's widow was only a year younger than I was when I lost Farm Boy. Her bereavement echoed mine. Normally I see that coming, but this caught me out. Unexpectedly emotional, I strode from the room where I left the girl weeping.

Tiberius was waiting outside. I just summarised the facts, as tersely as possible. "She knows nothing new. She never even saw him when he came home. She heard the wailing begin, then they took her to his corpse. She had never seen anyone dead before. All she remembers is her terror. The event fits the pattern. That's all."

A new wave of feeling overcame me. "Her life is wrecked. She is little more than a child. I was that age when I lost my husband just as suddenly. I know what she still has to go through… Don't speak to me. Don't follow me. I've had enough of you!"

I cannot say what showed in my face, but the way I stormed off must have made a big impression. Tiberius let me go without a word of protest. After I decamped, he must have returned to the aediles' office and ordered Andronicus straight out to find me.

I was not in the Eagle Building, nor at the Stargazer. Rodan must have suggested where else I might be lurking. I cannot imagine it was Tiberius who told Andronicus, although after the other night the runner did know I had another local haunt: I was sitting hunched in the Armilustrium, on one of the benches, with my stole wrapped tightly round me.

I had not cried, but my mood was so black it startled even me. I knew I should have been more controlled at the widow's house. That made it worse.

"Do I dare?" Andronicus spoke softly, as he joined me. I managed not to be annoyed that he asked permission to join me, and did it so tentatively. First he perched on the bench end; then he shuffled closer and simply kept me company. He seemed to understand it was what I needed. Sometimes you run away by yourself purely so someone who cares will come to find you. Half the time nobody does. That's the tragedy of life.

When, finally, I looked directly at him, those brown eyes were so sympathetic, I nearly did break down and weep. He pulled a wry face at me. He knew I could be a fury, but I could see it did not frighten him.

I wondered if he knew it was me who stabbed Tiberius through the hand.

After a time I murmured, "I appreciate your kindness. Will you be in trouble? Can they spare you from your work?"

"I'm under orders. I dread to imagine what you must have done to Tiberius. He thinks he's tough, but he looked properly scared."

"I was unprofessional. I let myself be upset, instead of staying neutral."

"Want to tell me?"

"Thanks, but no. My stupidity is not your problem."

"You think?" Andronicus gave me his wide-eyed, rueful look. "I have been grabbed by the scruff of the neck, marched out of the archive room, informed that Flavia Albia sees me in a friendly light and may not eat my liver and lights therefore-and so despatched to comfort you. Had I not moved like a startled flea, I would have his boot print on my tunic arse."

I laughed slightly, thinking I would have liked to witness that little scene.

"You seem to be spending a lot of time with him," muttered my friend, with that edge of complaint he sometimes showed.

"Jealous?"

"Absolutely!"

I shuddered. "Horrible thought. Don't be bird-brained. It was work. He thought he could use my female skills. He will not repeat the experiment."

"He means to plunder your expertise, then steal the kudos," Andronicus warned me. "Everything with him is about how he appears."

"I see that."

"So did you help him?"

"Not enough to be of any value."

I sighed and relaxed, glad to be with someone I trusted. This was why I had been so badly affected earlier. The lonely young widow reminded me how I used to share my concerns with Farm Boy. Talking my cases through with Lentullus had clarified puzzles for me. He loved listening; I was like a storyteller for him. I had had nothing like that since, which was why I identified so closely with the isolation Viator's widow felt.

Still, I had someone to confide in now. "It's hopeless, Andronicus. We are trying to solve a series of seemingly unrelated deaths, where even the stricken victims themselves often don't realise anything bad has happened." I paused. "Except perhaps one old woman. Celendina. She said my name; she may have been telling her son to involve me."

"Did she say anything else?" asked Andronicus, drawing out the story to help me re-evaluate the evidence. I loved the thoughtful way he was listening.

"I don't think so. Even if she did, the son, the only person she spoke to, is unable to remember."

"What's happened to him?"

"Locked up by the vigiles?"

"They think he killed her?"

"Possibly. But he could not have killed the others. He never went out of the house."

"And otherwise you have no clue about who is doing this?"

I turned my head and gazed at him again. "No."

"You would never tell me anyway!" Andronicus grinned.

"That's right," I agreed, smiling back because I was glad to acknowledge openly that sometimes I had to be discreet. Andronicus shrugged his shoulders. If there were any secrets between us, we were easy with that.

Instead, he begged me to say why I was so upset. Since it was personal, no case-constraints applied, so I chose to tell. I explained about the rush of memory I had when the soft, unformed features of Viator's bereaved wife and the way she crumpled into tears made me remember my own youth. She had gone past the first stage, refusal to accept what happened, moving on into bewilderment. I knew all that. I knew her panic, finding herself so unexpectedly alone.

"When it happened to me, I had tripped home innocently from buying garlands for a family event, to find people in the apartment waiting for me. They said there had been a street accident. Lentullus was dead. The next months were terrible-the complete isolation, however much other people sympathise. The fear of being unable to cope with life by yourself, after you have grown used to sharing everything." My good friend nodded, full of kindliness. It made me wonder what griefs, if any, he had known himself. Bereaved slaves are often not allowed to show their sorrow, but must continue their duties impassively. "Those simple things he would have done, Andronicus-because even a rich fellow must surely sometimes find his wife's lost earring for her, or take a decision about calling in the carpenter, or settle on cold meats for lunch when she can't choose. Julius Viator spent all day at the gym, but he must have been home for meals and bedtime, even if all he did was grunt when she spoke to him."