Lindsey Davis: The Ides of April

Yet my papa really was the excitable kind of informer I alluded to above; he saw mischief in everything and had a lifelong habit of stumbling into situations where persons died suspiciously. It was one way to earn a few sesterces, by exposing what had happened. There was no reason for me to suppose anything unusual had happened to Salvidia; she was an unfriendly woman who probably expired from her own bile. Even so, I had been taught always to invent an excuse to inspect a corpse. To be invited to view one was a welcome privilege: I was in there like a louse up a tramp's tunic.

As I had been told, the woman lay in her bedroom, one of the few places in her house that was furnished normally. Years before, she and Metellus must have invested in a pretty solid marriage bed, though the webbing under the mattress was now sagging too much for my taste. I guessed she had never taken a lover, or they would have constantly rolled into each other awkwardly during moments of rest. Why do people who are surrounded by their own workmen never get them to do repairs?

The room had the usual cupboards and chests. There were no windows, so although it did not smell particularly sour, the lack of fresh air was oppressive.

"She was just like that when I found her," the maid quavered from the doorway. I saw no reason to comment. I was wondering how long I had to stand looking solemn at the bedside before I could leave politely.

Salvidia lay on her back. Her arms were straight by her sides, she looked relaxed; either she died in her sleep or someone had closed her eyelids. With all the life gone, she was a shell, middle-aged in actual years but now sunken like an old woman; certainly a woman who would have claimed she led a hard life.

Salvidia had had a heavy build, the kind of weight that arrives with the menopause. Her hair was wound up in a simple bun, which she probably did herself She had flabby arms and a lined, sunken face. She wore day clothes, the same kind of bunched tunic I had seen her in, with a girdle cinched tightly as if to hold in her constant anger at everything. Her wedding ring and one other plain ring gripped her fingers; her earrings were dull gold drops which somehow gave the impression she just put the same pair on daily and had done so for the past twenty years. There was no other jewellery on her, and no gem boxes in the room that I could see; no cream or cosmetic pots either. She wasted no cash on self-adornment.

I assumed her heart had suddenly stopped, or something similar. That was how it looked. There was nothing to suggest any kind of interference. Her skin had a few shapeless brown spots you would expect in a woman of her age, that's all. No bruising. I did notice a short, fine scratch on her left arm, with faint reddening around it, but it was like a graze anyone could pick up brushing clumsily against something. Salvidia had not been an elegant mover.

Even a lifeless body can give off an aura. This woman's endless agitation was over, yet her corpse signalled permanent disappointment. I felt her unhappy submission to death after a life that was in my terms, and probably her own, mainly wasted. Had she ever known contentment? I doubted it.

Depressed, I left the bedroom. The maid stayed there to watch over her mistress, with more loyalty than I had expected. Staff would forget she had been annoying, it seemed. They would feel normal sadness at her early parting. It should have given me faith in human decency but I felt unsettled. Needing to recover, I made my way to a small outside area beyond the atrium that I had spotted earlier.

With better owners, this space could have been made into a natty little courtyard garden. Salvidia had almost filled it with a huge stone basin of the kind used in public baths, though this was rough and unattractive, not fine-grained alabaster or porphyry. Lolling at an angle, the monster was so unwieldy and heavy-looking I could not imagine how they manoeuvred it in-nor why they bothered. It was stored, no use to anyone, and ruining what could have been a pleasant sitting-out place.

I found a bench, upturned against a low wall. Nobody could have used it for years. With effort, I turned the seat right way up in a tiny patch of sunlight, then perched on it, trying to avoid the mossy parts. I was reflecting thoughtfully in a way that generally means someone is upset-and so I was. I was furious that because of Salvidia's inconvenient death I had probably lost my payment.

I assumed no one would bother me as I sat brooding there. From the surrounding house came only silence, as if even the maid might have left. I had seen no other staff and wondered if either the mistress had been too mean to have any, or if when she died they took their chance and ran away. Most homes have cooking smells, woofing dogs, distant knocks and footsteps, snatches of indecipherable conversation. This place lay still, seemingly deserted. Not even a pigeon shared my nook. It all gave the impression nothing much had ever gone on here. Even calling it a "home" seemed an exaggeration.

At least it was peaceful. Eventually my annoyance and melancholy settled. Just as I was ready to leave, surprisingly someone turned up. I never heard him coming and he was equally surprised to see me.

The new arrival was in his late thirties, lean build, unremarkable face, clothes decent but not expensive. I could tell he was not, and never had been, a slave. Neither muscle-bound nor dusty, he looked more like a stationer than one of the construction workers. If I really thought Salvidia had had a lover, I might have suspected this was he, but although he had an air of ownership, I doubted that. Instinct again.

The way the man crept up, he could have been a walk-in thief, trying his luck. If so, he would presumably have gone through the atrium to search indoors for items he could quickly pilfer, not come out here and slumped on the little wall between the peristyle columns, looking as low-spirited as me. Perhaps he felt grim for similar reasons. Had he too come from viewing the corpse? Once he noticed me, he made no move to absent himself. Nor, oddly, did he turn me out. He just nodded once, like a stranger sitting down nearby in a public park, then he lost himself in brooding thoughts. So, I stayed and waited to see what would happen. My father would say that kind of curiosity had got him into plenty of trouble. But you have to trust your intuition. (That idea too, as my mother would dryly remark, had often landed dear Papa ankle-deep in donkey-shit.)

Eventually the stranger roused and introduced himself. He was called Metellus Nepos and he was the sole heir and executor. I asked about his name, because I knew "Nepos" was Latin for "nephew."

"It's just a name," he answered brusquely, like a man who had been asked the same question far too many times. "My name!" Fine.

Romans pride themselves on their wonderful organisation, but when it comes to assigning names to babies, they tend to lack logic. Never try to tell anyone this at a dinner party, especially if they have a stupid name.

He relaxed enough to explain that the original Metellus who founded the company was his father, while Salvidia had been a second wife, his stepmother. Nepos told me he now had no intention of carrying on the business, but would sell up. He said that with enough bitterness to convince me I was right about the stepmother edging him out. At least he had gone off and done what he had always wanted; he became a cheesemaker. I said that was different. He said not really, if you like cheese.

I do. We had a meeting of minds, though not extravagantly.

He decided to become official. "May I ask what you are doing here?"

I had been waiting for this and saw no reason to prevaricate. "My name is Flavia Albia. I work as an informer. Salvidia hired me to apply legal pressure against some compensation-seekers."