Lindsey Davis - The Ides of April

Tiberius muttered impatiently that the Bassus family would have done more good by using the cash for their other children. I felt obliged to murmur, maybe the plaque comforted them. He declared that kind of comfort was overrated.

He pointed out angrily that the door of the house stood open again. Nothing had been learned. Any other infant could have run out into danger.

"I wonder why anyone bothers!"

"Do you have children?" I asked.

"No, I never had the chance to neglect innocent offspring!"

Tiberius strode on, with me hurrying after. We looped up over the heights, through little streets with markets and fountains at crossroads, under the commanding bulk of the great Temple of Diana of the Aventine, through more local alleys and byways, until we returned to my home area. Much of the time we spent together, I was barely aware of my companion. I was lost in private meditation, sometimes of a neutral kind that serves to empty your brain of trouble, but frequently much darker. We walked; I was reclaiming my right to do so, after a long night and morning of apprehension. Exposing Andronicus had shaken me. What that callous killer had done left me bleak and lacking faith. Worse, before I calmed down on today's walk, I had been deeply frightened.

Even Tiberius wanted to warn me not to be complacent. "Until he is in chains, keep your wits about you, Albia. If you have said or done anything to upset him-"

"That's me! Unfortunately, I dropped him. He will not forgive me for that."

I saw no need to dwell on the end of my love affair. But I did mention that my brother had been dangerously obstreperous with Andronicus last night, probably in the same way that young Lupus once cheekily aroused his loathing, a lad doing what came naturally without realising it threatened his safety. Tiberius thought Postumus should be kept in at home, just to be on the safe side.

He offered no advice about me. Wise fellow.

Everywhere had a bright but relaxed holiday atmosphere. People were having lunch. There was no suggestion Tiberius and I should do that together. Instead, he left me at the Stargazer where I said Junillus would look after me. Looking tired, Tiberius said he had to go home. It had been a kind move to remain with me when we left the station house, although I could tell why he did it. He, too, had needed time to prepare himself for the next action.

"Andronicus has been kept busy at home with tasks for Tullius. It is time to confront him. Then make an arrest."

Despite myself, I thought about Andronicus, unwittingly working with the aedile's uncle while retribution approached. Tullius would know what was going on. He would be aware of the room search, and the evidence discovered; while Tiberius finalised the case, Tullius must have agreed to supervise Andronicus. What would it be? Lists? Rental dates and prices? Reviewing old contracts that could now be used for wrapping up fishbones, or simply dumped with the household rubbish? Presumably a hardbitten old businessman would be able to keep his archivist occupied, without showing signs that formal charges were in the last stages of preparation.

I had no wish to see Andronicus being made a prisoner, no desire to know what would happen to him in the judicial system. There could only be one end for a freedman who was found guilty of unlawful homicide, especially when two of the citizens he had killed- Viator and Salvidia-had been wealthy. Murder carried the death penalty. He was not important enough for his trial to be drawn out. The prosecution would be brutal, his defence sketchy. He could hardly rely on the traditional character witnesses to plead for him. Justice would be swift. There was only one outcome. He would be sent to the arena to be torn apart by the beasts.

I would make sure I was away from Rome then.

"Don't let it prey on your mind," said Tiberius heavily. "It is over. You can leave the rest to me."

Brave, manly words-a declaration which always sounds convincing and never goes wrong, does it?

The Stargazer provided its usual solace. Many a solitary customer had found oblivion there. A beaker of wine helped finish restoring me to full confidence. A second slipped down unheeded. Another made me positively defiant. I believe it is a known effect.

I went to my parents' house, needing to warn them that they should keep Postumus indoors. Easier said than done, I was informed rather spikily. My brother had become fascinated by the nightly rituals enacted as part of the Cerialia. He sneaked out when he wanted to. I said, stuff that, the horrid little beggar had upset the needle-killer and if they wanted to avoid a fatality, he must be made to obey orders. I may have added that looking after an eleven-year-old boy should surely not be difficult and I was surprised at the lack of discipline regularly applied to him in this airy-fairy house. My words veered to the wild and my logic to the incomprehensible.

It was suggested I might like to have a quiet lie-down, upstairs in the roof garden.

Oddly enough, I did what I was told. I slept for hours. Nobody disturbed me. Who would dare?

When I awoke on the daybed, feeling cold and sluggish, I could tell from the shift in the light that the whole afternoon had passed me by. Noises from the river-the daily racket of unloading, the crashes, stevedores' cries and squeaks from pulleys-were now fewer. Sounds from the streets below were different from daytime: hardly any donkey bells, more casual conversation. A blackbird sang his heart out on a nearby roof, designating territory.

The air was filling with drifts of hot oil and herbs as evening cookery began in homes and commercial kitchens. If I stayed here much longer I would be obliged to have dinner, with a lot of teasing. I slipped away, shamefaced, and skulked back alone to my own nest, going via Prisca's baths. The place had just opened formally; they were busy, which saved me having to talk.

At Fountain Court I saw no sign of Rodan. I made my way through the first-floor home of the Mythembal family. Children were wailing, in a room I could not see into. I heard the nightly protests as their weary mother attempted to wash them with cold water, and each one doggedly resisted her until they fell asleep in mid-sob. Locked in their desperate family ritual, none of them were aware of me. I went straight through my own room at the end of the corridor, passed outside to the walkway above the courtyard, climbed the narrow stairs, and fell into my hidden haven. Suddenly I realised how desperate I was to be home, solitary, in this deep silence where only motes of dust were moving. I kept my brain empty. There was nothing left to consider.

In the apartment was a tiny area where I could prepare food. I dipped a beaker into a bucket of cold water, drinking deep. I turned around to my main sitting room, barely aware I was doing it. I stood, looking.

This room was furnished with a wide couch that served as a day-bed, its en suite bronze-legged footstool, a couple of elegant inlaid chests, a rug on the floor, a hanging lamp, souvenirs and paintings on the walls. Two high square windows, set in the thick outside wall, let in light.

There was still light that early evening. Enough for me to notice if things were not right. Nothing was missing. None of my possessions appeared to be displaced. But I had a sensation. You know how, when mice have recently taken up residence at the back of a cupboard, you feel their presence even before you glimpse them from the corner of an eye, long before the telltale droppings and the smell?

I had a glass platter that had contained three apples when I last saw it. Now there were two. My sewing box, untouched by me since my birthday, seemed to have moved sideways. Its lid was still down, but when I went over and lifted it, the short piece of ribbon into which I had stuck my sewing needle was now missing.