Lindsey Davis - The Ides of April

I heard him say something to me. I saw him through the lattice, stepping back against the balustrade. He was about to hurl himself against the door, which would inevitably burst inwards. I jammed myself in the frame, full weight pushing on the door handle. It felt hopeless.

Shouts below. Someone was coming. He would not have time to reach us.

Andronicus was shouting too. He took his planned run at the door. I still managed somehow to keep it closed. He was so frustrated, he jumped right in the air and stamped down with both feet. At his next attempt, I could no longer hold the door, and he dragged it partway open. He was looking straight at me, when we heard a tremendous cracking noise. Vibrations ran through the soles of my sandals. A shudder rippled in the outer wall. He did not understand. I hope he never knew what was happening, though he must have done. I know he screamed. Any time I think about that moment, I can still hear him.

The old balcony split off from the building. The deadweight amphorae and our struggle were too much for the weakened supports. The ancient construction came away from the masonry and fell six storeys. Andronicus was taken with it.

A cloud of mortar dust bellied into the room and enveloped me.

I swayed off-balance above empty space. As I toppled, strong arms crushed me. Tiberius hauled me to safety. One of us sobbed with shock; it may even have been him.

We heard terrible noises as the balcony landed with its tumbling cargo. Cries sounded in the alley far below. Then silence.

The runner turned me around for inspection. He apologised. I apologised. He meant for not telling me the plan and I meant for not understanding him. That was done. Neither of us would refer to it again.

He told me he had to go downstairs. I understood why. I was to follow as soon as I could. He left me. After his urgent steps faded, I could not bear it there alone and though still feeling fragile, I went down after him.

In Fountain Court there was a mound of rubble, but nothing terrible to see. The vigiles had covered the body. Somehow, no one else was hurt. Tiberius came up quickly and confirmed it was over; that was considerate.

I was taken to my father's house, where I spent the night and all the next day. Even after the office was made safe again, it would be some time before I wanted to go back, maybe never. Even my apartment held memories. I needed to adjust before I could be comfortable there.

It was the end of the Cerialia, so that night there was a big chariot race in the Circus. It would be the last event in the Games that the aedile had to supervise. He sent my family tickets, but none of us went. I stayed quietly at the town house until after lunch the following day. Everyone was going to our villa on the coast and taking me with them.

There were things I needed from my apartment. I walked back alone early that afternoon, slowly taking the Stairs of Cassius. First, I went to the vigiles station house, where I learned that Morellus had been stricken, but somehow survived. He was at home, and since they said he was slowly rallying, I left good wishes and did not bother his wife, Pullia. Seeking quietness, I made my way to the empty enclosure of the Armilustrium. I seated myself on my usual bench, where I stayed for a long while, reflecting.

I was still there, and beginning to dislike my solitude, when I heard someone approaching. I did not look up. A lone woman should avoid eye-contact with strangers. Not that this was a stranger. I knew the man. I recognised his tread. I knew exactly who he was, even though I had never seen him before resplendent in full Roman whites, complete with broad purple status bands on his luxuriant toga. He looked good. Very good. He could carry robes with confidence. As usual he had no bodyguards, but he needed none. By virtue of his high office, his person was sacrosanct.

Even before I looked, I knew he would have grey eyes and where he supported the toga's heavy folds on his casually bent left arm, that hand was now permanently scarred. This was, as I expected, Tiberius Manlius Faustus, the plebeian aedile.

A corner of his mouth tightened. "You realised."

"You knew I did."

"Sorry about the secrecy. I like to see things for myself."

"All the fun of disguise-scruff, stubble, and best of all, low street manners; you can be rude to everyone ." I played it cool. "Luckily I understand, aedile. Our family motto is: If you want something done, there are people you give orders to. If you want it done well, you must do it yourself." I could hear my mother saying it; my father worked that way. Helena herself too.

"You follow family tradition."

"I am my own woman."

Faustus, as I must learn to call him, sounded almost admiring, though being him, not quite: "Oh Albiola, you are that!"

Albiola?

My relatives never used diminutives. Even Farm Boy, who as my husband had the right to be sentimental, called me nothing more personal than "chick," which was the same as he called any donkey he was driving, and even a mouse he once had to entice out of our apartment. From the aedile I had no idea how to take it. He saw that and smiled faintly. For a heartbeat I was going to slap him down, but I left it. He had had enough of that from the ex-wife.

Now I understood why he kissed Laia so pointedly the other day. The formal salutation was his right as her ex-husband. He was asserting that she no longer cowed him. He had been penitent for ten years, but was finally finished with guilt.

I moved up, so the aedile sat down with me.

"What do you want, Faustus?"

"I was worried about you. I thought you might need comfort." I started to deny it, but he cut me off. "The truth is, I am tired and depressed myself. I hate what happened. Maybe I thought if I showed up, you might console me."

I laughed. He endured it. He was tough but tolerant. I liked this man.

So we sat together side by side, slumped and silent for a long while. He was famous for not speaking. I never chatter. I sensed that in his disguise as the runner he had learned to talk to me more than he ever talked to most people; for my part, I had felt able to be open with him. Yet he and I could communicate without words. Together we abandoned the struggle to remain unmoved in the face of appalling events. Silently, we faced our sad mood, our weariness, even our depression and regret for mistakes. Every time a major investigation ends, there is a period of melancholy. This time that poignancy was personal. At least we were sharing it.

I relayed the news about Morellus. Faustus told me he had been to a follow-up meeting after the festival, receiving congratulations for his contribution. He was modest, but I already knew this year's Cerialia was accounted a grand success. It would do well for him, though I did now accept he had sought no personal advancement, but acted as a devout man. Even so, he would, I thought, accept any benefits that ensued. I did not believe all his protestations that he lacked ambition. He wanted, he had told me, to live happily and die with greater hope.

For him, seeking the needle-killers would not end here. Many random deaths had occurred in Rome and the authorities would continue searching; Faustus was now seen as an expert, even though he did not relish the reputation. He offered me a commission to assist but, as he clearly expected, I declined. Too close to home.

Then Faustus fumbled under his toga and came out with something from his belt pouch. He dropped a packet in my lap. "The state wants to reward you, but who knows when or with how much… This is from me." While I investigated, he looked away.

He had bought me a set of sewing needles, well-made bronze that would not rust, with grooved eyes, in several sizes from tenting to fine embroidery. I thanked him, though I was mournful. Now I had to face it; my time with him as the runner had ended. An aedile was different. One of the top hundred. This was goodbye.