Lindsey Davis - The Ides of April

I went in, fastened the door behind me, threw off my clothes and fell on the bed to sleep. Very few people would know where I was. Only nightmares would ever trouble me, and that night thankfully there were none.

Next morning I was upstairs in my office bright and early. My heart felt a small patter of excitement. I did the silly things that fill in time, like emptying the rubbish bucket, tidying the letters you cannot be bothered to answer, and playing dice solitaire.

I heard Rodan and the visitor coming. From several floors down, Rodan was grumbling breathlessly and giving the impression he was likely to pass out. If ever he brought up some undesirable who turned out to need manhandling, I would have to do the heavy work. I would have to expel the troublemaker myself then climb back up and tow the wheezing Rodan down.

Luckily this visitor was friendly. Like everyone, he had failed to pace his climb upstairs so I heard him exclaim with relief as he reached the top level. There he would have passed an ancient collection of empty amphorae, before arriving at the battered door. I whipped it open. My heart bumped at the slim figure and eager expression of the charmer I met yesterday.

Andronicus was still looking at the indicator tile, with its mystic crescent moon. People around here thought I was a Druid. They were stupid, but I let them. Clients admire an exotic background.

"Andronicus! What a surprise-thanks, Rodan-you can go now …" I shoved Rodan out as fast as possible, while the archivist stood in the doorway and stared around my outer room.

I had made it a very different boudoir from the crude masculine den I inherited. You can do so much with soft furnishings. An informer should not interview people in a bare hole like some bar's back room where the pimps and gamblers congregate. Well, not unless all your clients are gamblers and pimps. That can happen. Ours is a low trade.

The tiny space was now arranged for cosy discussions. I had my own high-backed chair, a basketwork throne which showed clearly who would be in charge. A couch where agitated clients could slump and pour their hearts out had a colourful spread, with loose cushions they could hug nervously as they told their tales. There was a small round wooden table with an inlaid top, on which refreshments could be served, once we had agreed those important little details about my payment. On a shelf stood carefully chosen pieces of Greek art. Loans from the auction house, these were regularly rotated. Art always implies taste and trust. Art suggests you may have received these lovely things as gifts from previous clients, who had cause to be very grateful. It is much more subtle than nailing up written commendations, which people always imagine are fakes you wrote yourself.

Art, if sufficiently solid, can also be used to thump the heads of any crass men who molest you.

"How good to see you." I took my seat and indicated the couch for him. "Somebody called last night when I was unavailable…"

"Not me." I thought Andronicus wanted to hide how keen he was. "Where were you then?"

He had a slight frown between those wide-set, almost over-intense eyes. I felt too cheerful to worry. It was just conversation anyway. "With family."

"No lover?" This man took the direct approach. He gave me a twinkle to show he knew it was an impudent thing to ask.

Long practised, I parried with humour. "Oh, the one with the yacht is out of town, detained for customs infringements last I heard, and they reckon he won't get away with it this time. The actor let me down as well; he was getting all frothed up with a group of rich old widows. He's given himself a hernia, lifting the contents of their jewel caskets…"

"You read a lot of satirical poetry?"

"No, I write my own lines."

I had no lover at the moment. I had had no one for a long time, but a girl should never sound too available. Not on a first tryst. I had my self-respect.

Andronicus abandoned the grilling. Opposite me, he settled in a relaxed pose, one arm along the couch's backrest. I liked the way he had made himself at home. We assessed one another, both pretending not to. I still found him delightful.

"Sorry," he said, reading my mind. "Of course you ask the questions here!"

I kept it light. "Indeed I do. I would not want to waste my carefully learned interrogation skills… What brings you?"

"She goes straight to the point!" He leaned forward earnestly. "There has been a development. I wanted to be first to tell you."

"You care! I'm thrilled … So what's the news?"

"Salvidia is dead. Someone from her family-a nephew-came to inform Faustus yesterday evening."

I chose not to enlighten my new friend that I knew of the woman's death already, nor did I correct him on the real status of Metellus Nepos. I liked Andronicus, but did not know him well enough-yet- to break my rules. Say nothing that you need not say.

"That's shocking, Andronicus. She was hardly old. What happened?"

"Just reached the end of her thread, apparently. Must be annoying for you to lose a client. That's why I thought you would like to know- no point wasting any more of your time on her."

"Yes, thank you." I thought he could not have been present when Nepos and Manlius Faustus were talking. The Nepos I met would undoubtedly have mentioned to a magistrate his nagging doubts about how his stepmother died. I wondered how Faustus had reacted. Tried to put him off?

"This 'nephew' came to the aedile's house? How did you come to be there?"

"I live there." He had been a slave there, presumably. You can deduce a lot from what family freedmen prefer not to tell you. Some are brazen about their origins; well, slavery is not their fault. Yet I could tell Andronicus was quite sensitive. He was never going to say the words "slave" or "freedman" in connection with himself. "It is his uncle's house; on and off, Faustus has lived with his uncle since boyhood."

"He is not married?"

"Divorced."

"A parting for mutual convenience, or was he caught out with a kitchen maid?"

"There were rumours… He left his wife rather quickly, and had to surrender the dowry. I've never been able to squeeze out of him anything to explain what happened; there's a conspiracy of silence in the family."

"Read his diary?"

"Bastard doesn't write one."

"The man's a disgrace-tell him he has responsibilities to clarify matters for his caring household!"

"Well, if he strayed from the marriage, he behaves like a sanctimonious prig now," Andronicus grumbled.

"No mistress then?"

"Never even fingers the girl who makes his bed."

"So she thinks he has lovely manners-but she'd rather he tried it, so she would get a big Saturnalia present! And the uncle?"

"Oh a different mullet entirely. Tullius is a bit too randy in his habits to be tied down to marriage. You know the type-jumps any slave of any age, male or female; has even been known to stand up after the appetisers, leave the room with a serving boy, hump the lad in the anteroom and saunter back for the main course as if nothing has happened, taking up the conversation where he left off. . Flavia Albia, you do rack the questions up. I am impressed!"

"Just habit. I apologise."

"Oh I don't care if you want the scandal on Faustus…"

"You haven't told me any scandal about Faustus," I corrected him.

"No, he's a cold fish."

"If I ever have to meet him, I would like to be primed with some salacious background!" I had now confirmed that Andronicus really disliked Manlius Faustus. His manner with me generally was so open that I could tell he was being reticent about his poor relationship with the aedile. Of course, that aroused my interest, though I let it pass, temporarily. Andronicus thought me direct, but I could be very patient. "So, Andronicus-last night?"