Lindsey Davis - Graveyard of the Hesperides

On the Vicus Longus we found a streetside snackery that was being swept clean by a worn woman, while her thin-faced daughter served a few rolls and cheese wedges to passing workers. Rather than have us clutter up their counter, they put out a bench for us to sit on.

We each reported on yesterday’s efforts. When I expressed anxiety that Tiberius was wearing himself out, he reassured me. He said nothing about progress on the house, although I gathered he had been there. He had told the aediles’ office he was “going to his villa at the seaside”; apparently no magistrate was ever expected to work in the August heat, although Manlius Faustus must be the only one in history who was too poor to own a holiday home. He was arguing with his uncle over his right to draw cash from their family finances. He would never prise money out of Uncle Tullius for luxuries. Business deals were hard enough to fund.

Meanwhile he had left Julia and Favonia with a wedding-guest list. When they applied themselves to something they wanted to do, my younger sisters could be meticulous. They had Katutis, Father’s secretary, writing out invitations; between them there was no chance any awful relative would be left out. Any day now, this event would be scribbled on everyone’s calendar. I was stuck.

I mentioned that I had myself hired victimarii and an augur. My bridegroom looked annoyed. He pointed out, mildly, that since I had refused to take any interest, he and his helpers had fixed all the details; we must avoid duplication, he pompously decreed-practicing for the day he could thunder around as head of the household. Practicing how to ignore that, I said Julia and Favonia would be delighted when they saw the hunks.

“You’re marrying me, remember. Not some bastard bunch of bare-chested bull-despatchers,” growled Tiberius. I smiled dreamily. “What?” he demanded.

“Remembering you in bed!” I murmured, so he pretended not to blush, while sweetly proud of himself. Men are so easy to manage.

Faustus nudged me in the ribs with an elbow, fully aware of my tactics. “And what kind of horrible heartthrob is your augur?”

“Haven’t seen him. Supposedly he is top quality-all we have to do is send a note beforehand and he will foresee everything we ask for.”

“Can’t he ‘foresee’ what we want without being fed instructions? I’d like a long life with a darling wife who is never cheeky.”

“Sorry, sir, I can’t do lack of cheek. That omen has been discontinued. Even the gods have limitations.”

While Tiberius chewed the rim of his beaker, I recapped what I had learned yesterday from my various interrogations, especially from Costus and his crew. “I discount the possibility that Rufia fell victim to some stalker who grabbed her on her way home to Mucky Mule Mews. I think she must have been killed at the bar. So we have either she was an abused girlie bashed by a degenerate landlord claiming employer’s rights, probably drunk at the time, or she was a stroppy piece who quarreled and, if you believe in the concept, ‘brought it on herself.’ I’m not there yet-I need to ask around more.”

Tiberius agreed we should persuade someone with anatomical knowledge to examine the bones. We had brought them out with us, like some pet that needed exercising. He was going to the local vigiles, the Third Cohort, to report our find, so he would ask if their doctor or someone else with expertise could pronounce for us.

We settled our breakfast bill, which meant I paid it, because of Uncle Tullius.

Gazing at the older woman as she counted the coins, I was sure she had been listening to our conversation. She said nothing but I knew what this wily bird had been up to while she innocently wiped down her counter.

“I presume you’re not a customer of the Garden of the Hesperides?” I asked, gently letting her know I had spotted her eavesdropping. Now it was the daughter’s turn to listen in. She too said nothing.

The Hesperides was just out of sight, though very close by. The mother shook her head, pinching her mouth. She was a hardworking scrap who looked affronted at the suggestion that she might lower herself to take a tipple in a wine bar. “A body has been found there. I expect you heard about it?” Again, she pretended to look shocked. I do not listen to common gossip, Flavia Albia! Classic. She could have been my Aventine granny biffing me with a dishcloth for impudence.

I spotted her having a good squint at our bag of bones.

Faustus and I went to the Hesperides.

Immediately we were assailed by Dromo, complaining. He couldn’t be expected to live in a place full of dead bodies, he hadn’t had a wink of sleep, the watchman had been cruel to him, and nobody had given him any breakfast.

“Come with me,” said Faustus calmly. “I’ll buy you a flatbread on the way.”

“You tell your kindly master all about it, Dromo!” I had listened carefully to the slave’s moans in case he had seen anything useful. After all, he had spent the night at a newly discovered crime scene. Anything could have happened. I did not spell it out to him, but perpetrators sometimes do return.

“I don’t find my master kind, Flavia Albia.”

“Yes, he is. Be good and maybe Manlius Faustus will let you carry the bag of bones.”

“I’m not going to touch a dead person!”

“Lucky for you, then, these are in a rubble basket,” his master barked as he handed over the remains; they set off, still bickering in their normal way. I went into the courtyard, which the watchman, Trypho, opened up for me before he curled up to sleep on a pallet in the bar. Alone, I gazed around, considering the place with new eyes.

The project, which I considered ridiculous, was that the small outdoor area would be given one of those canals people create in fancy outdoor dining rooms, down which lamps and little food dishes are floated, generally to sink with their contents. Opposite the bar end, a daft grotto had been created, with shell decorations and a small mosaic of Oceanus wreathed in sparkly glass seaweed. A so-called specialist had provided that; I knew, because Faustus had had a row with him because he was preoccupied with some designer villa and had sent his apprentice. The apprentice had never been properly taught, though he was a bright lad who learned on the job. His right-hand seaweed ringlets were much better than his left. Customers in the know would be asking for the table by the fig tree, on Oceanus’ good side.

The fig tree was new. They were fan-training it on one courtyard wall, in theory. The builders must have planted it; nobody had told them to contain the roots. In a few years the monster would be forty feet high, so when hard, unripe fruit fell from the topmost branches, gravity would make it bounce on the drinkers’ heads with knockout force. Or worse, the figs would splash into their beakers, spilling their drinks.

That would be if the tree lived. The sapling looked sick. There was no water on-site at the moment. The workmen had filled in a well with concrete. They were supposed to be arranging a connection from an aqueduct to supply the water feature, and include the kitchen, but the new landlord had just been told its horrifying cost. He had balked. Faustus, who had inherited all this barmy design, had promised to quote for other options, although now the well was out of action there were none. Like any experienced contractor, Faustus was simply waiting for the client to give in and pay, knowing Liberalis was desperate to have his bar back.

Rufia’s bones had been below the opposite wall to the fig tree. As far as I could tell, the men had only been digging there so that they could bury their lunch wrappings and a smelly sack, the traditional way builders avoid removing rubbish from a site.