Lindsey Davis - Graveyard of the Hesperides

“He preferred the women. He was never choosy.” Both folded their arms, a defensive position, as if they had been groped by Thales when young. Maybe even after they grew up. Maybe worse than groped.

“Did that include Rufia?”

They both guffawed. “Sounds like you know nothing about Rufia!”

“I would, if somebody told me!” I snapped back. I was growing tired of this. “Thales is supposed to have murdered her and buried her, right in that spot over there.” I gestured to where the ground had been disturbed; the pickaxe Sparsus had been using yesterday still leaned against the wall. The waiters looked away, as if they feared Rufia was still decaying in the garden. “You two have been treading on the poor woman on a daily basis. The least you can do now is help me find out what really happened to her, so we can give her ghost some rest.”

At that, they said that no ghost of Rufia’s would ever lie easy in Hades. She would be organizing the other spirits within an inch of their lives, or what had once been their lives. Nipius joked caustically that he was surprised there had been no reports of Underworld protests.

“Now I am starting to imagine her! She bossed you around, I take it?” Actually I was on her side. This pair of loafers were bad enough now; as aimless youngsters in their first job, they must have been dire. “Were you working here on her last night?” Nods. “Remember anything out of the ordinary?” Head shakes. “Was the bar full?”

“Lively.”

“All regulars?”

“Yes,” said Natalis.

And “No,” Nipius contradicted, before he noticed that Natalis was signaling him to hush. I waited. “We had a party of salesmen in.”

“Part of the time,” Natalis downplayed it. He picked at his acne, which could be his way of taking his mind off something difficult. I doubted he knew he was doing it.

“Out for a good time?” I asked dryly, knowing what dealers and distributors are like. The waiters groaned in confirmation. “Did they cause any trouble?” No. “Did Rufia serve them?”

“Yes, Rufia looked after them.”

“What does that mean?” I was sharp. “Come on, I know what happens. Did the party of salesmen stop at drinks, or did any of them have extras?”

The salesmen all had sex. Of course they did. They were salesmen.

When I demanded more details, Natalis and Nipius admitted this had happened in the rooms upstairs. They said they were unable to supply positions, time taken, or whether there were interesting twosomes or threesomes. I ignored their sarcasm.

“Twosomes and threesomes are never as interesting as people hope. Too mechanical, they have to be. Positioning the bodies requires a commissariat.” Nipius and Natalis raised their eyebrows at my inside knowledge. “I read widely!” And I listen to other people’s conversations. “Lads, I take it this was a regular happening? How much did it cost?”

They feigned ignorance of sordid details.

“Come off it! Upstairs is where I found you two this morning. You know exactly what goes on there. Is it where you have always slept?”

No. Since the upper rooms were out of use for commercial purposes at the moment, the waiters had taken them over. After their late-night shifts, they slept in for most of the morning, except when people like me came along to disturb them.

What shifts? I asked how they earned their living while the Hesperides was being renovated. They had obtained temporary work at the Four Limpets. According to them, Liberalis knew all this, was perfectly happy, let them scrounge beds meanwhile, and would give them their old jobs back when he reopened.

“He seems a very kind landlord!”

It could be true. Well, he was new.

Bar staff do come and go; they are even sometimes lent out to rival establishments on special occasions. The only reason you get served by your usual waiter at Saturnalia is that he wants his holiday bonus from you so he makes sure he’s there, not two doors down. Count yourself lucky if he reciprocates with a complimentary wine flagon. Even if he does, don’t drink it, just use the stuff as skillet cleaner or, if you must, to color gravy.

“So who was it I heard upstairs with you today?” Nobody, they claimed. I gave them a level stare, though kept my response light. “You must think I’m deaf or daft, boys!”

We did not pursue the issue.

As with the victimarii yesterday afternoon, I felt these chancers were being cagey. These witnesses were male. I won’t say I see men as unreliable, but maybe I could extract more from a woman, especially one who had been on good terms with Rufia. Whoever was being concealed upstairs might provide what I wanted. Once the men were off the premises, I would rootle their floozies out.

In the meantime, Manlius Faustus came into the courtyard. He must have left Dromo somewhere, probably squatting on the curb outside, which was where slaves usually waited for their masters. Faustus was carrying the basket of bones himself. He set it down, and stood waiting as I closed my interview.

“Does the Four Limpets employ you at lunchtimes? Better hop along there now and start laying up tables.”

The notion of setting out nice napery and cutlery sets was as alien here as in most of Rome. Nipius and Natalis had no idea what I was telling them to do, but since they were keen to escape my questioning, they stared curiously at Faustus, then went off to work.

He remained where he was for a moment. We both wanted to be sure the waiters were out of earshot. “Pointless waste of time…” I tipped my head to one side, considering him. “Aedile, you have something to tell me, I hope. Cheer me up,” I said. “None of my witnesses has parted with any information.”

“Nor mine,” he answered gloomily.

Tiberius came and joined me with the basket of bones, which he shoved under the bench. I turned and kissed his cheek, merely a greeting. He leaned sideways a little, rubbing his head against mine briefly.

“So, how was the forensic examination?”

“Up to scratch for the vigiles.” He sounded depressed. “The Third Cohort claim to be poor overworked slaves who don’t have the time or capacity for ancient murders where the chief suspect has died anyway. One of their half-baked investigators took a peek, but only when I acted up.”

I would have liked to have seen that: Tiberius Manlius Faustus, magistrate and man with a conscience, explaining to a cohort who had never met him before why the demands of public order meant they should do what he wanted. “And?” I asked sympathetically.

“They are human bones, it seems.”

“We knew that.”

“Quite.” He sounded annoyed.

I told him about the waiters. Faustus immediately wanted to know what kind of salesmen had been in the bar. I realized I had not thought to ask, so I turned tetchy on him. Who likes to be shown up?

I had initially supposed they were passing trade, visitors on a spree who would now be impossible to track down. Strangers. Irrelevant. Merely indicative of how the Garden of the Hesperides operated when the bar was humming. But they were here that particular night and Rufia “looked after them.” Curses. They mattered.

“Albia, my love, it’s hardly a disaster.” I had chosen such a reasonable husband. Damn. Why could he not be a self-satisfied swine I could kick? “Ask the waiters later.”

Not so easy if that pair of conspiratorial swine had put their heads together on the way to the Four Limpets and agreed to keep quiet. “Of course I will, darling.”

Listen to me! I was a wife already.

I suggested that the next time one of us was going over to the Aventine we could take the basket then toddle along to the Fourth Cohort, our local, and consult Morellus. He was a truculent bastard too, but we worked with him. Faustus had given money to his wife while Morellus was on prolonged sick leave after being attacked on duty. Morellus owed him. Even so, Faustus was now too glum to cheer up.