Lindsey Davis - Graveyard of the Hesperides

The Garden of the Hesperides had opened as usual the following morning, that was clear from statements. Everything had looked fine. No one, no ordinary member of the public, had realized anything had happened there.

Five men disappeared, but it would seem that nobody ever came looking for them.

Strangers? Up from the country or, more likely, foreigners. Men who had never been here before? Or men who had been before, yet nobody at home, wherever that was, knew of their links to the Ten Traders district in Rome, let alone their connection to this specific bar.

Had it been too far to come looking, too expensive to make the journey, had any chance of finding out what had happened been too uncertain?

Alternatively, perhaps these men’s deaths had served as a warning. No one came searching because people were too scared of the same fate befalling them.

That seemed unlikely. Old Thales sounded like a social menace, but not particularly scary. If I thought someone like him had murdered five people I knew, I would not hesitate to wreak revenge.

Not everyone was like me. Just as well, you may say.

All right, if you were a peace-loving, timid type yourself, you could at least report the crime to the authorities. This was Rome, city of ancient justice. Well, it was Rome, city of interminable legal wrangling. You could hire a barrister to sue all Hades out of Thales. If you had the money, you could demand justice.

If not, you would have to make a complaint to the vigiles. That was not entirely pointless. The Third Cohort were shirkers, but for sudden disappearances and presumed killings, they might at least prepare a scroll so as not to be caught out if anything else happened later. Cover your backs, my uncle Lucius would say. Write up some notes, so you have notes to consult, notes to present if and when your case is raised again by busybodies.

Macer had apparently known nothing about a past crime until he came and saw the bodies. Possibly he had now gone back to his station house to hunt up old reports, though I wasn’t confident.

If the five men could afford to travel here, their associates at home probably had access to funds too, so ought to have been able to follow them. I reckoned the associates could not have known where to come.

And what of the woman? If it was Rufia, she had lived here. When trouble started, did she get in the way? Did one of the aggressors kill her accidentally? Or was she deliberately punished by someone for being too friendly with the victims? More likely, with one victim in particular? This was harsh, but it would by no means be the first time a jealous man had lashed out and murdered a woman on those grounds. Come to that, it wouldn’t be the first time a man had planned it in advance.

Why was her head removed, and what happened to it afterward?

I turned around so I was facing the street again. No one outside had spotted me. Everyone knew the bar was closed, and I was standing still beside a post that held up the roof. No one had any cause to look over this way. I was not noticed.

From there I could see across to the Romulus, now empty, and beyond it the Four Limpets. At the Limpets, I recognized Nipius and Natalis, leaning on the bar counter, not serving but apparently having a late breakfast themselves. At a table in the street were Artemisia and Orchivia, though they seemed to have finished eating. Artemisia was leaning forward on her elbows, yawning, Orchivia sprawled backward. Another woman stood on the edge of the pavement, talking to them. She looked less blowsy, definitely older.

I had the impression they knew her, though the relationship was muted. They appeared to listen as required, but were taking little notice. She spoke to them; they let her talk. I could not make out any response. Well, I knew they were a stroppy pair.

While I watched, the older woman glanced across the street. I was uncertain whether she noticed me. Three mules, all laden with heavy grain sacks, came to a halt between us while their drovers called at the Romulus; whether for delivery or for refreshments was unclear. The woman broke off her conversation and swiftly took herself off in the uphill direction, patting a mule on the rump as she passed. The Four Limpets was far enough away that if I had started after her, she would easily have lost me. Besides, the beasts were in my way. I let her go.

For some reason I felt that I had just seen Menendra, the woman the Dardanians had mentioned before, who once knew Rufia. If so, this Menendra had no desire to talk to me.

A public slave came down the Argiletum, sweeping. When I say he came down the road, it was a slow progress, with many stops to stand still and gaze around pointlessly.

I had somewhere in mind to investigate. Not wanting to alert any bar staff to my intention, I asked the slave if he knew Mucky Mule Mews. Normally no one spoke to him. I politely ascertained that he did understand Latin, since it is not always certain that they can talk our language. Some public slaves look after temples or imperial baths, so they tend to be of acceptable quality, but the rest are cheap labor given menial, dirty tasks that even the poor don’t want; many public slaves are as bad as that implies. This one was sent out every day by himself, so someone must trust him. Still, where would he run to? Who would pay him anything for his snaggled old broom if he stole it?

He grew jumpy in case I was suggesting he ought to have used his broom in the mews. I reassured him. Once his panic receded, he gave me directions. I thanked him, donated a copper for his pension fund and set off. His directions were wrong. I have no reason to think he did that on purpose, though my father, who is deeply suspicious of everyone, would have been certain.

Once I realized, I asked again of passing locals. I had reasoned Rufia lived fairly close to her work, so the alley I wanted must be nearby. It was. Nothing had been lost, except a few moments’ anxiety on my part because I dislike ending up somewhere I don’t know, without planning to be there. In the end I found the place.

It was no worse than Fountain Court, but I was so used to my own horrors I barely noticed them. Not so here. Even if the road sweeper had been ordered to this deplorable cul-de-sac, one man with a besom could never have achieved much. There must be a stable hereabouts. I had never seen such high piles of mule dung. They looked old; they smelt fresh. Any mules who created these deposits were probably half-wild and spiteful-tempered. Their drovers could well be the same.

I looked around, making sure I knew where the exit was and how deep the potholes on the way to it were. I did not want to find myself stuck down this lonely alley with a feral animal-driver, let alone a bunch of them. I knew what they would be like. No teeth, big whips, depraved ideas. If Rufia had had to make her way down here every night in the dark, I knew why she had become aggressive. I felt weary and angry just imagining what she went through.

Perhaps late at night when she came home, the drovers would all be snoring in the stable. And perhaps they were in truth sweet-natured, honest heroes who would come running to the aid of any female in distress … I would not want to test their response to screams. The swine would come running all right-every man of them pulling up his tunic, whooping with glee, ready to join in the gang rape.

It was very quiet at the moment. I felt glad of that.

At first I thought no one could live here. Blank black walls loomed above me on both sides. Gradually I began to spot dark doorways in the filthy walls that shadowed the dank, unpaved lane. There were arched windows too, their brickwork caked with centuries of dirt and pigeon guano. Shops may have lined the street once, but were long gone; nor could I hear any sounds of manufacturing. I pulled my skirts in tight, trying to avoid puddles of ominous liquid. I wished I was not wearing jewelry. I took off my necklace and put it away in the satchel where I kept my note tablet.