Lindsey Davis - Graveyard of the Hesperides

“Flavia Albia’s been telling me she had a run-in with that Menendra.”

“Who’s that?”

“The miserable hag who comes around.”

“Oh her!” scoffed Sparsus.

“She’s a one,” agreed Serenus. “She can see we are nowhere near finishing, but she’s always on the niggle.”

The workmen had a kind of easy acceptance that the world was full of idiots, whom they had to fend off patiently. They possessed technical expertise while all members of the public were irritating amateurs. People love to stare at holes in the ground. They think they know all about hole-in-the-ground engineering and management. Works in a bar made it worse because gormless passers-by could so easily prop themselves against the marble counters, leaning in to ask time-wasting questions.

“So why is the finish date so vital to Menendra?” I queried, not expecting answers. “Do you know what she does?”

“Sells them their olives?” guessed Serenus. At least it was a variation on fruit.

“Ever seen her bring a storage amphora to any of the bars?”

Serenus looked offended at my persnicketiness. Proving a theory with evidence was new to him. If he continued to work for Faustus, he would have to sharpen up.

“I can ask her,” volunteered Larcius. “The next time she invades the site, nagging about when we’re handing it back to Liberalis, I shall say, ‘What do you need to know for?’ Then she’ll tell me.”

He was an innocent.

I just told him if he could find out, I would be grateful. He seemed proud to take charge of this task.

The day was growing very hot. The men said that once they finished lunch they were to close up and gently trek over to Lesser Laurel Street. I did wonder what exactly Tiberius was having them do there, but he would show me in his own time.

I left the bar, went to our hired room and had a quiet lie-down.

I skipped lunch myself. Failure dulls my appetite.

In the room, I peeled off my tunic, kicked off my sandals, then lay down on the pallet that passed for a bed, perspiring. The midday heat oppressed me. Today there was so much humidity in Rome, it was difficult to breathe. I knew I would fall asleep from sheer exhaustion, but first I would relax. I would empty my mind, to let my opinion of the case restructure itself naturally. Mulling is an informer’s best weapon.

It was clear that people knew more about what happened at the Garden of the Hesperides than had originally seemed likely. Both the new landlord and Menendra were concealing information. Liberalis, at least, may have been present when the dead met their fates. Menendra knew far more about Rufia than she wanted me to discover.

Since Rufia was such an enigma, I revisited what I knew about her one-time protegee. Artemisia and Orchivia knew Menendra, though this morning at the Four Limpets their attitude to her had looked truculent. If she knew they had already met me, I wondered if she had been trying to persuade them to put the frighteners on for her, with them refusing? With those two, being uncooperative was their normal reaction to anything.

Menendra was a wily, self-assured piece. The two girls were stroppy, but younger. Had she tried to control them? Had they rejected her? Was it possible that what Menendra sold to the bars was organized sexual talent-but sometimes the talent rejected her services? The Dardanians, with their youthful experience in the Danube forts, would not easily submit to a brothel mother. Not when they reckoned they could find punters for themselves.

Others might go along with it. A system could exist. Was running the bar girls-and boys-a trade that Rufia once dabbled in? Since her disappearance, had Menendra taken over? It would explain why Menendra was so interested in when the Hesperides would reopen, bringing back a lucrative bar into her market. Lepida at the snacks stall had said providing extras to customers had become very professional. There must be a lot of money to be made.

I did not suppose Menendra’s business was invoiced, or that she paid taxes on her profits. So long as she could say she herself was not working as a prostitute, she would never need to be registered with the authorities. That could mean she operated below their line of sight; Rufia must have done so too. Macer of the Third Cohort knew what happened in bars in his area, but he seemed unaware how it was controlled. From what I knew of the vigiles, their idea of “local knowledge” was being able to find their own station house.

Rufia, who had supported Menendra when she came to Rome from Lycia, may have taught her the business. Had Rufia used her as an apprentice, let Menendra become a trusted assistant-only to be removed because she was in Menendra’s way? Was Menendra behind Rufia’s disappearance?

Menendra would still have been junior, but it was not impossible. The younger woman might even have attached herself to Old Thales and used sexual favors to persuade him to dispose of her less attractive rival. Menendra was leathery now, but ten years ago Thales may have welcomed an offer from her to oust the stroppy Rufia.

When Menendra went to search Rufia’s room, it may have been in case Rufia had left something incriminating behind. A diary or letters saying Rufia had been nervous that Menendra was trying to supersede her? Seemed unlikely.

Usually people who conduct a search like that are seeking valuables. Surely if Menendra thought Rufia had left treasure behind, she would have looked before-as soon as Rufia had gone missing. Why now? Because of Tiberius and me poking our noses in. But Menendra’s search attempts had been very obvious, and ultimately bungled. Just because she ran a network of sex slaves did not mean she was intelligent. Going around with ugly bodyguards did not make her clever. Her burglary only drew attention. A truly shrewd woman would have kept out of sight.

All this was one theory. I had already wasted time on others, and there could be more yet. But I began to feel more content. Finding new questions always peps me up. Satisfied that I had my new line of inquiry, I dozed off.

In the suffocating summer heat, I slept much longer than I meant to. By the time I woke, the temperature had cooled and become more pleasant. Sounds from the street outside had changed from lunchtime lethargy to late-afternoon reopening time. Bathhouse bells rang to proclaim that water was hot and doors open.

After my previous poor experience, I decided against the bathhouse, but stripped off and washed down with a cloth and bucket of water. I dressed, changed my shoes, then went out. Briefly forgetting that the workmen had gone over to the Aventine, I made my way automatically to the Hesperides. On the threshold I remembered that nobody was here this afternoon, but by then I had spotted that the passage from the bar to the courtyard had been opened up and someone had aimed something heavy at a corner of the counter, denting and cracking the marble pieces. The old door with which the men secured the passage had been pushed aside.

Everything sounded quiet enough, though investigating on my own would be stupid. That didn’t stop me. It was too early to expect our night watchman. I made a tentative entry. When I stepped out into the garden area, I found a scene of devastation.

Horrified, I swore out loud. All today’s work had been destroyed. It must have been done with brute force, for most of the workmen’s tools had gone with them to Lesser Laurel Street. That had not deterred the intruders. The careful trench that was meant to form the water feature had had its neat sides trampled down, then spoil and rubbish kicked in. Formwork to hold a poured concrete wall had been pulled away, so the as yet uncured mixture was setting in an irretrievable mass. I went across to look, in case I could push back the wooden shuttering, but there was nothing I could do. The gate to the back alley stood open; I did close that.