Lindsey Davis - Graveyard of the Hesperides

The Graces quickly lost interest, keen to move on. Outside the gate, Gavius turned onto the great parade ground of the Praetorians, which lies between the old city wall and the Guards’ intimidating camp. In the afternoon, they rarely exercised. Their numbers were low in any case, since many were away in Pannonia with the Emperor.

Gavius, Tiberius and I stood at a corner, taking a welcome breather, as the dogs hared around ecstatically. We watched, while they amused themselves in madcap games. From time to time, one or more galloped back to us, panting wildly, seeking approval or a stick to be thrown.

An informer must never give up, so I kept on badgering about the five dead men. “Gavius, I know the Hesperides, and presumably other bars, is a target for extortion by so-called ‘protection’ gangs. Were you ever aware of that?” He shook his head. Any wise person would do the same, unfortunately. Who likes gangsters to think you have ratted on them? Who wants to die now, in some very unpleasant fashion? “I am wondering if Old Thales decided he had had enough and struck back at them?”

Tiberius put in more questions: “Could it be that some other outfit tried to muscle in on the rackets? Rival crooks? But Thales stayed loyal, knowing old Rabirius, as someone has claimed?”

“I never heard of any rivals,” claimed Gavius. “But I have seen Thales and Rabirius having a chin-wag like best pals. They played a game of soldiers once when I was there. It’s true they went way back. I think they were boys together.”

“You know Rabirius?” I asked.

“To recognize. The ridiculous poser used to come around all the time, leaning on a cane for effect, inspecting his territory. Especially on the Esquiline, which was his real domain.”

“He is a brute?”

“Once in a while he would whack some slave or menial across the face with his cane, so people knew how hard he was. I saw him kick a woman once, knocked her right off her feet, though he wouldn’t try that in Thales’ bar. If Rufia was looking, she would have cut off his testicles. Haven’t seen him anywhere in a while. Like you say, he’s probably grown old and someone is taking over.”

I snorted. “I like the sound of Rufia. I cheer her methods … I suppose you saw Rabirius in action, Gavius, because you work with so many bars? Do landlords confide in you? Or do you overhear things?” Warily, he nodded. “Though at the Hesperides you never saw any threats, or money handed over?”

“Those kinds of men are always discreet,” Gavius replied. “You glimpse them behind the counter, talking to the landlord as if they are asking how his brother is these days or something-then they shake hands and leave without you even noticing.” He was hedging, like Liberalis earlier. This description belied his earlier claim to know nothing about enforcement. I decided not to challenge him. It was more important to keep him talking.

“Formal handshakes are a nice touch from men of violence!” Tiberius commented in a dry tone. “Maybe we could ask your colleagues if they know any more, the ones who drink with you?”

“I’m sure all the boys will say the same as me, Legate.”

“Please don’t confer,” I urged him. “Don’t suggest what to say. Better they spontaneously tell the truth.” Gavius looked affronted but did not argue.

“I am sure Gavius and his boys are straight, Albia.” Tiberius was playing his “fair man” role; I knew it was an act, for strategy.

I fell quiet, assessing the situation. Ten years ago, Rabirius was the vicious old clan chief-a different man from the failing specter he was reckoned to be now. Then he was strong, feared, fully in control, tentacles all over the place. Not only would he come around inspecting his domain, smilingly making himself visible, blatantly striking sudden blows to reinforce his message; he would also listen for any subversive mutters. Such men can be fanatically suspicious. They keep their power by constant vigilance. If Rabirius had been high-born, he could have become a paranoid emperor.

Thank you, Jupiter, he wasn’t. The gangster we had in power was bad enough.

Nowadays a clan coup seemed inevitable. No one had seen Rabirius for a while. He must be frail. A nephew called Roscius was starting to flex muscles in the business; Rabirius’ hard man, his dark sidekick Gallo, was keen to supplant young Roscius. Had machinations by henchmen and relatives already started at the time of the Hesperides trouble? Or was that too long ago?

Another possibility was that outsiders had tried maneuvering against Rabirius. Interlopers had tried to shuffle him out of the way, only to discover that, ten years ago, he was still capable of dispatching rivals. Why the Hesperides? Did Rabirius persuade his boyhood acquaintance Thales to cooperate? To provide a discreet location for a criminal death squad to ambush people? Was the graveyard in the garden the body dump after a bout of gang warfare?

Tiberius and I left Gavius in the exuberant company of his dogs. First Tiberius said he wanted to call in at the Third Cohort’s station house, which was close to the Viminal Gate. We did so, but our contact, Macer, was off duty. We left a message asking him to provide a status report on protection rackets in the Ten Traders bars. He might respond, but I bet Tiberius that Macer would conveniently “not receive the message.”

We walked back a different way, climbing up onto the Embankment to feel the cooler air. As we strolled along toward the Esquiline Gate, we said little, enjoying each other’s quiet company. It seemed a while since we had been able to do this.

The lofty bank of the ancient Servian Wall had once been the city boundary. Now Rome had expanded well beyond the old fortifications, which had never been pulled down but had become a pleasure ground for people walking, lovers escaping, popular entertainers, street theater and puppeteers. Even in the middle of a working day there were idlers and connivers up here, along with the odd prancing lunatic. Occasionally one of the lunatics was brandishing a knife.

Elsewhere in the city, expansion had taken the form of teeming residential districts, but here we were overlooking a one-time paupers’ graveyard to our left; it had such a bad reputation, no one would want to live there. So the area had been transformed into several large gardens. Rumors said it had had to be covered twenty-five feet deep in new soil to cover up the smell of death.

Named for whichever millionaires commissioned them, these luxurious walks were free to the public; well, that was why the wealthy created extravagant city spaces-making sure they were advertised forever as persons of taste, money and flash beneficence. You might die, but your stone pines ensured your name lived. Topiary was a better memorial than a tomb. I am serious: gardens lay within the city for all to notice, whereas tombs had to be placed along the roads outside.

The Esquiline gardens were beautiful, laid out most elegantly, full of fine trees and plantings and adorned with statues (generally stolen from defeated nations). Some had museums with prehistoric giants’ bones or pavilions for the performing arts. The fabulous Stertinius had undoubtedly twangled his cithara to good Hypodorian effect for an invited audience at the Auditorium of Maecenas. The gardens all provided fresh air and peace; they restored the tired soul.

Of course they also concealed pickpockets and hustlers; they were venues for sordid assignations. Generally, as a member of the public, you tried to concentrate on the fine vistas and invigorating atmosphere. Today, as I gazed down from the Embankment, yet again I made the contrast between Rome’s civilized heights and its ever-present seamy depths. The lewd and crude jostled the sublime wherever you trod. Side by side; nose to nose. This was a city of stupendous contradiction, which the Romans either viewed as normal or even embraced with crazy pride.