Lindsey Davis - Graveyard of the Hesperides

Tiberius had his head thrown back, eyes closed. He was not asleep, because his thumb was slowly caressing the back of my hand as he held it. Heat from the bench warmed us through our clothes as we sat.

There, in the peace of the Gardens of Pallas, my brain found its own space to work. Two strands of information came together for me.

“Tiberius…” He turned his head, listening. “Morellus believed one set of bones was from a woman who had given birth: ‘female pelvis, child-bearing age, looks as if she has carried some to term, poor unhappy cow…’ But other people have told me the missing barmaid was far from young and never had any children: ‘I always thought she was one of those women who just couldn’t conceive…’ If both are right”-Tiberius opened his eyes; he saw my point-“the skeleton we found at the Garden of the Hesperides cannot be Rufia.”

Tiberius reacted typically. He made no comment. His mouth tightened slightly. I observed that he nodded faintly. Twice.

Some people would have rattled on inanely.

“Now I shall have to go right back to the beginning to find out who the headless dead girl is.”

“You will,” replied the understated one.

At least I would never be subjected to interminable chat at breakfast about whether we should try buying better quality carrots from a new greengrocer who might prove to be disappointing, or stick with String-bean Lupius, the vegetable-seller we had always used … Tiberius would listen, think, nod, leave it up to me.

I could live that way. Of course, if the new carrots I had chosen turned out to be second-rate, he would say so. When he did give an opinion, he knew how to make his point.

“I’m so annoyed at myself that I missed this.”

“Not your fault, love. So did I.” The fair man spoke.

He left me to dwell on how to reassess the case.

Back in the Ten Traders, before he went in to see his workmen, I watched him conduct a thorough survey of the marble on bar counters. He gave most attention to the Hesperides, naturally. Its two countertops were tiled in the white and gray pieces that we now knew Gavius had supplied. He was coming to inspect them tomorrow, to see where corners had been smashed during the gangsters’ raid.

Indoors, the counters’ wall faces were plastered, then plainly painted with a dark red wash. Only the staff would see those. On the outside faces, to entice the public, Liberalis had spent more money, with some of the finish in polychrome stones that Tiberius identified for me as Cipollino, which had greenish veins, and Numidian, which was composed of striking yellow patches in purple bonding.

“Rare?”

“No, but you do have to look around. Once you find a source, the material is available-that’s assuming you can wait out the long shipping time.”

“And find the cash?”

“That too.”

“I am just wondering whether Liberalis has more money than we think.” I had never expected this inquiry to be about a legacy, but now anything seemed possible.

“A man with a recent inheritance and no family demanding luxuries from him should be able to fund Cipollino misshapes.”

“Right. Mind you”-I would not let Liberalis off the hook-“I wonder how much he did inherit?”

“Can you find out?”

“Traceable by the legacy tax.”

“If he paid it,” said Tiberius darkly, in full magistrate mode.

I chuckled. “And who doesn’t under-declare, Aedile? Isn’t the chance to cheat on inheritance tax one of the things that alleviates people’s grief after somebody dies?”

Tiberius pretended to look stern. He must have a good idea that my father was financing our wedding out of just such smart accounting.

Looking around the other bars, Tiberius found scraps of molded cornices and even old pilasters incorporated, though mostly the counters were put together from polished slab material. Among the routine white and gray of Luna and Pentelic marble, he picked out with obvious surprise Brescia, alabaster and even a small section of black Aswan granite. The Soldier’s Rest, a dingy hole that had mainly escaped our attention until now, even boasted three reclaimed panels of porphyry, set in a triple diamond pattern on its front face. Tiberius reckoned a specialist must have installed those unusual pieces. Since the Soldier’s Rest was so unwelcoming otherwise, the fancy front had not improved its customer base. Even the Brown Toad (which only had painted imitation marble) claimed a better footfall, though much of that consisted of clients with peculiar tastes coming to the transvestites; its attraction was untypical.

We stood at the Medusa, having a discussion about marble. Tiberius had a fund of knowledge so it went on for some time. We did not order food or drink; our lunch still satisfied. This kind of conversation must be a great rarity in the bars of the Ten Traders: a man talking to a woman about his long-standing passion, with not a hint of it leading to sex. She listening, not as a prelude to turning out his purse later, but because she liked to hear him talk.

Waiters became twitchy. “There’s no rules for you to check here, Aedile!”

Tiberius broke off what he was saying to me. The interruption irritated him. “How big a fine are you looking for? Do I see illegal tables, cluttering up the pavement? Not to mention your health hazard: clean up this sauce spill! It must have been festering for weeks, with people putting their elbows in it. Don’t serve anyone else until I see this worktop spotless … And what are you hiding from me in that hot dish you whipped behind the counter?”

“Chickpeas, honest.”

Tiberius gave him one of his long looks. “I hope that’s right.”

The dish smelled like pork to me, the main meat eaten in Rome, but the stern Manlius Faustus was not really looking for a battle about pulses-only. Well, not today.

I knew him. He would wander past tomorrow. If his order to clean up had been ignored, he would thump the Medusa with every edict in his five-scroll rule book. Selling meat instead of beans and chickpeas would be his first charge. With Manlius Faustus, if people made an effort, he was lenient. If they showed disrespect, he hammered them.

I took careful note of how he worked. It is vital to know how a man reacts to being thwarted before you marry him.

“No need to have a go at me,” the waiter grumbled, feebly applying a wet cloth to the dirty marble. “If you wanted a dish of hospitality olives, all you had to do was ask.” He paused an insultingly long time. “Sir.”

I leaned my back against the counter, pretending to take a great interest in a donkey delivering panniers of dry goods to the Soldier’s Rest. Out of the corner of my eye I watched my man have his official standoff.

Faustus folded his arms while he stared at the sorry cleaning efforts. Under this scrutiny, the waiter wilted, went in to fetch a knife, then finally scraped off the dried-on mess. He brushed it carefully onto his palm, then threw the bits in the street. “That’s better, don’t you see? Now swab down the rest with a dab of vinegar, and then you can officially go back to being in business.”

I smiled quietly to myself, making more mental notes. I would need to ensure we had a very clean kitchen slave. Iberians or Pannonians were supposed to be the most house-proud.

“Now I had better inspect your daily menu,” Faustus told the waiter.

So a board was produced for him, listing the Medusa’s offerings. In compliance with Domitian’s edict, these allegedly comprised Gallic Flageolet Bean Soup and Legionary Barley Broth, while even the salad claimed to feature a sprinkle of pumpkin and flax seeds. The counter pots that might have stored these seeds were in fact empty. I looked.