Lindsey Davis - Graveyard of the Hesperides

“I know. If you want a man to do something, Gran, just tell him not to.”

“I never went to the Hesperides,” said Prisca. “We didn’t have much money so I used to put meals together for them all at home. When we had an outing we used to go to the big thermopolium on the Clivus Salutis where they do a lot of fish and they welcome family parties. So I can’t tell you all of it. But you hear things. There was a struggle going on there over something, that’s a certainty. And Rufia was always going to come out on top.”

So you had to wonder. Could the barmaid everyone always thought had been murdered, in fact be behind the other killings?

When I went outside, Tiberius’ water jug was empty. He gave me a questioning look, as if I had been a long while, though he had waited patiently.

Coinciding with my emergence, people turned up at the Brown Toad and made for the interior I had just left. Foremost was Menendra, followed as always by her two men. Macer must have let them go. I suppose they had not actually done anything (anything he knew about). Trypho had not identified them and Macer did not want the burden of documenting an arrest.

Today the heavies had satchels slung over them; Menendra was carrying a note tablet and stylus. They looked curiously like a bunch of auditors descending for an inspection.

“Hold it, Menendra! The old cook indoors just heard that her grandson has been killed. She’s extremely upset. Give her some recovery time.” Watching closely, I detected some flicker in the woman’s harsh features. “Gavius,” I said softly, letting Menendra know I was checking her reaction. “He lives in the same alley as the people you tried burgling. Maybe you know something about it?”

“Why should I?” As usual she went into angry mode. “Shift out of my way, Albia.”

Staying put, I gestured to the writing equipment. “Doing a fruit-bowl survey?”

She stared. She must have forgotten I had been told by the Dardanian girls that she supplied orchard produce. We all knew that was an invention. Convinced that whatever Menendra did now had once been Rufia’s scheme for self-enrichment, I held out my hand imperiously, asking to see her tablet.

Tiberius stood up from his bench and seconded me. “Show us your notes, please.”

Everything turned nasty. I tried to take the tablet. Menendra refused to let me. I grabbed hold. We tussled for possession, tugging at the wooden boards. I was biting my lip; she was cursing me.

At the same time, her two men fell on Tiberius. They seized his arms, toppled him over backward onto the outdoor table and started slamming his head against the boards. They looked about to crack his skull open.

“Leave him!” I yelled. I let go. Menendra staggered. Tiberius, who was sturdy enough, was fighting back, though he was at a two-to-one disadvantage and already down. Dammit, I was not prepared to lose my bridegroom before we even sacrificed the sheep. “This man is an aedile and sacred to Ceres. Touching him offends the great goddess. Stop, or you will be hanged for it.”

This was true. Aediles had no bodyguards because they were sacrosanct. Also true was that Faustus stood little chance. His attackers had no more to lose. “What can you do?” jeered Menendra.

“Have you all arrested.” My mood had changed. My voice was dangerously quiet. She heard it and signaled to her men, who grudgingly released their victim. Then I shouted to Macer, whom I had just seen approaching down the street with a group of vigiles, probably coming to see us.

“Good timing!” gasped Tiberius, hauling himself upright while the troops grabbed his assailants.

I rounded on Menendra. “You think you control this area-but see, the rule of law still holds!”

Tiberius held up a hand to indicate I should be calm. Without being told, Macer and his men were searching the three in custody. They emptied out the heavies’ bags, adding Menendra’s note tablet to a pile of others that scattered on the table. They found purses containing a small amount of money, then stripped each man of lethal-looking knives.

Macer was cheerful. “Oh joy. I can have them for going tooled up.” Arms were illegal. Even the Praetorian Guards wore togas and pretended to be harmless civilians. The ruthless bastards took a sinister relish in this joke.

Tiberius looked closely at the knives. “I can’t see any blood, but this one-” He balanced a stiletto on one hand. “This could be what was used to stab Gavius the marble-supplier. It was a narrow blade.” He explained to Macer how Gavius had been attacked, letting it sound fatal.

Macer knew that his cohort had been asked to keep an eye on Mucky Mule Mews after the parents had their attempted burglary. He could have felt he had let that family down-but as a vigiles officer he had no truck with guilt. There were so many worse failures to burden his busy conscience.

He announced, rather pompously, that since the men had been involved in a killing he would haul them to the station house again, Menendra too. They protested-a formality. He laughed and told them on his watch you were guilty until proved innocent. In fact, traditionally, you were guilty until “proved” guilty. “Especially if I don’t like the look of you.”

Since I was there, Menendra was searched too, by me. I discovered nothing but Macer said, “I’ll find a cell for you too. You look like a whore who is bound to have done something.” Roman justice. It dated back to Romulus. Those Sabine women were delighted to be abducted. What were they complaining about; they got husbands, didn’t they?

In her good clothes and in middle age, Menendra did not look much like a prostitute, though she was hard enough to have been one once. While she argued, I examined the various note tablets turned out on the table. I thought if she really had taken over Rufia’s full range of activities, they would contain sordid details of women who slept with customers in bars, maybe even client names and brothel accounts. Arrangements with slave-importers and foreign traffickers. Notes of which pathetic mites worked where, what income came in from fornication, hours, percentages, price lists.

Not exactly. Big surprise. There were prices all right. I found rates for the following: barley, oats, buckwheat, millet, peas, chickpeas, split peas, beans in endless varieties, linseed, sesame, even gourds. Nuts, seasonal, apply for prices … One set of notes contained a list of eating houses. It had monetary figures, sometimes with pay-day ticks.

Astonished, I stared at Menendra. She glared back defiantly. I said, “Either ‘Mustard Seed’ and ‘Broad Bean’ are your secret codes for sex workers, or these figures reveal your trade is far more mundane-you deal in pulses ?”

She enjoyed my shock. “That got you! I am the dry-goods queen. Think about it.” Now she looked like a miser counting his gold, salivating over every coin, calling the big aurei his darlings. She positively revelled in her commercial power. Part of her joy was that nobody, including me (especially me), had realized a financial empire could be created in this specialized field. “How many food shops and bars exist in Rome?”

“Oh I get it. You have identified a real niche market. High commerce is all about three things: wine, olive oil and wheat. But up goes an imperial edict saying ‘Serve no meat’-then suddenly the food of the common people becomes a vital commodity too.”

“There wasn’t enough; Rufia saw that. She started a little lupin round. There still isn’t enough of the right stuff-or not conveniently available, not in good quantities, not in enough variety. We make arrangements so the bar owners don’t have to. They love us for it.” Her glare was as unpleasant as she could make it. “This is not illegal. I am helping keep people’s bellies full, with foods that the Emperor wants them to guzzle. You cannot touch me.”