Lindsey Davis - Graveyard of the Hesperides

“That’s right,” I agreed, not disputing her claim. “Every time some hungry worker orders a pottage of green lentils on his way to his employment, you are acting as Rome’s savior. I shall suggest you be awarded a medal-though that may have to wait, Menendra, until we know whether you had a hand in stabbing Gavius.”

Menendra and the men were dragged away by the vigiles. Macer stayed behind with us. He and Tiberius gazed at me with a mix of amazement and satire.

“So that’s it.” Tiberius was gentle in his mockery. “First you have a garden full of bones, but the only corpse you can identify is the landlord’s dog.” Listening, Macer snorted. Tiberius lovingly murmured: “And now, my sweet, you are investigating lentils!”

I was probably not looking at a grocery war; the idea seemed ridiculous. However, I smiled quietly and said sometimes the smallest thing can rouse a storm of passion. Macer, a literalist, flapped the neck of his tunic and answered that he wished the weather would break and give us a real storm to clear the air. Though wiry, he was feeling the heat. We were all sweating lightly.

The fragile creature with the face paint was edging closer to the Brown Toad, trying to reoccupy his-her propositioning seat. For a private chat we moved along to the Four Limpets, which looked quiet. That too had tables illegally blocking the pavement, where we sat. It didn’t matter about us not wanting to order anything, because all the time we sat there, no staff came out to ask. A board claimed the legitimate dish of the day was porridge; I had started to make a point of checking what grains were offered. With the presence of an aedile in the area, prominent signs offering utterly blameless menus had popped up all over the place. It should do wonders for Menendra’s business plan.

The Limpets’ L-shaped counter was in three shades of gray. I was now noticing that too. The sign depicted only three conical seashells, not four, though their noduled rays were finely drawn. I saw a basket for a cat or dog, though it must have gone out for a walk. Their price list showed not only wines but how much it cost per session for Orchivia or Artemisia. Virginity was extra. Some joker had added that in different chalk.

Macer was here in reply to our message about needing an overview of extortion in the Ten Traders. It had only taken him a day to respond. He seemed to think we should thank him for making it so urgent. He pointed out that he did have other work; for instance it was the tribune’s birthday yesterday, which required a whole day’s celebrating. Their governor was a sad case who had no family. Anyone could see why. Nevertheless the lads did their best to compensate him for being so unlikeable. At least, they did when he was buying. “Was it you who sent me a bright-burning lamp called Juventus? Burbling on about ‘liaising’ on a ‘special project?’ Completely bonkers. What a sad-arsed clown.”

“Must have come of his own accord,” Tiberius assured him gravely. “We would never do that to you.” So Macer knew it was our fault. He seemed to bear no grudge.

Thinking about Juventus made Macer thirsty. He went into the bar, where he whistled for a waiter, gaining no response. This place was dead. Undeterred, he chose a beaker, selected a wine jar from a shelf, sniffed it, poured a large drink for himself, wiped a drip off the jar with his finger and licked it, then clinked a copper or two in a saucer. When he came back to us he sat for a moment taking his drink. We waited politely.

His gangster overview was short. The Ten Traders territory was currently claimed by old Rabirius, overseen through his hard man Gallo. The young nephew Roscius had his eye on the neighborhood too, but so far had made no move. Macer agreed that Gallo would try to lean on Liberalis even though his bar was closed for renovation; however, he thought it unlikely the gang would have destroyed our site. It was in their interests to keep places decent in order to earn more money. The Rabirii liked improvements to be made. And whatever Liberalis had told us about not paying, he probably had done so, or soon would.

Regarding the attack on Gavius, Macer doubted it had been carried out by the Rabirius gang. It had all the wrong signatures. The key points were: one , that the hideous Gallo would have killed the dogs as well, no question, plus two , when intent on silencing someone, he would never leave his victim alive. If we needed even more convincing, Gallo’s method was to batter people. He wanted the results to look spectacularly painful, to instil terror into others. Anyway, he enjoyed doing it.

We were gloomily silent for a while.

I asked whether Macer knew anything about the pulse-suppliers. He said no, though it sounded very interesting. He might look into it.

I could tell what that meant.

Ha!

“Never mind,” teased Tiberius. “You have plenty to do trying to identify the deceased chicken.”

He had kindly waited until Macer had left before he started ragging. Even so, I felt my hackles rise. If there had been any way to trace the late and unlamented fowl and its one-time owner, or if there was any point in doing so, I would have set about it, just to show him.

Despite knowing better, I started thinking about that chicken bone.

Next thing, I had asked Tiberius the name of the undertakers who had taken away our skeletons-and off I went by myself to have another look. Some informers would not have bothered. I like to be thorough (when I can think of nothing else to do). But do not mock. I was about to prove that diligence pays off.

Tiberius and his workmen were going over to Lesser Laurel Street. He looked amused at me going to see the undertaker. “You’re the expert! I reckon the key to this is whether the chicken clucked in the Dorian or Lydian mode…” Leaving him, I raised my arm in that universal gesture meaning, Go wrap yourself around a standard-bearer’s pole, Smarty!

I found the undertaker’s. In view of the heat, he had no trade. Even the bereaved were staying at home while they let their dead go blue and bloated on the bier in the atrium. I wondered if the deaths at the Hesperides took place during hot weather; it could have been an extra factor for burying the victims fast.

At the funeral company, I was a welcome surprise. Well, any lone female-especially a live one-was welcome, though the fellow did not push it. Mentally I thanked him. I was too hot to start fending off a grabber. Still, I wished my tunic was less flimsy and not sticking to me in the heat.

His name was Silvinus. He attended the upper level of High Footpath society. This was not a large client base, since people there were either low-born or so lofty they spent all their time in palaces and villas. The Flavian emperors and members of their family owned private homes on the Viminal, but they tended to die either at or on their way to their many country estates. Diarrhea polished some of them off, though not Domitian, unfortunately.

Despite his empty order book, Silvinus had a hopeful expression and, given the nature of his business, an incongruously bright outlook. I explained who I was and what I wanted to inspect. He gurgled how lucky it was that he had followed the aedile’s orders and kept the bones in a box, when he could have spread them around other people’s cremation pyres. I answered coolly, yes it was.

He fetched them all out. Realizing that the female pelvis almost certainly belonged to someone I could now name gave me an odd jitter. I had seen bodies, but this must have been the first time I looked at bare bones and knew something about their owner. I commented as much; the undertaker nodded. He said most of the bodies he received were strangers to him, and frankly that was how he preferred it. When friends of his died, he asked a colleague to embalm them.