Lindsey Davis - Graveyard of the Hesperides

A good baker has his own millstone, often more than one. If you cannot hear big grinders being trundled by a lopsided donkey in a back room, the goods will be hopeless. Dough needs to be made on the premises. If flour is brought in, quite often ready-made loaves and rolls are too. Once products are obtained from a middleman, you can bet whatever you buy will be stale.

Here either the donkey was taking her nap or they had no grindstone. It was late afternoon on a hot day in August, so we were at the rump end of today’s bread batches anyway. As I waited, I realized the assistants would be of no use, for they were two young girls, perhaps sisters. They could not have been working here in Rufia’s day. Sometimes an informer should be prepared to change tack and go elsewhere for information but I was drowsy in the heat, so I stayed put.

The servers looked rough, a feature of this area, though they turned out to be surprisingly sweet-natured. In front of me was an old woman, so poor she begged them to cut a dinner roll in half so she could afford it; one girl winked as she passed down a whole white roll, apparently making no charge at all. I suspect this happened every day. I thought grumpily that, unlike my menace sisters, this nice young pigtailed pair would never go cozying up to a man, organizing his wedding for him despite all protests from his helpless girlfriend …

Now it was my turn. I bought a loaf, hoping its thick, segmented crust would have staved off the sun as it lay at the bottom of the basket. But we would need strong teeth. Giving out the last on sale cheered the girls, who willingly chatted. I was right; they had never heard of Rufia until today, but this afternoon customers had told them her bones had turned up at the Hesperides. I saw no point hiding what I was doing, so I asked, “If you were me, trying to find out what happened, who would you go to around here; who’s best for knowing things?”

They thought. They had an involved conversation together, in which more than one name came up. There was nobody waiting to be served, so I just let them reach a conclusion in their own time.

“Nona. You should see Nona, the wise woman.”

“Well thank you!”

They gave me directions. “Good luck!”

“Thanks for that too.”

“Wise woman” is a standard euphemism. I would have no problem achieving an interview, which would be in private. A woman my age can always manage to gain a quiet word behind closed doors with the local abortionist.

Yes, she received me alone in her one-pot kitchen. I shrank from looking closely at what was simmering in that pot on the brazier. Thick, viscous gravy glooped blackly, as if made with blood. I didn’t want to know where it came from.

Nona was of indeterminate years and hunched bearing. Thin, with a pointed nose, she had the straightforward manner of a woman in a solitary profession, accustomed to doing business on her own account, used to imposing her terms. Money up front and no time-wasters. Well, I was like that myself.

Her glance was swift, assessing me with hard eyes. I felt glad I had no need of her gynecological expertise. I would have felt unsafe-though no doubt most women set about terminating pregnancies with a sense of dread. Even if you are guilt-free and have no doubts, the process is upsetting and you know it will be dangerous. Fortunately I had never needed to do this, though of course I knew women who had. I was also aware of others who were suspected of going through with it in secret. Sometimes that’s slander, but often not.

“I am Flavia Albia. I won’t mislead you about why I have come,” I admitted immediately. “If I lived in the High Footpath district, you and I would be on the same vigiles watch list-I practice as an informer.”

Nona was delighted by this rare chance to look down on someone else.

I felt curious about how she had become what she was, yet she offered neither her past history nor information on the social service she gave. I wondered what she charged. She had no price list on display, since her services must be concealed. I guessed she assessed each client according to her accent, clothes and jewelry-or lack of it-then asked for as much as she thought she could screw out of them. Some might weep, a few might flee, but most would pay.

I explained the situation at the bar and what I was trying to do. “The contractor is an aedile so he cannot ignore it. I am helping him find out what happened. Whatever was hidden in the past, it all has to be brought into the open now. Do you know the Hesperides?”

“Oh yes!”

Despite a tacit understanding that her work was known to me, we had not spoken of it. So at that point I made no suggestion that Nona had ever gone to the bar for professional reasons. It was quite likely. For waitresses, pregnancy is a routine hazard. Usually there is no known father. Invariably the girl cannot afford a child, while a barkeeper is nagging her to get rid of the problem as quickly as possible in order to be back at work, available to sleep with other men.

If randy regulars spot a barmaid with a bump, they shy away, thinking they may cop the blame. Even those who are new in town are scared. Well, let’s face it, travelers are most at risk; strangers fresh off the boat can so easily be set upon with a false accusation, however ludicrous, and held in the local lockup until they pay to be set loose.

“So, Nona, do you remember Rufia?”

“Everyone knew Rufia. Is there a reward for information?”

“Not so far. At the moment I am acting out of public duty.”

“Stupidity!”

“Well, the man who owns the building firm, Manlius Faustus, is a friend. It’s a favor for him.”

“You sleeping with him?”

She had a professional interest in my private life. I produced a slight smile, trying to be discreet. When you have only had a lover for a few weeks, memories can be embarrassingly vivid. “He wants to marry me.”

“So he says!” scoffed the wise woman. Her first principle was that all males past puberty are bastards. You cannot go wrong with that. “You surely don’t believe the old marriage lie? They all use that to gain their dirty desires and it brings me most of my custom.”

“I know. Plenty of my clients, like plenty of yours, do fall for false promises and live to be full of regret. But Faustus is solid. I told you, he’s an aedile, and a respectable one at that.”

“You know your own business!” cackled Nona. She meant, No, you don’t, you’re a fool, young woman. I made no attempt to argue. She would never believe Julia and Favonia were at this moment planning their bridesmaid outfits.

They did not have to plan my costume. I would be in a traditional saffron wedding veil, which belonged to my aunt Maia. She wove it herself in her youth when she worked for a tailor and was marrying her first husband. The veil had already been lifted reverently from the chest where it resided-only to reveal that after all these years and quite a few borrowings, it was full of moth holes. There were more holes than woven sections. Julia and Favonia had wanted to try weaving a new one but there was no time for them to learn, even if they had not been butterfly-brained. Just my luck. I had been informed we were using the mothy monstrosity anyway.

“Well, you may have managed to find some man to look after you,” said Nona, as if I had latched on to Faustus merely for cash, not joined forces for companionship. “Rufia had to work. For a caupona waitress, there will never be pretty nuptials with a priest taking the auguries from a sheep’s liver.”

“Oh don’t! I am dreading the damned sheep will wander off.”

“Well, you’re in the right place here. Get yourself a decent sacrifice. Costus runs a victimarium , professional sheep-despatchers, right along the street. He’s been there for years, covers most of Rome; everyone who knows the score has their religious business done by his lads. They are fine fellows and well-known for their kindly rapport with animals. Book yourself in when you leave here, then your worries on the big day are over.” From the way she advertised, Nona sounded like Costus’ loyal auntie. “But Rufia only knew those lads as customers she served with drink,” she warned me guardedly.