Lindsey Davis - Graveyard of the Hesperides

I held it as if it were fragile, which indeed in so much time it had become. “So who were these men the Fourth had to look for?”

Morellus was enjoying his dramatic reveal so much, he looked liable to drop his mulsum beaker. “I give you their names, poppet: Julius Ptolemais was their leader; he had a very bad limp, we were told. The others were Pylades, Hermogenes, Isidorianus and Sesarion. All Egyptian. From Alexandria.”

“And what were these men?”

“They were specialist exporters of very high-quality Egyptian lentils.”

I wrote down the missing men’s names in my note tablet. I opened the scroll and read it. Questions had indeed been asked of Rome by a provincial governor on behalf of supplicants. Diligent checks were conducted; polite answers were sent to Alexandria. No trace. Regret was stated. The initials recording any action were always: LPL . That was Morellus’ predecessor: Lucius Petronius Longus, my uncle, now retired. He must have hated the waste of time, but he would have been efficient.

I bought Morellus another cup of mulsum, having one myself. It tasted sweet. Progress on what had seemed an impossible case lightened my heart. We shared a laugh that after all I had found myself investigating lentil-supply wars. “Only you, Flavia Albia!”

“Only me!” I found a grateful grin for him. “Thank you, Titus Morellus. You are a worthy friend. You shall have double barley cakes at my wedding.”

“Barley!” We both giggled helplessly at the mention of a grain.

Morellus, childlike, made more flatulence jokes. Having four young children, he was very good at sound effects. I lifted my face to the evening sky where the fast clouds scudded, as I enjoyed the unexpected breakthrough.

Promising to keep him informed, I said goodbye to the raddled inquiry chief before I returned to the hired room. Tomorrow would be a big day. At its end, I must abandon work, whether finished or not, then transport myself to my parents’ house where I was supposed to sleep overnight-assuming a nervous bride could sleep at all-before my wedding.

I tried to sleep tonight at least. After a brief session of thinking through the lentil aspect, I went out like a blown lamp. Not long later, when the street noises were still loud, I awoke with a start. Someone was coming upstairs to the room.

Of course I could be under attack like Gavius, but instinct took me to the door. Still bleary, I seized no weapon. I was less alarmed this time, partly because the previous visitor was only Morellus, but mainly because even through sleep the footsteps sounded familiar. The thoughtful arrival carried a small pottery lamp to aid immediate recognition. I wondered which bar counter he had stolen it from.

“Tiberius! I thought you weren’t coming back tonight?”

“Missed you!”

He ran upstairs, enfolding me in a hug. After clinging for a few moments to assure himself I still existed, he blew out the lamp. We went to bed, for sleeping purposes. Lying in the dark, I summarized my finds. Then it was his turn. He told me the house was now habitable. “I hope you like it.”

“Do you like it?”

“I do.”

“Then so will I. We have the same taste. We share the same habits, which is what makes a home work. I only remember Lesser Laurel Street as a neglected wreck, but if you think it suits us, I am happy, love.”

Tiberius murmured, satisfied. Just before we fell asleep he felt obliged to give a wedding progress report; I duly listened. “They are all set to start baking tomorrow. A fashionable cook, highly exclusive, has been ordered. Name of Genius.”

I let out a huge groan. “ Genius! What is anybody thinking of? I know him. He is terrible. Genius was one of my father’s big slave-buying disasters. Every time we hear of him doing some smart banquet, we all fall about in hysterics. His fame is a complete con. Genius absolutely cannot cook.”

Once I stopped ranting, Tiberius soothed me. “Don’t worry, he has become too famous to rustle up anything himself these days, so comes with a battery of elegant, competent under-chefs who do all the work. My wedding planners assure me Genius idolizes Falco as the man who gave him his start, and adores him so much he will gratefully produce superb wedding food-all at cost too.”

“My wedding is on the cheap!”

“I don’t think so. They tell me Genius is now a legend for his unheard-of exotic ingredients.”

“Oh, not ostrich tongues! That is so out of date…” I sighed and gave up. “I just hope he knows that the best, most desirable lentils in the Empire are produced in Egypt.”

Chuckling, Tiberius cuddled up to me. We slept.

30 August

Three days before the Kalends of September (a.d. III Kal. Sept.)

One day before the wedding of Tiberius Manlius Faustus and Flavia Albia

Next morning, Tiberius and I rose early. We went out to grab a fast breakfast at the snackery. Lepida was not there but her daughter was clearly waiting to give me a message. She spoke almost angrily. “My mother says to tell you this. That woman you were asking about has left town.”

I did not believe it.

Tiberius was going to the Hesperides. It was the last day of work. They were planning to connect to the aqueduct, fill up the canal and inspect it for leaks, then he would be handing over the finished bar to its owner in the afternoon, before he stopped work and left for the wedding. His last instruction was that I was not to question Julius Liberalis by myself.

Before he left me, he teased, “We have never mentioned the appropriate fact that the Golden Apples of the Hesperides were a wedding gift to the goddess Hera.”

“The Apple of Discord caused the Trojan War,” I retaliated mildly. “Was that golden bauble not brought to the wedding of Peleus and Thetis by an uninvited guest? Who have your planners missed off their invitation list, darling-and are they likely to send us any fruit?”

Tiberius stopped. He looked back at me. Simultaneously we chorused: “ Laia Gratiana! ” His ex-wife.

I said in a sweet voice that I would leave it to his discretion whether the baleful Laia should be hurriedly asked. Tiberius winced, muttering as he went over to the bar that he needed a drink.

I sat on by myself for a while, making notes quietly. It was project-end for me too. I had one last day to solve this case. New leads had appeared but there were still far too many unanswered questions. To organize myself, I made a list:

• Where has Rufia been? Why go? Why pretend to be dead?

• Is it Rhodina among the bodies? Why no head? Where is it?

• Are the corpses the Egyptians? Who wanted to kill them? Why?

• Who did carry out the killings? Who ordered them?

• Who dug the graves?

• Why sever a leg?

• Where are Rhodina’s children?

• Who damaged the building site? Why?

• Why did Menendra search Rufia’s room? What was she looking for?

• Who tried to burgle Annina and her husband? Why?

• Who attacked Gavius? Was it to silence him?

• What else did Gavius witness after the Egyptians went into the bar?

• Is it about sex? Extortion? Gambling? Or is it lentils?

• What part did Thales play in the killing? Was Liberalis present? Was Rufia?

Well done, Flavia Albia, ace investigator! Even for you, that is some list to have left over on your deadline day.

As I was putting my notes in the pouch at my waist, along came Macer of the Third Cohort. I called him over, saying I had news. “By the way, I saw that you released Menendra.”

“I let her men go too. Nothing against them. They produced alibis for the mews burglary and the stabbing. Your watchman maintains they were not who he found breaking up the bar, so that clinched it.”