A Comedy of Terrors

by Lindsey Davis

  “Justice for the community.” I stroked Mercury’s long head to distract her as she took too much interest in the pies on the counter.

  “Justice? That some fancy new recipe?” he asked, as he manhandled an awkward basket.

  “No, Faustus calls it traditional.”

  “Faustus?” The man jumped at my husband’s formal name. “He’s not that ogre who makes the market traders follow all the rules?” In Rome, obeying regulations was a loose concept.

  “He does. He also rounds up stray animals and makes landlords sweep their streets.”

  “Bloody hell! Doesn’t he know it’s Saturnalia?”

  “I think that’s why he came down here,” I said mildly. “Too many people who ought to feel festive are bedridden with colic and cramps after pies they bought from here.”

  “Not ours!” whipped back the porter, denying it automatically. Then he laid out traditional excuses: “It must be their own fault. They’re putting too much sauce on. Or drinking a goblet too many with it. People are plain stupid, then look for someone else to blame. You won’t prove anything against us.”

  It was not my duty to explain how the aedile had prepared a chart that did illustrate how, in our household, people who had eaten pies containing nuts were poleaxed, while those who had the other flavours were fine. This included little Gaius, who had had the venison version but carefully picked out all his almonds, while Morellus, who had snatched a ham pie, was nevertheless suffering because he had snaffled the child’s rejected almonds.

  The shop manager would listen. He would realise Manlius Faustus had the power to close down Xero’s. Saturnalia or not, he could order them to stop trading. When an aedile said, “Show me your hygiene precautions,” anyone sensible jumped.

  Their discussion indoors took a while. A man need not hurry while his wife is looking after his donkey. My husband would be rifling through delivery dockets to his heart’s content. Meanwhile business calmly continued at the counters, with servers and porters looking unperturbed. That was him. Faustus rarely threw his weight about; he just made his point stolidly until people caved in. He had tried this on me, though rarely with success.

  I stood with the donkey, contemplating how in my own work I carried no authority like his. As a woman, and as an informer, every time I questioned a witness I had to win trust, was forced to bluff, possessed no right of entry and ran personal risks. Tiberius only needed to turn up. Nobody would grope him either.

  I risked that in any place where I stood around. I had been in this arcade too long. Someone tried to hire me and he did not mean for a manicure. I said if he gave me his wife’s address, I would tell her how she could hire me to get all his cash when she divorced him.

  VIII

  Can a woman ride in a long tunic?

  Yes, but it needs to be full loom-width, and even then she will have to hoick up her skirts to knee level. It will attract attention from passers-by. They love bare legs. That will annoy her husband. Mine was pretty keen on bare legs normally, although since he came back from Fidenae after his sister’s funeral, his interest had been slow to rekindle. I knew this was because Fania Faustina died of a pregnancy going wrong. Whatever male guilt was interfering with my married life, I would have to stir things up again.

  Tiberius had left the shop with the manager. They were now going together to another venue, Xero’s bakery, where the pies were made. Tiberius was keeping his man-of-authority look in the toga, so Merky was mine. It seemed true that this donkey enjoyed working. She trotted happily around the Circus Maximus to the Trigeminal Porticus, flicking her ears at any members of the public who were admiring my legs. Tiberius muttered, though he was trying to act cool in front of the pie-shop manager.

  Xero’s bakery might not have been as well known as his pie shop, but there we saw the real extent of his commercial empire. Like other city bakeries it ran on an industrial scale. Bread was a key product. Feeding the people was how emperors held on to power. That meant they provided free corn. Hundreds of ships arrived in Italy from the fertile growing provinces. In Rome, two hundred thousand people—men—were allocated tickets for the dole. They were supposedly from poor families, but all kinds of recipients could be observed in the queues to collect. Even senators were not ashamed to take handouts. After all, making the most of opportunities was how their noble ancestors had become rich enough to enter the Senate in the first place.

  Xero’s was near the dole station, under a corner of the Aventine, below the Temple of Ceres, goddess of agriculture. After bringing grain into granaries, the state tightly controlled distribution. Once people gave in their dockets and collected their measures, few could deal with it at home so they took their corn to bakers who ground it into flour and even made bread for them. It was wonderful for bakers. Oven-owners like Xero could become millionaires.

  This was clear from the size and the busy racket of his Trigeminal premises. Merely being there told his story. A trader had to run a notable business to acquire space in the fancy marble Porticus. The fabled Xero was not some little pastry-fettler in a booth with an awning; he was a staggering commercial magnate. Of course, that meant he was not physically present today. Xero would be relaxing at his suburban spread where his caged finches trilled and fountains gurgled. But Tiberius had come to talk about supply lines; Xero had a small team of account managers to do that for him.

  I was left holding the donkey again.

  Luckily the bakery had an open space where I tied her up. Grain was being delivered all the time, with a whole team counting in the huge amounts received. They kept lists: everything from barley for slaves’ rations to spelt for fine white dinner rolls. Some official was ticking off imperial grain, as if they produced loaves for the military here, though I doubted it. They might supply the Praetorian Camp, but no one would send loaves travelling for many days to legions on the frontier, then inflict the results on soldiers. Soldiers bake their own. Trust me: I was married to an ex-soldier once. Mostly they have military biscuit. Every man can make that. Its main advantage is that the rock-hard slabs take so long to chew, troops have no time for mutiny.

  I wandered further into the premises. Flour mills stood in a double row. Xero owned ten. Hades! Each tall edifice was formed from a volcanic stone cone, topped by a grinder that was powered by a donkey turning a wooden framework. The mills stood sentinel amid overpowering clouds of dust, where coughing slaves monitored progress. Grain had been carried to an upper floor, then tumbled down through pipes into the mills, delivered at carefully managed rates. The donkeys trundled. Flour spun out into panniers at ground level. It was then taken to the next stage: kneading machines. Holy moly, Fornix would love one! In each big round stone container, an arrangement of interacting metal blades chopped and mixed dough on an industrial scale. Slaves turned the mechanism. In most, water, salt and oil were added with a fermenting agent, a piece of dough “mother”; flatbread dough omitted that, though it sometimes had rosemary or garlic stirred in.

  After a rest for rising, big warm balls of spongy dough went to tables where hardworking teams swiftly formed loaves, knocking back the elastic mixture and rekneading as necessary. They had done it so often, the workers could cut or tear off the right amount by eye, to produce very uniform loaves. Others were rolling and flattening balls of unleavened mixture to make teetering piles of flatbreads for street traders.

  At the end of the line, I saw a room-sized oven with a low, round floor. It was very different from local kilns with a small door that cooked only a few pieces at a time. Here, scores of loaves were shovelled with flat paddles onto a huge revolving metal grid for firing at high temperature.

  These procedures were repeated in bakeries throughout the Empire, but at Xero’s they had an extra stage, his brainwave. One branch of the kneading line turned out his notorious fatty pastry. Xero then had a range of rooms with cold marble counters, where cooks chopped meats, added seasoning and other ingredients, then rapidly formed their pies. Depending on what cam
e into the markets, they created their sought-after pie-of-the-day, while also supplying mounds of traditional flavours and public favourites. Finishers crimped and pricked the lids then brushed on beaten egg. Xero ran a second, smaller, oven where pies were baked. Even after a household stomach upset, the scent was delectable.

  In a corridor by the pie-making rooms I could see my husband talking earnestly to a couple of men in clerks’ tunics, with styluses behind their ears. I retreated to donkey-minding.

  Eventually Tiberius came out. He was shaking his head over something. I kept quiet. An operative must have been signalled, who dragged me to the outdoor sales counter, then loaded me up with crusty rustic loaves and little twisted rolls. I could have taken anything I wanted. The aim was to mislead the aedile’s enquiries in a classic Roman way: bribe the wife with household goods. Then she will urge him to stop being ratty, and to be lenient instead—in theory.

  I accepted the free gifts. You should be polite. And I am an informer’s daughter.

  It would take more than a sesame twist for dipping in his chickpea paste to corrupt Tiberius Manlius Faustus.

  IX

  For Tiberius and me, the free gifts implied strongly that his questioning had hit the nail.

  He said nothing until we had left the bakery and were heading home. The steep uphill climb was new to Merky; we walked on either side of her, patting her and murmuring encouragement whenever she stopped dead.

  About halfway up the Clivus Publicius, Tiberius unbuttoned. He told me that Xero’s staff admitted what they called “a known problem with a limited quantity of recent ingredients.”

  “That sounds as if they are planning to send you a defensive lawyer’s letter.”

  “Someone should tell them aediles don’t listen to excuses.”

  Other customers had complained. Xero’s knew the score. Details of how our family had been taken ill were accepted, after which Tiberius made the staff provide an evidence trail. The source was a new supplier, who had sold Xero’s a variety of nuts at knockdown prices. The pie shop was famous for skimping on ingredients. The manager told Tiberius that when these nuts were delivered, he had thought they were probably old stock. Xero’s, being Xero’s, used the consignment anyway.

  “When I pressed him, he reckoned the nuts are last year’s leftovers, which have been stored somewhere damp.”

  “He accepts they are mouldy?”

  “Let us say, Albiola, he does not deny it.”

  “They should have been rejected.”

  “I detected anxiety about sending them back.”

  “Strange! What do you think?”

  “I suspect it’s to do with the trade problem that Morellus and I are looking into.”

  “Want to explain?”

  “Early days. It could be just a mad theory he has.”

  “You can tell me.”

  “I know I can,” said Tiberius, not troubling himself to do so.

  “All right, have your secret!” I would work it out for myself, if I cared. “Well, Xero’s is a prominent outfit; they ought to possess muscle. Is Xero intending to tackle his supplier?”

  “No. He should do, but it’s the old tale. He wants to avoid trouble. He might seek compensation, blaming me putting on pressure, but most likely Xero’s will simply drop the bad source.”

  I scoffed. “That leaves the supplier with a store of bad nuts, still liable to enter circulation.”

  “It does.”

  “You need to find that store.”

  “Looks like it.”

  Tiberius seemed terse. I finally screwed out of him that Xero’s had told him where the relevant warehouse was: probably one near the Lavernal gate. It stood in a group with premises that belonged to our own uncle Tullius. He had his eye on the culprit storehouse, though he could not wrench it away from a rival we all knew: Salvius Gratus. Salvius Gratus was the brother of my husband’s first wife.

  Tiberius would have to pay Gratus a visit. He said he preferred to go on his own. That suited me. Nothing would drag me over their threshold for almond fancies with Laia Gratiana. My small-talk might become crude if Laia gloated over us having been lumbered with our sheep.

  Tiberius dropped off the donkey and his toga at our house, then walked away firmly over the hill. I took myself for a programme of remedial works at Prisca’s bath-house.

  “I’ve had a long hard day. I need a full body scrub, a hot soak and lashings of good moisturiser.”

  “Coming up.” Prisca was a short, thin, competent proprietor who ran her baths for women only. Slapping around in wooden-soled slippers on the hot floors, she took me over. She reckoned all mothers needed the full treatment menu; when she heard I had acquired the boys, she had known I would be here, desperate. “You can hide out with us for as long as you like, Flavia Albia. Anyone comes looking, I’ll say you left us half an hour ago. I expect there is man trouble as well? What’s he done, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “He’s working with the vigiles, but he’s gone off now to see his ex-wife’s brother.”

  “Will she be there?”

  “Bound to be.”

  “Say no more!”

  “You’ll want to hear this, Prisca. The damned woman dumped a sheep on us.”

  “Shit, Albia!”

  “Exactly!”

  “That’s terrible. I’ll give you a few shakes of this new sweet cicely oil, on the house. I recommend it. All my ladies say the scent is delicious.”

  The scent was fine. It smelt like myrrh but was much cheaper. Prisca would be selling many bottles, since the oil would make easy Saturnalia gifts. I for one bought three glass flasks, for my mother and sisters, plus one for my maid Suza, then I added another for my cousin Marcia. She was with her lover, who had gone north for medical reasons, but if he was well enough they might travel home for the holiday.

  Prisca, who liked to manipulate people (“I take a friendly interest, Albia!”), then tried to fix me up with a client. She knew that when I had a case I came for thinking time and mulling things over with her; that meant I spent more money at her baths. Anyway, Prisca adored gossip.

  Axilla’s daughter had disappeared from home. She had taken nothing with her, told nobody, and had no known problems. “It’s a mystery. Right up your street, Albia.”

  It did sound a possibility, until Axilla was whipped from the cold room and pushed onto a side bench to talk to me. A naked client (belly fat and moles) may be unnerving, but she wasn’t going to be a client. She piped up that she already knew the answer: the daughter had gone off with her boyfriend, a known neighbourhood louse. He was bound to steal her savings, but that would teach her a life-lesson, and nobody thought he would beat her or anything like that. Axilla was glad to see the back of her. The girl in question was thirty; she left dirty tunics all over the floor, never pulled her weight with child-minding and contributed nothing to household bills. Axilla pleaded with me not to find her.

  Undaunted, my friend the bath-house keeper hauled in another woman, Zenia. Zenia (nude, ribs sticking out, unusual birthmark) had an uncle who had been missing for three years, abroad. That warned me right off. Rome had over thirty provinces and Zenia was vague about which one her uncle wandered into last. He had always been a free spirit, but he used to stay in touch at this time of year, so it was feared he had been attracted into dangerous company and something terrible had happened to him. “He was really sweet, never saw bad in anybody. People take advantage of his simple nature. I can feel it—he has gone. Oh, our lovely uncle is no longer on this earth!” I was finding a towel to dry Zenia’s eyes, when someone ran in to tell her the lost nunc had just arrived home as a Saturnalia surprise.

  Prisca and I shared a cinnamon cake.

  I grumbled that all over Rome missing relatives would be turning up this month. My hope was that, after initial joy, things would go wrong. “Incompatibility is why these people walked out in the first place. So now everybody grits their teeth and looks overjoyed to have them back during the
five days of feasting, but I’m waiting for fun time. Bitter old feuds will resurface. Prime time for informers is after Saturnalia finishes.”

  Prisca understood. She said there was always a rush at the baths too. The masseur had to work double shifts. “And another thing about my mothers, Albia—they eat too much cake. You will have to watch your figure.”

  Picking crumbs off my clean tunic, I said I could see why they needed it. Despondently, I ate the crumbs.

  * * *

  Back at home, my brother had been and gone with his tutor, Vitalis, a nervy young academic. Postumus had also brought his ferret, Ferret. Not to be outdone, the boys had let their own pet into the courtyard. “Sheep! We are calling our sheep Sheep!”

  “What an exciting idea. Did Postumus admire your turd?”

  “Yes! He is going to make one, and some fake sick.”

  “Lovely. It’s getting dark. You need to put Sheep back in her stable.”

  We still had custody of the young Morelli. When Pullia came, I assumed it was to fetch them. Instead, she wanted them to stop with us that night; she had even brought the babby as well.

  “Oh, go on, Albia! It will give Titus and me some time for you-know-what. It’s Saturnalia.”

  “I thought Morellus was on pie-related sick leave.”

  “So, he’s at home, for once!”

  “But is he up to you-know-what?”

  “Who cares?” Pullia chortled. “I am!”

  We did not own a cradle, but that protest was brushed aside as the excited mother deposited her infant’s bone teething ring, spare loincloths, extra tunic, cute toys and spouted feeding bowl. It looked as if the babby was meant to become our permanent lodger.

  “Don’t let her suck the leather mouse or it goes slimy. I’ve brought their little potty for the others. Titus Junior has to have this rag to chew or he won’t go off to sleep. You can manage without a cradle. Just put the babby in a chest with the lid up, then don’t let anybody helpful come along and close it.”