Enemies at Home: Falco: The New Generation - Flavia Albia 2

by Lindsey Davis

  On the left were summer and winter dining rooms. Since they both faced the same way, the distinction was pointless. They had folding door-leaves that could be opened for air and a garden vista, had there been one – I made a mental note to ask ‘Diomedes, 47, gardener’ how exactly he spent his time, since he cannot have been tending topiary.

  Over on the far side of the courtyard lay a service area, fairly well disguised. More prominently, the best feature of this apartment was a large, double height saloon. There I discovered the kind of domestic basilica that is supposed to give people of status somewhere to hold banquets or semi-public meetings – judicial hearings by minor magistrates or local government gatherings, when they are convened in a big man’s private house. Inside, it had two rows of columns dividing the space into a nave and side-aisles, although as this was a modest property not the elite home it wanted to be, the ceiling height, even in the domed centre, was too low. The only light came through high square windows, so the interior was as gloomy as tenements back in Fountain Court, where I lived. And I can tell you that Manlius Faustus and his uncle were important in their community, but I had been in their house, which was bigger than this, yet they did not bother to have a Corinthian oecus, as I knew such saloons are called.

  I was acquiring a feel for the Aviola residence and its owners. Comfortably off − or in well-hidden debt. Outwardly ambitious, but trying harder than funds allowed. An absolutely typical Roman family, in fact.

  I wondered what the man had done in life. Then I wondered how much dowry the new wife had brought in. I would have to ask.

  Either side of the oecus stood the best bedrooms. One was completely empty. In homes where the husband and wife wanted their own rooms, they would snaffle one each of these, separated by their prized Corinthian saloon. With the newly-weds, decisions may not yet have been taken. Following their wedding, while desire was warm, the couple had shared the second bedroom, the one closest to the courtyard corner. The freedman Polycarpus had identified it when talking to Faustus and me. He had also mentioned that the scene had been tidied up, but since I knew what had taken place there, I braced myself before I went in.

  It was a pleasant room. A good size. Frescos with flower garlands and mythological plaques, on a white ground. Black and white mosaic on the floor, with slightly lopsided panels depicting the four seasons. A bed with high ends and back, against the right hand wall. Someone had remade the bed, plumping its pillows, smoothing and tightly tucking in the corners of its undersheet and carefully arranging the colourful coverlet so it hung down evenly.

  There were cupboards and clothes chests. A long footstool, probably repositioned neatly after the fracas, stood by the open side of the bed.

  The bed was a noble size, not some scrimped single cot, but plenty of room for two people to sleep, or do whatever else they chose. They cannot have envisaged violently dying in it together.

  I propped myself against the opposite wall, moving to one side to avoid squashing Perseus making a manly approach to a monster. It might be a painting, but the gritty Greek hero had a very big spear and he wasn’t going to get ideas about my resting posterior.

  Although no sign remained of the crime that took place here, I tried to imagine it, to hear the sudden onslaught of noise and confusion, to feel panic giving way to outright terror, to envisage the dead couple as they had been discovered afterwards, lying on that bed.

  Were they cowering together? Out-flung? Curled up foetally? I wondered if they had been awake, or if they woke when their room was invaded, or were they killed before they understood what was happening? With two to be despatched, it was likely that one did realise what happened first to the other. Was it dark? Were there lamps? Did the criminals bring lights of their own? From what I knew so far, neither Aviola nor his wife had time to make any escape attempt. Neither managed to scramble off the bed. Their killer or killers would have dealt with the nearest victim, then leaned across the warm corpse to kill the other. I guessed that Mucia Lucilia, the weaker victim, was second. She may have shrunk against the backboard in terror while she heard Valerius Aviola being choked. Then came her turn. She, poor woman, would have known what was coming.

  When I married years ago, I deliberately chose a marriage bed that was not designed with one solid side like the back of a couch. Otherwise, one of you is always having to climb out over the other person. It is so much more convenient to give both partners free exit on their own side of the bed, much more convenient during marital tiffs. Besides, it saves a feisty woman having to spell out for her beloved that she is not allowing him the access side. Which will come as a big shock to him, and inevitably leads to one of those tiffs I mentioned.

  Then, too, when someone thinks they have heard a noise at night, the wife who stays in bed does not want to be crushed by enormous feet while her ridiculous husband insists on going to investigate. Or again when he comes crashing back, after he has found nothing.

  But what about when the suspicious noise turns out to be a real emergency?

  What if you don’t hear intruders until they burst in, rush at you and tighten a rope around your throat?

  Did the robbers bring rope? That would show premeditation. Spur of the moment strangulations tend to be carried out with belts or other items of clothing, anything to hand that can be snatched up in fury.

  Another question for tomorrow.

  While I was musing at the murder scene, it had grown really dark. No lights had been set out anywhere. I found my way back to my room, stepped over Dromo who was snoring on his mat, and fetched one of my lamps. Thank the gods I am a woman who can strike a spark with a flint for herself.

  The entire apartment seemed deserted. Although the slave Myla was supposed to be here, I had not seen her and never once heard a baby crying. Perhaps that was common in a home like this. Slaves would be instructed to keep their infants out of sight and silent. Indeed in some houses, the slaves themselves would be expected to remain invisible.

  I was working my way into back corridors in the service suite where I might come across the new mother. But it struck me that as I moved around with my single lamp, anyone up to no good in the unlit spaces would be able to track my progress. There was no indication I was being watched, but I felt uncomfortable. I gave up and went to bed.

  Needless to say, the guest bed had high ends and a boarded side. Since I was sleeping alone, I could live with that. If anyone tried to break in, I would hear them coming. To make sure, I had fastened my belt around the handles of the double doors, and stood the side-table right against them.

  6

  I started awake.

  Furniture was being scraped across the mosaic floor. The doors were being forced inwards.

  I had slept longer than I thought; there was sufficient daylight for me to interpret this and woozily decide to put a stop to it. Bloody Dromo. He had worked his matted head through the crack between the doors, ignoring any risk to his brain. Not wanting to desecrate my favourite knife, I threw a pillow at him.

  ‘Can I go out for my breakfast?’

  ‘For one happy moment, Dromo, I thought you were bringing me some.’

  ‘I’m a messenger, that’s not my job.’

  ‘What happens normally about your breakfast?’

  ‘I get it in our kitchen of course. Our house is proper. That’s if I don’t have to drag out after my master and get thrown an old crust at that horrible place he hangs around with you.’

  ‘It’s the Stargazer. And your master does not “hang around”, he drops in for business occasionally.’

  ‘I thought the pair of you were smooching.’

  ‘I do not smooch magistrates; I have more class. And you ought to know the aedile better.’ I wondered if Dromo had ever seen Faustus dally with women. I couldn’t imagine it, but men who seem moral can be a disappointment. In fact, from experience I would say they generally are. ‘Go on then. Use the bar directly opposite the house; don’t wander off.’

  ‘I haven’t
got any money.’

  What a whiner. Still, it was not his fault. Slaves have to be trusted first; I could see why Faustus would avoid giving this back-chatting boy any petty cash. I answered mildly, though won no thanks for it. I told Dromo to go ahead and I would come to fix up a daily tab for him.

  Faustus could pay. I would eat separately at a better-looking bar further down the street, then Faustus could pay for that too.

  Service was slow on the Clivus Suburanus. Eating was slow too, since even the apparently superior bar served very hard bread. Lucky for them that I had grown up in the hopeless backstreets of Londinium. I had known far worse.

  By the time I returned to the apartment, the freedman Polycarpus was tapping his foot, delighted to look down on me because I had kept him waiting.

  Whatever he thought, I know my job. I became impressively businesslike. I marched him to a pair of seats that I had already put out in the courtyard. I had clean waxed tablets ready. I had planned my questions. I drew out the background information I wanted, giving Polycarpus no chance to bluster that he had to keep confidences.

  Valerius Aviola had been in his early forties. His money came from land; he owned productive country villas, which either brought in rent from tenants or he ran them himself and took all the profits. Mucia Lucilia, the new trophy wife, was fifteen years younger; she came with attractive inherited wealth. They had known one another socially, an acquaintance that matured naturally into a convenient marriage. They shared friends, who were delighted for them.

  I nearly asked if they had previously been lovers, but it seemed irrelevant and I chose a different question. ‘Did you think they would be happy?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Polycarpus.

  The wedding ceremony took place where Mucia had lived on the Quirinal Hill, then Aviola brought his bride home for their first night. A feast for friends was held here the following evening. It ended at a reasonable hour, because the couple were planning to travel to Campania early next morning. They retired to bed. Polycarpus saw the borrowed kitchen staff off the premises, then checked everything was in order before going home. The slaves were well behaved, he told me, and not given to rioting; so he assumed the household would settle down quietly when he left.

  The intruders battered their way in through the front doors. They surprised and severely beat the duty night porter, who was Nicostratus (now at the Temple of Ceres); he was discovered lying bloody and unconscious by his colleague Phaedrus (ditto). Phaedrus raised the alarm. At first it was thought only that a display of fine silver had gone missing. Then Amaranta, Mucia’s attendant, went in to wake her mistress and tell her what had happened. She discovered the bodies.

  The stolen silver, a wine service, was itemised for me by Polycarpus at my request. He dictated a list, which I wrote down, wondering if he was illiterate. I had expected him to bring a written inventory.

  He described four sets of double-handled drinking goblets, two to each set, in different sizes; four patterned beakers in two sizes; two trays; eight small round drinks coasters with little tripod goats’ feet; assorted jugs, two with hinged lids; a large and a small strainer, pointed and pierced; two ladles; a very large wine-mixing bowl.

  The items had been collected over time, but were all of high quality and fine design. This bullion had stood on a display cabinet in the summer dining room; it had remained here to be used in the wedding feast, or it would have been safely parcelled up and sent away for the couple’s intended summer in Campania.

  ‘Were any other valuables in the house?’

  ‘Not really. All the sculpture and vases had been sent to the villa. Our mistress had her jewellery in the bedroom. That was not taken.’

  ‘Did they even look at it?’

  ‘No, the casket appeared untouched.’

  ‘What have you done with it?’

  ‘Given for safe keeping to the executors.’

  ‘I shall need to be introduced to them.’

  It seemed the robbers knew exactly what they were looking for – the silver − and where it would be. They may also have gone to the bedroom in order to find the jewellery, only giving up that idea in panic after the murders. ‘So, let me just get this straight,’ I said, not looking up from my note tablet. ‘You were intending to send the silverware to the summer villa after your master and mistress left? First the cups and jugs were used at the feast, after which things were presumably washed up in the kitchen … so, Polycarpus, why was this silverware replaced on the display shelf, rather than packed up ready to go?’

  ‘The hour was too late. I felt whacked; we were all exhausted after the wedding.’ Polycarpus spoke defensively, looking as if he was unused to having his actions queried. ‘I had it taken out of the kitchen because the staff were on loan and I wasn’t prepared to trust them. Then the most discreet thing to do at that time of night was quietly store it as normal. The master and mistress were to go by litter to the city gates at first light and pick up wheeled transport there. I myself would come in to pack any final items, then we had a cart ordered for drive time.’

  In Rome, apart from some exceptions, carts are banned in the day in order to ease congestion. What Polycarpus said sounded reasonable.

  ‘Were you going to Campania?’

  ‘Er, no. There is another steward at the villa. I would have the summer to myself.’ Was there a flicker of feeling when he said that?

  ‘And the slaves who had stayed here after the wedding – were they meant to travel south?’

  ‘They were expecting to go with the last baggage cart.’ Polycarpus seemed to hesitate, though he carried on. ‘Then I was to close up the house.’

  ‘What about Myla, who was on the verge of producing?’

  ‘Not her. Arrangements had been made.’

  ‘So the house would be locked up during the summer. And if these thieves knew about the silver, they may have realised that night was their last chance to grab it for a long time?’

  Polycarpus sighed. ‘Presumably … And before you ask, no, I was never aware of any of our staff talking to outsiders about our valuables. Nor had I seen anyone suspicious watching the house.’

  ‘The vigiles asked you those questions?’ It was their usual approach. As an approach it often works, though as any vigiles enquirer would know, the weaknesses are that none of the staff would admit to Polycarpus that they had loose tongues, and most professional burglars are unobtrusive when they case a joint. ‘The vigiles like to believe items like this stolen silver may reappear and help identify the thieves,’ I mused. ‘But I am not hopeful.’

  The steward continued, ‘The man who came to investigate, Titianus, said the collection must have been stolen to order. He thought it was taken for someone who had been here as a guest, saw it and liked it. But surely, the point of owning treasure is to display it? This supposed guest would never be able to show it off or people would know he stole it. So why bother?’

  I agreed. ‘From your description, this stuff is also too distinctive to show up at auction. I know people in that business. Questions would be asked.’

  ‘Titianus assured me a list would be circulated to jewellers and auctioneers.’

  ‘I am sure he will do that. Sadly, Polycarpus, the likelihood is that the items will be melted down for the value of the metal – in which case that has happened already.’

  ‘It seems a terrible waste of such beautiful things.’

  ‘Criminals have limited choices. Occasionally,’ I told him, ‘a well organised professional gang will hide their loot, then keep it as long as they have to, until the heat dies down. Then they may eventually sell it for its artistic value. But even if these robbers use such long-term planning, people died here. Murder attracts attention. What was stolen may stick in the public’s mind. Selling it will be too risky.’

  Mentioning the deaths was my cue to move on.

  After the attack, Polycarpus had gone into the bedroom and had seen the bodies. He confirmed what I had suspected: Aviola was lying neares
t the front edge of the bed, with his wife behind him. Mucia was found close against her husband and had one arm stretched across his body, a defensive, protesting position, as if the new bride was trying to fend off her groom’s attacker.

  ‘That doesn’t sound as if the killers turned violent because the master and mistress came out and disturbed them. Aviola and Mucia were still in bed. Perhaps the thieves went to see what was in the bedroom, then their victims woke and tried to raise an alarm … They were strangled, I’m told. What with?’

  ‘A piece of rope.’ So it must have been pre-planned.

  ‘What happened to the rope afterwards?’

  ‘Perhaps the vigiles officer took it away.’

  ‘I shall ask him. Do you remember anything about it, Polycarpus? What kind of rope? Not very thick, I imagine. Thick rope is too stiff to twist around necks with enough torsion to kill someone.’

  The steward shrugged. Assessing rope was not for him. There were so many boundaries in household management, I was surprised anything ever got done.

  I asked him to show me the apartment’s layout, not mentioning that I had already explored. We took a walk-through. There were no surprises in the main rooms. Now I saw more of the offices. They had a two-oven kitchen, plus the usual pantries and store rooms. I glanced into the latrine. It was decent, though its cleanliness would not have satisfied either of my grandmothers, both women who would walk through Rome for an hour with a screaming toddler, rather than let any of us use a lavatory from which we might catch something.

  ‘Where do you get your water?’

  ‘The apartment came with its own well, but when my master first took the lease we found the water is too bad to use. I have to organise a carrier to bring in fresh buckets daily.’ Polycarpus indicated the disused well, in a corner of the courtyard. It had wooden boarding at ground level, over which a stone urn had been placed to deter people from opening it.

  ‘One thing I notice,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘is that you have little obvious accommodation for your slaves.’

  ‘What we provide is normal.’ Polycarpus obviously despised me for not knowing how staffed houses work. He showed me a couple of small cells on the service corridor. Numbers of slaves slept there, layered on pallets in wall niches, in much the same way as crockery was stacked on shelves elsewhere in walk-in cupboards. These slaves would have no time to relax at leisure, no personal possessions and absolutely no privacy. One such cell was crammed with mattresses and mats; these could be used on the floor anywhere. ‘Normally the house is full of people looking after the master. They all find space for themselves where they can – the kitchen, corridors, the garden. But they are the master’s familia and we make our accommodation versatile, Flavia Albia. When we have no guests, the best slaves may sleep in greater comfort in unused bedrooms.’