Pandora's Boy: Flavia Albia 6 (Falco: The New Generation)

by Lindsey Davis

  Her current bulk made her waddle breathlessly, so it was difficult to believe she was capable of barging anyone hard, even during her set-to with her rival. Had she swung around suddenly and felled Dorotheus by side-swiping him with sheer poundage? This woman could have been used as a counterweight on a pulley unloading grain sacks.

  Like her son, she had ordinary features and a pleasant manner. She took pride in her home, which was run with efficiency. Perhaps she had encouraged Clodia to grow up with the same domestic interests. I guessed she was a tyrant with the local tradesmen but her only granddaughter would have been treasured.

  In this apartment I was treated to refreshments as soon as I arrived, although the hospitality was like a sacrifice to some unfussy god; it comprised a thimble of sweetened honey water and two dainty, very dry oat cakes. The little treats arrived without me being asked; it must be what Volumnia Paulla served to everyone who called. Her slaves just did it. I might be trade but I was treated the same as everyone.

  She took charge. She began at once with, ‘So you have been over to the other pair!’ Someone, perhaps her son himself, must have rushed to inform her. ‘I don’t suppose they made any helpful contribution?’

  ‘Had to be done,’ I answered with a sigh, as if we two were complicit. ‘I felt very sorry for your daughter-in-law.She is devastated by her grief. Her mother could have been more forthcoming. I found it hard to place her role. Was Marcia Sentilla often over here?’

  ‘In and out on a daily basis – until they both flounced off.’ Sniffing at that, Volumnia Paulla leaned forward, at least as far as she could lean, given her waistline. She dropped her voice conspiratorially. ‘Some widows find it hard to let go, you know. Marcia Sentilla doesn’t know when to stop. Poor Sentia could have done with a lot less of her interfering mama.’

  ‘What about Clodia?’

  This grandmother let rip with a peal of tinkly laughter. ‘Nobody was ever too controlling with our Clodia!’

  ‘A spirited lass?’ I made it a neutral question, though I was starting to form a view on the girl.

  Perhaps my companion regretted what she had said. She paused and told me Clodia Volumnia knew her mind. Yes, I had been hearing that.

  ‘What about you? Were you and Clodia close?’

  ‘Always. We often had our little chats. I miss them so much!’

  ‘Did she tell you about that boy she liked? Numerius Cestinus?’

  ‘Oh, I knew all about how much she hankered for him. She believed that he liked her, too. When my son put a stop to it, Clodia clammed up more. I suppose she felt I would be on her father’s side – which I was really. I could see his point, even if I tried not to interfere.’ Grandmas who say that often poke their noses in. Mine did. Both.

  I played disingenuous: ‘When I interviewed your son, I was trying to spare his feelings as much as possible. I didn’t really like to ask Volumnius Firmus what his objections were.’

  ‘He would never have told you!’ his mother snapped back. I had been able to tell he was withholding, though I doubted Volumnia Paulla could be lured into a revelation. Her fluttery performance hid steel.

  ‘All the same, I would like to know,’ I attempted. ‘I will be discreet; that is my job. But when I come to make my assessment, it will help if I understand this.’

  I watched her think about it. She clasped and unclasped her small fat fingers as if that assisted with challenging decisions. I noticed she wore many rings. Some must have grown too tight to take off. The dramatic bijouterie was in contrast to her rooms, which were furnished in the same easy style as her son’s, nowhere near as heavily formal as the apartment where his wife’s mother lived.

  ‘Let me consider that, Flavia Albia.’ Then, impulsively, she leaned towards me again, unable to resist saying, ‘It was political!’

  A man would have winked; in other company I might have winked back. Too refined for that, Volumnia Paulla screwed up her whole face to include me in a knowing look. I nodded back as if I took the point. Instead I added it to the queries I needed to follow up another time, with more dependable witnesses.

  ‘Not for money reasons, then?’ It was worth one more try.

  ‘Oh, no, the Cestii are well off.’ I could see Volumnia Paulla being torn between some need to be discreet and the lovely allure of gossip. ‘They had a big inheritance. And, in their way, you know, they are extremely decent people.’

  ‘The father writes? He is a historian?’

  ‘I don’t know about that!’ Volumnia Paulla came close to a shudder, which confirmed for me that women in this family were unlettered.

  It meant that when Clodia was heartbroken, she could not lock herself in her bedroom composing tragic poetry. Still, that would have saved her one day having to go through her scroll boxes, weeding out ghastly odes in case some new husband poked into her mementos … just as I had a few weeks ago. Some of mine were horrible.

  I moved aside the silver tot my tiny drink came in, and placed it neatly upon its companion, the dinky little silver sweetmeat dish. I then positioned them dead centre on a mat on a goat-legged table. I set my note-tablet aside, next to the metalware.

  Sighing quietly, I too folded my hands together, though I had no big jewels to play with, only a simple wedding ring. My hand went to my throat to loosen the cord that held my husband’s two rings.

  ‘Volumnia Paulla, I am sorry to do this, but I must question you about the story that there was a love-potion.’

  Immediately defensive, she demanded, ‘What do they say?’

  ‘Sentia and her mother? That they only ever patronise the supplier, Pandora, for innocent cosmetics. Tell me, do you buy her stuff? Do you know her?’

  ‘No.’ Volumnia Paulla’s demure reply suggested she was a woman who never needed artificial beauty aids. But her wide round face had skin like a child’s. If emollient balms were not applied at least twice daily here to achieve that look, I was a Batavian’s auntie.

  I thought she could more wisely have been put on a regime of vomiting after lunch to slim down. Still, it does not do to give clients advice. Stick to your remit.

  ‘They assured me many people go to Pandora for creams,’ I said neutrally, ‘but nothing else was ever bought …’ I could have mentioned the maternal grandma’s haemorrhoid pills, but was too discreet. ‘No love-potion. So Clodia, they are certain, could not have been killed that way.’

  ‘Pig’s pizzle!’ screeched Clodia’s paternal granny at the top of her voice.

  I was startled. She was a nice woman, in her really nice apartment, refusing to gossip and serving polite edibles. A phrase that would be used by plebeian men on the Aventine seemed out of place. Uttered in her little-girl voice, it was doubly shocking.

  ‘You think they are lying?’ I managed to ask, as I wondered if she had learned the phrase from her supposedly difficult husband.

  ‘They got it for her.’

  ‘But at the time, you could not discover evidence that any potion ever existed?’

  ‘No. But it did.’

  ‘No trace was found? No proof?’

  ‘Marcia Sentilla took away the container and disposed of it.’ Volumnia Paulla was so bitter I began to see how the two women had come to blows.

  ‘You know that for sure?’

  ‘That is what she would do.’ It rang true; I could see Marcia Sentilla as a fixer. She had been determined to manipulate me when I visited. I easily envisaged her palming incriminating evidence.

  ‘You and she were friends once.’

  ‘I was deluded then, now I see through her wiles.’ Volumnia spoke baldly. Nothing would alter her opinion of Marcia Sentilla. Even if I went on to find some other cause for their granddaughter’s death, I would have my work cut out to convince this one.

  She rounded on me. ‘Do you believe what they say?’

  I made an appeasing gesture. ‘It is only my first day. Still, my enquiries are already leading me to think something disagreed with Clodia. Illness does sometimes flare
up very fast. It could be as simple as bad meat or rotten fish—’

  ‘It could not!’ Her grandmother was vehement. I had to be careful or her scorn would lead to Firmus ending my commission. Clients’ mothers can be a nightmare. Only worse are clients’ children who are hoping for legacies. ‘We all ate together. As we often did. We all had the same. No one else was affected. Do you think my son and I are idiots? We ascertained that straight away. Who ate what. It was the first thing we did.’

  Again I tried to calm her. ‘That’s good. Very far-sighted. I am delighted you did so. Time has gone by since the poor girl was found; it is vital that such questions were asked immediately …’ I managed to change the topic, relieving some tension: ‘So Clodia was at home with her family? Was she here all day?’

  ‘I took her out with me in the afternoon. Her father was going to buy her a present, so we went and looked at vanity boxes – we chose one, in fact.’

  ‘Her father thinks Clodia knew nothing about the present!’ I was amused to hear this was untrue. The Volumnius women were an organised bunch on both sides. ‘And didn’t he ask her mother to suggest something suitable?’

  ‘Yes, but, typical Clodia, she was very good at outflanking people.’ Volumnia Paulla got to her feet with a struggle. She waddled to a closed cupboard, from which she brought out a wrapped parcel, big enough for her to carry it with her arms wide, though it looked almost too heavy to manage. I moved the items on my side table, so she could set it down and open it to reveal a stunning make-up box. It was new. To me it looked like traditional Campanian work; rectangular in shape, the beautiful thing was decorated with carved ivory corner pieces and plaques showing female figures.

  ‘It is fully fitted.’

  Of course it was: only the best for sweet little Clodia. She had taste! Inside was a shallow lift-out tray that held a chased silver hand mirror, a comb and a saucer, plus a full range of cosmetic spatulas and mixers, tweezers and nail gadgets. Under the tray was a space big enough for a pair of casual slippers, with several exquisite glass perfume bottles, probably Syrian, decorated with mixed trails of buttercup yellow, white and deep blue.

  ‘I know two teenage girls who would be entranced by this!’

  Volumnia Paulla wiped away a tear. ‘My Clodia loved it. As soon as she saw it she squealed out loud and wanted it. We bought it on the spot. In case the man sold it elsewhere. He wouldn’t let me reserve it. Oh dear …’

  As the memory affected her, I gave the sad grandmother time to recover. I myself closed up the box. I gently refolded the wrappings, then carried it back to the cupboard.

  ‘She had wanted to go out to meet her friends that evening,’ Volumnia Paulla said, managing to rally. Without prompting, she picked up the story of Clodia’s last day. ‘Her father refused, while there was still so much trouble with her. All those young people ever do is hang around in groups, talking about their romances. Most of them were older; Clodia was still only fifteen. The rest may be ready to think about marriage, but she had more time. Constantly speculating about who would end up with whom was unhealthy for Clodia.’

  ‘Still, I don’t imagine she was happy about being kept in that night?’

  ‘She ran off to her room, telling us to leave her alone,’ Volumnia Paulla confirmed. ‘She fastened the door and stayed there. I admit we were going through a difficult period. Ructions were not unusual. I came back to my apartment while my son went out; he had to meet someone who needed his help with a business problem. He is always so generous with his time … Now I wish I had gone to Clodia. If she was swallowing poison, even if she thought it was something harmless, I would have stopped her.’

  ‘Was this still early in the evening?’

  ‘I suppose so. It was still light.’

  I sat quietly thinking. What does an unhappy fifteen-year-old girl do by herself in her room, when she has argued with her relatives? What does she do if she is not writing poetry?

  I could think of one answer.

  They all think she stays alone moping for hours, but they are wrong. She secretly does a runner.

  12

  Leaving the dumpy dowager, I went along the balcony back to her son’s apartment. I asked the old door porter to show me Clodia’s room again. ‘I need another quick look to check something. No need to disturb your master.’

  Volumnius Firmus must still think I was closeted with his mother, so for once he failed to bounce out to see what I was doing. The porter, who was inquisitive about how an informer worked, came with me. ‘Your job must be very interesting, Flavia Albia.’

  ‘I’d like it more if it paid the rent! I would tell you the secrets of my trade, but if they exist I haven’t discovered them. It’s all routine, really. Thank goodness for decent people like you who help me out.’

  The porter basked in this chit-chat. He cannot have met many smart-talking freelance women. He was a long-faced slave who must have guarded the same door for years. He and the hinges had gathered rust together. The Volumnii probably called him the salt of the earth yet gave their creaky retainer a very small handout each Saturnalia. I imagined that for decades he had hoped in vain for a bigger bonus. Disappointment hung on him like spider’s webs on a cornice.

  All the rooms in this apartment suite were situated in a line, with one long access corridor running behind them. We walked down; I conducted a discreet survey. Each room had a door from the corridor, with one or more windows on the opposite side, looking out to the balcony. It was more private than homes where you passed through each room to reach the next, though it had a communal quality because, unless you fastened your shutters very tight, anyone on the veranda could squint in to see what you were up to. I would not have lived that way.

  It is a fact of life that shutter-fixings never work. This is partly because shutters warp. Building managers love that. They have an excuse to invade your room on the pretence that they are oiling the catches; some will even bring a bowl of oil and a feather, as if genuinely doing so. It’s camouflage. If you are out they will pinch any money you foolishly left, or if you are at home they will suggest you sleep with them. Just thinking about it made me queasy. Tiberius might have run us close to bankruptcy with our new house, but how glad I was that we now owned our own.

  Again, I wondered where he was, and if he ever thought of me.

  There was no lock on the door to Clodia Volumnia’s bedroom. My parents would approve. They refuse to have children able to deny them entrance; they call it a safety measure. ‘What if there was a fire, darling, while you were fast asleep?’

  Clodia’s mother had said she ‘fastened’ the door. Keeping my voice low, I said to the porter, ‘I don’t suppose you know how Clodia kept people out when she wanted to hide away undisturbed?’

  Everybody must have known. ‘Oh, she used to push her bed against the door.’ The door opened inwards from the corridor.

  ‘Had she done that on the night she died? Did Chryse have to batter her way in next morning?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Times when she had to, Chryse usually stood outside with her head by the crack and talked her out of it. Once I gave her a leg-up so she could clamber in at the window. Chryse’s not exactly acrobatic. But the young mistress was a good girl really. Even if she was upset, she normally let Chryse in. Chryse only had to call out, Sweetheart, I’ve brought you a nice bowl of walnut dates! Those were her favourite.’

  The bed that sometimes served as a barricade now stood with its headboard against a side wall, looking innocent, just as it had when I came in here with Chryse. That was its usual intended position, for the simple mosaic floor had a pattern with borders to outline its space. The bed was single size, though wider than the one Dorotheus had found for me. I gave it a nudge with my knee. It moved. Clodia could have swung it around and across the room if she was set on wedging the door.

  I murmured, as if still thinking this through, ‘But on the crucial morning, the maid was able to go in. Even if Clodia kept people out on the evening b
efore, she must have put the bed back to normal when she went to sleep …’

  ‘Yes, she must have done,’ the porter agreed. ‘I saw Chryse trot along the corridor, like she always did, with the bowl of warm water for washing her face in. The first sound, I remember,’ he said, ‘was the bowl jangling on the floor when Chryse dropped it, then her screaming her head off when she found what she found.’

  ‘Poor Clodia dead?’ I hoped he might let slip more details of the scene.

  He only nodded. I guessed he had been warned to say no more. Since door porters lead a thankless life, I did not push him. At this stage, I was trying not to get him into trouble.

  Mind you, I was not trying hard. ‘Do you stay on duty by the front door all the time, until you lock up everything at night?’ He said yes. ‘So, tell me honestly: that evening, did you see Clodia sneak out?’ He said no. He seemed unsurprised by my question. That told me she had done it on other occasions. The staff knew she went, and how she managed to do it, even if her parents did not.

  The defiant girl must have waited until her father had gone to his meeting, her grandmother had returned to her own rooms and there was no one outside on the balcony. Then Clodia had shinned out of her window. If a much older nursemaid could get in that way, a determined fifteen-year-old would easily get out. She would have left her bed against the room door, moving it back quietly once she eventually came home.

  13

  I left quickly, before anybody else noticed what the porter and I were doing. I went back to the room they had given me. I spent some time going over my notes, before I ate an early supper. The lettuce from Min the fertility god’s stall oozed sap in a way I found far from erotic. Where the hell was Tiberius?

  I had a cold collation to go with the invigorating greens. The informer’s code says look after yourself. For most of the men this means a takeaway Chicken Vardana slathered in fish-pickle sauce; for me it meant decent Lucanian sausage with salad. At home, I would have topped off my home-concocted side with toasted pine nuts.