Graveyard of the Hesperides

by Lindsey Davis

  Before we left, Faustus reminded Liberalis he was a magistrate. As well as general responsibility for neighborhood order, aediles had a particular remit for the good behavior of bars. The Sixth District was not in his formal jurisdiction, though of course Faustus worked closely with the relevant colleague. There would be consultation. The colleague would take an interest, though he might leave the problem to Faustus. (Bound to, I thought.) The local vigiles would also be informed. Faustus himself felt obliged to tell them, though they would obviously hear about the bones anyway; he hoped they would be reassured by his presence on the spot and would leave him to deal with the problem.

  Liberalis took this well. He was assuming a helpful manner now. He started to express shock at the grisly finds today. He wanted things to be sorted out as painlessly as possible and would be all too ready to cooperate if anyone told him how. He even thanked Faustus for taking charge.

  More fool Liberalis.

  In reality he must have thought most builders would quietly parcel up the skeleton and scatter the bits in another district. It was his bad luck to be employing a firm that had been taken over midway by a magistrate—and that rarity, one who had scruples.

  *

  After we left the untidy apartment, I tackled Tiberius about my proposed inquiries. Nothing would have stopped me taking an interest. But if this was to be done properly, he would have to acknowledge a logistical problem. Tiberius himself had already found it hard to visit the site, even on an infrequent basis. It would be worse for me because I would need to be present every day. Our Aventine home was a long stretch from here; you had to come down from our hill, negotiate the huge valley of the Circus Maximus, pass around into the Forum, batter through the crowds, and come onto the Argiletum before beating up the Vicus Longus. Going home was worse because you had to slog up the Aventine at the end, when already exhausted.

  “Darling, I shall need to come over all the time. There-and-back travel will be much too tiring.”

  Tiberius conceded the point. We would rent somewhere to stay; he would come as well, which made it much more attractive. I knew there was accommodation at the Hesperides, which I had not seen, but those rooms could only be tiny, and currently they seemed to be home to the bar’s unemployed waitstaff. Besides, who wants to sleep in a fug of concrete dust?

  Our night watchman had found himself a half-decent billet to sleep in during the day. It was upstairs from a feltmaker’s, so a grade better than living above a bar, though right on a busy crossroads. We took the bones there for safekeeping overnight. Tiberius instructed Trypho to move out and sleep in the Hesperides. Now that the site was a crime scene, having it guarded was doubly wise.

  If my beloved was to scrape a living, I might need to monitor his costs. I said nothing yet, since I had no wish to be a married woman who nagged about the family business—except when there was a clear need, in which case I would certainly not hold back. Gaining my trusted advice was why Tiberius had taken me on, surely?

  I did not want to be formally married at all, which was another reason for moving here, away from the wedding furor. However, the dogged Manlius Faustus had other ideas: “I will have to go over to visit the aediles’ office sometimes, for my duties,” he said. “Don’t worry, I can see how the wedding plans are progressing then.”

  What a darling.

  I sweetly assured him I was not intending to worry, since I myself did not want any progress on his terrible idea. He remained relaxed. I was beginning to see how he handled me, never becoming excited if I dug my heels in. It would probably work.

  He had found helpers for his project. Two dark little handmaids had inveigled themselves into his confidence, wedding planners who could have organized Pluto’s union to Proserpina in the Underworld, all wailing and downturned torches: my sisters, aged sixteen and fourteen. Tiberius had promised them a free hand, so long as they created a huge splash that would tell everyone on the Aventine he and I were married. Julia and Favonia were thrilled. They knew everything that ought to happen, much of it mythical in origin. They had no idea of common sense or cost.

  “This mystery must not cause a delay,” Tiberius told me fondly. “We shall just have to solve what happened to Rufia before our wedding day.”

  “A race against time, eh? My favorite kind of case!” I have had pressures on investigations often, but never the deadline of being a bride. There was a date set. I had been ignoring it. Our ceremony was to be the last day of August. That was only six days away.

  I wanted to begin investigating quickly anyway, because that is the best plan when a body turns up. I sent off my bridegroom to pick up things we would need from our apartment, while I started at once.

  “Bring clothes, bath things, writing equipment—and absolutely our own bedsheets. Don’t worry about food. I’ll obtain something during my inquiries. The bakery is always a good place to start asking for gossip.”

  “You’re wonderful!”

  As I said, we had not been together long. He would drop that adoring pose soon enough. I was human. I couldn’t stand the strain of living up to it.

  VI

  The night watchman told me where to find acceptable public facilities. One of my father’s rules for informers was: always go out on reconnaissance with an empty bladder. You cannot be hopping at a crucial moment, and it’s worse for a woman. He at least could pop down an alley and pee on someone’s house wall like every other man in town.

  “Acceptable” was Trypho’s definition, not mine. Still, the crude latrine was fine if you stepped carefully, and it was usefully sited for my mission, with a well-established bread shop just over the road.

  This bakery was not promising. Like most retail premises and workshops, it had a one-room-wide interior. You didn’t go inside. Every morning the owners pulled the shutters and arranged their produce around its opening; they came to the front to serve buyers, who stood outside on the pavement. These particular bakers had a high counter, with servers leaning down over it, so you had to inspect the bread on tiptoe.

  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 concl
usion 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.

  “And other things?” I asked, not falling for that.

  Nona gave me her hardest stare, a fine adamantine product.

  I still resisted the pretense. “I daresay Rufia did what was expected of a bar girl. I don’t blame her for it. As you said earlier, she had to earn her money in the best way she could.” The only way. That’s life.

  We were sitting on stools, almost knee to knee. This would be how women negotiated with Nona as they pleaded for her help with an unwanted baby. I lowered my voice. Probably the women did the same, when they reached the point of saying how far gone they were and why it was so important that they did not have to bear the child.

  “The question is, Nona, was there ever conflict with the landlord over what Rufia had to do? I can think of various scenarios. She worked in a bar, so of course it was assumed she also went upstairs with men. Maybe she didn’t like it, or after a time it became too much to bear. She could have acquired her own boyfriend, so wanted to stick with him. Maybe Old Thales used to impose on her. Maybe men who fornicated paid Thales, then he gave Rufia nothing—or not enough, in her opinion. Maybe it went the other way: she took the money directly from clients, but Thales suspected she cheated him of his right percentage. Maybe there was a fight over her. Maybe someone had a fight with her, over something else.”

  “You ask a lot of questions, Flavia Albia.”

  “Questions are unavoidable. This is how I do my job.”

  “Leave it alone. The past is dead and buried. Don’t disturb it.”

  “Too late. A bunch of workmen dug up the past today. If it’s Rufia, she has come back to claim justice.”

  “If she’s dead, she doesn’t care any longer.” Clearly Nona had no belief in an afterlife—an advisable stance for an abortionist. She wouldn’t want to be wafting through the Underworld one day and meet up with the tiny ghosts of fetuses, all furious with her for being snuffed out prematurely.

  How did she achieve the fatal snuffing out? She was
too unfriendly to ask.

  “You seem eager to protect the barmaid’s memory,” I commented. “Is that because Rufia was an old customer, I wonder?” She blanked it. “Come on, Nona, I know what you offer. Had you ever helped Rufia escape an unwanted pregnancy?”

  “I would never have done that,” the wise woman assured me, stony-faced. “Killing a child in the womb is against the law, as you well know, my girl.”

  Abortion is indeed illegal, even though prevention is awkwardly tolerated. Aborting a live child denies its father his rights. We must protect men’s rights. Meanwhile the poor mother cannot refuse to carry and bear a baby, even if its father is unknown or married to somebody else, if he thumps her, drinks all their income, unfortunately dies on her, or the horrible pest has simply bunked off.

  Once I might have persuaded Nona to be more open, but I saw that being associated with a magistrate worked against me. Juno, I had become part of the establishment. People would stop sharing confidences.

  I must learn from this. In the future I would only mention Manlius Faustus being an aedile if it positively helped.

  “So you cannot tell me anything?”

  “I don’t gossip.”

  That must be a useful attribute in her profession. Sadly it was no help to mine.

  *

  After I left Nona, I happened to stroll past Costus’ victimarium, which she had mentioned, so I went in to speak to the proprietor. The place reminded me of an undertaker’s; it had very little on display to upset people by open reference to its trade. Costus worked in an anodyne office that could have housed a bookkeeper, not a slaughterer. Unlike Nona, he had a readily available price list, as I discovered when I admitted I might be hiring.