Though startled, I managed to accost them: “Nipius and Natalis, I presume? You work here when the bar is open? Well, I am Flavia Albia, looking into the unpleasant finds the workmen dug up yesterday. I suggest you both put your clothes on straight away, and come downstairs to help with my inquiries!”
XI
By the time they sloped down to the courtyard, I was sitting down, looking cool. Being enthroned while others stand is a sign of superiority in Rome, though waiters never subscribe to such etiquette. A waiter can be lying on the dirty ground pushing a wedge under a wobbly table leg, but he will still behave as if you are an upstart slave, unreasonably complaining, whereas he is of royal birth. You can stand up, sit down or cavort like a dolphin with hiccups, but you won’t obtain respect. All waiters in any establishment occupy the position of power. Julius Caesar must have had his nose put out of joint every time he fancied a half flagon of house red while he was out shopping.
All right. I concede that old pomposity Caesar may never have nipped out for an onion—not even to gain a few minutes’ peace from Calpurnia’s nagging him about her dreams.
Nipius and Natalis gave me their What do you mean, you expect faster service? faces. They had been waiting at tables so long, it was their first line of defense.
“So!” I positioned my note tablet on one knee, stylus in hand, fully composed. “Which of you is which?”
Grudgingly, they told me. In daylight, I was looking at two semi-mature cheeses. Not exactly cave-ripened until their fine flavor knocked your head off, but they were theoretically old enough to have been here when Rufia was on the payroll. Both were easily twenty-five and probably more, so by my very rough timeline they would have been lads in their first employment. Nipius was taller, with joined-up eyebrows and pustules. Natalis was heavier with only half as many spots, the hero with the chest fur; its wiry black hairs were peeking now over the neck of his crumpled workwear. It would be the only tunic he had, clearly bought when he was slimmer. He was no advert for bar snacks.
They were in similar green tunics, like a uniform; Natalis had put ragged brown braid on the hem of his. At least, he’d persuaded some girlfriend to do it. Nipius expressed whatever personality he possessed via a piece of string around his neck, from which dangled a big pebble with a hole in it. He must have expensive tastes. Natalis had probably learned that a necklace would snag in his chest hair so he wore copper bracelets instead. He had had them so long he didn’t notice the verdigris.
I decided I wouldn’t trust either of these scallywags to serve up the drink I had asked for or to remember my complimentary pistachios. Nor would they would go back for the nuts, even on the third time of reminding. But I bet they would still demand a tip. They gave the impression they might be aggressive about it.
I could see that, in the way of waiters, they were wondering if there was any point trying to flirt. I gave them the frosty treatment. “I am doing this for Manlius Faustus, the contractor. He is a magistrate, a busy man, and he is my fiancé. I shall take down your story, then see what he wants to do about you.” There could be no harm suggesting they might find themselves in trouble. “You both work at the Hesperides when it is open? How long have you been here?”
They confirmed that they had started as lads. “So you knew the barmaid called Rufia?” They gave me the common verdict: everyone knew Rufia.
“What was she like?” They looked vague. I tried specific questions, which worked better. Rufia was the normal height and build for a waitress, with no special characteristics. “Black eyes? Brown eyes? Skinny or curvaceous? Did she nick olives out of the customers’ titbit bowls? Would she commandeer all the tips?” This got me nowhere further. Anyone would think that when ordering the dish of the day, I had asked if the chef could leave out the oregano. “Nipius and Natalis, either you are utterly unobservant, or you’re playing up. If she was a customer, I would expect you to say, ‘We see so many, we can’t remember’—but Olympus, you worked with this woman!”
Possibly they looked shamefaced.
“Right, you hopeless pair. Tell me what happened when she disappeared. Her duties must have fallen on you, so please don’t pretend you knew nothing about it.”
They stared. I glared. They decided they had better say something or I might become cantankerous. Wise boys. They were the kind who would make sure they never looked your way when you signaled for your bill; still, when someone finally grew angry, they deigned to notice. (You don’t believe bar staff accidentally fail to meet your eye?) “We just came in one morning and she was no longer here.”
“What did the landlord say?”
“Only ‘the bitch isn’t here’ and that we had to cover for her.”
“Was that how he always described her?”
“Nothing unusual.”
“Old Thales sounds unpleasant!”
“He was a normal landlord.” Every time Natalis spoke to me, he looked shiftier.
“Really?”
“Yes, he really thought himself special—though he wasn’t,” Nipius told me with some venom, fiddling with his pebble necklace.
“Expand, Nipius.”
“Thales was a bully and a bore. He traded on his reputation.”
“Which was?”
“Being a wonderful character.”
“I’ve met some of those!”
“He just hung around cadging drinks off the customers.”
“He had a horrible laugh!” This detail from Natalis, the one with the bracelets, came unexpectedly. “And what he laughed at was usually not funny.”
“How was he with his staff?” The waiters hung back from answering. “Grabby?” I guessed.
“There was a whole lot more than grabbing,” grumbled Nipius. I felt unsurprised.
“Only the women?”
“He preferred the women. He was never choosy.” Both folded their arms, a defensive position, as if they had been groped by Thales when young. Maybe even after they grew up. Maybe worse than groped.
“Did that include Rufia?”
They both guffawed. “Sounds like you know nothing about Rufia!”
“I would, if somebody told me!” I snapped back. I was growing tired of this. “Thales is supposed to have murdered her and buried her, right in that spot over there.” I gestured to where the ground had been disturbed; the pickaxe Sparsus had been using yesterday still leaned against the wall. The waiters looked away, as if they feared Rufia was still decaying in the garden. “You two have been treading on the poor woman on a daily basis. The least you can do now is help me find out what really happened to her, so we can give her ghost some rest.”
At that, they said that no ghost of Rufia’s would ever lie easy in Hades. She would be organizing the other spirits within an inch of their lives, or what had once been their lives. Nipius joked caustically that he was surprised there had been no reports of Underworld protests.
“Now I am starting to imagine her! She bossed you around, I take it?” Actually I was on her side. This pair of loafers were bad enough now; as aimless youngsters in their first job, they must have been dire. “Were you working here on her last night?” Nods. “Remember anything out of the ordinary?” Head shakes. “Was the bar full?”
“Lively.”
“All regulars?”
“Yes,” said Natalis.
And “No,” Nipius contradicted, before he noticed that Natalis was signaling him to hush. I waited. “We had a party of salesmen in.”
“Part of the time,” Natalis downplayed it. He picked at his acne, which could be his way of taking his mind off something difficult. I doubted he knew he was doing it.
“Out for a good time?” I asked dryly, knowing what dealers and distributors are like. The waiters groaned in confirmation. “Did they cause any trouble?” No. “Did Rufia serve them?”
“Yes, Rufia looked after them.”
“What does that mean?” I was sharp. “Come on, I know what happens. Did the party of salesmen stop at drinks, or did
any of them have extras?”
The salesmen all had sex. Of course they did. They were salesmen.
When I demanded more details, Natalis and Nipius admitted this had happened in the rooms upstairs. They said they were unable to supply positions, time taken, or whether there were interesting twosomes or threesomes. I ignored their sarcasm.
“Twosomes and threesomes are never as interesting as people hope. Too mechanical, they have to be. Positioning the bodies requires a commissariat.” Nipius and Natalis raised their eyebrows at my inside knowledge. “I read widely!” And I listen to other people’s conversations. “Lads, I take it this was a regular happening? How much did it cost?”
They feigned ignorance of sordid details.
“Come off it! Upstairs is where I found you two this morning. You know exactly what goes on there. Is it where you have always slept?”
No. Since the upper rooms were out of use for commercial purposes at the moment, the waiters had taken them over. After their late-night shifts, they slept in for most of the morning, except when people like me came along to disturb them.
What shifts? I asked how they earned their living while the Hesperides was being renovated. They had obtained temporary work at the Four Limpets. According to them, Liberalis knew all this, was perfectly happy, let them scrounge beds meanwhile, and would give them their old jobs back when he reopened.
“He seems a very kind landlord!”
It could be true. Well, he was new.
Bar staff do come and go; they are even sometimes lent out to rival establishments on special occasions. The only reason you get served by your usual waiter at Saturnalia is that he wants his holiday bonus from you so he makes sure he’s there, not two doors down. Count yourself lucky if he reciprocates with a complimentary wine flagon. Even if he does, don’t drink it, just use the stuff as skillet cleaner or, if you must, to color gravy.
“So who was it I heard upstairs with you today?” Nobody, they claimed. I gave them a level stare, though kept my response light. “You must think I’m deaf or daft, boys!”
We did not pursue the issue.
As with the victimarii yesterday afternoon, I felt these chancers were being cagey. These witnesses were male. I won’t say I see men as unreliable, but maybe I could extract more from a woman, especially one who had been on good terms with Rufia. Whoever was being concealed upstairs might provide what I wanted. Once the men were off the premises, I would rootle their floozies out.
In the meantime, Manlius Faustus came into the courtyard. He must have left Dromo somewhere, probably squatting on the curb outside, which was where slaves usually waited for their masters. Faustus was carrying the basket of bones himself. He set it down, and stood waiting as I closed my interview.
“Does the Four Limpets employ you at lunchtimes? Better hop along there now and start laying up tables.”
The notion of setting out nice napery and cutlery sets was as alien here as in most of Rome. Nipius and Natalis had no idea what I was telling them to do, but since they were keen to escape my questioning, they stared curiously at Faustus, then went off to work.
He remained where he was for a moment. We both wanted to be sure the waiters were out of earshot. “Pointless waste of time…” I tipped my head to one side, considering him. “Aedile, you have something to tell me, I hope. Cheer me up,” I said. “None of my witnesses has parted with any information.”
“Nor mine,” he answered gloomily.
XII
Tiberius came and joined me with the basket of bones, which he shoved under the bench. I turned and kissed his cheek, merely a greeting. He leaned sideways a little, rubbing his head against mine briefly.
“So, how was the forensic examination?”
“Up to scratch for the vigiles.” He sounded depressed. “The Third Cohort claim to be poor overworked slaves who don’t have the time or capacity for ancient murders where the chief suspect has died anyway. One of their half-baked investigators took a peek, but only when I acted up.”
I would have liked to have seen that: Tiberius Manlius Faustus, magistrate and man with a conscience, explaining to a cohort who had never met him before why the demands of public order meant they should do what he wanted. “And?” I asked sympathetically.
“They are human bones, it seems.”
“We knew that.”
“Quite.” He sounded annoyed.
I told him about the waiters. Faustus immediately wanted to know what kind of salesmen had been in the bar. I realized I had not thought to ask, so I turned tetchy on him. Who likes to be shown up?
I had initially supposed they were passing trade, visitors on a spree who would now be impossible to track down. Strangers. Irrelevant. Merely indicative of how the Garden of the Hesperides operated when the bar was humming. But they were here that particular night and Rufia “looked after them.” Curses. They mattered.
“Albia, my love, it’s hardly a disaster.” I had chosen such a reasonable husband. Damn. Why could he not be a self-satisfied swine I could kick? “Ask the waiters later.”
Not so easy if that pair of conspiratorial swine had put their heads together on the way to the Four Limpets and agreed to keep quiet. “Of course I will, darling.”
Listen to me! I was a wife already.
I suggested that the next time one of us was going over to the Aventine we could take the basket then toddle along to the Fourth Cohort, our local, and consult Morellus. He was a truculent bastard too, but we worked with him. Faustus had given money to his wife while Morellus was on prolonged sick leave after being attacked on duty. Morellus owed him. Even so, Faustus was now too glum to cheer up.
I took his hand. He squeezed mine back automatically. But we relaxed. Late-morning sun beamed down on us, unfiltered by foliage or awnings; in due course we would have to move into a shadier position but until then we let lethargy seep into us.
We sat on our bench in silence, thinking. No, I do not mean canoodling. We were practical inquirers, simply reflecting on what we had learned, or not learned, and considering where, therefore, we could look next.
*
The courtyard hardly seemed like a murder scene; it was peaceful. Out here, you could barely hear the teeming Vicus Longus. Most people who used to have lunch or a drink here probably failed to notice how muffled the street hubbub was; they would have their own concerns, the society of their friends, their irritation at the serving faults of Nipius and Natalis …
We were so still and silent you might suppose no one was here.
Scuffling noises on the staircase made us glance at one another. Someone was coming down. “All quiet down there now; the interfering bitch must have scarpered.”
Tiberius lifted an eyebrow, amused. I flashed back a smile. We stopped holding hands but otherwise stayed motionless.
Into the garden came a couple of no-hope, high-trussed bust-band, barefoot sluts, sneakily creeping downstairs.
“Hello, girls!” I greeted them cheerily. They wondered whether to run for it. “Come on down, my dearies, don’t be shy.”
They came down. From the start, these Hesperides honeypots were not in the least shy.
XIII
“I was wondering when you would deign to show your faces. Do come and join us. Now that you are ready to socialize, I have a few questions.”
“Oh, shitty shit!” observed the first one, immediately identifiable as a whore who cost less on a tavern bill than donkey fodder.
“You said the nosy cow had gone!” groused her disheveled friend. She was refined (she thought); she had a snake bracelet with red glass eyes. She wore it on her ankle.
“Don’t be like that,” answered Faustus in a mildly reproachful tone. “Flavia Albia only wants to know what you know about Rufia. Where is the harm—unless you were the killers?”
This produced indignant denials. Faustus made a soothing gesture, palms spread. I just gazed at the couple thoughtfully. The first one noticed my coolness. She believed she could bamb
oozle men, but grasped that I would be more difficult.
We established their names, Artemisia and Orchivia, and that they were not from Italy. They said their homeland was Dardania.
“What shitty place is that?” I asked, deciding on a Dardanian adjective in the hope we could communicate. She looked blank.
“Part of Moesia,” Faustus told me. Moesia is one of the eastern provinces, bordering on barbarian Dacia, where our Emperor was currently at war with a ferocious king who cut off the heads of Roman officials and merrily slaughtered our armies. This king, Decebalus, had made several attempts to expand his territory into Moesia. A troubled mix of Thracians, Dacians and Illyrians, which made a curious slurry at the best of times, Moesia clung on as a Roman province by bloodied fingertips. We sent tough legions and not very renowned governors, men who could be spared if they should happen to be decapitated.
Apparently Moesia’s chief export was bar girls. Artemisia was short, wide-faced, grubby and stroppy. She wore a slouched tunic that showed off her big bust and sturdy legs, and she was topped by a high-piled, tangled mop of black hair. No bathhouse coiffeuse had ever attempted to tame it. Orchivia was squinty, with even stragglier, browner hair. She had at some point asked a stylist to tackle it, but the results were hopeless.
The girls told me in their high-minded way that Rome was shitty, Roman men were shitty shits and Roman women shittier. I decided to wait before asking what they thought of Rufia.
They were not slaves. They had been lured here by professional traffickers of sex-trade workers, who promised them a better life than anything available to young women of poor background (that is, all of them) in Moesia. So, compared with slaves, they came of their own free will. Using a rough and ready business plan, before that they had learned their craft by servicing the legionaries who defended their home province from its annexation by whooping head-loppers. These noble men with money to lavish in the shanty towns that clustered outside their forts had spoken of Rome—a city, I knew, many soldiers in the legions had never actually seen in their lives. Nevertheless, they eulogized its monuments, palaces, theaters—and its golden opportunities. Artemisia and Orchivia had listened to the squaddies then joined a mule train to Italy.
Graveyard of the Hesperides Page 6
