“I’m tough.”
“You’re tired.”
“I am an informer. I can last out. Mind you, I loathe the thought of dealing with that dreary clown. Of all the lackadaisical, maddening public servants I have ever met, Titianus takes the oatcake.”
“Yes, I knew he was a favorite of yours.”
I understood why the visit had been suggested. Titianus was a vigiles inquiry agent we knew; his beat included the heartland of the Rabirius crime empire.
*
He was out. Thanks again, to the whole pantheon of delightful gods!
Rather than waste a visit to the station house, I went looking for a certain Juventus. He was a better bet anyway. I knew him and introduced him to Faustus. His name was supposedly secret, in order to preserve his anonymity during a special project monitoring the local gangsters.
According to Juventus, no one was supposed to know even he existed, let alone his project. I for one had been aware of it for years. Operation Bandit King was set up originally by my uncle, Lucius Petronius. I had a better idea of its aims and objectives than Juventus; I had heard Petro maundering on about it for most of my adult life. My uncle would not approve of this idiot being a liaison officer on his legendary scheme.
Juventus was sitting in a room by himself (because of his special mission), doing nothing. Nobody supervised him. No one had ever properly explained to him what his project should entail.
He began by saying he could not talk about his work. That would at least protect him from revealing his incompetence. But the project’s secrecy had made him lonely. He was desperate for somebody to talk to.
“Spill, Juventus!” I ordered sternly, watching him weaken.
Tiberius never liked putting anyone in trouble. “You can safely confer with me, I am Manlius Faustus, plebeian aedile. I heard about you during the Aviola case so I am officially aware of your mission—I’d say, it’s a tenet of Operation Bandit King that you should communicate with the aedilate. One day we shall have to take decisions, based on your specialized input.”
“Specialized” was not a concept Juventus grasped. He was leery of “tenet,” too, though he knew for sure “communication” and “decision” were words to give him the squits. It was an entrenched rule throughout all fourteen station houses that the vigiles devoted endless time and ingenuity to dodging both. From the day of his induction, Juventus had been taught by his hideous comrades to douse fires, beat up thieves, bully the public, hate his tribune, make rude gestures behind the back of any pompous ass in a toga, respect Vestal Virgins, chat up women (the Vestals do not count as women for these purposes, though pretty well anybody else does)—and always to avoid telling officials anything at all. Official decisions only led to extra work. The lads in the vigiles had better things to do, for instance loafing about, looking slovenly and going to bars.
Insofar as Juventus was specialized, he went to more bars than the rest, and he went on his own. He could call it work. The purpose was to learn what any criminal gangs were up to. They tended to operate out of eating houses and brothels so Juventus diligently went there to look around and have snacks on expenses. They saw him coming—easy, since he had a mournful expression not suited to such places and he always wore boots tied up with string. While he convinced himself he was properly on observation, he would be lucky if he avoided catching a nasty disease or becoming addicted to drink.
At least if anyone had seen the Rabirius enforcers in action, it was him. Naturally he told us otherwise. He had studied the training manual’s section concerning unhelpfulness.
We played on his need for human contact. When he feared we might leave him alone in his room again, he claimed that any events ten years ago were long before his time. Faustus pretended he felt such high regard for Juventus’ inside knowledge that any information from him about those far-off days was of high value. I was marrying a sycophant: “I know you are very thorough.” In reality, after just a few moments, he thought Juventus was shabby, a dangerously unskilled lightweight. The Rabirii would run rings around this dunderhead. The criminal-gangs initiative needed to be taken much more seriously. “I wondered if you had made it part of your special mission to research past history?”
For Juventus it seemed a startling change to be held in someone’s high regard. He made an effort to speculate. Much of it was bluff. Anyone could tell he had not looked into the history at all, but that did not deter him. He reckoned the Viminal bars were enduring more pressure nowadays than previously. Gallo, the right-hand man of Rabirius, had moved over from the Esquiline, extending his influence to the next hill along. He was as ambitious as he was cruel. Strictly speaking, our area of concern lay in the remit of the Third Cohort; they should be able to give more particulars.
We did not admit that Macer of the Third had been our first choice to ask—though we mentioned that he was our contact on the killings at the Hesperides.
Juventus claimed he had liaised with Macer, though I wanted to hear Macer’s opinion on that.
Juventus had no more to tell us. We left him, still on his own doing nothing. Tiberius tried to convince me Juventus might now carry out useful research.
“Tiberius Manlius, you are such a forgiving man!”
“I am marrying you, Flavia Albia. I have to be an optimist.”
*
Before we returned to the Viminal, we crossed the main road and went into the Gardens of Pallas. Our walk along the Embankment had made us yearn for more quiet time together. These large gardens, laid out by a millionaire freedman of the Emperor Claudius, would serve as a timeless memorial to a man Nero eventually executed. By the end, Nero had executed everyone he could, as much for owning fine estates as for perceived disloyalty. The richer they were, the more he could snaffle. Besides, Pallas had been the confidant, and according to gossip the lover, of Agrippina, Nero’s domineering mother. Yes, he killed her too. Such a nice family.
Pallas had been chief secretary to the Treasury. He was stonkingly rich. Although it was never suggested that he was guilty of impropriety, even without obvious embezzlement he amassed a fortune large enough to create a notable open-air space. That got him killed. But the fine Gardens of Pallas still memorialized a bureaucrat who would otherwise have been long forgotten.
I sauntered with Tiberius through the western end. This sneaky escape in the late afternoon helped free us of stress. We sat on a stone seat in the warm shade, smiling slightly, thinking that this was what life was for. Free time, time to do whatever you liked, or to do absolutely nothing, alone or in company you valued: of all the luxuries in the Empire, perhaps this was the greatest. To be fair to the Romans, they valued leisure accordingly.
I soaked up the afternoon light, emptying my mind.
It was the time of day when, in the busy built-up areas, the atmosphere was subtly changing. People ended their siestas. Baths prepared to open, so the scent of woodsmoke increased as furnaces were stoked. Military shifts changed; the vigiles would soon gather to go on patrol. Men who needed patrons made their way to the Forum, looking for someone from whom they could wheedle a dinner invitation; men of means either made themselves visible so parasites could ingratiate themselves, or hid from them. Women who could indulge in evening entertainment began to prepare, placing themselves in the hands of their hairdressers, manicurists, adorners with their vials and pots of face color. The sick were at a low ebb. Workers were weary. Animals barked, bellowed, brayed for food. Above us in the still cerulean sky, swifts squealed as they swooped at high speed after insects. Others careered above water features in the garden.
Tiberius had his head thrown back, eyes closed. He was not asleep, because his thumb was slowly caressing the back of my hand as he held it. Heat from the bench warmed us through our clothes as we sat.
There, in the peace of the Gardens of Pallas, my brain found its own space to work. Two strands of information came together for me.
“Tiberius…” He turned his head, listening. “Morellus believed on
e set of bones was from a woman who had given birth: ‘female pelvis, child-bearing age, looks as if she has carried some to term, poor unhappy cow…’ But other people have told me the missing barmaid was far from young and never had any children: ‘I always thought she was one of those women who just couldn’t conceive…’ If both are right”—Tiberius opened his eyes; he saw my point—“the skeleton we found at the Garden of the Hesperides cannot be Rufia.”
XLI
Tiberius reacted typically. He made no comment. His mouth tightened slightly. I observed that he nodded faintly. Twice.
Some people would have rattled on inanely.
“Now I shall have to go right back to the beginning to find out who the headless dead girl is.”
“You will,” replied the understated one.
At least I would never be subjected to interminable chat at breakfast about whether we should try buying better quality carrots from a new greengrocer who might prove to be disappointing, or stick with String-bean Lupius, the vegetable-seller we had always used … Tiberius would listen, think, nod, leave it up to me.
I could live that way. Of course, if the new carrots I had chosen turned out to be second-rate, he would say so. When he did give an opinion, he knew how to make his point.
“I’m so annoyed at myself that I missed this.”
“Not your fault, love. So did I.” The fair man spoke.
He left me to dwell on how to reassess the case.
*
Back in the Ten Traders, before he went in to see his workmen, I watched him conduct a thorough survey of the marble on bar counters. He gave most attention to the Hesperides, naturally. Its two countertops were tiled in the white and gray pieces that we now knew Gavius had supplied. He was coming to inspect them tomorrow, to see where corners had been smashed during the gangsters’ raid.
Indoors, the counters’ wall faces were plastered, then plainly painted with a dark red wash. Only the staff would see those. On the outside faces, to entice the public, Liberalis had spent more money, with some of the finish in polychrome stones that Tiberius identified for me as Cipollino, which had greenish veins, and Numidian, which was composed of striking yellow patches in purple bonding.
“Rare?”
“No, but you do have to look around. Once you find a source, the material is available—that’s assuming you can wait out the long shipping time.”
“And find the cash?”
“That too.”
“I am just wondering whether Liberalis has more money than we think.” I had never expected this inquiry to be about a legacy, but now anything seemed possible.
“A man with a recent inheritance and no family demanding luxuries from him should be able to fund Cipollino misshapes.”
“Right. Mind you”—I would not let Liberalis off the hook—“I wonder how much he did inherit?”
“Can you find out?”
“Traceable by the legacy tax.”
“If he paid it,” said Tiberius darkly, in full magistrate mode.
I chuckled. “And who doesn’t under-declare, Aedile? Isn’t the chance to cheat on inheritance tax one of the things that alleviates people’s grief after somebody dies?”
Tiberius pretended to look stern. He must have a good idea that my father was financing our wedding out of just such smart accounting.
Looking around the other bars, Tiberius found scraps of molded cornices and even old pilasters incorporated, though mostly the counters were put together from polished slab material. Among the routine white and gray of Luna and Pentelic marble, he picked out with obvious surprise Brescia, alabaster and even a small section of black Aswan granite. The Soldier’s Rest, a dingy hole that had mainly escaped our attention until now, even boasted three reclaimed panels of porphyry, set in a triple diamond pattern on its front face. Tiberius reckoned a specialist must have installed those unusual pieces. Since the Soldier’s Rest was so unwelcoming otherwise, the fancy front had not improved its customer base. Even the Brown Toad (which only had painted imitation marble) claimed a better footfall, though much of that consisted of clients with peculiar tastes coming to the transvestites; its attraction was untypical.
We stood at the Medusa, having a discussion about marble. Tiberius had a fund of knowledge so it went on for some time. We did not order food or drink; our lunch still satisfied. This kind of conversation must be a great rarity in the bars of the Ten Traders: a man talking to a woman about his long-standing passion, with not a hint of it leading to sex. She listening, not as a prelude to turning out his purse later, but because she liked to hear him talk.
Waiters became twitchy. “There’s no rules for you to check here, Aedile!”
Tiberius broke off what he was saying to me. The interruption irritated him. “How big a fine are you looking for? Do I see illegal tables, cluttering up the pavement? Not to mention your health hazard: clean up this sauce spill! It must have been festering for weeks, with people putting their elbows in it. Don’t serve anyone else until I see this worktop spotless … And what are you hiding from me in that hot dish you whipped behind the counter?”
“Chickpeas, honest.”
Tiberius gave him one of his long looks. “I hope that’s right.”
The dish smelled like pork to me, the main meat eaten in Rome, but the stern Manlius Faustus was not really looking for a battle about pulses-only. Well, not today.
I knew him. He would wander past tomorrow. If his order to clean up had been ignored, he would thump the Medusa with every edict in his five-scroll rule book. Selling meat instead of beans and chickpeas would be his first charge. With Manlius Faustus, if people made an effort, he was lenient. If they showed disrespect, he hammered them.
I took careful note of how he worked. It is vital to know how a man reacts to being thwarted before you marry him.
“No need to have a go at me,” the waiter grumbled, feebly applying a wet cloth to the dirty marble. “If you wanted a dish of hospitality olives, all you had to do was ask.” He paused an insultingly long time. “Sir.”
I leaned my back against the counter, pretending to take a great interest in a donkey delivering panniers of dry goods to the Soldier’s Rest. Out of the corner of my eye I watched my man have his official standoff.
Faustus folded his arms while he stared at the sorry cleaning efforts. Under this scrutiny, the waiter wilted, went in to fetch a knife, then finally scraped off the dried-on mess. He brushed it carefully onto his palm, then threw the bits in the street. “That’s better, don’t you see? Now swab down the rest with a dab of vinegar, and then you can officially go back to being in business.”
I smiled quietly to myself, making more mental notes. I would need to ensure we had a very clean kitchen slave. Iberians or Pannonians were supposed to be the most house-proud.
“Now I had better inspect your daily menu,” Faustus told the waiter.
So a board was produced for him, listing the Medusa’s offerings. In compliance with Domitian’s edict, these allegedly comprised Gallic Flageolet Bean Soup and Legionary Barley Broth, while even the salad claimed to feature a sprinkle of pumpkin and flax seeds. The counter pots that might have stored these seeds were in fact empty. I looked.
“This is the board you show us during an aediles’ inspection,” Manlius Faustus commented, letting it be known he was not easily fooled. “I wonder what you really dish up?”
The waiter looked innocent; he sensibly kept quiet.
“I shall be sending someone incognito to test you.”
“No problem, your honor. We are famous throughout the High Footpaths for our delectable pulse casseroles.”
“No need to overdo it!” Faustus chided.
From what I had heard whispered as I moved around the neighborhood, the Medusa was in fact famous for offering sex with animals.
A tiresome thought came into my mind: Was that common? Was the dog bone found at the Hesperides from some poor mutt who had been forced into perverted acts…? Settle down, Albia.
Garden burials happen. When dogs die, they are often interred at the homes where they have lived as affectionate pets. And what nicer place for a hound to spend eternity than the fabled Garden of the Hesperides? A snake to bark at and bored daughters of Zeus to pat you all day long. Perfect.
Stop being distracted, Flavia Albia. You do not want to feel obliged to investigate the suspicious deaths of dogs.
I stuck with normal questions: “Tell me, young man.” He was not that young. The period I wanted to investigate should be within his working lifetime. “Have there ever been rumors of any other women disappearing hereabouts, like Rufia at the Hesperides?”
He thought about it. “Not really.”
“No?”
“I mean not with everyone saying Old Thales bashed their head in.”
“Some other rumor then? I am particularly interested in the period around when the new Flavian Amphitheater was inaugurated. You must remember. There were games for days on end. It would have been a very productive time for bars.”
The waiter grinned with gappy teeth as he dredged up a memory for me. “A pot-washer at the Four Limpets ran away with a one-legged sailor once. She was never seen again. Most people thought losing her improved the neighborhood substantially.”
I sighed to myself. “That’s very helpful.” This is what informers say to disappointing witnesses. Just in case it makes them think of something more useful. It rarely happens.
I forced myself not to start speculating about the dead man, number four of the five, whose skeleton we found with a leg detached. He wasn’t this sailor. Our number four had two legs, even if one went its own way in the fracas and the limb was chucked in his grave with him. That was the clincher. Most one-legged sailors do not carry their amputated pins around with them.
Don’t tell me you knew one who did. He must have been a crackpot.
Graveyard of the Hesperides Page 20
