The Ides of April: Falco: The New Generation (Falco: The Next Generation)

by Davis, Lindsey

  Tiberius was standing a few strides away. His feet were planted apart, his arms folded. When he knew I had seen him, he jerked his head, apparently reproving me for taking risks. In a moment, he was gone.

  Of course he would claim he was just seeing I reached home safely. I could not judge his true motives, and felt outraged. I was more unnerved to be followed home by him, than if a stranger had secretly tracked me. I knew that women are most often attacked by men with whom they have a previous acquaintance.

  Tiberius must have seen me with the fox. I really hated anyone from the aediles’ office knowing I had that interest. The Cerialia, with its abominable ritual, was close now. And I was planning to do something to prevent them setting

  fire to any foxes.

  27

  I had breakfast with my parents. If they were surprised by my early arrival, they hid it well, apart from the customary ‘Darling, you are always welcome – but don’t eat all the olive paste!’ After that, ‘Confess then – what are you up to?’ soon surfaced. I didn’t keep them in suspense. Nor did I pretend it was sheer love that brought me to share their white bread rolls, cold meats and refreshing cucumber dip. I admitted at once that I wanted the background on the big Viator auction.

  By the time I left, equipped with facts, Pa’s assessment and the dead man’s home address, I knew that he had sold furs from all over the Empire, which no doubt explained why he was acquainted with the plebeian aedile’s uncle, a man who hired out warehouses. Importers bring home their gains, then Rome has the cleverest negotiators in the world; these slick leeches never sell to the first comer, but while they haggle their way to the most extortionate deal, the produce has to be put somewhere and kept in good condition.

  I had learned in a brief seminar that even in a country as hot as Italy, there was money in fur. Not only were live animals prized in the arena, the rarity and luxury of skins from big cats, bears, wolves, ermine and even rabbits easily found a market. Julius Viator’s grandfather had personally travelled to many provinces; so, too, the next generation as they became more and more specialised and prosperous. More recently, Viator had been able to lead a life of leisure in Rome and instead used troops of agents who went out for him. He could spend all day in a gymnasium because he owned many well-packed stores of pelts. He was a stay-in-Rome young man who, had he lived, was about to start his own family.

  The house sale on his death had made my auctioneering relatives extremely happy. The profits from fur had paid for an enormous collection of exotic furniture, ancient bronzes, gorgeous silverware – plus a remarkable amount of what was, in my father’s expert opinion, horrible reproduction Greek statuary. Pa was confidently intending to sell even the fakes. People will buy anything, and a hint of fraud just adds to the excitement for some punters. They hope the auctioneer is wrong and they can pull a fast one on him.

  Those who think that don’t know the Didius family.

  It seemed odd to visit a house in the course of my enquiries and find it full of my own people. Julius Viator had lived in a sprawling villa, over the Tiber and in one of the better parts of the Janiculan – I mean, not the teeming favela we call the Transtiberina, which is full of dubious immigrants and criminals huddling out of sight of the authorities, but further along, up on the hillside slopes, with elegant views over to the city. My family has a villa, even better placed than Viator’s. It’s a quiet area. Imperial freedmen retire there to live off their loot. Successful gangsters and fraudsters have big mansions, heavily shuttered and guarded by mean-looking dogs. Retired senators and impresarios lurk, looking over at the city and mourning their lost glory.

  Viator’s house had almost been stripped. Our porters came and went in their respectful fashion, carrying out the final pieces to be sold in the Porticus of Pompey, always a favourite auction spot with my late grandfather, Didius Favonius. Supervising was Gornia, who must be ninety now. He had been forced to retire at one point, but when the Saepta Julia burned down a decade ago and a sudden death reduced the family, Gornia wangled himself back in as cover and had never left again. I greeted him, as he tottered about on spindly legs like a stick-insect. He introduced me to one of Viator’s staff. Gornia was pretending to let him write notes, though our chief porter always carried lists and costs in his head.

  The fellow Gornia brought to meet me, Porphyrius, was a junior secretary, now redundant. He was a slave, not old enough to be granted his freedom, even if Viator’s will had provided for it. He must be facing sale to strangers in the near future, though tried to hide his natural anxiety about what fate might await him. Quietly saddened by the loss of his master, he spoke to me freely and was, I thought, trustworthy.

  I learned that there were no close family members, which normally guarantees that staff like Porphyrius will be reassigned to them. In Viator’s case, after brief provision for his wife, his legacies were all left to distant acquaintances, none of whom wanted any of the household slaves. They were also breaking up the family firm and selling its stock, so there would be more disruption for other workers too. An established home and a thriving business, both created over three generations, would become extinct.

  Julius Viator had been married, but recently. The widow had borne him no children and was thought not to be pregnant. This had slashed the amount left to provide for her. She would take away little more than her dowry. Another result of this young man’s death, therefore, was that a woman who had never done anyone any harm had to return to her father’s house, where she would probably be regarded as a failure for coming home with nothing to show from such a very short marriage.

  Porphyrius said Julius Viator, though not intellectual, had been a good master. He was rich enough to be an idle playboy if he wanted, but he did take an interest in the business. He had had many social connections, if few close friends. Everyone liked him. He seemed to have made no enemies. On the day he died, he came in from the gymnasium as normal, went to his room to change his clothes, and was soon afterwards found lifeless on his bed. He had not complained of feeling unwell and did not call out for help. His sudden death, at twenty-three, was regarded as a tragedy.

  ‘What do you think caused that death, Porphyrius?’

  ‘Nobody knows.’

  ‘Did a doctor examine him?’

  ‘He had not been ill.’

  ‘Was no doctor called to examine the corpse?’

  ‘There was no reason.’

  ‘Did the funeral director say anything about his abrupt death at so young an age?’

  ‘Only that there is a lot of it about.’

  As I left the house, Tiberius turned up. It really riled him that I beat him to it. Furious, he ordered me not to interfere when he had made it plain he intended to take action. Clearly he was unused to having a rival on a case.

  ‘Tough. Here’s the situation: it fits the pattern. He had been in perfect health. There was no time to call a doctor and the funeral director only spouted the usual pointless platitudes. There is a young widow. I have been told she is devastated. You know perfectly well, Tiberius, I should do that interview.’

  ‘I can handle young widows!’

  ‘Oh I don’t think so.’

  We compromised that we would go together. He would wait outside the room, while I went in to put our questions gently to the heartbroken girl.

  She wept a lot. She was only nineteen, completely flummoxed to find herself with such a close bereavement. I interviewed her at her father’s house, of course. From running her own large establishment, she had to accept becoming just the little girl at home again, with no real position. Her parents were elderly and though probably kind, they were not up to helping her readjust. She could barely cope with losing her perfectly decent husband, let alone being flung back on the marriage market when she had thought her life’s pattern was fixed.

  She was not dim. I told her straight that we feared foul play. She became hysterical at my news, but eventually rallied and thought about it more calmly. I could tell that
once she was alone, she would continue to brood. It was another aspect of the tragedy. This simple young woman would never escape the horror of her husband’s murder.

  From the start, I assumed a third party was responsible. I entertained no thought that the wife herself might have killed Viator (normally this is the first issue to investigate). She would have had no idea how to do it. Besides, there seemed genuine affection there – or at least, regret to have lost him. She gained nothing from his death. In fact, she had lost a lot of freedom as the wife of a very rich man – especially (being cynical) one who was out at the gym all day.

  I could not deduce how much she had loved her husband, but I saw she felt responsibility towards him. In marriage, what more can anybody ask? She would mourn Julius Viator. She would pick over her memory of their life together, rue they had not taken better advantage of the time they had – even, if she loved him enough, wish she had a child by him. He was a man whose only conversation was athletics, described as a dire dinner companion, yet ample tears would be shed in his memory.

  Because the widow could think of no one who had hated Viator, she was now also anxious that the apparently motiveless assailant might home in on her. The killer had not only destroyed her home and shattered her life, he had terrified her.

  28

  Viator’s widow was only a year younger than I was when I lost Farm Boy. Her bereavement echoed mine. Normally I see that coming, but this caught me out. Unexpectedly emotional, I strode from the room where I left the girl weeping.

  Tiberius was waiting outside. I just summarised the facts, as tersely as possible. ‘She knows nothing new. She never even saw him when he came home. She heard the wailing begin, then they took her to his corpse. She had never seen anyone dead before. All she remembers is her terror. The event fits the pattern. That’s all.’

  A new wave of feeling overcame me. ‘Her life is wrecked. She is little more than a child. I was that age when I lost my husband just as suddenly. I know what she still has to go through … Don’t speak to me. Don’t follow me. I’ve had enough of you!’

  I cannot say what showed in my face, but the way I stormed off must have made a big impression. Tiberius let me go without a word of protest. After I decamped, he must have returned to the aediles’ office and ordered Andronicus straight out to find me.

  I was not in the Eagle Building, nor at the Stargazer. Rodan must have suggested where else I might be lurking. I cannot imagine it was Tiberius who told Andronicus, although after the other night the runner did know I had another local haunt: I was sitting hunched in the Armilustrium, on one of the benches, with my stole wrapped tightly round me.

  I had not cried, but my mood was so black it startled even me. I knew I should have been more controlled at the widow’s house. That made it worse.

  ‘Do I dare?’ Andronicus spoke softly, as he joined me. I managed not to be annoyed that he asked permission to join me, and did it so tentatively. First he perched on the bench end; then he shuffled closer and simply kept me company. He seemed to understand it was what I needed. Sometimes you run away by yourself purely so someone who cares will come to find you. Half the time nobody does. That’s the tragedy of life.

  When, finally, I looked directly at him, those brown eyes were so sympathetic, I nearly did break down and weep. He pulled a wry face at me. He knew I could be a fury, but I could see it did not frighten him.

  I wondered if he knew it was me who stabbed Tiberius through the hand.

  After a time I murmured, ‘I appreciate your kindness. Will you be in trouble? Can they spare you from your work?’

  ‘I’m under orders. I dread to imagine what you must have done to Tiberius. He thinks he’s tough, but he looked properly scared.’

  ‘I was unprofessional. I let myself be upset, instead of staying neutral.’

  ‘Want to tell me?’

  ‘Thanks, but no. My stupidity is not your problem.’

  ‘You think?’ Andronicus gave me his wide-eyed, rueful look. ‘I have been grabbed by the scruff of the neck, marched out of the archive room, informed that Flavia Albia sees me in a friendly light and may not eat my liver and lights therefore – and so despatched to comfort you. Had I not moved like a startled flea, I would have his boot print on my tunic arse.’

  I laughed slightly, thinking I would have liked to witness that little scene.

  ‘You seem to be spending a lot of time with him,’ muttered my friend, with that edge of complaint he sometimes showed.

  ‘Jealous?’

  ‘Absolutely!’

  I shuddered. ‘Horrible thought. Don’t be bird-brained. It was work. He thought he could use my female skills. He will not repeat the experiment.’

  ‘He means to plunder your expertise, then steal the kudos,’ Andronicus warned me. ‘Everything with him is about how he appears.’

  ‘I see that.’

  ‘So did you help him?’

  ‘Not enough to be of any value.’

  I sighed and relaxed, glad to be with someone I trusted. This was why I had been so badly affected earlier. The lonely young widow reminded me how I used to share my concerns with Farm Boy. Talking my cases through with Lentullus had clarified puzzles for me. He loved listening; I was like a storyteller for him. I had had nothing like that since, which was why I identified so closely with the isolation Viator’s widow felt.

  Still, I had someone to confide in now. ‘It’s hopeless, Andronicus. We are trying to solve a series of seemingly unrelated deaths, where even the stricken victims themselves often don’t realise anything bad has happened.’ I paused. ‘Except perhaps one old woman. Celendina. She said my name; she may have been telling her son to involve me.’

  ‘Did she say anything else?’ asked Andronicus, drawing out the story to help me re-evaluate the evidence. I loved the thoughtful way he was listening.

  ‘I don’t think so. Even if she did, the son, the only person she spoke to, is unable to remember.’

  ‘What’s happened to him?’

  ‘Locked up by the vigiles?’

  ‘They think he killed her?’

  ‘Possibly. But he could not have killed the others. He never went out of the house.’

  ‘And otherwise you have no clue about who is doing this?’

  I turned my head and gazed at him again. ‘No.’

  ‘You would never tell me anyway!’ Andronicus grinned.

  ‘That’s right,’ I agreed, smiling back because I was glad to acknowledge openly that sometimes I had to be discreet. Andronicus shrugged his shoulders. If there were any secrets between us, we were easy with that.

  Instead, he begged me to say why I was so upset. Since it was personal, no case-constraints applied, so I chose to tell. I explained about the rush of memory I had when the soft, unformed features of Viator’s bereaved wife and the way she crumpled into tears made me remember my own youth. She had gone past the first stage, refusal to accept what happened, moving on into bewilderment. I knew all that. I knew her panic, finding herself so unexpectedly alone.

  ‘When it happened to me, I had tripped home innocently from buying garlands for a family event, to find people in the apartment waiting for me. They said there had been a street accident. Lentullus was dead. The next months were terrible – the complete isolation, however much other people sympathise. The fear of being unable to cope with life by yourself, after you have grown used to sharing everything.’ My good friend nodded, full of kindliness. It made me wonder what griefs, if any, he had known himself. Bereaved slaves are often not allowed to show their sorrow, but must continue their duties impassively. ‘Those simple things he would have done, Andronicus – because even a rich fellow must surely sometimes find his wife’s lost earring for her, or take a decision about calling in the carpenter, or settle on cold meats for lunch when she can’t choose. Julius Viator spent all day at the gym, but he must have been home for meals and bedtime, even if all he did was grunt when she spoke to him.’

  When I finally stoppe
d, shaken by so much revelation on a subject I never talked about, Andronicus asked in a subdued tone, ‘You think they had a good relationship?’

  ‘I know they did. It was obvious when I talked to her.’

  ‘She is young. She will marry again.’

  ‘She cannot imagine that now.’

  Andronicus smiled. ‘And of course you did not remarry.’

  ‘I was a breakaway character. Viator’s widow comes from a very conventional family. She is conventional herself. Her parents will come up with some new husband, suggesting that will be a consolation. I suppose she will go along with it. She is soft dough. They will push her into it before she is ready, long before she has stabilised. She will believe that is the right thing for her to do.’

  ‘You seem more upset about this young woman who at least is still alive than about the dead man,’ Andronicus pointed out.

  ‘He is gone beyond the living world. He feels no pain.’

  ‘How did you know the widow is young?’ I asked abruptly, though in fact it stood to reason.

  ‘She came to our house when Viator had dinner with Tullius.’

  ‘Did she?’ Tiberius had not mentioned that detail. I supposed he called himself a man’s man. All he said was that he met Julius Viator. An accompanying wife was beneath his notice. ‘You saw her?’

  ‘Pretty thing, not exactly stupid, but out of her depth when the men got talking. I discovered her moping in the peristyle, all dressed up in her rich clothes and fancy jewellery, dabbling her fingers in a fountain, bored to tears. You know – the men discuss contracts interminably, she’s eyed up the pretty serving boys for long enough, she makes an excuse to use the facilities, then lingers in the garden for as long as she can.’

  ‘Oh I know that scene!’ I, too, had enjoyed a breath of cold night air in a scented colonnade, on occasions when I wanted to go home, but had to stay at some grim dinner for what passes as politeness. I would amuse myself thinking up hideous ways to cause other guests’ downfall – though in my assessment, Viator’s wife lacked that much imagination.