“Not quite like me,” I reproved him. “Nothing about Pandora bears comparison with me. She is a witch, that seems indisputable.” “Indisputable” is the informer’s way of saying I have absolutely no evidence, but the idea is exciting. “Me, I don’t dabble with the occult.” I reached over suddenly and picked up one of his citrons, which I examined thoughtfully. It was yellow and knobbly, with an oily feel and oddly attractive perfume. “This is a Persian apple, I believe? Very bitter. Keeps moths away from clothes. Acts as an antidote to poison.”
The fruiterer shot out a hand to grab it back. I let him. I could have cut off his finger with my fruit knife and poked the finger in his eye, but aggression is bad practice. I needed dirt to be dished.
Before he could think up another sneery put-off, I interrupted: “Do you import them in case one of Pandora’s potions affects someone the wrong way? When she accidentally half kills a customer who asked for a love elixir, do her girls rush across to buy a quick cure?”
“Don’t come the innocent,” he retorted nastily. I had lost this one. Let’s face it, the wizened piece of peel had never been a viable source. “I won’t gossip,” he boasted, while internally I sighed. Wise little voices in my brain told me to give up.
“You and she do the same thing really, don’t you?” I could be rude now, because I was about to listen to those voices. “You both call what you sell natural remedies—though one of hers has turned out to be very unnatural, a complete antidote to life. One poor young girl has not survived. You need to think about that. Have you ever been asked to rush a citron to the apartment of Volumnius Firmus in Apricot Street?”
“Get on your way!” snarled the fruiterer.
He didn’t look as if his silence had been bought with free unguent samples for his ingrowing beard stubble. It could be that he simply lived too close. Pandora was across the road; she could look out of the window and put the evil eye on him. He also had the usual loyalty to customers who bought from him. He did not want a quarrel on his doorstep.
Or there was another possibility: he had seen what initially I had missed, that two men of dangerous appearance had come out of Pandora’s building and were heading straight across the road toward me. They were intending to explain in their special way that I should, as the fruit man said, get on my way.
Go very quickly.
Not come back.
Be grateful my legs were not broken, so I could still walk down the road.
XXIII
One was wide and solid; he looked as if his hobby was demolishing outhouses, even if they still held their contents. I bet he did it just by leaning on them. One carried less poundage, more lumpily, but he was so tall he could look down ominously on people he wanted to intimidate. Applying frighteners was their trade. They might be equipped with tools for extra persuasion, though I could not see any.
The older one had a scar running from his eye to his chin, but it was a very ancient scar. Nowadays people did not try fighting him. The younger one was unmarked except by razor nicks. They both had shaved heads. Well-kept men. I could see they went to their barber on a daily basis; I bet they did not have to pay.
As they came over, they were probably discussing how quickly they could make me cooperate. Obvious experts, they trod across the road together at a comfortable pace, separating slightly as they reached me. Automatically one blocked my route up the street while the other barred me from going down. They did not bother to play good enforcer/bad enforcer; they were working as a pair, equally somber. Neither had a better nature that I could call upon—that was very evident. Although the elder took the lead, the younger had acquired enough confidence; he could have done this on his own. With two, they easily trapped me against the fruit stall.
I had put away my little knife. It was not up to this. Never rely on a weapon unless it is fit for the purpose.
“Run for the vigiles!” I instructed the fruiterer over my shoulder. He took no notice. “Do it!” He just rolled down his awning, clipped its baton under two hooks, nodded at the enforcers as if they were his brothers-in-law, then sauntered off for a drink until this was over.
I had been menaced by rougher toughs, but sheer politeness made these scary. They did not yell or push. With these, when defaulters pretended they were innocent foreigners here on holiday from Illyricum who knew nothing about anything, the two men would assume patient looks of disbelief, before steadily persuading their victim to produce the rent, protection money or interest due. These enforcers specialized in looking sad at the world’s faults, while explaining that they had orders that could not be abandoned for feeble pleas, all of which they had heard before. Even if one man was persuaded to go back to whoever had sent them and check facts, the other would stay to supervise the debtor. There would be no small talk while they waited.
“I think there has been some mistake.” I daftly tried a delaying tactic.
“No mistake.” The speaker was bored with they all say that so did not bother to mention this tiresome hazard of their work. “I am Anthos, this is my colleague, Neo. We are sent to tell you to desist.”
“From eating an apple at a stall in the street?”
“Poking your nose into people’s affairs. You have upset the wrong people. Whatever you are trying to do, better stop.”
I gazed at them. “Well, thank you for that.”
“You don’t want to suffer any personal damage!” insisted Neo, the impatient one.
“You give interesting advice,” I told him. “But that tells me somebody is rattled. I have strayed too close … I assume Pandora sent you after me?”
“Never mind who sent us,” declared Anthos.
“Bad practice,” I answered. “If you want me to back off, you need to say back off from what and whom … Let me help out, fellows: Pandora is annoyed at me suggesting she supplied an elixir that killed a young girl recently?”
“You don’t want to annoy Pandora,” Anthos agreed.
“I don’t want to annoy anyone.” I played helpful as falsely as he had done. “I can tell that Pandora is very important around here. Who is she? What are her origins? What’s her history?”
“You ask a lot of questions!” Neo accused me. He spoke as if telling his wife he had seen her in flagrante with the pug-nosed butcher’s boy: a mix of self-righteous blather with a promise of punches to follow.
“Pandora heard some young woman has been hired to meddle,” growled Anthos.
“I guess that’s me—fame!”
“You look like a decent girl. If you want a quiet life, you won’t do this.”
“Sorry, it’s my job. Nobody innocent will object. I’ve started, I can’t stop.”
“Not going to happen!” As Neo spoke, he was unbuckling his belt. Anthos began doing the same. Now I knew why they carried no visible weaponry. You cannot be arrested for cinching in your tunic.
The belts were wide, heavy leather, studded. Both men grasped the buckles and wrapped the ends around their fists. A father who chastised a child like this would probably kill it. They would not kill me, but I might wish they had.
I had my own ideas. I would have jumped over the stall but the awning blocked me. I would have crawled underneath but I could feel it was solid. So I grabbed hold of that awning, lifted the bottom baton off its hooks, then pulled forward so hard the whole stall fell over.
If the awning had been fragile, it would simply have split. Luckily it was also leather, a whole sheet of heavy skin.
I let go and jumped out of the way as the stall tumbled. The men were too surprised. The contraption fell right over them; they stayed upright but were trapped. They floundered in awning folds and blundered against the fallen counter, while baskets upended themselves off the shelves. Fruit tumbled everywhere. Apples underfoot twisted their ankles. Pears and damsons squashed and made the roadway slippery.
I didn’t wait to see if the usual urchins scampered up to snatch free produce. I turned and ran.
Not looking, I banged up again
st someone. Hitting his chest knocked all my breath out. I made contact so hard that even the man gasped.
He must have been twenty. He had fitness, good looks, a strong embrace and an outrageous aura of manly pomades. I ended up in his arms. I had been in worse places.
XXIV
“Steady on, Anthos!”
Damn. He was one of them and I was now his prisoner.
Nevertheless, the good-looking young man was dusting me down kindly. He even tried picking up loose fruit and putting it back in baskets, though he soon lost interest in that. I could have taken to my heels, but I felt safe now. Curiosity about this charmer held me there.
The enforcers reacted by giving up. Shaking themselves free of the stall, they both climbed out and ambled off without a word. I felt impressed. This youth could hand out orders. How did they know him? They worked as debt collectors, presumably for loan sharks as well as witches. He was well-dressed, smartly barbered and spoke as if he had been taught oratorical elocution by somebody expensive. It all seemed peculiar.
The Adonis and I lifted the battered stall together, then stood it up as best we could. I struggled, but he was very strong. He must train with weights, and not only to look pretty. He knew how to use his power.
“It’s rather lopsided.” I tried not to bat my eyelids. He must get a lot of that and I don’t like to sink so low. “I shouldn’t have done it but I was so scared…” I was making conversation as I struggled to persuade the awning to work again. No use: it had torn off its nails at the top. “I’d apologize to the tradesman, but he scarpered when your friends arrived. Still, I can thank you for rescuing me. What’s your name?”
“I am called Vincentius.” The modest way he spoke was endearing.
“Haven’t I heard of you?” Unless it was a popular name on the Quirinal, I had. He was one of that group of privileged youngsters, Clodia Volumnia’s friends.
Vincentius grinned bashfully. “I may have been mentioned just now when you visited my grandmother.”
That was unexpected. He must be Pandora’s boy. I immediately gave up any denigrating thoughts that he was just after his granny’s fortune. He could never be a gold-digger. (Oh, how many daft clients had I heard saying that?)
Of course, it explained two puzzles. One was how my sweetly scented savior was so richly slathered with unguents. The second was how Pandora had come to know that I was not a Druid but an informer: Vincentius had heard it from the other young people. He rushed to warn the grandmother to whom he was so devoted; she sent her ghouls straight after me.
I wondered if she had told him what she was doing? Presumably he had wolfed down the vole broth she had made for him; when he sauntered out and found me scrapping with her men, he had countermanded her. That was another fact then: Pandora’s boy was brave.
Just how close were they? Was it Pandora who financed the expensive education that Vincentius had obviously received? Her own rough origins still showed; she made no attempt to hide a very common background. Did she want Vincentius to be taught politer manners, so she bought lessons for him with her face-cream proceeds?
Did his friends, the children of respectable middle-rank traders, know? Did they realize how he was funded? Were they attracted to him because of his background or in spite of it? How did they meet him—at the gym, where all types mingle as they sweat? Did their parents then accept them being friends with a cosmetics heir—one whose relative, though rich, was said to use supernatural practices?
I squared up to him. “My name is Flavia Albia. I take it you know I am assisting the Volumnii to find out how Clodia came to die? Your grandmother won’t thank me, but now we have met, I want to ask you a few questions.”
Vincentius applied his sweet expression, then said he had better not assist me in case he got into trouble with his gran. He looked surprised when it failed to work. I said that that was a new one in my line of work—but if everything was above board, it would be better for everyone if he talked to me. “On the other hand, Vincentius, if there is a problem, I will find the truth even without your help, believe me!”
During this exchange, I continued picking up the scattered fruit. I took my time, matching up varieties and placing them in rescued baskets, which I rearranged with care. Vincentius began helping me. He seemed unusually good-natured. I hoped his assistance with the fruit meant he would assist with evidence too, or at least hear me out.
“So, you are Pandora’s grandson?” I started gently enough. “I heard at her house that you are rather upset about something. Tell me about that?”
“I was saddened by the death of Clodia Volumnia.” I looked at him sharply, so he added, “She was so young.”
“Did you have special feelings for her?”
“I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend.”
“Perhaps not, though I hear you are something of a rolling stone. Haven’t you recently parted from Redempta then joined up with somebody else? Anicia?”
“Redempta and I had a long talk because things were not working. We agreed we should both move on. We shall remain friends. I am looking around again, but I don’t know—”
“You need to get your ideas straight. There is talk of Anicia and Numerius pairing off,” I informed him crisply. Vincentius did his special innocent blinking, as if this might be news to him. “Now, tell me about your grandmother. I hear you visit her regularly?”
“We are a close-knit family.”
Did Vincentius lend this statement special meaning? Those who speak of tight family bonds often come from bad circumstances. Oedipus would have told me that his family was close-knit.
I think birth-loyalty is overrated. Serial killers tend to place a high value on blood ties. Even the ones who kill their mothers do so because Mummy was a blowsy piece who slept with unworthy men. Daddy, for instance.
“You don’t live with your grandma?”
“I live with my mother.”
“Is she Pandora’s daughter?”
“Daughter-in-law.”
“What happened to your father, may I ask?”
I was expecting death or divorce, but the son said only, “He has to travel.”
There could have been several reasons. Top of my list was serial adultery, with the man finally kicked out by the bitter wife. I asked Vincentius, in a mild tone, “Do you mean he ran off with a striptease girl, or is it more political? Has he upset the Emperor?”
Vincentius blinked. He had large brown eyes that must have made him popular with young women. His grandmother must have doted on him too. As grandsons go, this one was very lovely. Perhaps Pandora now favored him over her wastrel son, the traveling man—assuming the father had indeed left Rome because he was no use. Pandora was a strong woman, so I doubted Vincentius always got his way, but even if she had other grandchildren, my impression already was that this one had a special place.
“Politics?” he queried. “Oh, no, not like the Cestii. My father is managing our family businesses abroad; he is not a philosopher in exile.”
It was my turn to be puzzled. “Has he been away long?”
“It is what he does.”
“What kind of businesses?”
“Investments.”
Since Vincentius seemed reluctant to explain (perhaps the sad child missed his absentee papa), I swerved round it. “You mentioned the Cestii. They seem barmy but harmless. Yes, they are Stoics but you don’t get sent to an island just for drinking nettle beer. You should be, but even Domitian ignores that crime.”
Vincentius laughed with me, then grew confidential. Except over his father, he was an easy witness to question. “I believe the beer-quaffing patriarch wrote something unwise.”
Speaking demurely, Vincentius sounded as if he knew exactly what the dangerous piece in question was. I was surprised. None of his friends had struck me as likely readers. This young man seemed at ease mentioning literature—though cautious.
“Have you read it?” I asked, watching him.
“I will never say s
o.” We were still standing in the street; Vincentius looked up and down it pointedly, as if checking for observers. Nobody else was about.
I smiled, as I kept sorting the fruiterer’s produce. “I met the man. It didn’t make me want to look at his work! You seem more cultured than I expected. I’d say it was rare for a young man to read anything written by a friend’s father, unless perhaps he is hoping it’s erotic or scandalous?”
Vincentius pretended to give in. “All right, but don’t expect me to admit this in public: I go to lectures. My people want me to have a law practice. The professor who teaches me suggested we read the Cestius piece. It was in order to consider how the contents might be considered offensive.”
“I did find Numerius’ father pretty off,” I said candidly. “Not my type! So what is his dangerous offering?”
“He wrote a biography of the famous Stoic agitator, Helvidius Priscus. Have you heard of him?”
I nodded. Priscus, a long-time thorn in the flesh, had been executed by Vespasian. “I take it that Cestius is a drooling supporter?”
“Foolishly admiring,” Vincentius confirmed. “Helvidius Priscus and his circle had a long history of antagonism to Emperors—”
“They opposed even Vespasian, who was hardly an evil dictator,” I joined in. “Do you know the famous confrontation between Priscus and Vespasian: ‘I have to ask your opinion.’ ‘And I have to say what I think right.’ ‘But if you do, I shall put you to death.’ ‘When did I claim to be immortal? You will do your part, and I will do mine: it is your part to kill; it is mine to die, but not in fear.’” Vincentius had listened noncommittally; I could not tell if he was familiar with the exchange between the tough old Emperor and his intractable critic, nor what he thought about me being able to quote it. I had attended public lectures on philosophy myself, with my mother, though Helena had stopped going because she thought the subject matter too dangerous. “To publish anything about the Stoic circle will be viewed by Domitian as treason. Cestius must have been mad. Was it his own bright idea, Vincentius?”
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