Tiberius Manlius, mildest of men, glanced over from his meeting with the vigiles as if he could sense he was being maligned.
* * *
The first person who banged our bronze knocker after Rodan arrived had to be admitted by me. The porter had gone to the toilet. He was taking hours. This would probably be the normal state of affairs. Still, no other home in Lesser Laurel Street had an ex-gladiator to vet callers. We might be protected by sheer notoriety.
I knew the visitor: Glaphyra. I welcomed her. Life had taken an unexpected turn: my mother still wanted me to have a career. She had sent us a woman who, if she took to us, would be the boys’ nurse. When Helena Justina lived in her father’s house as a girl, Glaphyra had looked after her two younger brothers. She was reckoned to be good with boys, so when my parents had Postumus dumped on them by the circus lady who birthed him (do not ask: the Didii were extraordinary), Glaphyra was gifted by my grandmother to help look after him; once he was seven, which he decreed was legally past childhood, my brother refused to have a nurse. She was passed back to Helena’s sister-in-law, but Claudia had six children, which even Glaphyra found too much.
“I agreed with your mother I’ll give you a try, Flavia Albia. At least we know each other.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, subdued even though we both knew where the real power lay. She had all the options; I was desperate.
“Are they nice little boys?”
“Charming.”
“Conniving terrors?” Helena must have briefed her. “I am told they have just lost their mother, one wets the bed, one is a kicker, and they are both unhappy souls.”
“That’s about it. Their uncle and I tell ourselves nothing is their fault. We are trying to see them as having great potential for development.”
Glaphyra sniffed. She had encountered liberal ideas at my parents’ and remained unimpressed. I, their eldest, only proved to her that tosh didn’t work.
This darling woman had reached late middle age, a broad-beamed, impassive figure. Nowadays she was a little short-sighted, somewhat deaf, her movements creaky. But she was good at timing rewards and could mend toys, or find someone else who knew how. Since Gaius and Lucius were clever at breaking things, they ought to find her comforting.
I liked her. I couldn’t say that about everyone. My mother liked her too, though Glaphyra would scoff, “That Helena! What a little empress! I was glad I had Aulus and Quintus. I always left Naïssa to take care of your pesky mother.” That was intriguing to hear.
While this treasure and Gratus were assessing one another, like dogs in a park, Glaphyra noticed the children kicking up a racket. Her first move was to have the Morelli taken home by Paris, then Gaius and Lucius were simply picked up, placed on benches, given wooden skewers she obtained from Fornix, then started on knitting their own liberty caps. Suza, my young maid, had dreamily wafted downstairs after her customary lie-in. “What time is this? Now hold your arms out and help me wind up the wool, if you please.”
“I have to dress Flavia Albia.”
“Albia can dress herself. She will have to, if this is the time of day you intend appearing. You need to buck yourself up, dearie, and start meeting some standards!”
Luckily Suza was eager to better herself. She eyed Glaphyra narrowly; this wide-based dame seemed an unlikely source of beauty tips but Suza was always on the lookout for a new source. I let myself be steered into a side room; there, Suza said nothing about the nurse, but bedecked me while nagging me that, in her mind at least, I had promised to send her for hairdressing lessons. I reminded her she was still on trial, adding remarks about the cost of training. Anyone could do plaits. When Suza left me at last, to take away her primping equipment, I sat quiet, while domestic life lapped around in the rest of my home.
I was very much aware that as our household increased, strife might be eased but our expenses would rocket. Two more mouths to feed today. The option to wait for a caseload after the holiday was fast diminishing. I needed work right now.
I was in the small salon where I interviewed clients, when I had any. Suddenly a loud voice startled me, redolent with cliché: “Don’t look so glum. It will never happen!”
“Rufo! Juno, your repartee is so ancient, lichen is growing on it.”
Rufinianus saw himself as a mischievous wag. He thought everybody loved him for it. So, he liked to pop up unexpectedly behind people, eager to delight them. This never goes down well with me.
“I can put a little job your way, if you’re interested, Albia.”
“What?” I ought to have asked him, “Did Morellus and my husband suggest this, to keep me occupied?” Instead, I was too annoyed because he pulled up the big chair provided for my clients. He settled himself among its cushions. The red tunic he had retrieved from some horrible chest when recalled from retirement looked as if it had not been laundered before it was put away. Or had never been laundered at all.
“There’s this fellow who goes to my baths, whose his wife claims he is going mad.”
Still glaring about the chair, I added a groan. “Oh, not the old behaving-very-strangely-these-days problem?”
That problem went right up to the Emperor. I almost hoped it was Domitian, which would certainly be thrilling and possibly lucrative. Why hadn’t I thought of offering to help the Empress to dump him and go back to her father? Answer: because her father had taken a hint from Nero years before and fallen on his sword. Second answer: everyone said Domitia Longina was horrible to work with.
“Interested?” grinned Rufo.
“I doubt it. What is he, this screwy spouse?”
“A businessman.”
“Oh, very unusual! And how strange is he?”
“They are having continual rows about him not going home for lunch.”
“Oh, he’s no madder than anyone, but she thinks he has a floozy? Am I supposed to get him off the hook? What’s he asked you to do?”
“It’s not him. She wants somebody, somebody clever, to find out what he’s up to.”
“It doesn’t need anyone clever to see whether he has a new girlfriend.” I snorted. “Is he combing his hair in a ghastly new way and can she smell perfume on his cloak?”
“I knew you were the girl for this! I’ll send her along and you can ask her for all the clues.”
“It sounds like a mess. I am not taking the case, Rufo.”
“It’s made for you, Albia. I’ll send her.”
Rufinianus jumped off my client throne, so pleased with himself he was leaving before I could refuse.
XVIII
There was no escape. She came.
When she knocked, Rodan was busy in the builders’ yard, arranging his things in his new shack. After that, he took his mid-morning break, watching the builders raise the height of the exterior wall. Tiberius had caught those he could before they disappeared on holiday; since he had only got hold of the clerk-of-works and the apprentice, he himself was helping mix the mortar while they laid bricks. Dromo was watching, never thinking to fetch Tiberius an old tunic to work in. Gratus was out shopping; Fornix was in his kitchen; Paris was there too, eating; Glaphyra had taken the boys for a walk.
Suza was here. She let the woman in. I paused on my way to the salon, listening. Suza was polite, by her standards. She seated the visitor in the big armed chair, put cushions behind her, placed a footstool neatly. “What lovely hair you have, madam! Would it be possible to tell me who does it for you? I would like to go to them for lessons.”
She of the lovely coiffure said it was done at home by her maid. That failed to shake off my brash girl. Suza replied how convenient: she would come round to their house for a maid-to-maid conference. Hearing me approach, however, she knew enough to simmer down. “May I bring you a dish of mint tea, madam?”
Hospitality rituals might hold us up, though I generally saw this as an opportunity to settle a client while I made my first assessments. I was about to get into a Saturnalia pickle with those today, though my errors on
ly became clear later.
Subjected to the woman’s beady inspection, I was glad to be turned out with finicky plaits, face paint, fancily draped stole, the full Suza-selection of jewellery. I was facing somebody whose maid-at-home must be high-class. The hair, though not imperial-court ridiculous, was complex. There had been skincare; there was colour enhancement. Fingers were burdened with multiple rings. The woman’s outfit was expensive (silk-weave, embroidered hems, glinting fasteners), though I detected its lucky owner might be rough around the edges: a type that was familiar, especially in my clients. People who chose to use an informer tended to have humble backgrounds but to possess funds worth guarding—fear for their cash was often what brought them to me. At least it meant they could afford my fees.
I noted that my prospective client had come without the fancy maid. Failing to be chaperoned was one clue to her rough edges and I assumed that what we were to discuss was far too sensitive. Had she slipped out of the house alone, so nobody could wonder where she was sneaking off to? Something about her seemed familiar, though I could not place her.
While we awaited Suza with her titbits tray, I equipped myself with a note-tablet. “I am Flavia Albia. And you are?”
“Terentia Nephele.” One heavily classic Roman name, one whimsical Greek: heroic but cloudy. The mixture suggested her lineage included slaves, whose names were often Greek though they would adopt extra Roman ones when given their freedom. It provided little clue to current status. She could have belonged to a boot-mender or the imperial family. She could have married her master, who could be absolutely anyone. Or if originally owned by a high-status household, with education available for polishing their slaves, it could be she who had brought culture and even money to her marriage.
Before I began my routine questions, the woman boldly took over: “I just came along to be neighbourly. Our house is in Greater Laurel Street. Everyone has heard about the incident you had here, Flavia Albia.” She knew about Sheep. She was openly nosy. Had she gossiped with some group of women who shared borage-tea mornings? She did not seem the type; it was one thing she and I had in common. “It sounds a nasty thing to happen. Is that worrying for you?”
Our situation was nothing to do with anyone else. “It’s either a delivery error or a misdirected joke,” I replied, breezily passing it off. If she wanted to use this incident as an excuse for calling, I could live with it. People who have never used an investigator come up with all sorts of pretexts.
“Still, you need to take care, if you are being targeted in some way!”
“I leave that worry to my husband,” I lied.
She raised a well-groomed eyebrow. “Is your husband doing work that has annoyed someone?”
“I wouldn’t know. I never ask about his work,” I lied again.
“But hasn’t this frightened you all?” she persisted, eager for thrills apparently.
“No.” I cut her off. Enough of horror. “Shall we get down to business?”
Nephele blinked and was silent. Perhaps I was being too abrupt. I spelled out that I assumed Rufinianus had recommended me. “Oh, the man at the bath-house!” she fluttered, like someone making light of it. “Yes, I was trying to find my husband after a tradesman had called at our house wanting payment for something I knew nothing about.”
“You think your husband is up to something?”
“He could be,” agreed Nephele, tentatively.
“Well, that is the kind of situation I often work with.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Let me tell you my background.” I was used to reassuring clients, who are often class-conscious, so I began with status: “My father is a wealthy plebeian, my mother from a senatorial family. My husband also has established Aventine roots and is currently a magistrate.” In case she happened to care about talent, I added, “I have been doing this work for almost fifteen years.” It was twelve. Exaggerating your curriculum is the rule for any professional. Informers can be florid: they learn misrepresentation from their clients. “As Rufinianus presumably told you, I am well versed in confidential enquiries.” Now Nephele was listening. “I never use research assistants, but I have associates for consultation if a problem needs specialist advice.”
Suza reappeared at this point, carefully carrying a small silver salver with the promised mint tea, which Fornix had set out to be served from a hot jug through a pointed strainer. We did own little silver cups for dainty occasions: wedding presents. The tray was graced with a ditsy bowl of almonds. There was a neat linen napkin. It had an embroidered monogram, though we had no idea whose because it had come in a bundle of oddments from Father’s auction house.
Suza was an outspoken lump, but functional; she wanted advancement, so she had learned. She served without spillage. She even asked, “Is there anything else, Flavia Albia, or shall I make sure you are not disturbed now?”
I gave her a good going! gleam.
Now that Nephele was sipping and scalding her rouged lip, I seized back the initiative. “So, tell me about your problem husband. What kind of business is he in?” She looked surprised, then ducked the question, as if she might not know his work. This is true of many wives. It makes me despair, but you have to go along with it. “Rufinianus told me your man has recently, let’s say, become depressed? It happens,” I reassured her. “Let’s clear away the normal reasons—has he lost money in a shipwreck recently? Buried a dear friend? Or—I am sorry to be brutal—is he trying to recover his lost youth by having a fling?”
It was at this point, I can see with hindsight, that Nephele reached a decision about talking to me. A fling, she agreed primly, was probably it.
“Who is he chasing? Have you any ideas?” When she made no reply, I suggested, “There’s a bawd at the Temple of Diana who is running through local husbands like a rat through a grain sack, I have heard.” If Nephele did belong to a borage-tea group, they were bound to know about this.
I had meant only to start speculation but Nephele banged down her cup on the salver. “That’s Laetilla!” she exclaimed, and with obvious loathing.
I blinked. “Oh? I suppose she meets the men at the temple, then invites them back for entertainment at her house.”
“Entertainment?” queried Nephele, now seeming surprised.
“That’s what she calls it. Your husband accepts invitations too frequently from this over-friendly woman? How did you realise he strays?”
There seemed to be something unconvincing here, but Nephele muttered, “Yes, he goes there. He goes there often.”
“Do you have dates and times?”
“Well, no.”
“That’s all right,” I soothed her. “I didn’t expect you to have had him tailed. If you want to hire me, that will be up to me. Well, I give you my sympathy. What is your situation at home?”
Now she spoke more easily. “We hardly see each other. He claims he is busy. He raves that he is working very hard at the family business and leaves me all on my own, day after day. I deserve more attention. People still find me attractive.”
“I’m sure that’s true. You need someone to tell you what you can do.” I sighed gently. “These are your choices. You can stay with him—and put up with it. Or if you decide to leave him, I can help you to arrange a stress-free divorce, especially the financial side. I can ascertain by my enquiries just how badly he behaves. This will strengthen your position in demanding the best settlement. Do you have children?”
“No, thank the gods.”
“Is his father alive?”
“No.” Nephele paused. “My brother-in-law made all our wedding arrangements. I always understood their father died abroad.” That suggested the family were involved in trade.
“Was he in the same business?”
“I believe so.”
“So is your husband legally independent?”
“Too bloody much so!” the aggrieved wife replied.
“Does he have other relatives?”
“He has family, not a
ll horrible. His brother is the nasty one and he’s daggers drawn with me, these days. In the same line—before you ask.”
Letting her rant, I asked gently, “And is there family of your own?”
“A sister.”
“Married?”
“Not married. Not yet. There are plans.”
“You spend a lot of time together?”
“I have to talk to somebody!” The thought came to me that if Nephele’s husband was of the wandering tendency he might have made a play for the sister. I did not ask, since Nephele might not yet realise. If he had schmoozed his in-law, I would let it come out in its own time.
“So, Terentia Nephele, do you want me to do what I can for you?”
“I suppose you can try.”
“Thank you.” Clients were not usually so grudging but it happened occasionally. Once I presented the evidence, her hard face would very likely crumple. “I will send you a proposal and a list of terms. How can I contact you? Can I have your address? Then when would be the best time to call?”
“Don’t come to the house!” she interrupted quickly.
It was a common fear from a client, especially one with marital problems. I advised that either she must keep visiting me, like today, or she should regularly send someone to check for news. “I shall need details from you, as much as you can tell me about your husband’s background, starting with what he is called, of course—”
“Apart from infuriating, devious and infamous? He was Gaius to me once, but Murrius is his proper cognomen. Give me a note-tablet!”
I was happy to do that. While she wrote down details, I took out the tea tray. On my return she snapped down the tablet on my goat-legged serving table. “All you need is there. Name, age, appearance, haunts, associates and filthy habits!”
I resumed my seat temporarily. “Extremely thorough! Just one thing more, Nephele. Tell me why you feel your man may be going mad—”
“I don’t,” she said. Oh, thanks, Rufo!
Flavia Albia Mystery 09 - A Comedy of Terrors Page 10
