Flavia Albia Mystery 09 - A Comedy of Terrors

by Lindsey Davis

  Tiberius Manlius gave me the shrewd grey-eyed look he normally kept for persons who were using doctored weights in markets. “I am surprised at you!”

  “Why, darling?”

  “For not keeping this mad adventure to yourself!”

  I feigned amazement. “Who, me? We are married. There ought to be absolute trust between us—and there is.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart.” Since he had made his point, he subsided. Instead he pensively proffered a theory as dark as any I would hold: “Have you noticed that when people bleat on about all parties sharing trust, it really means there is bitter suspicion between them?”

  “Generally deserved,” I answered, thinking of many clients.

  “Yes, it usually means severe doubt is already there. Besides, if you really trust someone, there is no need ever to mention it.”

  I chuckled. “I think a carefully composed contract with multiple clauses will cover most failings.”

  “The secret about contracts,” Tiberius disagreed, “is that while everything is working, no contract is needed. If things go wrong, no contract in the world will solve it.”

  “Like marriage! Fortunately,” I suggested, “you and I have a true Roman pact: no written terms. I agree to live with you. You agree the same with me.”

  My husband fell silent. “So—do you trust me?” he then demanded suddenly.

  “I do.” Fact. I never even had to think about all the times he had already saved me from desperate trouble. “Tiberius Manlius, that is why I am here with you.”

  He thought about this for slightly longer than required, although that was simply his way. “Me too,” he responded eventually.

  This was the kind of awkward conversation where you do wish somebody would interrupt. It was all unexpected, though I felt confident it came out of nowhere and no problem was festering.

  I sat there with him quietly in the lamplight, considering how firmly I believed Tiberius would never cheat on me in the way he had once betrayed Laia Gratiana. He certainly had no need to find another bed for lovemaking. He was mine for sure.

  I do know that every woman who is ever surprised by the break-up of her marriage falls into this trap. The error happens even when everyone around her has seen trouble coming—seen it from the start. I could be making the same mistake, and yet—like all the rest—I convinced myself we were different.

  We were. I was right. He was right too. Time would prove it.

  Sometimes in life you reach a point when all you want is to stop the struggle. We were both ready to be satisfied with what we had and, Hades, what Tiberius and I had together ought to satisfy anyone.

  Inevitably I began to contrast that against the unhappy strife experienced by my current client. Tiberius had one last point to make, one that turned out to be relevant: “I think about you all the time, Albiola. We may be working separately, but I do not forget you. So…” Tiberius had a hint of a tease “… you asked me whether Morellus knows anything about the woman Laetilla.”

  “And he does not,” I prophesied.

  “Correct.”

  “He should. Trust the vigiles! Never mind. But, Tiberius, after today’s incident with Paris I shan’t continue working for this client. I only took her on to make you and Morellus think I was leaving you alone.”

  “We never asked that!”

  “Hah! A typical client will suddenly dump their informer, but as it’s Saturnalia, I can reverse the process. I’ll cite safety reasons, since those bouncers were so menacing. Nephele may protest that she had told me not to visit her house. But if her husband has been thrown out, why not? And Paris and Dromo thought the men who put frighteners on them had a connection with her home.”

  Tiberius pursed his lips, looking downcast. “I wasted my time, then.”

  “What time?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Stop teasing.”

  “No, you don’t need to know.”

  “I do,” I said, gently enough. “Never keep secrets from me, Legate! Tiberius, if you know something, tell me for my own satisfaction.”

  A broad beam lit his face. “That’s my girl. Well, think about aediles’ duties. Public games, markets, streets, baths, taverns—and…?”

  “Poking your noses into brothels? Capturing dangerous animals?”

  “No, no. I corralled one of those, brought her home and married her. Once is enough … What else do we do for the community? We stamp out illegal gambling!”

  “Killjoys.”

  “Forces for good. I said I always think of you. I looked up my past conviction lists.” Given his enthusiasm, it cannot have been easy to wade through so many scrolls. Hardly a stallholder on the Aventine had escaped my husband’s scrutiny; there must have been chortles when news flew around that the aedile Faustus had been given a free sheep but bad people stole it. “Your Murrius was in there. I once imposed a fine on him.”

  “You fined my client?” I whooped.

  “No, be accurate, girl. I fined her out-on-the-town, rule-flouting, social-nuisance husband. By the way, I do feel your mistake was taking on Nephele. You really should be acting for their tug-of-love parrot.”

  “The birdie deserves rescuing. You fined Murrius for gambling?”

  “For gambling in a public place. He and his cronies were clearly betting on their game. Gaius Murrius had his elbows on a table in a courtyard at a drinking place, so I could see him from the street.”

  “Well, that shows I deduced his vice correctly.”

  “You know your craft,” Tiberius flattered me. “The man is a hopeless dice addict. He would barely pause long enough to reach for his purse and pay me. For a moment I thought it would turn nasty, but he coughed up. That means I, happily, can help you out, love. Murrius drinks at a bar called the Cosmographer. It’s off Dolichenus Street—you can easily find it: the sign is a map, though in my opinion they have the two Mauretanian provinces switched around. From memory, that was what caused me to stop by the bar in the first place.”

  “Disaster! Misplaced Mauretania Tingitana? Outrageous Caesariensis gaff? That was bound to attract your attention.”

  “Too right. I’d have fined the bar-keeper for it, if only I could have brought to mind the right statutory misdemeanour.”

  I always liked the way my husband acknowledged that he was pedantic. He dug me in the ribs, grinning with me. He was a lovely man to talk to; it refreshed us both. “Now you’re stuck, aren’t you? You had decided to cancel on your client—but I’ve given you something unignorable. A lead has jumped out and you will never be able to let go.”

  I pretended to find a limp excuse. “You are right. I have to look into this for the parrot’s sake,” I murmured.

  Io, Saturnalia!

  XXVII

  This was another thing I liked about my husband: he gave excellent tips.

  Even a dedicated gambler was unlikely to start at breakfast, so waiting for tomorrow was no good. Now was the time. I was as bad as Paris.

  Aware that I had better not tell anyone or I would be stopped, I pulled on a cloak and slipped out of the house. It had drizzled with rain so the pavements were as slippery as if tiled with fish scales. Watching how I placed my feet, I nevertheless dodged the few active revellers. I found the Cosmographer from the directions Tiberius had given me. I wondered if he had realised all along that I would bunk off.

  I stood in the side-street, gazing at the bar’s painted wall-sign as if checking up on some remote province where my soldier boyfriend claimed that the army was stationing him. I tried to imagine how a woman would look if she suspected her untrustworthy beau had really been discharged or if he’d absconded, so she felt sure he was living back at home incognito, while fathering children on an asparagus-seller he met at the vegetable market when he was shopping for his elderly mother … At least this invention of mine was exhibiting thoughtful and dutiful filial behaviour. I quite liked him.

  Gaius Murrius was no figment. I could see him in a brick-coloured
tunic with a black leather belt: long sleeves, neck-and-cuff braid, thumping great buckle. Now that I inspected him, he had an oval face with an unpleasant mouth, receding hair and, if he pulled himself upright, he could not be tall. He was among a seated group playing dice. All old pals, good-humoured and in it together. Theirs was not, as far as I could see, a collection where hardened fleecers were applying dubious pressure to a foolish mark. Murrius was no victim, but one of the boys.

  They were a matched set, all with the same style and similar accessories. At the table were, as my father would say, more buffered torques and multi-strand necklaces with dangling coins than you’d find in a tart’s jewellery casket. An auctioneer might bundle their flash into a job-lot but potential bidders, ever a canny species, would shake their heads. Modern tat, not even stylish repro. No resale value. Barely good for scrap.

  As I watched, a man who stood beside him was nagging at Murrius, who abruptly made a gesture of capitulation, then pulled out his purse and handed over cash. It was counted, they shook hands pleasantly and the creditor left. A standard scene, especially at this time of year. Murrius said something to his mates then stood up. He tossed a few remaining coins into a pottery saucer towards the bill, then shook an empty purse to show there was no point in detaining him. The friends let him go, with cheery goodbyes; they seemed used to him.

  He left the bar then walked alone, with a jaunty step for a man who had been publicly cleaned out. He might have had cash at home, packed into big iron-bound chests. Of course I knew Nephele would give him problems getting at it, but this man was showing no anxiety.

  I peeled myself away from the bad map, to saunter after him. Leaving the Cosmographer’s murky side-street, he cut out through Dolichenus Street, which was no better, into the Armilustri, then hiked along the main road to Greater Laurel Street. He spoke to no one; nobody hailed him. At what I knew to be his house, he thundered on the door, then yelled to be admitted. The upper window flew open as before. From deep within, Nephele’s voice shouted at him to get lost.

  “Let me in! Open up for me, you skanky bitch!”

  His wife did not bother to answer. Before shutters slammed to, I heard their parrot squawk. The bird had learned to mimic “Skanky bitch!” Hardened to that, Nephele cooed, “Naughty, naughty!” clearly to annoy her husband.

  Murrius seemed to expect rejection. Perhaps he had yelled as a matter of principle. He was ready to move on somewhere else, though he glanced up and down the street, as if embarrassed for anyone to hear him having this fruitless exchange with his wife. He looked my way. I had to sidle quickly in front of a shop, like a time-waster eyeing the stock. Fortunately, the hole-in-the-wall sold footwear; my charade would look feasible. I spent rather too long inspecting a pair of looped sandals with tiny flowers on their big-toe straps. When I turned around again, Murrius had vanished.

  I nipped along to look down Cowrie Court around the corner, where he was not to be seen either; no other side-turnings were near enough. Could he have gone in somewhere?

  I might have cursed but saw no need to waste my efforts. I went back, sat on the fitting bench and tried on those sandals. Always make surveillance useful.

  I was acquiring my parcel when Murrius reappeared unexpectedly, apparently from Cowrie Court. I wondered if that was where his brother lived. It made sense: families often snuggled side by side. Murrius had picked up a couple of retainers; the large, swaggering, acned characters fitted the description of the men who had bounced Paris and Dromo. I carried on paying the shoe-seller while they passed; they took no notice of me. Sometimes you win on the hazard, Gaius Murrius!

  I followed discreetly. One of the bouncer types was carrying a number of flat satchels over a shoulder, obviously empty. I tailed them across the Thirteenth into the Twelfth District, to the edge of the hill, overlooking the Circus. They went to a house near the Temple of Mercury. Murrius knocked, a fairly relaxed summons this time. No yelling. A woman came to the door. It must have been a pleasure for him to be greeted without insults, then to be invited in. Though I had to keep my distance, I was sure his obliging hostess was Laetilla.

  I stared at the closed door, thinking this was a dangerous way to spend an evening. The Aventine was growing darker, while its revellers were increasingly looking for trouble. Chasing women happens a lot at Saturnalia. To be out alone is asking for it. The south-eastern slope was not my area either. Here I could only identify Mercury’s Temple. Its three steps led to a portico where flat-backed herms supported an architrave picturing the trickster god’s animal attributes; I remembered a serpent and a fox, but there might also have been a parrot.

  Laetilla’s street was normal and residential: pottery shops, smelly fish stalls and ladies who gave lunch to friends. I had no desire to hang about until Murrius finished whatever fun she provided. Since he was homeless, she might actually offer him a bed for the night. But just as I decided to retreat, like a sensible woman, the door opened again. Out he came. Out swaggered his entourage too, now sharing fattened-up shoulder-bags among them. Even Murrius himself was lugging one. Though not large, the carriers were substantial leather, firmly buckled up—and I could see that they were dead-weight heavy.

  That meant one thing: cash. If Murrius had asked Laetilla for a personal loan, his borrowing must be stupendous. I suspected something else, though, something much more intriguing: if Laetilla gathered in loan repayments, it looked to me that Murrius collected the takings from her. Juno with jaundice. He was certainly not a victim of pressurised lending, but directly involved in running it. This man was the banker.

  I followed the guard party back. Now I took even more care to keep my distance. They walked with purpose. They kept in a pack, though not ostentatiously defensive; they felt confident they could move their loot around at will. They had done it before, they would do it again. Nobody would trouble them.

  In Murrius’s home street, they turned through ninety degrees, like soldiers, and wheeled into Cowrie Court. Most of the byways hereabouts trickled through to join the Clivus Publicius, although this was a dead end. I reckoned they were going to the large house Paris had noted. It confirmed my idea that the Murrius brother lived here. Now I had some idea why Paris had seen so many people coming and going. It was certainly not because of a religious sect holding prayer meetings!

  As the group arrived, a couple of other, similar, men seemed to be waiting. They moved across the junction, barring anyone else from the cul-de-sac. They owned the place. Civic records would be silent on that, but I guessed no locals ever argued the point.

  I walked on, still carrying my shoe parcel. I continued quietly from Greater to Lesser Laurel Street until I reached my own house.

  For a few moments I was denied entry, though nobody shouted abuse from a window. My problem was just Rodan, pretending to be deaf. I was too preoccupied to berate him when he finally answered. I was staring at a new Saturnalia present.

  Standing upright on our front doorstep was a single human leg.

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  For two beats I felt genuinely terrified. Finding Sheep’s head had affected my brain. This must be another appalling threat against us.

  Saturnalia. It was some new mad prank.

  I made myself throw a proper glance over the object. It was a left leg. Unlike the severed head of Sheep, it was not bloody. With huge relief I took in that it was not flesh and bone either, but a good representation. This must be a special delivery, perhaps a gift for someone in my household who, unknown to me, had a human-limb fetish. Or muggings do occur when a lone person returns home, fumbles for their latch-lifter and fails to spot doorstep thieves coming. The leg could be an unusual distraction. I looked back over my shoulder, but common sense told me muggers were never this sophisticated.

  Right. I have never been a person who stands around fretting. What is going on, who put that there, shall I scream? Or should I just take it inside with me in case somebody wants it? My brother Postumus, for one, would like the
macabre limb for his cabinet of curiosities. I had better not leave it standing around for a passing thief. When gingerly lifted, it felt heavy. I quickly turned my key, gripped the leg under one arm and went indoors.

  “Good grief,” observed my husband, mildly. “Here is Albia, with a spare leg.”

  He was sitting in the courtyard, a small boy on either side of him, reading them an Aesop’s Fable before bed. The scroll had been his reason for visiting Uncle Tullius earlier. Tiberius had hunted it down among old books of his own that he had left behind in the library.

  I went over and leaned the leg up against a movable table where Gratus had placed a beaker of wine and a water jug for Tiberius. I had to be careful, or the weight would have pushed over the furniture. Tiberius peered at the leg, saying it seemed to have a wooden core, sheathed in bronze. “The man it belongs to would be about five feet seven,” he declared, acting the expert. “Maybe five eight, if slim.”

  “You don’t say! Is it custom-made? He’s a muscly boy, from the modelling,” I replied, making it salacious. “Superb thighs. That is, thigh.”

  “Is it a Saturnalia joke? Or are you collecting all the parts, intending to weld your own living statue like Pygmalion?”

  “I think it has dropped off a mythological marvel. There will be a magic bronze giant somewhere, searching for a piece of himself.”

  Gaius and Lucius jumped off the bench. Plucking up courage, they walked the leg around the courtyard. I told them not to break it so they soon lost interest.

  Tiberius had his eye on me. “Where’d you go, scallywag?”

  “The Cosmographer.”

  “You could have told me.”

  “You would have stopped me.”