I wondered if Faustus turned up to chivvy his men after his other business finished at the end of the day, but again he was absent. I knew the foreman slightly, so we fell into conversation. He reckoned Manlius Faustus was having doubts about whether to do up the place and sell it for profit. ‘He says he wouldn’t mind living here himself, if he gets married.’
I grinned. ‘Cunning. He’s been single for ten years. Supposedly living here himself could be a ploy to make you work to a higher standard!’
‘No, he’s bringing some woman along to look.’
What woman? He had not asked me. With slight foreboding, I bade him farewell and rode on.
This made up my mind. I knew where Faustus lived. I had been there too. What I had to say was so important I would go to his house and leave a message.
It was not too far from Fountain Court – indeed, since it was past the donkey boy’s bedtime, I dropped him off there. I went on alone. I knew the streets and felt safe even at night. Faustus’ home lay beyond my horrible alley, further across the hill. But we were really as close neighbours as all those people who lived on the Caelian.
Faustus and his uncle resided in a smart area to the west of the Street of the Plane Trees. Their house was a part-block, double-storeyed atrium residence: prime real estate, as befitted people who owned half of the warehouses nearby, above the Lavernal Gate.
I found it from memory. I nervously approached the double front doors, up three marble steps, each with a rose urn, the expensively trained standard trees in full flower this month and dripping after a recent watering. The aged porter did not remember me. Even so, he allowed in a declared friend of the young master. I already knew this was not a pompous household. It was well run but had a comfortable atmosphere.
The porter said Faustus was out. I was growing tired of that refrain. Wherever was he?
‘Is Dromo here?’
Yes, but fast asleep.
A slave went for writing materials so I could leave a note. I stood by the porter’s cubicle and tried to admire the frescos. There was no reason to feel guilty, yet I did. Last time, when I barely knew Tiberius, I had been sneaked in here by somebody else for a secret tour of the reception rooms. This time, being here without his knowledge made me even more uncomfortable. This wasn’t a suspect’s house where I would seize any chance to explore. I barely entered the atrium, with its roofed shrine to their household gods and images of ancestors. A worn plaque showing a young couple side by side was probably a memorial of his parents. I had taken no notice before, but now it mattered.
A secretary, yawning, turned up to take dictation. I composed a brief letter telling Tiberius in three or four sentences what I thought had happened to Valens and the need for us to act. Being under mildly curious scrutiny from the staff quashed any temptation to add endearments. I was handed the stylus and signed the tablet myself.
I nearly got away with this. Luck was not with me, however. Just as I breathed freely and was about to leave, a man stalked in from the street. He had his own house key but was not Tiberius. He came in, demanding loudly, ‘Whose is that disgusting donkey left tied to our ring outside? One of you go out and give it a kick up the street!’
My heart sank. Alone, at the end of a long hot day when I was drained of energy, I had to make friends with my friend’s uncle, Tullius.
56
Someone I once knew had accused Tullius of lewd and predatory behaviour. Even Faustus acknowledged they were very different characters. Still, this man had taken in an orphaned nephew, brought him up, then stayed on good terms while they had lived together for most of the past twenty years. I had never heard Tiberius make a complaint.
Face to face, I saw little physical resemblance between the two men, nor any between the uncle and that young woman in the ancestral plaque who must have been his sister. The uncle was bulky though not gross. He must be sixty, sixty plus. He had a bald crown, inquisitive light brown eyes, and a contemptuous manner. I knew why that was. Even though he asked, ‘And who are you?’ he knew. ‘Don’t tell me − the cheeky piece who has been luring my nephew away from home!’
Quietly, I answered: ‘My name is Flavia Albia, daughter of the equestrian Didius Falco and the noble Helena Justina. I do have the friendship of Tiberius Manlius -’ I deliberately chose to use his first two names rather than the more formal last two. The Roman naming system is so subtle, and I knew how to deploy it. ‘I apologise for coming so late. I have been assisting your nephew with his election work. We uncovered foul play and I badly need to give him information.’
‘“Election assistance” – that’s a new word for an old game!’ Tullius screwed up his eyes, which gave him a piggy expression. ‘Well, this is a useful meeting, young woman!’ He folded his arms aggressively.
I decided there was no point in holding back. ‘I see. You think I am a graspy little gold-digger and this is your chance to see me off.’
Good move. My calm words surprised him. He expected me to be defensive, not to come straight out with my own challenge.
With anyone else, I would have suggested we relocate to somewhere private. Here, we had the porter, the secretary and several slaves, who had popped out to greet their returning master, a rash of attentive people who had heard him come home. In view of what I had been told about his crude habits, I chose not to be alone with him. So we held our conversation there in the atrium, with an eager audience.
I had to be very careful. Faustus wanted to avoid a quarrel. It was wise for me to cultivate good relations with his uncle.
‘You had your fun,’ sneered Tullius. ‘Him too, I gather!’
He looked me up and down, his meaning unmistakable. I wondered what he made of my white funeral-going drapery: thoroughly discreet, with minimal jewellery and the formal veil I had automatically lifted over my hair. I watched him assess me, as people so often did when I was working. He would be puzzled by the grave appearance that belied my smart talk. He had expected three-inch cork heels and thick lead face paint, with layers of gold necklace – probably loaded onto me by Faustus. He could not know that Faustus’s idea of a love-gift was a stone bench, but even so Tullius was bemused by his nephew’s taste in girlfriends.
‘Tullius Icilius …’ Nobody seemed to use it, but I knew his cognomen from my father’s investigation. Indeed, I knew much more about this man than he would expect. Good at what he does, had been Falco’s verdict. Apparently without undue use of sharp practice. A sly mover and a hard-working money hound. Thank you, Father! ‘Tullius Icilius, it is late. If you want to say something important, do. But please remember that your nephew has chosen to be friends with me.’
‘And now he’ll see sense.’ That old line!
‘You haven’t been watching closely enough. He has changed.’ I sounded sure.
‘Oh, no!’ So did Tullius.
‘I have seen the alteration.’ I remembered Tiberius when we first met: hard, belligerent, short-tempered – simply unsure how to wield his magisterial authority, I now realised. For a time it had made him unpleasant to deal with. That was how I had ended up stabbing his hand with a meat skewer. He learned; he calmed down. I calmed down too. I spoke very levelly now. ‘Other people have commented on the alteration. He spent thirty years doing nothing, then he acquired the aedilate. You must have thought this was simply good for your business contacts, good for prestige. You underestimated the results. Never mind how other men approach such a post, your nephew took it on and mastered it. And when the work and his ability to carry it out thrilled him, he discovered himself. A cliché, perhaps, yet true.’
His uncle shrugged and admitted without drama, ‘Yes, he surprised us.’