I spent much of the morning diligently carrying out the experiments the Camillus brothers had suggested. I stood Dromo in the best bedroom, beside the bed where the murders occurred. I then went to each place where a slave had claimed to be asleep or drunk during the attack. I signalled when I was ready: ‘Now, Dromo!’ At which, if he was paying attention, Dromo yelled back, ‘Help! Help!’
Each time his cries were audible. Of course Dromo had already heard me calling his name in the other direction … Still, a good informer double-checks.
I had not replicated the effects of drink or sleeping medicine, which some suspects claimed to have taken, but the kind of lawyers who might be defending the slaves (assuming slaves are given lawyers, which I doubted) were unlikely to query that. Drink or drugs put them at fault anyway.
While I went through this probably pointless exercise, I noticed someone looking down from a small window in one of the upper apartments. A woman poked her head out wondering at the shouting. I called up and made contact, then once I had finished my checks I found the way via the stairs from the outside street and interviewed this neighbour.
Her name was Fauna. She was a worn-looking party of thirty or forty, wife of a vegetable porter at the nearby Market of Livia. ‘That’s where he is now, of course — unless the bum has given them the slip and slunk off somewhere.’
Fauna had a wrinkled tunic and bare feet, at least at home, with a whole armful of tacky bangles that implied her husband brought one for her out of guilt every time he visited a brothel. Or perhaps he just had little money and appalling taste. Surely if he did frequent brothels, he must have seen better jewellery even on the worst whores?
I hate this aspect of my work − glimpsing other people’s lives and becoming angry about it. I have never managed to teach myself that if people choose to be stupid, it’s their affair. I wanted to yell at Fauna to sort her bastard husband out.
As soon as she let me in I realised there was not much chance this couple upstairs had seen anything below on the night of the attack. They rented a cramped two-room apartment lit only by small high windows, so when she heard me experimenting Fauna had had to stand on a stool and crane out. For the tenants at ground level this was good, because it meant their courtyard was not really overlooked. For me it was a disappointment.
Fauna said the dinner party itself had been sedate, but later on they had been bothered by a lot of noise, until Lusius, her husband, actually got out of bed to look. Lusius peered out first, then Fauna shoved him off the stool and took a turn. In the dark, they could not really see what was going on.
‘I glimpsed figures running to and fro with lamps. About the time we had a peek, it all quietened down anyway.’
‘Could that have been when the steward turned up?’ I wondered. ‘Polycarpus — he would have sorted out the chaos … Do you know him, Fauna?’
‘They live on this level, but the other side of the building, above the street. I know her slightly.’
‘His wife?’
‘If that’s what she calls herself. He’s had her salted away there for years.’
‘Ah!’ So Polycarpus had not waited to gain his freedom before he started his own household. ‘He says he just happened to go back that night and then discovered the crime.’
Fauna shrugged. ‘I don’t know. While I was looking, people were still talking, but in very low voices. We went back to bed. We never even realised the vigiles had been until next morning. Some fellow came up to see if we heard anything. He didn’t really want to know, in case it meant he had to do something useful.’
‘Never mind him then, can you describe the disturbance for me?’
‘Yelling to start with. Bumps and shunts later. When it first kicked off someone was really angry.’
‘How many voices?’
‘Well, it must have been several. They say a gang of robbers came-’
‘No, no; don’t tell me what you suppose you heard. I need what you really did hear.’ She looked baffled by my distinction. ‘All right. Let me ask something else, Fauna. This is important. Did you at any time hear Aviola or his wife calling out for help?’
‘Well, someone wanted the world to know he was upset. A man’s voice, bellowing furiously. That was what really worried us first and made Lusius go to look … He’s dog tired in the evening after work; it takes a lot to get him out of bed. The bawler must have been Aviola, mustn’t it?’
‘Could well be …’ Or anyone. ‘You don’t remember hearing a woman?’
‘No.’ This time she was certain. ‘No, I never heard a peep from her. You know, Albia, we couldn’t tell what in Hades was happening; we never thought it was as serious as it turned out. To be honest, there had been such a lot of bother to do with the wedding, Lusius and me just thought it was more of the same. That lot, they had grown to be a menace lately — there was always something going on.’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘People having a go.’
‘At each other?’
‘Right.’ Fauna thought about it. ‘There always seemed to be someone sounding off, and then somebody else telling them to shut it.’
‘Not just the staff clattering and throwing their voices too loudly? Some don’t see the point of going about their work quietly. Houses can be lively places.’
‘Ha! My father was a roofer. Nobody beats roofers and scaffolders for shouting … There was a lot more commotion lately than there used to be. We knew they was all going away for the summer, and we was looking forward to that, I can tell you. Lusius keeps saying he’ll go down and complain, but he’s too bone idle to do it.’
‘Probably not much point now,’ I murmured.
‘No, I suppose not. Someone new will move in. I hope we get a quiet family … What’s going to happen to them slaves?’
I shook my head resignedly.
‘Aviola didn’t seem to get a grip,’ complained Fauna. ‘Once, a couple of the men was having a pottery fight, it sounded. But he just asked them to stop, really mildly. I blame him. He ought to have sorted them out properly.’ It was indeed a householder’s duty to control and prevent quarrels. ‘Still,’ Fauna giggled. ‘When you get married, if you are given any presents, people seem to choose horrible things − then you get stuck with them for years because you can’t upset your hubby’s awful auntie if you chuck ’em out. Perhaps Aviola was glad to see one or two of his wedding presents broken.’
‘I bet he was,’ I smiled in return. ‘ — Remembering some of mine!’
But playing the sympathetic wife and widow failed to squeeze anything more useful out of her.
12
It often happens on a case: the first story you hear seems straightforward, yet it soon starts to show cracks. First the tale of what happened to the door porter did not add up. Now, despite Polycarpus assuring me all was harmonious among the workforce, here was contradictory news of disturbances and pottery fights. Back at the apartment, I poked around in the rubbish store but found no smashed dinnerware. It might already have been carted off to a tip.
I was due to see Aviola’s executor, but had time to prepare lunch; a snack stopped Dromo muttering. He was worse to look after than my young brother.
In the kitchen I found Myla feeding her baby, so I took my time and had a closer look at her. As slaves go, she was fairly clean and tidy, with features that suggested she came from an eastern province like Syria or Judaea. I had seen very beautiful Syrian women, with wide-set eyes and straight noses down which they looked with imperious awareness of their own stunning looks. Myla had a heavier face; in another ten years she would be jowly. Even so, she had the imperious expression; for no obvious reason she appeared full of self-belief.
Polycarpus had bought in some basics for me, a loaf, plus boring hard-boiled eggs and salad leaves, though among the stuff Manlius Faustus had sent over were treasures: a crock of good honey, squids in brine and another stone jar of best quality olives. I created a warm drink with the honey and some wine vinegar I found on a shelf. While I stirred it over the fire, I was able to tackle Myla.