Gratus, who was slim and rather elegant, opened his hands in an ironic gesture. ‘Flavia Albia, I cannot possibly give an opinion of the lady … and I warn you, my master won’t spill secrets.’
‘Oh? Are they on friendly terms? I suppose while she was married to Valerius Aviola she was part of the same circle, and may still be …’ I made it sound as if I was musing to myself.
‘She will stay with us,’ Gratus murmured, as if he too were talking aloud to himself. ‘I have the bed made up already …’ Then he enjoyed telling me: ‘Galla Simplicia and my master are first cousins.’
I offered my hand formally and shook his. It was acknowledgement for this help, while indicating I could not possibly offend him with anything so uncouth as a bribe.
Gratus definitely knew Polycarpus was about to steal his job. He was still a slave; there would be nothing he could do about it. I wished I knew someone in need of a good household steward to whom I could recommend him.
I had had a busy day. Returning to the Aviola apartment, I felt in no mood to prepare detailed notes for Manlius Faustus, but Dromo was hanging about expectantly, wanting to take my report.
First I found my oil flask and went out to some nearby baths, taking Dromo too. There was just time for me to have a quick wash and scrape in the women’s hour, then when the bell rang to announce men’s time I waited in a colonnade, scrawling brief notes for the aedile, while the messenger washed. I had promised him a cake, and was true to my word.
Dromo still smelt — of more than chopped nuts and custard.
‘How many tunics do you have, Dromo?’
‘One.’
I added a postscript to my notes: kindly supply your stinky boy with a spare garment! Please treat as urgent and make sure it has been laundered. Do this for me, most admirable Tiberius, so I can apply myself with a clear mind to the monster ex-wife. Should be good value. You know you want details.
I had no idea whether Faustus enjoyed gossip. If not, I could teach him. All you need is curiosity and a sense of humour. He had those.
Dromo sauntered off with my report, slavering over his pastry and getting custard on the note tablet.
I took a layered date-slice back with me to the apartment. Why should a slave have all the treats?
On the way I bought a hot pie too. This is not good nourishment, but the informers’ creed says the demands of our work compel us to live off unsuitable street food and large amounts of drink. Our life is hard. Some really like to suffer, so they attend experimental harp concerts or dangerous political readings, but after a day’s serious investigating, you risk falling asleep and wasting the ticket price.
I bought a flagon of cheap wine. You have to keep up the image.
Later, I was glad I stayed in or I would have missed a visitor. Galla Simplicia had rushed to Rome, where the minute she had dumped her travelling hat in her cousin’s spare room, she came straight here to view the scene of the crime.
If the murder of Aviola and Mucia was her crime, as Hermes believed, this stupidly drew attention to herself. Still, any woman who does arrange to have her ex-husband violently taken out by professional robbers must have a touch of the brash.
I guessed who she was, though she looked a perfectly ordinary woman. That’s evil schemers for you. If all those who plotted had talons and Medusa snake hair, identifying them would be too easy.
I had heard voices; I emerged from my room unnoticed. I stood quiet in the colonnade and watched.
Myla must have let her in. They were now on the oppos-ite side of the courtyard with their backs to me. Myla was waiting while the visitor squared up and went into the bedroom where the couple had been killed. I read in Myla’s slumped stance that she was unhappy about the situation, but of course she made no objection. Myla was too lethargic. For her part, Galla Simplicia had an air of determined authority, even viewed from behind.
Some women neglect their back view, but this one was pert, cinched and ringletted. Her coiffure must have taken half a day. I wondered if she had it done specially to come to Rome legacy-hunting.
It struck me that if Myla had been in this household for a long time, then Galla Simplicia had once been her mistress, giving her orders — and possibly even forming a sympathetic bond.
I stepped forward to stand between the columns, so as soon as Galla re-emerged she saw me. Myla immediately took herself off; it was the first time I had seen her walking, which she did with a languorous sway. Galla shot a tetchy glance after her (so I could see no residual friendship), then came towards me across the courtyard as if she belonged here and meant to send me packing.
I got in first. ‘Excuse me! Can I help you?’ I called out, implying who let you in without permission, and what do you think you are doing? ‘My name is Flavia Albia; I am working for the aedile Manlius Faustus. This is a crime scene, if you don’t know. We are not permitting ghoulish viewings. I will have to ask you to leave.’
Galla Simplicia braved it out well. She pulled her stole over her head, modestly burying her face in the material as if genuinely horrified by the hideous events. I could see her assessing me as she peeked out. ‘I meant no offence. I wanted to see where my husband died.’ For someone supposedly vindictive, her voice was surprisingly weak. A high, decently-spoken but thin voice: I took against it.
Now we stood closer, I saw she had a smooth face with fine, light-coloured hair. She peered slightly, as if she was short-sighted. Hermes’ angry denunciations had implied a hard-faced hag, a woman who would look worn by a hard life — or simply a hard nature. But Simplicia looked almost young for her age.
‘Valerius Aviola’s wife was Mucia Lucilia, who died with him,’ I pointed out severely. ‘You will be Galla Simplicia. Why don’t you sit here — ’ I indicated the chairs I had put out when I interviewed Polycarpus. Myla had never removed them, of course. ‘You can recover from any emotional upset, while I fetch my writing equipment. Since you are here, let’s run through some questions I need to ask you.’
‘Should I have somebody with me?’ I thought her alarm was put on.
‘This is not a court.’ I steered her to the less comfortable seat. She ended up with an old folding x-stool; I wondered if she remembered it from her marriage. ‘I want to establish a few facts. Woman to woman,’ I cooed falsely. If she really had been involved in foul play, the last thing she wanted was an intimate exchange.
It took no time to gather up a note tablet and stylus in my room, but when I went back Galla Simplicia was already on her feet again, thinking to escape. She had dithered too long. I raised my eyebrows, as if failure to cooperate would count against her. She dropped back into her seat.
I took the more comfortable wicker chair. ‘Shall I ask Myla to bring refreshments?’
‘I don’t think so!’ I spotted an underlying dryness in Simplicia’s tone.
‘You’re right; she verges on useless. It beats me why people keep such girls, but I suppose when they have been in a house for a long time they are tolerated by default.’
My companion said nothing, though the ends of her mouth tightened.
On further inspection, Galla Simplicia must be forty, or closing fast. She was a type, proved by her wearing strappy sandals that just fell short of those beloved by the easy girls under the arches of the Circus Maximus. She indulged in time-consuming manicures, facials and hair-procedures. As well as too many finger-rings, she wore a complex gold necklace with a pendant of big Indian pearls, the kind that women with little-girl voices can extract from weak-willed men. She liked the good things in life; she knew where and how to obtain them. She continued to squeeze money from Aviola after he divorced her, but his marrying Mucia would finally have put a stop to it.