I thought it was extremely unfair that the gods had given this ning-nong-ninnying noodle such beautiful eyelashes.
He had lashes like an unweaned prize calf. Most women I knew would drool with envy. One or two would drool all over him, because of his eye decorations, though I myself was repulsed. I like effective men.
The remaining parts of Valerius are not worth noting. I could see only slight resemblance to his mother, a pleasant-looking woman, nor did he share any facial features with the ceramic plaque of his republican-style father. So much for art.
He had an annoying voice. His nasal whine was even more trying because he could not pronounce his ‘r’s. Either he could not manage it because of a real defect, or he simply could not be bothered to speak properly. I thought it an affectation.
Of course I was not prejudiced against him, which would be unprofessional. He was a witness, possibly a suspect. I therefore remained entirely neutral about the idle, no-good, exasperating, spoiled brat.
‘You look as if you don’t like me!’ So he was not entirely an idiot.
We had a short, brisk interview. I asked bluntly if he had wanted to kill his father; he looked amused at the suggestion and denied it. Believing in himself so much, Valerius Simplicianus was unable to imagine his papa ever doing him down − which meant he really did lack motive. His line was, ‘The old man could be annoying, but when all was said and done, we got on fine.’
In other words, since Aviola could not possibly take against such a perfect heir, the heir had no reason to murder his father. Did he?
Weight was against him. His skinny wrists would never manage the steady force needed to strangle someone.
So I asked about his mother and how people were saying she harboured murderous thoughts. To that, Valerius replied in the same languorous, unconcerned tone: ‘Well, the old lady goes off into a world of her own sometimes, but she wouldn’t harm a fly. She’s horribly distressed about what happened − and really you ought not to hound her.’
I said I was sorry if his mother felt hounded. All anybody wanted was to discover the truth about this terrible crime. ‘Me too!’ answered the wonderboy, speaking very earnestly. He had put on his serious face. He leaned towards me and seemed to think he had cleverly deflected my enquiries.
His mother came into the room at that point. There was no point tying to dissect the son while Mama was supervising.
Since the executor, Simplicius, had been keeping quiet about the ex-wife and children when I spoke to him, he had of course misled me on Aviola’s will. I now ascertained from Galla Simplicia that when Simplicius vaguely spoke of ‘a number of bequests to close relatives and old friends’ this included recognition of his three children. Being an effete wastrel, Valerius knew in full what he was due. (They have to. How else will they live? Besides, legacy-hunting is a very Roman occupation.)
He seemed oblivious to the implications of admitting he had known he would come into money when his father died, though I could tell from his mother’s narrow expression that she was well aware it made him a suspect.
I took my leave.
I still had an open mind about Galla Simplicia. I needed evidence. If she had plotted, then let her think she had escaped, while I dug deeper.
I doubted that she killed the couple herself. Strangulation can be a woman’s method, but not when it involves more than one person at a time — well, except when a deranged mother kills all her infant children. Aviola and Mucia together could have driven her off. More importantly, Galla Simplicia did not have the physical strength to have beaten the door porter, Nicostratus. More than one attacker must have taken part, and whoever did it really knew how to inflict fatal damage.
That presumably indicated robbers — though it might not. I was supposed to be investigating the slaves, and if they really were guilty, I must start wondering whether any robbers had been involved at all that night. Or was the story a cover-up?
I wanted to pursue that. Manlius Faustus had insisted that my commission was not to include contact with criminals. That wouldn’t stop me if it was needed.
However, so long as there are alternatives I am not foolish. I had not yet tried consulting the vigiles. Perhaps they had wise words to offer on this case (feel free to guffaw). Then, if I did decide to go behind my employer’s back, at least the vigiles could tell me first which ghastly local gangsters might have been involved. But I presumed they had questioned the usual suspects.
I had to steel myself to visit the Second Cohort. For a woman, even talking to the vigiles means a trial of courage and personality, especially in a strange district. I needed to get this over with before I lost my nerve.
18
‘I’m glad to know I haven’t lost my touch!’
Uncle Quintus, the handsome, likeable one of my Camillus uncles, surprised me by arriving at the Aviola apartment. I was just slinking out, with a stole wrapped around me to look like a respectable matron. He claimed he had guessed what I would be up to. I kept mum and glared.
‘You are going to tangle with the vigiles — then you’ll want to go after the robbers, don’t deny it, Albia. I checked progress with your client this morning and it’s obvious. Manlius Faustus is an idiot if he trusts you to obey orders.’
‘He’s not an idiot — but he is wrong, and so are you, to try and tie me down.’
Quintus tipped his head on one side. He had rather fine brown eyes which he deployed − perhaps unconsciously, though I thought not − to inveigle women who knew better to fall in with his wiles. Don’t ask me what wiles. I preferred not to know. ‘So what’s the story there?’ he asked.
‘Where?’
‘Devious Niece, you and the plebeian aedile?’
‘There is no story. Nosy Uncle, why don’t you trot into the apartment and inspect the scene of crime, while I nip out for an onion? There’s a slave called Myla who has been waiting all her life to be bewitched by you. Leave me alone and ask her some questions.’
‘Ooh, will she make wild relevations?’
‘You will doubtless get further with her than I did.’
‘She can wait,’ decided Quintus annoyingly. ‘I’ll plan my assault on the winsome Myla while I am escorting you.’
I gave in. To be honest I was glad. He must have come straight from the Curia, so was still togaed up. It never does any harm to take a senator, with his full purple banding, when you venture into the offices of armed men who despise women. Besides, despite his snooty rank and mild demeanour, my uncle kept in shape; he always made handy back-up.
He had a couple of bodyguards following him about discreetly too. Because of the case, I took more notice of them than usual. They were his usual lost lambs — ex-legionaries who had been invalided out of the army, one with a paralysed arm, one who hadn’t actually lost an eye but might as well have done, he was so short-sighted — and he really did have an ear torn off, probably not in battle. This was typical of Uncle Quintus. His career posting as a military tribune had left him feeling responsibility towards the Empire’s damaged soldiers. He had felt sorry for my late husband in the same way.
Would these two squaddies, with not a whole set of limbs between them, be good enough protection today? Quintus probably had innocent faith in them, but I would avoid anywhere we might be mugged.
I was not accompanied by Dromo. He had been asleep with his mouth wide open and I had tiptoed past him.
Good work — until I ran into my uncle.
As we set off walking, I admitted that ‘winsome’ Myla was a lazy, lactating lump on whom Uncle Quintus would not want to waste his skills.
I also admitted I was going to see Titianus. My uncle declared the Second Cohort were donkey dung (which I told him was normal for the vigiles), and corrupt (which we agreed we also expected), and even more undermanned than the other cohorts — which last point showed Quintus Camillus Justinus in his true light. He had carried out useful research before he turned up.