Polycarpus turned up, mithering about my visit that morning to his wife Graecina. I had half-expected him to check up. The steward was the type who needed to involve himself and be in charge. Now he wanted to satisfy himself first-hand that nothing had been said that he himself would have concealed.
‘Routine questions, Polycarpus. I just wondered if you could give me any useful background on Galla Simplicia. You must have had many dealings with her while she and Aviola were married, perhaps even since they divorced. I would value your opinion.’
‘Did my wife say something?’ he asked narrowly. Justinus had left his toga on the second chair, so the steward had to remain standing; he was a little put out and awkward. Excellent!
‘Nothing untoward.’ I presumed he had been told that in my talk with Graecina I had speculated on Polycarpus helping Galla Simplicia.
I tried to be honest with myself. Was I feeling prejudice? Did I want to think he was involved, because I had taken against him? ‘Polycarpus, we haven’t talked about your master’s ex-wife and children. Why didn’t you mention them?’
‘You didn’t ask.’
‘I was never told they existed! You could have said. So, come on — share your views.’
Polycarpus pulled a non-committal face, though what he said was pretty clear. ‘She looks soft, but she’s hard.’
‘Why did they divorce?’
‘She was a handful. He found it all too much. From little things he said, I think he was relieved to live as a single man again.’
‘But not permanently … Did he miss having a companion in bed?’
‘There are ways around that.’
‘Do you know what ways Aviola found? Assuming he did?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
He must know, but Polycarpus would not say it to me. I presumed this was the usual nonsense of men ganging up.
I changed tactics. ‘What about the suggestion that Galla Simplicia was so aggravated by Aviola remarrying, and the possibility he might have more children, that she arranged his murder?’ The steward looked startled — or at least made a good show of it. ‘Do you believe it?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘You never found her vindictive?’
‘I never found her violent. Or that stupid,’ he added. He was shifting from foot to foot, though he appeared to be talking straight. ‘She likes to play the innocent in formal matters, business matters, yet Galla Simplicia is very intelligent.’
‘She used to twist Aviola to her will?’
‘Yes − and I thought,’ Polycarpus confided, ‘she reckoned she could continue to get around him even after he remarried.’
I said that, having met her, I too thought that very likely. Of course continuing to obtain whatever she wanted meant Galla Simplicia had no motive to kill.
I probed Polycarpus on the subject of her cousin, the executor. ‘Is it true you hope to be offered a position by Sextus Simplicius?’ Apparently the offer had now been made. Polycarpus said that since he was still so shaken by his old master’s death, he had kindly been given time to consider. This was not so generous to the existing steward, Gratus, on whose side I found myself. ‘Does your past experience of Galla Simplicia make you at all wary of working for her family?’
‘Maybe!’ the Aviola steward agreed with a wry smile, as if to tell me that was why he had asked for a moratorium. He was unwilling to speak further. I ended the conversation and let him go.
Shortly afterwards a message came that the tribune would make time for my uncle and the aedile. Clearly Quintus knew how to pen a graceful request for an interview. I admit, I myself could never have persuaded a tribune to see me on my own initiative. Senators have unfair advantages.
I had the idea of inviting my uncle and Faustus to join me for supper, in order to tell me what they learned. Quintus happily accepted and said, hinting, that he would be sure to bring the aedile with him. I replied coolly that then he could see for himself how there was nothing between us.
‘Ah, that’s a shame!’
That kind of annoying so-called humour is why I ought to stick with my rule, never work with relatives.
22
While my client and uncle were engaged in masculine business, lucky boys, I was left with time on my hands. I took Dromo out with a shopping basket, bought and prepared us a meal. I could do that. I refused to see this task as demotion. I enjoy supper with friends, especially on a fine June evening. Someone has to check that the shellfish are fresh.
One thing I like about Rome is that women go to dinner along with their men. Aulus Camillus’ first wife, Hosidia Meline, who came from Greece, expected to be left at home, and even when there was a party in her own house she tried to hide away. She felt uncomfortable when we encouraged her to join in. My mother had taught me that I must never accept being left out. Only a man who wanted me to be at his side as his equal was worth considering. In my own house, I was always to be the hostess.
This was not my house, but I issued the invitation, so it counted as the same.
When they appeared, Uncle Quintus greeted me with a fond kiss on the cheek, so Manlius Faustus followed his example, more diffidently since he was not a relative; still, it was unforced.
I led them to Aviola and Mucia’s summer dining room. There were three formal couches, big cushioned three-seaters, so we spread ourselves and flopped on one each. I had laid out the food and drink on the central serving table. It was a stretch, but we helped ourselves, in the absence of slaves. Dromo had moaned that he had to go to the baths again. Myla could have served us, but she had made herself invisible all afternoon. I wondered if that was what people meant when they said ‘Oh, she’s just Myla’ — she had a faultless instinct for when to keep out of the way?
It must have been in all our minds that this was where the feast took place on the night of the murders. The room was decorated in sea-green and white, a delicate palette, with refined panels of garden scenes, where an occasional painted dove frolicked on a scalloped fountain. The frescos looked new, as if redone for the wedding. I wondered if Mucia Lucilia had instigated that — the new wife, beginning to exert her influence?
Empty buffet shelves would once have held the stolen silver wine set. We had to eat and drink from pottery. But the pottery here was glossy red-glazed ware from northern Italy, with elegant scenes of hares and running antelopes. In this household, even the items left behind when the rest was packed up for Campania were more than decent.
I had folded back the wooden doors, which made the room airy and gave a sense of space. The view of the courtyard needing prettying up; Mucia cannot yet have started on that.
Perhaps on the feast night they hired tubs of topiary and draped the place with garland swags. There would have been lights. By the time of the attack, if witness statements were correct, the lamps had been put out, most probably removed; I had seen them, now routinely stacked in a store room. No doubt as soon as the guests left, someone went around and saved lamp oil. That was the kind of household Polycarpus ran. It could have been done while the debris was being cleared and the table goods washed in the kitchen.
The feast ended at a reasonable hour, then my guess was that the tidying up happened at some speed. The master and mistress had an early start next morning and they were eager for bed. They would have wanted all domestic bustle to be out of the way and the house quiet.
At our own little feast, Manlius Faustus, Camillus Justinus and I had been silent. We all gave proper respect to meals and were rather introspective anyway, each perhaps pondering the day’s events.
When the moment arrived to talk, my two companions praised my hospitality. It is always good to have your efforts noted. I let them vie with each other over showing good manners. Neither was a slimy flatterer. They both knew I was not taking it seriously.