‘That’s sad,’ Faustus observed conventionally, steering me around some of the beggars who lurked under the aqueduct. ‘Children?’
‘Fortunately no.’ Aelianus, an awkward character, would probably have been a high-handed father. ‘Both my uncles are in the Senate, although it was a big financial struggle. I don’t know all the details, except that my father contributed.’
‘Generous.’
‘He had worked with both. Still does. You know how Roman families operate.’
Faustus nodded. He himself lived with an uncle; they shared business interests and perhaps other sins. ‘The Camilli are now a partnership?’
‘Yes, but on sometimes spiky terms.’ The pair had matured slightly when they hit their late twenties and came good as court prosecutors, which is almost a respectable career. But they were temperamentally different and Justinus had once eloped with Claudia Rufina, a Baetican heiress who had really come to Rome to marry his brother. Years later, it still rankled. The brothers were thirty-nine and forty now. Old enough to be consuls, though for them it would never happen. They lacked the right political friends. My father reckoned that was what made them decent and likeable.
‘Are they good, or just your uncles?’
‘They are good.’ They really were. He gave me a look. ‘Honestly, Faustus.’
‘And you work with them?’
‘Sometimes a case benefits from a woman’s touch.’
Yes, and sometimes those two casual lads were just too lazy to do the legwork themselves.
Camillus Justinus’ house looked half-painted; I could not remember any maintenance being done since my grandparents’ time. We were admitted by an age-old Janus who had rudely forgotten my name even though I had cursed him a hundred times before. A desultory housekeeper showed us to a salon where a sleepy serving boy just stared at us. Faustus and I exchanged glances; we were both thinking about slaves and their habits today.
Claudia, my aunt, popped her impressive nose around a door, rattled an armoury of bangles, evaluated Faustus, and disappeared. She was well-groomed and jewelled up (Spanish olive oil money) but she flapped about the house with the long-suffering air of a mother of six whose husband was more loyal to her bank-boxes than to her.
My uncles turned up together. They looked furtive, as if they had been gossiping about how I came to know an aedile. A slew of young children tumbled into the room with them; Justinus rounded up his offspring and shooed them out again, arms wide, like a farmer penning heifers, yet he somehow projected gravitas. Aelianus looked as if he had indigestion, which was understandable in a man who had just sworn that his third marriage was absolutely the last, and who was brooding on how he would have to hand back yet another dowry. Despite having already spent it.
I performed light-hearted introductions: ‘Aulus Camillus Aelianus: trained in Athens and Alexandria, past son-in-law to the eminent law professor and legendary social drinker, Minas of Karystos.’ Aelianus scowled, not because he was ashamed of being taught by that great Greek symposium boozer, but at my allusion to his first wife. The rest of us once viewed Hosidia Meline as an interloper, but her father had shamelessly divorced her from Aelianus in order to marry her to someone richer; insultingly, it was a mere six months after Aelianus wed her. But that was long enough for Hosidia to form a warm friendship with her fellow foreigner, Quintus’ wife, and now she was never out of their house. This deeply irritated Aelianus.
‘Quintus Camillus Justinus: trained in Rome and at what he calls the University of Struggle. At least it has cheap fees.’ Lovely Uncle Quintus, the better-looking younger one. Affable, talented, everyone adored him, even his put-upon wife. That was how the rascal got away with being rascally.
‘Tiberius Manlius Faustus: plebeian aedile.’ Faustus nodded and said nothing, though I knew he was not shy.
Just outside the doors, rioting children ended their game in ear-splitting wails as one fell over and pretended he had hurt himself. We hastily migrated to Aelianus’ house through a communicating door.
Our new location was peaceful and neat, with swept floors and up-to-date wall frescos, but it always had a cold, unscented emptiness. If I had lived there, I would have filled it with puppies, fed birds in the garden, and hired a lyre player. Then I would have evicted Aelianus and had an affair with a furnace-stoker.
Let us not discuss my tragic history with Aulus Camillus Aelianus.
While Faustus outlined the Aviola murders and the slaves’ flight to the temple, I scooted to the kitchen where I organised tisanes and what Father calls nicknackeroony comports. In my relatives’ homes, the wise seek out their own refreshments. Only my mother is a thoughtful hostess. In the Aelianus ménage everything was there if you hunted for it, not just dates and miniature pastries but a perfectly willing little tray carrier. Three hauls of wedding presents had made Aelianus the owner of many matching fancy bowls. His wives tended to abandon the pottery and carry off his cash, insofar as cash existed.
He could have set up a food bowl stall, but lacked the charisma to be a successful salesman. Besides, for a senator, involving himself in retail would be breaking the rules.
I arrived back at the conference just as Faustus finished: ‘So my task will be identifying who really committed the murders, so the slaves can be evicted from the temple without offending the goddess. The Esquiline is not my jurisdiction, but I have been given a free hand.’
‘Oh, you mean I find the killers for you, then you sponge me out of the picture,’ I grumbled, asserting myself in the conversation.
Faustus replied quietly, ‘You know I give you credit.’
My uncles observed this exchange shrewdly.
We reclined on couches as we talked. Aelianus ignored the refreshments. Justinus ploughed into his brother’s snacks as if he had eaten no breakfast. Of course he had. In homes full of children, breakfasts go on for most of the morning chaotically.
He mumbled through a mouthful of pastry, ‘We need to remember what Seneca said: “Every slave is an enemy.” Most owners are paranoid that their staff are plotting against them.’
‘So often true!’ Aelianus had gone to another room, returning with his muscular arms full of legal scrolls. He now found his way around the documents by means of papyrus slips that he must have inserted earlier while preparing for this meeting.
Both my layabout uncles enjoyed taking an instruction. They emphasised that until I had seen the location and interviewed those involved, all they could tell us was general law.
‘Today we are just setting out the principles. I hate these cases,’ Justinus complained. ‘The traditional approach was to condemn all the slaves who were in the house. More recently, that kind of mass cull became unpopular and I would argue to have this dealt with liberally. Single out the culpable, but ignore the rest. If this couple were wealthy, are we talking about substantial numbers?’
‘No.’ Faustus shook his head. ‘After their wedding, they had planned to go to a villa that Valerius Aviola owned in Campania. Almost all the household had been sent on ahead. There was some delay, I don’t know what, so the couple were slumming it in Rome overnight with a skeleton staff.’
The small list of suspects had been a sweetener for making me take the job. I would not have agreed if there were big squads to investigate.
Aelianus’ advice was practical and focussed: ‘Start by asking specifically who was in the bedroom. Were any attendants present when the thieves rushed in? If so, they absolutely ought to have defended their master, regardless of risk to themselves. Identify any who failed to help, and any who did try to defend their master but were unsuccessful.’