‘And a friend!’ I snapped, letting my aunt see what I thought of her bad manners towards Faustus. It made me change my intention of staying here another night.
I asked to borrow escort slaves. I would have reclaimed Mucia’s carrying chair, but Claudia informed me it had already been collected, by Polycarpus. He had told her that it was a valuable asset which he needed to keep carefully for the executors.
‘I am appalled that you were put into a vehicle with dried blood on the seat, Flavia Albia. Whoever was murdered there? I was glad to see the back of the thing. My children kept playing in it … Your own boy is still here, if you need an escort.’
I managed to find Dromo, who had stayed at the Capena Gate because nobody instructed him to do anything else. I dragged him with me up to the Aventine. First we went to the aediles’ office, but Faustus was absent. If he had been denied lunch by Claudia, he probably needed an early dinner. I knew where he lived, but was leery of visiting him at home.
Instead I went to Fountain Court. ‘Cor, this is a dump!’ Dromo informed me, in case I had not noticed. I told him to doss downstairs with the porter.
I took myself to the haven of my own apartment. This was indeed a dump, but I felt overdue for a night in my own bed. I had been away from home for five days; after that time any woman needs to refresh herself with a change of earrings.
29
Since I was up on the Aventine, next morning I walked over to the aediles’ office beside the Temple of Ceres. First I went into the temple, to check for myself whether the Aviola silver was there among the donated treasure. No luck.
I would have liked a catch-up with my client, and perhaps a sociable breakfast, but Faustus was still absent. He might have been at a meeting, though realistically no magistrate works every day. The point is to hold the office so it goes on your record of honours. Faustus seemed more conscientious than most aediles, but no one expected him to flog himself carrying out public duties. He was a rich boy. His uncle ran the family business, owned the house where they lived, let Faustus draw money as he wanted. He had never been in the army, so this would be the first time in his life (at thirty-six) that any demands were made on him.
What a shock that must have been.
I was feeling bitter.
I took another look at the fugitive slaves, not with much sympathy. I warned them this could be their last chance to tell me anything that might prove their innocence. The Temple was unlikely to allow them sanctuary much longer, whatever tradition dictated. The attitude in Rome was that somebody had to be punished for the deaths of their master and their mistress. I had failed to identify anyone else, so they were still chief suspects.
Most listened with little reaction. One or two looked shifty, especially Amaranta and the girl Olympe, but I had no leads for further questioning and I was not in a mood to listen to frightened sobbing.
‘So we are running out of options,’ said Chrysodorus, the philosopher who had to look after the lapdog. Puff wheezed out a languid bark. Chrysodorus glared vitriol at Puff. ‘Bad girl! Albia, all I ask is make it quick. I can accept that life is merely a stroll to the cremation pyre, but please spare me hooks and ropes and naked flames.’
‘Torture, Chrysodorus?’
Chrysodorus explained his gloom: a specialist contractor had been to the office, wanting to tender for squeezing information from the slaves if the temple kicked them out. Hearing Chrysodorus telling me about it made them all more agitated. Daphnus, the ambitious tray carrier, reckoned that had Manlius Faustus been at the office that day he might have accepted the contractor’s blandishments and handed everyone over.
I assured them Faustus was a benign wimp who didn’t believe inflicting pain made people tell the truth.
That was guesswork, though I had seen him be devout when organising a religious festival and he had told me he refused to see slaves as polluted by their condition. I thought it unlikely he would suddenly lose interest and end my commission; he had to answer to the temple, for one thing. Still, I never entirely trusted clients. Just in case my work was about to be cancelled, I asked the contractor’s address and went to have a proactive chat with him.
He was called Fundanus. His premises were down in the valley, on the nearest side of the Circus Maximus, below the Temple of Mercury. His primary business was that of a funeral director. The area was notoriously frequented by whores. Fornicating with their backs against the wall below his signboard, the night moths may have found that gave their tired trade a special frisson. I expect he buried the ashes of plenty of those sad women.
As I reached his yard, where carts, biers and headstones were arrayed, a mixed group of men, wearing matching red tunics, hurried out past me. I had seen this uniform on running men in Rome before, though never knew what it meant. Sometimes one of them was banging a bell.
Fundanus explained cheerily. ‘My men, fetching in a body — see the hauling hooks? The bell is to let people know we are coming. They want to jump out of the way quick, to avoid a corpse that’s contaminated by slavery. A bed-maker in Cyclops Street hanged herself this morning.’
‘When a slave dies, the corpse has to be removed in two hours?’ Faustus had told me this.
‘Only one hour if the silly bastard pulls the rope trick,’ Fundanus corrected. ‘Well, twisted sheet in this case, to be strictly accurate. My fellows should make the deadline, but we’re pushing it. People are so thoughtless. They arse about after they discover a body, discussing what has happened — when it’s obvious — and all the while, precious time is flying. I could lose my licence if I miss the deadline.’
‘Why did she do away with herself?’
‘Couldn’t endure any more from the master.’
‘You mean sex?’
‘Fucking morning, noon and night.’
‘He was not married?’
‘Where have you been? Of course he was. The wife said the bint had to put up with it, since it kept him happy.’ Presumably, that saved the wife from having to endure the pervert herself. Confirming my dire view of this family, Fundanus said, ‘He likes to beat the wife as hard as the slaves if she crosses him. So she lets him do whatever he wants — provided he’s doing it to someone else.’
He led me into the cabin where he normally seated the bereaved when they came to make arrangements. We took stools, not quite touching knees. He apologised for being unable to offer me mint tea, but said the serving boy had gone off as one of the red tunics. Feeling fastidious in this environment, I assured him that was fine.
He had a face like a root vegetable at the end of a hard winter. His humanity was just as shrivelled. The man was a plebeian, no doubt of it. That meant he came from the same rootstock as my father or Manlius Faustus. Their ancestors used their wits to build up businesses — warehouses and auctioneering. These were businesses where they could keep their hands fairly clean while generating filthy lucre from the uppercrust who sneered at them for being in trade — all of whom, it is fair to say, were themselves as bent as a discarded nail.
Fundanus had stuck at the filthy end of society, in a profession where everybody hated what he did. He had a stroppy attitude, and clearly enjoyed being awkward.
It is perfectly possible even Fundanus thought his job was a boil on the world’s bum. Still, he put up with it, never thinking of retraining in some more pleasant area — say, as a tunic-maker, a poet, or in the pastry trade. The man was overweight, under-endowed with muscle or brains, and outclassed by every sewer-rat who ever poked his nose out of a drain.
I noticed that his warts looked as if they had been infected with putrefaction from a long-time dead body. I told myself not to be squeamish, then told him my connection with the Aviola slaves.