Fundanus explained his own interest, a man who liked to hold forth. Yes, he was a funeral director, but he had a lucrative sideline in punishing and executing slaves.
‘This is for private customers?’ I asked.
‘Can be. Someone has a slave who needs keeping in order, kindly chastisement, we can supply the necessary.’
‘What would that be?’
‘Posts, chains, ropes. Floggers too — my operatives can work with the cross or the fork.’ I did not need to ask; the slave victims would be either nailed to a wooden cross or hung on a very ancient device called the fork. Then they would be flogged to as near death as their owner chose — or actually until they died. They were property. An owner could dispose of his slave; killing them was frowned upon nowadays, but theoretically it could still happen. ‘We make one charge, applies across the board − four sesterces each man, whether for a fork operative, a flogger, or an executioner.’
‘That’s fair.’
‘I don’t muck about,’ claimed Fundanus smugly. ‘Of course on a public contract, different rates apply. A magistrate gives the orders, we supply crosses as standard, plus free nails, pitch, wax, tapers, anything else required. All covered by our retainer. Copy of the rules hung in the premises.’ He gestured to it.
I admired his certificate and said I was glad to see a public role being properly administered. ‘This is not an area where sloppiness can be tolerated.’
‘Right, young lady!’ Oblivious to my satire, Fundanus decided to set me straight about my own commission. ‘I expect this will come as news to you. Those slaves, that whingeing bunch who’ve got themselves bed and board at the temple’s expense, ought to have gone to their master’s aid. Me, I support extending blame to all the little shits under one roof. We have to fight the enemy, both within and without.’
‘Might they not have been loyal servants who were unable to do anything?’
Fundanus gave me a pitying look. ‘I can tell what sort of home you were brought up in!’ My parents would have been proud to hear that, especially as he clearly meant ‘among dangerous philosophers, who think all beings born on earth have value’.
‘I try to see both sides,’ I murmured, feeling my mother’s influence.
‘That was what I meant!’
‘I am sorry,’ I apologised meekly, mentally writing a curse tablet against this man.
‘Let me tell you a few things about the world, my girl. We cannot let these people get the upper hand. Slaves have to be forced to protect their masters by the threat of their own death if they don’t. They ought to come running without thought for themselves whatever’s going on − including throttling, strangling, being thrown over a cliff, or struck with any stick, missile, blade or other weapon.’
He must have seen this list in an edict somewhere. I wondered if the weapons would include fireships or military catapults. I merely said, ‘Seems comprehensive.’
‘Oh, it’s not ideal. It doesn’t cover poisoning − because the argument goes, how would they know? Pathetic! Or once the effects of a poison become obvious, it’s too late and what could they do? With a master’s suicide, the sentence only applies if the slaves are on the spot at the time and could prevent the attempt.’
‘Understandable.’
‘What,’ asked the funeral director, lowering his voice as some mark of respect, ‘happened to the victims in the tragic circumstance under review?’
‘Strangled. With a piece of rope.’
He nodded, with grim satisfaction. ‘That would be covered.’
‘I know.’
‘As I said. Your bastard clients should have gone to help.’
I didn’t bother to contradict him that Faustus was my client, not the slaves. ‘They all say they didn’t hear anything. No cries for help.’
‘Mule-dung. I’d clean out the lying snots’ earwax with a lighted taper … Anything useful been done to them so far? What has been tried?’
‘Just intense questioning.’
‘You are having a laugh!’
I admitted I was serious, but promised that when the time came to use proper methods, he would be the chosen operator.
‘You can put a word in?’ From the way he sized me up, he was wondering who I slept with.
I assured him I had contacts, not mentioning names. Before things became tricky, I made my excuses and left.
As I walked back to the Esquiline I felt demoralised. The Fundanus world-view was depressing enough, but I was having my own crisis. Earlier I had wanted my commission to continue, because I hate being thwarted and still hoped to find the truth. With time to review the situation as I walked, I decided I had now done everything possible. Some informers would drag things out for the daily retainer, but I faced up to the fact my inquiry should be wound up, even though it had proved a failure.
I never get sentimental about cases. If they are dead in the water, it is always best to admit that. Save yourself time and effort; keep your integrity. Your clients may even be so fair-minded they appreciate honesty.
Well, I had one once who claimed she did. She thought it meant she could get away with not paying me for work done. I soon explained how that was a misapprehension, so then she decided that I was a cheating bitch she should never have hired. I had to send a debt-collector. She coughed up when she saw Rodan. She didn’t even try to buy him off with the promise of her body — restraint in which she showed both morality and taste. Such rare qualities.
The same woman even tried to hire me a second time. She seemed surprised when I refused, even though I was lying on a sunbed at the time so she could see I was not busy.
This case was over. Faustus would pay me for what I had done, and I would accept the fee.
He might never commission me again, although if he was a just man he would see that we had simply run out of evidence. It can happen. I still had doubts whether the slaves were guilty. But now we would be forced to follow the law and damn them, if and when the temple authorities chose to terminate their asylum.
Then something happened, as it sometimes does. The whole inquiry had to be reopened, just as I was on the verge of writing the report that would tell Manlius Faustus we had to close it. Someone else in the Aviola household died.
30
I continued back to the Esquiline, considering how I could formally explain the position to Faustus. I thought he would probably accept it, causing me less of a headache than I got from my own bad mood. I cannot deal well with failure.
Dromo was dodging about behind me, looking at stalls and shops. I needed to keep an eye out all the time, in case I lost him. Faustus had taught him one route to and from the Aventine but our path from the undertaker’s was new, while Dromo’s grasp of the Roman map was limited. If we separated, I did not trust him to find his own way to the apartment. Besides, he was supposed to guard me.
The weather had warmed up. It was a long hot walk. I should have paid for a chair, but I chose not to sting the aedile with a hefty fare at the moment when I was dropping his case. If I did, as soon as the carriers set off, Dromo was bound to be left behind. How often have you seen women leaning out of chairs and helplessly calling slaves’ names, shouting themselves hoarse while their difficult entourage pretends not to hear?
I needed Dromo; I was going to the apartment to collect my personal belongings and Faustus’ property, so Dromo would have to transport it all on his handcart. While I could rely on Polycarpus to return these things eventually, he had no incentive to be prompt and it was foolish to suppose every item would reappear. Even a good steward could not prevent messengers picking out choice goodies for themselves.
As it turned out, asking Polycarpus to organise it was not an option.
Close to heat exhaustion, we passed the Market of Livia but I did not go in. If I was leaving the apartment, I had no further need for provisions. I could not face the crowds, nor the barracking shopkeepers. You have to be feeling confident to cope in a Roman market. I was too demoralised.