‘Not forgetting,’ argued Justinus, who never entirely agreed with his brother, ‘those elsewhere who might have assisted, but who were unaware an assault was happening.’ He told me to list the Aviola household and draw a plan of the apartment, plotting people’s whereabouts. Well, obviously I would do that. ‘Albia, check who was within earshot. Was it night? Had the whole household gone to bed? Were the newly-weds …?’ He tailed off demurely.
‘At it?’ I suggested, looking helpful.
‘Enjoying a full marriage …’
Most couples in Rome made love with half the household listening in. Often with servants right there in the room. ‘If they were wrestling conjugally,’ I teased, ‘any cries for help might have been mistaken for joyous sound effects.’
Faustus shot me a prudish look, but Justinus simply carried on. ‘If they liked privacy and were alone together, it’s critical whether any slaves nearby could hear calls for help. You might even ask how loudly could the murdered couple shout? What about slaves who were hard of hearing and have an excuse? You see what I mean.’
Aelianus must be growing long-sighted. He leaned back and squinted down his nose at a scroll as he put in his thoughts: ‘The law is usually interpreted as saying that any slaves in the house had a duty to come running. But does “in the house” mean in other rooms or corridors, or does it include the garden or grounds, or even the street outside, if shouts and screams might reach that far? Think about that as you negotiate the apartment.’
I had a vision of conducting aural experiments. Standing in different places and yelling ‘Help!’ while an assistant checked off results on a list …
‘You sound as if you would like to put these questions to a court.’ Faustus looked nervous. He must be hoping the Temple of Ceres would not have to pay for litigation, simply to fund my crazy uncles’ professional curiosity. With slaves, the authorities had probably thought there would be no trial.
‘Good advocates try to avoid lawsuits,’ returned Justinus, smiling.
‘Too expensive?’
‘Too prone to uncertain outcomes.’
‘You distrust juries?’
‘Seen too many.’
‘You said silverware went missing. What about the burglars?’ demanded Aelianus, changing tack.
‘Persons of interest — serious interest, clearly,’ said Faustus.
‘But persons unknown? Aedile, do not involve Flavia Albia in tracing them.’
Before I could flare up, Justinus stressed the point. ‘My niece is special to us, Faustus. My brother and I stand in loco parentis when necessary.’
‘Nuts!’ I shrieked. ‘Your brother and you aren’t fit to be in loco to a worm!’ I realised the idiots must have talked over the dangers to me before Faustus and I arrived. I had to steer them all off this subject. No informer should allow a bunch of men to quibble about how she conducts her enquiries. ‘Uncle Quintus, you know perfectly well Didius Falco has nominated an old Bithynian freedman as his daughters’ guardian.’ Turning to Faustus, I joked, ‘My father holds the traditional view that any woman without a father or husband should be placed in the care of a lecherous fraud with his filthy eyes on her money − as if my sisters and I couldn’t fritter away our property for ourselves.’
‘I thought Falco chose Nothokleptes, that disaster of a banker he uses,’ grinned Justinus, happily sidetracked. ‘That way, the cash can just be reassigned in a ledger and won’t even need to be physically moved.’
‘He told me he had found a degenerate priest.’ Even Aelianus played the game. ‘One who likes pretending he’s the Pontifex Maximus and beating naughty girls on their bottoms with rods.’
‘I imagine Flavia Albia can run rings around the guardian system.’ Faustus was rubbing a scar on his hand where I had stabbed him with a meat skewer once; he was subtly reminding me how I had once over-reacted to something he said. There was no need to explain that to the uncles.
Aelianus returned to his original caveat. ‘The point is, aedile, we cannot sanction sending our dear niece among violent criminals.’
‘Not an issue,’ replied Faustus, stiffening up. ‘I admire Flavia Albia’s work, and I have witnessed her personal courage, but my intention is to use other means to follow up the burglary.’
He probably just that moment decided. Until the Camilli acted up, Manlius Faustus, the fast-thinking plebeian rich boy, had seen me as a tough, street-savvy worker he could send anywhere. He would have been right. I would have done whatever was necessary. Now, half the inquiry had been whipped away from me.
They agreed that the more tiresome task − detailed interviews with members of the Aviola household − was suitable for me. I groaned at the prospect of mumbling pot-scourers, shrine-tidiers and clothes-attendants, but I let the men enjoy the thought that they could snooze in their studies, overlooked by busts of poets, while I wasted note tablets on domestic minutiae.
In the end they would claim the credit for whatever I learned. Yes, I had been a female informer for a long time. I knew all the disadvantages.
‘It should be simple,’ Uncle Quintus assured me. ‘Remember the proverbial answer: the cup bearer did it.’
4
Marry in June. May is a month of ill-omen, but once it is over the goddess Juno presides kindly over couples who unite in her festival period, slathering them with good prospects, including fertility for those who can abide babies.
Camillus Justinus and Claudia Rufina had married in May, though that was in North Africa where different gods preside. I was adopted into the family after that, but relatives who pursued the eloping couple were still shocked that during their trip they had to watch another uncle of mine being killed by an arena lion. Even in my family, this counts as an unusual day out. They were all thankful for a bridal bash to take their minds off the screams, despite Claudia’s visible qualms about marrying Quintus. Still, weddings should be traditional and nothing beats watching a young bride riven by huge doubts, does it?
Marcus Valerius Aviola and Mucia Lucilia were a mature couple, so presumably knew what they were doing. They can never have had much anxiety, except in their last frightful moments. Theirs was a perfectly conventional wedding, properly in June. They died on their second night together. I arrived at their apartment a week later. Their funerals had already taken place and unfortunately the apartment had been tidied. I like to inspect a crime scene with any blood or tangled bedsheets still in situ.
Manlius Faustus accompanied me to the Esquiline, still intent on finding accommodation for me. My idea was a room above a bar: anonymous, local, quiet by day when I wanted to review my notes, handy for eats, safely full of people at night. My headstrong employer had other ideas. He seemed to think I would drink cheap wine and pick up men. Well, those were traditional male Roman fears about women, and he hadn’t known me very long. I assured him that I like to be sober when I’m man-hunting.
He then came up with a gem: I should stay in the Aviolas’ guest room, at the heart of the inquiry. ‘Rent-free to the temple? What misers! Oh Faustus. You really think it’s wise for me to live where a violent murder was committed?’
‘Dromo will sleep on a mat outside your door each night.’
‘Oh spare me that, aedile!’
Dromo was the slave Faustus took about with him. I knew Faustus’ uncle normally purchased better specimens, so I guessed this loon had turned out badly and been dumped on the aedile, who seemed an oddly docile nephew.
The boy was about sixteen, podgy, sullen, and he smelt. In a city where baths were so plentiful, with many free even for slaves, Dromo must pong on purpose. He certainly didn’t copy his horrible hygiene from his master. Up close, Faustus was sweet and fresh, I happened to know. ‘You can use him as a messenger, Albia. Somebody has to bring me your daily action notes.’