Do not ask for a critique of Falco’s writing. I am a loving, loyal daughter.
Today we had it to ourselves, a rather over-elaborate interrogation room. The well-proportioned interior was lined with large wall niches that were beautifully painted with garden scenes and landscapes, all exquisitely done in that endearing Roman style where indoor frescos mimic living plants that you can see simultaneously outside. One end of the hall opened onto a terrace with lovely views towards the Alban Hills. Unfortunately, once Alba became the infamous location of our emperor’s citadel villa, nobody could gaze eastwards without the warped image of Domitian brooding in his fortress, planning ways he could make our lives miserable.
This was an unusually sophisticated venue for an interview with a gangster, but none of Roscius’ violent associates would come looking for him here. If he was overawed by the grand setting, it might work in our favour. He looked around, no doubt hoping to identify statues he could steal, though this was strictly a performance space and no art gallery.
Faustus seemed at home. Did he have an unknown life as an arts connoisseur?
For me, it made a welcome change from barracks and bars. But it would not be my natural choice. The place was too busy making its gorgeous presence felt. I prefer a neutral background for grilling suspects.
‘I am not saying anything!’ Roscius began, predictably.
Faustus pointed out that we had not asked anything yet. ‘You don’t want to get on the wrong side of me, Rabirius Roscius. I am more ruthless than you can possibly imagine. You don’t even know the meaning of “vindictive bastard” yet.’
If true, to me it was an unfamiliar side of Manlius Faustus. I knew he could be tough, even unpleasant when someone annoyed him, but otherwise I saw him as a man of steadfast noble virtues, including restraint. Restraint in particular. Unfortunately.
Roscius told Faustus to push off.
Faustus told Roscius he was not going to do that.
I stepped in as a sweet female ameliorator. ‘Roscius, trust me, I advise against upsetting this aedile. There are stallholders all along the Vicus Armilustrium who shit diarrhoea when he goes on a walkabout, even if their special counterfeit corn-measures have been left at home that day. I’m nice. Why don’t you talk to me?’
‘Oh, not “good bastard, bad bastard”!’ snorted Roscius like an experienced hardnut.
‘I have no idea what you mean … But I do know that whoever arranged that attack on a senator three nights ago has knocked over a hive of extremely angry bees. It may not have been announced in the Daily Gazette yet, but there are strident calls for a Senate inquiry, with possible intervention by the emperor himself. Everyone in your position can expect a very heavy crackdown. The scrutineers are being urged to go for all the old crime families. Be wise, man! Anyone who cooperates first in the aedile’s investigation may avoid having his door kicked down.’
‘Don’t be so generous, Flavia Albia,’ Faustus joined in, making himself sound scratchy. ‘Why should one gangster escape justice, when we have an opportunity to round them all up? I am just waiting for the formal order, then I shall be scarifying my patch. Every felon on the Aventine is really going to feel this. No scum unturned.’
‘I have heard,’ I said gravely, ‘Rabirius Roscius has more political know-how than some.’
‘Ha! How’s that?’
‘Well, dear Tiberius, this man will surely see that you and I are intent on solving the Aviola case, so for us, the senator-bashing is a separate issue.’ Neither of us had mentioned to Roscius that the bashed senator was my uncle. I guessed Roscius had not yet joined up all the dots in the sketch. Did he know Camillus Justinus had visited Gallo with me? Did he even realise Justinus went to the Second’s tribune with Faustus?
‘If we did solve the Aviola case, Roscius, your name could be omitted from the senator-bashing inquest,’ Faustus returned thoughtfully. He sounded as if he meant it.
‘I presume that would be a relief to the Rabirii,’ I offered to Roscius. ‘They won’t want this commission to take a piercing look at what happened to Aviola. It is very high profile, the victims were well-to-do and the circumstances − such violence, and so soon after a wedding − have attracted the wrong kind of public attention. That’s even without the slaves fleeing to the Temple of Ceres. For Romans, a religious connection makes it so much more sensitive.’
‘And it’s messy!’ quipped Faustus with some glee, as if he revelled in slurry.
Showing signs of alarm, Roscius piped up suddenly, ‘We never done Valerius Aviola. Nor his precious bride neither.’
I refrained from correcting his grammar. He would have been too busy learning how to operate a jemmy to attend a decent school of rhetoric.
Faustus leaned towards him, sounding more reasonable. ‘That so? Do you want to tell me what really happened?’
‘No, I bloody don’t!’ Roscius fell back on the criminal’s professional motto: ‘If you had any evidence, you wouldn’t be asking.’
‘Evidence?’ laughed Faustus.
‘Oh, Roscius,’ I suggested gently, ‘you are forgetting this is Manlius Faustus, the infamous plebeian magistrate − and vindictive bastard.’
Roscius was standing with his arms folded, a defensive stance, though his bravado was dwindling. I could see in his eyes he was making wrong decisions almost every time the conversation took a turn. We had been right to approach the junior. Old Rabirius must still be dealing with the gang’s business himself, supported by Gallo. He had not yet exposed Roscius much — not enough for the young man to be able to handle this competently. One day he would know better. He would stand firm and keep denying everything. He would be laughing at us then.
Now he was under too much pressure. We had a few more exchanges on the same lines, until he gave way. He agreed to discuss the night when Aviola and Mucia were killed — though he made one last feeble attempt at a stand: ‘Why are you asking me about it anyway? This is victimisation, totally unfair. You have nothing to link me or my boys to it.’
‘You are the robbery expert,’ Faustus flattered him. ‘The word is, if a big break-in occurs, you are the only one capable. So did you know Valerius Aviola owned a cache of special silver?’
‘Do dogs shit in the gutter? You bet I knew. Wine set, plenty of items, all very pretty. Kept it in his dining room.’
‘Summer or winter?’ I asked, making a show of testing him.
‘What?’
‘Summer or winter dining room!’ Faustus spelled out, sounding irritable.
‘On shelves or display table?’ I asked.
‘If table, three-legged or monopod?’ rapped Faustus.
‘If monopod, marble or fancy wood? Then citron or cedar wood?’
Faustus and I were enjoying the word games, while Roscius clearly felt nervous. Trying to follow our banter made him breathless. ‘Lay off! You’re confusing me …’
‘Oh, forget citron and cedar. Stone beats wood every time for me.’ Faustus kept rambling. ‘Give me Euboean onion-skin marble for setting off silver any day. Lovely green base, good wavy lines …’
‘Stop joshing around,’ I chided. ‘You heard what he said — we are confusing him. Roscius, just tell me, did you know that the family were leaving for Campania?’
‘Yes, I did.’ He answered the simple question with relief.
‘So did you go to the house that night to lift the silver while you could?’
‘We went.’
‘And you took it?’
‘No.’
‘Why not? You got inside?
‘Of course. Sweet as a nut.’
‘So why not take the stuff?’
‘None there. Not a piece of it. We found the dining room all right, but the shelves were standing there all empty.’
Roscius looked awkward and unhappy. In telling this odd story, he seemed unable to decide whether he was embarrassed by failure or defiant because he was innocent of theft. Faustus shot a glance at me, then he took up the questioning. ‘Something happened?’ he asked in a quieter voice than formerly. ‘Get it off your chest, why not?’