Quick-witted Amaranta moved into the conversation smoothly. ‘He was not with us. We had saved some food for him. Phaedrus was going to relieve him after he had finished, then Nicostratus would come across for his bowl.’
Libycus took this up: ‘The robbers bashed him when they came in, exactly as we have always said. We all thought he was on duty at the front, and if he made any noise when the thieves got in, we never heard a sound.’
‘Just like you never heard a squeak from Aviola and Mucia — even while they were murdered right next door? One wall between you and that horrific crime — I shall have to check how substantial and soundproof it is! … Are you still saying, Phaedrus, that you found Nicostratus lying in the corridor, so that was when you discovered the crimes and raised the alarm?’
‘That’s right.’ No; according to what Roscius told Faustus and me, that was wrong.
‘So, Libycus — ’ I turned suddenly to Aviola’s body slave, ‘- you must have come home before the thieves struck? Nicostratus let you in before anything happened? Yes?’
Libycus had a wild-eyed moment, but nodded.
I was terse. ‘Frankly, that fails to fit the timing I had from your two friends. You are supposed to have seen Aviola to bed — helped him out of his party clothes and so forth, blew his precious nose nicely − then you went out. Secundus and Myrinus told me you spent a lot of time with them, and it was very late when you left.’
He had no answer, merely muttered that I must have misunderstood what his friends said.
We were going around in circles. I could not see what these slaves hoped to achieve here. All they seemed to want to say was that the thieves had been unaware of them because they were closeted in the oecus. It was a good-sized hall, and I could accept that their presence went unnoticed if they were behaving very quietly. But they failed to shake my belief in what Faustus and I had been told by Roscius.
The slaves still maintained the robbers carried out the crimes. For that to be true, Roscius must be a robber, a killer and a blatant liar. He was a habitual denier of his gang’s guilt, yet I still felt he had told the truth about that night.
39
I returned to the apartment, to find cypress bushes either side of the front doors and a corpse in the atrium: Polycarpus. Although he lived upstairs, the Aviola executors must have allowed him to be presented to mourners here. He was lying on a simple bier on the marble table, which at least meant that table had a function sometimes. He had been dressed in a plain white toga, and placed with his feet towards the door.
There was a strong smell of incense but I was glad to learn from Dromo that the funeral was to be tonight. According to strict tradition, it should take place on the eighth day after death — but tradition tends to be ignored at the height of summer. Don’t start complaining about the decline in religious observance. You try living for a week with a dead body lying in your house, in the middle of June in Rome.
I love the potential of a funeral. I had missed seeing Aviola and his bride going to the gods, but when their steward was cremated, I made sure I was right there. For an informer it can be vital. While people have to stand for hours watching a corpse burning, something in the insidious scent of the oils — and their boredom — is apt to loosen tongues. Even if they say nothing, the way people behave can be revealing.
I went upstairs and spoke to Graecina, who was getting ready. I helped arrange her veil, and since someone had to pay for this funeral, I asked how she was placed for money; she told me the family had savings tucked away. She and Polycarpus had been careful to provide for the future. (I noticed she said they had made financial plans together.) They had been an up-and-coming family, but were mindful how easily they and their children could be ruined by fate. It was clear, however, the widow and children would not face immediate hardship after their loss.
What they did need was social support. That was being provided by Galla Simplicia. She had even suggested Graecina might like to work for one her daughters. I did not mention that Polycarpus had told me the daughters were spoiled. Graecina was a free woman and had the right to quit if she found she hated the position.
Since tonight’s event was private, she also had control over who came to her husband’s funeral. Myself, I would have liked the slaves to be brought from the aediles’ office. I wanted to observe reactions. I offered to make overtures to Manlius Faustus, who could certainly have arranged it had there still been time. Graecina refused, I think because they were so closely associated with the deaths of Polycarpus’ master and mistress. She understood that there could be no accusation of them being involved in killing her husband, yet she was obviously prejudiced. If, as I suspected, Graecina started life working in a bar, her own background would be regarded as shameful; it was interesting that she chose to look down on slaves. Everyone needs someone to despise.
Graecina seemed to have made most of the funeral arrangements herself. She was organised. I wondered whether she had learned from Polycarpus, or whether that was always her character and he had liked it in her.
I managed to get some rest before the formalities started. I could have done with more. Informers have to be tireless, and work is unpredictable. You sometimes find nothing to do with yourself for a week, then you have a day that never seems to end. This was to be one of those.
Graecina wanted a ceremony with ‘nice people’, so she did invite Galla Simplicia, plus Galla’s cousin and all three of her children. The pregnant Valeria did not stay to the end, but both she and her husband thought it right to show their faces at the start. Mother’s Boy and the younger sister did stay. They were pleasant; even he behaved to the widow with good manners. Though Galla Simplicia had complained about the difficulties of bringing up children single-handed, she seemed to have done a good job.
Graecina was accompanied by her own young children, of whom there were two, a shy little boy and a girl who whimpered ceaselessly, though who could blame her? Both were only infants; they would never see their father again and must be terrified of the change that would devastate their once-settled lives. They found the walk to the necropolis too long and standing for several hours at the tomb tired them even more.
Present when we left the house was a large number of neighbourhood associates of Polycarpus, people in trade whom he had known and dealt with in the course of his work. They may not have fitted Graecina’s definition of ‘nice people’, but they all spoke of her husband with respect. I was there, shadowed by Dromo. Of the Aviola household, there was no time for anyone to return from Campania, so we were only graced by Myla, who attached herself to the procession as it was leaving, possibly unasked. She walked at the back, beside Graecina’s slave, Cosmus.
As we made our way, under cover of the racket from a couple of hired musicians, I took the opportunity to ask Dromo how he had managed when I told him to make friends with Cosmus.
‘No use. He wouldn’t have anything to do with me. He’s peculiar.’
I scoffed that that could be said about many people.
‘Who? You mean me?’ demanded Dromo, his field of vision as always confined to his own world.
‘No, the sun does not revolve around you, Dromo. I meant generally, there are a lot of odd people.’