‘Who says I am sending you notes?’
‘I do.’
In our one previous case together, we had both enjoyed the way the magistrate tried to play the stern monitor and I kicked against it. Now I stared him in the eye until eventually he ducked his head like a submissive dog, allowing himself a tight smile.
I told him he ought to smile more often. ‘It makes you look rather appetising.’ He tried to ignore that, though he came close to blushing. The man was fun to tease, although I suspected no one else ever did it. He had been unmarried for years and from the little I knew about the uncle he lived with, his only visible family, Tullius was not the type.
Of course he was entitled to progress reports. It was a routine part of my service. ‘Daily’ might be pushing it, but I was not foolish; until we apprehended the killer, I wanted somebody else to be aware of my movements. Faustus knew it would not give him supervision rights.
Or maybe he thought it did. He would soon learn.
The long stroll over from the Aventine confirmed that Rome really is built on Seven Hills, and they are highly inconvenient. Three, the Quirinal, Viminal and Esquiline, are steep ridges that run down in parallel and dominate the northern part of the city, getting in your way whenever you try moving about. Most easterly is the Esquiline, which lies mainly outside an ancient fortification, the so-called Servian Walls; the rampart overlooks an area that was once unhealthy and full of graveyards, though now some parts have been reclaimed and fancied up. People who think themselves quite grand nestle alongside workshops with unneighbourly trades and the destitute.
On the city side of the old embankment lurks Nero’s Golden House, a madman’s playground that once covered the Forum and beyond. Down at the bottom of the Esquiline stands the Temple of Minerva Medica. Up at the top is the Market of Livia, named after the Empress who also built an elegant Porticus in this region, full of fountains and an enormous vine that covered all the walls. Livia’s Market is by the Esquiline Gate, where the main road that runs under the arch arrives from the once-rough district called the Subura.
On this road, the Clivus Suburanus, Faustus and I found the Aviola apartment. It took us several tries, asking where Aviola lived, so he was not well-known in the district. Faustus played things unobtrusively but when I despaired of his approach, I walked into a bar and mentioned the robbery and deaths; all the gossipy waiters rushed to point out the crime scene.
It was a discreet house with several shops fronting its pavement, between which staircases led to upper levels. As was common in Rome, a substantial building had been divided internally then leased out in as many lucrative units as possible. The best suite occupied most of the ground floor, including an enclosed courtyard. This had been rented for some years by Valerius Aviola, I guessed expensively. Here he had brought his new bride after their wedding. Here they had died, before passion or economic rationale had had any chance to grow jaded.
Our first contact was the household steward, a freedman called Polycarpus. He looked as if his geographical origins were somewhere eastern, with chin stubble up to his cheekbones as if he came fresh from the desert. Even so, he spoke adequate Latin and had absorbed all the Roman myths about masculine superiority. He ignored me, but was perfectly pleasant when Faustus explained his official interest; the freedman readily agreed I could lodge there temporarily.
He showed Faustus the room. It was in a good position, just to the right of the main entrance area. Over the aedile’s shoulder I could see that it had fancy frescos and a geometric mosaic floor, but was barely furnished. Only a bed with a footstool alongside and an empty cupboard. I don’t ask for flower garlands, but a chamberpot would have been handy.
‘Our guests are people of status who tend to bring their own home comforts,’ Polycarpus explained, still addressing all remarks to Faustus. ‘Shall I find a few bits for the lady …?’
‘Don’t bother,’ I snapped.
I was not ready to interview the freedman, well, not while Faustus was lingering. I said I would see Polycarpus first thing next morning, to discuss what precisely had happened and who had been in the apartment when the murder took place. I shooed Faustus away as soon as I could, then set about familiarising myself with my surroundings.
Even before Faustus took his leave, their apartment seemed extremely quiet. Once he had gone, it was sepulchral.
Very pleasant.
I settled down on my bed to read a list of the refugee slaves, which had been given me by Faustus. Ink on papyrus. Nice lettering. Only later would I realise that even though he came from a home packed with staff, and could also call on the publicly employed secretaries in the aediles’ office, he wrote this himself. Charming. I do like a man who pays attention to my personal needs.
He listed those who took sanctuary at the Temple of Ceres by name, age, sex and occupation.
Amethystus, approx. 50, general work in house
Daphnus, 18, tray carrier/table attendant
Phaedrus, 24, litter bearer/door porter
Nicostratus, 28, litter bearer/door porter
Chrysodorus, approx. 40, philosopher
Melander, 20, scribe
Olympe, 15, musician
Diomedes, 47, gardener
Amaranta, 29, attendant/adorner to Mucia Lucilia
Libycus, 36, body slave/dresser to Valerius Aviola
No cup bearer. Still, I prefer the other proverb. The flute girl did it.
I wondered if Olympe, 15, wore ankle chains and had wanton eyes? My father reckons castanets are always suspect − but most Roman men get excited when talking about foreign female entertainers. My mother points out that it is not necessary to have a big bosom to play the lyre well; in fact the opposite. Too much anatomy gets in the way.
Polycarpus turned up again while I was still pondering. He was clearly drawn by curiosity though he said he needed to explain arrangements for my meals: there were no kitchen staff, so trays would be brought in for my lunch and dinner from a thermopolium. I told him not to bother about lunch as I could never be sure where I would be; for example, one day I would certainly have to go over to the Temple of Ceres to interrogate the runaway slaves. Polycarpus said I could eat dinner in my room, or in the garden if I preferred.
Why no staff? Valerius Aviola had sent the chefs and pot-washers to Campania, ready to look after him in the holiday villa; he borrowed slaves from a friend while he and his bride remained in Rome — a normal kind of favour among the property-owning set. The slaves on loan had gone home that night, so I could assume they were not involved in the murders, though they could have passed details of the silverware to thieves.
‘You definitely saw the borrowed slaves leave?’
‘I counted them out every one. You cannot be too careful.’
Quite. On the same basis, I took a good look at Polycarpus, letting him see me do it. He was the usual − thought himself special, but he was overestimating. Rome was packed with freedmen, some of whom were genuinely talented. Others, like this one, just had big ideas.
He was trying to assess me. I had been introduced by Faustus as ‘a professional investigator who regularly assisted him’. I normally stress my independence, but I had accepted this. I needed validity, the right to give people instructions.
What Polycarpus was seeing was a nearly thirty-year-old woman of spare build and inscrutable expression. I could tell he judged everyone solely by appearance. So many people make that mistake. I look beyond, which is why I am a good informer.
I was quietly dressed, though with coloured hems on my gown and stole. I wore a wedding ring, plus everyday earrings. In working mode, I came with nothing on my belt where leisured matrons carried their manicure sets and keys, but a neat satchel slung across my body, in which I kept a note tablet, small change and a very sharp knife. Dark hair, simply knotted at the nape of my neck. Laced shoes I could walk in. Businesslike, but nothing to attract notice on the street.