We first tackled officialdom at Lanuvium. I was right; we were given the brush-off. If there's one thing I hate about travel outside Rome it is small-town magistrates who think they count for something. The petty toffs who ran Lanuvium had so little sense of proportion they called their town council the Senate and their magistrate a Dictator. That was the title used in ancient times for a leader with unrestricted powers who was called upon to rescue the nation in an emergency. On mention of the Claudii, the Lanuvium Dictator rapidly assumed other emergency powers: declaring that this problem was outside his jurisdiction. He kindly suggested we try Antium instead.
He had cow dung on his boots and I wasn't certain he could read -yet he managed to dismiss Laeta's request for civic aid as briskly as if he was swatting wasps on a saucer of relish.
'I'm getting a feel for this,' Petronius remarked in annoyance as we left.
'You mean,' suggested Justinus, 'it feels like stepping in a slurry pit?'
'And helplessly falling over!'
We spent the next half-hour despondently embroidering this with such details as falling in the manure while wearing your best cloak and with a girl you fancied watching.
Our detour to Lanuvium was partly a waste of time, but we did see Silanus. Petronius had asked him a few questions that confirmed the body found in the tomb was his uncle: a man in his sixties, nearly bald, thin build; usually wearing a lapis signet ring, which had not been found. I saw Petro thinking that the killer might have kept it as a trophy and that if we ever caught up with him, the ring might be good evidence. Her nephew said Livia Primilla was about fifteen years younger; in good health, blue eyes, greying hair, kept herself nicely, wore good clothes and jewellery. Unfortunately, even though they dealt in statues and must know the artistic community, the couple had never commissioned portraits of themselves.
Silanus gave us directions to his uncle and aunt's farm. It was near Satricum, adjacent to land farmed by the Claudius freedmen: 'If you can call what the Claudii do farming.'
They did own cattle: Silanus said his uncle had a long history of bad relations with them but the most recent ugly incidents began when the Claudii let a rampaging bunch of young bullocks break down a fence. Modestus had an overseer who went to demand compensation for the damage, but was badly beaten up.
Silanus confirmed that Modestus had a hobby of writing angry letters. He had complained directly to the obnoxious Claudii. He also badgered the town council in Antium; those wits'-end worthies may have lost patience with his demands. After he and Primilla disappeared and Silanus appealed for help, the magistrate had to investigate, but his men may not have put much effort into it.
'Some of the Claudii are just loafers; they go into town and act up -minor thefts from homes and businesses, insults, writing their names on walls, guzzling wine then causing a disturbance after dark. .. You know.'
'Everyday life, where we come from,' Petronius said, though he made it clear he was sympathetic.
We were indoors at the time; Silanus went to look outside to check what his children were doing. Lentullus, a big child himself, was talking to them; he had them feeding grass to the ox. 'One or two Claudii have more violent reputations. People don't like anything to do with them.'
'Particular names?' asked Petro.
Silanus shook his head. 'When Modestus was railing, I had my own troubles. It always sounded like exaggeration. Anyway, there never seemed much I could do…'
'A man called Nobilis has been mentioned.'
'Means nothing to me.' Silanus fell silent. Now he blamed himself for not taking more interest previously.
I said quietly, 'You were right the other day. Why make yourself another victim? Your conscience is clear. Leave it to the professionals.'
I had watched Petronius silently weighing up the nephew as a harassed family man of basic honesty. Turning a piece of terracotta in his big hands, Petro asked, 'A slave brought you the news of your aunt's disappearance – can I speak to him?'
'Syrus. I don't have him,' said Silanus. 'There was a man I owed money to. I handed over the slave to pay off the debt.'
He had paid the butcher. That's how it is. Syrus may have loyally carried out instructions from Primula that had brought him on a day's journey, and the result of his information would make Silanus and his children financially secure. But unlucky Syrus was a slave. His reward for diligence was to be exchanged for half a year's supply of skillet offal.
Our conversation seemed to have finished. But as Silanus saw us off outside, he brought out awkwardly, 'I have to ask – - are you expecting to find Aunt Primilla?'
I let Petronius answer. 'We shall do all we can. You understand that we already suspect what happened. Whether any trace of her remains is a question I can't answer yet. I'm sorry.'
Silanus accepted it. But he had one more worry. We had told him how Modestus died. 'Will she have suffered… the same kind of injuries?'
Petronius Longus grasped his shoulders. 'Don't think about it. She won't be suffering now. My advice is, try to live as normally as possible until we report back. Whatever happened to Livia Primilla is long over.'
He would not give fake reassurance, nor could he offer comfort.
We had brought what remained of the late Julius Modestus with us from Rome. In such circumstances, the vigiles used a tame undertaker to cremate the body before it was returned to the family. All Silanus received was a plain urn with the ashes.
Petronius implied the cremation had been carried out when they thought the dead man might never be identified. But I saw the nephew's face. He recognised concern for him: preventing any chance that he or his children might see the decayed, beaten, mutilated and tortured corpse.
XVII
The butcher in Lanuvium was typical. He was built like an unhealthy boxer, with a cleaver through his belt. A row of meat joints hung along the front of his shop, just where his horrible nitty head would bang into them all day. He had blood on his tunic. It looked and smelt as if it was weeks old so if you ate his meat you would keel over. But if we all avoided the produce of off-putting butchers, we would be stuck with a diet of lettuce leaves and the Empire would be overrun by beefy barbarians.
He no longer possessed the slave Syrus. We groaned, thinking this was the start of an interminable chain of petty debt pay-offs. In Rome it would have been. The butcher would have sweetened a brothel-keeper who then passed on the goods to buy a sack of hay…
Sophisticated barter had yet to arrive in Lanuvium. They were simply careless. 'Syrus? I only had him two days. He ran away.'
'Not much of a debt cancellation!' Petronius grinned. 'If I were you, I'd take the old "sleep-with-my-sister" settlement next time.' City wit really goes down well in country districts. The butcher gave him a glare that made me squeamish. Still lost in his joke, Petro appeared to ignore the frosty looks but went on in formal vigiles mode: 'Have you reported your slave as a fugitive, sir?' The 'sir' was satirical, if you knew Petro.
'What's the point?'
'He may turn up.'
'That good-for-nothing is long gone.'
'Well, we do like to have runaways listed properly; apart from being useful if we catch them involved in a felony, it helps deter the next one from trying it if he knows he'll be on a list for the bounty-hunters… Where do you think this Syrus is headed? Would he go back home to Antium?'
The butcher was full of bluster and certainty. 'Oh he's chased off where they all go – straight up to the Via Appia, hop on the back of a winecart, and disappear in Rome. They think the streets are paved with gold. Maybe they are. I think I'll go myself one day!'
Petronius Longus remained undaunted. 'Better give me his description and I'll have a docket sent on your behalf in case he's rounded up. You may get him back, sir. The Rome vigiles are adept at spotting country runaways…' He implied that agricultural incomers stood out in our sophisticated city. It wasn't true. A loser in flight from a farm looked little different from one on the loose from a town house – well, once the townee had rolled up his smart uniform and shoved it under a bush. 'Let me take down a few details. Height?'