The undertaker turned to me. ‘I would have told you about this person’s visit, Flavia Albia, but since he did not know the corpse, I supposed there was no interest in it.’
‘I had told you I needed to know if anyone showed interest.’
‘And here I am telling you, Flavia Albia.’
‘Well, thanks for that!’
‘It is possible,’ warned Faustus, ominously, ‘if Albia had known your story earlier, number two might be alive now.’
‘I don’t see how!’ sneered Fundanus, more aggressive and showing his true colours.
‘And we might have named number one,’ continued Faustus. He regularly dealt with shirty householders and intransigent brothel-keepers. Nobody put him off.
Fundanus made a fast exit.
The atmosphere in the porticus changed as evening fell. News of the second dead body soon brought ghouls to our corner, keen to gawp at the strongbox with its sinister history. Deadbeats who hoped to find unattended goods after the auction turned up. Our staff hurried to tidy things away, knowing looters would descend. Felix had arrived outside to cart away any remaining goods. Some of the staff were off loading unsold lots and our own equipment, therefore we were thin on the ground.
Hooligans found the remains of Ursa, with predictable results. Shameless thieves tried to seize the two vast wine kraters, heavy though they were. Most of the armed guards belonging to other people had left, so we were now down to our own security and a handful of vigiles. Some of those had already sloped off, claiming they needed to be on fire-watch. Fortunately enough remained to whistle for reinforcements.
There was a brief air of menace, a swirl of unpleasant behaviour, then out of nowhere more troops arrived. They looked like Urban Cohorts, riot police, who were always taken seriously. The Urbans were barracked with the Praetorian Guard, and popped out periodically to thump people. Compensation was not paid even if their victims died.
The Urbans started doing what they liked to do. The troublemakers dispersed rapidly. Any moment now, the Urbans were going to turn on us.
Their centurion eyed up the aedile, obviously expecting him to act like a magistrate who meant business. Manlius Faustus surveyed Gornia, who was desperately tired and looked as if he had lived on air in a cave for a hundred years. Faustus turned to me instead. ‘Flavia Albia, daughter of Falco, this auction has been a complete disgrace – and in the hallowed Porticus of Pompey. It is surely in breach of any licence you hold, which I shall need to inspect, incidentally. I will not tolerate such goings-on under my administration.’
Then he told two of the vigiles to put me on Patchy and take me to the Aventine, to the aediles’ office. I croaked in surprise.
‘Take her!’ commanded Faustus. Gornia squeaked to me that he would tell someone, so not to worry.
I, too, was tired. It dawned on me only slowly: Tiberius Manlius Faustus, my so-called friend, this jumped-up pontificating aedile who had no common sense or discretion, was treating me like anyone on one of the watch lists that he supervised officially.
I was under arrest.
35
Soon I was cursing Gornia. He thought he was doing right, but I could have survived without the help he chose to summon. I had been in the aediles’ building for about an hour. They were treating me politely. Everyone knew I knew Faustus. He had stayed behind to conclude business with the Urbans.
I had calmed down and was ready to laugh with him about him smartly removing me from a tricky situation. I was sitting in the courtyard. It had greenery. Patchy had been gorging himself on topiary, so when I reckoned he was about to burst, I sent him back with his boy, saying Gornia could ride him home if he wanted. I knew that first, once Faustus and the soldiers left the porticus, Gornia and the lads would make a bonfire of the strongbox and cook themselves a grilled supper over it. I was sorry to miss that.
Faustus took his time. While I was still waiting for him, I heard a horribly familiar voice in the entrance hallway: Petronius Longus, my father’s best friend, his army buddy and long-time collaborator, husband to Aunt Maia, a retired vigiles investigator, frankly a man with not enough to do these days. To Gornia, he would seem the obvious person to extricate someone from custody. Not to me.
‘Some bugger who doesn’t know how to wipe his arse is holding my niece here!’
Good start, hoary uncle. The sensitive approach.
They let him in. No wonder. He was tall, solid and sure of himself. His once-brown hair had dulled to grey but his step remained sprightly and he paid attention to barbering. His boots were still the kind the vigiles wear for kicking people. Retirement hadn’t mellowed him; it just gave him more time to make a nuisance of himself where he thought nuisance was required. That was most occasions, in Petro’s opinion.
He was my father’s age, just shy of fifty. Like Falco, he had always thought he knew it all, and nowadays he was even more certain the world was full of idiots and deviants.
He did not bother to hug me but sprawled on a bench, making himself at home. ‘So you’re in trouble! What’s going on?’
Unfortunately, I saw Faustus enter the courtyard quietly at that moment. He must have popped into his office and was now casually dressed. I made ‘be careful what you say’ gestures, which could have applied to either, then prepared to introduce them.
They did not bother with me.
‘Lucius Petronius Longus, ex Fourth Cohort of Vigiles. You can call me “sir”.’
‘Manlius Faustus, plebeian aedile. You should call me “sir”, but I won’t insist.’
‘A smart talker! You’re the latest lover-boy?’ growled Petronius, incorrigibly.
‘Better ask Albia.’
‘Juno!’ Seething, I shot Faustus an apologetic look. ‘I apologise for my uncle.’
‘Wait until you meet mine.’ Faustus feigned amusement. From what I knew, his own uncle, Tullius, had a crude reputation.
Mine carried on, impervious: ‘Your pa was checking up on some incomer, last time I saw him. Is this the dubious character?’
‘I heard I was given the once-over,’ Faustus intervened. ‘Any idea what Didius Falco found out?’
Uncle Petro laughed, suggesting something terrible. He probably had no idea.
‘Leave the aedile alone. He saved my life,’ I protested.
Petro gave Faustus a sharp look. ‘That true, son?’
Faustus kept it light. ‘No need for a big proclamation. I found her dying on the floor so I picked her up, put her to bed and looked after her until her mother came.’ He failed to spell out that he had not summoned my mother until a week later.
‘That would be how Helena Justina came across you in her daughter’s bedroom.’
‘Oh, it didn’t go down well?’ Faustus twinkled like a lad about town.
‘We all heard about it! Still, she’s a big girl now.’
I complained, ‘I am twenty-nine, an independent widow – and I am sitting here!’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Uncle Petro, ever unflappable. ‘Able to get into all sorts of trouble − and old enough to know where to look for it.’ Warmed by his fine riposte, he settled his big frame more comfortably. ‘So now you’re in a pickle and I have to help you out.’
‘While you’re here, I expect you’d like a drink,’ Faustus suggested to him.
‘Now you’re talking!’ Holy Vestals, the boys were bonding.
Faustus waved up the only slave who was still around, the others having disappeared when the evening grew late. After a word in his ear, the boy went off. Petro filled in time by asking, ‘Who do you normally deal with in the Fourth?’ To him, his old cohort was the only one worth mentioning. He still mentioned it a lot.
‘Titus Morellus, though he’s currently on sick leave.’
‘Took a blow at work, I heard?’ Morellus had inherited Petro’s job, allowing my uncle to look superior about his successor’s supposed delicate health. ‘How do you find him?’