‘Fine, when he’s available. He was struck down by a poisoner, nearly croaked. Albia and I were working that case.’
Petronius shook his head at me. ‘Was that when you wrecked the old balcony? Plenty of memories were lost that day …’
‘You and Father glugging wine on it and talking about women.’
‘Sometimes even drinking the health of women we love and admire!’ Petronius reproved me. He had not finished interrogating Faustus: ‘So your remit covers both the Twelfth and Thirteenth regions here on the Aventine?’
‘Plus the Transtiberina,’ Faustus dutifully supplied.
‘Good luck with that!’
‘Yes, it’s lively. I also look after half the Field of Mars, mainly theatres and porticos. A colleague handles the Pantheon and the Saepta, with all things north. With the Transtib and Circus Flaminius, obviously I liaise with the Seventh Cohort who are, between us two, a bit of a shower.’
‘I’d not quarrel with that! Have much to do with Scaurus of the Fourth?’ Petronius quizzed.
Faustus merely emitted a choking noise. When evaluating a cohort tribune, contempt was the correct response. Uncle Petro brightened further as the returning slave brought a flagon and two cups. He must have fetched them from indoors – he hadn’t had time to go to a bar.
‘I like a man who keeps a private stash in his office − and is prepared to share it. Fetch us one more beaker, son,’ my uncle told the serving boy, nodding at me. He added to Faustus, with a heavy wink, ‘I don’t approve of women drinking, but after fifteen years in this family, I bend with the wind.’
‘Best practice!’ Faustus poured politely for my uncle and me, himself waiting for the extra cup.
Lucius Petronius quaffed, then admitted surprise at how good the aedile’s private wine was. ‘Setinum?’
‘You can never go wrong,’ Faustus acknowledged modestly.
Petronius stretched out his long legs, as if ready to pass a whole evening there. Faustus copied the action. With no rehearsal, my presumed lover was making himself an acceptable prospect. All he had to do now was actually want to woo me.
Petro was finally ready to start the real discussion. ‘Let’s get down to business. Neither of us likes what Albia does, but it keeps her happy. She earns a bit of pocket money, though she doesn’t need the income. Her father’s an auctioneer, for Jove’s sake! She stays out of trouble – Falco and I have taught her that. She helps a few lamentable souls, where nobody else would bother. Between friends, I know she must be on your watch list of disreputable professions, but everything this one gets up to is harmless, I can vouch for that.’
I groaned. Lucius Petronius was acting the retired squaddie. He would drop the right word, as he saw it – and bury me much deeper. ‘Oh, Petro, let me handle things myself, will you? Nothing is worse than some grey-haired, gnarly has-been who believes he knows the ropes, but whose day has passed.’
‘She speaks her mind,’ my unwanted referee growled at Faustus. ‘Think you can handle it?’
Faustus gave him a resigned shrug − exactly what was called for. There was no point in fighting Lucius Petronius, and the aedile was wise to accept it.
‘Let me fill you in. I was there in Londinium when Falco and Helena first hauled this nipper off the streets,’ Petro confided, as if to a long-time drinking crony. ‘The pair of them thought here was a poor urchin they could civilise. Good people, but ludicrous.’
‘You believe civilising Albia is hopeless?’ Faustus asked meekly. A deceptive man, his grey eyes were conveniently veiled by the shadow of a pergola. Aediles enjoyed the very best of civic gardening at their headquarters.
‘No, I believe they did a good job!’ snarled Petro. ‘She’s not a bloody Druid. She never hangs up mistletoe or croons at the moon. She can read, she dresses nicely, her heart’s in the right place. People can take her anywhere. Well, almost. I wouldn’t push it myself. She’s a girl, she can be unpredictable. Once a month she’s a termagant. Believe me, I’m father to several and I know what I’m talking about … What I’m saying is, wherever she came from, Albia is ours now, so you treat her decently.’
Faustus was deadly quiet. ‘Albia is safe with me.’
‘Ah, but are you safe with her?’
I saw Faustus smile faintly. ‘Who knows? My fear is, your Albia could break my heart … But I believe she gives her loyalty to very few, and when she does, she is tenacious.’
My uncle considered that. I considered it myself.
I wondered if there was any point in me speaking on my own behalf. Deciding not, I served myself more wine. Faustus stretched out his arm for me to slosh him a top-up. Our familiarity was instantly observed.
‘So what’s your plan, Aedile?’ quizzed Petro. ‘Arresting Albia? Whatever’s that for? You’re a handsome package: I don’t suppose this is the only way you can get women?’
Faustus let him tease. ‘Petronius Longus, you know how things pan out in the Porticus of Pompey after dusk. The place pretends to be sophisticated, but that’s crap.’ Now he in turn spoke as a colleague. Two men of the law-and-order world. Compatriots in crime-fighting. ‘The louts were hunting for a riot. Social dross adores a rumpus. Tensions run high in hot weather. Consequence: we had a roughhouse.’ My uncle looked jealous to have missed it. ‘Somebody had found a corpse, which always leads to silly behaviour. Judging the mood as dangerous, I took Albia into custody for her protection.’
‘No charges, then?’
Faustus looked surprised. ‘What would I charge her with?’
‘Some magistrates I’ve bumped noses with would think of something.’
‘Holy shit, I hope not. Don’t force me to write out a damned docket!’
‘Damned hassle …’ Petronius approved. Since he had finished off the Setinum, he was ready to move. ‘Everything seems quiet enough.’
‘Certainly is up here. So,’ Manlius Faustus suggested, ‘I can take Flavia Albia home to her apartment and see Rodan locks the gate behind her safely.’
‘Good try, hopeful Cupid!’ Uncle Petro scoffed. ‘No, thanks. This is a respectable young woman and I am her male relative, in loco parentis for the legendary Falco. I shall take that madman’s daughter to ours for a bite of dinner, then escort her to her horrible dosshouse. No need for you to trouble, Aedile. No need at all.’
36
Cobnuts. Not only was I kidnapped from the aedile’s grasp, but dragged off to eat with Petro and Maia. My uncle clearly hoped to wrench another flagon of Setinum from Faustus to bring away with us, but was disappointed.
Not as disappointed as me. I had felt sure this was an evening when Manlius Faustus, in the words of his friend Sextus, would have made his move. When we said goodbye, he kissed my cheek to annoy Uncle Petro; he was formal, yet his fingertips brushed my inner wrist, which was certainly not public etiquette. I could see he was stressed by a long day. Alone with me, Faustus would have shared his weariness; he would have taken comfort – and given solace in return. So, another chance lost, and every time it happened, the pattern became more established.
Cursing, I pretended to be annoyed because Faustus and I had had things to confer about. My uncle therefore nagged me over what those might be, giving me his professional thoughts, most of which I disagreed with.
Fortunately my aunt could cook.
They lived in a too-small apartment, given that Aunt Maia had two sons and a daughter still at home, another married daughter who visited on a daily basis, and now they shared the place with Petro’s daughter and her baby. He was a grimly protective father, so no one had been surprised when his adored Petronilla rebelled and ended up pregnant by some unknown man. Well, she knew who he was. As we ate that night, every so often Petro let out a snide comment designed to goad her into naming the culprit so Petro could kill him, while she stubbornly kept silent. Petronilla had lived with her mother until her disgrace but, interestingly, the mother threw her out and it was her father who gave her refuge. None of us had expected that.