As I rode Patchy slowly back along the Via Appia, thoughts of Titus Niger gave me pause. Was it possible the surviving Callisti believed Niger had had some involvement in what happened to Valens? If they had such brooding suspicions, what happened to Niger himself could be the result. They would want to avenge their father. The three Callisti were hefty men who knew their minds and would not shirk a duty. I could entertain the idea that they might have killed the agent. It would be appropriate retaliation to incarcerate his body in the strongbox that had once contained their much-loved head of household.
Why would they distrust Niger? Perhaps because, like me, they noticed him talking to Puce Tunic at the auction. Racking my brains, I thought they had left the scene after that, not before. Niger was a relatively new employee for them, untried at best, and Primus had distrusted Niger’s report after viewing Valens’s body. If the Callisti suspected Puce Tunic of involvement in Valens’s death, they might view Niger’s speaking to him as proof of collusion. From what Galeria had told me, there had been no collusion, but the Callisti had not heard her story and, anyway, they were hot-headed.
Keen to solve this puzzle, I realised I was close to the villa of Claudius Laeta. It was evening, though not late. It seemed a perfect opportunity to call and see whether he had sent that persistent man to me at Fountain Court.
I was to be cruelly disappointed. The great double doors to the fine retirement villa were now swathed in dark garlands. Two sombre cypress trees stood at either side of the entrance. I knew before I knocked what the story would be. Claudius Laeta, the mighty imperial freedman, had gone to the gods of his own accord before Domitian could require it of him prematurely. He had lost his feud with the upstart Abascantus. He would be unable to assist Faustus and me. For Tiberius Claudius Laeta, there would be no more plotting.
54
My father’s old crony had remained meticulous in his final illness and, though unable to write, he had summarised everything he had discovered, leaving a long message for Faustus and me in the charge of his son. He, too, was an imperial freedman, working in a secretariat. The slaves at the villa, who obviously respected their late master more than his son, sneakily gave me detailed instructions for finding Junior in his workplace lair, even though he had tried to put me off.
I had to go to Domitian’s Palace. At least I knew the Emperor was not there, but still abroad. He rarely lived in Rome, preferring his fortress villa out at Alba Longa. That had not stopped him having another wondrous complex created for him here by the great architect Rabirius. I had to leave Patchy at a cryptoporticus gate and climb the steep Palatine on foot, through a long covered corridor. At least with the Emperor away, the Praetorian Guards were relaxed. My father had many a tale of having to bribe or bully his way past them, but today they were so relaxed I never saw any.
People came to the Imperial Palace to gawp at its inventive rooms with their exquisite décor. The crowds left behind dust and detritus to be swept up from the multicoloured marble. That meant I could borrow a broom and slide myself into the bureaucratic areas. The Palace slaves wore white, so my funeral outfit came in handy. All you have to do is keep your head lowered and look miserable while you continue very slowly sweeping. Everyone thinks you are a domestic slave. They don’t even lower their voices while discussing their best friend’s adultery. They pay over bribes right in front of you. If I had wanted to assassinate Domitian, I could have gone all the way into his bedroom and done him in with the borrowed broom.
I had good directions and soon found my way to the right office. It was a massive space with similar polished marble to that in the public rooms, but had comfortable loungers for bored bureaucrats to snooze on. I swept around these noble reading couches conscientiously before emitting a gentle cough, leaning my broom against a stupendously ornate scroll cupboard, and telling the lone occupant who I was.
His name was Tiberius Claudius Philippus. This was not his own suite; he was borrowing the élite workspace of Abascantus, who was still composting leaves elsewhere in disgrace. ‘Practising?’ I asked satirically. Philippus took it badly. I dragged up a seat with arms and feather cushions, which soon had me sneezing. ‘Is Abascantus ever coming back?’
‘My sources expect him to be replaced by Titinius Capito, an equestrian.’ Domitian was aware that the imperial freedmen, an intelligent bunch, disliked him. He was starting to get round that by appointing new men from outside to high positions. It was a good opportunity for the middle rank – if they liked living dangerously.
‘What do you think of Capito?’
‘I cannot comment.’
‘Oh, you despise him!’
Laeta’s son omitted comment on that too.
He was bony, spare, between thirty and forty. Olive-skinned, he had a long face with a straight nose and fine eyes; I guessed his mother had been a beauty, no doubt an exotic slave who also served at court in some capacity. She could have been a topless wine waitress, but I did not rule out an intellectual role, librarian or correspondence secretary for one of the imperial women.
Philippus wore heavy white imperial livery, even though the Emperor was absent so he could have dressed down. Or dressed up, had he been a party person. Clearly not. He seemed joyless, though I gave him the benefit and called it grief for his father. Ambition, and probably rivalry with Laeta, oozed out of him. That must have been why he was working here alone, when everybody sensible was having dinner.
He began briskly: ‘Now you have come here, despite my imprecations, let us despatch the task.’ He told me his father had wanted me to know the history of the Callistus family.
‘Yes, it looks sweetly intriguing,’ I agreed, deliberately frivolous.
Philippus indicated with a scowl that intrigue was not his medium.
‘Please listen carefully to save me having to repeat myself.’
‘May I take notes?’
‘Why not? Everything is in the public domain. My father had to dig for it, however. I hope you appreciate his extensive work on your behalf, despite his poor health.’
‘He enjoyed research. I expect this little exercise cheered his misery in his last days.’
With a frown, Philippus placed bony elbows on the smoothly polished citron wood of Abascantus’s office table, putting his fingertips together. I broke in to say, ‘My prime consideration is to discover the fate of Callistus Valens, who has died in murky circumstances.’
‘I shall clarify that.’
‘Go ahead, then.’ I beamed graciously. I could pretty well hear his teeth grinding.
He recited what he had to tell me, with no recourse to notes. Being a bureaucrat, he had the good manners to pause if my shorthand lagged behind, though he sneered when it happened.
‘Once there were two brothers, Callistus Valens and Callistus Volusius, also two sisters, Julia Firma and Julia Verecunda. Julia Verecunda passionately wanted to marry Callistus Primus. He never encouraged her, but she pursued him obsessively.’
‘I bet that made him avoid her!’ I interjected. ‘She will not have liked him saying no. She always expects to get what she wants.’
‘Valens rejected her. He married someone else, a thoroughly decent woman, by all accounts, and the couple were extremely happy.’
‘I like that,’ I said gravely, thinking of Manlius Faustus. ‘I like people to find one another and live happy lives together.’
‘You are very romantic, Flavia Albia.’ A criticism, I gathered. ‘Eventually Valens’s wife died.’
‘Well, at least she died happy.’
Even though I kept disturbing his flow, Philippus was forced to smile. He carried on gamely: ‘Julia Verecunda was not merely spurned. She and her sister had never got on. They fought one another from childhood. After Julia Verecunda was rejected by Valens, her sister upset her further. Julia Firma married his brother, Callistus Volusius.’