Here, we were sitting on one of the bar’s crude wooden benches, which we had pulled out of a stored pile so we could snuggle up to share our lunch. Our seat was an old, worn, splintery contraption. Perhaps the landlord would purchase a handsome new set of garden furniture when his project was finished, though I doubted it. The Hesperides had never been that sort of place.
It was a workaday bar. Most customers stood in the street, probably at the main counter, which was longer than the return around the corner. They had the usual food vats, never washed out. For a sit-down drink, you came in through a purpose-built gap in the crazy-paved marble worktop, squeezed by the inner tables and service area, maybe glanced at the unreadable drinks list painted on a wall by the beaker shelf, exchanged a word with whoever was serving, walked down a very short corridor with a dark staircase, then emerged into this not very airy, so-called garden.
It was larger than you might expect. Rustic trellis used to divide up semi-private table positions. I saw no trace of climbing greenery, though two empty birdcages hung on the rough-hewn trellis posts. A canopy shaded one part. There was a half-dead bay tree in a large pot with a rim piece missing. I had yet to work out what kind of customers would ever have used this interior. In Rome, we tend to socialize on the streets.
The bar owner had never mentioned the mystery, but our foreman, Larcius, had told us the public rumors with a grin: “The site is supposed to be haunted. They say some murdered waitress was buried out here years ago.”
Faustus had given him a cool look. He and the workforce would have to feel their way together, though it seemed to be working out. They had realized he was no soft touch. He would turn up on-site, where the conversation soon showed them he fully understood what they were doing and anyone who failed to get on with him might lose his job.
“Not afraid of ghosts, are you, Larcius?” I asked dryly. Larcius did not bother to answer.
“I find it hard to believe,” said Faustus, playing the serious-minded aedile who discouraged gossip, “that drinkers have downed their tots here for decades, knowing a corpse was right beneath their sandals.”
“No one remembers much about her.” Larcius seemed to think that justified it. “She’s just always been ‘that missing barmaid.’”
Not any longer. Now we had found her.
It would be to her advantage that she had been found by us.
So, after his men left, Faustus and I considered what we could do. We discussed whether to tell the landlord yet, but decided to keep quiet for the time being. I would begin discreet inquiries about Rufia: who she was, why people believed she had come to a sad end, when it happened, what suspects fell under suspicion originally, what new ones we could identify. I might have wondered why nobody made a real fuss at the time, but I knew. People hate to interfere. Nobody invites trouble. Regulars are always loath to start a hue and cry that might end with their favorite bar being shut down. Many things can be excused as “loyalty.” It’s pathetic, but it’s how people think.
Before we left that afternoon, we took a last look at the bones. The jumbled haul would not make a complete skeleton. Possibly there were more bones to be found, if they had not decayed completely. These were definitely old, though impossible to say how old. But for hearing past mention of Rufia, they could have been dismissed as really ancient, some prehistoric ancestor who lived here even before Rome was founded. If we were pious, they might have been collected up and reburied in a pot in a proper cemetery, though to be honest, most people would deposit them on the nearest midden heap and walk away fast.
Faustus pulled down the awning to wrap them. It was stiff with what could well be mold, but Rufia would not complain. We left her bones there, though we carefully locked up. The back gate onto a narrow alley was always left very secure, to stop anyone coming in to steal tools or materials. Faustus blocked the passage to the courtyard with a heavy old door (all building sites contain old doors that don’t belong anywhere, don’t ask me why), piling sacks and timbers against it. Fortunately he employed a night watchman, who had probably heard what happened today because we found him in the main bar; he had come early.
This was just as well. We had no chance of keeping the discovery private. A small crowd of sightseers had already gathered in the street.
Faustus used his authority as an aedile to order these ghouls to disperse. They were not impressed, freely ignoring him, and there was a danger that others would join them. He made the best of it with an announcement: “I presume you have heard that human remains have been found. I am aware of the rumored disappearance of a waitress some years ago. There may be no connection. But anyone who knows anything pertinent should come to see one of us.” He indicated that I was included, though I was his wife now, so he didn’t bother with introductions. I smoldered like an appendage who would cause trouble at home later. “Now please, go about your business quietly.”
Had the Hesperides been open for business, he would have stood no chance of moving people on. As it was, some shuffled off but many simply shifted themselves to the Medusa or the Romulus along the street, then stared across from there.
Because of the public interest, we went back and, helped by our watchman, reopened the passageway indoors so we could fetch the bones safely away with us.
After that, since too many people already knew, we set off to inform the landlord after all.
IV
Pedantic people will probably wonder where these events took place. Extremely pedantic bods with fixed-narrative ideas will ask why I have not mentioned it before. Look here, you write things your way, Legate. I shall draft my case notes just how I want.
So! The Garden of the Hesperides stood in the city’s Sixth District, the Alta Semita, or High Footpath. The bar occupied a corner on the Vicus Longus, which is an extension of the famous Argiletum, the main road north from our fine new imperial fora. The latest, Domitian’s Forum Transitorium, would add some lustre when it was finished, but the Argiletum’s reputation had always been unsavory, especially the area called the Subura. It was allegedly famous for booksellers and cobblers, but in the Subura trade of all kinds flourished, and I do mean all.
The Hesperides, Medusa and Romulus stood in a dirty enclave called the Ten Traders. There certainly were shops, as Decem Tabernae implied, but bars and eateries abounded, some keeping so quiet about the brothel upstairs it looked as if they only sold wine and stuffed cabbage leaves. No one was fooled. This area had no temples to virgin goddesses.
The Garden of the Hesperides seemed popular, though not quite as lively as its immediate neighbors, the deafening Four Limpets, the raucous Soldier’s Rest and the utterly appalling Brown Toad, where bisexual prostitutes openly solicited from front benches. The Ten Traders sits on the southern end of the Viminal Hill, the smallest of the ancient Seven Hills of Rome. It is a dull ridge that is mostly passed by, with roads on either side taking people to more interesting places.
The landlord lived in Crab-apple Alley, in a rented apartment above a potter’s, just around the corner from his bar. He could go home for lunch. From what I guessed about the Hesperides and its daily menu, he would probably want to. His proximity meant we could not expect to keep anything quiet; in fact, highly excited neighbors must already have rushed around to burble what had happened. Luckily for us, he had been out-we met him as he fiddled with his latch-lifter on his way back in. Nobody had spoken to him yet, giving us the theoretical advantage of surprise.