We did not admit that Macer of the Third had been our first choice to ask-though we mentioned that he was our contact on the killings at the Hesperides.
Juventus claimed he had liaised with Macer, though I wanted to hear Macer’s opinion on that.
Juventus had no more to tell us. We left him, still on his own doing nothing. Tiberius tried to convince me Juventus might now carry out useful research.
“Tiberius Manlius, you are such a forgiving man!”
“I am marrying you, Flavia Albia. I have to be an optimist.”
Before we returned to the Viminal, we crossed the main road and went into the Gardens of Pallas. Our walk along the Embankment had made us yearn for more quiet time together. These large gardens, laid out by a millionaire freedman of the Emperor Claudius, would serve as a timeless memorial to a man Nero eventually executed. By the end, Nero had executed everyone he could, as much for owning fine estates as for perceived disloyalty. The richer they were, the more he could snaffle. Besides, Pallas had been the confidant, and according to gossip the lover, of Agrippina, Nero’s domineering mother. Yes, he killed her too. Such a nice family.
Pallas had been chief secretary to the Treasury. He was stonkingly rich. Although it was never suggested that he was guilty of impropriety, even without obvious embezzlement he amassed a fortune large enough to create a notable open-air space. That got him killed. But the fine Gardens of Pallas still memorialized a bureaucrat who would otherwise have been long forgotten.
I sauntered with Tiberius through the western end. This sneaky escape in the late afternoon helped free us of stress. We sat on a stone seat in the warm shade, smiling slightly, thinking that this was what life was for. Free time, time to do whatever you liked, or to do absolutely nothing, alone or in company you valued: of all the luxuries in the Empire, perhaps this was the greatest. To be fair to the Romans, they valued leisure accordingly.
I soaked up the afternoon light, emptying my mind.
It was the time of day when, in the busy built-up areas, the atmosphere was subtly changing. People ended their siestas. Baths prepared to open, so the scent of woodsmoke increased as furnaces were stoked. Military shifts changed; the vigiles would soon gather to go on patrol. Men who needed patrons made their way to the Forum, looking for someone from whom they could wheedle a dinner invitation; men of means either made themselves visible so parasites could ingratiate themselves, or hid from them. Women who could indulge in evening entertainment began to prepare, placing themselves in the hands of their hairdressers, manicurists, adorners with their vials and pots of face color. The sick were at a low ebb. Workers were weary. Animals barked, bellowed, brayed for food. Above us in the still cerulean sky, swifts squealed as they swooped at high speed after insects. Others careered above water features in the garden.
Tiberius had his head thrown back, eyes closed. He was not asleep, because his thumb was slowly caressing the back of my hand as he held it. Heat from the bench warmed us through our clothes as we sat.
There, in the peace of the Gardens of Pallas, my brain found its own space to work. Two strands of information came together for me.
“Tiberius…” He turned his head, listening. “Morellus believed one set of bones was from a woman who had given birth: ‘female pelvis, child-bearing age, looks as if she has carried some to term, poor unhappy cow…’ But other people have told me the missing barmaid was far from young and never had any children: ‘I always thought she was one of those women who just couldn’t conceive…’ If both are right”-Tiberius opened his eyes; he saw my point-“the skeleton we found at the Garden of the Hesperides cannot be Rufia.”
XLI
Tiberius reacted typically. He made no comment. His mouth tightened slightly. I observed that he nodded faintly. Twice.
Some people would have rattled on inanely.
“Now I shall have to go right back to the beginning to find out who the headless dead girl is.”
“You will,” replied the understated one.
At least I would never be subjected to interminable chat at breakfast about whether we should try buying better quality carrots from a new greengrocer who might prove to be disappointing, or stick with String-bean Lupius, the vegetable-seller we had always used … Tiberius would listen, think, nod, leave it up to me.
I could live that way. Of course, if the new carrots I had chosen turned out to be second-rate, he would say so. When he did give an opinion, he knew how to make his point.
“I’m so annoyed at myself that I missed this.”
“Not your fault, love. So did I.” The fair man spoke.
He left me to dwell on how to reassess the case.
Back in the Ten Traders, before he went in to see his workmen, I watched him conduct a thorough survey of the marble on bar counters. He gave most attention to the Hesperides, naturally. Its two countertops were tiled in the white and gray pieces that we now knew Gavius had supplied. He was coming to inspect them tomorrow, to see where corners had been smashed during the gangsters’ raid.
Indoors, the counters’ wall faces were plastered, then plainly painted with a dark red wash. Only the staff would see those. On the outside faces, to entice the public, Liberalis had spent more money, with some of the finish in polychrome stones that Tiberius identified for me as Cipollino, which had greenish veins, and Numidian, which was composed of striking yellow patches in purple bonding.
“Rare?”
“No, but you do have to look around. Once you find a source, the material is available-that’s assuming you can wait out the long shipping time.”
“And find the cash?”
“That too.”
“I am just wondering whether Liberalis has more money than we think.” I had never expected this inquiry to be about a legacy, but now anything seemed possible.
“A man with a recent inheritance and no family demanding luxuries from him should be able to fund Cipollino misshapes.”
“Right. Mind you”-I would not let Liberalis off the hook-“I wonder how much he did inherit?”
“Can you find out?”
“Traceable by the legacy tax.”
“If he paid it,” said Tiberius darkly, in full magistrate mode.
I chuckled. “And who doesn’t under-declare, Aedile? Isn’t the chance to cheat on inheritance tax one of the things that alleviates people’s grief after somebody dies?”
Tiberius pretended to look stern. He must have a good idea that my father was financing our wedding out of just such smart accounting.
Looking around the other bars, Tiberius found scraps of molded cornices and even old pilasters incorporated, though mostly the counters were put together from polished slab material. Among the routine white and gray of Luna and Pentelic marble, he picked out with obvious surprise Brescia, alabaster and even a small section of black Aswan granite. The Soldier’s Rest, a dingy hole that had mainly escaped our attention until now, even boasted three reclaimed panels of porphyry, set in a triple diamond pattern on its front face. Tiberius reckoned a specialist must have installed those unusual pieces. Since the Soldier’s Rest was so unwelcoming otherwise, the fancy front had not improved its customer base. Even the Brown Toad (which only had painted imitation marble) claimed a better footfall, though much of that consisted of clients with peculiar tastes coming to the transvestites; its attraction was untypical.
We stood at the Medusa, having a discussion about marble. Tiberius had a fund of knowledge so it went on for some time. We did not order food or drink; our lunch still satisfied. This kind of conversation must be a great rarity in the bars of the Ten Traders: a man talking to a woman about his long-standing passion, with not a hint of it leading to sex. She listening, not as a prelude to turning out his purse later, but because she liked to hear him talk.