Waiters became twitchy. “There’s no rules for you to check here, Aedile!”
Tiberius broke off what he was saying to me. The interruption irritated him. “How big a fine are you looking for? Do I see illegal tables, cluttering up the pavement? Not to mention your health hazard: clean up this sauce spill! It must have been festering for weeks, with people putting their elbows in it. Don’t serve anyone else until I see this worktop spotless … And what are you hiding from me in that hot dish you whipped behind the counter?”
“Chickpeas, honest.”
Tiberius gave him one of his long looks. “I hope that’s right.”
The dish smelled like pork to me, the main meat eaten in Rome, but the stern Manlius Faustus was not really looking for a battle about pulses-only. Well, not today.
I knew him. He would wander past tomorrow. If his order to clean up had been ignored, he would thump the Medusa with every edict in his five-scroll rule book. Selling meat instead of beans and chickpeas would be his first charge. With Manlius Faustus, if people made an effort, he was lenient. If they showed disrespect, he hammered them.
I took careful note of how he worked. It is vital to know how a man reacts to being thwarted before you marry him.
“No need to have a go at me,” the waiter grumbled, feebly applying a wet cloth to the dirty marble. “If you wanted a dish of hospitality olives, all you had to do was ask.” He paused an insultingly long time. “Sir.”
I leaned my back against the counter, pretending to take a great interest in a donkey delivering panniers of dry goods to the Soldier’s Rest. Out of the corner of my eye I watched my man have his official standoff.
Faustus folded his arms while he stared at the sorry cleaning efforts. Under this scrutiny, the waiter wilted, went in to fetch a knife, then finally scraped off the dried-on mess. He brushed it carefully onto his palm, then threw the bits in the street. “That’s better, don’t you see? Now swab down the rest with a dab of vinegar, and then you can officially go back to being in business.”
I smiled quietly to myself, making more mental notes. I would need to ensure we had a very clean kitchen slave. Iberians or Pannonians were supposed to be the most house-proud.
“Now I had better inspect your daily menu,” Faustus told the waiter.
So a board was produced for him, listing the Medusa’s offerings. In compliance with Domitian’s edict, these allegedly comprised Gallic Flageolet Bean Soup and Legionary Barley Broth, while even the salad claimed to feature a sprinkle of pumpkin and flax seeds. The counter pots that might have stored these seeds were in fact empty. I looked.
“This is the board you show us during an aediles’ inspection,” Manlius Faustus commented, letting it be known he was not easily fooled. “I wonder what you really dish up?”
The waiter looked innocent; he sensibly kept quiet.
“I shall be sending someone incognito to test you.”
“No problem, your honor. We are famous throughout the High Footpaths for our delectable pulse casseroles.”
“No need to overdo it!” Faustus chided.
From what I had heard whispered as I moved around the neighborhood, the Medusa was in fact famous for offering sex with animals.
A tiresome thought came into my mind: Was that common? Was the dog bone found at the Hesperides from some poor mutt who had been forced into perverted acts…? Settle down, Albia. Garden burials happen. When dogs die, they are often interred at the homes where they have lived as affectionate pets. And what nicer place for a hound to spend eternity than the fabled Garden of the Hesperides? A snake to bark at and bored daughters of Zeus to pat you all day long. Perfect.
Stop being distracted, Flavia Albia. You do not want to feel obliged to investigate the suspicious deaths of dogs.
I stuck with normal questions: “Tell me, young man.” He was not that young. The period I wanted to investigate should be within his working lifetime. “Have there ever been rumors of any other women disappearing hereabouts, like Rufia at the Hesperides?”
He thought about it. “Not really.”
“No?”
“I mean not with everyone saying Old Thales bashed their head in.”
“Some other rumor then? I am particularly interested in the period around when the new Flavian Amphitheater was inaugurated. You must remember. There were games for days on end. It would have been a very productive time for bars.”
The waiter grinned with gappy teeth as he dredged up a memory for me. “A pot-washer at the Four Limpets ran away with a one-legged sailor once. She was never seen again. Most people thought losing her improved the neighborhood substantially.”
I sighed to myself. “That’s very helpful.” This is what informers say to disappointing witnesses. Just in case it makes them think of something more useful. It rarely happens.
I forced myself not to start speculating about the dead man, number four of the five, whose skeleton we found with a leg detached. He wasn’t this sailor. Our number four had two legs, even if one went its own way in the fracas and the limb was chucked in his grave with him. That was the clincher. Most one-legged sailors do not carry their amputated pins around with them.
Don’t tell me you knew one who did. He must have been a crackpot.
“I don’t suppose you are old enough to remember a group that included a man with a serious limp?”
“Ten a denarius. People are always being run over by drays or walking under millstones.”
I thanked him again quietly. Yes, identifying our corpses was going to be difficult.
Let alone the dog.
* * *
I nearly didn’t bother asking. “One more question, if you will. Did Old Thales ever own a dog?”
“Pudgy,” the waiter replied, this time not even stopping to think. “It was always coming over here and squatting on our pavement with galloping diarrhea. Hades, I haven’t thought of Pudgy in years. I’ve upset myself now…” He shuddered dramatically. “Old Thales bloody loved that hairy thing, but trust me, it was awful.”
I tried to ignore Tiberius grinning at me. “Pudgy died?”
“It would have been old now if it hadn’t! It swallowed the heel off a boot someone chucked it to play with. Choked to death. Thales sobbed for four days.”
I hardly dared continue. “I don’t suppose you know what he did with Pudgy’s remains?”
“Oh everybody knew. He made a big thing of it. Buried in a big hole out the back. Old Thales held a very drunken funeral in the garden, followed by a week of massive drinking. He was going to put a plaque up but he never got around to it. Well, it would have cost him. He didn’t love the dog-or anyone-enough to open his money chest. Then, just before he did us all a favor and killed himself with drink, he sobered up and immediately forgot all about poor old Pudgy. Talk about a dog’s life.”
“And was this around the time, would you say, that Rufia vanished? In the Amphitheater year?”
“Probably. Perhaps before. Not long.”
“You can’t be certain?”
“No. I don’t note the death of somebody else’s horrible dog in my annual calendar.”
“Apology!”
“Accepted.”
“Why did Old Thales forget his adored pet?” Tiberius suddenly broke in.
“Picked up a new little girlfriend. Adored her even more. Didn’t we all? Nobody knew what she saw in him. She was so cute … Hercules, I remember her all right! I wonder whatever became of her?”
“What was her name?” I asked, eager to identify this cute creature.
A typical man, he did not remember the beauty as well as he claimed. “Hades, don’t ask me. It’s been bloody years. They come and go. How can you expect me to remember one little tart’s name among so many on the street? Even if she really was one of the gorgeous ones!”