The Ides of April (10 page)

I told Morellus why I had come. He spat. The vigiles were all crude.

‘Yes, we’ve got the lad here. I call him a lad; he must be over thirty but he’s like a big baby. And big he is; his poor old mother must have struggled to deal with him.’

‘So what’s the verdict?’ I asked, attempting a show of respect for his opinion.

‘He can pee in a pot. We don’t have to change his loincloth.’

‘Don’t be a pain, Morellus. What’s the verdict about his mama?’

‘The obvious one. He killed her.’

‘True?’

‘No, convenient,’ Morellus admitted. ‘You know us, we’re very public-spirited. We just want a good clear-up rate.’ If he had been more sophisticated, this would pass for a joke. In him, it was a curious mix of mild shame at their failings and real couldn’t-care-less.

I told him I had heard a rumour that there were many mysterious deaths happening. He shrugged. ‘Nobody has told us. But nobody ever tells us anything.’

I thought, there could be a good reason for that . . . ‘There is an aedile involved now.’

‘There would be!’ He spoke with contempt.

I grinned to show I shared it. ‘Can I see this Kylo?’

‘In the cells. One of my boys is looking after him, one who has a child of his own that was born simple. You know. Big head and squinty eyes. According to her father, his little girl needs help, but has a wonderful personality. She’s vulnerable, but completely loving.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think he’s right,’ Morellus replied immediately, giving me back a level stare. ‘She does.’

‘Have a wonderful personality?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘But is Kylo different? Do you believe he is capable of violence?’

‘He is odd.’ Morellus mimicked Celendina’s son, holding one arm across his chest, with the hand dropped, and hitching up one hip. ‘Someone like that might be feared locally, especially as he is so big and powerful. Say a group of neighbours responded to a commotion, found her dead with her son shouting wildly and holding her corpse – what happens? It would be instinct for them all to assume he had shaken the old woman to death.’

‘So?’

Morellus might be fat and lazy, but he had a brain when he bothered to use it. ‘Could be something different. What if in fact Kylo had panicked? He
found
her dead, became upset, then just shook her as hard as he could in a hopeless attempt to wake her up again?’

I said that was remarkably fair-minded, to which Morellus – blushing – replied that I was not to quote him.

The prisoner was sitting on the ground in the second courtyard. The vigilis who was on guard had him feeding crumbs to pigeons. Physically, he looked no more dumb than any barrow boy or household messenger, though the brain damage was obvious in his vacant eyes and the way he held himself. Morellus had done a good mime.

Kylo was tall, powerfully built and deeply uncommunicative. He had loose curls like a little boy but was indeed over thirty; despite that, you could see at a glance that he could not take care of himself. His mother must have managed everything: food, dress, hygiene, keeping him occupied, keeping his sexuality in check. She would have had a lifetime of defending him from other people’s ignorance, and of pleading with people to accept him.

I explained who I was. Although it seemed rude to talk about Kylo in his presence, he was taking absolutely no notice of us. The vigilis agreed that without his mother, Kylo was lost. ‘And he knows it.’

Even though Kylo appeared not to be listening in, he glanced up when we mentioned his mother. I saw the fear and sadness in his eyes. Yes, he knew. The only person who had ever cared for and looked after him was gone. He was alone; nobody wanted him; he was finished.

I managed to get his attention for a moment and said clearly, ‘I am Albia.’ It seemed to mean nothing to him. I said it again. ‘My name is Flavia Albia. Somebody said you wanted me.’

There was no response. I explained to the vigilis how Kylo was supposed to have spoken my name to the neighbours. If so, he had already forgotten why. Maybe his mother had come home and told him about Salvidia’s funeral, mentioning that she had met me. In his first moments of terror after Celendina died, he might have clung on to her last words. Now, there was no way we would get him to explain. He had completely forgotten all about it.

Since the vigilis had a daughter with disabilities, even if hers were different from Kylo’s, I thought his advice was worth having. ‘He doesn’t look like a murderer. He’s just a great lopsided lump who seems happy enough feeding pigeons. Do you think he killed his mother?’

With regret in his voice, the man answered, ‘I think we have to proceed as if he may have done.’

‘Would it have been accidentally?’

‘I can imagine that.’

‘Really? Some little thing upset him and he suddenly lashed out? Then Celendina was not strong enough, or not quick enough, to get out of the way safely?’

‘Could be.’

‘I met the mother at a funeral. I suppose she may have been tired after that, and let her attention wander . . . Or perhaps Kylo was piqued by her leaving him alone. But he seems docile now.’

‘We’ll have him here a few more days before we charge him. I am supposed to watch and assess him.’

I was unhappy about it. ‘There is no witness to what he is supposed to have done, no proper evidence. You call this justice?’

‘No,’ said the man quietly. ‘The neighbours were throwing rocks at the house. They were all set to tear him apart. We call it protective custody.’

As I left, Morellus emerged from an interview room and called out to me. ‘His Eminence wants a word with you. I have orders to take you over to the Twelfth.’

He meant Cassius Scaurus, the tribune, the humourless one. Scaurus ran his cohort the same way as his predecessors did; the method was to put up his feet in the main station house over in the Piscina Publica while he thought up ways to cream off the budget for his personal use. He ruled this outstation by the fine tradition of leaving it to look after
itself.

I knew a truly serious interview would entail me being tied to a bench or chair and subjected to endless shouted questions in a very violent atmosphere. It was unlikely they would use their heated metal implements to inflict unbearable pain, though it could not be ruled out. The aim was to force a confession. Any confession. It did not have to be true. Why niggle about details?

‘What does he want?’

‘The proverbial few questions.’

‘Help with your enquiries? Is he authorising the full torture package?’

‘He has to get a chit from the Prefect for that,’ Morellus admitted, as if he thought I might find this comforting. ‘I had the impression your interview will be limited to basics – horrible threats and mental cruelty.’

‘Delightful! So when are you coming to collect me?’ I asked thoughtfully.

‘When I get around to it,’ Morellus told me. His tone was heavy with the suggestion that it would never happen. I hoped he did not expect a reward for ‘forgetting’ to do it – especially sexual favours. Perhaps he took a lenient attitude out of respect for my father and uncle. That may have figured partly, but the real reason was that he loathed the tribune.

‘Right. Don’t expect me to come quietly.’

‘No, I’ll arrive mob-handed.’

‘I don’t suppose there is any point in me asking what I am supposed to have done, Morellus?’

He laughed.

Hunching my shoulders, I threw my stole round them angrily. ‘And you still expect me to believe you when you say that there is no funny business going on?’

Morellus paused. The flabby, lackadaisical brute really did hate that tribune to a horrid degree. ‘I suppose, Flavia Albia, if I wanted to upset the old man by taking the initiative, I could start asking around about mysterious deaths.’

I was satisfied. I despised him, but the dregs of being a good officer had somehow survived in him. He could do a decent job when he chose. He would also be deeply annoyed if he discovered that his superior had been keeping him in the dark. If Morellus did uncover any funny business happening on the Aventine, which the tribune had failed to mention to him, then because of his deep-seated loathing of Cassius Scaurus, there was a good chance Morellus would pass on the details to me.

‘W
ell, Flavia Albia − you’re hiding quite a history!’

There was only one way to offset my depression: lunch. I had come to the Stargazer, the neighbourhood snack-bar my relatives had owned for years, where the aediles’ archivist now discovered me. Rodan probably told Andronicus where I would be and, as I greeted my new friend with a lightly pattering heart, for once I blessed the porter.

Andronicus flopped on a bench opposite. Junillus, the young waiter, came to see what he wanted. Being Junillus, he just stood silently, with a waxed tablet poised for writing orders. He had an apron. He had cocked his head. It was obvious why he was there.

When Andronicus said nothing, Junillus walked off, presumably thinking the customer needed more time. I noticed the archivist moved the purse on his belt to a more central position, instead of on his hip. That conveniently told Trinius the pickpocket where to find it, once Trinius had finished glugging his mulsum and wanted to lift the price of tomorrow’s drink before he left. ‘The waiter seems a bit off . . .’

‘Deaf.’ Still upset after the vigiles, I was terse.

‘All right! I only meant all waiters can be odd.’

‘Junillus is deaf. Which means he grew up dumb. And in case you are thinking of moving us on to some dump where the staff pass for normal but they spit in your pottage and cheat on the bill, he is my cousin.’

The archivist waved a hand airily around the caupona. ‘Ah! A family business?’ I could see him thinking what a shabby dive it was. At the Stargazer, even the cobwebs had cobwebs. Sometimes they wafted in a breeze, as if the spirits of old customers were crying out for rest.

Andronicus looked serious – his way of announcing a joke. ‘I presume that even if it doesn’t get you a discount, they flick the flies out of the dish before serving you?’

‘If they remember.’ I finally calmed down. ‘Never order the special here; it means specially burned.’ I signed to Junillus that Andronicus would have the same as me: dish of the day (chickpeas) (it was always chickpeas), with lettuce on the side, a hard-boiled egg crumbled over the lettuce and a beaker of their not-exactly-Falernian. ‘See – that was easy.’

‘Of course. Albia, I understand. He is only deaf. It doesn’t make him stupid.’

Junillus, who could lip-read or at least interpret moods, gave us an irritated look and loafed off to the kitchen. He was a handsome boy of maybe seventeen, with a tolerant personality. I had a special bond with him. He too had been adopted into the Didii, after his disability must have become apparent and his birth-parents dumped their deaf baby in a rubbish skip. At least they chose a well-maintained one. He survived. My father found him. My childless aunt took him. She needed somebody to dote on; her husband was useless.

It was Junillus who had renamed the place the Stargazer. He was right that there was no point calling it Flora’s – its previous incarnation – now that nobody remembered who Flora had been. He had acquired a wall painting of an ugly fish with its eyes on the top of its head and a big mouth, to advertise. I thought it looked rather like Uncle Gaius, Junillus’ father, though I never said so.

‘In fact he is extremely intelligent,’ I stated, still defensive.

‘Presumably he needs to be,’ returned Andronicus in a quiet, sensible voice. He was diligently winning back my friendship. I saw no need to make that difficult.

To justify my bad mood, I mentioned my problems today with the law and order boobies. ‘Just a technicality. But when they flaunt their power, they are a menace . . .’ His food came. I waited while he sized it up and had a taste. At the Stargazer they were not ambitious, but they could manage hard-boiled eggs. ‘So! What did you mean about my “history”, Andronicus? Has someone been spreading malicious rumours?’

As Junillus retreated to the counter, he executed a silly dance, for my benefit; he was indicating that Andronicus was of an even worse standard than my usual class of follower. Andronicus happened to catch this from the corner of his eye. In his most teasing manner he commented, ‘I suppose it’s inevitable your family will mock any man-friend they see you with!’

‘Saturnalia will be fun,’ I agreed, not disputing his definition of himself. ‘By then sisters, aunties, Mother’s dressmaker and the pet monkey should all have seen us around together. My life won’t be worth a nutshell.’

‘I think you’ll cope.’ Andronicus had laid down his spoon, probably with relief, as the sour chickpeas hit his tastebuds; my aunt was still using up a sackful she must have bought the year Vesuvius erupted. He spoke in a low, more intense voice. ‘From what I heard this morning, you are tough. And an interesting character . . . You don’t seem perturbed that you have been discussed by people?’

I smiled gently. ‘I always wait until I know exactly which colourful anecdote – or which fanciful lie − has been told about me.’ We tussled in silence for a while, with him resisting in order to tease me, then I added in a murmur: ‘And to whom the lie was told.’

Andronicus projected his wide-eyed amazed look, eyebrows up and forehead wrinkled.

‘Give!’ I commanded more sternly. To help him out, I said, ‘I’ve learned that Metellus Nepos told Manlius Faustus that he was hiring an informer.’ I did not explore why Andronicus had not mentioned to me what Nepos said. Perhaps I should have, but I was more interested in knowing what had happened today. ‘Does that have something to do with this talk of my “history”?’

Andronicus then confessed readily enough. ‘It was only a matter of time, Albia, before Faustus asked for the background on you.’

‘You were right before. He
is
an interfering bastard.’

‘Routine. All he did was to call up the vigiles register.’

‘And he found I wasn’t there.’

‘Ah! Yes, he did.’

The vigiles keep lists of characters the government chooses to monitor. That’s people with low careers, or people who follow foreign religions that encourage lofty morals, certain types of which the authorities find highly dangerous. Among a ragbag of prostitutes and astrologers, these registers include informers.