MARCUS DIDIUS FALCO: CURRICULUM VITAE
Family: Born AD41, Rome, Italy, to M. Didius Favonius (aka Geminus) and Junilla Tacita. Plebian rank, father an auctioneer. Brother M. Didius Festus, legio XV Apollinaris, killed AD68, Bethel, Judaea; awarded Palisaded Crown.
Marriage: Helena Justina, d of D. Camillus Verus, senator, and Julia Justa. d Julia Junilla Laeitana, b AD73 Barcino, Hispania Tarraconensis; d Sosia Favonia, b AD75.
Career: cAD59, legio II Augusta, service in Britain (legion disgraced, cAD60); subsequently a speculator, location unknown; discharged on ? medical grounds, cAD66. Active as an informer (delator) in Rome; few details survive. Recorded engagements as imperial agent: Britain, AD71/2 and AD75 (conjectural sightings at Fishbourne Palace and Londinium); Magna Graecia/Campania, AD71; Germania/Germania Libera, AD71; Nabataea/Syria AD72; Baetica/Tarraconensis, AD73; Tripolitania/Cyrenaïca, AD74. Sightings in Greece, AD76, and Egypt, AD77, now thought to have been private visits.
Ascendancy believed to date from AD74, possibly after work on the Great Census, ? due to influence of Antonia Caenis, though she is known to have died in that period. Recorded as holding a procuratorial position at Temple of Juno Moneta, conjecturally identified as associated with the Sacred Geese and Augurs’ Chickens (though this is contested on grounds of improbability). A period of relative prosperity almost certainly followed, when he may have dabbled in literary pursuits and the law. Took up with the Camillus brothers, relatives of his wife; they were subsequently notorious for political intrigue.
Connections: Vespasian and Titus thought well of Falco and used him for missions requiring discretion; Domitian loathed him, reason unknown. Camillus Verus was a supporter, but had awkward family background. Falco formed friendships with influential members of the Flavian court, notably Julius Frontinus (for whom he worked under cover in Britain) and Rutilius Gallicus with whom he shared an interest in poetry (putative joint recital, AD74 and murky link, ? related to captured Veleda, in late AD76). There are recently identified links with élite informers Paccius Africanus and Silius Italicus, against whom he spoke in the Basilica Julia, in AD76 or 77.
Publications: (Fragments only) The Spook Who Spoke, a Plautine comedy, tentatively identified as the prototype for Hamlet; known to have been performed in Palmyra in AD72 and recorded in the pinakes of the Great Library at Alexandria. Love poems (the Aglaia sequence) have not survived. Contemporaries deemed his Satires his best work, the favourite being a contemplation on parrots addressed to his personal friend L. Petronius Longus. Speech against Paccius Africanus, In re Calpurnia, appears to have been suppressed for political reasons.
About the Book
Stunned by a dramatic appeal from his otherwise cool mother-in-law, Falco cannot resist. His brother-in-law has been diverted from his route to Athens University by a man whose newly married daughter disappeared, with her husband, while visiting the Olympic Games as part of an extended wedding trip. Suspecting a classic cover-up, Aulus enrols Falco’s help in solving the case. And of course his mother-in-law hopes to hurry her son along to university by passing the case over to Falco.
Joining the rest of the married couple’s tour group on the remains of their Grand Tour, Falco and Helena seize the opportunity to interview the owner/manager of ‘Seven Sights Travel’, as well as the other guests. Seemingly not getting very far, they can at least make the most of the splendid sights; but finally, on reaching Delphi, Falco and Helena unravel the mystery of the bride and groom . . .
About the Author
Lindsey Davis has written over twenty historical novels, beginning with The Course of Honour. Her bestselling mystery series features laid-back First Century detective Marcus Didius Falco and his partner Helena Justina, plus friends, relations, pets and bitter enemy the Chief Spy. After an English degree at Oxford University Lindsey joined the Civil Service, but became a professional author in 1989. Her books are translated into many languages and have been dramatized on BBC Radio 4. Her many prizes include the Premio Colosseo, awarded by the Mayor of Rome ‘for enhancing the image of Rome’, the Sherlock award for Falco as Best Comic Detective and the Crimewriters’ Association Cartier Diamond Dagger for lifetime achievement.
For more information, please visit www.lindseydavis.co.uk.
ALSO BY LINDSEY DAVIS
Fiction
The Course of Honour
The Falco Series
Falco On His Metal
Falco On The Loose
The Silver Pigs
Shadows in Bronze
Venus in Copper
The Iron Hand of Mars
Poseidon’s Gold
Last Act in Palmyra
Time to Depart
A Dying Light in Corduba
Three Hands in the Fountain
Two for the Lions
One Virgin Too Many
Ode to a Banker
A Body in the Bath House
The Jupiter Myth
The Accusers
Scandal Takes a Holiday
Saturnalia
Alexandria
Nemesis
Falco: The Official Companion
Rebels and Traitors
I
‘Marcus, you must help me!’
I am a private informer, a simple man. I was stunned by this dramatic plea. My silk-clad, scented mother-in-law rarely needed anything from me. Suddenly the noble Julia Justa sounded like one of my clients.
All I wanted that evening was a better dinner than I could expect at home, where – not for the first time – I had made a bad mistake in buying a cook. Julia Justa had already enjoyed herself that night reviewing my dismal record in acquiring household slaves. In return for the dinner I would also have to put up with barbed comments about the failings of Helena and me as parents. Helena would retaliate, while her father and I grinned behind our hands until both women rounded on us, after which the slaves would carry in dessert and we would all fall on the quinces and figs . . .
Family life. I knew where I stood with that. It was better than the old days, when I worked alone from a two-room doss where even the gecko had sneered at me. There, the women who had sought me out were two ranks and many degrees of politeness below my mother-in-law. Their pleas were dismal and they needed help for filthy reasons. What they offered in return went far beyond the grudging thanks I would expect here, though it rarely involved money.
‘I am, of course, at your disposal, dear Julia.’
The senator grinned. ‘Not too busy at the moment?’
‘Surprisingly quiet,’ I told him. ‘I’m waiting for the normal rash of divorces when couples come back to Rome after the holidays.’
‘Cynic, Marcus! What is the matter, mother?’ Helena sized up a platter of fruit; she was looking for a piece to give to our elder daughter. Favonia, our youngest, was happy to spend half an hour sucking a single grape but little Julia, left to herself, would take a bite out of every peach and pear, then surreptitiously put each one back on the dish.
‘Everything is the matter!’ Julia Justa posed in a refined manner, yet several rows of pendant gold beads quivered among the fragrant folds of sage green silk on her bosom. Beside her on the couch, the senator moved away slightly, afraid that she might bruise him with an angry elbow.
Helena now shot her father a brief glance as if she thought he was trouble-making. I enjoyed watching the interplay. Like most families, the Camilli had established myths about themselves: that the senator was constantly harassed and that his wife was allowed no influence at home, for example. The legend that their three children were a constant trial held most truth, although both Helena and her younger brother Justinus had settled down, with partners and offspring. Not that I made a reassuring husband.
It was the elder son, Julia Justa’s favourite, who had caused her current anguish. ‘I am devastated, Marcus! I thought Aulus was doing something sensible at last.’
At twenty-seven, Aulus Camillus Aelianus was still a happy bachelor who had lost interest in entering the Senate. He was feckless and rootless. He spent too much; he drank; he stayed out late; he probably womanised, though he had managed to keep that quiet. Worst of all, he sometimes worked for me. Being an informer was a rough trade for a senator’s son; well Hades, it was rough for me, and I was slum-born. The Camilli were struggling socially; a scandal would finish them.
‘He agreed to go to Athens!’ his mother raved, while the rest of us listened. To everyone’s surprise, attending university had been his own choice – the only hope of it working. ‘It was a solution. We sent him so he could study, to develop his mind, to mature –’
‘You cannot have heard from him already?’ It was only a few weeks since we waved off Aulus on a ship for Greece. That was in August. His mother had fretted that it would be months before he bothered to write home; his father had joked that that would be as soon as the letters of credit ran out, when Aulus scribbled the traditional plea of ‘Safely arrived – Send more cash immediately!’ The senator had warned him that there was no more cash; still, Aulus knew he was his mother’s pet. He would write to Julia and she would work on Decimus.
Now we learned that Aulus had let himself be sidetracked and, oddly for an intelligent fellow, he had owned up to his mama. ‘Marcus, the damn ship stopped at Olympia. Of course I don’t mind Aulus visiting the sanctuary of Zeus, but he’s up to something else entirely –’
‘So what is the big draw? Apart from sun, sport, and avoiding serious study?’
‘Don’t tease me, Marcus.’
I tried to remember whether they had held Olympic Games this year. Nero famously altered the centuries-old timing, so the mad emperor could compete in events during his tour of Greece. Unforgettable and embarrassing: a catalogue of pretending to be a herald, giving dreary recitals, and expecting to win everything, whether he was any good or not.
I fancied the date had now been altered back. By my rapid calculation the next Games would be next August. ‘Relax, Julia. Aulus can’t be wasting time as a spectator.’
Julia Justa shuddered. ‘No; it’s worse. Apparently he met a group of people and one of them had been horribly killed.’
‘Oh?’ I managed to keep my voice neutral, though Helena looked up from mopping juice from Favonia’s white tunic.
‘Well, Marcus,’ Julia Justa said darkly, as if this was clearly my fault. ‘It is just the kind of situation you taught him to get excited about.’ I tried to look innocent. ‘Aulus is suspicious because it is very well known that another young girl from Rome vanished at the last Olympic Games. And she was eventually found murdered too.’
‘Aulus is trying to help these people?’
‘It’s not for him to involve himself –’ I saw it all now. My task was to take over and steer young Aulus back on his way to university. The noble Julia was so eager to have him with his nose in a law scroll, she was ready to sell her jewellery. ‘I will pay your fare to Greece, Marcus. But you must agree to go and sort this out!’
II
Taking orders from a subordinate is bad enough. Following up some lousy lead he has only bothered to pass on via his mother must be the billygoat’s armpit. Even so, I did ask to read the letter.
Later, safely back at home, Helena Justina poked me in the ribs. ‘Own up. You are fascinated.’
‘Mildly curious.’
‘Why did my ridiculous brother alert Mama?’
‘Too lazy to write separately to us. He wants to know what the father has to say – the father of the first dead girl.’
‘Had you heard about that?’
‘Vaguely. It’s the Caesius case.’
‘So you are going to see the father? Can I come too?’
‘No.’
Helena came with me.
We knew in advance the interview would be sensitive.
This was the situation: at the Olympic Games three years ago a young girl, travelling with a group of sightseers from Rome, went missing. Her distraught father tried to investigate; in fact, he had been doing so non-stop – far too long to nag on about it, the hard-hearted Roman public thought. He went out there and doggedly searched until he found the girl’s remains. He tried to discover the circumstances of her death, then was soon making well-publicised claims that his child had been murdered. He had been agitating for answers ever since.
Finding the girl’s body annoyed the authorities; they had failed to investigate properly in the first place, so they resisted reopening the enquiry. Knowing the daughter was dead took Caesius no further. Eventually he ran out of time, money, and energy; he was forced to return home, case unproven. Still obsessed, he had managed to rake up some interest among the Forum gossips, which was why I had heard of him. Most people dismissed him as a man crazed by grief, an embarrassment. I had felt some sympathy. I knew how I would react if one of my girls ever went missing.
We went early to his house. It was a warm, clear Rome morning, on the way to a very hot noon. The hint of haze above the Capitol, as we rounded it into the Forum, would soon become a flagrant dazzle, too bright to look up at the new Temple of Jupiter with its golden roof and stinging white marble. Over the far end of the Forum hung a cloud of dust from the huge building site of the Flavian Amphitheatre; no longer just the biggest hole in the world, its walls were slowly rising in a fabulous travertine ellipse and at this hour it was the busiest area of activity. Everywhere else there were fewer crowds than usual. Anyone who could afford to leave town was away. Bored senators and bloated ex-slaves with multimillion businesses had been at the coast, in the hills, or by the lakes for a couple of months; they would not return until the lawcourts and schools reopened later in September. Even then, sensible ones would find excuses to delay.
We kept to the shade as we crossed at the north end and made our way towards the Via Lata district.
I had written a letter of introduction and received a short note back that I might call. I guessed Caesius would view me as a ghoul or a shyster. I could handle that. I had had enough practice.
Caesius Secundus was a widower, long-standing; the daughter who disappeared had been his only child. He lived in a faded town house off the Via Lata, just before it turns into the Via Flaminia. A cutler hired part of his ground floor for a workshop and selling space. The part where Caesius lived looked and sounded half empty; we were admitted not by a porter but by an all-purpose slave in a kitchen apron, who showed us to a reception room then went back to his stockpot.
Despite my fears of rebuff, Caesius saw us at once. He was tall and must have once been quite heavily built; now his white tunic hung slackly from a stringy neck and bony shoulders. The man had lost weight without yet noticing that he needed new outfits. Time had frozen for him, the day he heard his daughter had disappeared. Perhaps now he was back in Rome, in his own household, he would be reminded of mealtimes and other normal routines. More likely he would resist being cared for.
‘I know why you have come.’ He was direct, rushing into the business too fast, despite his worn look.
‘I am Didius Falco. Let me introduce my wife, Helena Justina –’ Stately and pleasant, she lent us respectability. With the fine carriage and elegant robes of a well-bred matron, Helena always distracted attention from my rough manners. I managed to conceal the fact that her presence physically distracted me.
‘You want to talk about my daughter – Let me first show her to you.’
We were astonished, but Caesius merely led us to a cool internal colonnade beside a small courtyard. On a Corinthian pedestal stood a half-statue of a young woman: white marble, good quality; a portrait bust with the subject turned slightly to one side, gazing downwards demurely. Her face had been given just enough character to seem taken from life, though the newness of the work suggested the commission was post-mortem.
‘This is all I have now.’
‘Her name was Marcella Caesia?’ Helena asked, studying the statue thoughtfully.
‘Yes. She would have been twenty-one.’ The father stared at the bust just a little too long. A chair stood close by. He probably brooded here for long hours. For the rest of his life, time would be measured by how old his lost child should have been, had she lived.
He led us back to the original sparsely furnished room. Caesius insisted that Helena took a comfortable basket chair with its own footstool, perhaps once his wife’s. Arranging her skirts, she glanced at me. I took out a note-tablet and prepared to lead the questioning, though Helena and I would share it; one of us would talk while the other observed.
‘I warn you now!’ Caesius blurted out. ‘I have been targeted by many frauds who made me great promises, then did nothing.’
I said quietly: ‘Caesius, here’s the deal. I am an informer, mainly in Rome. I have taken assignments overseas, but only for the Emperor.’ Mentioning Vespasian might impress him, unless he had supported Vespasian’s opponents in the imperial contest – or if he was a strong republican.
He had no time for politics. ‘I can’t pay you, Falco.’
‘I have not asked for money.’ Well, not yet. ‘I know you have an intriguing story.’
‘How does my story profit you? Do you have a commission?’
This was hard work. If there was trouble in a foreign province, Vespasian might agree to send me, though he would not welcome the expense. This girl’s death was a private matter – unless Caesius was some old crony of the Emperor’s who could call in favours; he would have done it by now if he could, and not exhausted himself for three fruitless years on a solo effort. ‘I offer nothing; I promise nothing. Caesius, a colleague asked me to check facts. Your story may help other people –’ Caesius stared at me. ‘So – if you want to tell me what happened to your daughter, on that basis, then please do.’
He made a slight hand gesture: appeasement. ‘I have been hounded by monsters making false offers of help. Now I trust no one.’
‘You have to decide if I’m different – but no doubt the confidence tricksters said that too.’
‘Thank you for your honesty.’
Despite his claim to trust no one, Caesius was still open to hope. With a wrench, he let us win him round. He took a breath. Clearly he had told the story many times before: ‘My poor wife died twenty years ago. My daughter Caesia was the only one of our children to survive infancy. My background is in textile importation; we lived comfortably, Caesia was educated and – in my opinion, which of course is biased – she grew up sweet, talented, and worthy.’
‘She looks it, in her portrait.’ After my rude start, Helena was being the sympathetic partner.
‘Thank you.’
I watched Helena, doubting if she had meant the routine praise. We had daughters. We loved them, but were under no illusions. I won’t say I regarded girls as hell-raisers – but I was braced for future confrontations.
‘So why was Caesia in Greece?’ Helena asked.
The father flushed a little, but he told us honestly, ‘There had been trouble over a young man –’
‘You disapproved?’ It was the obvious reason for a father to mention ‘trouble’.
‘I did, but it came to nothing anyway. Then Caesia’s aunt, Marcella Naevia, decided to travel, and offered to take her niece. It seemed a gift from the gods. I readily agreed.’
‘And your daughter?’ Helena had been a spirited young girl; her first thought was that Caesia might have been difficult about being packed off abroad.
‘She was thrilled. Caesia had an open, enquiring mind; she was not at all afraid of travelling; she was delighted to be given access to Greek art and culture. I had always encouraged her to visit libraries and galleries.’ A look in Helena’s fine brown eyes told me she knew I was thinking the young girl would be more delighted with Greek muleteers, all muscles and mischief, like classical gods.
My turn again: ‘So how was the trip arranged?’ I sounded dour. I already knew the answer: it was our link with the more recently murdered woman. Caesia’s aunt travelled with a party; she had hired specialist tour guides.
This was a fad of our time. We had safe roads, free passage on the seas, a common currency throughout the Empire, and tracts of fascinating conquered territory. Inevitably, our citizens became tourists. All Romans – all those who could afford it – believed in a life of leisure. Some rich idlers set off from Italy for five years at a time. As these culture-cravers crowded into the ancient places of the world, toting their guidebooks, histories, shopping lists, and itineraries, a travel industry had evolved to cash in.
I had heard leisure travel was sordid. Still, people speak badly of all successful businesses. The public even despises informers, I am told.
‘Everything began competently,’ Caesius conceded. ‘Organisers called Seven Sights Travel arranged the trip. They emphasised that it would be cheaper, safer, and much more convenient if a group went together.’
‘But it was not safer for Caesia! So what happened?’ I demanded.
Again the father steadied his breath. ‘I was told,’ he stressed, ‘that while they stayed at Olympia, she disappeared. After extensive searching – that was how they described it anyway – the rest of the group continued on their way.’ His voice was cold. ‘Like me, you may find that surprising.’
‘Who informed you?’
‘One of the Seven Sights staff came to my house here.’
‘Name?’
‘Polystratus.’ I wrote it down. ‘He was sympathetic, told a good story, said Caesia had suddenly left the party, no one knew why. I was too shocked to interrogate him closely; in any case, he was just a messenger. He seemed to be saying Caesia had caused them inconvenience, by flighty behaviour. Apparently the other travellers just woke up one morning, when they were preparing to embark for their next venue, and she was not to be found.’ Caesius became indignant. ‘It was almost as if Seven Sights were claiming financial compensation for the delay.’
‘Have they softened up now?’
‘Given that she is dead –’
‘Now they are frightened that you may sue them!’
Caesius looked blank. He had not thought of it. His one motivation was finding the truth, to help him in his grief. ‘The tour had a travelling manager called Phineus. Falco, it took me some time to find out that Phineus had left the group when Caesia disappeared; he returned at once to Rome. I find his behaviour deeply suspicious.’ Now we were getting to his angry theories.
‘Let me identify suspects for myself, please,’ I instructed. ‘Was there any information from the girl’s aunt?’
‘She stayed in Olympia until there seemed nothing else she could do. Then she abandoned the tour and returned home. She was devastated when I finally discovered my daughter’s fate.’
‘Can you put us in touch with the lady?’
‘Unfortunately no. She is abroad again.’ My eyebrows shot up. ‘She enjoys travel. I believe she has gone to Alexandria.’ Well, that’s the trouble with holidays; every time you take one, you need another to recover. Still, it was three years since her niece died; Marcella Naevia was entitled to resume her life. People must have said Caesius should do the same; he looked tetchy.
While I noted down the aunt’s movements, Helena took over. ‘So, Caesius. You were so dissatisfied with the official version of events, you went out to Olympia to see for yourself?’
‘At first I wasted a lot of time. I assumed the authorities would investigate and send me word.’
‘No news came?’
‘Silence. So it was almost a year later that I travelled there myself. I owed it to my child to discover what had happened to her.’
‘Of course. Especially if you have doubts.’
‘I have no doubt!’ Caesius burst out. ‘Someone killed her! Then somebody – the killer, the tour arrangers, some other tour member, or the local people – covered up the crime. They all hoped to forget the incident. But I shall never let them forget!’
‘You went to Greece,’ I intervened, calming him. ‘You spent a long time haranguing the authorities in Olympia. In the end, you yourself discovered human remains outside the town, with evidence that confirmed it was your daughter?’
‘The jewellery she wore every day.’
‘Where was the body?’
‘On a hillside. The Hill of Cronus, which overlooks the sanctuary of Zeus.’ Now Caesius was struggling to sound reasonable, so I would believe him. ‘The locals claimed she must have wandered off, maybe on some romantic whim to watch the sunset – or sunrise – or listen for the gods in the night. When they were being most offensive, they said she was meeting a lover.’
‘You don’t believe that.’ I passed no judgement on his belief in his daughter. Other people would give us the unbiased view of Caesia.
‘This is a very hard question,’ Helena enquired gently, ‘but could you deduce anything from your daughter’s body –’
‘No.’
We waited. The father remained silent.
‘She had been exposed on a hillside.’ I kept it neutral. ‘There was no sign of how she died?’
Caesius forced himself to relive his grim discovery. ‘She had been there a year when I found her. I made myself look for signs of a struggle. I wanted to know what had happened to her, remember. But all I found were bones, some scattered by animals. If she had been harmed, I could no longer tell how. That was the problem,’ he raged. ‘That was why the authorities were able to maintain that Caesia had died naturally.’
‘Clothing?’ I asked.
‘It looked as if she was . . . clothed.’ Her father stared at me, seeking reassurance that this was not a sex crime. The second-hand evidence was insufficient to judge.
Helena then asked quietly, ‘You gave her a funeral?’
The father’s voice was clipped. ‘I want to send her to the gods, but I must find answers first. I gathered her up, intending to hold a ceremony, there in Olympia. Then I decided against it. I had a lead coffin made for her and brought her home.’
‘Oh!’ Helena had not been expecting the reply. ‘Where is she now?’
‘She is here,’ answered Caesius matter-of-factly. Helena and I glanced involuntarily around the reception room. Caesius did not elucidate; elsewhere in his house there must be the coffin with the three-year-old relics. A macabre chill settled on this previously domestic salon. ‘She is waiting for a chance to tell somebody something of importance.’
Me. Dear gods, that was going to be my role.
‘So . . .’ Chilled, I ran slowly through the remainder of the story. ‘Even your sad discovery on the hillside failed to persuade the locals to take the matter seriously. Then you nagged at the governor’s staff in the capital at Corinth; they stonewalled like true diplomats. You even tracked down the travel group and demanded answers. Eventually you ran out of resources and were forced to return home?’
‘I would have stayed there. But I had upset the governor with my constant appeals.’ Caesius now looked abashed. ‘I was ordered to leave Greece.’
‘Oh joy!’ I gave him a wry smile. ‘I love being invited to participate in an enquiry where the administration has just blacklisted my client!’
‘Do you have a client?’ Helena asked me, though her glance told me she had guessed the answer.
‘Not at this stage,’ I responded, without blinking.
‘What exactly brought you here?’ Caesius asked narrowly.
‘A possible development. Another young woman has recently died in bad circumstances at Olympia. My assistant, Camillus Aelianus, was asked to make enquiries –’ That was pushing it. He was just nosy. ‘I am interviewing you because your daughter’s fate may be linked to the new death; I want to make a neutral reassessment.’
‘I asked all the right questions in Greece!’ Obsessed by his own plight, Caesius was showing just how desperate he was. He had hardly taken in what I said about the latest death. He just wanted to believe he had done everything for his daughter. ‘You think that if the questions are asked by a different person, there may be different answers?’
In fact I thought that by now everybody under suspicion would have thoroughly honed their stories. The dice were thunderously loaded against me. This was a cold case, where the nagging father might be quite wrong in his wild theories. Even if there really had been crimes, the first perpetrators had had three years to destroy any evidence and the second ones knew all the questions I would ask.
It was hopeless. Just like most of the dud investigations I accepted.
Belatedly, Caesius was taking in the fact that another girl had been killed and another family was suffering. ‘I must see them –’
‘Please don’t!’ I urged. ‘Please let me handle it.’
I could see he would not heed me. Caesius Secundus was fired by the hope that a new killing – if that was really what had happened – would provide more clues, more mistakes or muddled stories, and maybe a new chance.
III
The coffin of Marcella Caesia stood in a dark side room. Its lid was painstakingly forced open with a crowbar. The surly slave who forced the curled lead edges apart plainly reckoned I was yet another callous fraud preying on his master.
Do not expect me to dwell on the contents. The dead girl had been bleached and sun-baked for a twelvemonth on the mountainside and animals had got to her. There were a lot of loose bones, a little shredded clothing. Collecting the relics must have been difficult. The coffin had been on a sea voyage since. If you have ever seen a corpse in that condition, you know how it was. If you never have, be grateful.
‘How was the body lying, Caesius? Could you tell?’
‘I don’t know. I thought she had been left on her back. That was merely my feeling. Everything was widely scattered.’
‘Any indication that she had been buried? Could you see a shallow grave?’
‘No.’
Under the fierce gaze of Caesius Secundus, I endured the experience, walking around to view the coffin from every angle. I saw nothing helpful. Out of decency, I gave it time, then shook my head. I tried to find reverence; I probably failed. Then I left Caesius raising his arms in prayer, while his daughter’s remains were resealed by the purse-lipped slave, hammering over the lead lip of the coffin lid as best he could.
It had one result for me. Mere curiosity changed to a much harder mood.
In that angry frame of mind, I addressed the new case, the second young Roman girl dead in Olympia. I set about investigating her in Rome.
Aulus had written a few facts. This victim was called Valeria Ventidia. At nineteen, she had married Tullius Statianus, a decent young man from a well-to-do family, their middle son. The Tullius family were supporting an older son for election to the Senate. They had not intended anything similar for Statianus, so perhaps as a compromise his parents gave the bride and groom a wedding gift of a long tour abroad.
I was unable to trace Valeria’s own relations. So far, there was no Forum gossip about this case. I only tracked down the Tullii because of the other son, who was standing for election; a clerk in the Curia grudgingly let himself be bribed to scribble an address. By the time I turned up there, Caesius Secundus had ignored my plea, tracked down this family, and preceded me to confront the groom’s parents.
It did not help. He imagined that grief gave him an entry, and that if there was something unnatural in the bride’s death, her new in-laws would share his indignation. I could have told him this was unlikely. But I had been an informer for nearly two decades, and I knew people stink. Bereavement does not improve anybody’s morals. It just gives them more excuses to slam doors in the faces of more ethical people. People like Caesius Secundus. People like me.
The Tullii lived on the Argiletum. This hectic thoroughfare leading north from the Curia passed itself off as a prime address; however, it had a bad reputation for riots and rip-offs, and the private houses there must be frequently bothered by street brawls and bad language. That told us the family either had over-grandiose ideas, or old money that was running out. Either way, they were bluffing about their importance.
The groom’s mother was called Tullia, Tullia Longina. Since she shared her husband’s family name, it must be a marriage between cousins, probably for money reasons. She agreed to see us, though reluctantly. To knock on the door of a private house, unannounced, always puts you on the wrong foot. I could shoulder my way into most places, but a Roman matron, mother of three children, by tradition expects less crudity. Upset her, and a slab-like slave would soon evict us.
‘My husband is attending to business –’ Tullia Longina was eyeing us up more critically than Caesius had done. I looked slightly less suave than a gladiator. At least Helena, clad in clean white with gold glinting at her throat, seemed reassuring. Once again, I had taken her with me. I was in a raw mood and needed her restrained back-up.
‘We could return at a more convenient time,’ Helena offered, not meaning it.
We noticed the woman’s guarded look. ‘Better to speak to me. Tullius is annoyed already – A man called Caesius has been here; are you anything to do with him?’
We tutted and looked grieved by his interference. ‘So you know what happened to his daughter?’ Helena asked, trying to win the woman’s friendship.
‘Yes, but my husband says, what has it to do with us?’ Mistake, Tullia. Helena hated women who sheltered behind their husbands. ‘Valeria’s – accident – is very unfortunate, and a tragedy for my poor son, but we feel, what is the purpose of dwelling on what happened?’
‘Maybe so you can console your son?’ My voice was hard. I was remembering the dank contents of the lead coffin at the Caesius house.
Tullia still failed to spot our rudeness. Again, her wary expression came and was quickly supplanted. ‘Well, life must go on . . .’
‘And is your son still abroad?’ Helena had recovered herself.
‘Yes.’
‘You must just want him home.’
‘I do! But, I confess I am dreading it. Who knows what state he will be in . . .’ Next minute the mother was telling us that his condition was amazingly stable. ‘He has decided to continue his journey, so he will have time to come to terms –’
‘Did that not surprise you?’ I thought it astonishing, and I let her see it.
‘No, he wrote us a long letter to explain. He said the other people on the trip are comforting him. He will stay among his new friends. Otherwise, he would have to make his way back to Rome, entirely alone, whilst in such trouble and unhappiness –’
Unconvinced, I cut across this: ‘So what does he say about the death?’
Once more, the mother looked anxious. She was intelligent enough to know we could find out the facts some other way, so she coughed: ‘Valeria was found one morning, outside the lodging house, lying dead.’ Already despising Statianus, I wondered what kind of newly-wed husband spent a whole night separated from his bride, not raising the alarm. One who had had a fight with her, perhaps?
‘Was there any thought of who might have done such a thing?’ Helena took over before I lost my temper.
‘Apparently not.’ The mother of Statianus seemed a little too tight-lipped.
‘No doubt the local authorities investigated thoroughly?’
‘A woman in the party summoned a magistrate. Created a fuss.’ Tullia seemed to think this responsible move was over-officious; then she told us why: ‘Statianus found the investigation very difficult; the magistrate was set against him. A story began that my son must have had something to do with what had happened to Valeria – that maybe they had quarrelled – either that she had lost interest in him, or that his behaviour towards her drove her away . . .’
The mother had said too much and knew it. Helena commented, ‘You can see how a breach might happen with a new married couple, youngsters who had known one another only slightly beforehand, under the stress of travelling –’
I sneaked in a question: ‘Was it an arranged marriage?’ All marriages are arranged by someone, even ours, in which we two had simply decided to live together. ‘Did the couple know one another? Were they childhood friends?’
‘No. They had met several times in adulthood; they were content to be partners.’
‘How long ago was the wedding?’
‘Only four months . . .’ Tullia Longina wiped away an invisible tear. At least this time she made the effort.
‘Valeria was nineteen. And your son?’ I pressed on.
‘Five years older.’
‘So who arranged things for Valeria? Had she family?’
‘A guardian. Her parents are both dead.’
‘She is an heiress?’
‘Well, she has – had – a little money, but to be honest, it was something of a move downhill for us.’ So the careful Tullii had got away with putting in a small marriage portion. Money, therefore, seemed an unlikely motive for killing Valeria.
I asked for, and to my surprise was given, details of Valeria’s guardian. Not much hope there; he was an elderly great-uncle, who lived away in Sicily. He had not even attended the wedding. Fixing up Valeria must have been a duty call.
‘They were not close,’ Tullia told us. ‘I believe they had not even met since Valeria was a very small child. Nonetheless, I am sure her great-uncle is heartbroken.’
‘Your son less so?’ I queried coolly.
‘No!’ Tullia Longina exclaimed. ‘Even the magistrate could see in the end that he is innocent. The whole party were exonerated and allowed to go on their way.’
‘What happened to Valeria’s corpse?’ I asked.
‘A funeral was held at Olympia.’
‘Cremation?’
‘Of course,’ said Tullia, looking surprised. Thank the gods. That saved me sniffing at another set of bones.
Helena moved slightly, to break the tension. ‘What was your reaction when Caesius Secundus came and told you something similar had happened to his daughter?’
‘Oh the circumstances are quite different!’ On the limited information we had, I could not see that. Caesius had no idea how his daughter died. Either the Tullii knew more than they were saying about Valeria, or they were determined to say she had suffered an ‘accident’ even though Aulus had written that in Olympia there was no dispute that she was murdered. The Tullii were definitely brushing Valeria’s death aside – just as Caesius thought everyone had done to his own daughter. Still, their son had survived; his two brothers were flourishing; the Tullii wanted to get on with their lives.
‘Is there any chance that we could see the letter Statianus wrote?’ Helena then requested.
‘Oh no. No, no. I no longer even have it.’
‘Not a family for keepsakes?’ Helena barely hid her sarcasm.
‘Well, I have mementoes of all my sons when they were little – their first tiny sandals, baby cups they drank their broth from – but no. We do not keep letters about tragedies.’ Tullia’s face clouded. ‘They are gone,’ she said, almost pleading with us. ‘I understand the other father’s grief. We are all very sorry, both for him and for ourselves; of course we are. Valeria was a lovely girl –’ Did she really think that, or was she merely being courteous? ‘But now she is gone and we all need to settle down again.’
Perhaps she was right. After this interview, Helena and I decided there was no point pursuing the Tullii. I thought we had probably heard the husband’s views in his wife’s last statement. ‘She is gone, and we all need to settle down again.’ Two months after a death this was not particularly callous, not from parents-in-law who appeared to have barely known the girl.
‘Did anybody know Valeria?’ Helena wondered to me. ‘Know her properly?’
I thought Statianus was an enigma too. However bland the excuses, I still thought it incredible that he should lose his recent bride, yet continue his travels among a bunch of strangers as if nothing had happened.
‘The trip to Greece was to celebrate the marriage,’ Helena agreed. ‘So if the marriage had ended, what was the point in continuing?’
‘It was paid for?’
‘My parents would demand their money back!’ She grimaced, then added brutally, ‘Or Papa would quickly fix up a new match, then re-run the tour with wife number two.’
I joined in the satire. ‘Right from Rome, or from the spot where the first bride perished?’
‘Oh from Olympia. No need to make the bridegroom relive sights he had already enjoyed!’
I grinned. ‘People think me crude!’
‘Realistic,’ Helena countered. ‘This trip must have cost the Tullii a very great deal, Marcus.’
I nodded. She was right. Tomorrow I would seek out and interview the agents who had fixed up the expensive package.
IV
I wore the toga I had inherited from my brother. I wanted to look prosperous, yet overheated and stressed. I piled on some flashy jewellery that I keep for when I act as a crass new man: a torque-shaped armband and big ring with a red stone carved with a man in a Greek helmet. Both came from a stall in the Saepta Julia that specialised in kitting out idiots. Polished up, the gold almost looked real – though not as real as my own straight gold band that told the world I really was a new entrant to the middle class. Vespasian had conned me into taking equestrian rank – so I was really gullible.
Beside the ancient Forum of the Romans lies the modern Forum of Julius; next is the Forum of Augustus; after that you run into the infamous area once called the Subura. Julius Caesar supposedly lived there, when he was not bedding the teenaged Cleopatra or dividing Gaul into parts. The legendary Julius had louche taste. If he lived in the Subura, trust me, he was lucky to survive to the Ides of March.
This dangerous dump was now recategorised as the Alta Semita, the High Lanes district, though little had changed. Even I, in my single days, drew the line at an apartment in the High Lanes. You only die once; you may as well live a little first.
The Seven Sights travel bureau was here – well within reach of the Argiletum where the Tullii lived and the Via Lata home of Caesius. It occupied a one-room lock-up in a dark alley, off a low street where I passed a knife fight being ignored by some small boys having a cockfight near to a dead beggar. I could see why locals would want a getaway. When I stepped across the threshold, I looked nervous and it was not acting. The male occupant ignored me as I glanced along faded wall-maps of Achaea and Egypt, pausing at the sketch of a miserable Trojan horse.
‘Poor gee. Looks like he’s caught the Strangles from his stablemate. Or has he just got woodworm?’
‘Planning a trip, sir?’ The bored salesman retaliated for this bad joke by showing me a set of mainly missing teeth. I tried not to stare at the gaping rictus. ‘You’ve come to the right place. We’ll make everything run smoothly.’
‘How much would it cost?’
Keener, the salesman approached. He was a swarthy, paunchy fraudster, with a short curly beard and lashings of hair oil. He wore a mid-calf tunic in vomit yellow, straining across his belly. ‘How long have you got, and where do you want to go?’ I won’t say this man was avoiding my gaze, but he was watching an invisible fly that he had dreamed up to the left of my ear.
‘Greece, maybe. Wife wants to visit her brother. I’m scared of the price.’
The agent applied a sympathetic pucker of the lips. With practised ease, he hid the fact that fleecing scared voyagers was the sole reason Seven Sights existed. ‘It need not be exorbitant!’
‘Give me some idea.’
‘Difficult, sir. Once you take off, you’re bound to get hooked. I wouldn’t want you to be locked into a package if you hankered for a little add-on – suppose you had gasped at the Colossus of Rhodes, then heard of some up-country village that made fabulous cheeses –’ I thought the Colossus had been snapped off at the knees in an earthquake; still, I love cheese. I brightened. That made him brighten. ‘Now with our mix-and-match infinite journey plan, sir, anything is possible – right up to the moment you decide to come home so you can boast to all your friends. Tell you what, legate, how about I mooch along to your house and talk you through it?’
I looked nervous. I was nervous. ‘Well, we’re just thinking about it –’
‘Absolutely fine. No obligation. I’m Polystratus, by the way. They call me the Seven Sights facilitator.’
‘Falco.’
‘Excellent. Falco, let me drop by with a few maps and itineraries, spread them out in the comfort of your own home, then you can choose at leisure. Make sure the wife is in; she’ll just love what we have on offer.’
‘Oh she’s mad to spend some money,’ I confirmed gloomily. While he hid his glee, the appointment was made for that same night. Seven Sights never let a victim cool.
Our current address was a tall town house on the Tiber Embankment in the shadow of the Aventine Hill. It had previously belonged to my father, Didius Geminus the notorious auctioneer; we still had a couple of rooms furnished with grand, unsaleable furniture, which Pa kept ‘forgetting’ to remove. One of these salons was ideal for making Polystratus think us wealthier than we were. He tottered in with an armful of scrolls, which he dropped on a low marble table. Helena encouraged him to relax on a metal couch which still possessed uneven cushions; smiley lion’s head finials showed off what looked like real gilding.
Polystratus gazed around admiringly at Pa’s special brand of décor. This was one of the rooms that periodically flooded. At least the blotched frescos might stop the facilitator adding noughts to his estimate. Millionaires would have had new paint.
I introduced myself as Procurator of the Sacred Geese of Juno. Untrue, since I had been ‘let go’ by the tight-pursed Emperor. My post had been made redundant; nonetheless, I still sometimes went up to the compound and endured a peck or two for old times’ sake. I could not bear to think of the Sacred Geese and the Augurs’ Chickens suffering neglect. Besides, we were used to the free eggs.
Helena Justina was giving her jewellery a good workout this week; tonight she had on a rather fine amber necklace, plus ridiculous gold ear-rings like chandeliers which she may have borrowed from a circus artiste we knew. She scrutinised Polystratus slyly, while I perfected our winsome tourist act.