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.
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!”
End of story, so far as he was concerned.
Sighing, I turned to Tiberius. He could see I was despondent; he spoke encouragingly. “Brilliant, Flavia Albia. Pudgy. You have put a name to one of our bodies.”
“Sadly, my love, it is the one nobody now cares about.” I cursed my luck mildly, in the manner of my father: “This could only happen to me. I have six bodies from a crime scene, but all I can identify is the dog!”
Not a flicker showed on his face as Tiberius told me deadpan, “Don’t forget we dug up a chicken bone as well.”
“Naturally. Darling heart, I am now working on who the chicken may have been.”
“Good to have priorities,” he answered, smiling. Then suddenly he burst out with, “Just three days now!”
The wedding.