We detoured to call on Sextus Silanus. We had to pass on the tragic news of his uncle’s death. Petronius would explain the circumstances. My role would be to watch this conversation unobserved, judging the nephew’s reaction. He had benefited financially from the death. Some investigators would pin the murder straight on him. When motive gives you a quick way to clear up a case, who needs facts?
Silanus came to the shop door, saw our cavalcade, recognised me, and expected the worst. Petronius Longus always looked as if he had a grim purpose. His bearing and sombre face gave away the reason for our visit. The numbers in our group also indicated that Modestus and his fate were at last of official concern.
We had the ox cart, containing some of us and our baggage. On dilapidated mules were a couple of Petro’s men, all he could safely scrounge from duty: Auctus looked too fragile to fight fires but he had been in the cohort for years and everyone accepted him; he was riding Basiliscus, a skeletal beast with a bent ear and bad breath. Ampliatus had an eye missing and rode a brindled, knock-kneed mule called Corex who kept running away. Although the vigiles are ex-slaves, most were not quite so off-putting; these were the only two men who would volunteer for our destination.
Petronius had left Fusculus behind in charge, though we wished we could have had that steady fellow with us. Somebody had to do Marcus Rubella’s vital job; at least, that would be Rubella’s view.
In charge of the cart, Petro’s brother had a similar relaxed driving style, holding the reins in one hand loosely and letting the ox make his own pace. Otherwise there was little resemblance between them. Maybe there had been a frisky lupin-seller in the neighbourhood just before Rectus was born, though I did not risk the joke. Rectus was older, shorter, of squashy shape and slumped posture, an unsociable fellow who seemed hard to like. They had had very little to do with one another for years. I was sure Petro once told me his brother was a bit of a fixer and mixer, though he gave no sign of it. Perhaps age or the marsh fever had slowed him down. When anyone asked Rectus about the fever (which we did frequently, because we were all petrified), he just grunted; if pushed further, he let out a sardonic laugh and turned away. I decided not to discuss him with Petronius. Let him volunteer a comment if he wanted to.
Completing our party was a brother of Helena’s, Justinus. I worked with him in Rome and had also taken him on missions in rough country. I knew he would be reliable. Helena had begged me not to expose him to danger, but he was no longer a lad; it was his choice. He was keen to escape the bad atmosphere at home, caused by his brother’s new wife and pushy father-in-law. On this trip Justinus had brought his barmy batman, Lentullus. The dopiest, clumsiest ex-legionary in the Empire, Lentullus was devoted to Quintus in a wide-eyed way. He limped badly on one leg and would probably try to tame the Pontine flies as pets.
I planned that if we ran into hostility from local dignitaries, resentful of imperial interference, then Camillus Justinus, as a senator’s son with the smart travel clothes and uppercrust accent, could be shoved forward to charm them.
We first tackled officialdom at Lanuvium. I was right; we were given the brush-off. If there’s one thing I hate about travel outside Rome it is small-town magistrates who think they count for something. The petty toffs who ran Lanuvium had so little sense of proportion they called their town council the Senate and their magistrate a Dictator. That was the title used in ancient times for a leader with unrestricted powers who was called upon to rescue the nation in an emergency. On mention of the Claudii, the Lanuvium Dictator rapidly assumed other emergency powers: declaring that this problem was outside his jurisdiction. He kindly suggested we try Antium instead.
He had cow dung on his boots and I wasn’t certain he could read—yet he managed to dismiss Laeta’s request for civic aid as briskly as if he was swatting wasps on a saucer of relish.
‘I’m getting a feel for this,’ Petronius remarked in annoyance as we left.
‘You mean,’ suggested Justinus, ‘it feels like stepping in a slurry pit?’
‘And helplessly falling over!’
We spent the next half-hour despondently embroidering this with such details as falling in the manure while wearing your best cloak and with a girl you fancied watching . . .
Our detour to Lanuvium was partly a waste of time, but we did see Silanus. Petronius had asked him a few questions that confirmed the body found in the tomb was his uncle: a man in his sixties, nearly bald, thin build; usually wearing a lapis signet ring, which had not been found. I saw Petro thinking that the killer might have kept it as a trophy and that if we ever caught up with him, the ring might be good evidence. Her nephew said Livia Primilla was about fifteen years younger; in good health, blue eyes, greying hair, kept herself nicely, wore good clothes and jewellery. Unfortunately, even though they dealt in statues and must know the artistic community, the couple had never commissioned portraits of themselves.
Silanus gave us directions to his uncle and aunt’s farm. It was near Satricum, adjacent to land farmed by the Claudius freedmen: ‘If you can call what the Claudii do farming.’
They did own cattle: Silanus said his uncle had a long history of bad relations with them but the most recent ugly incidents began when the Claudii let a rampaging bunch of young bullocks break down a fence. Modestus had an overseer who went to demand compensation for the damage, but was badly beaten up.
Silanus confirmed that Modestus had a hobby of writing angry letters. He had complained directly to the obnoxious Claudii. He also badgered the town council in Antium; those wits’-end worthies may have lost patience with his demands. After he and Primilla disappeared and Silanus appealed for help, the magistrate had to investigate, but his men may not have put much effort into it.
‘Some of the Claudii are just loafers; they go into town and act up—minor thefts from homes and businesses, insults, writing their names on walls, guzzling wine then causing a disturbance after dark . . . You know.’
‘Everyday life, where we come from,’ Petronius said, though he made it clear he was sympathetic.
We were indoors at the time; Silanus went to look outside to check what his children were doing. Lentullus, a big child himself, was talking to them; he had them feeding grass to the ox. ‘One or two Claudii have more violent reputations. People don’t like anything to do with them.’
‘Particular names?’ asked Petro.
Silanus shook his head. ‘When Modestus was railing, I had my own troubles. It always sounded like exaggeration. Anyway, there never seemed much I could do . . .’
‘A man called Nobilis has been mentioned.’
‘Means nothing to me.’ Silanus fell silent. Now he blamed himself for not taking more interest previously.
I said quietly, ‘You were right the other day. Why make yourself another victim? Your conscience is clear. Leave it to the professionals.’
I had watched Petronius silently weighing up the nephew as a harassed family man of basic honesty. Turning a piece of terracotta in his big hands, Petro asked, ‘A slave brought you the news of your aunt’s disappearance—can I speak to him?’
‘Syrus. I don’t have him,’ said Silanus. ‘There was a man I owed money to. I handed over the slave to pay off the debt.’
He had paid the butcher. That’s how it is. Syrus may have loyally carried out instructions from Primilla that had brought him on a day’s journey, and the result of his information would make Silanus and his children financially secure. But unlucky Syrus was a slave. His reward for diligence was to be exchanged for half a year’s supply of skillet offal.
Our conversation seemed to have finished. But as Silanus saw us off outside, he brought out awkwardly, ‘I have to ask—are you expecting to find Aunt Primilla?’
I let Petronius answer. ‘We shall do all we can. You understand that we already suspect what happened. Whether any trace of her remains is a question I can’t answer yet. I’m sorry.’
Silanus accepted it. But he had one more worry. We had told him how Modestus died. ‘Will she have suffered . . . the same kind of injuries?’
Petronius Longus grasped his shoulders. ‘Don’t think about it. She won’t be suffering now. My advice is, try to live as normally as possible until we report back. Whatever happened to Livia Primilla is long over.’
He would not give fake reassurance, nor could he offer comfort.
We had brought what remained of the late Julius Modestus with us from Rome. In such circumstances, the vigiles used a tame undertaker to cremate the body before it was returned to the family. All Silanus received was a plain urn with the ashes.
Petronius implied the cremation had been carried out when they thought the dead man might never be identified. But I saw the nephew’s face. He recognised concern for him: preventing any chance that he or his children might see the decayed, beaten, mutilated and tortured corpse.