The Ides of April: Falco: The New Generation (Falco: The Next Generation) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Also by Lindsey Davis

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Rome, the Aventine Hill

  The Cast

  Rome, the Aventine Hill: March–April AD 89

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Historical Note

  Also by Lindsey Davis

  The Course of Honour

  Rebels and Traitors

  Master and God

  THE FALCO SERIES

  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

  See Delphi and Die

  Saturnalia

  Alexandria

  Nemesis

  Falco: The Official Companion

  THE IDES OF APRIL

  Lindsey Davis

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by

  Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Lindsey Davis 2013

  The right of Lindsey Davis to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 444 75583 1

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  THE CAST

  Neighbours and Family

  Flavia Albia ready for anything, expecting

  nothing good

  Marcus Didius Falco &

  Helena Justina her mother and father, typical

  parents

  Julia and Favonia her younger sisters, normal girls

  Postumus their little brother, a very strange

  boy

  Ferret looking for trouble

  Junillus a cousin, deaf but far from dumb

  The late Lentullus a good man who died young

  Rodan a bad gladiator who won’t die

  Prisca a bathhouse proprietor

  Serena her small strong masseuse

  Chloe and Zoe big strong gladiating girls

  The Mythembal family local cover for Albia

  Robigo an urban fox

  Titus Morellus a vigiles investigator, useless but

  useful

  Cassius Scaurus his superior, an inferior tribune

  Felix Falco’s driver, a decoy

  Kicker his mule, a good mover

  Piddle, Diddle and Willikins three hens involved in law evasion

  The Dead and their Mourners

  Lucius Bassus deceased aged three, a tragedy

  Salvidia deceased, the client who never

  pays

  Metellus Nepos a misguided client, who does pay

  Celendina an elderly victim who said too

  much

  Kylo her son, who remembers nothing

  Lupus deceased, aged 15, another

  tragedy

  Lupus’ father and brothers who saw nothing fishy

  Julius Viator aged 23, fit, boring and deceased

  Cassiana Clara his forlorn widow, hiding

  something

  Laia Gratiana in the Ceres cult, a woman with a

  past

  Venusia her maid, saying nothing

  Marcia Balbilla a rival cult initiate, a woman of

  surprises

  Ino her maid, deceased, a touching

  memory

  A funeral director doing well out of all this

  Other Interested Parties

  The Goddess Ceres bringer of plenty (of trouble)

  Andronicus an archivist, a curiously attractive

  prospect

  Tiberius an undercover agent, with

  questions to answer

  Manlius Faustus a plebeian aedile, an unknown

  quantity

  ROME, the Aventine Hill:

  March–April AD 89

  1

  Lucius Bassus was three years old when his mother took her eyes off him and he ran out of the house to play. They lived on the Clivus Publicius, a steep road on the Aventine Hill, where he was knocked down by a builder’s cart. The cart, which escaped its driver’s control as it sped down the slope, was owned by Metellus and Nepos, an outfit that worked from a yard on the hill. Nobody talked about Nepos; at first I thought he might be an invention for some tax fiddle.

  This business was no more shady than most in Imperial Rome. It carried out refurbishments for bar owners who wanted to move up from blatantly sleazy to a pretence of hygiene. The custom was that the Metellus crew would tender for a full deep-clean and fancy renovation, promising to complete in eight weeks max. In practice, every project took two years and they skimped on the fittings. They would re-grout the marble counters, put in a new doorstep, provide a mis-spelt signboard and charge the earth for it. By then their clients, unable to operate in the permanent dustcloud, had lost their custom and were going under. It amazed me that other bar owners saw what happened yet still used the firm, but they did. Over the years Metellus and Nepos had done very nicely out of Roman rot
gut-sellers innocently trusting them. But killing a child, in the close-knit Aventine community where we had some standards, just might be commercially stupid.

  Lucius died at once from his injuries. He never stood a chance. He expired on the kerb. Inevitably, at that very moment his distraught mother came out of the house. It helped fuel local outrage.

  The ramshackle cart had been overloaded. The draught oxen were both past their best. Their driver was blind drunk, no question. He denied that on principle, the principle being that Salvidia, the vinegary widow who had inherited the shopfitting business from the husband she had driven to his grave, would not pay his wages if he told the truth. There were witnesses, a large group of whom gathered in the Clivus and took an interest, but they all disappeared when a busybody produced a note tablet and started collecting names.

  Once the funeral with its pathetic tiny coffin had been held, well-meaning neighbours started to suggest that the family were entitled to payment for their terrible loss. Everyone agreed they should immediately hire an informer to look into the legal aspects. If being hit on the head by a falling flower tub could be worth cash to the victim, what price a child’s life under civil law? Someone (it was rumoured to be the note tablet busybody I mentioned) even wrote up on a wall a plea for concerned citizens who had been present at the accident to come forward. It must have appeared before the first of April, because I saw it that day, the Kalends. The poster sounded official. While not actually offering payment, it implied possible advantage. As a professional, I read it with interest. I found it subtly done.

  By then, I had become involved. Any investigator who was favoured by Fortune would be taken on by the heartbroken mother to negotiate compensation. This was a public-spirited task, where a reputable person could maintain a clear conscience: you look into the facts, you put those facts to the guilty party succinctly, you say, ‘I am a top informer, this is meat and drink to me; a toddler is dead and a jury will be weeping into their togas, but nobody wants this to go to court, do we?’ The guilty cough up, and you cream off your percentage.

  Not me. Fortune never favoured me and the problem with being a woman was that sometimes I could only obtain business that all the male informers had sniffed and refused. This was one of those months. I was hired by Salvidia. The owner of Metellus and Nepos wanted me to help her beat off the mother’s claim. Typical.

  From what I have already said about this construction group, you will guess my employment was on a ‘no win, no fee’ basis. Indeed, I was starting to feel its basis might amount to ‘win, but even then the bastards never pay up’ – like so much of my work, unfortunately. After a week, I was ready to abandon the miserable project, but I had already put in quite a few hours and, besides, I never like to be defeated. The poster asking for witnesses suggested someone else felt the same way.

  The wall graffiti included an address where people could make statements, so as my enquiries were stuck, I went along to see if any had done so. My line would be that as I was assisting a party in the dispute, I had the right to ask. As a female I had no rights at all in matters of law, but why let that stop me? Either way, I was hoping to plea-bargain. Anything to have this finished fast, so I could drop the case.

  The address was the Temple of Ceres. It was close to my home and office, though on a far grander street than the blind alley I lived in. Anywhere would be finer than that. Fountain Court holds no attractions for the founders of fine religious buildings.

  Arranging assignations at temples is common in Rome. For strangers it is neutral ground. For instance, married men find the steps of temples convenient for picking up prostitutes. The grander the temple, the lousier its hangers-on. Inured to the seamy side of our city, the public pass by without noticing. Suggesting a meet at a temple was, I presumed, simply for convenience. Thinking little of it, I went along on spec.

  Only when I asked for the contact on the wall notice did I learn he was a big prawn in a purple-edged toga who belonged to an ancient order of magistrates. The Temple of Ceres was their headquarters and archive depository.

  I reconsidered. Then I went home and made alterations to my appearance. I was visiting the office of men of great consequence in Rome: men of wealth and power. I did not suppose ‘Manlius Faustus’ had chalked up graffiti on the Clivus Publicius in person, but some minion certainly did it in his name. That minion must have felt confident Faustus would enjoy throwing his weight about. By definition this magistrate was one of those menaces who drive traders wild checking market weights. I had been trained by my father to avoid such types, though in fact those over-promoted snoots don’t tangle with me. I have contacts, but no one that important.

  Still, it always pays to respect the opposition. So I changed into a full-length tunic in a neutral shade, not white, not quite unbleached linen, but neat, tidy and unthreatening. It did have an embroidered neckline that suggested money, which in turn hints at a woman with influential men behind her, one who should not be too quickly or too rudely dismissed.

  My earrings were plain gold rosettes. I added a row of bangles, to give me confidence. Hair pinned up. Three dabs of a discreet perfume. A large stole: the demure, respectable widow look. I really am a widow, so that part was right.

  Mother had taught me how to pose as a meek matron. It was ridiculous and hypocritical, but the act now came as second nature and I could manage it without laughing.

  So, feeling convinced that I was as good as them and could handle these bastards, I set off for my first encounter with the plebeian aediles.

  2

  The Temple of Ceres was so local to me that I normally ignored it. It sat on the northern slope of the Aventine, a short walk halfway uphill from the starting-gates end of the Circus Maximus. A chunky edifice, it was designed in the remote past and looked more Greek than Roman in an archaic way; the heavy grey columns surrounding it had thick bases and curious capitols that, if you care to know such stuff, were neither Ionic nor Doric. I believe the word is ‘transitional’. I don’t suppose the distinction bothered many people; most probably never looked up high enough to notice. But I had spent my childhood a thousand miles from Rome, in a backwoods town that had been laid waste in a revolt and still lacked interesting architecture; when an effort has been made to build something unusual, I pay polite attention.

  The truth is, after I was brought to Rome by the family who adopted me, I had to learn fast about the people and the place; as a result I often know more about the myths and monuments than most of the city’s natives. I was about fifteen then, and curious about the world. Education was made available. While being taught to read and write, I devoured facts. Sometimes now it helped in my work. More often, it just made me marvel at the weird history and attitudes of these Romans, who believed themselves masters of the civilised world.

  At least they had a history. They knew their origins, which was more than I could say.

  The temple was home to a Triad: three gods, bunking up together, all holy and cosy amid the incense and deposited must cakes. In addition to Ceres the Earth Mother, a well-built dame bearing sheaves of corn who was one of the twelve grand Olympian deities, it also housed Liber and Libera, two lesser gods that I bet you’ve never heard of, Ceres’ children, I think. This triple cult was rooted in fertility rites − well may you groan!

  Needless to say, an organised body of religious-minded women fussed about the temple. No serious shrine can fail to have such busybodies importantly organising themselves into a sniffy coven; it’s one way local matrons can get out of the house once a week. My grandmother loved it – a bunch of upper-crust women dabbling in neighbourhood benevolence, heads down over gossip, then having wine together afterwards without their husbands daring to disapprove. My senatorial grandmama was a wonderful woman, only surpassed by her plebeian counterpart, whose domestic rule was legendary all over the Aventine. If I mentioned her at the stall where she used to buy roots for her broth cauldron, the greengrocer still mimed running for the hills.

&n
bsp; A temple cult can be a good argument against letting women control things. Although Ceres was bringer of plenty, especially favouring commoners, I found that her devotees included a scrawny bird who had been spoiled from birth and thought herself very superior. Forget liberality. The public slaves who swept the steps and acted as security directed me to her because I was a woman, for which I would not thank them. Possibly they could see I was a different type entirely and they were hoping for a laugh.

  Sisterhood did not feature at our meeting.

  The supercilious sanctum queen was called Laia Gratiana. The public slave had told me that; she would not introduce herself, in case I dirtied her name by using it. She was fair and I am dark; that was only the start of the distance between us. I told myself she was older than me, though in fact she may not have been. She behaved like a domineering old matriarch with five generations of cowed family who all feared she might alter her will if they as much as sneezed. Her garments were rich cloth, elegantly draped with many folds, though in a revolting puce colour that some sly dyer must have been delighted to offload on an idiot. When she swept up, intent on facing me down, I felt my hackles rise by instinct. I saw she felt the same − in my view, with much less reason.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I am looking for Manlius Faustus.’

  ‘He won’t see you.’

  ‘Suppose I ask him that myself. I am responding to a public notice he put up.’