out without leaving a note of my plans. Some girls in this position might get too friendly with the janitor. Luckily Smaractus had never provided one. But if I wanted to keep her, I would have to produce some other option.
`I miss you too.' It sounded glib.
`Oh yes? And that's why you have deigned to come home?'
`That, and I have to wait to be supplied with a witness.' A thought struck me. `You could take notes and listen as well as some silly coot from the vigiles.' She looked surprised. `Wear a plain dress and no necklaces. Bring a stylus, and don't interrupt. I hate a secretary who talks smart.'
So Helena came with me. She was not one for staying at home with the domestic cares either.
It suited me to start investigating without one of Petro's minders lurking at my elbow, breathing my air, then reporting everything I did straight back to him. It certainly suited me to be out with my lass – more like leisure than work.
We sent Marius home to Maia's, telling him to confess his loss of Tertulla and to promise that if the girl was still missing this evening Helena and I would organise a search from Fountain Court. Marius looked happier about owning up. He knew nobody would thump him once I was involved; they would rather wait for a chance of thumping me. We made him take the skip baby to his mother's for the afternoon. It was leading a busy life. Helena had found a wet nurse to feed it sometimes, while in between it went to Ma's house to be weaned on the gluey polenta that had produced my sisters, me and numerous sturdy grandchildren.
`Your mother agrees with me; there's something odd about the baby,' Helena said.
`You'd seem odd if you found yourself abandoned in a rubbish skip on the Aventine. Incidentally, I met Justinus this morning. He's in love with an actress, but I'll try to cure him of it. We are invited to a birthday dinner with your parents. I'm to have the extreme pleasure of being introduced to Aelianus.'
`Oh no!' cried Helena. `I wanted my birthday to be fun!'
I always enjoyed discovering that relationships in patrician homes were as terrible as those in my own low family.
`There will be fun,' I promised. `Watching your mother trying to be polite to me while your father hankers to nip off and hide in his library, your friendly brother nags me to teach him flirting with floosies, and your nasty brother flicks sauce in my eye should provide hours of jollity.'
`You go,' Helena urged despondently. `I think I'll stay at home.'
Flaccida, the Balbinus wife, lived in a gorgeous gem of town architecture just south of the Circus Maximus, at the Temple of Ceres end. It was a rare residential block in the Eleventh district – well placed for the crime empire Balbinus had run along the Tiber waterfront. It lay in, the lee of the Aventine but on a piece of land that was patrolled, along with the racecourse itself, not by Petro's cohort but by the Sixth.
At least, Flaccida was living there this week. A huge notice advertised that the spread was for. sale; confiscated straight after the trial verdict. Flaccida would be moving house soon.
Indoors, everything echoed. The place was virtually empty, and it was not done for stylish effect. Only the fixed assets remained to show the opulent lifestyle master criminals enjoy: ravishing yardages of mosaic floor, endless perspectives in top-quality wall painting, meticulously plastered ceilings, fascinating shell grottoes that housed well-maintained fountains. Even the birdbaths were gilded.
`Nice place!' I remarked, though for me the columns were too massive and the artwork too frenetic.
`It was nicer when it was full.'
Flaccida was a short, thin woman, a blonde of sorts, about forty-five. From twenty strides away she would have looked fabulous. At six feet she showed signs of a troubled past. She wore a gown in material so fine its threads were tearing under the weight of its jewelled fastenings. Her face and hair were a triumph of cosmetic attention. But her eyes were restless and suspicious. Her mouth set in a hard, straight line. Her hands seemed too big for her arms. Size mattered here. On both wrists she wore bangles that were trying too hard to tell people how much they cost, and on her fingers two full rows of high-budget rings.
Naturally Flaccida was giving us the eyeball. I reckoned we would pass: whereas Helena had dressed down for the occasion, I had dressed up. Smartness always helps in gaining access to the houses of the wealthy. Anyone with a clean face is acceptable to thugs.
I wore my best white tunic, newly laundered, and even a toga, which I knew how to handle with an air. A recent shave and a faint splash of pomade announced status, a bold lie. A money purse clinked on my belt and I was flaunting my great-uncle's massive obsidian finger ring. Helena had followed me quietly. She was also in white, a straight gown with sewn sleeves and a plain woollen belt. She usually fixed her hair very simply, and she wore no jewels today apart from one insignificant silver ring that she never took off. Some might imagine her a slave. I tried to view her as a highly trained freedwoman inherited from an aunt. Helena herself seemed quite at case, without being explained away.
I found a bland smile. `I am working closely with Marcus Rubella, the tribune of the Fourth Cohort of vigiles.'
`So you're in the Prefect's Office?' Flaccida's voice had a smoky rasp that came from a misspent life in ill-lit places.
`Not really. I normally represent a more senior outfit…'
Leaving it vague was easy. Half the time I didn't know who I was working for myself. `I have some news to break, and I need to ask some questions.'
She pinched her mouth, but did gesture me impatiently to a seat. Her movements lacked grace. She dumped herself on a couch while I took its partner. They were handsome pieces in silver, with winged griffin armrests and sinuous backs, but they looked slightly too small for the room. We had found Flaccida in one more-or-less furnished salon, though as I settled in I noticed bare curtain rods. Shadowed lines on the wall showed where display shelves had been removed. Dark marks on the ceiling spoke of candelabra, though there were none now. -
Helena had perched on the other end of my couch, with a note tablet on her knees. `My assistant may take a few notes,' I' informed Flaccida, who replied with a gesture of indifference. Interesting that she accepted Helena's presence so readily.
`What's this about?'
`Your husband, partly.'
`My husband is abroad.'
`Yes, I met him briefly as he was leaving. So how will you manage? I notice the house is up for sale.'
`I shall be living with my daughter and son-in-law.' Her tone was dry enough to elicit any sympathy we could find for her. She was still too young for that option. She was neither a widow nor divorced. Moving in with the youngsters was not going to work. Something about her manner suggested she would not even try to co- operate.
`Your daughter must be a great comfort,' I said. Without meeting her, I felt sorry for the girl.
`Get on with what you came for,' Flaccida snapped. `What's the news you mentioned? Has somebody died?' Watching for any reaction, I told her it was Nonnius Albius. `That traitor!' She said it fairly quietly. I happened to catch Helena's eye, and reckoned she thought that Flaccida had already known.
`I suppose you're glad to hear it?'
`Correct.' She was still speaking in a flat tone. `He ruined my life.
I decided not to waste my breath mentioning all the people whose lives had been ruined by the crime empire her husband had run. `Nonnius was murdered, Flaccida. Do you know anything about it?'
`Only that I'd give whoever did it a laurel wreath.'
`He was tortured first. It was very unpleasant. I could tell you the details.'
`Oh I'd like that.' She spoke with a disturbing mixture of contempt and enjoyment. I found myself wondering whether Flaccida would herself be capable of ramming a wine bowl on a man's head and having the rest of him mutilated while he choked. She sat very still, scrutinising me through half-closed eyes. It was easy to imagine her presiding over horror.
Various pale maids were sitting in on the interview. A rapid scan indicated that most were undernourished, several had bruised arms, and one bore the remnants of a black eye. Flaccida's immaculate coiffure had been achieved with a level of violence that would not disgrace a gladiators' training school.
`Were you aware what kind of business your husband ran?'
