‘Albia is bound to deny it.’ I had not asked her. Why invite tears? Indeed, why give your daughter a reason to hurl abuse at you? ‘He’s been away a lot, which is one good thing,’ I went on gloomily. ‘We ran into him a couple of times when we were travelling, but as far as I know, they just wrote to each other.’

  ‘Oh letters!’ scoffed Petro darkly. He did not have my literary leanings. ‘Soulmates, eh? Falco my friend, you are in deep donkey shit.’ He handed me his beaker again, though it was a joyless panacea. ‘What’s his new wife like? A looker?’

  ‘A spender.’

  ‘And a Greek prosecutor’s daughter?’

  ‘Guilty until proven innocent. We met her father in Athens. As a boozer he makes Bacchus look restrained.’

  ‘Jupiter and Mars!’ Petronius Longus viewed all lawyers as pests. Lawyers so easily demolished the criminal cases he put together; he ignored the fact that this feat was achievable because the vigiles’ definition of ‘proof’ was simply a man whose face they did not like who walked down a street where they happened to be. ‘How are the senator and his wife taking this?’

  I laughed drily. ‘Considering all three of their children have now, without permission, taken a spouse who is either foreign or plebeian, Helena says Decimus and Julia are calm. They have to be careful showing opinions, because not only is the Hellenic bride living in their house with the captured Aulus, but her go-getting, influence-seeking, hard-drinking Athenian father came to Rome too. Of course he would do. A niche among the ruling class, with access to a wine cellar? His sole purpose in fixing up the marriage.’

  ‘The bastard!’

  I shared Petro’s curse, then put my troubles aside and let him tell me his. He was stumped on a peculiar case: a family who went to their mausoleum to hold a funeral discovered that someone had broken in and dumped an unknown body. Foul play among the tombs was commonplace. Some people would have just chucked out the corpse for the crows, but this family was sensible enough to notice disturbing elements. It was the body of a well-kept man of mature age, not the usual young rape or mugging victim, and he was laid out in an odd ritual position.

  ‘Violence. Someone really enjoyed it.’ Petronius was very experienced. He knew when death had been caused by an unexpected drunken fury and when it had a perverted smell.

  ‘You think there will be other victims?’

  ‘Dreading it, Falco.’ He dealt with atrocity all the time, but never became inured to humans’ absence of humanity.

  I told him if anyone could solve this case it was him, and I meant it. Then I went home to be ready for an early start next morning on the trip to my father’s villa.

  ‘Is this the future?’ Petronius joked. ‘You swan off to your extravagant holiday home – while I get stuck here with a sordid serial killer?’

  I grinned and told him to get used to it. He ought to know I wouldn’t change.

  Albia and I went down to the sea on the Via Laurentina. All the best people have villas north of where that road hits the coast, turning towards Ostia. My father had his place a little to the south. He said he liked the privacy. There were reasons. They were mostly commercial, relevant to his dedicated avoidance of paying import tax.

  Pa had left me a litter and bearers but I had forgotten I owned it. Automatically, I hired a donkey cart, which gave me an excuse to concentrate on driving. Albia sat bolt upright beside me. Throughout her childhood she had been a scavenger for both food and affection; she still had stick-thin arms and, when she was unhappy, a gaunt look. No fancy ringlets today; she had let her hair dangle loose, though Helena had run with a bone comb and tidied her up for the trip. Even though there was bright sun beating on the highway, the girl hunched in a shawl, making herself suffer.

  We rode twenty miles in silence then Albia could no longer keep it up. She was bursting to accuse me of cruelty. ‘Why do I have to be dragged along with you? Am I forced to work in your business, like some horrible slave?’

  ‘No, I have a posse of grateful slaves and freedmen for that now. They may be Paphlagonian poltroons but unlike you, Flavia Albia, they are meek.’

  ‘I hope they all cheat you.’

  I was the villain. Nothing new. ‘Bound to. So cheer up, will you?’

  We drove on for a while.

  ‘I’d like to rip his head off.’ Aelianus deserved all he got, but I owed it to the senator and Julia Justa to preserve his well-barbered bonce. So I merely said Helena and I hated to see Albia so unhappy; we had thought she might appreciate a chance to avoid Aulus. ‘Yes,’ agreed Albia thoughtfully. ‘Then I’ll rip his head off – when he thinks he’s got away with it.’

  Helena Justina had taken in our British waif because she was so spirited, so torn with grief and loneliness, and had been so unjustly served by fate. Found as a baby in the ruins of Londinium, no one knew or would ever know whether Albia was a Briton or some half-and-half little bun, a dead trader’s offspring born to a local woman, maybe. She could even be fully Roman, though it was unlikely. When we offered to adopt her, we had wormed a certificate of citizenship out of the British governor, who owed me favours. We now gave Albia education, sustenance, security and friendship, though not much more was feasible. In the snobbery of Rome, she would have a hard fight. I was middle-class now, with the Emperor’s approval, but since I had plebeian origins, even my own daughters would need more than elocution lessons if they were to be accepted. I lived with a senator’s daughter but that was Helena’s choice. It was legal, but eccentric.

  ‘I hope Aulus did not make you any promises.’ I broached the subject tentatively, still not brave enough to say I hoped he had not slept with her.

  ‘Of course he wouldn’t; I’m a barbarian!’ Albia snapped furiously. Her voice then dropped. ‘I was just stupid.’

  ‘Well, it must seem impossible at the moment, but one day you will get over him.’

  ‘I never will!’ Albia retorted. Her loves and hates were equally intense. I had a dark feeling she was right; she never would recover. After knocking about with street life in Londinium, Albia knew how to stay safe at that level, but she had trusted Aelianus. He was one of the family, her family now. She had dropped her guard.

  ‘Maybe it’s a good thing we are going to Antium, or I might rip his head off myself.’

  ‘You never would,’ sneered Albia bitterly.

  ‘Since he is actually married, there is not much I can do about the situation, and you know that.’

  ‘If he wasn’t married would you do anything?’

  I gave her no answer. Aulus was overdue for marriage. I thought his choice was a disaster, but I would have seriously opposed any offer for Albia – for both their sakes.

  ‘You talk about righting injustice, but you never do it,’ she grumbled.

  ‘Conciliation – there’s a fine Latin word … I hope you never have to see me stick a sword in someone’s ribs.’ It had been known. But I believed retribution should fit the degree of the crime. ‘Aelianus has been thoughtless and disloyal. Young men are like that. Young women can be just as bad – or worse.’

  ‘Oh I don’t expect anyone to stand up for me!’ Albia was back on the verge of tears now. My heart ached for her. ‘You are both men. He is your friend, your relative, your assistant. You will stick by him –’

  ‘He was your friend too.’ I was nervous that Aulus might have the crazy idea they could carry on as friends. He was that kind of innocent. ‘I’d say, value your past – but move on and forget him. Do it for yourself.’

  Poor Albia was far from being ready to move on. She turned away but I heard her weeping all the rest of our journey to the villa.

  IX

  Silence.

  Pa’s shoreline villa can never have rung with a summer social life, because he was rarely in residence; the one time I was here before, I had gathered activity was infrequent. Having an absentee owner was typical for a seaside villa. For security, he left more than a skeleton staff, though they lived in a separate wing from the main house. They stayed on the alert because he would turn up at any time – it depended what incoming ships from Spain or the East had agreed to quietly offload artworks at sea to save him paying duty. He and Gornia then took a boat out into the shipping lanes. It was not a process I intended to repeat. Mind you, I would keep the boat.

  I reminded the slaves who I was and explained the situation. They made themselves look downcast over my father’s death, though did not feel called upon to shed real tears. This was much as I felt myself, so I did not complain.

  Naturally they assumed Albia was some fluffball I wanted to seduce behind my wife’s back. That is what slaves always think. It’s the male behaviour most see from their masters. Wearied by driving, my reaction was short-tempered.

  I felt old. Once, finding myself with custody of a delightful young girl, I would have been tempted. I could still remember those happy days, but ambivalence was a vice I had lost. I was married. Albia was family. I viewed her as a grumpy teenager I had to keep safe despite her yen for rebellion, while she saw me as hideous, elderly and past it, just like any father.

  Disappointed of scandal, the slaves – who seemed good-natured enough once they got used to a situation – made us a barbecue on the beach. Grilled fish, freshly caught from the sea and smoke-cooked in a drizzle of olive oil, can mend most griefs. Albia tried to continue the feud. But she smiled slightly when I pointed out that she was enjoying not enjoying anything. At least she ate. Being forlorn had not affected her appetite.

  Next day I surveyed the property. It was even bigger and more luxurious than I remembered, and packed with treasures. Albia followed me around with her mouth agape, muttering, ‘This is yours?’

  ‘It’s mine. Or only half of it, if Thalia’s sprog pops out with male genitalia.’

  ‘You could castrate him.’ Albia’s harsh new mood produced intriguing legal questions.

  This villa, protected from sun and storms by pine trees, was where Pa had kept his favourite collection, items he really liked and enjoyed. I liked them too. I would have to come back soon for a long visit; there was so much stuff to catalogue. I needed to bring Helena, to show her the glorious location, the rampant antiques and furnishings. Maybe this would become our permanent summer retreat. If she hated the place, which I thought unlikely, there was so much to sell I would have to time our auctions carefully, so as not to flood the market.

  ‘Are you planning to liberate any faithful slaves in your dear father’s name, Marcus Didius?’ The usual question.

  As ever, I responded with a noncommittal sigh. I could free a percentage in Pa’s name. I would do it if I could. I wanted to evaluate them first. What happened to them would have nothing to do with how well each had served my father during his life; it depended on how much manumission tax I would have to pay if I freed them or what price they would fetch in the slave market. Any with specialist training or pretty faces were in greater danger of being either kept as slaves or sold. Already I was thinking like a tycoon. If they had a high market value, I was less inclined to give them their release.

  The monumental statues for the amphitheatre contract were lined up in rows in the woods. Close to, they were a ragbag: anonymous men of note in triumphal poses, batoned and breastplated; some were weathered about the face and drapery as if they had already adorned public places. I wondered if they had been stolen from their plinths; however, some had their plinths with them.

  One batch appeared new. They had been carved to the same model, but with different arms or helmets. I was not surprised. Jobbing sculptors regularly provide a basic figure in an old-fashioned toga, then let you commission a true-life head of your grandaddy at a cut-price rate. So why not cloned dignitaries for an amphitheatre?

  I counted them. One hundred and eleven. Jupiter! Pa had cornered the market. Trust him. The Flavian amphitheatre would be virtually: statues courtesy of Geminus. No wonder that creep Cluvius wanted me to step aside and let him muscle in.

  I gave instructions that the statues were to be brought up to Rome using whatever haulage system Geminus had put in place. ‘And I want to see a hundred and eleven arrive. A hundred and twelve will prove to me that you are really conscientious.’ My humour was lost on the steward. Foolish; if he failed to notice my jokes, he could end up at the slave market.

  ‘I could stay here to supervise,’ volunteered Albia.

  ‘No thanks.’ I was not giving her a chance to bolt. ‘Lass, if you want to run away, check logistics with me first. For a workable escape you need a plan, a budget, detailed road maps, a stout stick, proper footwear and a good hat.’

  ‘You are no fun, Marcus Didius.’ Albia openly acknowledged that I read her well. ‘I want to go back to Britannia.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Helena’s Aunt Aelia would let me stay with them –’

  ‘I said no, Albia.’

  On to the next stage of our trip.

  We could take the coast road down to Antium, a straight run but a poor track, all dreary dunes and sandflies, or we could go by sea. For that we would have to go up to Ostia, almost ten miles in the wrong direction, then the misery of a major trading port, followed by horrible seasickness for me. I opted to continue by cart, south down the Via Severiana, maybe fifteen miles. It only took a day, though it was a long hot one. We then stayed at a mediocre inn. It looked over a sea packed with delicious wildlife, yet the dish of the day was week-old eggs. Even my omelette was tough.

  Next morning we tried to find the statue-sellers. Gornia was right. Their house was locked up, with nobody there. Not even a watchman answered our knocking. Albia tried to climb in from a balcony but the place was well shuttered.

  I made standard enquiries. Primilla and Modestus had kept to themselves, as prosperous middle-rankers often do. They had a substantial home on the seashore, no obvious financial worries, no ugly rumours about why they did a flit. None of the neighbours had seen them for months or knew where they had gone. True, the neighbours shied away from my questions, though this was a town where imperial celebrities had long clustered; people were discreet.

  Antium was once the capital of the Volsci, who tussled with Rome over a long period in the remote past. Once it became ours, the city lay far enough from Rome for men of means, wanting to avoid riots and creditors, to favour it as a retreat. Palatial villas lined the shore. Cicero owned a grand place. The disgustingly rich Maecenas had a house. The old imperial family, the Julio-Claudians, had a particular liking for this spot. It was at Antium that Augustus received formal acclaim as Father of his Country. Caligula and Nero were born here; Nero founded a veterans’ colony and created a new harbour.

  The new Flavians were bound to arrive on this part of the coast soon. Land agents must be keeping lists of suitable homes for up-and-coming Caesars whose pocket money came from the spoils of war.

  This was a superb location for commercial dealers. The town had a slightly dusty, off-season look but it could easily perk up. By reputation the fine foreshore villas were beautified with exclusive original art and expensive modern reproductions. Most of the enormous houses were still lived in, and by people with funds for house and garden makeovers. It was astonishing that a pair of reputable art dealers would leave a place with such potential.

  A Temple of Fortune was the big public monument. I applied there for information. Since Gornia’s fruitless visit, a certain Sextus Silanus, a nephew of Primilla’s, had left a message that enquirers should consult him. I had to pay the priests extortionately to be told; it would have been friendlier if the nephew had just chalked up a note on his uncle’s locked front door.

  The bad news was, Silanus lived at Lanuvium. To get there we had to take an unnamed road through famously unhealthy country on the northern edge of the Pontine plain. The Pontine Marshes have a fearsome reputation. Still, they should have dried out in summer and Lanuvium was on a spur of the Via Appia, which led straight back to Rome.

  X

  Lanuvium was an extremely ancient hilltop city in Latium, on the Alban Hills, lying just south of the Via Appia. The town was dominated by a clutch of temples, especially the richly endowed Temple of Juno Sospes, to which belonged much of the land between here and the coast. We knew, from passing through it, that the soil was unusually fertile, though the area was very thinly populated. For most of the route we saw no one but a few pasty-looking slaves. The state of the road suggested vehicles were unusual and the labourers stared at us as if they never saw travellers. Well, they stared until Albia glared at them. Then they turned away nervously.

  ‘There are many rivers draining the hills; they carry down rich alluvium silt.’ I was taking on Helena’s role, had she been with us. Just because Albia had a broken heart, she need not be ignorant. ‘So the Pontine plain has some of the best land in Italy for grazing animals and growing crops, but you won’t see many people. The water table is very high and the sand dunes on the coast trap the floods, so for much of the year, especially south of here, it is a pestilential place. Clouds of biting insects make the marshes almost uninhabitable – keep yourself well covered up; they carry horrible diseases.’ We were north of the real swamps, which suited me. Attempts had been made to drain them. The attempts all failed.

  The high citadel at Lanuvium must be healthier. From its acropolis there were gracious views over the plain to the faraway ocean. Like most places with vistas, this had been heavily colonised by the villa-owning fraternity. To cater for their property maintenance needs, small artisan businesses thrived. Silanus was a terracotta specialist.

  A row of freckled children sat on the kerb outside his premises. When our cart drew up, they all swarmed aboard. I tried to strike a bargain that they would look after the outfit, by which I meant they were not to kick the donkey or remove the wheels. I hoped they were too small to shift the money chest. Feigning acute shyness, none of them spoke. When I went into the workshop, Albia stationed herself at the doorway, observing the nippers sternly. In her present mood, she was scary; that would work.