Free Enemies at Home by Lindsey Davis Page B

‘What do you have to say for yourself, boy?’ Slaves are called ‘boy’ even if they are seventy years old. I had never heard Faustus do it before, but he wanted to indicate annoyance.
    Squirming, the messenger admitted he was regularly given the necessary
quadrans
. I asked what he did with it. Dromo whimpered that he saved up until he had enough money for a cake.
    Faustus looked angry, though I think he was also trying not to laugh. ‘Let’s not be harsh,’ I intervened. ‘While you are working for me, Dromo, use the money properly, then each time you clean off, I will buy you a cake myself.’ Some baths have their own pastry shops, or at least a hawker with a sweetmeat tray.
    Dromo had no idea when to keep quiet. ‘Can I choose my own?’
    Faustus rolled his eyes, but I agreed.
     
    Faustus and I sat down for a review of the evidence.
    ‘You’re going soft,’ he said as we arranged ourselves, nodding towards Dromo who loafed at a distance.
    ‘Not as soft as you, putting up with him. I have a brother and cohorts of cousins. I know boys.’ It was men who got the better of me − sometimes. I shuffled my note tablets, so Faustus would not read that thought.
    My report took time. Halfway through, one of the aediles’ public slaves appeared, bringing a tripod table and a supper that Faustus must have pre-ordered. A change of scene would have been welcome to me after such a long set of interviews, but if we had walked out to eat in a public place we might have been overheard.
    It was pleasant enough in the courtyard. As part of a magistrates’ office, it was there for display; in order to show the benefits of well-run government under our benign and wondrous emperor, its garden was better kept than that at the Aviola apartment. With food, drink and a sympathetic listener, I relaxed. For me, coming from a very different climate, one great joy of Rome was how you could sit with friends and family out of doors late into the evening.
    Once I had reported, I was happy to sit quiet. Manlius Faustus was famously taciturn; he seemed in no hurry to be off home, so he sat on with me. The slave who had served our food came to take away empty bowls, bringing us a beaker of wine each and a jug to water it to taste.
    Faustus raised his cup in a good-mannered salute, to which I responded.
    ‘I suppose time is still of the essence, Tiberius?’
    ‘Take all the time you need. Let’s get it right.’
    Faustus was capable of fending off the authorities. That was good, because today’s interviews had given me some unease about this case. ‘Don’t book the arena lions quite yet – but you may have to.’
    Faustus turned to me, on the alert. ‘Something bothering you, Albia?’
    ‘Perhaps.’
    ‘Talk it through.’
    ‘Well … interviews need absorbing. You tend to take people’s first answers literally; you concentrate on whether their stories are probable … To be honest, I am not used to talking to slaves, except a few I know well at home.’ My parents were liberal owners; their staff were outspoken to a fault. ‘I’m sure I have not been told the whole story by these suspects. But they are slaves and I’m a stranger. They are bound to hold things back.’
    ‘Being under threat of death would make anyone anxious,’ Faustus mused.
    ‘They need me to help them – so why be quite so wary?’ I mentioned something I found particularly odd. ‘Start with this − did you see Nicostratus, the porter who died? I agree with the doctor: the beating he took was excessive. I’d like to show you, if you haven’t seen.’
    ‘No longer here. The rules say any dead slave must be removed within two hours.’
    ‘From your office?’
    ‘From anywhere. It must derive from an assumption that slaves are polluted by their condition, not normal human beings.’
    ‘Do you think that?’
    ‘No. I believe slavery is an accident of fate. All people are born the same. Some are enslaved, the rest of us are lucky … What do you