The River God's Vengeance(44)

The janitor admitted me, and a few minutes later a portly individual appeared, his eyes widening slightly at sight of me. He was bald with a bland, doughy face and rings on every finger. The tip of his nose was decorated with a large, purple wart.

“Welcome, Aedile! This is most unexpected. I am Juventius, steward of my patron’s City property. I trust all is well at the theater?”

“Well enough so far,” I said. I had never met the man, but one of my clients had made arrangements to rent the theater for my Games, so this must have been the man he dealt with. “The workmen are reinforcing the structure right now, but the rest is up to the river.”

“I have already sacrificed to Father Tiber,” he said. “Let us hope that he finds it acceptable.”

“You performed the sacrifice?” I asked. Ordinarily, all religious observances are overseen by the head of the household, not a subordinate.

“Yes, the proconsul left the City yesterday to spend some time at one of his country estates.”

“He did, eh? Wanted to be on higher ground, or is he hiding out from Sardinian assassins?”

The man’s obsequious smile faltered. “Sir?”

“I need to speak with your master, and I find him fied from the City. Most of us go to our country estates in the hottest days of summer. Why such haste to be away?” Of course I had no authority to demand explanations for the actions of a man of such rank, but if you hold office you can accomplish a lot just by being pushy and obnoxious. Flunkies like this one have an ingrained habit of groveling to authority.

“Why, Aedile, I—I—.” He gathered himself and said, “Actually, I believe he went to oversee the planting of a new vineyard. Yes, that was it, a vineyard. Couldn’t wait until summer for that.” The man had probably never set foot outside the city walls in his life, and I doubted he’d know a vineyard from a fish pond.

“Did Aemilius leave orders to contract with the firm of Manius Florus to shore up the theater against the coming fiood?”

“Oh, yes sir. The family of Florus is among my patron’s clientele. He has given them a great deal of business in the course of his many public works.”

“Then it seems that I need to speak with Manius Florus in your master’s absence.” I turned to go.

“But, sir, is something wrong?” I had the poor fool badly rattled.

“Nothing you need concern yourself with.” Then I thought of something and turned around. “Which estate has he gone to?”

“Why, the one near Bovillae, sir. Shall I dispatch word that you need to speak with him, Aedile?”

“Don’t bother.”

I walked from the house. Bovillae again. Lucius Folius and his wife had come from Bovillae. A supposed heir had made off with their bodies for interment at Bovillae. I don’t believe in coincidence.

We passed through the city wall at the Flumentana Gate and into the sprawling Circus Flaminius district. Like the Trans-Tiber, the Flaminius was far less congested than the City proper. Unconfined by walls, houses and businesses could be located on extensive lots; and in this district, many businesses that required plenty of room had been established, such as the salvage yard we were looking for, as well as those that employed a hazardous level of fire. The kiln yards of several pottery and brick factories were located in the district.

By asking at a few lumberyards, we came to the salvage business run by the freedman named Justus. The premises consisted of nothing more than a small, one-roomed building in a corner of a sprawling yard, where heaps of rough timber, finished beams, and planks rose to twice a man’s height, given some protection from the elements by crude roofs set atop high poles. Teams of slaves in dingy brown tunics, their hair pale with sawdust, loaded wood onto the carts of builders or unloaded wood from the carts of wreckers.

I found Justus sweating along with his workmen, loading a wagon with what appeared to be wood so deteriorated that it was useless for any purpose save burning. He was distinguishable from the slaves solely by his citizen’s ring, made of plain iron. When he caught sight of me, I crooked a finger and he walked over, brushing debris from his hands.

“You’re the Aedile Metellus, aren’t you?” he asked.

Unlike the curule aedile, the plebeian aedile rated no insignia of office: no lictor bearing the fasces, no curule chair, no purple border on one’s toga. “You’ve seen me before?”

“At the elections. Someone said that crowd around you was the largest assemblage of ex-praetors, ex-consuls, and ex-censors in Rome.”

“There is nothing like a distinguished family for that helpful boost at the polls,” I said.