The River God's Vengeance(6)

It didn’t surprise me that they hadn’t let the slaves get out much. “How is it that you can identify the owners?”

“My shop is right there.” He pointed to a stall directly across the plaza from the main entrance to the ruined house. It had one of those mildly risque signs Roman shopkeepers love: Eros pouring oil on the outsized phallus of Priapus. “I saw them just about any time they went out. She was always carried in a chair, usually one without hangings. He mostly walked.”

“Names?”

“The housekeeper said he was Lucius Folius, and he was some sort of shipper—not foreign trade, I think. Owned a lot of river barges. I never heard her name. The woman just called her ‘Mistress.’ “

“That’s enough to establish identity,” I said, as Hermes scratched the names onto a tablet. “Do you know who owned this building? Even the people in the fianking houses don’t seem to know.”

“Well, the building that used to stand there burned down awhile back. Crassus bought the lot, but he sold it when he was raising money for his foreign war. I heard the buyer was a speculator from Bovillae, but whether he built the insula, I don’t know.”

“Might the owner have been Folius himself?” I asked.

He shrugged. “If I were rich and could build a whole insula to live in, I’d build it better than that.”

“That makes sense. Well, we—” I stopped short at a bellow from one of the slaves clearing wreckage from the basement.

“There’s a survivor here!”

“Under all that!” Hermes exclaimed in wonderment.

“This should be a prodigy worth seeing,” I said. “Let’s go.”

I took off my toga, folded it, and handed it to Hermes. “Don’t drop it in the water, or I’ll buy a ?agrum myself.” Since I was a plebeian aedile, it was an ordinary citizen’s toga without a purple border, but it was a good one and I had no desire to see it ruined. Hermes was used to this duty by now. My office took me into all the filthiest cellars, drains, and sewers in Rome. Most aediles delegated these chores to their slaves; but in my experience, slaves are even more amenable to bribery than aediles, so I always took a personal hand in serious inspections.

We descended the ladder into what now resembled a crater made by one of Jupiter’s thunderbolts. The contractor’s slaves had carted away the wreckage with antlike efficiency. The chain of bucket men had reduced the water level to no more than an inch or two, and we splashed our way to a heap of slanting timbers where some slaves were levering up a beam. Beneath it could be seen a large foot, bloody but undeniably twitching.

“Surviving the collapse is remarkable enough,” I said. “How did he avoid drowning?”

As the beams were cleared away, we saw why. The man had apparently landed in the basement on his feet and was pinned against a wall in a slanting but near-standing position. The water had never risen higher than his waist. As he was pulled free, we saw that he wore a tunic that covered one shoulder.

“This one was dressed,” I remarked.

“Probably on night watch against fires,” said Hermes. “Look, he’s big, and no scars on his back. What do you want to bet that this was the one who went marketing with the housekeeper?”

“Right. If he was awake when it happened and was favored enough by the master to escape fiogging, he may be able to give us some answers, if he lives.” The man was badly bloodied, able to make only tormented, incoherent noises.

I shouted up to the slaves from the Temple of Aesculapius, who hovered over the pit with their stretchers: “I want this man taken to the Island and given special care. Until a legal heir of the owner comes to claim him, he is the property of the State. I declare this as plebeian aedile!” Actually, I was not at all sure that I had authority to do any such thing, but in those days you could accomplish a lot just by sheer assertiveness. The man made a sound almost like a word, and I leaned close.

“Gala—gala—” He sounded like a man gargling a handful of nails. His throat was full of plaster dust.

“Hermes, give him a drink. Perhaps the poor wretch can talk after all.” Hermes always carried a small skin of watered wine, just in case I should come across someone who needed a drink. Carefully, he trickled some into the man’s mouth. There was a long period while the half-dead slave choked, drooled, and tried to vomit, but Hermes patiently sloshed out his throat after each spasm. Soon he was at least breathing easier. He began to mutter something, and I leaned close; but the man was barely whispering.

“Hermes, your ears are younger. See if you can make out what he’s saying.”