Before Scaevola could depart, I asked him the question I’d sought him out about last night.
“Do vigiles keep records of all the murders in Rome? Even if they’re not solved or thoroughly investigated?”
Scaevola halted, his sharp gaze moving from Blasius to me. “Why?”
“We found a body where we’re building a warehouse,” I said. “By the Emporium. There was another warehouse there years ago, with someone buried under it. A young man, Marcianus says.”
Scaevola’s forehead furrowed. “Who is Marcianus?”
“A medicus. He works on the gladiators. He knows what he’s talking about.”
“I see.” Scaevola sounded skeptical. “There have been plenty of murders in Rome in the last ten years, Leonidas. Yes, we keep a record. Yes, most of them go unsolved. No, I don’t have the resources to investigate every crime. I still haven’t found out who the lad in the river was. Can your medicus tell me that?”
Marcianus likely could, if he had time enough with the body, but I kept that thought to myself.
“Where are these records?” I persisted. “Can my scribe look at them?”
Scaevola’s brows climbed. “You have your own scribe, do you? Why are you so interested?”
I hardened my voice. “Someone went to great lengths to ensure I’d find that body. I made a promise to discover his identity and who killed him.”
“A promise to who?” Scaevola snapped.
I closed my mouth. The promise was mostly to myself and the dead young man, though Nero had now taxed me with the task. Scaevola was already suspicious enough of me, and I doubted he’d believe anything I explained.
Scaevola let out a breath. “Forgive my temper. I am tired—I’m growing too old to be a vigile. I should have retired when I left my legion, but I wanted to still be of use. Go to the cohorts for the Emporium area. Their houses keep records, or else they’ll send you to ask at one of the basilicas. If there is any information, the cohorts will have it. But I wouldn’t expect much.”
“No?” I was tired and hungry myself, but I needed his insight.
“If the body was buried under a former warehouse, they might not have known of its existence at all, unless someone reported it. Even then they might have made a note and then forgotten about it.”
“Why would someone report it, and then build a warehouse on top of the man?” I asked, half to myself.
“I have no idea, Leonidas. Maybe they did report it, assumed the cohorts would at least give the fellow a decent burial, and went on with their jobs. I speculate that is exactly what happened.”
His obvious disgust with the urban cohorts was deep, but there had always been rivalry between the organizations. Vigiles had to hand over any culprits they arrested at night to the cohorts in the morning. Scaevola would have done the same with me if Hesiodos hadn’t intervened.
I gave him a nod. “I will try there.”
“Good luck to you,” Scaevola said, not without sympathy. “But rest and eat first, Leonidas. You did a hard night’s work.”
I did what any man terrified for his home and family would do. “Thank you.” The words came awkwardly out of my mouth. Before I could say anything more foolish, I turned and strode from the lane, bread under one arm, pot of stew under the other, and made my way back up the hill.
Family had been the word that sprang to mind at Scaevola’s praise. I realized I regarded Cassia as my family now, and the idea felt right to me.
I fetched wine from the merchant downstairs, who was also weary but relieved the hill had been spared. Back in our apartment, I deposited the food on the table, poured wine from the amphora into a flagon, and leaned the amphora against the wall in the corner.
Cassia had scattered even more scrolls around her. Some were held open by the same sort of weights Livius had used, others with tablets, wine cups, and stones she’d gathered from the balcony.
I divided the stew and bread, then gingerly pushed aside tablets to find a place to set hers. I held my bowl as I sank to my stool and hungrily began to devour the meal.
Cassia touched neither food nor wine. She rested her chin on folded hands, smile in place, as she watched me eat.
“The ring was purchased from a vendor in the Forum Romanum,” she announced.
I halted mid bite, then quickly swallowed. “From a jeweler?”
“From a seller of trinkets,” she answered. “The man didn’t know the history of the ring and could not read the inscription. It was purchased by an older man with graying hair and bad breath. The seller did not know his name—he does not keep records as such.” I heard her disapproval.
