Graveyard of the Hesperides by Lindsey Davis Page B

we must avoid duplication, he pompously decreed—practicing for the day he could thunder around as head of the household. Practicing how to ignore that, I said Julia and Favonia would be delighted when they saw the hunks.
    â€œYou’re marrying me, remember. Not some bastard bunch of bare-chested bull-despatchers,” growled Tiberius. I smiled dreamily. “What?” he demanded.
    â€œRemembering you in bed!” I murmured, so he pretended not to blush, while sweetly proud of himself. Men are so easy to manage.
    Faustus nudged me in the ribs with an elbow, fully aware of my tactics. “And what kind of horrible heartthrob is your augur?”
    â€œHaven’t seen him. Supposedly he is top quality—all we have to do is send a note beforehand and he will foresee everything we ask for.”
    â€œCan’t he ‘foresee’ what we want without being fed instructions? I’d like a long life with a darling wife who is never cheeky.”
    â€œSorry, sir, I can’t do lack of cheek. That omen has been discontinued. Even the gods have limitations.”
    While Tiberius chewed the rim of his beaker, I recapped what I had learned yesterday from my various interrogations, especially from Costus and his crew. “I discount the possibility that Rufia fell victim to some stalker who grabbed her on her way home to Mucky Mule Mews. I think she must have been killed at the bar. So we have either she was an abused girlie bashed by a degenerate landlord claiming employer’s rights, probably drunk at the time, or she was a stroppy piece who quarreled and, if you believe in the concept, ‘brought it on herself.’ I’m not there yet—I need to ask around more.”
    Tiberius agreed we should persuade someone with anatomical knowledge to examine the bones. We had brought them out with us, like some pet that needed exercising. He was going to the local vigiles, the Third Cohort, to report our find, so he would ask if their doctor or someone else with expertise could pronounce for us.
    We settled our breakfast bill, which meant I paid it, because of Uncle Tullius.
    Gazing at the older woman as she counted the coins, I was sure she had been listening to our conversation. She said nothing but I knew what this wily bird had been up to while she innocently wiped down her counter.
    â€œI presume you’re not a customer of the Garden of the Hesperides?” I asked, gently letting her know I had spotted her eavesdropping. Now it was the daughter’s turn to listen in. She too said nothing.
    The Hesperides was just out of sight, though very close by. The mother shook her head, pinching her mouth. She was a hardworking scrap who looked affronted at the suggestion that she might lower herself to take a tipple in a wine bar. “A body has been found there. I expect you heard about it?” Again, she pretended to look shocked. I do not listen to common gossip, Flavia Albia! Classic. She could have been my Aventine granny biffing me with a dishcloth for impudence.
    I spotted her having a good squint at our bag of bones.
    *   *   *
    Faustus and I went to the Hesperides.
    Immediately we were assailed by Dromo, complaining. He couldn’t be expected to live in a place full of dead bodies, he hadn’t had a wink of sleep, the watchman had been cruel to him, and nobody had given him any breakfast.
    â€œCome with me,” said Faustus calmly. “I’ll buy you a flatbread on the way.”
    â€œYou tell your kindly master all about it, Dromo!” I had listened carefully to the slave’s moans in case he had seen anything useful. After all, he had spent the night at a newly discovered crime scene. Anything could have happened. I did not spell it out to him, but perpetrators sometimes do return.
    â€œI don’t find my master kind, Flavia Albia.”
    â€œYes, he is. Be good and maybe Manlius Faustus will let you carry the bag of