Time to Depart

by Lindsey Davis

  ‘Does that surprise you, Falco?’

  ‘I know one of them,’ I confessed.

  ‘I am aware of that.’

  ‘I know him well.’

  ‘And?’

  And I could not stomach the suggestion that Petro might even be under suspicion. ‘It’s impossible.’ Titus was waiting for me to elaborate. ‘The man I know, my friend Lucius Petronius, is an impeccable character. You saw him at the meeting yesterday; you must have judged his quality. He is the man who has just expelled from Rome a major criminal. Balbinus Pius would never have been brought to justice without him.’

  ‘True. Were it not for that,’ Titus said, ‘he would be under a cloud with the rest, and there would be no question of asking you to assist us. We are assuming that Petronius Longus need not feature in Rubella’s concern. However, Petronius must not be made aware of our enquiries until he is formally ruled out, and perhaps not even then.’

  ‘This stinks,’ I said. ‘You want me to spy on the Fourth –’

  ‘Not only them,’ Titus broke in. ‘Your special assignment is to involve any relevant regions of the city. What Rubella has reported about his own cohort may apply elsewhere – his may not even be the worst problem. I want you to take a close look at any cohort you come into contact with.’

  That was better. I had already gathered from Petro a feeling that some of the rest were much less choosy in their habits than his own team. But if I was not allowed to tell him what I was doing, it would be difficult to pry this kind of information from him. If I was underhand and he found out later, he would be outraged. Rightly so.

  ‘Sir, this could damage my most valued friendship.’

  ‘I apologise if so. But I believe you are capable of handling it.’ Oh thanks! ‘You were selected as particularly suitable. In fact, we have been awaiting your return from the East.’

  I managed a grin. ‘So that was how you found out where I was!’ Nice thought: the great ones wanting me for something else – and Anacrites having to own up that he had probably disposed of me. How happy they must all have been when my boots touched Italy again. ‘The Fourth Cohort trust me, sir. Because of my friendship with their enquiry captain.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Titus insisted. ‘This is a far better disguise than if Rubella put in a special agent, someone who would inevitably be identified as Rubella’s man.’

  ‘Very convenient!’ I saw his point; that only made it worse. ‘And is the graft Rubella suspects a general problem, or does it relate somehow to the Emporium heist?’

  ‘Rubella thinks it may be relevant. The robbery occurred so swiftly after the criminal Balbinus left Rome.’

  ‘Jupiter! It’s a mess if he’s right.’

  ‘Rubella’s a good officer. You will need to take extreme care, Falco.’

  ‘Do you trust Marcus Rubella?’ I shot at Titus unexpectedly.

  ‘Rubella is a known commodity.’ He accepted my suspicion indulgently. ‘We trust him as much as we trust you, Falco.’

  If that was a joke, it was in bad taste.

  ‘If you will do this –’ Titus began to say, but I was so angry with the mission that I cut him short.

  ‘Don’t make promises,’ I snarled, remembering how his brother Domitian had done me down when I asked for a just reward. ‘I’ve had them before. I’ll do the job. I’ll do it well if I can.’ Better me than some idiot from the spy network. ‘Whatever you think of informers, rewarding me would be a sign of respect for my reliability, which you say you value. Maybe one day you will think about that, but in any case, I have to ask you this, Caesar: if as a result of this distasteful assignment I end up in a back alley with a knife in my ribs, I hope at least you will remember my family.’

  Titus Caesar inclined his head in agreement. He was known as a romantic. He must have understood which member of my family I meant. Maybe, since he really was a romantic, he even had some idea of her distress if she ever lost me.

  He was famous for his courtesy, so we had to end with further pleasantries. I slid mine in first: ‘Please convey my regards to your father, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. It must be Helena Justina’s birthday soon,’ Titus offered in return. He liked to remind me that he knew when Helena’s birthday was. One year he had even tried to inveigle himself into the family festivities.

  ‘The day after tomorrow,’ I said firmly, as if it was in my every thought.

  ‘Do congratulate her from me.’

  I forced my teeth into a show of gratitude.

  I had not forgotten her birthday. Nowadays I even knew the date myself. For once I had managed to buy her a rather fine present. I had been trying not to think about that. Added to the various complex tasks that had been laid on me since I returned to Rome, it was one problem too many.

  Helena’s present had been hidden amongst the Syrian glass that was stolen from my father in the Emporium heist.

  XXVII

  The streets were quieter, and dark. There was a chill in the air at night as autumn made its presence felt. I would have welcomed a cloak, though mainly it was what Titus had said that caused my shivering.

  I had to cross the Forum, negotiate the Palatine, and climb the Aventine. I walked steadily, keeping away from doorways and glancing down any alleys that I passed. I stuck to streets I knew. Where there was space for more than one person I went straight up the centre of the road. When I heard anybody who must realise I was there I made sure my tread was confident. If the other person did not appear to have noticed me, I kept quiet.

  I had a lot to think about. Domestic events alone were enough to take up all my energy: a pregnant girlfriend who still had to decide how she wanted to react; her family; my family. Then there were the hours of work I needed to put in on the new first-floor apartment; my friend Lenia’s wedding, in which I was expected to participate as a convivial priest; and now the baby I had discovered in my skip. Just sorting out the foundling might take a week – a week I didn’t have to spare for him.

  Somehow, too, I had to find a replacement birthday gift for Helena. I was short of cash (partly because I had spent so much on the now stolen original). There was an obvious solution, but it was one that niggled me: I would have to ask Pa to find me a tasteful antique in his warehouse, one he was prepared to let me buy at cost. For Helena he would probably do it – and for Helena, so would I without quibbling – but the process would be horrible. I felt tense just imagining what I would have to go through in the bargain with Pa.

  And now Titus had asked me to break faith with Petronius. I hated this. I was also angry that I was supposed to be on my own with it. The only person who would know anything about my filthy task was the tribune Marcus Rubella, and he was not the type I chose for consoling little chats. But even if I wanted it, seeking him out was impossible. If I tried nipping into the tribune’s office to mull over my findings, all sorts of rumours would immediately start.

  Luckily I could talk to Helena. Although Titus had forbidden me to tell anyone about this, one exception could not be overruled. Whatever the jokes about keeping wives in ignorance, a Roman expected his domestic partner to bear his children, keep the store-cupboard keys, quarrel with his mother, and, if required, to share his confidence. The fact that Brutus failed to confess to Porcia what he was planning on the Ides of March just shows you why Brutus ended up as dead mutton at Philippi.

  Helena and I had always shared thoughts. She told me about feelings nobody would imagine she had. I rarely told her my feelings, because she guessed them anyway. I discussed my work. Openness was our pact. Neither Titus nor Vespasian could interfere with that.

  * * *

  I had plenty of company on the streets that night. A couple of times I noticed groups of dubious characters huddled around the folding doors of lockup shops. Once there were scuffles above me as climbers scaled balconies on their way to upstairs burglaries. A woman called out, offering her services in a voice that reeked of dishonesty; having passed by in silence, I spotted her male accomplice in
the next lane, hanging about waiting for her to bring a client for him to beat up and rob. A shadowy figure slipped from the back of a moving delivery cart, carrying a bundle. Slaves escorting a rich man’s litter were sporting ripped tunics and black eyes, having been mugged despite their sticks and lanterns.

  All normal. Rome was itself. No livelier than usual. Eventually I heard the tramp of the vigiles’ foot patrol; someone in the shadows laughed at the sound dismissively.

  * * *

  There were still lamps in the laundry. The slurred voices of Lenia and Smaractus were arguing dismally: all normal there, too. I reached in through a shutter to steal a light, then called goodnight, scaring the pair witless. They were too drunk to do much. Lenia cursed, but I was already heading up the stairs before they could try to lure me indoors to ramble about their wedding plans. I was not in the mood for a long wrangle about what colour sheep to sacrifice. I was not in the mood for Smaractus: end of tale.

  The lamp helped me avoid obstacles. Smaractus ought to have provided light if he wasn’t intending to keep the stairs clear of toys and rubbish. As I mounted the stairs, my useless, sestercius-grubbing, dupondius-pinching landlord became the focus of my entire catalogue of frustrations and anxieties. If he had appeared in person, I would have knocked his head off …

  Movement in a corner attracted my eye. I reached for my knife, then decided a rat was about to tear out past me and got ready to boot it. The shuffle subsided; it was probably the mongrel Lenia called Nux. The scrawny bundle of misplaced hopefulness whimpered once, but I carried on upstairs.

  When I reached home, I saw that Helena Justina must be in bed. A dim taper provided a glow by which I found the skip baby in a basket that looked as if it came from Ennianus across the road. Helena had tucked the child up safely; somehow she must have fed him too, for he was placid, though whimpering slightly. I picked him up and took him out to the balcony to say goodnight to Rome. He smelt clean now, and slightly milky. He had a little burp on my shoulder; I joined in with a nicely controlled belch, showing him how to do it properly.

  After I put him back I noticed a bowl of cold fish and lettuce left on the table for me. I ate, pouring myself a cup of water. I blew out his taper to save the baby from fire, then found my way in darkness to my own bed.

  Helena must have been asleep, but she stirred as I crawled in beside her. Somehow she realised how deeply disturbed my talk with Titus had made me. She held me while I told her the story, and calmed me down as I started to rant.

  ‘Why do I always have to get the filthy jobs?’

  ‘You’re an informer. Finding unpleasant information is what you do.’

  ‘Maybe I’m tired of being despised. I’m tired of being a fool to myself. Maybe I should change my work.’

  ‘To do what?’ Helena murmured, in a reasonable tone. ‘Do you see yourself selling purses or plucking ducks?’

  ‘I hate women who reprove me with their sensible attitude when I’m trying to curse madly!’

  ‘I know you do. I love you even when you hate me. Go to sleep,’ she said, wrapping herself around me so I could no longer jump about in the bed. I sighed, submitting to her good sense. About three breaths later I dropped off into a heavy slumber. In my dreams I knew that Helena Justina was lying awake, worrying for me over what I had to do.

  * * *

  By that time the first victim would already have been tortured and murdered, and his body dumped.

  XXVIII

  Petro’s whistle woke me from the street. Within the apartment it was still dark.

  We had been friends so long he could rouse me even from outside and six flights down. I knew it was him. When I dragged myself to the balcony parapet and looked over, he was standing below with one of the foot patrol. I could tell from the top of his head that he was cursing me for taking so long to appear. I whistled back and he glanced up. He waved urgently. I didn’t stop to shout questions, but ran down to him, pulling on clothes as I went.

  ‘Morning, Petro. No problem with your cat, I hope?’

  He growled. ‘Stollicus was right, Falco! You’re an irritating, insolent, dozy dog.’

  ‘Stollicus just misunderstood my charm. What’s up?’

  ‘Body in the Forum Boarium. Sounds like problems.’

  I let my curiosity ride. In the time it had taken me to come downstairs, Petro and the foot patroller had already strolled impatiently halfway along the lane. The three of us walked briskly to the end of Fountain Court, then hurried downhill, picking up Fusculus from his house. Petro must have banged on his door on the way to collect me and he was waiting for us, rotund and unreasonably bright for the time of day.

  ‘Morning, chief. How’s the cat?’

  ‘Fusculus, I’m not in the mood.’

  Neither Fusculus nor the vigilis who was with us grinned. Petro’s men knew how to irritate a senior officer without needing to smirk.

  At the end of the Clivus Publicus we saw Martinus emerging from his tenement, summoned by another member of the vigiles. ‘Don’t ask about the cat,’ warned Fusculus. Martinus lifted a wry eyebrow in a significant fashion and said nothing in a way that drove Petro mad. Martinus was allowed a grin, since he had had to forgo the joke. Petronius, who had the longest legs amongst us, lengthened his stride so the rest of us were forced to step out.

  It was barely dawn. The pale light, empty streets and our echoing footfalls increased the air of urgency. We came down past the Temple of Ceres into the damp grey mist along the river.

  ‘Why does this always happen before I’ve had my breakfast?’ Petro grumbled.

  ‘They dump the corpse in the dark, then the dawn patrol discovers it at first light,’ Martinus explained. Petronius had not needed him to say this. Martinus went in for pedantry. As a result Petronius went in for thinking that Martinus needed to be washed out with a violent enema.

  It crossed my mind that I could do Petro a favour by naming his deputy as a bribe-taker and having him removed. In fact, if my interest in truth had inclined to the inaccurate, I could have wreaked havoc in the watch. I could finger anyone I took against; it would be hard to disprove. Even though none of them knew the position, I felt sour.

  ‘Petro, they do it on purpose, to stop you enjoying your morning … Do we know who this dumped corpse is?’ I asked.

  Petronius glanced back at the patrolman who had been with him at Fountain Court. ‘Not yet,’ Petro said. He seemed to be keeping something back.

  ‘Who found the remains?’

  ‘One of the Sixth’s patrols. It’s in their patch.’ That explained Petro’s restrained attitude. He kept his counsel in front of men from another cohort. But he did condescend to mutter, ‘There seems to be a connection with the Emporium.’

  We had reached the scene of the crime – or at least where the victim had ended up. Our pace slowed and we left further questions to answer themselves.

  * * *

  The Forum Boarium lies in the Eleventh region, immediately below the Capitol, between the river and the starting-gate end of the Circus Maximus. It is part of the Velabrum. Once the marsh where Romulus and Remus were supposedly found by the shepherd, it has a long history. There must have been a landing place and a market here since long before Romulus grew up and identified the Seven Hills as an ideal development site. The rectangular Temple of Portunus marked the ancient use as a harbour of the riverbank between the Aemilian and Sublician bridges. The diminutive round Temple of Hercules Victor was later, a cute initiative in marble that dated from the time when shrines started to become decorative and, according to my grandfather, morals declined.

  The meat market had its own decidedly off-putting flavour. Owing to the presence of the body it had not yet been set up for the day, which made it appear even shabbier. There was a mess of hurdles everywhere. I never liked walking through it, for the putrid smell of drying animal blood always hung about. The disgusting odour filled the air this morning so strongly I felt sick.

  Right in the centre of th
e area a small group of fire-watchers were conversing in a huddle near a body on the ground. Further away a couple of street-sweepers stood gawping, leaning on flat-headed brooms. Market traders, kept back from their normal business, hung about talking in low voices, some of them warming their hands around little cups of hot spiced wine. The first arrivals of cattle were jammed in a pen on the river-side. They were lowing with distress; maybe they sensed even more trouble than the slaughter that awaited them.

  We walked across to the corpse. The vigiles drew back and watched us as we looked down at their find. The two who had come to fetch us joined their colleagues. As they let officers take charge of their discovery they were wary, and disbelieving of our so-called expertise. We inspected the body in silence. It was a bad experience.

  We were looking at a man, age indeterminate, probably not young. He lay on his front, with arms and legs neatly outstretched like a starfish – not the attitude of any accidental death. We could see at once that he had been tortured. He was barefoot, wearing what might once have been a white tunic. The tunic was almost completely soaked in blood. Its material also bore signs of what seemed to be scorching. There were marks of a thrashing on his calves. His arms were badly bruised and had been slashed with knives. People with perverted natures had really enjoyed themselves here, and their victim must have died slowly.

  We could see nothing above the neck. At some point during his terrible adventure last night, his head had been crammed inside a large bronze pot. The pot was still on the corpse.

  XXIX

  Martinus made a loop of his neckscarf. He bent over the victim and pulled it up an arm, then dragged at the corpse until one shoulder twisted and the body turned over. The metal pot scraped piercingly on grit. There was less blood on the front of the tunic, but a great deal of dirt, as if the body had been dragged about face down. The pot stayed in place, wedged on by a cloak shoved inside. If the man had not been dead when they covered his head, he must have been suffocating while they tortured him.