Time to Depart

by Lindsey Davis

  ‘But you did know him?’

  ‘He was a kind of uncle to me when I was small. I still can’t believe the terrible things he’s supposed to have done. And I can’t believe he meant to go into court and make up those stories about Papa. His illness must have affected him. As soon as he did it, I knew neither Mama nor I could ever meet him again. Mama hates him.’

  ‘Yes, she told us that.’ Somehow Helena made it sound as if she thought Flaccida and Nonnius must have been having a torrid affair. Whether little Milvia was receptive to this much irony seemed doubtful, but I was enjoying myself. ‘Now,’ Helena continued strictly, ‘I want to ask you about some of the other members of your father’s business. What can you tell me about people called Little Icarus and – who else is there, Falco?’

  ‘The Miller, Julius Caesar – no relation, I’m told – and a couple of thugs called Verdigris and the Fly.’

  ‘Ooh, I don’t know any of them!’ I knew from Petro that Balbinus used to run his empire from home; the thugs I mentioned must have been in and out of his house all the time. Milvia was either lying, or very dim indeed. ‘They sound horrible –’

  ‘They are,’ I said tersely.

  Milvia turned to Helena, looking flustered and seeking protection. ‘Tell him I don’t have anything to do with such people.’

  ‘She doesn’t have anything to do with such people,’ Helena told me dryly. Milvia had the grace to look worried that her interrogator was so unmoved. Helena Justina possessed natural politeness (when she chose to employ it). Underneath she was shrewd and tough. Normally it was me she liked to screw to the floor with the toughness; watching her tackle someone else made a pleasant change. I had to admit she was doing it well – even though the answers were disappointing. ‘Tell me now,’ Helena continued relentlessly, ‘have you ever met a rather exotic businesswoman called Lalage?’

  ‘I don’t think so. What business is she in?’

  ‘She keeps a brothel.’ Helena’s voice was calm.

  ‘Oh no!’ shrieked the shocked moppet. ‘I’ve never met anyone like that!’

  ‘Neither have I,’ said Helena reprovingly. ‘But one ought to be aware that such places and people exist.’

  ‘Especially’, I interjected, ‘when such places have funded one’s education and stocked one’s dowry chest! If she denies knowledge of rents from brothels, ask Balbina Milvia where she thinks her family’s money came from?’

  Helena gave Milvia a questioning look, and the girl muttered, ‘From some kind of trade, I suppose.’

  ‘Very good. From selling stolen property, and percentages on prostitution.’

  ‘Excuse me, Falco.’ It was Helena’s interview; I subsided quietly. ‘Is trading your husband’s background?’ Helena queried thoughtfully.

  ‘I believe his father was a tax-farmer.’

  I nearly burst out laughing. For the first time ever, I felt tax-farming was a clean occupation.

  ‘And what does Florius do?’ asked Helena.

  ‘Oh Florius doesn’t need to work.’

  ‘That must be nice for him. How does he spend his time, Milvia?’

  ‘Oh this and that. Whatever men do. I don’t need to set spies on him!’

  ‘Why? Don’t you care?’ I challenged her. ‘He might be with women.’

  She blushed prettily. ‘I know he’s not. He’s socialising with his menfriends.’

  ‘Any chance the menfriends he’s so pally with might be criminals?’

  ‘No.’ Again Milvia threw an anguished appeal at Helena, as if she hoped for protection from my unjust accusation. ‘Florius goes to the baths, and the races, and he talks with people in the Forum, and looks at art in the porticoes –’

  ‘Nice!’ I said. It did not preclude a career in crime as well. All those activities were routine features of Roman life – and all could provide ideal cover for organising a major network in the underworld.

  ‘So Florius is a man of the world,’ mused Helena. ‘A man of affairs.’ Florius kept his hands clean while he spent what his own forebears had earned and what his wife with the nasty relations had brought him in return for sharing his respectability. He sounded a typical middle-class parasite.

  ‘Who is your father’s heir?’ I asked abruptly.

  ‘Oh goodness, I have no idea!’ Thanks, Milvia. Well up to standard.

  At that point a slave entered bearing a salver on which were presented the young lady’s mid-afternoon tipple and the dainty bronze cup she was to drink it from. Milvia handed over her empty fruit bowl (a heavy gilt item with finely chased bacchanal scenes). The maid poured her a dash of rich-looking red wine, headily infused with spices that clogged the strainer that filtered them. Cold water was added from a glass jug. We were invited to join her, but we both refused. Helena drank only with me; I never drank with other women when Helena was present. I also hated to have my wine thinned down so much.

  ‘What a wonderful water jug!’ cried Helena, who rarely commented on chattels when we visited strangers’ homes.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Milvia grabbed it from the tray, poured the contents into a vase of flowers, and handed it to Helena. ‘Do accept it as a present!’

  The offer was so spontaneous I found it hard to think she was bribing us. The maid looked unsurprised. Balbina Milvia must be one of those girls who showered over-expensive gifts on everyone she came into contact with. The only child of people who moved in a restricted and secretive circle, a circle from which she herself had been shielded, she probably found it hard to make acquaintances. Her husband had little to do with her. Their social life was no doubt limited. If we could have believed she was genuinely ignorant of her father’s world, we might have felt quite sorry for the girl.

  Even I managed a smile as Helena turned to show me the beautiful jug. ‘You’re very generous. This is a fine piece. Did you buy it in Rome?’

  ‘A family friend gave it to my husband.’

  ‘Somebody with excellent taste. Who was that?’ I kept my voice light as I took the article from Helena.

  ‘Oh just a well-wisher. I don’t know his name.’

  ‘Won’t your husband mind you giving it away?’

  ‘He didn’t seem to like it much. We haven’t had it long,’ replied Milvia.

  About two days, I reckoned. I decided not to press the point until I had consulted Petronius, but sooner or later guileless little Milvia would have to supply the well-wisher’s name. When Petro saw what she had handed over so gaily, he would probably want to search her house for more – and it would not be because he admired her choice of wineware.

  What I was carefully holding was a delicate glass water jug in a translucent white, around which trailed fine spirals of dark blue; it had a twisted, twin-thread applied handle and a neat, pinched spout.

  ‘Very fine,’ Helena repeated. ‘I should say that it was Syrian, wouldn’t you, Marcus Didius?’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’ I could say more. Unless it was a double, this was one of the pieces Helena had bought at Tyre for my father; one taken in the Emporium raid.

  I would not normally have permitted a stranger to make a present to Helena Justina. On this occasion there was no argument. We took the jug away with us.

  XXXV

  ‘Well, that’s how to do it,’ Helena preened herself, as we walked back over the Aventine towards Fountain Court.

  ‘I’m deeply impressed! If I had only approached the mother with your conciliatory line, who knows what luxuries we might have acquired for the home!’ I made the idea of a present from Flaccida sound disgusting.

  Helena ducked under a row of buckets hanging in a shop portico. ‘I admit our discovery was an accident. I’m not unreasonable.’

  ‘You’re a gem.’

  ‘Well I prised out more information than you did.’

  ‘You got no information, Helena! The mother refused to help us; the daughter batted her fine lashes, promised to give us anything we asked for, but then denied any knowledge to give. Different tactic; same
useless results.’

  ‘She seems genuine, Marcus. She cannot have known the water jug was stolen.’

  ‘She cannot have known it was stolen from us!’ I corrected. I sounded like some old pedantic Roman paterfamilias. Helena skipped down a kerbstone and laughed at me.

  I couldn’t skip. I was carrying the stolen jug.

  * * *

  While Helena repaired to Maia’s to collect our abandoned baby and check whether Tertulla had turned up again, I took the glassware to the station house and exhibited the gorgeous thing. Petro weighed it in his great paw while I sweated pints in case he dropped it. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A present from Milvia. Last time I saw this, it belonged to Pa.’

  ‘You’ve questioned Milvia? That’s quick. I only just sent Porcius over to your house.’

  ‘I work fast,’ I said smoothly, not telling him I took my own witness. ‘The girl claims she and Florius had it as a “gift from a well-wisher”.’

  ‘Believe her?’

  ‘I stopped believing girls when I was about fourteen.’

  My old friend was not a man who rushed in without preparation. He thought this through carefully. ‘The glass jug was one Geminus had stolen. Now it’s been found with Milvia and Florius, but we don’t know how it came there –’

  ‘It’s always possible sweet little Milvia acquired it legitimately,’ I pointed out. ‘An innocent purchase, or genuine gift.’

  ‘Don’t annoy me, Falco! But it might be all she has.’

  ‘I hope not. There was a matching beaker set,’ I remembered bitterly.

  Petro carried on doggedly, now instructing his men: ‘I don’t want to force the issue and bungle it, but I do want to see what else they’ve got. What we’ll do is conduct house searches of all the major criminals, then we’ll add in Flaccida and Milvia. We’ll go in as if it was a routine result of the Emporium raid. We’ll probably net a few interesting trophies anyway, so it won’t be wasted. Falco won’t be there. We won’t mention Milvia’s water jug at this stage.’

  ‘That sounds sensible. There’s been time for the raiders to share out the loot, but I’d assumed most of it would go for sale.’

  ‘Falco’s right,’ Petro conceded. ‘We’ll raid a few hot-property shops at the same time.’ Turning to Martinus he added, ‘Try to find out what new receivers have opened up recently, so we don’t miss any.’

  ‘Keep your eyes peeled for one item that is not on your theft list,’ I said gloomily. ‘It’s gold, and it cost a fortune, believe me!’ I described Helena’s birthday present carefully while they all listened with expressions of rapt attention – all of them mocking my extravagance. ‘It was among Pa’s load of glass, but he won’t have mentioned it to Martinus because he didn’t know I had hidden it.’

  ‘Bribe for a mistress?’ enquired Fusculus, looking innocent.

  ‘Birthday gift for Helena. I’ve got a day to find it – or pay up twice.’

  ‘Why not explain to Helena and hope to find the original soon?’ Petro suggested. ‘That girl is strangely understanding where you’re concerned.’

  ‘Helena is not the problem. I have to come up with something, and it has to be spectacular so her damned family don’t sneer. Her mother for one will be expecting me to let Helena down.’

  ‘Oh it’s the mother he’s trying to impress!’ Petro murmured wickedly to Fusculus.

  Fusculus sagged his jaw into a sorrowful grimace. ‘Explain to the man, chief – the mother never comes around!’

  Since I was not needed for the searches I left Petro and Fusculus shaking their heads over my predicament while I set off on errands of my own. The jug stayed at the station house, which was just as well or it might have ended up in pieces before the day ended.

  I called at my father’s house, knowing he would be at the Saepta Julia. That suited me. I left messages with his domestic staff saying we had recovered one of his Syrian treasures, and explaining about my need for a gift for Helena. Now Pa would know it was her birthday; he would try to inflict himself on us to celebrate, but as we were promised at her parents’ house we could escape that. Leaving, I popped in at Mother’s. She was out too, but I made sure a nosy neighbour saw me so word would reach Ma. Brilliant. I had made duty calls on both my parents, without the trouble of seeing either.

  Back to Fountain Court. I waved at Cassius, noticing that somebody had suddenly taken over the ground-floor shop lease opposite his bakery, the one Helena and I had looked at briefly before we spotted our preferred new abode. Some sort of mixed hardware was now being offered for sale from the lockup, though I didn’t take note of what. My own new let, which I ran up to and inspected by daylight, was looking as if we could make something respectable of it. At street level, the skip had lost several items to desperate scavengers, but I had gained little more; I was winning on that. I now felt like a juggler who was keeping the balls in the air. Overconfident, I made the mistake of letting Lenia see me as I crossed to walk upstairs.

  ‘Falco! We need to discuss arrangements!’

  ‘Like, how can you be persuaded to jilt the bridegroom?’

  ‘You never give up.’

  ‘I don’t want to find myself in two months’ time being harassed to suggest grounds for divorce so you can claw your dowry back. Getting evidence on Smaractus will be more sordid than anything I’ve ever had to do.’

  ‘He’s just a colourful character,’ Lenia sulked.

  ‘He’s a disaster.’

  ‘He just needs to settle down.’

  ‘In a dung heap,’ I said.

  After that I was allowed to leave without discussing the auguries at all.

  * * *

  I took the stairs at a cheerful pace, pausing only to instruct the stray dog called Nux not to follow me up. She was a tufty mongrel in several colours, with limpidly soulful eyes. Something about her big furry paws and her whiskery face had a dangerous appeal. I sped off fast to discourage her.

  By now it was well into the afternoon, so everywhere was fairly quiet in the lull after siesta and before the mens’ baths grew busy. The apartments I passed sounded more peaceful than they were sometimes; fewer screaming children, fewer distressed adults. The smells seemed less obnoxious. I could almost convince myself that though the building was shabby and overcrowded, its landlord did deserve a chance at normal life … This was no good. Being dragged in to act at the nuptials was shaking my cynical view. I knew what it was: playing the priest for Lenia and Smaractus was making me feel responsible for their future wellbeing.

  Cursing, I leapt up the stairs on the fourth and fifth flights several at a time. I wanted to leave the laundry and its crazy proprietress behind as fast as possible. At the top I slowed. An automatic instinct for caution led me to silence my steps.

  Somebody else was making a noise, though. As I reached the final landing I heard a man shouting anxiously. Then Helena screamed, ‘No! Oh no!’

  I crossed the landing in two strides. The door stood open. I shot through it, out of breath from the stairs yet ready for anything.

  The voice I had heard belonged to Porcius, Petro’s young recruit. He was holding up one hand, trying to calm the situation. It was well beyond him. Two ugly brutes whose violent intentions were unmistakable had invaded the apartment, probably not long before I arrived. One leering thug, a huge collection of sinew, was laughing at Porcius as the lad tried to reason with him. The other man was menacing Helena; he was holding our rubbish-skip baby by his tiny wrists and swinging him backwards and forwards like a pegged napkin on a windy washing line.

  ‘I’m not Falco, and that’s not their child!’ Porcius attempted valiantly.

  From the doorway I roared, ‘I’m Falco!’

  The giant spun to face me, a terrifying prospect. I had pulled out my knife, but I had to drop it. The small man had hurled something at me. I dropped my knife because I had to catch his missile – and I had to catch it right: the bastard had thrown the babe at me.

  XXXVI

&n
bsp; I caught him and turned him upright. The baby was screaming but I didn’t think he had broken any bones or been crushed. Still, he wanted everyone to know he was outraged. Without letting my eyes give away my intentions, I tried frantically to think of somewhere I could put him down. The only place was the table; I could not get to it.

  Fighting for time, I tried to calm the atmosphere. ‘Good afternoon!’ I saluted the unknown visitors. ‘Are you melon-sellers, or just passing financiers trying to interest us in a favourably priced loan?’ The two bullies stared. A jest was my only weapon now; they looked unimpressed. Meanwhile the skip baby grabbed me around the throat in a stranglehold, but he did stop crying. ‘I’m afraid you must leave,’ I continued hoarsely. ‘My doctor has advised me against acid fruit, and we’re a household that avoids debt on religious grounds.’

  ‘You’re Falco!’ It was the small man who owned the voice. The brain it went with must be a slow one. His voice was harsh; his tone arrogant. His friend didn’t need to talk. The large fellow only had to stand there pulling and clicking his finger joints in order to contribute to this conversation quite successfully.

  I managed to loosen the babe’s grip and snatched some air. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A word.’ I could tell what they really wanted was to kick me in the ribs. The smaller man spat deliberately into a dish of newly peeled boiled eggs. These were very unpleasant people. Helena seethed, and he grinned at her.

  He was exceptionally small. Not a dwarf; perfectly proportioned, but a good foot less than average. A statue would not have revealed his problem, but not even his mother would want to commission a statue of this villain. They could afford it, though, judging by the torque-style bracelets on his upper arms. And he wore signet rings so solid they were more like growths than jewellery.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘You don’t need to know.’

  ‘I’ll find out.’ I glanced at Helena. ‘Something tells me, love, that somewhere today we upset someone!’

  ‘You’re upsetting us!’ the first man commented.

  ‘And you’re going to back off!’ growled the wide man. His voice rumbled deeply, rich with the remembered pleasure of torturing people who ignored what he said. Shaved hair and unclean skin were his badges of toughness. Massive shoulders were bursting through the strained skeins of a worn-out tunic. He liked to show his teeth in a neat white rectangle when he talked. He nearly filled the room.