Time to Depart

by Lindsey Davis

  A group of patrolmen were sitting in the apartment discussing whether rats were more dangerous than women. I concealed my irritation, added a few philosophical comments, then offered to show them where the nearest fountain was. They picked up their buckets fairly agreeably (the fee they had negotiated with me was, to put it mildly, adequate) and followed me down to the street. I told them the way, but I stayed in Fountain Court. I had seen someone I knew.

  He was standing down by the barber’s, an unmistakable, untidy lump. He had a bundle of scrolls, and was writing notes against one of them. When I came up, I could see the same intense concentration on his face and the same little squiggly lettering that I had seen once when I interrupted him outside the Pantheon making detailed comments on racehorses. It was Florius. Across the street, detailed to tail him everywhere in case he was contacted by his father-in-law, stood Martinus; he had stationed himself by the baker’s, pretending he could not decide which loaf to choose. He looked an idiot.

  ‘The barber’s is closed, Florius. We have a wedding locally. He wore himself out this morning snipping the guests.’

  ‘Hello, Falco!’

  ‘You remember me.’

  ‘You gave me advice.’

  ‘Did you follow it?’

  He blushed. ‘Yes. I’m being friendly to my wife.’ I tried not to speculate what form his friendliness might take. Poor little Milvia.

  ‘I’m sure your attentions will be happily received. Let me tell you something else: whatever trouble it causes, don’t let your mother-in-law come to stay in your house.’

  He opened his mouth, then said nothing. He understood exactly what I meant about Flaccida.

  I was curious. At the same time, I was beginning to feel I knew what he would answer when I asked, ‘So what brings you here to Fountain Court?’

  He gestured to the scrolls he was holding under his elbow. ‘The same as when I saw you at that brothel the other day. I have decided I ought to go around and take a look at all the properties which Milvia and I were given as her dowry.’

  I folded my arms. Together we stared at the place he had been inspecting. ‘You own the whole block up to the roof?’

  ‘Yes. Most of the rest of this street belongs to another man.’ Smaractus. ‘There are domestic tenants on the upper floors. This small shop was leased out recently, but it’s not open and I cannot make anyone reply.’

  He was talking about the cave of delights that offered second-hand ‘Gifts of Charm’. The place where I had declined to buy Helena a birthday present, though where she had found a refined set of eating tools to give Lenia as her wedding gift. I had seen the snail picks now: they were bronze, big heavy spoons with pointed ends, probably from the fine workshops of central Italy. I had a similar set myself, though of more refined design. Lenia’s looked like consular heirlooms, but were sold to us extremely cheaply. I knew what that could mean.

  ‘Don’t knock any more.’ Florius looked surprised by my sharp tone. ‘Wait here. I’ll fetch someone.’

  * * *

  Back at the wedding Maia had arrived. Her sons Marius and Ancus and Galla’s son Gaius sat lined up on a bench, ready to act as the three escorts when the bride went in procession to her new husband’s house. Marius was looking cross; he probably knew the torchlight procession would be an occasion of rude songs and obscene jokes: not his style. Gaius was pretty sullen too, but that was just because Maia had insisted the young scruff should be clean. Ancus, who was only five, just sat there with his ears sticking out and wished he could go home.

  I waved to them, then found Petro. ‘Sober up!’

  Without a word, and without revealing that he was sloping off, he slid out with me. We walked back down the street to the jumble shop. My heart was knocking. I began to wish I had drunk less. When we reached Florius he straightened up slightly at the sight of Petro; Petro gave him a polite official nod.

  I explained to Petro what the problem was. He listened like a man whose concentration needed help. I recounted my visit to the shop when it was open, describing the kinds of items I had seen. His initial disinterest gradually faded. ‘Are you suggesting what I’m thinking, Falco?’

  ‘Well, booths of old clutter are everywhere, and some of them probably contain the odd thing that was bought in a legitimate sale, but they are ideal cover for receiving. One reason I’m suspicious is that I saw Gaius and Phlosis, those two boat thieves, in our street not long ago. I now think they may have been up here to hand in swag they’d pinched. And there’s something else, Petro: the man who ran this joint was called Castus.’

  Petronius made the link far quicker than I had done: ‘Same as the weasel who stabbed the Lycian at Plato’s.’ He was no longer as drunk as he seemed.

  ‘Exactly. That Castus was a Balbinus man. He had been booted out by Lalage but he was still helping the girls who ran the kidnap scheme. My niece Tertulla was snatched very near here. And I found the baby in my skip just along the street.’

  ‘Castus was one of the men we arrested at the brothel,’ said Petro. ‘In view of his past history the Prefect has kept him in close custody. Which explains why there is no one here.’ He screwed up his mouth. ‘Of course,’ he went on reflectively, ‘I’m spending my time checking over all the places we know that had links to Balbinus. I haven’t finished the dowry properties. I’m kicking myself.’

  I said quietly, ‘I told you what Lalage reckoned: Balbinus was living “somewhere on the Aventine”.’

  Petronius took a deep breath, flexing his wide shoulders. Then he shook his head like an athlete trying to concentrate before a big race. ‘Jupiter, I should have been sober for this!’ He signalled to Martinus and ordered him to fetch Fusculus from the wedding. At that moment my helpers came back from the fountain, so they were summoned too. They set down their buckets carefully and began to size up the shop. Florius asked us what was happening. Petro looked grave. ‘Let’s say that as a concerned landlord whose tenant may have done a bunk, I assume you would like us to break in?’

  ‘Try not to do any damage,’ protested Florius at once. As a landlord he was learning fast. Then he paled. ‘What are you expecting to discover?’

  ‘Loot,’ I said. ‘Stolen goods. Everything from luxuries robbed at the Saepta Julia and flagons pinched from food shops right down to all the bedcovers old ladies have been losing from their balconies recently. And if I’m right about how the premises have been used, I think we’ll find a foundry at the back where precious metal has been melted down.’

  ‘And your father’s glass?’ enquired Petro dryly.

  ‘Oh Lucius Petronius, I have to tell you honestly – I fear not!’

  ‘Do I need to be here?’ Florius was feeling nervous.

  ‘Better slide off home.’ Petronius gave him a kindly pat on the shoulder. ‘I don’t like to see trouble in a family; you’d best not be involved. One of the items I’m now hoping to recover is your missing father-in-law.’

  Florius looked more interested. ‘Can I help?’ Clearly the worm had turned. From being a passive victim of Milvia’s parents, he was now eager to see Balbinus recaptured. In view of the situation, with Balbinus under a death sentence if he was found on Roman soil, that meant mild-mannered Florius was longing for rather more than a mere arrest. The keen glint in his eye said he knew very well what recapture meant.

  * * *

  We broke in at a rush. The vigiles are trained to smash their way into buildings during fires. Even without their heavy equipment they can go through a door without raising a sweat. Making Florius wait outside, Petronius, Martinus, Fusculus and I followed the patrol straight in. We marched through the premises without stopping to investigate. It was evident, once you viewed the place as a possible receiving shop, that it was packed with items of interest – and I don’t just mean potential Saturnalia gifts. As I had suspected, beyond the curtain at the back lay a cold furnace and plenty of encrusted crucibles.

  ‘A melting pot – and they’ve been painting the Emperor’s pict
ure for him too!’ Fusculus held up a mould for counterfeit coins.

  We searched the shop, and the attached living quarters. Then we left a guard and searched every apartment upstairs, breaking into any where nobody replied when we knocked.

  We disturbed a lot of people doing things they would have preferred to keep private, but we did not discover any trace of Balbinus Pius.

  ‘Ah well. Just have to keep looking.’ Petronius managed to sound neutral. But I knew his true feelings. Hope had been raised for a moment. The disappointment that followed was twice as acute as our gloom before. ‘I’ll get him,’ said Petro quietly.

  ‘Oh yes.’ I thumped him on the shoulder. ‘You’d better. Old friend, there’s still a nasty chance that he’s hoping to get you!’

  We walked down to the street. We gave Florius the news that his wife’s father was still at large, told him to report anything suspicious, and watched him leave. Martinus sauntered after him, still pretending to be unobtrusive.

  I had a dark sensation as Florius loped off with his scrolls and stylus. The thought of him so carefully researching his father-in-law’s property made me wonder if one day he might want to research other aspects of the Balbinus empire too. Clearly he meant to expand his business interests. He had told me he wanted to start a racing stable, and I already knew from Famia that the partner Florius had chosen had an off-colour reputation. Why stop there? His wife came from a notorious criminal family. Florius had never seen any need to abandon her once he realised this. Maybe I had just witnessed the beginning of another depressing cycle in the endless rise and fall of villains in the underworld.

  Well, it should take him a few years yet to establish himself.

  LXVII

  I was in disgrace. Back at the wedding Lenia had called for her augury to be taken. This was the ceremony I had promised to supervise. Nobody could find me. Nobody knew where I was. It was, of course, considered untenable to proceed without the inspection of a sheep’s liver. Respectable people would be shocked. Luckily the imperturbable Gaius Baebius had seized upon my absence and stepped into the breach.

  ‘Oh I’m sure you did it better than I would have done, Gaius!’

  And at least the head veil fitted him.

  ‘He gave me some very nice promises,’ said Lenia sniffily.

  ‘I had never realised that Gaius Baebius was such a liar!’ Helena whispered. Gaius explained to me very soberly that as part of his preparations for trying to join the priestly college of the Augustales, he had been taking lessons on sheep-skinning.

  The bride was by now ensconced on her neatly hacked-off sheepskin, side by side with the slumped form of her husband, newly removed from the laundry basket. She was gripping his hand, not so much to symbolise union as to stop him falling onto the floor. A friend of Smaractus’ was going around trying to get up ten witnesses for the contractual tablets, but most of the guests tried to wriggle out of this duty and privilege with weak excuses such as they had inadvertently left their seals at home. Nobody wanted to be blamed if the marriage failed, or be called upon to help sort out the dowry afterwards.

  We all decided we had suffered enough and wanted our presents. This meant sending the bridegroom over the road to get them. It was obvious we would only get him over there once, so we combined this trip with sending him to sing the Fescennine verses (a raucous litany that nobody sober could remember, let alone your average bridegroom). Soon he was lighting the torches along the route for the bride’s procession. Somebody supplied him with his fire and water for welcoming Lenia to his home. Smaractus revived enough to cry loudly that she could go to Hades for all he cared. Lenia had in fact gone to the lavatory, or the divorce could have been ratified that very day.

  We kept the bride’s procession short. This seemed wise because by then the bride herself was drunk as well as tearful. With no mother of her own from whose arms she could be dragged protesting, Lenia, overcome by a last-minute realisation of her stupidity, decided to cling to Ma instead. Ma told her to stop messing everyone about. Heartlessly jovial, we hauled Lenia away and set her up in proper fashion, with Marius and little Ancus taking her hands while Gaius gingerly carried the whitethorn torch ahead of them. Her veil had slipped and she was limping, as in her left shoe was one of the traditional coins she must take to her husband. ‘As if I hadn’t given him enough already!’

  It had grown dark enough to lend some mystery. A hired flautist came to lead the happy throng. Throwing nuts and yelling, we all jogged up one side of Fountain Court, then danced inelegantly back again, tripping on the nuts. Children woke up and became really excited. People hung out of upstairs windows, watching and cheering. The night was still and the torchlight flickered handsomely. The air, on the last day of October, was chill enough to sober us slightly.

  We reached the bakery. Jostling up the narrow outer stairs, I joined the group of delirious attendants who pulled the bride up the last few steps to the nuptial rooms. Smaractus appeared in the doorway, with one of his friends loyally propping him up from behind. He managed to cling on to his ritual torch-and-water vessel while Lenia spilled oil down her dress as she made an attempt to anoint the doorframe in the time-honoured way. Petronius and I braced ourselves, then linked hands under her backside and heaved her indoors.

  Smaractus rallied abruptly. He saw Lenia, leered horribly, and made a sudden grab. Lenia proved a match for him. She let out a shriek of salacious delight and lunged for him.

  Appalled, Petronius and I made a break for the outside and left hurriedly. Most of the other attendants followed us. Any tradition of witnessing what happened in that nuptial bed was too ghastly to contemplate. Besides, the remaining wine was in the laundry across the road.

  The street was packed with singing revellers. It took single-minded desperation (and thirst) to force a passage through. We made it as far as the laundry’s garlanded doorway. We found Arria Silvia shrieking to Petro over the noise that she was taking their young daughters home to bed. She asked if he was going with them, and of course he said yes but not yet. Helena, looking wan, told me she was going up to our apartment. I too promised to follow my dear one ‘very soon’ – as the old lie has it.

  Something made us look back across the road. Lenia had run out onto the first-floor landing, waving her arms about. Her veil flapped wildly and her gown was half off. A raucous cheer rose from the crowd. Lenia shouted something and raced back in.

  It was dark. There was plenty of smoke from the torches. Almost immediately the distraught bride reappeared in the doorway of the nuptial home. People had quietened down, most of them looking for something to drink. Lenia spotted Petronius and me. In a voice like a grindstone she shrieked to us: ‘Help, help, you bastards! Fetch the vigiles! The bed’s collapsed and the apartment is on fire!’

  LXVIII

  Guests who had been prepared to fill the street when there was hope of free food and liquor found a sudden urge to go home quietly once they realised they might be asked to form a bucket chain. Others made sure they didn’t help us, though they still hung around in doorways having a good gape.

  The smell of real smoke had become apparent. Lenia had vanished again back into the first-floor apartment with a wild cry of ‘My wedding presents! My husband! Help me get them out!’ It was clear that the presents were to be given priority.

  There was one saving feature: as soon as someone cried ‘Fire!’, out from my own new apartment came a group of vigiles. My Fourth Cohort helpers were soon spotted by the excellent Petronius and chivied into action. They smartened up immediately. Someone went running to the patrol house for equipment, the rest were ordered straight into the laundry where there was a well and plenty of water carriers too. Petro and I then raced across to see what we could do for the disrupted bridal group.

  Lenia was scuttling about the outer room, uselessly gathering armfuls of gifts. We shoved her outside, fairly roughly for fire has to be taken seriously; things could end up worse than she realised. In the second room we were met
by a pitiful sight: the nuptial bed, complete with exotic purple coverlet, had crashed partway through the floor. My landlord, even more dishevelled than usual, was clinging on to one corner in terror. He was afraid to move a muscle in case the bed slipped completely and fell into the bakery store below. That was where the fire was, started when in the midst of his uncontrollable passion for Lenia, Smaractus had pounded his bride so heavily that the props beneath the floor had given way. A bridal torch had then rolled across the collapsing floor and fallen through the jagged hole onto the baker’s well-dried logs.

  ‘Dear gods, Smaractus, we never knew you were such a hot lover!’

  ‘Shut up and get me out of here!’

  Below us we could already hear battering as the vigiles tried to break into the bakery. Petro and I began to cross towards Smaractus, but the boards lurched beneath us too dangerously. We had to stay where we were, trying to calm the stricken bridegroom while we waited for helpers with proper equipment. At first the smoke seemed slight enough and we were not too worried. A pillow slid slowly across the tilting bed, then tumbled down into the fire, showing what could happen to Smaractus. He squealed. He was looking dangerously warm. Petronius started bellowing for help.

  A setback occurred. Instead of dousing the fire immediately, the vigiles allowed themselves to be lured from their duty by the tragic spectacle of a heartbroken bride: I won’t say Lenia offered bribes to them, but overcome by good nature (or something) they came galloping upstairs to save her precious wedding gifts. By the time more help arrived and operatives started flinging water and mats over the logs in Cassius’ store, lively flames were at work. Upstairs with us Smaractus was now screaming as the mattress he was clutching caught light from the flames beneath. That was when Petro and I really started worrying.