The Jupiter Myth mdf-14

by Lindsey Davis

  In an Empire whose business was the army, far-reaching trade and administering lands overseas, many a father lost his children in his absence too. To be one of many would not make it easier. Petronius would blame himself, and he would suffer all the more because he heard this news a thousand miles away. Whatever past troubles had happened between him and Arria Silvia, he would have wanted to support her, then to comfort and reassure his remaining child. He would think it important to preside at the tragic funerals of the lost two.

  The worst was, knowing this and knowing that he did not know.

  It was too much. I left the room quietly, finding my way by instinct to the nursery. There I sat on the floor among the miniature chairs and walking frames, holding my own two warm little treasures tight. My mood must have affected them; Julia and Favonia became subdued, letting me embrace them for my own comfort.

  Maia came in. Only one of hers was in the nursery. Marius and Cloelia had disappeared; the eldest were allowed out if they promised to be careful. Ancus, a quirky soul, had decided he was tired and put himself to bed for a siesta. Rhea was here alone, crawling round on a rug, playing some long-winded epic game with a set of pottery farm animals. Maia did not touch her youngest daughter, just sat on a chair, hugging her arms around her own body, watching.

  After a long time, my sister asked me, 'Do you think he knows?'

  'What?'

  She explained patiently, 'Do you think someone else has already told him, and he has gone back home without informing us?'

  I knew why she asked. That would be just like him.

  Speaking about his loss would be too painful, and he would be angered by fuss. While others flapped and increased his anguish with well-meaning hysteria, he would want to move, fast.

  But I also knew how Petronius would have gone about it. Every debt settled up. Then the swift, scrupulous packing. Each boot-strap, tunic and memento neatly positioned in his luggage roll. He might take himself off, but it would be evident that he had packed up and gone home.

  'He still doesn't know. He is here somewhere. I am certain.'

  'Why?' demanded Maia.

  'All his gear is in his room.'

  'Well, all except the stuff he would need if he was doing something dangerous.

  Maia breathed harshly. 'Then you have to find him, Marcus.'

  I knew that. The only problem was, I had no idea where to start looking.

  XV

  How could I work? Yesterday had been arduous. Today started well, but from lunchtime, with its dreadful news, everything fell apart. All anyone wanted was to go into huddles to discuss this shock. The only person who talked sense, in terms I recognised, was Helena.

  'Petronius may be anywhere in town, or he may even have travelled away. Don't waste energy, Marcus. He will resurface when he's ready. In the meantime, what's lost?'

  'From his point of view, nothing,' I agreed sombrely.

  'Silvia and the poor surviving child won't be expecting anything from him yet. Once he knows, he will rush home to them.'

  'Right. Better let him finish whatever he's up to.' He would need a free mind to cope. If he had swanned off with some woman, this would be the wrong moment to break bad news; he would feel guilty for ever. If he was drinking, better let him sober up.

  'And whatever,' Helena asked narrowly, 'can he be up to here in Britain, anyway?'

  'No idea.' She glared at me. 'Honest, sweetheart; I really have no idea.'

  We both sank into reverie. After a long time, Helena said, 'He has only been gone a day.'

  A day and a night. Somehow I did not expect to see him back in the near future.

  I had to do something. He would not thank me for this, but I did it anyway. I drew up a missing-person sheet that Frontinus could issue to the legionaries.

  L. Petronius Longus, Roman male of thirty-four years, freeborn; good height; serious build; brown hair; brown eyes. If subject spotted, observe and notify governor's office. Do not approach or arrest subject. Do not insult, beat up, or otherwise maltreat subject. If forced to make your presence known, urge subject's immediate contact with the governor's office and withdraw.

  Do not inform subject his heart is about to be broken, lads. Leave it to the old clich the appropriate quarters. This filthy task is detailed to his best friend.

  I did go out to look for him. I wandered about all afternoon. All I found were Marius and his dog, peering shyly into bars. I took them home. On the way we ran into Maia and Cloelia. They claimed they were out shopping. I took them home too.

  As we arrived back at the procurator's house, a swirl of horsemen and a carriage rattled up to its stately portico. That was all I needed: King Togidubnus had wasted no time and had already arrived. Since I still had no information or explanations on who had drowned his disgraced retainer, I was the one who would probably catch most of the crud the King threw – plus anything else Julius Frontinus added, hoping it would seem any lack of progress on the case was not his fault.

  Part of me did not care. A trousered killer had been killed himself and if it started a war, well at the moment I quite felt like a good war with somebody.

  There is a special atmosphere in official buildings when a political crisis starts.

  At one level everything continued as normal. Aelia Camilla ran her household quietly, showing by only the faintest frown that she anticipated difficulty in keeping mealtimes properly. The governor, the procurator, various officials, and the agitated King, were all in conference behind closed doors. Efficient slaves came and went, carrying scrolls or refreshment trays. They were keyed up with excitement; there was a sense that routine business would be overridden. The diary was being scrapped: meetings that had been fixed for weeks were cancelled or hastily rearranged. Dispatch riders and signallers were held at the ready. Arriving messengers were rounded in a side-room and crisply advised that they would have to wait because of the flap. Local officers and officials were summoned in a hurry; escorted in; then they left again in double-quick time, most looking as though they had somehow been caught out.

  Nobody said what was happening. This was top grade secret, with triple wax seals.

  I myself was never called in. It suited me. And I understood: the governor was trying to appease the King before we admitted how little progress we had made.

  On the cusp of afternoon and evening, Flavius Hilaris appeared briefly.

  'How's it going?'

  He smiled wryly. 'Could be worse.'

  'Could be better?'

  He nodded, looking tired. 'Frontinus and I are dining the King strictly in private this evening. Out of respect for his grief.' And to keep him incommunicado for a while longer, no doubt. 'He has seen the body -' I had not been aware that people had emerged for an undertaker's visit. I wondered if the corpse had been brought here. 'The governor has agreed that a cremation may be held tomorrow; in the circumstances very discreet. I shall go, as a friend and neighbour of the King. Official representation is ruled out, in view of Verovolcus' disgrace. It will just be Britons from his home district.'

  'Want me to attend?'

  'Frontinus thinks not.' Luckily I never believed that myth about murderers turning up to watch when their victims are being dispatched to Hades. Few murderers are that stupid.

  'It's a funeral Roman-style?' I asked.

  'Pyre and urn,' Gaius confirmed. 'The King is fully Romanised.' He saw my face. 'Yes, I know it's not his funeral. But he is Roman enough always to take charge!' I liked this man's enduring quiet humour.

  I wondered what ceremony Verovolcus would have chosen for himself. Did he see himself as this much in tune with Rome? I doubted it. Would he really have opted for cremation in a haze of scented oils – or would he want to be buried with his severed skull between his knees, among his weapons and rich grave goods?

  'And what kind of grief is the King showing, Gaius?'

  'He knew Verovolcus from childhood. So despite whatever has happened, Togidubnus is depressed. He's threatening to send h
is own boys in to scratch around for information.'

  'No harm in it,' I said. 'I've done every possible initial check for witnesses. Let the Britons go over everything again if they wish. They may stir up something – or if not, at least Togidubnus may then believe we did our best.'

  A senior clerk came to speak to him. Gaius had to go.

  He paused only to warn me that a formal meeting with the King had been arranged for me tomorrow morning. (I guessed I would also be called to a pre-meeting with Gaius and the governor at the crack of dawn, as they panicked over what I might say.) Then he asked if Helena and I would assist his wife in entertaining guests from the local community who were to dine here tonight. More earnest importers: I was not enthralled, but cancelling their invitation would cause too many questions and somebody ought to play host. I told the weary procurator he could rely on us.

  Aelia Camilla could have managed the dinner single-handed. As a diplomat's wife she was well used to such events, and probably used to supervising them when Gaius was suddenly called away. But Helena and Maia were already dressing to help her, and she welcomed their support.

  I would become the male host, virtually a diplomatic role. It was a major shift upwards for an informer. It meant a clean-shaven face and a toga. It also meant I had to be pleasant, even though being pleasant did not suit my mood.

  My presence was poor compensation for guests who had hoped to meet senior men: men whose interest would advance their careers in Britain. Not much of a stand-in! But Aelia Camilla assured them they would get a second chance with the genuine gold knobs.

  'Thank you, dear Marcus, for filling the gap so bravely.' She was a decent woman. Like Helena, she was by nature shy of strangers, though perfectly competent when social duty called. Both would have chosen to be traditional matrons shunning public appearances, though if anyone had instructed either to sit out of sight behind a curtain, both would have shot off barbs like an army of Parthians. Tonight they and Maia had lashed on extra jewellery, taken great care with the face paint, and braced themselves to exude warmth towards our guests.

  These were the usual ungrateful hogs in search of a free meal. We had a couple of loud Gallic wine importers from some Aquitanean fleece-those-guzzlers guild, and an extremely nervous Briton who wanted assistance in finding markets for exporting live oysters; he said he would have brought samples but it was out of season. Then there was a quiet businessman whose exact role I must have missed, though he seemed quite at home in ambassadorial surroundings. He knew not to pick his nose. The rest strode into the residence as if forgetting it was essentially a private house, then stared around, so I checked the comports and counted the cups. Anyone would think their taxes had paid for the place. Whereas if I knew anything (and I did), their devious accountants had set up sly tax avoidance schemes.

  I indulged in some fun with this conversation topic, to repay the wine importers for their crass attitudes. I let the Gauls confide all their accountants' cunning advice, then dropped in that I had been the Emperor's Census tax investigator. 'Off duty tonight!' I beamed, a swimmingly benevolent official host. I made the reassurance sound as insincere as possible.

  Helena stared at me suspiciously, then came over and swapped seats. Now I was looking after the oyster man. He did not have an accountant. I gave him some sensible hints about acquiring one if he was to trade long-distance successfully. The tricksters in the Roman fishmarkets would run rings around any amateur who sent his wares blind to the Emporium. 'You need to use a negotiator. If their own percentage depends on it, they will ensure you get the right price.'

  'They do seem very expensive.'

  'But what's your alternative? Are you intending to escort every barrel of seawater all the way to Rome personally? You'll lose a lot of time that way, and then what? There is no guarantee you'll find the best bidder once you get there. The retailers will all swear to you that Romans only want traditional Lucrine oysters, then when they've bought yours up cheaply they'll sell them on as exotics from Britain at a massive profit: their profit, not yours!'

  'But I would like to see Rome.'

  'Then go, my friend. Go once, for pleasure. While you are there, fix yourself up with a product negotiator. You will cover his fees, believe me. Without help, you'll go bankrupt among the Emporium sharks.'

  He thanked me profusely. Maybe he even trusted me. Maybe he would do it. From across the room, Helena gave me an approving smile to which I returned a courteous salute. The oyster man was pale and grey himself, gnarled like his own produce. I wrote my home address on a tablet, grinned, and said that was where he could send a free barrel if he found my advice helpful. It might work. He might grasp the give and take of rewards and bribes that made Roman commerce interesting. Or perhaps I had just trained him to be as tight-fisted as most traders.

  For the dessert course we all moved outside into the garden. It was a warm night. Surprisingly so for Britain, though I remembered that they did have summer for about a fortnight here. This must be it. They had no way of dealing with the heat; all the bath houses either kept their water piping hot as usual, or let it go stone cold. Nobody closed their window shutters in daylight, so houses became stifling. And when dining in the open air, there were only benches; no one owned a proper exterior dining room with permanent stone couches or a shell-decorated nymphaeum.

  I moved to sit beside the final guest, the quiet one. We explored a bowl of dates. They had come a great distance and needed picking over.

  'I think I'd say that these don't travel well! I'm your substitute host. Marcus Didius Falco.'

  'Lucius Norbanus Murena.' He was trying to place me.

  'Your relaxed confidence at a formal dinner implies you are from Italy?' I was determined to place him. He had three names. That means nothing. I had three names myself yet I had spent much of my life scratching for the rent.

  He was in his forties, maybe a little older; heavy, but he kept fit. He spoke well, with a lack of accent. There seemed to be enough money to kit him out in decent cloth; I think he had arrived here togate. This was not required in the provinces (where most locals did not even own a toga), but for visiting a residence it was good manners. His neat hair, beardless chin and manicured fingernails all spoke of acquaintance with a decent set of baths. With a strongly angled jawline, dark eyes, combed-back thick straight hair, I suppose he could be called handsome. You would have to ask a woman that.

  'I'm from Rome,' he said. 'And you?'

  'Rome too.' I smiled. 'Has tonight's set-up been explained? Due to the sudden arrival of an important British king, we are unexpectedly deprived of the governor and procurator. We're in the proc's house, as the gov still needs to build one grand enough; that lady in the embroidered gown is Aelia Camilla, your efficient hostess, wife of Hilaris. They are old British hands. She will ensure you are put on a future invitation list, with a chance to meet the notables.'

  'And what is your role?'

  'I'm family. Brought my wife to see her aunt.'

  'So which is your wife?'

  'The elegant Helena Justina.' I indicated her as she chatted pleasantly to the two dreadful Gauls. She loathed this kind of occasion, but had been brought up not to mock the concept of duty. She looked graceful and composed. 'The tall piece in refined white.' I had a suspicion that Norbanus had leered at Helena. I had noticed that she glanced at us, then straightened her stole around her shoulders with an unconsciously defensive air; I recognised unease in her.

  Maybe I misread the mood. 'Ah yes; your wife very kindly saw me through the appetisers.' Norbanus spoke with a light inflexion of good humour. He was cultured and urbane. If such men prey on people's wives, they don't do it openly, and not at the first meeting, nor with husbands watching. For intelligent adulterers – and I felt he was intelligent – keeping husbands in the dark is part of the fun.

  'Her noble mother trained her up as a helpful table companion.' I joined in the quiet satire. 'Helena Justina will have been responsible for setting you at ease, ask
ing questions about your journey to Britain, and how you find the climate here. Then no doubt she passed you on to the stroppy madam in red, for the main course and polite enquiries about whether you have family and how long you intend your visit to last. My sister,' I added, as he switched his gaze to Maia.

  'Delightful.' Maia had always been attractive. Men with an eye instantly fixed on her. As her brother, I had never been sure how she did it. Unlike Helena and her aunt, Maia tonight wore little jewellery. They both moved in fine ripples of gold, even out here at twilight where only small lamps swinging in rose bushes caught the filigrane beads in their bracelets and necklaces. My sister's drama came naturally; it came from her dark curls and the flashy ease with which she wore her trademark crimson. I felt no surprise when Norbanus asked politely, 'And is your sister's husband here?'

  'No.' I let a beat of time elapse. 'My sister is widowed.' I was tempted to add: she has four demanding children, a furious temper, and no money. But that would be overprotective. Anyway, she might find out, and that temper of hers scared me.

  'So, what line are you in, Falco?'

  'Procurator of the Sacred Geese at the Temple of Juno.' My ghastly sinecure did have some uses. It nicely gave the impression that apart from a dubious role cleaning out augurs' hen-coops, I was a feeble man of leisure who lived off his wife's money. 'What about you?'

  'You may not like this!' He had an honest charm. Mind you, I was no follower of honest charm. 'I am in property.'