'I have lived in rented apartments!' I returned, mentally scratching out 'honest'.
'I don't do domestic tenancies. Strictly commercial.'
'So what is your field, Norbanus?'
'I buy up or build premises, then develop them into businesses.'
'A big organisation?'
'Expanding.'
'How discreet. Still, no canny businessman reveals details of his balance sheet!' He only smiled politely, nodding in reply. 'What brings you to Britain?' I tried.
'Sniffing the market. Looking for introductions. Maybe you can tell me, Falco. This is the big question: what does Britain want?'
'Every damned thing!' I laughed gently. 'And first you have to explain to them how much they do want it… The natives are still being tempted down from hilltop villages; some have only just come in from their round huts. You start by telling them that buildings should have corners.'
'Gemini! It's more of a backwater than I thought.' We were by now on friendly terms – two suave Romans among the native barbarians.
I remembered that my job as a stand-in was to generate enthusiasm for this potholed byway. 'Optimistically, if the province stays Roman, the potential must be enormous.' Julius Frontinus would have applauded my two-faced bluff. 'Anyone who finds himself the right trading niche could make a killing.'
'You know the province?' Norbanus seemed surprised. 'Army.' Another useful cover; all the better for being true.
'I see.'
A slave brought us warm water and towels so we could rinse our hands after eating. The subtle hint broke up the party. Well, the Gauls might never have noticed that it was time to leave, but they were bored anyway. They bumbled off, discussing drinking-dens for a late night fling, with barely a nod to us. The British oysterman had already vanished. Norbanus bowed over the scented hands of the Three Graces in our goodbye line-up. He did thank Aelia Camilla and Helena perfectly civilly. It was to Maia that he stressed how much he had enjoyed the evening.
'Maia Favonia, good-night!' Interesting. Maia moved in a small circle and rarely used her full two names. I wondered how Norbanus knew them. Had he made a special effort to find out? Had I been jumpy, I might also have asked why.
I saw the guests off the premises. I made it look like a courtesy, rather than a ploy to ensure they stole nothing. Exhausted, I was longing for my bed. It was not to be. As I returned down a corridor of offices, I saw the centurion from last night's watch patrol hanging around.
XVI
'Waiting to be seen by someone?'
'There's been a development in the Longus case.' The centurion explained his presence only reluctantly.
'Petronius Longus is not an undesirable and it is not a case, centurion. What's the development?'
I was about to have trouble. I knew this type. His normal manner was a mixture of fake simplicity and arrogance. For me he saved a special sneer on top. 'Oh, are you Falco?'
'Yes.' The bakery fire was only last night; he cannot have forgotten meeting me.
'It was your name on the information sheet?' My description of Petronius had gone out from the governor's office, but Frontinus was not name-proud and he had let it carry my signature.
'Yes,' I said again, patiently. He did not like me, by the sound of it. Well I had some doubts about him. 'And what's your name, centurion?'
'Crixus, sir.' He knew I had him now. If I carried any weight with the governor, Crixus was stuck. But he managed to stay unpleasant: 'I don't quite remember what you said you were doing in the downtown area last night, sir?'
'You don't remember because you didn't ask.' His omission was an error. That evened things up between us. Why was he so bothered? Was it because he now realised I was not just some higher-up's domestic hanger-on, but someone with an official role that he had misinterpreted?
'So; you mentioned a "development", Crixus?'
'I came to report it to the governor, sir.'
'The governor's in conference. There's a flap on. I signed the sheet; you can tell me.'
Crixus reluctantly backed off. 'There may have been a sighting.'
'Details?'
'A man who resembled the description was observed by a patrol.'
'Where and when?'
'On the ferry-deck by the customs house. A couple of hours ago.'
'What? And you are only just here to report?'
He feigned a crestfallen look. It was sketchy and brazenly fake. This man wore his uniform smartly but in manner he was like the worst kind of dreary recruit who can't be bothered. If he had succeeded in seeing Frontinus, I dare say things would have been different. Double standards are a bad sign in tlte military. 'The info sheet made no mention of urgency.'
'You knew its status!' It was too late now.
The centurion and I were fencing quite toughly. I wanted to extract what he knew, whilst instinctively withholding as much as possible about Petro or myself. For some deep reason I did not want Crixus to learn that Petro and I were close, that I was an informer, or that he worked for the vigiles.
'Finish your report,' I said quietly. In my time in the legions I had never been an officer, but plenty of them had pushed me around; I knew how to sound like one. One who could be a right bastard if crossed.
'A patrol spotted a man who fitted the details. As I say, he was at the ferry landing.'
'Crossing over?'
'Just talking.'
'To whom?'
'I really couldn't say, sir. We were only interested in him.' In the ten years since I left the army, the art of dumb insolence had not died.
'Right.'
'So who is this person?' asked Crixus, with an air of innocent curiosity.
'Same as everyone who comes here. A businessman. You don't need to know more.'
'Only I don't think he can be the right man, sir. When we asked, he denied that his name was Petronius.'
I was furious and let the centurion see it. 'You asked, when the sheet said "don't approach"?'
'Only way we could attempt to discover if he was the subject, sir.' This idiot was so self-righteous I barely refrained from hitting him.
'It's the right man,' I growled. 'Petronius Longus loathes nosy questions from stiffs in red tunics. He generally claims to be a feather-fan seller called Ninius Basilius.'
'That's rather peculiar, sir. He told us he was a bean- importer called Ixymithius.'
Thanks, Petro! I sighed. I had plucked a known alias of his from my memory – the wrong one. Any minute now, Crixus would decide it was a fact of note that the subject worked under cover using several false identities. Then the centurion would be even more nosy. If I knew Petro, he was just being rebellious; he had instinctively stiffened up when a strutting patrol apprehended him. On principle, he would lie to them. At least it was better than questioning their parentage, telling them to go to Hades in a dung cart, then being thrown in a cell.
'You're going the long way round to admitting that he gave you the slip,' I warned. 'The governor will not be pleased. I don't know why you're playing silly beggars over this. The poor man has to be told some bad news from home, that's all. Frontinus has a past acquaintance with him; he wants to do it personally.'
'Oh well, next time we'll know he's the one. We'll pass the message to him, never fear.'
Not now. Not if Petro saw them coming again.
XVII
King Togidubnus' long-term friendship with Vespasian went right back to when Rome first invaded Britain; Togi had played host to the legion which the young Vespasian had spectacularly led. That was over forty years ago. I had seen the King much more recently and when we had our meeting the next morning we were comfortable together.
To look at, he was clearly an elderly northerner, his mottled skin now papery and pale, his hair faded from a reddish tribal shade into a dusty grey. On any formal occasion he dressed like Roman nobility. I had not deduced whether any rank conferred on him actually entitled him to the broad purple stripe on his toga, but he called himself a 'lega
te of Augustus' and he wore that stripe with all the confidence of a senatorial bore who could list several centuries of florid ancestors. Most likely, Togidubnus had been selected young, brought to Rome, educated among the various hopeful hostages and promising princelings, then replaced on a throne to be a bulwark in his home province. After thirty years the Atrebates seemed only a little less backward than any other British tribes in the Romanised area, while they and their king were unquestionably loyal.
All except the dead Verovolcus. He had killed a Roman architect. Mind you, hating architects is legitimate. And the one Verovolcus took against had held opinions on spatial integrity that would make anybody spew.
'We meet again, in sorry circumstances, Falco.'
I adjusted my pace to fit the King's sober grandeur. 'My pleasure at renewing our acquaintance, sir, is only marred by the grim cause.'
He sat. I stood. He was playing the high-ranked Roman; he could have been Caesar enthroned in his tent, receiving rebellious Celts. I was entirely subordinate. Anyone who works for clients expects to be a treated like a tradesman. Even a slave who employed me as an informer would take a high-handed attitude. The King was not even hiring me; nobody thought that necessary. I was doing this job as a duty, for the good of the Empire and as a favour to family. Those are the worst terms ever. They don't pay. And they don't give you any rights.
I ran through what I knew and what I had done about it. 'To sum up: the most likely scenario is this Verovolcus came to Londinium, perhaps intending to hide up here. He went into a bad location by chance and paid a tragic penalty.'
The King considered it for a moment. 'That explanation would suffice.'
I had expected furious demands for retribution. Instead the Togidubnus response could have come straight from one of the deviously slick offices on the Palatine. He was trying to contain the damage.
'It would suffice for the Daily Gazette!' I said harshly. Rome's official Forum publication loves scandal in the lowbrow columns that follow its routine lists of senate decrees and calendars of games, but the Acta Diurna is produced by official clerks. The Gazette rarely exposes uncomfortable truths in politics. Its wildest revelations involve lurid sex in the aristocracy – and then only if they are known to be shy of suing.
One bushy grey eyebrow flicked upwards. 'But you have doubts, Falco?'
'I would certainly like to investigate further… 'Before you commit yourself? That's good.'
'Let's say, whoever dunked Verovolcus in the well, we don't want a repeat.'
'And we do want justice!' insisted the King. In fact 'justice' would have put Verovolcus in the amphitheatre here, as lunch for starved wild beasts.
'We want the truth,' I said piously.
'My retainers are making more enquiries.'
The King was glaring defiantly but I merely replied, 'The more that district is shaken up, the more we show that violence won't be tolerated.'
'What do you know about the district, Falco?'
'It's a grim area at the back of the unloading and storage wharves. It's full of small enterprises, mainly run by migrants, for the benefit of sailors on shore leave and transient import/export men. It has all the disadvantages of such districts in any port.'
'A colourful enclave?'
'If that means a hangout for tricksters and thieves.'
The King was silent for a while. 'Frontinus and Hilaris are telling me that what happened to Verovolcus was probably provoked by him, Falco. They say that the perpetrators would otherwise only have robbed him.'
'His torque is missing,' I agreed, letting caution sound in my voice.
'Try and find the torque, Falco.'
'You want it back?'
'I gave it to him.' The King's expression showed nostalgia and regret at the loss of his long-term friend. 'Will you recognise it?'
'I remember.' It was unusual: fine strands of twisted gold, almost like knitted skeins, and heavy end pieces.
'Do your best. I know the killers will have vanished.'
'You are right to feel cautious, but it's not entirely hopeless, sir. They may one day be exposed, even perhaps when arrested for some other crime. Or some small-time criminal may turn them in, hoping for a reward.'
'They tell me it is a bad area, yet murders are infrequent.'
I felt the King was working up to something. 'Frontinus and Hilaris know the town,' I commented.
'And I knew Verovolcus,' said the King.
A slave entered, bringing us refreshments. The interruption was annoying, even though I, for one, had not had breakfast. Togidubnus and I waited patiently in silence. Maybe we both knew Flavius Hilaris might have sent the slave to observe our meeting for him.
The King made sure of privacy and dismissed the slave. The boy looked nervous, but left the offerings on a carved granite side table.
After he went out, I myself sawed off slices of cold meat and gave us each a dish of olives. While the King stayed on his silver-backed couch, I went to a stool. We munched the soft white breakfast rolls and sipped water, no longer speaking. I pasted my ham to my roll with chick-pea dip. He wrapped a slice of meat around a hard-boiled hen's egg.
'So what did Frontinus and Hilaris tell you I would want?' asked the King eventually.
'I've had no opportunity to receive instructions, sir.'
'What – no briefing?' He looked amused.
'I was out walking this morning.' This was true. I had gone to the forum early, where I chalked up graffiti on a wall saying 'LPL, contact MDF: urgent'. I had no great hopes. Petronius was unlikely to hang around that dreary spot. I risked murmuring frankly, 'I expect our two great men are sweating shit!' The King chuckled even more. 'But you and I, sir, don't need a briefing before we communicate.'
Togidubnus finished his egg and wiped his scrawny old fingers on a napkin. 'So what do you really think, Marcus Didius?'
I noted the more informal nomenclature. I chewed up an olive, dumped its stone in a dish, and told him. 'I am still puzzled why Verovolcus went to that place. I have noticed an organised racket in the vicinity, though I have not been able to show any link, I admit.'
'Are you saying that officials deny that this "racket" exists?' demanded the King.
'No.' They had managed to avoid admitting it, but they were diplomats. 'Civilisation brings much good, but you know it brings bad as well. I have no idea what criminal activities occurred when the tribes ran Britain from hillforts, but every society has its bandits. We bring you the city and we bring city vices. More complicated, perhaps, but all based on fear and greed.' Togidubnus made no comment. If he really had been brought up in Rome and had ever walked the Golden City's teeming streets, he had seen at first hand the worst of organised grief and extortion. 'Did Verovolcus hate Rome?' I asked.
'Not particularly.'
'But you said you "knew" him. You meant something by that.'
'He liked to be in the thick of any action, Falco. Being my liaison officer never quite suited him, but nor was he the type to sit on a farm watching cattle graze.'
'Meaning?'
'He would not go into exile meekly.'
The King rose, went to the side table, inspected a flat bowl of cold fishes, tried one, decided against, and took another roll with some ready-sliced venison. That kept him busy, chewing bravely, for some time. I sat and waited.
'So what do you want to tell me, sir?' I asked, when I was fairly sure he could get words out again.
He screwed his up lips, his tongue struggling with a shred of trapped venison in his back teeth. I pecked at breadcrumbs on my tunic. 'He was not going to Gaul, Falco.'
Togidubnus had spoken in a low tone, which I matched: 'He meant to stay here in Londinium? Did he have friends here?'
'No.'
'Any means to live?'
'I gave him some money.' That came out fast: conscience money. Whatever Verovolcus had done, his regal master had felt responsible for him.
'Did he say anything, sir, about coming here?'
; 'Enough.' The King set aside his empty watercup. 'He spoke to you?'
'No, he knew I would have had to stop him.'
I filled in the story myself: 'Verovolcus told his friends he was sneaking off to Londinium, not going to Gaul. He knew there was an expanding crime scene and he boasted that he would be part of it?' The King went so far as to nod. The rest was inevitable: 'If there are rackets, and he tried to muscle in – then whoever runs the show here must have refused him an entry ticket.'
They had done it in the classic style too: a striking death, which would attract public notice. A death that would serve as a warning to any other hopefuls who might consider invading the racketeers' turf.
XVIII
Seeing Hilaris at one end of the corridor as I emerged, I bunked off the other way. I wanted space; I had to reach decisions. Did I take this further in person, or hand the whole packet over to the authorities?
I knew what was making me hesitate. Acknowledging there were rackets, and in a province where the Emperor had once served with distinction, was politically inconvenient. I thought they were likely to drop the case.
Music and the sound of voices drew me to a salon. The womenfolk were listening politely to a blind harpist. He was ill-shaven and expressionless, with a sullen, even pugnacious, young boy crouched at his feet, presumably to lead him around. He could play. I wouldn't have walked far to hear him, but his technique passed. It was background music. Bland, melodious pattering that allowed people to talk over it. After a while you could forget the harpist was there. Maybe that was the point.
I nudged up against Helena on a couch. 'What's this? Are we auditioning him for an orgy tonight or taking culture a bit far?'
'Hush! Norbanus Murena has sent him on loan to Maia. Such a kind thought.'
'What prompted that?' I sounded like an ungracious brute.
'I remember us talking to him last night about music.'
'Maia was?' I managed not to laugh.
Helena biffed me gently with the back of her wrist. 'No, I think it was me, but you can't expect a man to remember things properly.'
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