The Jupiter Myth mdf-14

by Lindsey Davis

  'I'm sure he gave Milvia a happy time first,' I said. It was automatic. Then I thought of him kissing my sister last night in that grim scenario, and I felt squeamish.

  'What's wrong?' asked Helena. I shook my head. After a moment she let it go and said, 'These people want revenge.'

  'That's right. And they won't quit.'

  I stood up. I stopped wondering where my sister was. Off enjoying herself on some tryst with the suave and slimy Norbanus, while her last night's lover was in serious trouble.

  I decided to retrace my steps to the baths. Petro would turn up some time. But first the hour was late enough to take in lunch here. Hilaris must be ravenous too, after our dawn start when the corpse was found, for we met him also guiltily scrounging in the dining room. That was how Helena and I happened to be with him when a confidential messenger arrived from the troops. In a great hurry, the man was looking for the governor. Hilaris knew Frontinus was still working diligently on dispatches, but before the messenger was passed to the right office, Hilaris made him tell us what the fuss was.

  Splice had escaped.

  We all rushed with the messenger to see the governor. Frontinus heard the news with that neutrality good officials learn. He must have been angry, but waited to think through the implications before shooting off.

  'What exactly happened?'

  'I only know what I was told to say, sir.' The messenger skilfully let blame slide on to others. 'The soldiers escorting the prisoner were somehow given the slip and they lost him.'

  'That was first thing this morning. How come I only just have word of it?'

  'They tried to recapture him, sir.'

  Frontinus was speechless. Losing a vital prisoner was inexcusable. But to me it seemed typical; I could imagine some slack bunch of lags out here, laughing among themselves: Oh just say sorry to the old man – be all right about it…

  'I warned you about the troops.'

  'You did.' Frontinus was terse. In a frontier province, dereliction of duty was a decimation crime: one man in ten, chosen by lot, would be bludgeoned to death by his disgraced colleagues. That would not be the end of it. The effect on morale would be grim, both here and up at the frontiers when the rumours raced there.

  An aide was hovering. Frontinus rapped out orders, hardly pausing for reflection. 'Get me the commander. Before he comes over, I want that detail stripped of their weapons and armour, then held in chains. They are to be guarded by men from one of the other detachments, not their own legion. Disarm their centurion and bring him here to me. I want every on-duty legionary to go out in a search party. I want the troops put on permanent standby. It goes without saying, I want the prisoner back.'

  Some hopes, I thought.

  'Today!' he added. Julius Frontinus now saw his provincial capital slipping into anarchy. Luckily he was a practical man, and action helped him cope. Even so, I had rarely seen him so tight-lipped.

  I was even more depressed. But then I had worked against the Balbinus mob before.

  XLI

  On my way out I was stopped by a message from the torturer.

  Amicus, the sardonically named Befriender, had made up for losing the chance to prick holes in Pyro and Splice. He had tackled the waiters with a heated manicure set, then turned the recalcitrant barber almost inside out with a contraption I tried not to look at.

  'I am sorry not to have a crack at this Splice,' he grieved when I sought him out in the bowels of the residence. 'He sounds an interesting prospect. I hope they get him back for me. Do you know how he acquired the nickname, Falco?'

  'I suspect you are about to tell me – and it will be unpleasant.'

  He chortled. Maybe his happy manner helped unnerve his victims; the contrast with his pain-inflicting side certainly disturbed me. 'Splice wanted to punish two snackshop owners, cousins who shared a bar jointly, and who were refusing to pay up. He went in one night and hacked both men in two from top to bottom. Then he bound the left side of each body to the right-hand side of the other. He left the results propped up against the serving counter.'

  'Jupiter!'

  'That's apt. Jupiter is a favourite with this gang,' agreed Amicus warmly. 'Plenty of signboards with the same mythical theme. Apt, since the Best and Greatest is the patron god of grapes and wine. Also it lets everyone see just how many businesses have paid up.'

  'Yes, I worked that out.'

  'But you don't spot them all,' rebuked Amicus. 'I'll come to that… First I shall tell you what I have.' He was pedantic in giving reports. 'The organisation works thus: there are two equal leaders, both currently engaged in setting up a British crime community. One takes the sporty premises – brothels, betting, and fixing fights for gladiators. The other collects neighbourhood food and drink shops. They have come from Rome, but are planning to leave when their empire here is established. Pyro and Splice were intended to run this section for them.'

  'Do the gang have a tame lawyer, one Popillius?'

  'Not mentioned. They do have storage, ships, safe houses, a safe bath house even, and large group of heavy fighters. Some thugs they brought here, mainly seasoned criminals who found Rome too hot for comfort. Some are being recruited locally. Bad boys are rushing to join them. That is how they met the man who died.'

  'Verovolcus, you mean? Yes, he was on the run… How do they attract these local boys? Don't tell me they advertise for hired labour on a pillar in the forum – free time, victuals and drink, plenty of beating up the populace?'

  Amicus shrugged. 'Word of mouth, bound to be. I can ask.'

  'It's not important. Assuming we catch Splice again, what can he be charged with?'

  'He beat the baker to death. Pyro had picked the baker up, he was drinking at a wine bar called the Semele.'

  'One of Jupiter's favoured ladies.'

  'But did the baker know the gang ran it, or was he caught off guard?' wondered Amicus. Pyro torched the bakery, of course; that was his job. He was then present for the killing at the warehouse, although Splice carried it out.'

  'That's definite. Where's your evidence? Witnesses?' Amicus shook his head. 'This is second hand, but I got it from the Ganymede waiters.'

  'The waiters won't look good in court.'

  'No, but now you can build on the information. If you ever apprehend them, some of the back-up bullyboys were in at the death. They also took the body on the boat and dumped it. The waiters heard all this when Splice reported to one of the two chiefs. The other didn't need telling; it was his boat. He was present at the warehouse where the killing happened. He came to take some money-chests away by river, then removed the dead baker at the same time. Good housekeeping. Better than a skip.' I shuddered; even the torturer pursed his lips disapprovingly. 'Now.' Amicus was coming to some special point. 'I was asked to obtain names.'

  'Well let's compare,' I offered, knowing it would irritate him.

  Amicus announced rather pompously, 'I was given Florius.'

  My answer was calm. 'Gaius Florius Oppicus, to be precise.'

  The torturer tutted, as though I was quite out of order in obtaining my own information – especially if mine was better than his. 'He is the vicious one, Falco. All agree he is vindictive, cruel and out to prevent any attempts by the authorities to interfere.'

  'Sounds right. Florius gave the order for the Verovolcus killing.'

  'No, hold it there, Falco!' Amicus held up a hand. 'My sources say different. They claim it was an accident.'

  'Your sources sound insane!'

  'According to them, Verovolcus was despised as a potential rival and not wanted as a colleague. He had tried to slither in on the market, and he thought he was tough – but the hard Roman gangsters simply regarded him as a clownish amateur. He was put down the well just to teach him a lesson.'

  'Death's a hard lesson,' I commented.

  'My sources dispute that,' Amicus insisted.

  'Your sources are lying. I saw the corpse, remember.'

  Amicus gave me a distasteful look; it was fi
ne for him to haul men to the brink of death, screaming in agony, crippled for ever and mentally destroyed, but he disapproved of me for inspecting so many who had actually died.

  He was starting to annoy me. 'Come on – "An accident"?' I scoffed. 'The lawyer must have tutored them! Verovolcus was shoved in and drowned.'

  'The barber -'

  I laughed harshly. 'Oh your strong-willed resistant razorman!'

  The torturer grinned. He liked to think he was ascetic but he was showing intense enjoyment. 'The barber was a kitten once I found the right trick…

  'Don't tell me.'

  'Ah, Falco, you are too sensitive. He overheard Florius and the other top man discussing the incident afterwards. Apparently, Florius goes for the shaved-head look, to fool people he's a hard bastard.'

  'Not when I knew him,' I growled.

  'Florius maintained what had happened was horseplay; he said they all went away laughing, expecting that the Briton would just climb out, embarrassed and wet. He was astonished later, when he heard that Verovolcus had been found dead.'

  'All a terrible mistake; my client is shocked… You sound like his lawyer again.'

  'Oh don't be cruel, Falco.'

  'Sorry! I don't like insulting experts – but I'm on the Verovolcus murder for the old King. I cannot tell Togidubnus his retainer died as a result of a light-hearted game going wrong.'

  'Just tell him Florius did it then.' Morality came in subtle shades among torturers. 'He must be guilty of other crimes, Falco. And you have a witness who says he ordered this one.'

  'What do you know about my witness?' I asked apprehensively.

  'You've been careless. You were given information by a female gladiator called Amazonia, at a bar called the Cradle in the Tree.'

  I was horrified. 'Don't tell me it's one of the gang's establishments? But I thought of that; I checked the name. What has a rocking cradle to do with Jupiter?'

  Amicus was literate, a reader and learner, more knowledgeable than me about myths. He liked showing off too: 'By ancient tradition, the god Jupiter was the son of a deity, Cronos. Cronos used to eat his children – a vicious way to avoid a prophecy that he would one day be displaced by his own son. Jupiter's mother hid the newborn baby in a golden cradle hung in a tree between the earth and sky, so he could not be found by his jealous father, anywhere on land or sea.'

  'Oh shit!'

  'You and the girl were overheard, Falco.'

  'Then she is in danger…'

  'Of course you could never produce a gladiatrix in court. Even so, Florius will want to wipe her out.' Amicus seemed to regard this outcome far more phlegmatically than I did.

  'I have to warn her – fast!'

  'One more thing.' The torturer's manner became as dour as I had seen it. 'This Florius also knows of a Roman officer who is tailing him. Falco, is that you?'

  'No. It's a member of the vigiles.'

  Amicus approved of the vigiles as much as he disapproved of me. Petronius was professional, a salaried paramilitary, on a par with the torturer himself; I was an informer, so just a low-class liability. My new equestrian ring just made me a jumped-up fake. 'Florius has sworn to get him.' Amicus had seen my face. 'Friend of yours, is he?'

  'The best.'

  I was rushing to fetch equipment when I met Helena. As if she had read my mind, she was hurrying towards me, carrying my sword. Behind her followed that distinctive member of the gladiator group, the girl who wanted to be a boy. Or whoever.

  'Marcus! Chloris may be in difficulty -'

  'We need your help,' said the flat-chested androgynous sprite with the limpid eyes.

  'Tell me what's happened!' As I spoke, Helena was helping me buckle on the sword.

  'That man who wants to take us over has asked for a meeting with Amazonia. She's getting nervous about him. She thinks he might turn violent.'

  'She's right,' I replied grimly. 'He's called Florius. He leads one of Rome's worst criminal gangs – they are extremely dangerous. What's more, Florius knows that she gave me a statement against him.'

  The messenger squeaked. 'Well, she tried stalling him. But now he's saying he will lean on the arena programmers. We will never get billing again unless we co-operate. She had to do something about it. She arranged to meet him at the arena this afternoon.'

  'Has she gone there? Did she go alone?'

  'I don't know…'

  'Fetch all your group! She will need anyone who can fight.' To Helena I muttered, 'Florius is likely to turn up mob-handed. Tell the governor and your uncle. We shall need troops. If they don't trust the garrison, ask them to send auxiliaries from their personal bodyguards.'

  Helena was pale. 'What about Petronius?'

  'Tell him what's up if you see him. But he has been on watch at that so-called office in the brothel by the baths. I bet Petro has known all along it was a regular haunt for Florius. If I know my boy, he'll see Florius leave and he'll tail him.'

  'I'll go myself and tell Petro,' Helena decided.

  I had no time to argue. 'Well, be very careful. Take Albia; she knows where it is.'

  XLII

  The arena lay in the northwestern sector of town. It was brand new. Around it was a bare area where nobody yet lived or worked. On rough land on the town side stood a row of market-style stalls, their counters mostly covered at present, though when there was a show they would undoubtedly all be manned by conniving peddlers. One or two doggedly offered light snacks and statuettes of gladiators, even though today there were only a few casual sightseers milling about. A bear on a chain, probably nothing to do with the arena beasts, was being sadly paraded near an entrance gate. His teeth had been drawn. No self-respecting organiser would put him in the ring. Deprived of his fangs, he was starving to death.

  A janitor was letting in the curious to 'see the arena' for a small tip. Word must have circulated that the girl gladiators were practising. The usual sex-mad men with no work to do and no shame had ambled up for a squint at the muscles and short skirts. It looked as if these oddballs came to drool on a daily basis.

  Dear gods, there were even tourists. We needed to clear these people. No chance. The strollers would refuse to leave, once they sniffed out that an official operation was in train. People are nuts. They forget their own safety and want to gawp. And it would be obvious we had the place staked out. Oh Hades. Oh double Hades. Florius wouldn't come anywhere near if he noticed a reception party.

  This Londinium amphitheatre was nothing compared with the massive monument that Vespasian was creating as his personal gift to the people of Rome. The Emperor had drained the lake of Nero's Golden House and was planning the largest place of entertainment in the world. At home, we had four teams of masons working flat out. A whole quarry had been opened on the road to Tibur; two hundred ox carts every day blocked the city highway as they hauled in the Travertine marble for cladding. The southern end of the forum was chaos, had been since the Emperor's accession, would be for years yet. All the slaves captured in the pacification of Judaea were being worked to death.

  By contrast, Londinium's toy arena stood in a bleak spot and was made of wood. I expected it to look as if it had been knocked together by a couple of leisure-time carpenters, but it was an expert job. These sturdy hewn timbers were no doubt a treasure-house of the single dovetail corner and the spiked half lap joint. We Romans had taught Britain the concept of an organised timber trade; we introduced decent sawyers, but also brought prefabricated building frames that could be rapidly assembled on site. The army started it; some forts came as kits – pre-cut timbers and their fixing nails – ready to be thrown up in the face of the barbarians, seemingly overnight. A permanent armed force of any significance acquired its arena to keep the lads happy. This edifice signified that Londinium was now a legitimate part of the Empire and definitely on the up.

  I had arrived from the forum direction. After crossing the stream, I picked my way through an approach road strewn with mule dung and stood in the shadow of the east entran
ce as I considered the locale. To my surprise, someone had imported and planted a Roman stone pine, twenty feet from the way in. So far from home, the tree had established itself and must provide cones for ritual purposes.

  The smelly hangdog who was seeking gratuities from sightseers took one look at me, spat, and decided not to demand a ticket price. I glared at him anyway. He made to slink off. I called him back.

  'Run to the barracks. Tell them to send a detail urgently. Tell them there's a riot.'

  'What riot?'

  'The bloody great big one that's going to start while you're running to the troops.'

  I walked through the arch, passing into the dark passage below the seating tiers, ignoring the audience approaches. Pedestrians had their own stairs up to the seats and were denied access to the ring. I could see the arena ahead through great ceremonial double doors, which currently stood open. Alongside them to the right-hand side was a small wicket gate with a well-trodden approach, no doubt used discreetly by attendants when they stage-managed events. That was closed. The arena looked the standard oval shape. It was maybe a hundred paces long on this, the greater axis, which ran west to east. Before I went in, I checked around the gloomy entrance interior. To either side were antechambers, both empty. One, which was probably used as the fighters' rest-room prior to bouts, contained a small shrine, currently lit by a single oil lamp. The other must be the holding chamber for wild beasts; it had a massive sliding panel to give admittance to the ring. That was down. I tested its pulley, which moved with silken ease for rapid operation. Single-handedly, I raised it a few inches, then let it fall back.

  I returned to the main passageway and passed through the huge open gates. They were set on a monumental wooden threshold, which I stepped over cautiously.

  The central area must have been dug out for several feet, drainage installed, and a heavy layer of sand brought in; there would be a deep hard-rammed base, with a few inches of looser material on top which could be raked over. Around the ovoid, supported on massive wooden posts, ran maybe fifteen to twenty tiers of wood-planked seats. I didn't count. A crowd barrier held back spectators in the first row of seats. Below that ran a bare walkway all around the interior. Inside it stood a high square-cut wooden palisade. This entirely enclosed the centre, so neither raging beasts nor human fighters could escape and nor could show-off madmen from the crowd leap in.