The Jupiter Myth mdf-14

by Lindsey Davis

  'Rome.'

  He gazed at me, from some vague world of his own.

  'Italy,' I said. The need for explanation grated, even though I knew he was a derelict. He was filthy and showed signs of disease, but acted as if he recognised a like soul in me.

  'That Rome!' murmured the vagrant wistfully. 'I could go to Rome.' He would never go to Rome. He had never wanted to.

  'The best,' I agreed

  He had made me think of Italy. I went across to Helena and hugged her. I wanted to go back to the residence and see my two daughters. Then, as soon as possible, I wanted to go home.

  LIX

  Any good informer learns: never relax. You fight to create a workable case. It has flaws; they always do. In ours there was a gaping hole: we had one target dead in the Thamesis, but the other chief suspect had escaped.

  Petronius Longus was anxious to leave Britain on the next available boat from Rutupiae. He had personal reasons to call him back to Ostia, but naturally intended to put himself where Florius might reappear. In view of the Florius angle, the governor allowed him a pass for the imperial post service. In recognition of the demands of love, he extended that to Maia and the children, and then he felt obliged to include Helena and me. Fine. A quick journey suited all of us.

  Just as we prepared to leave for Rome, however, a key witness let us down. We were doing well in some respects. The very public success of the attack on the gang at the customs house had impressed the locals. As a result, Frontinus was able to draw depositions about the extortion from some tavern-keepers, and these were with Petro to take back and use in any trial. A formal statement from Julius Frontinus himself might also be read out in court, if ever Florius was brought to justice. That would sound good. But we had already lost Chloris. Her companions could testify only that Florius had pressurised them, which – apart from their dubious status as gladiators – a good lawyer would demolish by calling it 'legitimate business practice'. Any Roman jury would envy the ability to make money. As the jurors struggled to stay afloat amidst their mortgages and creditors, Florius would seem to them an ideal citizen. He would walk.

  Our one damning piece of evidence against him was the waitress' claim that at the Shower of Gold Florius had deliberately ordered Pyro and Splice to shove Verovolcus down the well. I could say I saw him kill Chloris – but accuse him of murdering a gladiatrix, in the arena? Excuse me. Case dismissed!

  I wanted to persuade Frontinus that the waitress' evidence was so important he should order her transportation to Rome. With her smart new name and newly refined accent, Flavia Fronta could be tricked out as a nearly honest woman, even though the profession of waitress ranked very close to gladiating, socially and legally. I was ready to prime a barrister to blacken Florius by suggesting that the low venue for the killing had been his choice, symptomatic of a despicable man who frequented filthy dives. Verovolcus was in effect British aristocracy, so with the King's closeness to the Emperor there was a scandal factor in killing him.

  I first became uneasy while discussing whether Frontinus would agree to a Rome trip for the waitress. King Togidubnus had returned to his tribal capital; I assumed he was still saddened by the fate of his renegade retainer, yet comforted by the fact that the issue had been resolved. But instead of being taken to Noviomagus with the King, to be installed in the promised new wine bar, Flavia Fronta was still in Londinium.

  'So where is she?' I demanded of the governor. 'There is a security angle.'

  'She is safe,' Frontinus assured me. 'Her evidence is being reassessed by Amicus.'

  Reassessed? By the torturer?

  I went to see Amicus.

  'What's going on? The waitress said Florius ordered the well-drowning. That alone will send him to the lions if he ever stands trial. Giving the statement makes her our one strong witness – but, with due respect to your art, it has to be seen that she made this statement voluntarily!'

  'There is doubt,' replied Amicus dourly.

  'Well, we cannot have doubt! So what is the problem?' I tried not to rage too fiercely. I was irritated, but concerned to ring-fence our case.

  Amicus then told me one of the arrested men he had been allowed to work on was the owner of the Shower of Gold. I remembered him from the night I took Helena there for a drink: he had been an unwelcoming, stubborn piece of truculence.

  'He sticks with what others had told me,' said Amicus. Verovolcus was a nuisance to the gang, and Florius wanted to humiliate him – but putting him in the well was just a game. That barber said the same. But the bar owner actually saw what happened.'

  'He denied that before.'

  'Well, I loosened his tongue.'

  'That's your job. But under torture people say what they think you want to hear -' Amicus looked put out. 'If he admits it was murder, he may be scared that we'll charge him as an accessory.'

  'He has been assured we won't punish him for the truth. Oh, go and see the procurator, Falco!' Amicus burst out. 'Ask him to show you the evidence. You won't argue with that'

  I found Hilaris, who looked depressed. He confirmed that the bar owner had croaked out a clue, which had caused a new search to be made of his premises. Hilaris then unlocked a small panelled wall-cupboard. With two hands he removed an object which he dropped on a table with a loud thump. I picked it up: a torque of truly regal weight. It was a wonderful snaky thing of interlinked thick gold wires that must have made its wearer's neck ache. I wished I could ask my father's advice, but it seemed to me to be of some age, maybe dating back to Caesar's time. The techniques of weaving the wires and the granulated filigree that patterned the fastener were Mediterranean.

  I sighed. 'Tell me this was found among the loot we took from the gang, Gaius.'

  'Afraid not. We found it hidden in a wattle wall panel at the Shower of Gold.'

  'And that's why Amicus is trying out his best skills on the waitress?'

  'He has done it. She won't talk to him. The woman is being brought before the governor now, if you want to come.'

  Flavia Fronta, as the informant now called herself, was dragged before a strict tribunal: Julius Frontinus, Flavius Hilaris and me. We sat in a line on folding stools, the Roman symbol of authority. Where we went, our power to adjudicate went too. That did not mean we could persuade an intransigent waitress to talk.

  There were some signs of damage on her, though I had seen women look far more battered. The soldiers who brought her in were holding her up, but when they stood her in front of the governor, she stayed upright stoically. She still had breath to complain loudly about her handling by Amicus.

  'All you have to do is tell the truth,' Frontinus pronounced.

  I thought she now looked like a liar who was losing her nerve.

  'Let us go through your story,' said Hilaris. I had seen him in this situation before. For a quiet man, he had a terse and very effective interrogation style. 'You are the only person – the only free citizen whose word counts legally – who claims that Pyro and Splice killed Verovolcus on the tavern well.'

  Flavia Fronta nodded unhappily.

  'You say you heard the Roman called Florius order them to do it?' Another, even weaker nod. 'And when Florius left the bar with his two associates, the Briton was dead?'

  'He must have been.'

  'Oh bull's balls! That's not good enough.' Everybody looked at me. I stood up slowly. I paced closer to the woman. I had noted the new weakness in the way she told her story. Amicus was not the only professional involved here. Even when it is inconvenient, a good informer. continues to test everything. 'Pyro told us Verovolcus was still alive.'

  'You'd better ask Pyro about it then!' she jeered.

  'Pyro is dead. The gang had him killed.' I lowered my voice: 'Before you think it lets you off, you have something very serious to explain.'

  I nodded to Hilaris. He produced the torque.

  'Flavia Fronta, we believe you hid this at the bar.'

  'It's been planted!'

  'Oh, I don't think so. No
w, as the governor told you, we are going to go through your story. You can tell us now, or you can be sent back to the official torturer – who believe me, has not even started on you yet. Let's begin: You say Florius told Pyro and Splice: Do it, lads! Then, you say, they shoved poor Verovolcus in the well. You described it; you told me his expression was horrible… You say Pyro and Splice held him down – but if they did that, how exactly were you able to see his expression?'

  'Oh… it must have been while they were dunking him.'

  'I see.' I pretended to accept it. The woman could tell I had not done so. 'So he was there dead, and everybody fled in fear?'

  'Yes. They all ran.'

  'What did the three men do? Florius, Pro and Splice?'

  'They left too.'

  'Straight away?'

  'Yes.'

  'Someone told us they were laughing?'

  'Yes.'

  'So behind them in the yard was Verovolcus in the well – where was the bar owner?'

  'Inside the bar. Whenever there was trouble he found something else to do.'

  'Well, that's typical of a landlord, isn't it? And what about you? You went out into the yard to have a look? Then let me guess – you stood there staring at Verovolcus and – am I right? – you told us next morning that his feet were waggling?'

  On his magistrate's stool, Hilaris moved very slightly. He too remembered that the woman had mentioned this when we inspected the corpse.

  Flavia Fronta made her mistake: she nodded.

  I pierced her with a furious gaze. 'And then you did – what?'

  She faltered, unwilling to explain.

  'You took his torque, didn't you?' I knew now. 'Pyro had not removed it, as people thought he must have done. You were alone with the Briton. He was half drowned and at your mercy. You could see this beautiful, very costly torque around his neck. It was too much to resist.'

  Flavia Fronta nodded again. I cannot say she looked crestfallen. She was aggrieved that I had forced this out of her, and she seemed to believe that stealing the precious neck collar had been her right.

  'Explain now how it happened. You must have pulled Verovolcus at least partially out of the well to get at it?'

  'That's right.' She was bolder now. We had the torque. Deception was pointless. Women are such realists.

  'Verovolcus was still alive. He must have been heavy, and weakened perhaps. I dare say he was struggling. Pulling him out just enough must have taken some effort.'

  'I may be short but I'm strong,' the waitress boasted. 'I spend half my life shifting full barrels and amphorae. I dragged him up and hauled the torque off his neck.'

  'He was still alive. You admit that?'

  'He damn well was. He made a big fuss about me wrenching off his gold.'

  I tried to moderate my distaste for her. 'Verovolcus was meant to survive being dunked in the water. But you had stolen his torque and he saw you; so then -'

  'I had no choice,' responded the waitress, as if I were an idiot to ask. 'I shoved him down the well again. And I held him there until he stopped kicking.'

  I turned to the governor and procurator. 'Always a good feeling when you charge the right suspect with murder, don't you think?' They looked rueful.

  Flavia Fronta's confession had destroyed our viable case against Florius. On murder we would have had him. Putting him before a jury on charges of racketeering would be messier, and with clever lawyers to confuse the issues, the outcome would be much more unpredictable.

  'I suppose I should have hidden the torque better,' the woman groaned.

  'No, you should never have taken it. King Togidubnus gave that torque as a present to his retainer. The King will be pleased to have it returned. But I don't hold out much hopes for your nice little wine shop in the south.'

  The waitress would go to the arena. The death of an unrepentant murderess in the jaws of bears or big wild cats would be a huge draw for an audience. She did not seem to have realised her fate. I left it for the governor and his staff to bring that home to her.

  To Petronius Longus I broke the bitter news that we had solved a crime but lost his witness.

  LX

  There was one sad task remaining: Helena, Petronius and I attended the funeral of Chloris.

  Maia, still shaky after her bout with Norbanus, refused to come with us. She had harsh words for all female fighters and worse for my old girlfriend. She even blamed Helena for attending.

  'This is noble, Helena – but nobility stinks!'

  'She died at my feet,' Helena Justina reproved her quietly.

  Gladiators are outcast from society. Their infamy means their graves lie not just beyond the town, as happens with all adult interments, but outside the public cemetery too. Established and wealthy groups of fighters may buy their own tombs, but Londinium so far possessed no townships of elaborate mausoleums for the dead. So her friends chose to bury Chloris in open ground, with an antique and peculiarly northern ritual.

  It was a familiar walk to the site. We went westwards along the Decumanus Maximus, crossing the central stream and then out past the arena and the bath house. Londinium had no walls and no formally ploughed pomerium to mark its boundary, but we knew we were at the town limits. Beyond the military area, we reached a cemetery, one which contained some grand memorials. We walked through it, noticing a massive inscription, set up by his wife, to Julius Classicianus, the previous procurator of finance, from whom Hilaris had taken over after he died in service. Up and over the hill, we came to sloping ground that looked out across another tributary of the Thamesis. There, separate from the official tombs and monuments and facing the empty countryside, the funeral party met.

  Chloris was the founder and leader of her group, cut down in unfair combat. It called for particular honour. Her body was brought at daybreak, the bier carried slowly by women. Her companions formed a sombre ceremonial escort. Other mourners, mainly women also, had come from all parts of town. They included a priestess of Isis, to whose cult many gladiators are attached. There was a temple of the Egyptian goddess on the south bank of the river in Londinium, incongruously. I knew Chloris had barely honoured her own Tripolitanian gods, but some of her companions found the attendance of the priestess appropriate. Anubis, the dog-headed Egyptian guide to the Underworld, equates to Rhadamanthus or Mercury, those messengers of the gods who officiate over deaths in the arena. So it was in a heavy fug of pine incense, and accompanied by the rattle of a sistrum, that the bier reached the burial site.

  Outside the perimeter of the cemetery we found a carefully dug, straight-sided grave pit. Above this had been constructed an elaborate pyre of crossed logs, built up in rectangles. The timbers were meticulously laid. They would burn hot and they would burn long.

  Deep in the pit were placed new lamps and incense burners, symbols of light and ritual. There were a few personal treasures and gifts from her friends too. Someone had washed Helena's blue stole and Chloris lay upon it. If Helena noticed, she gave no sign of approval or otherwise.

  Chloris looked older than I wanted to remember her. A fit woman in the prime of life who had chosen a harsh but spectacular career. However desperate it seemed, she might have hoped to win her fights and be acclaimed, with wealth and fame. Instead, she had been cut down for her independent spirit. Today she had been carefully robed, her ghastly wounds concealed. She wore a long dark gown, crossed on the breast with a costly gold body chain, bejewelled at its centre. Even in death, she looked expensive, honed, sexually dangerous, troubling. I had not wished her dead, yet I was half relieved to be leaving her here.

  'Who bought her the jewel?' I wondered.

  'Nobody.' Helena glanced at me. 'She will have bought it for herself. Don't you see, Marcus – that was the point for her?'

  As the flames were lit, her colleagues stood around her, beautiful and disciplined. Some wept, but most were still and grim. They knew they all faced death in the life they had chosen. Yet this death had been untimely; it demanded a special requiem. Hera
clea, statuesque and blonde, took the torch first and fired a corner of the pyre. The sweet, aromatic scent of pine cones intensified. A thin trail of smoke curled upwards, then the flames began to take. She handed on the torch. One by one the women touched the logs, circling the pyre. A low moan filled the air. Brief farewells were spoken. Even Helena moved away from Petronius and me and took her turn with the brand. He and I did not. It would have been unwelcome.

  We just stood with the smoke gusting around us, winding its way into our lungs, our hair and our clothes.

  The flames would burn all day and night. Slowly the layers of logs would fragment and sink into one another. At the end, the charred remains would fall into the pit, flesh melted, bones burned to fragility yet virtually intact. No one would collect the ashes and bones. This would be her perpetual resting place.

  Eventually I went forward alone to say my farewells. After a while, the woman called Heraclea attended me like a hostess.

  'Thank you for coming, Falco.'

  I did not want to talk but politeness forced it. 'This is a sad day. What will happen to your group now?'

  Lowering her voice, Heraclea nodded to the priestess of Isis. 'See her with the priestess?' There was a richly clad young matron alongside, one of those holy hangers-on whom temples attract, all dangling silver jewellery. 'New patron. There were always several on the sidelines, widows or wealthy wives of merchants. They want the thrill of the blood but if they sponsor us, they can avoid being thought to lust after men. Amazonia said -'

  I guessed. 'Accepting their support would be no different from taking on Florius.'

  'You knew her well.'

  'Yes, I knew her.' I stared at the pyre. 'I knew her, but it was a long time ago.'