JUPITER MYTH

by Lindsey Davis

  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 favorite 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 organization 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 neighborhood 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."

  "Does the gang have a tame lawyer, one Popillius?"

  "Not mentioned. They do have storage, ships, safe houses, a safe bathhouse even, and large groups 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 labor 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 favored 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 secondhand, 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 backup 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 fine for him to haul men to the brink of death, screaming in agony, crippled forever 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 lighthearted 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 paramilit
ary, on a par with the torturer himself; I was an informer, so just a low-class liability. My new equestrian ringjust 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 toward 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 cooperate. 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 organizer 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 practicing. 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 amphitheater 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 organized 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-precut 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 entrance 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 thousand 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 that 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 center, so neither raging beasts nor human fighters could escape and nor could show-off madmen from the crowd leap in.

  The only access to the arena itself was here where I stood, or right op-

  posite through the far end. That looked very far away. Its gates were closed, as far as I could tell. That was probably the way they dragged out the bodies. With no performance, the far end would not be in use today.

  Above me now towered the eastern gateway. The fighters would parade into the arena through these two mighty gates, which folded open inward on great metal hinges and pivots. Nervous combatants, their stomaches churning, would pass through the dark entrance into a dazzle of light and noise.

  A shiver ran through me. Last time I set foot in an amphitheater had been on
that dreadful day when I had watched my brother-in-law, Maia's hapless husband, being torn apart by the lions in Lepcis Magna. I did not want to remember. Standing here on the sand, I could hardly forget: the yells of the arena staff encouraging the animals, the lions' roars, the crowd baying, Famia's outrage and incomprehension, then his ghastly screams.

  Today was hot, though not so hot as the North African sun beating on open countryside. That arena, bursting with colorful characters, had stood outside the city, on a baking, bright seashore against the glinting blue of the southern Mediterranean. Today, unusually, the atmosphere at Londinium was more uncomfortable and sultry, with a storm approaching to break the weather, probably this evening. Sweat trickled down inside my tunic, even while I stood in dense shade under the gatehouse. Three feet ahead of me the sand looked blistering hot. Forget the golden glint of mica; there were dark, sordid patches. Attendants may brush away the blood, but foul traces of the past always linger. Heavy sunlight brings out a rank smell of recent and not-so-recent butchery.

  Far across the sand two figures moved. I turned my attention to the action.

  The measured clash of swords echoed within the hollow oval. Without the roar of the crowd, any amphitheater sounds odd. Here at ground level, looking straight down its full length to the closed gates at the other end, I was awestruck by the immense distance. You could shout to the other side at present, just about; if all the seats filled up, it would be impossible.

  Amazonia and her friend were circling. They were dressed in a par-

  ody of male gladiatorial gear: high-sided short white skirts, with wide waist belts that came up right under the bust. With a full audience, they would probably be bare-breasted, for titillation. Today, legs, shoulders, and forearms were armored. Was it usual for practice? They must sometimes exercise in the full weight of greaves and a breastplate. I could not tell who one of the girls was; she had a full face-helm. Of the two remote figures, Chloris seemed unmistakable. I maintain that if I had been closer, and had she not been hidden behind a slit-eyed bronze face mask, I would have checked her eye color. (According to Helena, I would have noticed the size of her bust.) At any event, Chloris had that distinctive long dark plait. And I recognized the boots I had seen being pulled off while she was threatening to ravish me.