Lindsey Davis - Falco 01 - Silver Pigs

by Silver Pigs(lit)

  This furtive stuff was fun for him but not much practical help.

  “Sir, I need to know who, and where to.”

  He sucked his lip, but told me. Faustus Ferentinus had sailed for Lycia; he had gone without permission which is forbidden to senators, who have to reside in Rome. Cornelius Gracilis asked for an interview with the Emperor, though his servants found him stretched out stiff with a sword in his right hand (he was left-handed) before he could attend; suicide apparently.

  Curtius Gordianus and his brother Longinus had inherited sudden priest hoods at a minor temple beside the Ionian Sea, which was probably more punishing than any exile our kindly old tyrant Vespasian would devise for them himself. Aufidius Crispus had been spotted among the seaside crowds in Oplontis. It seemed to me no one who could lay his hands on a private mint of silver would let himself suffer high summer among the smart set in the fashionable villas along the Naples shore.

  “What do you think?” Decimus asked.

  Titus ought to have Aufidius watched. Oplontis is only a few days from Rome. If nothing else turns up I’ll go down there myself, but I’m reluctant to leave while there’s any chance of locating the silver pigs. Has Titus found anything in Nap Lane?”

  He shook his head. “My daughter will have access very soon.”

  From the swimming pool to our left came the awkward flub as an overweight hearty with no real diving style launched himself off the side.

  “I assume you won’t let Helena go there,” I warned him quietly. I ought to have used her full name, but it was too late now.

  “No, no. My brother can inspect the place; he’ll be advising her on selling off the spice.”

  “The building itself still belongs to the old man Marcellus?”

  “Mmm. We shall empty it quickly as a courtesy to him, though Helena and old Marcellus are on good terms. He still regards her as his daughter-in-law. She has a knack of charming elderly men.”

  I lay on my back, trying to appear like a man who might have failed to notice his Helena’s charm.

  Helena’s father gazed thoughtfully upwards too.

  “I worry about my daughter,” he revealed. With a wild pang of hysteria I thought, the horse has talked! “I made a mistake over Pertinax; I expect you know. She never blamed me, but I shall always blame myself.”

  “She has very high standards,” I said, closing my eyes as if I was simply sleepy after my bathe. Hearing Decimus turn onto his elbow, I looked up.

  Now I had studied Helena so closely, I could see in her father’s face physical similarities another man would miss. That stiff bush of hair was all his own, but the direct expression, the tilt of the cheekbones, the slight crease at the corners of the mouth in response to irony, were hers; sometimes, too, she shared inflexions from his voice. He was watching me with

  the glint of sharp amusement that I had always liked. I felt glad that I liked her father, grateful to remember I had liked him from the start.

  “High standards,” repeated Decimus Camillus Verus, apparently inspecting me. He sighed, almost imperceptibly. “Well, Helena always seems to know what she wants!”

  He was worried about his daughter; I suppose he was worried about me.

  There are some things a common citizen cannot say to the parents of a highborn, respectable lady. If I declared to a senator that any ground his daughter stood upon became for me a consecrated place, he would not (I could see) feel reassured.

  Luckily then the Man from Tarsus approached us with a towel on his arm. I made Decimus have the first massage, hoping his large tip would leave the Tarsan giant kinder towards me. It didn’t work; it only fuelled him with a greater energy.

  LIMy mother came back that afternoon to tell me I was expected to preside over the huge family party which was going to hog a scaffold at Vespasian’s Triumph next day. This promised a real feast of sunstroke, sisters backbiting, and tired children screaming with illogical rage; my favourite sort of day. Ma herself was decamping to share a quiet balcony with three ancient crones she knew. Still, she had brought me a great golden-headed Imperial bream to soften the blow.

  “You tidied your room!” she sniffed. “Growing up at last?”

  “Might get a visitor I want to impress.”

  The visitor I wanted never came.

  As she passed the bench behind me, my mother ruffled up the hair on the back of my head, then smoothed it down. I couldn’t help it if she despaired of me; I was in a state of high old despair myself.

  Sitting out on the balcony pretending to philosophize, I recognized a light step outside the door. Someone knocked, then came in without waiting. Rigid with anticipation, I was on my feet. In this way, through the folding door, I observed my wonderful mother apprehending a young woman in my room.

  It was not the confrontation ma was accustomed to have. She expected mock coral anklets and girlish confusion, not soft drapes in muted clours and those serious eyes.

  “Good afternoon. My name is Helena Justina,” declared Helena, who knew how to behave with tranquillity even when facing my parent wielding a bowl of almond stuffing and a twelve-inch boning knife. “My father is the senator Camillus Verus. My maid is, of course, waiting for me outside. I was hoping for an interview with Didius Falco; I am a client.”

  “I am his mother!” stated my mother, like Venus of the Foamy Feet wading in on behalf of Aeneas. (Mind you, I don’t suppose

  pious Aeneas, that insufferable prig, flourished on fish his lovely goddess mother boned and stuffed for him herself.)

  “I thought you must be,” replied Helena in her quiet, pleasant way, eyeing my uncooked dinner as if she longed to be asked to stay. “You once took care of my cousin Sosia; I’m so glad of this opportunity to thank you.” After which, adjusting her veil, she fell modestly silent as a younger woman addressing an older lady does if she has good sense. (It was the first time any woman who knew me had deferred to mama with any show of sense.)

  “Marcus!” screeched ma, rather put out at being so politely outfaced. “Business for you!”

  Trying to look nonchalant, I strolled into the room.

  My mother whipped away the fish plate, then bustled out onto the balcony, diligently respecting a client’s privacy. This was no real sacrifice; she could still listen from outdoors. I offered Helena the client’s chair while I sat the other side of the table acting businesslike.

  Our eyes met. My acting collapsed. She was trying to decide whether I was glad to see her; I was just as cautiously scanning her. At exactly the same moment our eyes lit with self-ridicule then we just sat, in the silence that says everything, and smiled at each other happily.

  “Didius Falco, I want to discuss your bill.”

  With one eye on the balcony door, I stretched across the table and just touched her fingertips. A shiver of electricity raised goosebumps on my arms.

  “Anything wrong with it, ladyship?”

  She pulled away her hands, genuinely indignant. “What on earth are Debatable Items?” she demanded. “Five hundred sesterces for something you don’t even explain?”

  “It’s just a loose heading some accountants use. My advice is, debate madly and don’t pay!” I grinned; she realized it was an excuse to make her call.

  “Hmm! I’ll think it over. Should I speak to your accountant?”

  “I never use an accountant. Half of them can only calculate a percentage when it’s their fee, and I have enough hangers-on sharing my stockpot without some bald Phoenician tallyman and his scrofulous clerk expecting to join in too. When you’re ready, you’d better talk directly to me.”

  I gave Helena a slow frank stare that was meant to remind her of an evening she should forget. I stopped, because my own heart started racing much too fast. I felt as volatile as if I had lost two pints of blood.

  I leaned back against the wall with my hands linked behind my head, smiling faintly as I enjoyed the sight of her. She smiled back, enjoying that. I enjoyed her smile…

  I had to stop this
. This was a terrible mistake. All I needed in life was some accessible miss with a flower behind her ear, who would giggle when I read my poems to her. I would never read my poetry to Helena. She would read it for herself, then indicate with underlining where the spelling and rhythms were wrong; I would complain fiercely, then alter it exactly as she had said…

  There is something else,” she began. My face stitched itself happily into a wordless, frog-like grin. “The warehouse in Nap Lane will be released by customs very soon. My father is reluctant for me to go.”

  My arms dropped abruptly. “Nap Lane was the scene of a murder. Your father’s right.”

  “I really want to look round ‘

  “Take somebody then.”

  “Would you come?”

  “Glad to. Let me know when.” I gave her a wicked wide-eyed gleam that said there were things we could do in a pepper warehouse that had spice of their own. Helena looked grave. I cleared my throat sensibly. She rose to leave.

  “Tomorrow’s the Triumph: will you go?”

  “Not for myself family duty. Let’s see about your warehouse after that.”

  Climbing out from behind the table I followed her to the door. Leaving it ajar for camouflage, we stepped outside. Confusion: her maid was still waiting on the landing where she had been left.

  Some ladies’ maids know how to disappear discreetly when a man wants to kiss the beauty they chaperone. In one way, I was pleased to discover Helena’s girl entertained no regular concept that her mistress might be wanting to be kissed. At the same time, I was terrified in case the lady did not want it any more.

  “Naissa, walk down. I’ll catch you up,” Helena commanded in her calm, efficient voice.

  We lis tend to Nai’ssa’s retreating footsteps until she turned down the next flight. Neither of us spoke another word.

  Helena had turned to me with a troubled look. I kissed her hand, at arm’s length, then kissed her other hand at half stretch. Swinging her close, I kissed her on both cheeks. With a sigh that

  answered mine, she fell into my arms, then for a long moment we stood motionless while troubles dropped from us like the single quake of falling petals from an overblown rose. Still holding her and kissing her, I walked her slowly backwards across the landing; eventually, at the head of the stairs, I let her go.

  She went down. I watched her all the way to the street. I stood staring for five minutes after she had gone.

  She had transformed my day.

  I sat back at my table pretending nothing was wrong. My face tingled where Helena had touched me with her hand before she left.

  My mother was waiting. She knew there had been plenty of times when I came sauntering back from seeing off a woman with some long-winded pantomime of affection. They came; they went; they threatened no one’s peace.

  Now mother stomped over to the opposite bench, purse lipped “So that’s her!”

  My heart turned over beneath a rib. I laughed awkwardly. “How did you know?”

  “I know you!”

  I stretched my chin and looked up at the ceiling; I half noticed there was a new bulge where rain was coming in. I thought of Helena Justina as my mother must have seen her, so fine skinned and elegant in her understated jewellery, with such beautiful manners that she took on her father’s knack of appearing diffident, though that strange mixture of moral grit and mischievous humour constantly shone through. Helena Justina, a senator’s daughter, talking to me so coolly about fees and warehouses while her eyes sang in silence of the happiness we had shared… Everyone knew I was searching (when I bothered, because the search was quite haphazard) for someone like Marina, my brother’s girl: an uncomplicated soul with some brains and a pretty face, who could just about keep house and who owned enough friends of her own to stay out of my way. Everyone knew that; I knew it myself.

  I stared back at the table, fiddling with escaped tarragon twigs.

  “Well!” challenged my mother. “Do I start baking saffron cakes, or throw on a black veil and wail at Juno’s Temple? What happens now?”

  “Nothing,” I said, squaring up to the facts. “She told you who her father is. There’s nothing I can do.”

  Another angry quirk puckered my mother’s mouth. “Marcus, having seen her, I don’t imagine it is up to you!”

  Then I gazed at my mother with a long face, while my mother looked rather oddly back at me.

  LII

  I had nothing to do that evening, so I went to the barber’s at the end of our street. I sat out on the pavement while he scraped my chin. I managed to trip up some minor official’s lictor and make it look like a genuine accident. The lictor himself was nearly castrated on his ceremonial axe; I felt proud of myself.

  I was going to see her again. Who? No one. Just a girl. Just a client. Forget I mentioned it.

  The barber’s boy ambled up, chewing the end of a Lucanian sausage. He was thirteen, not totally deficient but he managed to make eating a sausage look a complicated challenge for his brain. My sister Maia’s children all called him Plato.

  “Falco! Lady looking for you outside your house.”

  Rarely has a man with a Spanish razor at his throat leapt up so fast.

  I hopped over a cockle barrel, dashed round a pile of empty amphorae, and cracked my head on a basket of flowers outside the funeral parlour where hired mourners were getting in voice not for a wake, but for the next day’s Triumph which would close down the city in public holiday. Every musician in Rome would be out distracting the crowds so pickpockets could do their work efficiently.

  I saw no lady. No wonder. That fool Plato should have known better: it was Lenia who wanted to see me. Lenia, hovering outside the laundry looking ashamed.

  Twenty years of explaining away lost under tunics made a crestfallen laundress such an unusual sight that I realized the cause must be desperate. It was. To celebrate the Emperor’s Triumph she was planning an act of reckless delirium: our strong-armed queen of the washtubs was plunging into wedlock.

  When people announce their marriages, I try to avoid informing them that they are making a bad mistake. They generally

  are, but if all the unsuitable pairings in Rome were suffocated at birth by kind friends’ good advice, there would be no new generation of civilized men to subdue the world’s barbarians.

  “Who is the happy bridegroom?”

  “Smaractus.”

  On reconsideration I gave Lenia the strongest advice I could.

  The reason for not bothering is that they never listen anyway.

  “Shut up, Falco,” Lenia responded amiably. “He’s worth half a million sesterces!”

  For several reasons this news raised a red mist before my eyes.

  “If Smaractus told you that, girl, I can promise you he’s lying!”

  “Don’t be a fool; I never asked him.”

  “All right, it depends who you seduced. If it was his accountant he’s boasting, so halve it. If it was his banker he’s being cautious, so double it ‘

  “Neither. Believe me, I’m not taking chances; I’ve read his will.”

  “Lenia,” I commented sadly, ‘there are no depths to which a scheming woman will not sink!”

  A strategic alliance with my pernicious landlord could only be part of Lenia’s devious business plan. He had his eye on her laundry, that small but steady gold mine, but her own attention was riveted on his hefty real estate. Their lives together would be fortified by the keen nip of greed, as each prayed daily to their household gods that the other would die first.

  Many marriages endure for decades on this healthy basis, so I wished her well.

  “He’ll be living here, Falco.”

  Thought he already was!”

  “Just warning you.”

  “I don’t care what tree that foul bird exudes his guano in ‘

  “I can’t keep him out of the laundry. I thought before the wedding you might carry off your parcel from the vat ‘

  The original silver pig! The one fo
und in the street, which Petronius and I had rescued afterwards from Sosia Camillina’s bank box. I had forgotten all about it; so had everybody else…

  Hauled up by our mighty Lenia, my pig was soon drying under some seedy temple’s weekly batch of soiled smalls. Wiping it with a priest’s head cloth amidst a whiff of last Thursday’s incense, Lenia asked, “Did you know that someone had attached a laundry list?”

  Petronius and I had left a rope round the pig; fixed to the rope now was a single wax tablet…

  “Oh dear gods!”

  Before ever I took it from Lenia’s swollen hand I knew what it was, and whose. I could hear Lenia telling me six months ago, I let her pee in the bleach vat, then she left a note upstairs… Then, too, I remembered Helena Justina when she was raging at me that first night in Britain. She said she had told you…

  And so she had. Formally enough to be presented in evidence, Sosia Camillina had given me a list of names.

  Sosia Camillina, daughter of P Camillus Meto, to M Didius Falco,

  private informer. On the Ides of October in the second consulship of

  Vespasian Augustus, his first as Emperor

  T Flavins Domitianus

  L Aufidius Crispus

  Cn Atius Pertinax Caprenius Marcellus

  Ti Faustus Plautius Ferentinus

  A Curtius Gordianus

  A Curtius Longinus

  Q Cornelius Gracilis

  I name these men in duty to the Emperor and devotion to the gods.

  There they all were. All? All but one, apparently. Above her final sentence was a one line gap. It looked as if Sosia had written an extra name; as if she had written, then at once pulled the flat end of her stylus back through the wax, deleting the line she had just inscribed there with its point.

  In this case, I had once told Helena, there could be no loyalty and no trust. Sosia Camillina possessed both. It must have made a heavy burden for a sixteen-year-old girl.

  This tablet proved nothing. Just seven men who knew each other; it read like a dinner-party list. Perhaps Sosia had found one in a house she had visited, a note, written out to give instructions to someone’s household steward. Sosia had then carefully copied out the names…