Shadows in Bronze mdf-2

by Lindsey Davis

  'Your father-in-law for instance?'

  'No, Falco!' she replied sternly, rejecting my suspicion of political skulduggesy up at the villa.

  'Oh pardon me!' I wriggled against my olive tree and gave her a twisted grin. 'I'll find him eventually,' I assured her.

  Helena was looking thoughtful. 'Listen, try the magistrate in Herculaneum. His name is Aemilius Rufus; I've known him for years. His sister was engaged to marry Crispus once. Nothing came of it. She was keen, but he lost interest-'

  'Trust a man,' I contributed helpfully.

  'Quite!' she said.

  I sighed slightly. I was feeling melancholy. It seems a long time .

  'It is!' she retorted crossly. 'What's the matter? 'Thinking.'

  'What?'

  'You… Someone I thought I knew so well, yet will never know at all.'

  Now there was a silence that said if I intended to be objectionable, the whole conversation was closed.

  'You were going to come and see me, Falco.'

  'I know when I'm not wanted.'

  A tired expression crossed her face. 'Were you surprised to find me here?'

  'Nothing women do surprises me!'

  'Oh don't be so conventional!'

  'Excuse me!' I grinned. 'Princess, if had had the slightest inkling you featured on today's job list, I would have spruced up my togs before I came barging in. I do prefer to look like a man whose departure a woman might regret!'

  'Yes, I realized you wanted to leave me,' Helena stated suddenly.

  The ladybird flew off, but she soon found some other six-legged friend to study on the back of her hand. She was sitting extremely still, not to disturb the bug.

  I thought of all the things I ought to say; none of them came out. I managed to ask, 'What do you think?'

  'Oh… it does seem best.'

  I stretched my chin and studied the space ahead of my nose. Somehow the fact she was making no difficulties only created more. 'People were going to get hurt,' I insisted. 'Two of them were people I particularly cared about: me and you.'

  'Don't worry about it, Falco… just a passing fling.'

  'A special one,' I told her gallantly, having problems with my throat.

  'Was it?' she queried, in that thin, light voice.

  'I thought so… Are we still friends?'

  'Of course.'

  I smiled miserably. 'Ah that's what I like about senators' daughters – always so civilized!'

  Helena Justina rapidly shook the wildlife off her hand. There was a scuffle behind us and my nephew tumbled into the grove.

  'Sorry, Uncle Marcus!' His diffidence was pointless since there was nothing going on. 'I think that pest with the sunshade is coming down!'

  I rocked to my feet fast. 'Your new bodyguard seems a persistent type!' I offered my hand as Helena scrambled up too but she ignored it.

  'He's not mine,' she said shortly. I felt an uneasy twinge, as if a drunk in a bar had lurched to his feet, staring straight at me.

  We all headed back to the track. At the ox cart, Helena urged us, 'Drive under the trees and stay out of sight-'

  I nodded to Larius to drive under cover. Still no sign of her minder. Abruptly I grasped her shoulders, confronting her. 'Listen lady, when I was your bodyguard, there were no conflicts of interest. I took my orders from you – and when you wanted your privacy I stepped back!'

  A splash of colour moved among the cypresses above. I shot a warning glance then dropped my fists as I let her go. Her left hand brushed through mine – but made no attempt to answer my pressure as she slipped free.

  Something had been bothering me; I realized what:

  On the finger where people display their wedding rings a twist of metal had run beneath my thumb like an old friend. It was a ring made of British silver which I had given to Helena myself.

  She must have forgotten it. I said nothing, in case she became embarrassed and felt obliged to take it off now our affair was supposed to be at an end.

  I started to turn away under the trees, then came back. 'If you're going to Nola – no; it's nothing.'

  'Don't be so irritating! What?'

  Nola was famous for its bronze. My mother expected a present from Campania so had tactfully suggested what to get. I told Helena. The Senator's elegant daughter gave me a cool look.

  'I'll see what I can do. Goodbye, Falco!'

  Larius and I sat under the olive trees while I counted off the time for a tall girl, striding furiously, to storm up past the terrace and the riding range, then back into the house. 'Are you seeing her again?' my nephew quizzed.

  'Sort of'

  'Assignation?'

  'I've sent her out to buy something.'

  'What?' Suspicion was already darkening his romantic soul as he guessed I had done something outrageous.

  'A bronze bucket,' I confessed.

  XXXV

  Just before we reached the road we passed an aristocratic litter borne by half a dozen slaves, progressing at a stately pace towards the house. Tall windows hid the occupant but his slaves' gold-braided livery and the spanking crimson carriagework said it all. Luckily the Marcellus approach road was wide enough for both of us, since my nephew made it a point of honour never to give way to anyone of a higher rank.

  All the way back to Oplontis Larius was so annoyed at my treatment of Helena that he refused to speak to me. Damned romantic!

  Still in silence we bedded Nero down.

  We went in to change our grimy clothes. Our landlady had been dyeing her wardrobe a deeper shade of black so the filthy stink of oak gall extract pervaded the whole inn.

  'You'll never see her again!' Larius exploded, as his disgust finally broke.

  'Yes I will.'

  She would buy me my bucket; then he would probably be right.

  The Petronius offspring were all in the inn courtyard, crouched in the dust with their heads together, playing elaborate games with myrtle twigs and mud. They turned their backs as a sign we should not interrupt the intensity of their play Their kittens lolloped round them. No one appeared to be in charge.

  We strolled outside. The nursemaid Ollia was lying on the beach while her fisherboy displayed his glossy pectorals alongside. He was talking, as they like to; Ollia stared out to sea, stuck with listening. She had a wistful look on her face.

  I gave the girl a grim nod 'Petronius?'

  'Gone for a walk.'

  Her fisherboy was no older than my nephew; he had the kind of moustache I really hate – a skinny black lugworm stitched on above his feeble mouth.

  Larius skulked along with me. 'We ought to rescue Ollia.' 'Let her have her fun!'

  My nephew scowled, then to my surprise abandoned me. Feeling my age, I watched him lope over to the pair then squat down too. The two lads glared at each other while young Ollia continued to stare at the horizon, an overweight, overemotional monody paralysed by her first social success.

  I left this awkward tableau and kicked my heels along the shore. I was thinking about Pertinax and Barnabas. I was thinking about Crispus. I was wondering why I had started to feel that Crispus and Barnabas had me constantly struggling at some tangent to the truth…

  After that, I was thinking about other things, irrelevant to work.

  I hunched irritably on the tideline, playing with a desiccated dogfish eggcase, until I gradually began to feel like Odysseus in Polyphemus' cave: a huge single eye was watching me balefully.

  It was painted on a ship. Scarlet and black, with the shameless elongation of a painted Egyptian god; there was presumably a matching one around the vessel's haughty prow but she lay sideways to shore, so without a tame dolphin to tow me out behind there was no way I could check. She was riding at anchor, safely beyond the reach of holiday-makers' curiosity. Apart from reeking of the kind of happy affluence that loves to be viewed by wide sectors of the public while supposedly enjoying its privacy, she was not the kind of precious toy to be brought in and belted against the ratty bales of straw which formed
a rough-and-ready bump rail on the Oplontis mooring stage.

  Whoever designed this nautical beauty had a statement to make. There was along written all over his ship. She was forty feet of blatant artistry. She had a short, single bank of red ochre oars which were perfectly aligned at rest, dark sails, a mainmast for her square rig plus a second for a foresail, and lines so suave they hurt. Somehow the shipwright had managed to combine a slim keel like a warship with enough cabin and deck space to make life aboard a pleasure for the financier who possessed the stupendous capital that had created her.

  At a slight shift of the incoming evening breeze, the gilding on her duck tail stern and her masthead goddess flashed restlessly. There was a nippy little bumboat trailing behind in a perfectly matching rig – identical steering paddles, identical toy sail, and the same painted eye. While I gawked, the bumboat was pulled closer and after some distant activity I watched it set off shorewards, sculled at a fast and elegant pace.

  Cheered by this happy accident, I walked onto the landing stage and waited my chance to introduce myself to what I was convinced would be the Crispus' rig.

  There were two tykes aboard: a lean, wide-awake sailor standing astern to row, plus a substantial chunk of bellypork taking his ease in the prow. I hung about, ready to make myself useful catching their mooring rope. The oarsman touched; I gripped the bumboat's prow; the passenger stepped out; then the deckhand pushed off at once. I tried not to feel superfluous.

  The man who landed wore soft doeskin boots with copper half-moons jingling on their thongs. I had heard the sailor call him Bassus. Bassus clearly thought a lot of himself. He was the type of mighty transit barrel who rolls through life clearing a wide swath. And why not? Far too many feeble whingers with all the dye bled out of their characters skulk on the sidelines of existence hoping no one will notice them.

  We walked towards the beach. I weighed him up. He probably kept a bankbox in all the great ports from Alexandria to Carthage and Manila to Antioch, but like a wary seaman he always carried sufficient good gold on his person to bribe his way out of seizure by pirates or tangling with small-town officials when he went ashore. He had ear-rings, and a nose stud, and enough amulets to ward off the Great Plague of Athens. His Sun God medallion would have caved in the chest of a lesser man.

  He was not even the captain. The whip through his belt told me this was merely the bosun – the overseer who striped the hide of any oarsman on the ship who upset her tranquil motion by catching a crab. He had the silent confidence of a man whose bulk can dominate a tavern from the moment he enters it, but who knows the first officer on a sleek lugger like his never needs to cause a fins. If this was just the bosun, Aufidius Crispus the owner probably thought himself foster brother to the gods.

  'You've come from this!' I commented, giving the ship an admiring eye but not bothering to annoy hint with the obvious statement that she was a superb rig. Bassus condescended to flick me a glance. 'I need to see Crispus. Chance of a word?'

  'He's not aboard.' Short and sweet.

  'I know better than to believe that!'

  'Believe what you like,' he returned indifferently.

  We walked up the beach, as far as the road. I broached him again, 'I've a letter to deliver to Crispus-'

  Bassus shrugged. He held out his hand. 'Give it to me if you like.'

  'That's too easy to be true!' (Besides, I had left the Emperor's letter upstairs at the inn, when I changed my clothes.)

  The bosun, who had been fairly passive so far, finally formed an opinion of me. It was unfavourable. He did not bother to say so. He simply suggested that I should get out of his way, which, being an accommodating type, was what I did.

  While Bassus was disappearing over the horizon, I strode up to Larius and instructed him to find Petronius as quickly as he could. Without waiting, I retraced my steps to the edge of the sea where I stared out again at the tantalizing prospect of Aufidius Crispus' ship.

  I have to admit, this was one occasion when being a non-swimmer became slightly inconvenient.

  XXXVI

  The beach at Oplonna was the usual litter of dank seaweed, broken amphorae, snaggles of stiffened fishing net and scarves left behind by girls who were intent on other things. Wasps homed in on half-gnawed melon rind. Walkers risked deadly hazards from rusty daggers and dress brooches. There was the usual left boot which always looks just your size and perfect, but when you trudge across to have a look has half its sole missing. If people managed to fend off the cynical urchins touting overpriced fishing trips, a jellyfish that was not as dead as it was pretending would sting them instead.

  Now it was early evening. A subtle diminution in the brash daytime light, an imperceptible cooling of that glorious heat, and shadows which suddenly ran out to ridiculous lengths were giving the atmosphere a magical tinge; it almost made being at the seaside acceptable. People who were tired of working stopped. Families who were tired of quarrelling left. Tiny dogs stopped terrorizing mastiffs and settled for raping any bitches they could manage to climb onto, afterwards running round in glorious circles to celebrate their productivity.

  I looked back towards our inn. Larius had loped off to find Petronius, and Ollia was gone too, along with her brainy swain. The beach lay unusually empty. Apart from the dogs and me, a party of off-duty shop boys were making a lot of noise with a shuttlecock while their girlfriends dragged together driftwood for a barbecue fire. The fishermen who were normally cluttering the place had either sailed off with their lanterns to raid tuna shoals after dark, or had not yet returned from their more lucrative trade running tourists out to look at the rock on Capreae from which Emperor Tiberius had thrown people who offended him. All they left for me was a single skiff, upended above the tideline, growing silvery in the sun.

  I am not a complete idiot. This broad-bellied cockleshell looked as if it had been lying here a long time. I did carryout a thorough inspection for stakes stuck through its planking, or bungholes with missing plugs. There was nothing wrong with my convenient coracle – or at least, nothing a highly cautious landlubber could see.

  I found a spare oar leaning against someone's worm-eaten mooring post, then another paddle under the skiff when I managed to lever it right side up. I shouldered it down to the water's edge, helped by the shop boys' girlfriends, who were happy to fill time respectably before it grew dark and their lads started getting ideas. I tossed a last look back for Larius or Petro but there was no sign, so I climbed in, swayed on the prow with an effort at bravado, and let the girls shove me off.

  It was a clumsy piece of carpentry. The clod who built it must have been feeling off colour that day. It bobbed in the wavelets like an intoxicated fruit-fly dancing at a rotten peach. It took some time to get the hang of keeping this mad thing pointing forwards, but in the end I began to make some progress from the shore. The breeze in my face was slight, though not helping much. My purloined oar had a bitten blade, and the other paddle was too short. The glare off the sea added a new glaze to my sunburn while it also made me squint. I didn't care. The reluctance Aufidius Crispus had demonstrated to facing an innocent interview fired my determination to get on board the kit and find out what the big mystery was supposed to be.

  I dug deep and pushed out steadily until I had halved the distance from Oplontis to the ship. I congratulated myself on my spirit and initiative. Vespasian would be proud of me. I came near enough to read her name, painted high on the prow in angular Greek lettering. At about the same time as I grinned triumphantly, a completely different sensation impinged on me.

  My feet were wet.

  Almost as soon as I noticed the cold, I was standing in seawater up to the ankles and my luckless skiff was foundering. Once the Tyrrhenian Sea discovered it could seep through the dried planks, it rushed in on all sides and my vessel sank beneath me rapidly.

  There was nothing I could do but shut my eyes, hold my nose, and hope some sea nymph with a nice nature would pull me out.

  XXXVII


  Larius pulled me out. Wallowing with a Nereid would have been more fun.

  My nephew must have seen me set off and been on his way after me before I sank. Remember his father was a boatman; Larius had been dandled in the Tiber even before he was weaned. He could swim when he was two. He never used the smister, silent, Batavian crawl which the Army teaches. My nephew had a horrible style, though a thrashing turn of speed.

  When I came round, with the feeling of having been violently engulfed then flailed against a concrete wall, I could tell how Larius had achieved my rescue by the agonies I had acquired as a result. I had a bruised throat where he had heroically gripped me, and a gashed ear where he had crashed my head against a mooring stage. The backs of my legs were raw from being dragged over the pumice up the beach, and I was being pumped back to life by Petronius Longus, applying his full bodyweight. Afterwards, I felt perfectly happy to lie still for a long time, considering my sore windpipe and puminelled flesh.

  'Think he'll live?' I heard Larius ask; he sounded more curious than concerned.

  'Reckon so.'

  I let out a grunt to inform Petronius that he could now feel free to amuse himself with jokes at my expense. His unmistakable fist thumped my shoulder.

  'He's been in the Army. Why can't he swim?' That was Larius.

  'Oh… the week we did watersports in basic training, Marcus was confined to barracks on fatigues.'

  'What had he done?'

  'Nothing serious. We had a high-handed junior tribune who got the idea Marcus had been playing around with his girl.'

  There was a pause. 'Had he?' Larius eventually enquired.

  'Oh no' In those days he was much too shy!' Untrue. But Petronius does not believe in corrupting the young.

  I rolled over away from them. I peered seawards for the Isis through swollen eyes, but she had gone.

  The low evening sun savaged my legs and shoulders, as it came glancing through my lightly bloodstained marinade of brine. I lay face down on the beach thinking about death by drowning and other cheerful things.