Shadows in Bronze mdf-2

by Lindsey Davis

  'Marcus, surely even you could understand that if a house was all I wanted, I would never have arranged my own divorce from Pertinax?'

  Just being realistic!'

  Helena slipped from my side and into her chair before I could even consider how to say goodbye. She closed the half-door herself. The bearers were stooping to the carrying poles; I grasped at the door, wanting to hold her back. 'Don't!' she commanded.

  'Wait – shall I see you again?'

  'No; there's no point.'

  'There is!' There had to be.

  I gestured the bearers to stop but they would only take orders from her. As the chair lurched when they raised it, I glimpsed her expression. She was comparing me with Pertinax. Rejection by a husband who was too crass to know what he was doing had been bad enough; though since no senator's daughter has much say in the choice of her husband, Pertinax was simply a false entry in life's ledger that could be cursed and written off. To go straight from him to a cynical lover who left her after the most casual kind of usage was entirely her own mistake.

  Of course, I could have told her it happens every day. Women who know they know better frequently cast themselves at treacherous men whose sense of commitment only lasts as long as the rascally smile that gets them into bed…

  Unlike Helena Justina, most women forgive themselves.

  Just when I was prepared to be totally honest in order to keep her, she dragged the window curtain right across and shut me out. I had no need to consult the Sybil at Cumae to realize my exclusion from Helena's life was intended to be permanent.

  I stood there, still with my mouth open to tell her that I loved her, while the bearers sneered at me churlishly and carried their lady away.

  Part Four

  HARPING IN HERCULANEUM

  THE BAY OF NEAPOLIS

  July

  Perhaps you may be expect* a trot* of dancers,

  Gov girls, with their wanton songs and routines

  JUVENAL, Satire XI

  XLII

  The town of Herculaneum was very small, very sleepy, and if any interesting women lived there, they were hidden behind locked doors.

  There was no rubbish in the streets. At Pompeii the town council had to provide stepping stones to help pedestrians cross the dubious substances which seeped and stagnated from their roads; the Herculaneum councillors believed in wider pavements – wide enough to hold a hot-piemen's convention, only it was a place which frowned on pies. And at Herculaneum rubbish never showed its face.

  I hated Herculaneum. It had tasteful, well-scrubbed houses owned by people of little character who thought a lot of themselves. They lived in prim little streets. The men spent their days counting their money (of which they had plenty), while their good ladies were carried in closed litters from their own safe doorsteps into the homes of other respectable women, where they sat around plates of almond cakes and talked about nothing until it was time to go home again.

  Unlike Pompeii, where we had to bawl to make ourselves heard, in Herculaneum you could stand in the Forum at the top of the town and still hear the seagulls at the port. If a child cried in Herculaneum its nursemaid dashed to gag it before it was sued for a breach of the peace. At Herculaneum the gladiators in the amphitheatre probably said 'I beg your pardon? each time their swords did anything so impolite as landing a nick.

  Frankly, Herculaneum made me want to jump on a public fountain and shout a very rude word.

  Pompeii had informed me he would use up most of my lead on the orders we had already obtained. (The news came earlier than I calculated, though I was not surprised; I expected the plumber to cheat me a little, according to the customs of his trade.) So this was my last chance. We were here, with Nero and one last cartload of samples, hoping to prise out further details of Aufidius Crispus' plans (or even, if my luck took a special turn, to discover where the elusive sardine had parked his pretty ship).

  I had no intention of visiting the magistrate Helena Justina had mentioned. I was sharp; I was tough; I was good at my job. I did not need a self-appointed supervisor. I would find my information for myself.

  While I nosed round Herculaneum looking for it, I admitted to Larius that we had reached the limit of the expenses Vespasian would want to pay.

  ‘Does that mean we have no money?'

  'Yes; he's mean with failure.'

  'Would he pay you more if you found something out?' 'If he thought it was worth it.'

  Some people might panic; I felt shifty myself. But Larius uttered stoically, 'We'd better make sure we discover something quick!'

  I liked my nephew's attitude. He saw life in simple terms. Once again I mused how his tenacious approach would make Galla's eldest an asset in my line of work. I mentioned it, as Nero approached Herculaneum's wide main street (it was called the DecuMomus Maximus, which is what every two-goose town in Italy calls its main street). Larius responded to my careers advice by telling me about a wall painter Ventriculus had introduced who was offering him summer employment sketching figures on a frieze.

  I knew nothing about this; I was highly annoyed. I told my nephew what I thought of artists. His chin jutted, with the irritating tenacity I had previously admired.

  This particular DecuMomus Maximus was the cleanest and quietest I ever saw. It was partly thanks to an immaculate vigilante who marched up and down there so respectable locals who needed to know if their dinner would be ready could ask him the time. His other method of serving the community was pointing out to layabouts like us that on the main boulevard at Herculaneum wheeled traffic was not allowed.

  When he roared it out I had just noticed the bollards standing up like mileposts to block our way. We had been cruising towards the courthouse (I could see the sun glinting off a bronze charioteer outside this elegant basilica). There was an arch across the road ahead, which probably led to the forum, a row of shops alongside us, and a fountain which Nero was treating to a tentative sniff.

  I hate disciplinarians. This one ordered us away from the DecuMomus with the good breeding I expect from a country official, which was none. For a bone bodkin I would have told him where to stuff his swagger stick, even if it meant we were run out of town… Larius caught my eye.

  'Just tell him we're sorry and we'll go!'

  I could not altogether blame the man for abusing us. My nephew and I had made the mistake of buying cheap holiday haircuts, with the usual preposterous results. We had gone to an open-air barber by the gladiators' barracks in Pompeii, who had taken three hours of sombre snipping to turn us out like murderers. Also, we were now eating pilchards wrapped in vine leaves, which no one from Herculaneum would Oran of doing in the street.

  We turned downhill towards the port. There were side streets to either hand; Herculaneum was built on a pedantic Greek grid. To save me the trouble Nero chose a direction himself. It was a picturesque scene of overhangs and pilastered walkways; a basket-weaver dreaming on his stool, and an old woman who had been out for a lettuce who stood decrying modern society to another old baggage who had been out for a loaf. Into this maelstrom of the Herculaneum highlife our mad ox eagerly plunged.

  The disaster happened quickly, as disasters love to do.

  Nero swung off to the right. There was a packman's donkey tethered outside a dosshouse, a strong young male with sleek ears and a pert backside: Nero had spotted the grand passion of his life.

  As he turned he rammed the cart hard against a pastry cook's portico. The weight of lead held us fast, so he broke free. The vibrations from his joyful bellow brought down four rows of roof tiles. Stoneware went flying under his hooves as he ditched us and skittered through some potter's produce with that special dainty, high-stepping tread of a bull on the loose, all set to swerve on the spot with a horn at the ready if approached. The parts of him that were supposed to be deactivated were swinging heavily, with perilous implications for the donkey.

  Women burst onto first-floor balconies. In colonnades at street level little children squealed in terro
r then stopped, fascinated by the scene. I grabbed the rope we kept for winding round the ox's horns and bounded after him, reaching Nero just as he reared and dropped onto his new friend. Young Ned wheezed, and squealed rape. Some misguided cookshop boy caught hold of Nero's tail. Next minute all the breath was smashed out of me as a thousand pounds of copulating ox swung round to free his rear end and sideswiped me against the dosshouse wall.

  The wall, which was made of cheap rubble in a wicker frame, sagged under me enough to prevent broken bones.

  I rebounded out of the house wall in a shower of stucco and dust. By now Larius was darting about on the sidelines, squeaking useless advice. What I really needed was a harbour crane. I would have run away to hide, but one fifth of this maniacal bovine belonged to Petronius Longus, my best friend.

  People were trying to rescue Neddy with anything to hand. Mostly they hit Larius and me by mistake. I walked face first into a hastily flung pail of water (or something), while my nephew took a nasty thwack from a marrow on the tender part of his neck. The donkey was trying to kick up his hind legs with some evidence of character, but once he got stuck underneath he could only brace himself for a painful surprise.

  At Nero's moment of glory fortune rescued us. His victim's legs gave way (I had been frightened for his heart). Ass and ox collapsed to the ground. Ned scrambled up trembling, with a wild look in his eye. I swiftly lassooed Nero round a back leg, Larius sat on his head, and our big boy wrestled savagely beneath us – then quite suddenly gave in.

  We should have been the heroes. I did expect a tussle over compensation for damaged shop fronts, and perhaps a claim under some lesser-known branch of the Augustan marriage laws, for permitting a draught animal to spike a donkey adulterously. What happened was much more interesting. The vigilante from the DecuMomus Maximus had noticed us shouting at our ox with an Emperor's name. We assured him he had misheard. We called Nero ‘Spot'; the fool ignored us. We called Nero ‘Nero' and he ignored it too, but apparently that didn't count.

  Larius and I were both arrested. For blasphemy.

  XLIII

  The lockup for vagrants was a converted shop at the side of a temple.

  ‘Well, this is a new one!' I chortled.

  My nephew reassumed his old moody look. ‘Uncle, how are you going to tell my mother I've been in jail?'

  ‘With great difficulty, I expect.'

  The jailor was an amiable duffer who shared his lunch. His name was Roscius. He had a grey spade-shaped beard and side whiskers; we gathered from his easy-going attitude that Herculaneum was the sort of inferior town which frequently arrested innocent visitors. He did keep a cellar, where he dumped anyone who looked a bit foreign, but we two had the honour of being chained to a bench where he could chat.

  'Know a senator called Crispus?' I asked, mainly to impress Larius with my unflappable professional expertise.

  'No, Falco.' The jailor was a man who spoke, then slowly thought about it. 'Not Aufidius Crispus? He had a house in Herculaneum; sold it to buy that boat-'

  'Seen him lately?'

  ‘No, Falco.' He thought; then opted for caution this time.

  Larius felt things were unproductive. 'Show Roscius your pass!' I fetched it out; Roscius read it and handed it back.

  Larius closed his eyes in desperation. I returned the pass to Roscius. 'Aha!' he said, not getting the point, but noticing that there might be one.

  'Roscius, my friend, could you float that the way of a magistrate? If there's one named Aemilius Kuhn, better choose him.' It still went against the gram, but whoever provided the jailor's lunch had used cold meat which turned up at the edges with a sinister dark rim. Our own relations were too far away to send provisions in. I reckoned I had about three hours before my nephew's hungry stomach gained the side effect of a very nasty attitude.

  Roscius sent the pass to Helena's friend. We took turns with his flagon and all got slightly drunk.

  Towards the end of a peaceful afternoon two slaves turned up to say that one of us lads had to stay locked up, but the other could come with them. I explained to Larius that he would have to be the hostage, since Rufus was the friend of a friend of mine.

  'Just hurry up, will you?' Galla's treasure snarled. 'I could murder a bowl of Baian beans!'

  The house of Aemilius Rufus was a modest affair, though he probably owned a stack of gracious architecture elsewhere. This one had the atmosphere of an unvisited museum. It was furnished in a heavy style with wall friezes of battle scenes and grand spiky furniture, formally arranged, which I would never dare sit down on in case I nudged a leg out of line. It was a house without the grace of children, pets, the trickle of a fountain, or growing plants. If there was a gecko on the gloomily lacquered ceilings, he kept his head well down.

  His honour was on a sun terrace, which at least had the sprawling untidiness most sun terraces achieve. Its occupants had been murmuring politely, though when I shuffled out into the sunshine they seized on the excuse and stopped. After a hard day trying to stay awake in the courthouse, Rufus was relaxing at full stretch with a large goblet clasped to his chest: a hopeful sign.

  He had with him a thin noblewoman who must be his sister, and another lass. They were positioned at a wicker table which held the inevitable pastry plate. The magistrate's sister picked at the sweetmeats spasmodically, while her visitor cheerfully tucked in. It was Helena Justina. She did me the supreme honour of letting my arrival put her off her food.

  Unavoidable: as soon as you say goodbye forever, you trip over the lady wherever you go. So now mine was on a Herculaneum sun terrace, licking ground almonds off her fingers, with a tantalizing smear of honey on her chin which I would have enjoyed licking off for her myself.

  She was wearing white, which was how I liked her, and she stayed very quiet, which was not. She ignored me, though I refused to be demoralized by that.

  The illustrious Sextus Aemilius Rufus Clemens, son of Sextus, grandson of Gaius, of the Falerna voting tribe; tribune, aedile, honorary priest of the Augustales, and currently ranking praetor, leaned around the back of his day bed; I stiffened. I was being greeted by a good-quality copy of a Praxiteles Apollo. If I stood him on a plinth with his clothes off and a thoughtful expression, Geminus would buy him like a shot. A classic face; assertive intelligence; painfully fair colouring in a rare, superb combination with extremely dark brown eyes. Helena Justina's friend was so good-looking I wanted to spit on him and see if any of the artistry washed off.

  He had taken a fast run at public life. I put him not far beyond thirty. In five years he would be commanding a legion in one of the better provinces, and make consul easily in ten. Since he lived with his sister I guessed he was a bachelor, though it had not held him back in collecting votes. The reason he stayed single was probably being spoiled for choice.

  He picked up my pass from a small silver table, read it, then surveyed me with limpidly dark eyes as I approached. 'Didius Falco? Welcome to Herculaneum!' He gave me a frank, open smile like a man who dealt honestly, though I supposed he was no better than all the rest. 'I gather someone has a shocked little donkey who will never be the same again… So what exactly is the name of your ox?'

  'Spot!' I declared stoutly. He smiled. I smiled. The friendliness would never last. 'My nephew and I,' I insisted, sticking up for us, 'have spent a humiliating morning and we intend filing a claim for wrongful arrest. Nero was one of the few Emperors who managed to avoid the honour of being decreed divine.'

  'He's sacred in Campania, Falco; he wed a local girl!' 'Pigswill! Didn't Poppaea Sabina come to grief when he kicked her in the stomach during a pregnancy?

  'A domestic tiff which good Campanian prefer to forget!' Herculaneum's golden magistrate grinned at me, with an attractive flash of teeth. 'I agree. Blasphemy seems a trumped-up charge. Suppose I ask instead about your unorthodox deliveries of lead?' His apologetic tone was upsetting. I prefer blunter questions, accompanied by a soldier's knee in my soft extremities.

  'Probl
em, sir? How can I help?'

  'There have been,' Rufus offered, with a gentleness that made my liver curl, 'complaints.'

  'Oh I don't understand that, sir!' I protested in outrage. 'It's top-quality stock from Britain, and we make every effort to ensure all our installations have good workmanship to match!'

  'It's not your customers who complain,' Rufus stated. 'It's those with official franchises who are being undercut.'

  'Tough,' I said. I was losing a battle I could not control; tiring work.

  The magistrate shrugged. 'Any more of this lead?' 'No sir; that's the last.'

  'Good. You can pick up your ox from the livery stables, but unless you show me proof of ownership, I have to confiscate the lead.'

  For a man with a handsome profile, his business acumen was admirably sharp.

  Now that he had pinched my samples, we became best friends. He waved me to a stool and made free with the wine he was drinking himself: a clean-flowing vintage my expert friend Petronius would admire.

  'Very generous of you, sir – are the ladies joining us?'

  His two refined companions had kept aloof, though we knew they were listening. Rufus veiled his eyes, entrusting me with a hint of male conspiracy, as they deigned to squirm sideways towards us, chinking their bangles to indicate the inconvenience.

  'My sister Aemilia Fausta -' I gave her a solemn bow; her friend looked wise to it. 'Helena Justina you know, I believe. She has been telling us what she thinks of you-'

  'Oh he's a typical man!' scoffed Helena wittily, unable to miss this chance. 'He has dreadful friends, silly habits, and his antics make me laugh!'

  Rufus shot me a bright, curious glance; I gravely asserted, 'The daughter of Camillus Verus is someone I hold in the highest esteem!' It sounded unreliable; the truth so often does.