Shadows in Bronze mdf-2

by Lindsey Davis

  The evil green cloak was hung on a peg, close beside his bed.

  Bryon was calming Ferox when I descended the stain. 'Well, I'm still looking for Barnabas – only now I know he's here.'

  There was no doubt that the staff had been told to keep mum about the freedman's existence. Bryon scowled at me sullenly. 'He comes and goes. Mostly he goes; he's gone now.'

  Ferox struggled wildly again, and Bryon complained I was frightening the horse. 'We can do this the easy way, Bryon – or not!'

  'I don't know where he is, Falco – maybe talking with the old man. Discussing him is more than my life’s worth-'

  'From what I know of Barnabas, that's true!'

  I stormed out.

  I knew I had no hope of finding him, but if the old man and he were in open confederacy I reckoned the freedman would feel safe to remain on the premises.

  I raged all through the farm frightening chickens, then searched the house. This time I meant everyone to realize I knew about him. I burst into empty salons, opened up attics, invaded the library. I turned over bedrooms, sniffing the air to judge whether anyone had recently been using them. I pawed the latrine sponges, counting how many were wet. I checked dining couches for dust or lack of it. Not one of the bleary-eyed slaves whom I rousted from their cubicles would be able to claim any longer that they did not know a thin man with a beard had been in their master's house, and that the Emperor's bad-tempered agent wanted him. They tumbled out and stood around half-naked until the villa was a blaze of lamps: wherever he had hidden himself, he must be stuck there now.

  I made them drag chests from inglenooks and turn over hogsheads that stood empty in corners. After my efforts it would take them a week to put the place to rights. There was not a bale of unwashed laundry I had not unroped with a stab of my knife, or a grain sack I had not kicked until it split. A bag of chicken feathers they were saving to stuff a mattress made a fabulous mess. Cats fled yowling from my path. The roof-top pigeons shuffled their feet in the darkness, and cooed unhappily.

  In the end, I banged into the day room where Helena and Marcellus were sitting together in silence, shattered by the devastation I had caused. Helena had a long woollen shawl wrapped tightly round her chest. I threw an extra stole across her knees.

  'Did you find him?' asked the Consul, no longer pretending.

  'Of course not. I'm a stranger; he must know your villa inside out. But he's here! I hope he's cramped in a bread oven with his face in the ashes and a loaf-rake poked in his ear! If he's taken to threatening your daughter-in-law, I hope someone lights the oven while he's there!'

  I dropped on one knee beside Helena Justina. Marcellus must have seen the way I looked at her. I no longer cared. 'Don't worry; I won't leave!'

  I could sense her suppressed anger as she addressed Marcellus over my head in a voice that shook with indignation. 'This is incredible!' It seemed as if she had been waiting for my support before she tackled him. 'I can hardly believe it – what was he doing in my room?'

  'Foolishness. Did you recognize him?' the Consul asked guardedly.

  'I should do!' blazed Helena. I had the odd sense that what she was saying meant more to Marcellus than to me. 'I suppose he wants to speak to me. I won't see him tonight when I'm tired and overwhelmed. Let him come tomorrow, and be properly announced-'

  I stood up abruptly. 'Lady, this is not on!'

  'Don't interfere, Falco!' The Consul flared up in ill- restrained anger. 'You have no business here; I want you to leave!'

  'No; Falco is staying,' Helena returned in her steady way. 'He is working for me.' They fought over it in silence, but she had spoken so quietly he could see she was adamant.

  The Consul shifted with irritation. 'Helena is in no danger here, Falco. No one will invade her privacy again.'

  I wanted to rage that Barnabas was a killer, but decided not to make him doubly desperate by emphasizing that I knew.

  Helena gave me a faint smile. 'Tonight was a mistake, but not a threat,' she said to me. I stopped arguing. A bodyguard's role is to fend off attackers; explaining their filthy motives is for liberal philosophers.

  I pointed out to Marcellus how weary Helena was, and in view of what had happened earlier, made no bones of the fact I intended to see her all the way to her room.

  Helena's bedroom was full of servants. For her safety's sake I welcoined them. Besides, now things were so serious it was best not to play around with bright ideas like kissing her in corridors.

  I brought her in, then winked chirpily at her. Making them feel safe was part of the first-class service I reckoned to give. 'Well, this is like old times!'

  'I am so relieved you are here!'

  'Forget it. You need protection. We'll talk tomorrow. But expect me to veto any suggestion of you seeing Barnabas.'

  'I will if I have to -' She hesitated. 'There is something about him you don't know yet, Marcus-'

  ‘Tell me.'

  ‘After I see him.'

  'You won't. I'm not intending to let you be exposed to him again!' She took a furious breath, then subsided as her bright eyes dashed with mine. I shook my head tenderly. ‘Ah lady! I can never decide whether you are my favourite client – or simply the most quarrelsome!'

  She buffed me on the nose with her knuckles, like a pet who had been a nuisance. I grinned, and left her, still capped with the golden net that made her look so young and vulnerable. Maids flocked round to help her prepare for bed, and I managed to believe we were on good enough terms again that Helena Justina would happily have dismissed her women and kept me.

  I prowled round on guard all night. She would expect that.

  Barnabas put in no further appearances, though I kept up a steady tread, hoping he would hear my relentless patrol as I continued watching out for him.

  LVII

  Next morning I took Helena down to Oplontis and left her with Petronius and Silvia while I went back to Herculaneum to collect my things.

  'You look disgruntled. I hope I'm not to blame!' Aemilia Fausta gurgled with girlish sarcasm. I had been up all night and the hour's sleep I had snatched while Helena was breakfasting had only made things worse. I had hitched a ride in a dung cart; I had the fly bites to prove it and felt too bilious to face an Aemilia’s luncheon of oozing pickled eggs.

  Aemilia Fausta, who wanted the world to know she had been ferried home last night by the great Aufidius Crispus, pretended to apologize for leaving me in the lurch. 'I was unable to find you, Falco, to tell you my plans-'

  'I knew your plans; Crispus told me his.' It was not the time for Fausta to indulge in badinage. 'Don't fret,' I growled. 'The place was full of women who were after me… Sailed home in the Isis, eh? I trust nothing scandalous occurred?'

  Fausta heatedly denied it (which left the indelible impression something had). I could not imagine that any bachelor alone with her on a pleasure boat could allow himself to overlook the chance.

  'Madam, make it your rule in Muse: just do what seems natural, and apologize to the musicians afterwards!'

  Luckily at that point the kitchen erupted into one of its fits of clattering so she had to sweep off to play the mistress of the house. She looked like a woman who could shout at a kitchen maid. I scowled after her, thinking about Helena Justina, who looked as though when she saw some stupid girl making a mess of cleaning a cauliflower, she would grasp the knife quietly and demonstrate the way it should be done… Then I thought that perhaps what Aemilius Rufus wanted from Helena was a wife to train his cook.

  Loathing Rufus, I extracted my salary from the house steward, then found Fausta again to say goodbye.

  'I shall miss my music lessons!' she admonished me gaily. She seized the cithara (which Crispus must have brought back on the yacht too, polite man) and started plectruming away like a Muse who had been given a lecture from Apollo on the need to keep her standards up. I commented on the nerve-racking vitality.

  ‘Does this mean that Aufidius Crispus made things up?' I still hoped he had a
ttempted to shed Fausta, but my heart sank; his behaviour with women was evidently as fickle as Helena had warned me it often was with horseflesh and might yet be over politics.

  Fausta murmured in a prim voice, ‘If Aufidius Crispus was to achieve the supreme honour there would naturally be a place for an Empress at his side…

  'Oh naturally,' I rasped. ‘Someone gracious who will not object when he prods dancing girls with his princely staff of office! He won't achieve it – because I for one will be ripped to shreds by the Furies before I let him do it. Aemilia Fausta, if you want an honourable position you could achieve better by marrying someone like Caprenius Marcellus, especially if you presented him with a child -' (This illustrates the low type of client I usually worked for.) I intended to leave Fausta's imagination to judge how the noble role of motherhood might be achieved in view of the Consul's poor health and advanced years, but she looked so complacent I spelt it out vindictively; ‘Get his name on a contract then find yourself a charioteer or bath-house masseur who will help you make an old man very happy – and set yourself up for a long and wealthy widowhood!'

  ‘You're disgusting!'

  ‘Just practical.'

  Barracking her about Crispus had upset her equilibrium. Uncertainty swept over her again. Her head bowed towards the cithara, that pale hair in its faultless chignon looking like unyielding new lacquer on a hard stone bust. ‘So you're leaving me… My brother tells me you are working for Helena Justina now.

  We stared at one another, both remembering the last time Fausta had mentioned her brother and Helena in one breath.

  I brought out carefully, 'I think you made a mistake.'

  'What was that?'

  'Your brother,' I said levelly, 'does not tangle with your friend.' I was sure of it. The magistrate had let Helena leave the banquet with a wave from afar. He was the type who would. But I happened to know that if Helena had a lover she kissed him goodbye.

  'Then it must be someone else!' Aemilia Fausta lost none of her spite. 'Perhaps,' she suggested, 'the man you have been hired to protect her against?'

  The woman was ridiculous. I refused to waste effort arguing.

  By that time, in any case, it had struck me that my new client had gone with me to Oplontis that morning a little too readily; I raced back there without more ado. I was right. Helena Justina had a mind of her own. The minute I had disappeared towards Herculaneum, she had made some excuse to Silvia and set off back to the Villa Marcella by herself.

  No doubt about it: she was hoping to see Barnabas.

  I found her at the villa on a daybed in the shade, pretending to sleep. I tickled her foot with a flower. She opened her eyes meekly.

  'Either do what I say, or I give up the job.'

  'I always do what you say, Falco.'

  'Do it – and don't tell lies!' I refused to enquire if she had seen the freedman, and she did not volunteer. Anyway, there were too many servants about for a discreet chat. I stretched out under a box hedge. I felt desperately tired. 'I need to sleep. Wake me if you decide to shift from here.'

  When I woke up she had gone indoors without telling me. Someone had fastened a flower at a ludicrous angle in the straps of my left boot.

  I stomped in and found her.

  'Lady, you're impossible!' I dropped the flower in her lap. 'The only thing this commission has to recommend it is I can forget about giving lectures on diatonic scales.'

  'You give lectures on everything. Would you rather be in Herculaneum, teaching the harp?'

  'No. I'd rather be here protecting you – from yourself, as usual!'

  'Oh, stop harassing me, Falco,' she grumbled cheerfully. I grinned at her. This was wonderful: my favourite work.

  I sat down a few feet away, where I arranged my expression to appear suitably diffident and was all set to fend off marauders if any were on the prowl that afternoon.

  The one advantage being a harp teacher did have was that in order to demonstrate fingering you could position yourself right alongside the young lady who was employing you, and put both arms round her. I would miss that.

  Probably.

  Part Five

  THE MAN WHO DID NOT EXIST

  The Bay Of Neapolis

  July

  ‘Come home, y Galatea. What is there to amuse you at the see… Here by the stream all kind of flowers are blooming on the turf. Here a bright poplar sways above y cave, and the dangling vines weave shadows on the ground.

  Come here, and let the wild waves hammer on the beach…

  Virgil, Eclogue IX

  LVIII

  But for one flaw the Villa Marcella could be recommended as a holiday spot. It was well appointed, had the best views in the Empire, and if you had the right connections it was free. All a visitor had to do was forget he was sharing these elegant acres with a calculated killer; although in that respect the villa was no worse than any two-as dosshouse on this flea-ridden shore, where the clientele were liable to knife you as you slept.

  I had no intention of letting Barnabas stay on the loose. On the first day I went to the stables while Helena and the Consul were lunching safely among their platoon of slaves. But Bryon made no secret of it: 'He's gone off somewhere.'

  A glance into the palatial hayloft confirmed this: the freedman's den looked untouched, down to the olive stones drying up on last night's dinner plate. But his cloak had been lifted from its peg.

  'Where was he heading?

  'No idea. But he'll be back. What else can he do?'

  'Something dangerous!' I exclaimed, with more force than I meant.

  I spent that second night on a balcony seat outside Helena's room. I had not forewarned her, but a maid brought me a pillow; Helena knew.

  We shared breakfast on the balcony, like relatives staying in the country; very odd. Then I tackled the stable again.

  This time Bryon met me in the yard, looking concerned. 'He never came in, Falco; that's unusual.'

  I cursed. ‘Then he's skipped!'

  The trainer shook his head. 'Not him. Look, I'm not daft. First he's here, but nobody is supposed to know. Then you come; now I reckon he's desperate-'

  ‘Oh he is! I need the truth, Bryon-'

  ‘Wait it out then. He'll be back.'

  'He paid you to say that? You're protecting him?'

  ‘Why should I? I was born here; I thought I was one of the family. My mistake! I was sold overnight. Then they bought me back, but only for the horses. A double shock, and not a word said to me about it either time. Oh, I always got on all right with him,' Bryon declared. 'But things will never be the same again. So believe me, he'll turn up.'

  'You mean because he needs the old man?

  Bryon smiled grimly. ‘No. Because of how badly the old man needs him!'

  He would not explain.

  He did come back. And I found him. But a lot happened…

  Helena Justina took the air that morning, accompanying the lad who renewed the wreath of flowers on the berm at the estate boundary. I had escorted them. Then two donkeys hove into view bearing Petronius Longus, Arria Silvia, and a basket which I could see was stuffed with picnic things: a prearranged rendezvous.

  Petronius had been longing to take me drinking ever since we arrived. This was his opportunity. He must have imagined a holiday carnival would in some way help me.

  I was annoyed. 'Don't be ridiculous! I'm tracking down a murderer; he could turn up any time. How can I go gadding up the mountain-'

  ‘Don't be so stuffy!' Helena chaffed. 'I'm going, so you have to.' Before I could argue further she had sent the boy home, cajoled me onto a donkey, and hopped up behind me. She held onto my belt. I held onto my temper, just.

  It was a still, hazy day with that vapoury, innocuous look which on the Campania coast means intense heat later. Petronius picked our route. My donkey was the awkward one, which increased the mood.

  We rode up past the rich black ploughland on the lower slopes, then through the thriving vineyards which in those days co
vered the mountain almost to its summit, making Bacchus its natural patron god. Wild broom was still flowering as our way snaked higher and higher into the rarified air. Vesuvius then was much more majestic than now. It was twice the size, for one thing – a quiet, luxurious, richly farmed mountain, though there were ancient secret places on the peak where only hunters went.

  Petronius Longus stopped for a tasting at a wayside wineseller's. I did not feel like drinking. I said I had always wanted to go up to see the gorges at the top of the mountain where Spartacus the rebel slave had held out against a consular army and nearly brought down the state; I too was in a fair old mood for bringing down the state.

  Helena came with me.

  We rode as far as the donkey could easily travel, way up among the tangled brushwood which I knew was frequented by wild boar. We both dismounted, tethered Ned, then set off to cover the final stint to the top. It was rough going; Helena stopped.

  ‘Too strenuous for you?'

  ‘I'm struggling – You go on; I'll wait with the donkey.' She went back. I went on. I thought I wanted to be by myself; but I felt lonely as soon as she left.

  I reached the summit quickly, had a look round, decided the historical research had not been worth the effort, and scrambled back down to Helena.

  She had spread out a cloak and was sitting there with her sandals unstrapped, lost in thought. When she glanced round I deliberately let her see me making an inventory. She was wearing a pale-green gown which showed off the fact she was well worth showing off. Her hair was parted and twisted the way I had once liked it, above simple gold ear-rings. If she coloured her face it was subtle enough not to show. A pity I could not convince myself she had planned this neat effect for me.

  ‘Did you reach the top? What was it like?'

  'Oh, a cone-shaped peak with a huge rocky depression, and great fissures full of wild vines. That must have been how the rebel army made their escape when Crassus evicted them-'