Shadows in Bronze mdf-2

by Lindsey Davis

  'Not at present.'

  She wanted me out of the house. Good manners and a bad conscience both dictated a speedy departure. I never had much truck with good manners: I decided not to shift.

  'Julia Justa, will you tell Helena I am here?'

  'I cannot, Falco – the doctor has given her a strong sleeping draught.'

  I said in that case I had no wish to inconvenience anyone, but unless Julia Justa vividly objected I would wait.

  Her mother agreed. She could probably see that if they put me out of doors I would only cause speculation among their noble neighbours by lurking out in the street like a seedy creditor.

  I waited three hours. They forgot I was there.

  Eventually, the door opened.

  'Falco' Helena's mother surveyed me, startled at my sticking power. 'Somebody should have seen to you-'

  'Nothing I wanted, thanks.'

  'Helena is still asleep.'

  'I can wait.'

  At my grim tone, Julia Justa came further into the room. I answered her curious gaze with a hard, bitter stare of my own.

  'Madam, was today's event an accident of nature, or did your doctor give your daughter something to help things along?'

  The lady considered me with Helena's own angrily perturbed dark eyes. 'If you know my daughter, you know the answer to that!'

  'I do know your daughter; she is extremely sensible. I also know Helena Justina would not be the first unmarried mother who had a solution to her predicament wished on her!'

  'Insulting her family will not help you to find out!'

  'Excuse me. I've spent a long time thinking. Always a bad idea.'

  Julia Justa let slip a slight sigh of impatience. 'Falco, this is achieving nothing; why are you still here?

  'I have to see Helena.'

  'I must tell you, Falco – she never asked for you!'

  'Did she ask for anyone else?'

  'No.'

  'Then no one else will be offended if I wait.'

  Then Helena's mother said that if I felt so strongly I had better see Helena now, so that for everybody's sake I could go home.

  It was a small room, the one she had had as a child. It was neat, and convenient, and when she had returned to her father's house after her divorce she must have asked for it back because it was nothing like her grand apartment in the Pertinax house.

  In a narrow bed, under a natural linen coverlet, Helena lay motionless. She was drugged so deeply there was no chance of waking her. Her face looked completely colourless and plain, still in the exhaustion of her physical ordeal. With other women in the room I felt unable to touch her, but the sight of her dragged out of me, 'Oh they should not have done this to her! How can she know anyone is here?'

  ‘She was in pain; she needed rest.'

  I fought against the thought that she might need me. ‘Is she in danger?'

  ‘No,' her mother said, more quietly.

  Still sensitive to atmosphere, I noticed that the white-faced maid who was sitting on a coffer had been crying earlier. I found myself asking, 'Will you tell me the truth; did Helena want the child?'

  ‘Oh yes!' her mother answered immediately. She disguised her annoyance, but I glimpsed the bad feeling that must have surged around this family before today. Helena Justina would make no one an easy relative; she did everything in her own stubborn high-minded way. ‘That may have placed you in a difficult position,' Julia Justa suggested to me in a thin voice. 'So this must be quite a relief?'

  ‘You seem to have me well weighed opt' I answered narrowly.

  I wanted Helena to know that I had been with her today.

  I had nothing else to leave, so I tugged off my signet ring and laid it on the silver tripod table at the side of her bed. Between the pink glass water beaker and a scatter of ivory hairpins, my worn old ring with its dirty red stone and greenish metal looked an ugly chunk, but at least she would notice it and know whose grimy hand she had seen it on.

  'Don't move that, please.'

  ‘I shall tell her you came!' Julia Justa protested reprovingly.

  ‘Thank you,' I said. But I left the ring.

  Her mother followed me from the room.

  'Falco,' she insisted, 'it was an accident.'

  I would believe what I heard from Helena herself. ‘So what happened?'

  'Is it your business, Falco?' For an ordinary woman – or so she seemed to me – Julia Justa could pack a simple question with heavy significance. I let her decide. She went on stiffly, 'My daughter's ex-husband asked to meet her. They quarrelled. She wanted to leave; he tried to stop her. She broke free, slipped, and hurt herself running downstairs-'

  ‘So this is down to Pertinax!'

  'It might well have happened anyway.'

  'Not like this!' I burst out.

  Julia Justa paused. 'No.' For a moment we seemed to have stopped sniping. Her mother agreed slowly, 'The violence certainly increased Helena's distress… Were you intending to come again?'

  'When I can.'

  'Well that's generous!' cried the Senator's wife. 'Didius Falco, you arrived a day after the festival; I gather that is usual for you – never around when you're really wanted. Now I suggest you stay away.'

  'There may be something I can do.'

  'I doubt it,' said Helena's mother. 'Now this has happened, Falco, I imagine that my daughter will be quite content if she never sees you again!'

  I saluted the Senator's wife graciously, since a man should always be good-mannered to a mother of three children (especially when she has just made a highly dramatic statement about the eldest and sweetest of her children – and he intends to insult her later by proving her wrong).

  Then I left the Camillus house, remembering how Helena Justina had begged me not to kill Pertinax. And knowing that when I found him, I probably would.

  LXXXV

  I walked straight to the Transtiberma and up to his room. I was completely unarmed. It was stupid. But all his personal property had gone; so had he.

  Across the street the wineshop was doing a hectic trade, but with a stranger serving. I asked after Tullia and was brusquely informed: tomorrow; the waiter could hardly find time to account for her. Men were always calling for Tullia, I expect.

  I left no message; no one would bother telling that busy young lady that yet another healthy male with a hopeful expression had been hanging round for her.

  After that I spent a lot of time walking. Sometimes I was thinking; sometimes I just walked.

  I crossed back to the city, pausing on the Aemilian Bridge. Downstream, the desultory river slapped past the triple peperino arch of the main exit from the Great Sewer. At some time in the past three months a bloated corpse, for which I had responsibility, must have swirled out down there, anonymous amidst the dark storm water that carried him away. And now… Did you know, only emperors and stillborn babies have the right to be buried in Rome? Not that it would have been relevant for our poor scrap of life. I had a wry idea what informal arrangements were made for the relics of early miscarriages. And perhaps if I had been a different man, with a less neutral view of the gods, I might have heard in the sound of the Tiber lapping past the Cloaca Maxima the crude, punishing laughter of the Fates.

  Hours after I had left the Transtiberina I turned up at Maia's house. She took one look at me, then fed me, kept away the children, kept away Famia with his wine flask, and steered me to bed. I lay in the darkness, thinking again.

  When I could bear no more, I let myself sleep.

  Pertinax could be anywhere in Rome but the next day was Thursday, and Thursday marked his champion's run in the Circus Maximus; I knew where to find him then – somewhere among the two hundred thousand spectators who would be cheering Ferox on: Easy!

  Famia, who liked to enjoy an occasion by making himself sick with excitement from the crack of dawn, tried to drag me out early, but if I spent all morning in the full glare of the stadium, I would be useless for anything. Once you have seen one opening processio
n winding into the arena, you can miss a few. What's another presiding magistrate with a smug expression leading the parade in his four-horse quadriga, when there are men to catch who murder priests, batter fathers of young families, and cut off the lives of unborn children before their parents have even had a chance to quarrel over what their names might be?

  When I left my sister Maia's house, I took a detour by way of Galla's where luckily I found Larius.

  'Excuse me, young sir, I want a hack artist!'

  'Be quick then,' he grinned. 'We all have to go to the Circus to cheer a certain horse…'

  'Spare me the honour! Look, do me a thumbnail sketch-'

  'You modelling for a grotesque medallion on a Celtic drinking pot?'

  'Not me.' I told him who. Then I told him why. Larius drew the portrait without another word.

  The loss of the unborn is a private grief: To lighten the atmosphere I begged him not to waste his money gambling on my horse. 'Don't worry,' agreed Larius frankly. 'We'll cheer yours – but the cash is on Ferox today!'

  I walked to the Capena Gate. No one in the Camillus family was receiving visitors. I sent in my respects, with the distinct feeling the door porter would not deliver them.

  I noticed a flowershop, so purchased a huge bunch of roses at an equally imposing cost.

  'They came from Paestum!' wheezed the florist, excusing it.

  'They would do!' I cried.

  I sent in the roses for Helena. I knew very well that she would rather have had a flower I grew on my balcony, since she was a sentimentalist, but her mother looked like a woman who would appreciate the cost of a grand bouquet.

  Helena must have been awake now but I was still refused admission. I left, with nothing but the memory of her white face yesterday.

  Since nobody loved me I went to the races.

  I arrived at noon; the athletics were on. Filling the outer vaults was the usual scene of deplorable commerce, a strange contrast to the delicacy of the paintings and gilt decoration which adorned the stucco and the stonework under the arcades. In the cookshops and liquor stalls the hot pies were lukewarm and greasy, and the cool drinks came in very small containers at twice the price you would pay outside. The loose women were plying for hire noisily, vying with the bookies' touts for spectators who were still trickling in.

  Only I could attempt to snare a villain in the largest stadium in Rome. I entered by one of the gates on the Aventine side. I had the president's box on my far left above the starting gates, the glittering imperial balcony immediately opposite me against Palatine Hill, then the apsidal end with the triumphal exit away to my right. The dazzle off the first two tiers of marble seats was sizzling hot by then, and even in the lull at lunch-time I was met by a wall of sound.

  In the old days, when men and women sat higgledy- piggledy together and the Circus Maximus was the best place to find a new love affair, I would have stood no chance of finding anyone without his seat number. Even now that the Augustan regulation had segregated people respectably, the only rows I could eliminate for certain were those allocated to women, boys with their tutors, or the priestly colleges. It was a fair bet Pertinax would not risk taking his place on the lower podium, where fellow senators would recognize him. And knowing what a snob he was, he would avoid the top gallery, which was frequented by the lowest orders and slaves. Even so, the Circus filled the whole valley between the Cattle Market Forum and the old Capena Gate; it could seat a quarter of a million, not to mention the hordes of auxiliary workers busily toing and froing on legitimate tasks, the aediles looking for bad behaviour in the crowd, the pickpockets and pimps keeping an eye out for the aediles, the perfume-sellers and garland girls and wine toters and nut merchants.

  I did start to work along one block, scanning the crowds as I fought round the gangway which divided the first and second of the three tiers of seats. Staring up sideways soon made me dizzy, and the massed faces merged into one indistinguishable blur.

  This was no way to find a bug in a sack of barley. I nipped down the next stairway back into the arcades, then passed among the booths and the knots of prostitutes, showing everyone the little plaque Larius had drawn for me. When I reached the business end of the stadium I found Famia, who introduced various other people to whom I also exhibited my sketch of Pertinax.

  After that the only decent thing was to make a show of inspecting my brother-in-law's efforts to turn out my racehorse handsomely.

  With his tail tied high and his ragged mane plaited, Little Sweetheart looked as good as he ever would, though still a disaster. Famia had found him a saddlecloth, though he would have to manage without the gold fringes and pearl-encrusted breastbands his rivals were nicked out in. To Famia's disgust, I insisted that even though he was bound to lose sensationally, if this was the only time in my life I could field my own racehorse, I would run the Sweetheart for the Blues; Famia made a stink, but I was adamant.

  Ferox looked a million in his glossy mulberry coat; you could shave in his flanks. He was attracting plentiful attention as he and the Sweetheart waited side by side in the Cattle Market Forum; the buzz among the bookmakers was scintillating. Ferox would be running in the colours of the Marcellus-Pertinax faction, the Whites.

  I acted up as an owner for a while, allowing the punters to jibe at me for the faith they assumed I placed in my gangling scruff, then Famia and I went off for lunch.

  'You betting, Falco?'

  'Just a flutter.'

  Famia would think it bad form for an owner to back another horse, so I did not tell him Larius was putting fifty gold sesterces on Ferox for me: all my spare cash.

  When we came back to the Circus they had started the hone races, though from our place on the card we had another hour to wait. I went to check that the Sweetheart was keeping Ferox calm, in order to safeguard my wager. While I was petting Ferox, I noticed a small, nervous, stuffed-vineleaf vendor hopping about: clearly a man with a gastric disturbance – or something significant to say. He said it to Faulk, though they were looking at me. Money changed hands. The vineleaf tray skedaddled, then Famia came across.

  'You owe me ten denarii.'

  'See me tomorrow when I call in my bet.'

  'Your man is in the second tier, on the Aventine side, near the judges' box; he's put himself level with the finishing line.

  'How can I get near him unobtrusively?' Famia cackled that with my well-known ugly visage it would be impossible. But he was useful: five minutes later I had slipped through one of the dark stalls at the starting gate end, and squeezed myself through the double doors.

  Noise, heat, smells and colour assaulted me. I was in the arena, right down on the track. I had a bucket and a shovel. I waited until the riders passed, then wandered out across the sand, making a desultory scoop at the ground as I crossed the diagonal starting line. I reached the central barrier, the spina, feeling that I stood out like a pimple on a barrister's nose – but Famia was right: nobody ever notices the slaves who sweep up dung.

  They were running one of those show pieces where bareback riders stand astride two horses at once – dramatic, though comparatively slow. The trick is to have the horses well trained, and to keep a good rhythm; my brother could do it. (My brother was the flashy, athletic type with a streak of blatant stupidity; he tried anything that risked his neck.)

  Standing up against the marble podium, the huge size of the Circus was breathtaking. The width across was half the length of a normal stadium, and from the white chalk of the starting line the far end seemed so distant I had to squint. Immediately above me as I ambled up the length of the spina, towered magnificent shrines and statues; Apollo, Cybele, Victory. For the first time I appreciated the workmanship on the great gilded bronze screen which stood between the senatorial seats and the arena itself. Beyond them yawned two tiers of marble terracing and a third tier of wood, then the closed-in upper gallery with standing room only. As I made a random pass with my bucket, I noticed how the sand had a glistening mica rim near the podi
um and the spina, when coloured chippings from past gaudy occasions had worked to the edges of the track. They never have awnings at the Circus; you could frizzle up an omelette on the sand. Everywhere had a constant odour of warm horseflesh above the lunchtime garlic and ladies' cologne.

  The spina was ornamented with mosaics and gilt, against which I must have appeared a small, dark dot, like some tiresome, meandering bug. In the space of two races I shuffled up as far as the huge red granite Egyptian obelisk which Augustus had set in the very centre of the spina; then I edged on nearer to the finishing line and the judges' box. This was where the seats were always most warmly packed. At first the mass of faces melded into one great fudge of humanity, but as my confidence grew I began to see details: women shuffling their footstools and hoisting their stoles over one shoulder, men red-faced and bilious in the sun after lunch, soldiers in uniform, children squirming restlessly or fighting in the aisles.

  There was a break between races, filled with tumblers and acrobats. Spectators moved about. I squatted against the podium, dry-eyed in the dust, while I began a methodical survey of the second tier. It took me twenty minutes to find him. As I did I thought he spotted me too, though he looked away. Once I pinpointed him, it seemed impossible that I could have missed his bad-tempered physiognomy before.

  I sat still and went on searching. Sure enough, two rows lower down and ten places along I found Anacrites himself. Some of the time he was watching Pertinax, but mostly he stared round at the other seats. I knew who he was looking for! At the far end of the row where Pertinax was sitting and again higher up were two spies I recognised who formed a triangle with Anacrites, penning in the man I wanted and keeping him safe from me. None of them looked at the arena while I was crouching there.

  I stood up. So did Pertinax. I started to cross the track towards the gilded screen. He moved along the row of seats. He had seen me. I knew it, and so did Anacrites, though he could not work out where I was. Stumbling over other people's feet, Pertinax reached a gangway. Even if I climbed over the screen, in among the indignant nobility on their marble thrones, he would be off down the stairs and out of the nearest vomitarium long before I got near. Meanwhile Anacrites suddenly shouted to one of the aediles' heavy squad and gestured unmistakably at me. I was not only losing Pertinax, but about to be arrested myself.