A dying light in Corduba mdf-8

by Lindsey Davis

  He snapped the arrow in two: an impolite gesture, since the girl from Hispalis was still in the room, talking to her musicians. 'She's nothing special.' He sounded sober as well as bored. 'She's relying on saucy eyes and a scanty outfit; her technique's very basic.'

  'That so?' I know a snake dancer who says people only watch for the dress – or lack of it. 'So you're a connoisseur of Spanish choreography?'

  'Anyone is, who has done a tour in the province,' he shrugged offhandedly.

  I smiled. He must have known his youthful experience in peaceful Baetica would not impress an imperial agent who had specialised in working at the Empire's trickiest boundaries. I had crossed them too, when a risk was needed. 'So how did you enjoy Hispania?'

  'Well enough.' He did not want to have to talk to me.

  'And now you're placing your expert knowledge at the disposal of the Society of Baetican Olive Oil Producers! Do you know the ones over there with Quinctius Attractus?'

  'Slightly. I was friendly with the Annaeus lads in Corduba.'

  'What about the grandson of Licinius Rufius? He's here in Rome at the moment.'

  'I believe so.' Aelianus was certainly not intending to discuss his friends. He could hardly wait to be rid of me.

  'I gather he's out on the town tonight – I would have thought you would have been there.'

  'I'm here instead! Do you mind, Falco; I want to see the dancer.'

  'Nice girl,' I lied. 'I had a pleasant chat with her.'

  It misfired: 'Of course; you must be going short,' Aelianus suggested unpleasantly. 'With my sister in her condition.' How Helena and I lived was our own affair. I could have told him that sharing our bed with several months of unborn offspring had not impeded a healthy lovelife, but merely set greater challenges. 'So now you're upsetting Helena by scurrying after entertainers. If anyone tells her maybe she will miscarry.'

  'She won't!' I snapped.

  I had just spent six months trying to reassure Helena (who had in fact lost one child in pregnancy, though her brother may never have been told of it). Now it was hard work convincing her that she would give birth safely and survive the ordeal. She was terrified, and I was not much happier myself.

  'Maybe she'll leave you!' he speculated eagerly. That had always been a possibility.

  'I see you really have her interests at heart.'

  'Oh, I'm happy to see her with you. I think when I stand for the Senate I'll make my election platform denouncing your relationship – I'll be a man of such traditional rectitude I even criticise my own sister -'

  'You won't succeed,' I told him. He might. Rome loves a pompous bastard.

  Aelianus laughed. 'No; you're probably right. My father would refuse to finance the election.' Camillus Verus, father of my beloved and of this poisonous young ferret, always looked like an uncomplicated old buffer, but evidently Aelianus was sharp enough to realise that their parent loved Helena and understood that I did too; however much he regretted our relationship, the senator knew he was stuck with it. I had a sneaky idea he was quite looking forward to having a grandchild too.

  'Jupiter, you must be really gloating, Falco!' Helena's brother's bitterness was even worse than I had realised. 'You've jumped up from nowhere and seized the only daughter of a patrician house -'

  'Cobnuts. Your sister was glad to fly off her perch. She needed rescuing. Helena Justina did her duty and married a senator, but what happened? Pertinax was a disaster, a traitor to the state, who neglected and mistreated her. She was so miserable she divorced him. Is that what you want? Now she's with me, and she's happy.'

  'It's illegal!'

  'A technicality.'

  'You could both be accused of adultery.'

  'We regard ourselves as married.'

  'Try that in the Censor's court.'

  'I would. No one will take us there. Your father knows Helena made her own choice, and she's with a man who adores her. There is no moral objection the senator can make.'

  Across the room the dancing girl with the limited technique shook out her waist-length hair. She seemed to know how to do that. I realised she had been watching us quarrelling. It gave me an uneasy qualm.

  To end the fight I stood up, preparing to return to my own couch. 'So, Camillus Aelianus, what does bring you among the revered Society of Baetican Olive Oil Producers?'

  The angry young man calmed down enough to boast: 'Friends in high places. How did you get in, Falco?'

  'Much better friends, in even more select positions,' I told him crushingly.

  Settling back the other side of Anacrites came almost as a relief. Before he tried to have me killed we had been able to work together. He was devious, but like me he had lived. He enjoyed a good wine, he was in control of his barber, and he had been known to crack the occasional joke against the Establishment. With an emperor who liked cost-cutting and hated too much security, Anacrites must be feeling beleaguered. He wanted me, for one, well out of his way. He had tried to discredit me, and he had planned to get me executed by a tricky foreign potentate. But even now, I knew where I was with him. Well, I knew it as much as you ever could with a spy.

  'What's this, Falco? Is my young friend from the noble family pursuing vindictive claims against you?'

  I said his young friend was about to get his nose pulled off. Anacrites and I resumed our usual hostility.

  Gazing up, I fixed my eyes on a lamp. Burning with the clear, odourless flame of fine Baetican oil, it was in gleaming bronze and the shape of a flying phallus. Either this rude vessel was swinging more than it should, or the whole room had begun to manoeuvre in some swooning routine… I decided I had reached my full capacity for Barcino red wine. At the same moment, as so often happens, a slave poured more into my cup. I sighed and settled down for a long night.

  I must have had yet more drink later, though I cannot provide a catalogue. As a result, nothing of interest happened – not to me, anyway. Others no doubt threw themselves into risk and intrigue. Someone presumably made an assignation with the dancer from Hispalis. It seemed the kind of party where traditional customs would be observed.

  I left when the atmosphere was still humming. Nobody had noticeably fallen out, and certainly at that stage there was nobody dead. All I recall of my final hour are some tricky moments trying to shoulder my amphora; it was half as high as me and immovable to a man in my condition. The young fellow in the oatmeal tunic from the other row of couches was also collecting his cloak; he seemed relatively sober, and helpfully suggested I roust out some more slaves to lug the cumbersome container home for me on a carrying pole. I suddenly saw the logic of this. We exchanged a laugh. I was too far gone to ask his name, but he seemed pleasant and intelligent. I was surprised he had been at the dinner all on his own.

  Somehow my legs must have found their way from the Palatine to the Aventine. The apartment where I had lived for some years was six floors up in a dismal tenement; the slaves refused to come up. I left the amphora downstairs, tucked out of sight under a pile of dirty togas in Lenia's laundry on the ground floor. It was the kind of night where my left foot set off in one direction and met my right one coming back. I have no recollection of how I persuaded them to co-operate and find their way upstairs.

  Eventually I awoke from troubled blackness to hear the distant cries of market stallholders and the occasional clonk of a harness bell. I realised the activity in the streets below had been disturbing me for some time. It was the first day of April and the outdoor street life was hectic. Watchdogs were barking at chickens. Cockerels were crowing for the fun of it. Day had dawned – quite a few hours ago. On the roof tiles outside a pigeon cooed annoyingly. Light, with a painful midday intensity, streamed in from the balcony.

  The thought of breakfast marched into my brain automatically – then receded fast.

  I felt terrible. When I squirmed upright on the saggy reading couch where I had flung myself last night, one look around the apartment made everything worse. There was no point calling out to Helen
a, not even to apologise. She was not here.

  I was in the wrong place.

  I could not believe I had done this – yet as my head throbbed it seemed all too plausible. This was our old apartment. We did not live here any more.

  Helena Justina would be in our new home, where she would have waited for me all last night. That's assuming she had not already left me on the grounds that I had stayed out partying. A fact which any reasonable woman would interpret as meaning I had stayed out with another girl.

  V

  There was a dark first-floor apartment on the shady side of Fountain Court. At first glance the shady side looked superior, but that was only because the sun failed to light the decay that encased all these buildings like a mouldy crust. Shutters peeled. Doors sagged. People frequently lost heart and stopped paying their rent; before the landlord's muscle-bound assistants beat them up as a penalty, they quite often died in misery of their own accord.

  Everyone who lived here was trying to leave: the basket- weaver with the street-level lock-up wanted to retire to the Campagna, the upstairs tenants came and went with a rapidity that said much about the facilities (that is, that there were none) while Helena and I, the weaver's subtenants, dreamed of escaping to a plush villa with piped water, a boundary of pine trees, and airy colonnades where people could hold refined conversations on philosophical subjects… Anything, in fact, would be better than a three- room, small-dimensioned let, where the spitting and swearing totters who lived in the upper storeys all had a right of way past our front door.

  The front door had been stripped and planed down, ready for new paint. Inside, I squeezed down a corridor full of stored items. The first room off it had bare walls and no furniture. The second was the same, apart from an unbelievably obscene fresco painted straight opposite the entrance. Helena was spending much time doggedly scratching off the lewd copulating couples and the coarse satyrs in garish hyacinth wreaths and panpipes who lurked behind laurel bushes while they ogled the scene. Obliterating them was slow work and today all the wet sponges and scrapers lay abandoned in a corner. I could guess why.

  I walked further down the corridor. Here its newly nailed floorboards were firm beneath my feet. I had spent hours getting them level. On the walls hung a series of small Greek plaques with Olympic scenes, Helena's choice. A niche seemed to be awaiting a pair of household gods. Outside the final room lay a red and white striped rug which I didn't recognise; on it slept a scruffy dog who got up and stalked off in disgust when I approached.

  'Hello, Nux.'

  Nux farted quietly, then turned round to survey her rear with mild surprise.

  I tapped the lintel gently, and opened the door. Part of me hoped the usual occupant had gone out for a stroll.

  There was no reprieve. She was there. I should have known. If she went out without me I had ordered her to take the guard dog. She was not in the habit of obeying my instructions, but she had become fond of the hound.

  'Hello, brown eyes. Is this where Falco lives?'

  'Apparently not.'

  'Don't tell me he's run off to become a gladiator? What a swine.'

  'The man is grown up. He can do as he likes.' Not if he had any sense.

  Routinely, Falco's new office had been furnished as a bedroom. Informing is a sordid job and clients expect to be shocked by their surroundings. Besides, everyone knows that an informer spends half his time giving his accountant instructions how to cheat his clients, and any spare moments seducing his secretary.

  Falco's secretary was lying against the pleasant scallop- shell bedhead reading a Greek novel. She doubled as Falco's accountant, which might explain her disillusioned manner. I did not attempt to seduce her. A tall, talented young woman, her expression hit me like a sudden gulp of snow-chilled wine. She was draped in white, with fine dark hair, loosely pinned up with ivory side combs. On a small table beside her lay a manicure set, a bowl of figs, and a shorthand copy of yesterday's Daily Gazette. With these she occupied her time while awaiting the master's return.

  This had left her copious spare capacity for inventing whiplash retorts.

  'How are you?' I enquired, tenderly checking up on her condition.

  'Angry.' She enjoyed being frank.

  'That's bad for the baby.'

  'Leave the baby out of this. I hope to shield the baby from knowing it has a father who is a degenerate stop-out whose respect for his home life is as minimal as his courtesy to me.'

  'Nice talking, Demosthenes! – Helena, my heart, you are angry!'

  'Yes, and it's bad for you.'

  'I do have an explanation.'

  'Don't make me tired, Falco.'

  'I've tried to produce something lucid and witty. Want to hear?'

  'No. I'll be happy with your shrieks of grief as a posse of soldiers marches you away.'

  'I made a stupid mistake, fruit. I had too much to drink and went home to the wrong house.'

  'Lucid,' she smiled weakly. 'Though only witty in the sense that it's ludicrous… Whose house?' Suspicion dies slowly.

  'Ours. Over the road. Whose did you think?' I jerked my head in the direction of my old apartment.

  Helena had always taken the line that she hated half the things I did – yet chose to believe that I told her the truth. In fact I did. She was too shrewd for deceit. In sudden relief she dropped her face in her hands and burst into tears. It was involuntary, but the worst punishment she could have chosen to whack me with.

  I reflected sadly on the fact I was still half drunk and bound to have the ghastly breath to prove it. Rubbing one hand over my chin, I met relentless stubble. Then I crossed the room and gathered my poor cumbersome darling into my arms, taking the opportunity to slide my own body alongside her on the bed.

  I had reached the point of comforting Helena just in time. I needed to get horizontal. The ravages of the night before would have had me keeling over otherwise.

  We were still there, collapsed in a comfortable mound, about an hour later. Helena had been holding me and staring at the ceiling. I was not asleep, just slowly recovering.

  'I love you,' I gurgled eventually, to take her mind off whatever dark thoughts held her transfixed.

  'You do know when to splash out on a romantic phrase!' She gripped me by the bristled chin and stared into my bleary eyes. A girl of great courage, even she went slightly pale. 'Falco, your raffish good looks are the worse for wear.'

  'You're a charitable woman.'

  'I'm a fool!' she frowned. Helena Justina knew she had let herself be lured into caring for an unsatisfactory lowlife who would only bring her sorrow. She had convinced herself she enjoyed the challenge. Her influence had already refined me, though I managed to conceal the evidence. 'Damn you, Marcus, I thought you had been carried away by the excitement of your orgy and were lying in the lap of a dancing girl.'

  I grinned. If Helena cared enough for me to be upset there was always hope. 'There was a dancing girl at the party but I had nothing to do with her. She was got up as Diana in a fraction of a costume. Spent her time leaning backwards so you could look right down -'

  'At your foodbowl, if you were sensible!'

  'Exactly,' I assured my beloved.

  She gave me a fierce hug; by accident I let out a revolting belch. 'Then I thought you had been set upon and were bleeding in a gutter somewhere.'

  'Just as well it didn't happen. I was carrying a valuable quantity of top-quality liquamen, which I managed to pinch from the party as a gift for my lady love, whose pregnancy has given her insatiable cravings for the most expensive kind of sauce.'

  'My unerring good taste! As a bribe, it's virtually enough,' she conceded. Always fair.

  'It's a whole amphora.'

  'That's the way to show your remorse!'

  'I had to borrow two slaves to drag it home.' 'My hero. So is it from Baetica?'

  'The label on the shoulder says Gades.'

  'Sure it's not just cheap old Muria?'

  'Do I look like a second-clas
s tunnyfish salesman? Entrails of prime mackerel, I promise you.' I had not tested the garum but the boast seemed safe. Given the high standard of food at the dinner, the condiments were bound to be excellent. 'Am I forgiven, then?'

  'For not knowing where you live?' she jibed pointedly. 'Yes, I'm suitably embarrassed.'

  Helena Justina smiled. 'I'm afraid you will have to face quite a lot more embarrassment. You see, Marcus my darling – I was so worried by your non-appearance that I rushed out at first light to see petronius Longus.' Petronius, my best friend, was not above sarcasm when it came to my escapades. He worked as an enquiry officer in the local watch. Helena gurgled prettily. 'I was distraught, Marcus. I insisted he get the vigiles to look everywhere for you…'

  Helena assumed the demure expression of a girl who intended to enjoy herself, knowing I was condemned to suffer in a very public manner. She did not need to continue. Everyone on the Aventine would have heard that I disappeared last night. And whatever lies about my drunken return I tried telling, the true story was bound to come out.

  VI

  Luckily Petronius must have had enough to do chasing real villains. He had no time to come looking for me.

  I spent my morning in modest domestic pursuits. Sleeping. Asking for headache remedies. Giving attention to the selfless woman who had chosen to spend her life with me.

  Then a distraction turned up. We heard a man who was hot and fractious arriving on the outer stairs. We ignored the noise until he burst in on us. It was Claudius Laeta: he seemed to expect rather more ceremony than the quiet stare he received from both of us.

  I had got myself bathed, shaved, massaged, combed, dressed in a clean tunic, revitalised with several pints of cold water, then further nourished with a simple meal of lightly cooked cucumber in eggs. I was sitting like a decent householder at my own table, talking to my own woman and politely allowing her to select whatever subject she liked. The chat was undemanding because Helena had her mouth full of mustcake. She had bought it for herself that morning, half suspecting I would turn up eventually with some disgraceful tale. There had been no suggestion of offering me any.