A dying light in Corduba mdf-8

by Lindsey Davis

  'It was all so sensitive.'

  'He dictated the report to you though. What did it say?' 'Cornelius had concluded that people might want to inflate the price of olive oil.'

  'More than general overcharging?'

  'Much more.'

  'Systematic fixing?'

  'Yes.'

  Did he name names?'

  'No.'

  'Still, he thought that if action was taken quickly the cartel could be nipped in the bud?'

  'Did he?' asked the scribe.

  'It is a customary phrase. I was told that was his verdict.'

  'People are always repeating wrong statements that are supposed to be in reports,' said the scribe, as if the very untidiness of the habit upset him. Something else was annoying me: Camillus Aelianus had apparently lied to me about this point.

  'So Cornelius felt the situation was serious? Who was supposed to act on it?'

  'Rome. Or Rome would order action by us – but they preferred to send their own investigator. Isn't that why you are here?'

  I smiled – though the fact was, with Anacrites out of it and Laeta so untrustworthy, I had no idea.

  XXIV

  There was no hope of further help: today was a public holiday. Informers work loose hours and try to ignore such things, but everyone else in the Empire realised that this was eleven days before the Kalends of May – the big spring festival. The governor's palace had been working for a couple of hours, following the fine tradition of pretending that state business is too important to stop. But uow even the palace was closing down, and I had to leave.

  After walking uphill again, I found Marmarides in a tavern; I left him there. Helena was moping in the basilica entrance in the forum, looking at plans for a spanking new Temple of the Imperial Cult; she was clearly bored and it was time to remove her before she tried chalking faces on the Corinthian columns in the elegant design elevations. Ceremonies were about to start in any case.

  I slipped my hand around hers and we walked slowly down the flight of steps among increasing crowds, Helena being careful to keep her balance. Reaching street level we dodged acolytes with incense-sprinklers as they gathered for a sacrifice.

  'That looked a zippy new hexastyle portico they're going to build for the Imperial Cult!'

  'When you start spouting architecture, I know you're in trouble,' she said.

  'I'm not in trouble – but somebody soon will be.'

  She gave me a sceptical look, then made some dry comment about the crisp modelling of the proposed temple's capitals. I said I wondered who would pay for this fine community monument. The citizens of Rome, perhaps, through exorbitantly priced olive oil.

  I told Helena today's events as we found a space in the piazza, to view whatever was about to happen. Corduba is set on rising ground, the older part with a maze of narrow streets which come up from the river, its houses close set to keep out the hot sun. These byways lead uphill to the public buildings where we now were. Helena must have surveyed the small forum pretty well while she was waiting for me, but the festival pageantry revived her. 'So the proconsul has given you permission to operate in his territory. You're looking, without much hope, for a dancing girl who kills people -'

  'Yes, but I imagine somebody hired her to do it.'

  Tor which your group of suspects are the Baeticans you saw at the dinner: Aimaeus, Licinius, Cyzacus and Norbanus. Optatus told us Quinctius Attractus has been making overtures to other people too-'

  'He would have to. Price-rigging only works if all the producers band together.'

  'But the ones who were in Rome when Valentinus was killed have made themselves suspects you have to concentrate on.'

  'It could be just their hard luck that they got themselves tangled up in a killing. But yes; it's those I'm after.'

  Helena always considered every possibility: 'I suppose you don't think the dancing girl and her accomplices could be ordinary thieves whose method is to size up guests at parties then rob the rich ones as they stagger home drunk?'

  'They didn't pick the rich ones, sweetheart; they jumped the Chief Spy and his agent.'

  'So you definitely think the attacks are linked to what's going on in Baetica?'

  'Yes, and showing that the Baetican visitors were involved in the attacks will not only do right by Valentinus, but ought to discredit the whole conspiracy.'

  Helena grinned. 'It's a pity you can't talk to the muchadmired Cornelius. Who do you think has paid for his "chance to see the world before he settles down"?'

  'A gold-laden grandpa I expect. Types in those posts always have them.'

  'The proconsul sounds very suspicious of the new incumbent. Surely that's unusual? The lad hasn't even started yet.'

  'It confirms that his father is regarded as a bad influence in Baetica.'

  'The proconsul would be too tactful to libel Attractus of course…'

  'He was! I could tell he dislikes the man, though – or at least he dislikes the kind of pushiness Attractus represents.'

  'Marcus, since Attractus himself isn't here you may be forced to have a look at his son. Have you brought your hunting spears?'

  'Jupiter, no!' I had brought a sword for protection, though. 'Given the chance to pursue wolves around a wild peninsula with my old friend Petronius I'd jump – but the quaestor will have gone on a rich idiots' trip. If there's one thing I can't stand it's a week of camping in a forest with a group of braying bastards whose idea of fun is sticking javelins into beasts that thirty slaves and a pack of vicious hounds have conveniently driven into nets.'

  'And no women,' Helena nodded, apparently sympathetically.

  I ignored the jibe. 'Too much drink; too much noise; half-cooked, half-warm greasy meat; and listening to boasts and filthy jokes.'

  'Oh dear! And you the refined, sensitive type who just wants to sit under a thorn bush all day in a clean tunic with a scroll of epic poetry!'

  'That's me. An olive tree on your father's farm will do.' 'just Virgil and a sliver of goat's cheese?'

  'Seeing we're here, I'd better say Lucan; he's a Corduban poet. Plus your sweet head upon my knee, of course.'

  Helena smiled. I was pleased to see it. She had been looking tense when I found her at the basilica but a mixture of banter and flattery had softened her.

  We watched a pontifex or flamen, one of the priests of the imperial cult, make a sacrifice at an altar set up in the open forum. A middle-aged, portly Baeticau with a jolly expression, he wore a purple robe and a pointed, conical hat. He was attended by assistants who were probably freed slaves, but he himself flashed the equestrian ring and was a citizen of social solidity. He had probably held a senior military post in the legions, and maybe a local magistracy, but he looked a decent jolly soul as he rapidly cut a few animals' throats, then led out a fitful procession to celebrate the Feast of the Parilia, the lustration of the flocks.

  We stood respectfully in the colonnade while the troop of civic dignitaries squashed by, on their way to the theatre where a day of fun would take place. The procession was accompanied by some worried sheep and a skipping calf who clearly had not been told he was to form the next sacrifice. Persons who were pretending to be shepherds came past with brooms, supposedly for sweeping out stables; they also carried implements to light fumigatory fires. A couple of public slaves, clearly fire watchers, followed them with a water bucket, looking hopeful. Since the Parilia is not just any old rustic festival but the birthday of Rome, I bit back a surge of patriotic emotion (that's my story). A personification of Roma armed with shield and spear and a crescent moon on her helmet, swayed dangerously on a litter midway down the line. Helena half turned and muttered sarcastically, 'Roma Resurgans is rather perilous on her palanquin!'

  'Show some respect, bright eyes.'

  An offrcial statue of the Emperor teetered before us and nearly toppled over. This time Helena obediently said nothing, though she glanced at me with such a riotous expression that while the wobbly image of Vespasian was being steadied by
its bearers I had to pretend a coughing fit. Helena Justina had never been a model for perfect sculptural beauty; but in a happy mood she had life in every flicker of her eyelashes (which were in my opinion as fine as any in the Empire). Her sense of humour was wicked. Seeing a noble matron mock the Establishment always had a bad effect on me. I mouthed a kiss, looking moody. Helena ignored me and found another tableau to giggle at.

  Then, following her line of sight, I spotted a familiar face. One of the broad burghers of Corduba was sidestepping the shepherds as they wrestled with a wilful sheep. I recognised him at once, but a quick check with someone in the crowd confirmed his name: Annaeus Maximus. One of the two major oil producers at the dinner on the Palatine.

  'One of those puffed-up dignitaries is on my list. This seems a good opportunity to talk to a suspect…'

  I tried to persuade Helena to wait for me at a streetside foodshop. She fell silent in a way that told' me I had two choices: either to abandon her, and see her walk away from me for ever (except perhaps for a brief return visit to dump the baby on me) – or else I had to take her along.

  I attempted the old trick of holding her face between my hands, and gazing into her eyes with an adoring expression.

  'You're wasting time,' Helena told me quietly. The bluff had failed. I made one more attempt, squashing the tip of her nose with the end of my finger while smiling at her beseechingly. Helena bit my playful digit.

  'Ow!' I sighed. 'What's wrong, my love?'

  'I'm starting to feel too much alone.' She knew this was not the moment for a domestic heart-to-heart. Still, it never is the right time. It was better for her to be abruptly honest, standing beside a flower stall in a narrow Corduban street, than to bottle up her feelings and end up badly quarrelling later. Better – but extremely inconvenient while a man I wanted to interview was scuttling away amongst the ceremonial throng.

  'I do understand.' It sounded glib.

  'Oh do you?' I noticed the same frowning and withdrawn expression Helena had been wearing when I found her outside the basilica.

  'Why not? You're stuck with having the baby – and obviously I can never know what that's like. But maybe I have troubles too. Maybe I'm starting to feel overwhelmed by the responsibility of being the one who has to look after all of us -'

  'Oh, I expect you'll cope!' she complained, almost to herself. 'And I'll be poked out of the way!' She was perfectly aware it was her own fault she was stuck on her feet in a hot noisy street in Baetica.

  XXV

  Later that day, after a few enquiries, I left by the northwestern gate. Annaeus Maximus owned a lovely home outside the town walls, where he could plot the next elections with his cronies and his wife could run her salon for other elegant socially prominent women, while their children all went to the bad. Beyond the cemetery lining the route out of town lay a small group of large houses. An enclave of peace for the rich – disturbed only by the yapping of their hunting dogs, the snorting of their horses, the rioting of their children, the quarrelling of their slaves and the carousing of their visitors. As town houses go, the Annaeus spread was more of a pavilion in a park. I found it easy to identify – lit throughout, including the long carriage drive and surrounding garden terraces. Fair enough. If a man happens to be an olive oil tycoon, he can afford a lot of lamps.

  The clique we had seen at the theatre were now assembling for a dinner party at this well-lit house with garlanded porticos and smoking torches in every acanthus bed. Men on splendid horses were turning up every few minutes, alongside gilded carriages which contained their over-indulged wives. I recognised many of the faces from the front rows at the theatre. Amidst the coming and going I also met the shepherds from the parilia parade; they may indeed have been here for ritual purification rites in the stables, though I thought it more likely they were actors who had come to be paid for their day's work in town. There were a few shepherdesses among them, including one with hugely knowing dark brown eyes. Once I would have tried to put a light of my own into eyes like that. But I was a responsible father-to-be now. Besides, I could never take to women with straw in their hair.

  I made myself known to an usher. Baetican hospitality is legendary. He asked me to wait while he informed his master I was here, and as the whole house was pervaded by delicious cooking smells I promised myself I might be offered a piquant dish or two. There was bound to be plenty. Excess breathed off the frescoed walls. However, I soon learned that the Cordubans were as sophisticated as Romans. They knew how to treat an informer – even when he described himself as a 'state official and associate of your neighbour Camillus'. 'Associates' received short commons in Corduba – not so much as a drink of water. What's more, I had to wait a damned long time before I got noticed at all.

  It was evening. I had set out from town in the light, but the fitst stars were winking over the distant Mariana mountains when I was led outside to meet Annaeus Maximus. He had been mingling with his guests on one of the terraces, where they were soon to hold an outdoor feast, as is traditional at the Parilia. The supposed shepherds had really been setting fire to sulphur, rosemary, firwood and incense in at least one of the many stables so the smoke would purify the rafters. Now heaps of hay and straw were being burned on the well-scythed lawns, so that a few by now extremely tired sheep could be compelled to run through the fires. It's hard work being a ceremonial flock. The poor beasts had been on their trotters all day, and now they had to endure being ritually lustrated while humans stood around being sprinkled with scented water and sipping bowls of milk. Most of the men had one eye out for the wine amphorae, while the women kept flapping their hands about, in the vain hope of preventing their fabulous gowns being imbued with lustral smoke.

  I was kept well back in a colonnade, and it wasn't to protect me from the sparks. The invited guests began to seat themselves for the feast out amongst the regimented topiary, then Annaeus stomped up to deal with me. He looked annoyed. Somehow I have that effect.

  'What's this about?'

  'My name is Didius Falco. I have been sent from Rome.'

  'You say you're a relative of Camillus?'

  'I have a connection -' Among snobs, and in a foreign country, I had no qualms about acquiring a respectable patina by shameless usage of my girlfriend's family. In Rome I would have been more circumspect.

  'I don't know the man,' Annaeus snapped. 'He's never ventured out to Baetica. But we met the son, of course. Knew my three boys.'

  The reference to Aelianus sounded gruff, though that could be the man's normal manner. I said I hoped Helena's brother had not made himself a nuisance – though I wished he had, and that I was about to hear details I could use against him later. But Annaeus Maximus merely growled, 'High spirits! There's a daughter who's got herself in trouble, I heard?' News flies round!

  'The noble Helena Justina,' I said calmly, 'should be described as high-minded rather than high-spirited.'

  He stared at me closely. 'Are you the man involved?'

  I folded my arms. I was still wearing my toga, as I had been all day. Nobody else here was bothering with such formality; provincial life has some benefits. Instead of feeling civilised, being overdressed made me hot and slightly seedy. The fact that my toga had an indelible stain on its long edge and several moth-holes did not help.

  Annaeus Maximus was viewing me like a tradesman who had called with a reckoning at an inconvenient time. 'I have guests waiting. Tell me what you want.'

  'You and I have met, sir.' I pretended to stare at the bats swooping into the torchlight above the laughing diners' heads. I was really watching him. Maybe he realised. He appeared to be intelligent. He ought to be. The Annaei were not country bumpkins.

  'Yes?'

  'In view of your reputation and your position I'll talk straight. I saw you recently in Rome, at the Palace of the Caesars, where you were a guest of a private club who call themselves the Society of Olive Oil Producers of Baetica.

  Most neither own olives nor produce oil. Few come from
this province. However, it is believed that among your own group the oil industry in Hispania was the topic under discussion, and that the reason is an unhealthy one.'

  'That is an atrocious suggestion!'

  'It's realistic. Every province has its own cartel. That doesn't mean rigging the price of olive oil is something Rome can tolerate. You know how it would affect the Empire's economy.'

  'Disastrous,' he agreed. 'It will not happen.'

  'You are a prominent man, Annaeus. Your family produced both Senecas and the poet Lucan. Then Nero left you with two enforced suicides because Seneca had been too outspoken and Lucan allegedly dabbled in plots – Tell me, sir, as a result of what happened to your relatives, do you hate Rome?'

  'There is more to Rome than Nero,' he said, not disputing my assessment of his family's reduced position.

  'You could be in the Senate; your financial position entitles you.'

  'I prefer not to move to Rome.'

  'Some would say it was your civic duty.'

  'My family have never shirked our duty. Corduba is our home.'

  'But Rome's the place!'

  'I prefer to live modestly in my own city, applying myself to business.' If Seneca, Nero's tutor, was renowned for his dry Stoicism and wit, his descendant had failed to inherit this. Maximus became merely pompous: 'The oil producers of Baetica have always done business fairly. Suggesting otherwise is scandalous.'

  I laughed quietly, unmoved by the feeble threat. 'If there is a cartel, I'm here to expose the perpetrators. As a duovir – and a legitimate trader – I assume I can count on your support?'

  'Obviously,' stated the host of the feast, making it plain he was now returning to the singed meats at his open-air barbecue.

  'One more thing – there was a dancer at that dinner; she came from this area. Do you know her?'

  'I do not.' He did look surprised at the question, though of course he would deny a connection if he knew what she had done.

  'I'm glad to hear it,' I said coldly. 'She's wanted for murder now. And tell me, why did you leave Rome so abruptly?'