A dying light in Corduba mdf-8

by Lindsey Davis

  Placidus had put himself out for me. He looked pleased with his success, but he had paid a dangerous penalty. His wound was deep and nasty. 'What's the damage, Falco?'

  'You'll live – though once the pain sets in you're going to know all about this.'

  'Ah well, the scar should be interesting.'

  'I can think of easier ways to excite rumours!' 'I'll be all right. You go after the girl.'

  If we had been anywhere respectable I would have done.

  I could not abandon Placidus in this seedy area where the dancer might have friends. A crowd was gathering. They were silent and still; I would not trust them. No one offered assistance but at least nobody tried to interfere.

  I made the man with the limp stand up and walk ahead of me with my knife against his back. Supporting the procurator with my free arm, I slowly set off on a difficult trip to find the nearest guardpost of the local watch.

  Fortunately it was not too far. Rather than have placidus faint at their feet, folk did give us directions. The glare I gave them persuaded them to tell us right.

  We limped there safely. My prisoner was locked in the cell. Officers went off to bring in his companion. Placidus was carefully stretched out, bathed and bandaged; at first he protested volubly, then he suddenly passed out and made no more fuss. I led a search that lasted the rest of the day, but Selia had slipped away somewhere. I am a realist. She could have gone in any direction, and would be miles from Hispalis by now.

  At least I knew something about her. She had lied about most of it, but sinister patterns were emerging. Events had moved on. Suspects had laughed at me and beaten me up, but I had sized up the opposition – including the man who had commissioned me.

  If her claim to be working for Laeta was right, Selia and I took our wages from the same soiled hands. I had no real job; I could not rely on being paid. On these terms I was not even sure I wanted to be.

  It was time to return to Corduba. I badly needed to discuss all this with Helena. And if she agreed, I could ditch the whole filthy business and go home to Rome.

  LI

  I rode back to Corduba even faster than I had come. I was glad I was not journeying in July or August, but even so the weather was uncomfortable enough to remind me this was the hottest part of Spain. Around me, covering the alluvial plain to the south of the River Baetis, lay the finest olive groves in Baetica. For oil rather than fruit, maybe the best olives in the world. Beyond the river even in the baking sun all the hills were green. Trees and shrubs flourished. I was crossing a bowl of abundant fertility, yet my mood remained grim.

  For one thing, I was worried about Helena. There was nothing I could do about that. At least I was on my way back to her.

  And I now had a new problem. I had not told poor Placidus, who was in enough misery with his wound, but what I had learned from the dancer filled me with dread If Selia really had been working for Laeta, the attacks in Rome made one kind of sense: I was involved in a power struggle – as I had all along suspected – between two arms of palace offrcialdom. It looked darker and more bloody than I would have expected, but it was internal.

  Whatever was going on here in Baetica might not matter to anybody back in Rome. The oil cartel could merely be the excuse Laeta and Anacrites used to perpetuate their rivalry. Or Laeta had used it on his own. Much as I loathed Anacrites, he was beginning to look like an innocent victim. He might have been just doing his job, decently attempting to protect a valuable commodity. Perhaps he was unaware of the threat from Laeta. When I saw them together at the dinner they had sparred verbally, but there was no sense that the spy suspected Laeta might actually be preparing to pick him off. Him and his best agent – a man I reckoned I would have liked.

  I could walk away from the palace intrigue – but the dead Valentinus would continue to haunt me.

  The scenario stank. I was furious that I had ever become involved. Helena's father had warned me that whatever was happening among the Palatine magnates would be something to avoid. I should have known all along how I was being used. Well, of course I did know, but I let it happen anyway. My mission was a bluff – if Laeta hired Selia to attack Anacrites, he must have brought me in merely to cover his own tracks. He could pretend publicly that he was searching for culprits, though all he wanted was power. He must have believed I would fail to find Selia. Maybe he even supposed I would be so entranced with the importance of investigating a provincial cartel, I would forget to look for her at all. Did he hope I would be killed off in the attempt? Well, thanks, Laeta! Anacrites at least would have shown greater faith in my tenacity.

  Perhaps instead Laeta wanted me to kill Selia, because she would know how he came to power.

  As for the quaestor and his bumptious senator father, they looked like mere adjuncts to this story. I could only warn the Emperor that Quinctius Attractus was assuming too much power in Baetica. The proconsul would have to deal with Quadratus. I was treading on sliding scree, and I could risk nothing more. No informer accuses a senator of anything unless he is sure of support. I was sure of nothing.

  I decided I did not want Claudius Laeta to acquire more power. If Anacrites died, Laeta could take over his empire; once in charge, whether he was bothered about the price of olive oil looked doubtful to me. I had heard for myself how Laeta was obsessed with the trappings of success with which Anacrites had surrounded himself: the suite in the Palace of the Caesars, the villa at Baiae. Laeta's personal ambition looked clear enough. And it relied on undetected manoeuvring. He certainly would not want me popping up in Rome to say he had paid Selia to eliminate Anacrites. Vespasian would never stand for it.

  Maybe I would have to use this knowledge to protect myself. I was perfectly prepared to do so, to secure my own position – yet dear gods, the last thing I really wanted at this point in my life was a powerful politician nervous about what I might know.

  I would have to fight him ruthlessly. It was his own fault. He was leaving me no choice.

  I spent two days riding hard with muscles that had already ached and a brain that swam. I was so tired when I reached the mansio at Corduba I nearly fell on to a pallet and stayed there overnight. But I needed to see Helena. That kept me on my feet. I recovered the horse Optatus had lent me to come into town, and forced myself to stay upright on it all the way home to the Camillus estate.

  Everything looked normal. It was dark, so the watchdogs set up a hectic yammering at my approach. When I led the horse to the stable a slave appeared to look after him, so I was spared that. The slave looked at me shiftily, as most villa rustica staff do. Without a word, I left my baggage roll and limped slowly to the house.

  Nobody was about. A few dim lamps lit the corridor. I was too weary to call out. I went to the kitchen, which was where I expected to find everyone. Only the cook and other house-slaves were there. They all froze when I appeared. Then Marius Optatus broke in through another door opposite.

  He was holding a leash; he must have been to investigate what had disturbed the dogs. His face was grey, his manner agitated even before he saw me.

  'Falco, you're back!'

  'What's wrong?'

  He made a vague, helpless gesture with the hand that held the dog-leash. 'There has been a tragic accident -'

  I was already on my way, running like a madman to the room I shared with Helena.

  LII

  'Marcus!'

  She was there. Alive. Larger than ever; still pregnant. Whole. Sound.

  I fell to my knees beside the chair as she struggled to rise and took her in my arms. 'Oh dear gods…' My breath rasped in huge painful gulps.

  Helena was crying. She had been crying before I crashed into the room. Now instead she was calming me, holding my face between her hands, her light rapid kisses on my eyes both soothing and greeting me.

  'Optatus said there had been an accident -'

  'Oh my darling! It's neither of us.' She laid my hand upon the unborn child, either to comfort me or herself, or to give the baby notice t
hat I was home again. It seemed a formal, archaic gesture. I tickled the child and then kissed her, both with deliberate informality.

  'I should bathe. I stink and I'm filthy -'

  'And half dead on your feet. I had a feeling – I've ordered hot water to be kept for you. Shall I come and scrape you down?'

  'That's more pleasure than I can cope with…' I rose from my kneeling position beside her wicker chair. 'Stay and rest. But you'd better tell me about this accident.'

  'Later.'

  I drew a finger across her tear-stained cheek. 'No, now.'

  Helena said nothing. I knew why she was being stubborn. I had left her. Something terrible had happened, which she had had to cope with on her own, so now I had lost my rights.

  We gazed at one another quietly. Helena looked pale, and she had her hair completely loose, which was rare for her. Whatever had happened, part of her unhappiness was because she had been alone here without me. Well, I was home now.

  Lindsey Davis

  A Dying Light in Corduba

  In the dim light of a single oil lamp, Helena's eyes were nearly black. They searched my face for my own news, and for whatever I was feeling towards her. Whenever we had been apart there was this moment of readjustment; the old challenge was reissued, the new peace had to be reaffirmed.

  'You can tell me I shouldn't have gone away – but do it after you explain what's been happening.'

  She sighed. 'You being here wouldn't have changed anything. There has just been a terrible accident. It's young Rufius,' she told me. Rufius Constans. He was working on an oil press on his grandfather's estate when one of the quernstones slipped and crushed him. He was alone when it must have happened. By the time somebody found him he was dead.'

  'Yes, that's a dreadful thing to have happened…' Constans had been young and full of promise; I felt bitterly depressed. Helena was expecting my next reaction. I tipped my head on one side. 'He was alone? Nobody else was with him?'

  'No Marcus,' she replied softly. I knew that, trained by me to be sceptical in every situation, they had already spent time wondering, just as I was doing now. 'No; I can see what you are thinking. But there is no possibility of mischief.'

  'No special crony lending Constans a hand with the oil press?'

  'No. Quinctius Quadratus was out of action; I can vouch for that myself.'

  I took her word. I was too tired to concern myself with how she knew.

  I held out my hand and now she let herself take it. 'Have you been fighting?' Helena could always spot the damage. 'Just a few knocks. Did you miss me?'

  'Badly. Was your trip useful?'

  'Yes.'

  'That makes it all right then.'

  'Does it? I don't think so, love!' Suddenly unable to bear being apart from her, I tightened my grip to pull her up from the chair. 'Come and wield a strigil for me, sweet-heart. I'll never reach my own back tonight.'

  We had edged around my guilt and her withdrawal. Helena Justina held herself against me for a moment, her soft cheek pressed to my stubbled one, then she took my arm, ready to walk with me to the bath-house. 'Welcome home,' she whispered, and I knew she meant it now.

  LIII

  The bath-house at the villa was designed for hardy old republicans. I won't say it was crude, but if anyone hankered for the unluxurious days of dark, narrow bathing places with mere slits for windows, this was ideal. You undressed in the cold room. Unguents were stored on a shelf in the warm room, which was certainly not very warm at night; you got up a sweat by vigorously shaking an oil jar to try to dislodge the congealed contents.

  A single stoker kept the fire alight and brought water in buckets. He had gone for his supper but was summoned back. Since the bath was reserved for Optatus, Helena and myself, plus any visitors, he seemed glad of a rare chance to show off his skills. We needed him this evening. The promised hot water had been used up by someone else.

  'That's just typical!' Helena stormed moodily. 'I've had three days of this, Marcus, and I'm ready to scream.'

  I was stripping, very slowly. I hung my foul togs on my favourite hook, tossing aside a blue tunic that had been left by some previous bather. Nobody was in evidence now, which was just as well. Helena insisted on kneeling to unstrap my boots for me. I helped her upright, then kept hold of her. 'What's the matter, fruit?'

  She took a deep breath. 'I have about four different events to relate; I've been trying to keep them neatly arranged in my mind -'

  'You're so organised!' I threw back my head, smiling at the anticipated luxury of listening to Helena. 'A lot has been happening? You mean Constans?'

  'Oh…' Helena closed her eyes. The young man's death had affected her profoundly. 'Oh Marcus, I was with his sister and Aelia Annaea when the news was brought; I feel I'm part of it.'

  'But you said it was an accident. Truly?'

  'It had to be. I told you; he was alone. It was such a shock. Everyone is very distressed. His sister is so young. I have not seen his grandparents, but we've all been imagining how distraught they must be -' She stopped, and suddenly became weepy again. Helena rarely gave way like that.

  'Start from the beginning,' I said, stroking her neck.

  Taking a lamp, we walked through a heavy door into the so-called warm room. This part of the bath-house was deadened to sound by the thickness of its walls, though somewhere at the far end of the hotter room I could hear vague shovelling sounds as the slave began replenishing the fire; the rattling and bumping noises travelled through the floor. Helena Justina rested on the low ledge against one wall as I worried a flask to extract a few dribbles of oil. She had presumably bathed once today, so she retained her undertunic modestly and forwent the full cleansing procedure.

  She linked her hands and began rather formally: The first thing, Marcus, was that I had a letter from home – from my brother Justinus.'

  'The lad! How is he?'

  'Still in love with his actress.'

  'It's just a crush.'

  'So it's dangerous! Well, he's been working hard on Aelianus anyway, which he complains cost him a lot of drinks. Aelianus is feeling terribly guilty; his friend Cornelius, the one who wrote the famous secret dispatch, has written from Athens telling Aelianus not to talk about it to anyone called Quinctius.'

  'But Aelianus had already done that?'

  'Apparently.'

  'He told me he fell out with Quadratus when your father was being cheated over the oil pressing.'

  'Well, quarrels don't last among lads. But Aelianus now says he and Quadratus did meet in Rome, though it wasn't a success. Their row in Baetica had soured the friendship so by the time of that dinner it had cooled permanently.' 'Too late!'

  'I'm afraid so. Justinus has found out that Aelianus has been bottling up a disaster. Before he went to the Palace, he had had the report with him at the Quinctius house. He left it with his cloak, and when he collected it the seal looked different. He picked it open again – as he confessed to you, he had actually read it once – the second time the letter had been altered to give a quite different assessment of how serious the cartel was.'

  I nodded. 'So either Quadratus or his father Attractus deliberately tried to underplay the situation. Did Aelianus challenge his pal?'

  'Yes, and that was when they quarrelled again. Then Aelianus was frightened that he couldn't alter the scroll any more without making a thorough mess of it, so he just handed it in to Anacrites and hoped everything would be all right.' Helena sucked her lip. 'I have strong views on Quadratus – which I'll come to next!'

  'How has he been annoying you?'

  'He'll annoy you too, because we've been landed here with the dreadful bull-necked, spoiled-brat, insensitive rich girls' delight "Tiberius" himself.'

  'Here?

  'It's your fault.'

  'Naturally!' I know my place. Helena was clearly furious; I kept hold of the oil flask in case she let fly with it. 'Even though I was a hundred miles away?'

  'Afraid so.' She had the grace to grin at
me. I put down the oil flask. Helena Justina had a smile that could freeze all my capillaries. Our eyes met, a glance that was rich with feeling and memory. Only friends can exchange so much, so rapidly. 'It was because of your horse, Prancer.'

  'Prancer belongs to Annaeus Maximus.'

  'And you lent him to Quadratus and Constans. Quadratus brought him back.'

  'I told him not to.'

  'Well, isn't that just like him?' Her voice grated. 'And now the irritating creature has come to stay here, where everyone loathes him, and he's using all the bath water! – If I challenge him about it he will apologise so politely I'll want to hit him with an oven hook. I can't prove that he does it deliberately, but he makes life a trial from morning to night for everyone around him.'

  I tutted. 'He has to be a villain. I'll prove it yet! – But Helena, my heart, you still haven't told me: why has this social woodlouse become our guest?'

  'Your horse threw him. He has hurt his back.'

  'I won't hear another word against Prancer: the horse has taste!' I cried.

  Growing too cold, we both stepped into wooden-soled clogs and braved the steam of the hot room. Helena took a bronze strigil and started scraping me down while I braced my aching limbs against her steady strokes. I could take as much of that as she was prepared to indulge me with, especially now that her mood had softened up.

  'So Quadratus is bedridden?'

  No such luck. He can shuffle about. Everywhere Optatus and I try to go, he appears, making himself agreeable.'

  'That's disgusting!'

  'He decided it was courteous to take an interest in my pregnancy. He keeps asking questions I don't want to think about. He's worse than my mother.'

  'The man's a complete lout. Worse than a girl's mother? That's as low as he can get! By the way, how is your pregnancy?'