A dying light in Corduba mdf-8

by Lindsey Davis

  'That is perfectly true,' I declared. So it was. Idiots with no sense of ethics are elected to the Senate every day. Some of them are bound to get dumped in important financial posts. 'But be lenient,' I teased him. 'You do meet the occasional eccentric governor who criticises his quaestor on the grounds that the lad has read Plato's Academy yet can't tell which way up an abacus should stand.'

  Quadratus was letting himself get snappy: 'There are very competent people to do the sums, Falco!' True. And just as well, when the man who should be making decisions on the basis of those sums was unable to understand what the figures meant or whether his staff had fiddled them – and when he had told me he did not think there was any point in trying anyway. Quadratus ran his hands through his fine head of hair, looking troubled. 'I have done nothing wrong.'

  I smiled. 'Criminals say that every day. It makes life very hard for innocent men: all the good speeches are used up.'

  Quadratus frowned. 'So where does that put me?'

  I assumed an expression of surprise. I was enjoying myself. It was time to force the issue too: 'Doing your job, I suggest.' If my doubts about Laeta's purely personal interest were right, there was no point expecting him to pursue the Quinctii once he had snatched Anacrites' position. I may as well give this one a chance to damn himself in office. 'Why not prove the proconsul wrong?

  You came to Baetica to fill the quaestorship. The efficient management of your function is the best way to demonstrate your quality. Just tell him hunting's lost its allure, and you're back in harness. Either he'll accept it with good grace, or he'll have to dismiss you and you can go to Rome to fight your case officially.'

  He looked at me as if I had just revealed the secrets of eternity. 'By Jove, I will! You are right, Falco!' He beamed. The transformation had been slick. No longer the suffering accused, he was so used to his family brazenly grabbing whatever they wanted, he now burst with confidence that he could force the proconsul to act as he desired. The coming confrontation might be more interesting than Quadratus realised. 'So you're not hounding me, after all?'

  I smiled. Let him think that. 'First, quaestor, I shall place my carriage at your disposal to return you to your father's estate.'

  'Of course; you must be sick of me. I'm sorry to be a burden. I've been looked after splendidly!'

  'Think nothing of it,' smiled Helena.

  'But I can't possibly take your carriage.'

  'Well, you can't ride Prancer again.'

  'That demon! I ordered Optatus to put him down -'

  'Prancer does not belong to Optatus,' I interposed coldly. 'His owner is Annaeus Maximus, and his current trustee is me. He threw you; that is what horses do. You were hurt; that was your risk when you mounted him. I'm no horseman, but Prancer never gave me any trouble. Maybe you upset the beast.'

  Swift to back off, he answered quietly, 'As you say, Falco.' Then he turned to Claudia Rufina. 'If I'm leaving, I can easily take you home at the same time.'

  'I wouldn't hear of it,' I told him. If Rufius Constans had known something about the cartel, whoever wanted him silenced might wonder if he had talked about it to Claudia. If Claudia was correct in thinking her brother had been murdered, then she herself needed to be guarded – even from suspects with firm alibis. I was not having her left alone with the son of the man who was running the cartel. Quadratus, you need to travel the shortest way, for the sake of your sprained back. Helena and I will escort Claudia in her grandfather's carriage -'

  'Maybe Tiberius would be more comfortable in that one,' suggested Claudia suddenly. 'It has a seat that cau be pulled out flat so he can lie at full stretch.'

  I accepted the arrangement. Helena and I would escort Claudia in our own carriage. We would be going by way of the scene of the accident – though I did not tell the charming Tiberius that.

  LVI

  We all set out together in a procession of two carriages, but I had instructed the Rufius driver to maintain a dead slow speed, in order to protect the wounded gentleman. That enabled Marmarides to move ahead and lose them. I felt better after that, even though for much of the journey we were driving through the spreading fields of the Quinctius estate. I had ridden on top with Marmarides, leaving the women together, though Helena told me afterwards they had made a silent couple, with Claudia Rufina staring numbly into space. She had probably run out of energy and been overtaken at last by shock.

  The scene of the young man's death had been marked by a portable altar. It stood at the roadside, so nobody could pass without taking note of the tragedy. On the slab stood flowers, bowls of oil, and wheaten cakes. A slave we found slumbering in the shade of a chestnut tree was supposed to be on guard at the sad shrine.

  I remembered the place. The Rufius oil presses were in a yard before the main house; it was attached to what would have been the original farm, a villa rustica in an older style that had been abandoned when the family became prosperous and opted for a larger, more lavish and urban home. The old house was probably now occupied by bailiffs and overseers, though in the daytime it was normally deserted as they were all out in the fields and olive groves. That was how it must have been yesterday when young Rufius came out here.

  I jumped down quickly as Marmarides pulled up. The main estate road ran through this yard. Marmarides made the mules wheel and parked the carriage on the shady side, where a horse was already tethered; I patted the animal as I went past and found its flanks warm from a recent ride. A flock of white geese came strutting towards me menacingly, but the slave who was guarding the shrine took a stick and drove them away.

  There were various outbuildings into which I glanced: stables and plough stores, a wine cellar, a threshing floor, and finally the oil production area. This was roofed, but the wall that faced the yard comprised huge folding doors, presumably to allow access for carts; in summer they were left standing open.

  Two rooms were used for oil production, which was normal on most farms. The outer one contained two presses, as well as vats let into the floor. Here there was no sign of Constans' death. The vats would be used for ladling out the pressed oil, allowing it to rest and separate from its other liquid as many as thirty times. Giant ladles were hung on the walls, along with a large quantity of esparto bags. I was examining these when somebody ducked in through the arch from the adjacent room and said at once, 'Those are used to hold the pulp as it is pressed.'

  It was Marius Optatus. Having seen his horse outside I was expecting him, though I wondered what in Hades he was doing here. He went on quietly, 'About twenty-five or thirty bags are piled up, with metal plates between them occasionally to hold them firm -' He gestured to the further room from which he had come. 'Constans died in there.'

  Behind me in the yard I could hear Helena and Claudia dismounting slowly from the carriage, Helena trying to delay the girl so I would have time to view the scene alone. Optatus heard them too and looked concerned at their presence. I stepped into the yard and called to Helena to stay outside. Then I followed Optatus into the inner room.

  Light struggled to infiltrate through slits in the northfacing walls. I stood for a moment, accustoming my eyes to the half-dark of the small room. A faint rich smell remained from last year's olives. The confined space was quiet, though we could hear the remote sounds of voices from the yard. The boy's body had been removed. It looked as if everything else had then been abandoned as it was.

  'This is where the first crushing takes place,' Optatus explained. 'The fruit is picked, and carried in deep baskets to the farm. It is washed, sorted, and stored in heaps on a sloping floor for a couple of days. Then it comes here for malaxation. The olives are crushed in this mill, to form a rough pulp, evenly mixed. After that they go next door for the oil to be pressed out.'

  The crushing mill consisted of a large circular stone tank, into which whole fruit would be dumped. A central column was supposed to support heavy wooden arms which ran through the centres of two vertical hemispherical stones; these were kept slightly apart from ea
ch other by a strong rectangular box into which the wooden arms were fixed. It was plated with metal and formed part of the pivotal machinery which turned and supported the grinding stones.

  'Poles are attached through each stone,' Optatus explained in his steady, unemotional way. 'Two men walk around the vat and turn the poles slowly, churning the fruit.'

  'So it's not quite the same as grinding corn?'

  'No; cornmills have a conical base and cup-shaped upper stone. This is the opposite – a basin into which the stone rollers fit.'

  'They move quite loosely?'

  'Yes. The aim is to bruise the olives and free the oil, to make a slippery paste. But you try to avoid breaking the stones; they taste bitter.'

  We fell silent.

  The old worn grinders were propped against a wall, one flat side out, one convex, both stained dark purple and badly misshapen. Pale new concrete had been used to improve the basin. One new stone stood within it in position, already fixed upright to the central pivot though it was held fast on blocks. Both stones had been supplied with brand new turning poles, their wood still white from the adze.

  'You see, Falco,' my companion continued levelly, 'the roller fits fairly loosely. In use the pole acts merely as a lever to move the stone around in the vat. The stones revolve almost of their own volition, due to the pressure of the fruit.' Although the grinder still had wedges beneath it, he leaned on it to show me there was free play. Leverage on the pole would move the stone and tumble the olives against the sides of the basin, but not so tightly that the kernels were split.

  I sighed, I fingered a collar, fitting tightly around the pole. 'And this washer – which I presume is adjustable – is fixed here on the outside to keep the stone on?'

  'It should be.' Optatus was grim.

  'Then I suppose I can work out what happened to the boy.'

  'You will!' Presumably Optatus had already thought through events, and did not like the result.

  The second grinding-stone lay on the ground. A pole had been partly thrust through it, but then smashed by a fall. Even in the dim light I noticed dark marks on the earth floor next to the stone; they looked like dried blood.

  'So what do you reckon?' I asked Marius.

  'The new grinders arrived two days ago but Licinius Rufius had not yet made arrangements for fitting them. I asked at the house, and apparently he intended to instruct the stonemasons who have been working on his new portico to do this job.'

  'Why didn't he?'

  'He had had a dispute with them about a column they broke, and they had walked off the site.'

  'That's probably true. I saw the broken column when I was here before.'

  Constans seems to have decided to surprise and please his grandfather. All he had said to anyone, however, was that he was coming over to inspect the new rollers before the bill from the supplier was authorised. 'Dear gods, Falco, if I had known his mind I would have helped him myself! I do wonder if he came over to ask me – but I had gone into Corduba to escape from Quadratus…'

  'So they say he was alone – yet here we have the first new stone; already hauled into position.'

  'I have talked to the workers, and none of them was involved.'

  'This was some job to tackle! Rufus looked a sturdy lad, but he cannot possibly have moved the weight on his own.'

  'No, Falco. That is why I rode over here today; I just cannot believe what is being said about this accident. It would take at least two men to manoeuvre and fix these grinding-stones – preferably four.' The concern in our tenant's voice convinced me his motives were genuine. Like me, he was a practical man. The flaws in the story had astonished and dismayed him so much he had had to see for himself.

  'So what is the fixing procedure, Marius? Each stone has to be lifted into the basin – I presume you get it upright with a fulcrum, and use ropes to heave it in?' I glanced around. Now my eyes were more used to the light, I could make out discarded equipment.

  Optatus confirmed how difficult the task would be: 'It's heavy work, but raising the stone in the basin is really the easy part. Then the grinder has to be held upright, raised off the bottom, and wedged.'

  'To set it into position? It churns above the base of the tank?'

  'Yes. Setting the height takes strength.'

  'And courage! You would know if a stone like that rolled over your toe.'

  'Or fell on your chest,' growled Marius, thinking of what happened to young Rufius. 'First you decide the position. Then somebody has to climb up and straddle the centre pivot to aim the pole into its fixing on the column – I have done that, Falco, and unless you get lucky immediately, it leads to some raw cursing. The man who is to guide the end into position soon hates the man who pushes the pole through the stone. Making a fit is very difficult. You have to give clear directions – which your partner naturally gets wrong.'

  Optatus painted a neat picture of the joys of teamwork. I wished I could see him trying to organise a couple of my brothers-in-law in some simple household task.

  'Maybe Rufius and his helper quarrelled… Rufius must have been the one on the ground.'

  'Yes. The stone slipped, and fell out on him,' Optatus agreed. 'The estate workers told me they found him on his back with his arms outstretched, and the grinding-stone right on top of him. It had caved in his chest, and crushed his stomach too.'

  I flinched. 'Let's hope he died at once.'

  'He could not have lasted long. Even if the stone had been lifted straight off him, he would never have survived.'

  'The point,' I said sourly, 'is whether he could have avoided being crushed in the first place.'

  Optatus nodded. 'I inspected the pole, Falco.' He bent over it to show me. 'Look, the cap has not been fitted. It looks as if very few wedges were being used to position the stone in the basin either; whoever was doing this job must have been a complete amateur -'

  'Rufius was very young. He may never have seen rollers installed before.'

  'It was madness. Unplanned, unthinking incompetence. The grinding-stone would have beeu wobbling around on the lever, very hard to control. Once it started to lean out at an angle, the man on the ground might have jumped out of the way if he was quick, but more likely he found its weight too much to resist.'

  'Instinct might have made him try to support the stone longer than he should, especially if he was inexperienced. Jupiter, it's ghastly – Wouldn't his friend up above heave on the top rim to pull the stone upright again?'

  Optatus was blunt: 'Maybe this "friend" pushed the stone out instead!'

  'You're leaping ahead – But that would explain why the "friend" vanished afterwards.'

  Optatus became more than blunt; he was angry. 'Even if it really was an accident, the friend could have got the stone off Constans afterwards. He would still have died in agony, but he need not have died alone.'

  'Some friend!'

  A noise alerted us, too late perhaps, to the fact that Marmarides had just led in Helena and Claudia. Claudia's expression told us she had heard what Marius said.

  Optatus straightened up at once and went to the girl. He placed both hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. The action was brisk and he released her immediately. Claudia gave him a half-smile, and unlike when Quadratus swamped her with condolences she did not burst into tears again.

  Optatus explained in a few words what we had been discussing. 'There is no doubt; Constans cannot have done this work alone. Somebody – as yet unidentified – was here helping him.'

  'Somebody killed him.' Claudia's voice was now eerily controlled.

  I had to intervene. 'It could have been a terrible accident. But whoever was here mug have seen your brother badly " hurt, and yet they simply abandoned him.'

  'You mean he need not have died? He could have been saved?' A high note of hysteria showed how Claudia's mind was racing.

  'No, no. Please don't torture yourself with that thought. Once the stone slipped and fell on him his wounds would have been too severe.' As
I spoke to her, Marius put a hand on her arm and shook his head, trying to persuade her to believe it. Now Claudia did begin to cry, but instead of comforting her himself Marius looked embarrassed and steered her to Helena. As a lover he lacked useful instincts.

  Helena held the girl dose to her, kissed her, and then asked me, 'Marcus, who do we think this missing companion was?'

  'I'd happily name one person!' Marius snarled.

  'We know you would – but Quinctius Quadratus has an unshakeable alibi: the bastard couldn't ride. Even if his young pal Constans had gone over to our estate to fetch him, he would still need to get home again after the accident. How are you suggesting he did that?' Optatus was silent, reluctantly conceding the point.

  'Call it murder, not an accident!' insisted Claudia, breaking free from Helena's arms.

  'I won't do that, Claudia,' I said patiently, 'until I can either provide evidence, or make somebody confess. But I give you my word, I will do all I can to discover what happened, and if it really was murder, whoever was responsible will be made to pay.'

  Claudia Rufina made a visible effort to control her emotions. The young girl was brave, but she was close to breaking point. At a signal from Helena I quietly suggested we leave the scene of the tragedy and take her on to her grandparents' house.

  LVII

  The great half-finished house lay silent. The builders had been dismissed and the estate workers kept to their quarters. Frightened slaves flitted among the pillars indoors. Time had stopped.

  The body of Rufius Constans had been raised on a bier in the atrium. Extravagant branches of cypress decorated the area. A canopy darkened what should have been a space filled with sunlight, while smoking brands caused visitors to choke and rub their streaming eyes. The young man awaited burial swathed in white, smothered with garlands, reeking of sweet preservative oils. Busts of his ancestors watched over him. Laurel wreaths which he had never managed to earn for himself had been placed on tripods to symbolise the honours his family had lost.