Nemesis mdf-20

by Lindsey Davis

  Next day I surveyed the property. It was even bigger and more luxurious than I remembered, and packed with treasures. Albia followed me around with her mouth agape, muttering, 'This is yours?'

  'It's mine. Or only half of it, if Thalia's sprog pops out with male genitalia.'

  'You could castrate him.' Albia's harsh new mood produced intriguing legal questions.

  This villa, protected from sun and storms by pine trees, was where Pa had kept his favourite collection, items he really liked and enjoyed. I liked them too. I would have to come back soon for a long visit; there was so much stuff to catalogue. I needed to bring Helena, to show her the glorious location, the rampant antiques and furnishings. Maybe this would become our permanent summer retreat. If she hated the place, which I thought unlikely, there was so much to sell I would have to time our auctions carefully, so as not to flood the market.

  'Are you planning to liberate any faithful slaves in your dear father's name, Marcus Didius?' The usual question.

  As ever, I responded with a noncommittal sigh. I could free a percentage in Pa's name. I would do it if I could. I wanted to evaluate them first. What happened to them would have nothing to do with how well each had served my father during his life; it depended on how much manumission tax I would have to pay if I freed them or what price they would fetch in the slave market. Any with specialist training or pretty faces were in greater danger of being either kept as slaves or sold. Already I was thinking like a tycoon. If they had a high market value, I was less inclined to give them their release.

  The monumental statues for the amphitheatre contract were lined up in rows in the woods. Close to, they were a ragbag: anonymous men of note in triumphal poses, batoned and breastplated; some were weathered about the face and drapery as if they had already adorned public places. I wondered if they had been stolen from their plinths; however, some had their plinths with them.

  One batch appeared new. They had been carved to the same model, but with different arms or helmets. I was not surprised. Jobbing sculptors regularly provide a basic figure in an old-fashioned toga, then let you commission a true-life head of your grandaddy at a cut-price rate. So why not cloned dignitaries for an amphitheatre?

  I counted them. One hundred and eleven. Jupiter! Pa had cornered the market. Trust him. The Flavian amphitheatre would be virtually: statues courtesy of Geminus. No wonder that creep Cluvius wanted me to step aside and let him muscle in.

  I gave instructions that the statues were to be brought up to Rome using -whatever haulage system Geminus had put in place. 'And I want to see a hundred and eleven arrive. A hundred and twelve will prove to me that you are really conscientious.' My humour was lost on the steward. Foolish; if he failed to notice my jokes, he could end up at the slave market.

  'I could stay here to supervise,' volunteered Albia.

  'No thanks.' I was not giving her a chance to bolt. 'Lass, if you want to run away, check logistics with me first. For a workable escape you need a plan, a budget, detailed road maps, a stout stick, proper footwear and a good hat.'

  'You are no fun, Marcus Didius.' Albia openly acknowledged that I read her well. 'I want to go back to Britannia.'

  'No.'

  'Helena's Aunt Aelia would let me stay with them – -'

  'I said no, Albia.'

  On to the next stage of our trip.

  We could take the coast road down to Antium, a straight run but a poor track, all dreary dunes and sandflies, or we could go by sea. For that we would have to go up to Ostia, almost ten miles in the wrong direction, then the misery of a major trading port, followed by horrible seasickness for me. I opted to continue by cart, south down the Via Severiana, maybe fifteen miles. It only took a day, though it was a long hot one. We then stayed at a mediocre inn. It looked over a sea packed with delicious wildlife, yet the dish of the day was week-old eggs. Even my omelette was tough.

  Next morning we tried to find the statue-sellers. Gornia was right. Their house was locked up, with nobody there. Not even a watchman answered our knocking. Albia tried to climb in from a balcony but the place was well shuttered.

  I made standard enquiries. Primilla and Modestus had kept to themselves, as prosperous middle-rankers often do. They had a substantial home on the seashore, no obvious financial worries, no ugly rumours about why they did a flit. None of the neighbours had seen them for months or knew where they had gone. True, the neighbours shied away from my questions, though this was a town where imperial celebrities had long clustered; people were discreet.

  Antium was once the capital of the Volsci, who tussled with Rome over a long period in the remote past. Once it became ours, the city lay far enough from Rome for men of means, wanting to avoid riots and creditors, to favour it as a retreat. Palatial villas lined the shore. Cicero owned a grand place. The disgustingly rich Maecenas had a house. The old imperial family, the Julio-Claudians, had a particular liking for this spot. It was at Antium that Augustus received formal acclaim as Father of his Country. Caligula and Nero were born here; Nero founded a veterans' colony and created a new harbour.

  The new Flavians were bound to arrive on this part of the coast soon. Land agents must be keeping lists of suitable homes for up-and-coming Caesars whose pocket money came from the spoils of war.

  This was a superb location for commercial dealers. The town had a slightly dusty, off-season look but it could easily perk up. By reputation the fine foreshore villas were beautified with exclusive original art and expensive modern reproductions. Most of the enormous houses were still lived in, and by people with funds for house and garden makeovers. It was astonishing that a pair of reputable art dealers would leave a place with such potential.

  A Temple of Fortune was the big public monument. I applied there for information. Since Gornia's fruitless visit, a certain Sextus Silanus, a nephew of Primilla's, had left a message that enquirers should consult him. I had to pay the priests extortionately to be told; it would have been friendlier if the nephew had just chalked up a note on his uncle's locked front door.

  The bad news was, Silanus lived at Lanuvium. To get there we had to take an unnamed road through famously unhealthy country on the northern edge of the Pontine plain. The Pontine Marshes have a fearsome reputation. Still, they should have dried out in summer and Lanuvium was on a spur of the Via Appia, which led straight back to Rome.

  X

  Lanuvium was an extremely ancient hilltop city in Latium, on the Alban Hills, lying just south of the Via Appia. The town was dominated by a clutch of temples, especially the richly endowed Temple of Juno Sospes, to which belonged much of the land between here and the coast. We knew, from passing through it, that the soil was unusually fertile, though the area was very thinly populated. For most of the route we saw no one but a few pasty-looking slaves. The state of the road suggested vehicles were unusual and the labourers stared at us as if they never saw travellers. Well, they stared until Albia glared at them. Then they turned away nervously.

  'There are many rivers draining the hills; they carry down rich alluvium silt.' I was taking on Helena's role, had she been with us. Just because Albia had a broken heart, she need not be ignorant. 'So the Pontine plain has some of the best land in Italy for grazing animals and growing crops, but you won't see many people. The water table is very high and the sand dunes on the coast trap the floods, so for much of the year, especially south of here, it is a pestilential place. Clouds of biting insects make the marshes almost uninhabitable – - keep yourself well covered up; they carry horrible diseases.' We were north of the real swamps, which suited me. Attempts had been made to drain them. The attempts all failed.

  The high citadel at Lanuvium must be healthier. From its acropolis there were gracious views over the plain to the faraway ocean. Like most places with vistas, this had been heavily colonised by the villa-owning fraternity. To cater for their property maintenance needs, small artisan businesses thrived. Silanus was a terracotta specialist.

  A row of freckled child
ren sat on the kerb outside his premises. When our cart drew up, they all swarmed aboard. I tried to strike a bargain that they would look after the outfit, by which I meant they were not to kick the donkey or remove the wheels. I hoped they were too small to shift the money chest. Feigning acute shyness, none of them spoke. When I went into the workshop, Albia stationed herself at the doorway, observing the nippers sternly. In her present mood, she was scary; that would work.

  The children must have inherited their freckles from their mother. She never appeared; I soon gathered she was dead – probably exhausted and deceased in childbirth, judging by the perilous number of offspring she had left behind.

  Silanus was a stocky, pockmarked fellow with the faint tetchiness craftsmen have, caused by the anxieties of sole trading. As a gesture to personality, he wore a bracelet on his upper left arm that was pretending to be gold. His tunic was dull and ragged, but he was in work clothes so that told me nothing. The stock in his shop was good: well-made, fancy Greek-style acroteria for roof finials, a few gargoyles, routine racks of tiles and wall flues, plus the usual decorative wares for the home, plant tubs and balcony trays. It was all handsome. I would have bought from him.

  He gave the impression he wanted to be friendly, but was biting it back. I softened him up, mainly by telling him how much cash I had brought for his uncle and aunt. He was stuck in an awkward situation. His relatives had mysteriously vanished. They had no children. As the only nephew, he felt obliged to take charge, though he did not even know if Primilla and Modestus were alive. Unlike me, he felt he had no legal position as an heir, so was not free to negotiate.

  I sympathised. 'So what happened? I work in this line; maybe I can give you advice.' Silanus was not the type to trust informers, or even to know what we did. 'Silanus, whatever has gone on? I saw their house at Antium; it's quite deserted. Your uncle and aunt must have had staff, but they too have dematerialised. Have you brought the slaves here?'

  Appreciating his practical difficulties must have won his trust. Silanus sighed. 'They ran away. I haven't started a fugitive-hunt. Let them go, if they can make a life.' This man was neither greedy nor vindictive. A decent sort. Not something I often came across. I tried not to find it suspicious.

  He seemed upset about his missing aunt and uncle, troubled by the situation, completely dispirited. 'I was told that my uncle left first, then my aunt went to look for him. She had the sense to order one of their slaves to come and tell me, if she too vanished.'

  'So where did Primilla and Modestus go?'

  'You don't want to know, Falco.'

  I was agog. 'Try me.'

  'They went to see the Claudii.' Silanus spoke as if I ought to know what that meant. When I merely raised my eyebrows, he went back to the start of the story. 'Uncle and Auntie owned property, farmland. Made their money that way, originally, but you know how it is. Nobody stays on the plain, because they soon get sick. Anyone sick soon passes away. Only slaves can be persuaded to stay there for husbandry. People who can afford to move do so. They come up to the hills or go over to the coast. So about twenty years ago Modestus became an art dealer in Antium – though they always kept their land.'

  'My father did business with them, as I told you; Geminus knew them for a long time… So whatever happened?'

  'A boundary dispute flared up. I knew about it – - squabbles have been grumbling on for years. Some of their neighbours are notoriously difficult to deal with. A few months ago cattle strayed on to Uncle's land and did a lot of damage. Modestus likes to assert his rights – he went to have it out. He never came back. Aunt Primilla is a spunky woman herself; she set off to find him. She too has never been seen since.'

  'These neighbours are the Claudii you mentioned?… So have you reported it? Called in the authorities?'

  'I did my best. It was a long time before I heard anything. Once I knew my folks had gone missing, I had to get someone to look after my business before I could go over to Antium. I managed to interest the local magistrate. A posse went to investigate. They found nothing. The Claudii all denied ever seeing my relatives. So nothing can be done.'

  'That sounds feeble!'

  'Ah well… it's the badlands, Falco. Strangers don't go there.'

  'What – - upset the web-footed marsh sprites and they drown you?' I was amazed. 'Troublemaking is a homely Pontine tradition and everyone has to put up with it?'

  As I raved, Silanus looked boot-faced. 'The fact is, Falco, I know perfectly well what happened. My aunt and uncle upset the wrong people and have paid for it. Nobody can find any trace of them. No one locally saw anything. There is no evidence. So I'm not going to tackle the Claudii and be made to disappear myself, am I? So yes, that is how bullies get away with it – but no, I will not leave my children orphans.'

  I asked if he wanted to hire me to investigate. He said no. Partly, that was a relief. I was reluctant to do country work. Especially in the Pontine Marshes. That's suicide.

  This would not have done for me, yet I did understand why Sextus Silanus was letting the mystery rest. He was practical. How many times had I advised clients to take such a sensible route (and how many had ignored me)?

  Regarding the money Pa owed, we agreed that I would hand it over and call the account closed. Silanus would bank the cash at the Temple of Juno Sospes, until enough time passed for him to feel he could have it himself. Realistically, that would be soon. One glance at all the children he was bringing up said it. And I did not blame him.

  He came out to collect the money. Shooing his freckled infants off the cart, he confirmed he was a single-handed parent; he had six under fourteen.

  I bought a load of his fine terracotta wares. It would pay a few food bills for him, and anyway I liked the stuff. Albia helped me choose.

  As Silanus waved us off, he asked, with a desperation I could almost forgive, 'Your daughter seems a very nice young lady – Does she have a husband, Falco?'

  'Get lost!' Albia and I roared in unison.

  Bad timing, Silanus.

  XI

  This strange disappearance of two respectable art dealers continued to haunt me. Driving allows you time to muse. Still, I had concerns of my own. If Silanus wanted to abandon hope, it was depressing, but his own affair. I went on my way, relieved of the cash and freed up to sell the statues. The curious episode was over. Or was it? I should have known better.

  The Via Appia is a legendary highway built four hundred years ago by Appius Claudius. It runs down across the Pontine Marshes, straight as a javelin for fifty miles between Rome and Tarracina. That entails causeways where it crosses swamps, but the northern part is wide, well-paved and, if your donkey can summon the energy, pleasantly fast. I had hired a decent working beast; she didn't bite or he down in the gutter, though nor did she exert herself. We trickled sedately down a sliproad and hit the famous highway just before it climbed the Alban Hills, passing Lakes Nemi and Albanus.

  Giving a friendly lecture to Albia (who barely responded) I had to admit that Appius, a great builder who also constructed the first Roman aqueduct, was better than average, for a patrician. As a freeborn city boy, I found some of his policies questionable – - allowing the sons of manumitted slaves to enter the Senate and extending the vote to rural folk who owned no land. Still, Appius Claudius also published the law, stopping the priests from keeping it as their private mystery. That made him a patron of informers.

  We went north for ten miles. With only another two or three to go, we reached the tombs among the stone pines that line the approach to Rome's Twelfth District. On a bright and baking afternoon this sometimes lonesome vicinity made for good travelling. We hit shade. I was cheerful; I could detect the smell of home and the donkey could sniff her stable. Albia just snuffled miserably but soon I could hand her over to Helena.

  Then we ran into the vigiles. Since the Twelfth is looked after by the Fourth Cohort, these were a section of Petro's men.

  Outside the city boundary, discipline evaporated. Some, inevitably
, were lying under pine trees for a nap. However, others applied themselves fairly well. They told me they were on the case Petronius had told me about: the corpse dumped in a mausoleum. One ritual laying-out was not enough for Petro. Armed with crowbars and a love of violence, his troops were bashing open mausoleums and peering inside for other bodies that ought not to be there. In the crumbly roadside necropolis, many tombs were so ancient nobody knew who built them. They were easy to search, once the vigiles scraped the sleeping vagrants off their worn old entrance steps. Others, even the oldest, were still used by families; thanks to good diet and our nation's virility, some Roman clans had long pedigrees.

  One cranky owner must have stipulated he had to be present; I saw Tiberius Fusculus, Petro's trusty, hiding his impatience while the blighted toff fumbled interminably with a padlock. I pulled up the cart. and when Fusculus was free again, he strolled over. He was overweight, hot and red-faced. Albia gave him a drink of water. 'Take it all. Who cares?' She dispensed her generosity with airy fatalism, as if she herself did not care if she died of thirst.

  Avoiding Albia's aggression like a wise man, Fusculus told me that no more corpses had been found. 'Well, plenty – -' Fusculus joked,'- – but none we link to the case.'

  'Will Petronius pull you off it soon?'

  'Not yet, Falco. Obstinate beggar is convinced we have turned up a ritual killer.'

  'Then Petronius Longus must sit it out until the next new moon, or there's a "rho" in the month, or the red tunic comes home from the laundry – whatever weird trigger tells this killer it's time for him to shed more gore.'

  'Normally,' Fusculus agreed, 'the boss would be happy to lie low. Especially in summer when he likes to get home early to your revered sister and have a nap on their nice sun terrace.'