None of us bothered much with breakfast, except Rectus. Since he had already had a dose of marsh fever, nothing worried him. We were tense, but he was placid. Immediately he had stuffed himself, he harnessed up Nero the ox, then without a word, threw his pack on the cart and set off. Luckily the rest of us were ready to go. You couldn’t call the man surly; he just never bothered to communicate. His distaste for talk was religious. Being in his brother’s company seemed to make Petro equally gloomy. I didn’t try to chivvy him out of it; I was gloomy myself.
There were towns on the coast, west of us; there were stopping points along the Via Appia, to the east. Between them, once we put Satricum behind us, the way ahead was a vast empty quarter. We had a sense that the sea was somewhere over on our right hand, less than ten miles away though we never caught a glimpse. When Appius Claudius struck his great road south from Rome, he only added to the problems of this lowlying interior, his hefty causeways interfering with the water table. There were tracks, down which the ox could just haul his cart, though in narrow parts we had to dismount and manhandle the vehicle. These tracks all had the look of overgrown, deserted byways that would take you miles into nowhere then peter out without warning.
Everywhere had a wild beauty. The sun burned bright, its effects tempered by coastal breezes. Seabirds and marsh birds cried incessantly. Clouds of butterflies roamed fitfully, seeking out aromatic mints and oregano. Crickets jumped ahead of us. As we expected, there was a mass of insect life. Black bugs and tiny midge-like flies swarmed in clouds everywhere we stopped for a breather, along with worrying bright red things that looked as if they had already dined on blood. I reckoned there must be snakes too.
We were crossing great tracts of scrubland. We did see small fields, planted with grain or fast-growing crops to take advantage of the short summer period when the land at least partly dried out. Everything that grew, grew with astonishing vigour; the soil was both well watered and enriched with silt from all the rivers and tributaries that poured off the Lepini mountains. We never saw anyone tending the fields.
Where there had been grazing to keep down the foliage, the ground was covered with maquis - - small, very tough bushes, some of which were broad-leaved, though more were of the vicious, prickly kind. If you stepped too far off the track, you were likely to find yourself sinking suddenly up to the ankle in swamp water. Its suck would be ominous. Once you managed to pull out your foot safely, your heart would be pattering.
Where there had been no attempt at agriculture, larger vegetation had grown. There were wild olives and figs, which could have been reassuring as domesticated trees, though left to nature they had become enormous rampaging monsters, forming impenetrable thickets. Rectus broke his silence to say happily that the forests would be even thicker, the further across the marsh we went.
Sometimes in the distance we glimpsed cattle, generally where the levels remained flooded. They probably belonged to someone, but were not visibly herded. We did not risk approaching them. Trampling the edges of dark saltponds and stagnant pools where fallen vegetation putrefied, these beasts in their lonely location gave me a grim shiver. Once in Germania, I had had an encounter with a wild aurochs; I glanced at Camillus Justinus and knew he too was remembering our narrow escape from that huge bovine throwback.
Supposedly, the threat here was human. The Pontine Marshes had a sinister reputation as a place where brigands and highwaymen holed up. They must be brigands who could endure being bitten, stung, afflicted with foot-rot and driven crazy by isolation. We were gathering an idea of what to expect if we ever found the people we had come to interview.
We knew that the Claudii deliberately lived far enough from habitation to make visits inconvenient. We were fit men, equipped for this, but by afternoon we felt exhausted. We were despondent too, thinking we might never track down our quarries. Rectus assured us we were not lost. That depended how much faith we put in him.
‘I wish I was one of those herons and could just flap up and fly out of here. I bet this is a place where you could wander in endless circles!’ chattered Lentullus when we paused for rest. He must be twenty-five now, but he wittered like a mindless child. Justinus and I had known him since he was an army recruit with a fervent imagination and a knack for getting into trouble. We reminded him that we got him safely back to civilisation last time; he looked unconvinced.
‘Stay on the track,’ Justinus warned his bright-eyed batman. ‘If you get stuck in a deep sinkhole I’m not pulling you out, in case it brings a boggle-eyed sprite swirling to the surface.’ Now who was using too much imagination?
We all had the creeps. Long periods of silence descended on us. The invigorating effect of fresh air turned into sun-glaze and skin-burn. Eyes were dry. We started to itch, but when we slapped at imagined insects, they were never there.
Something about wild places brings misery to the surface. I began to be afflicted by griefs and guilts I thought I had left behind in Rome. Now that I had mastered the endless tasks involved in Pa’s estate, my brain found space to heal itself-which it did as spitefully as possible, by way of reliving moments of misery. Over and over, I went through again that long day of Helena’s labour and how we lost our baby son; over and over, I daydreamed that I was back at my father’s villa, while his gaggle of slaves informed me he had gone.
Avoiding the others, I lolled in the cart, thinking about life and death. Death, mostly.
When it was too late to get back to Satricum the same day and while we all tried to avoid raising the unwelcome subject of having to camp out for the night on this sodden ground, we came upon something.
We had been travelling an intermittently raised track through shoulder-high brushwood. Occasional clearings widened out in a ragged fashion. Somebody must use this route. In one part they had actually laid wicker hurdles where the track had sunk, though the hurdles had then been half submerged too. Quite suddenly we broached a bigger space. A tilting heap of trash grew out of the ground amongst a fungoid clutter that was definitely human in origin. It looked abandoned. It looked like the windblown rubbish that piles against bushes in forests. Not so, though. Someone had carefully collected this detritus, over a long period. There was a lopsided shack at the heart of the mess which appeared to be roofed and lived in.
‘This is it, boys!’ declared Rectus, as if he had knowingly led us to it.
‘Ooh, I don’t like it!’ crooned Lentullus, like someone listening to a ghost story around a winter fire.
We stood and looked. Nero the ox lowered his head and nuzzled around in clumps of reedy grass. His tail flicked manically, as he was tormented by flies. We were too tired and dispirited to advance on the hovel immediately. If a will-o’-the-wisp had wafted out in a swirl of mist and cried ‘Boo!’ we would have turned tail obediently.
One end of the building had a squashed look and slumped low, as if it was in the process of being swallowed by the swamp. This was a lean-to with nothing to lean against. At times over various decades, attempts had been made to patch up rotten parts. Items of hardware that may have been stolen from other people’s porticoes or looted from stationary vehicles on market day were attached like trophies: a Medusa-faced tile end, a metal knocker solidified with its own verdigris, half of a baker’s giant stone flour grinder. Around the shack were piles of old building materials, large-scale food containers that dribbled rancid waste, cartwheels, broken pieces of armour and incomplete fishing equipment. There was a table groaning under masses of machinery parts - - rusty bits off pulleys, cranes and ploughs - - ugly metalwork the purpose of which had been long forgotten and which would never be identified and reused. It all looked shabby. Most totters would have rejected it.
Parked between what must have been the door and a window that had been boarded-up was a row of heavy-duty spears and javelins. They were cruder than army issue, gross objects made for intimidation. No one in Rome could have such a vile armoury displayed against his house; decent folk just had a lantern they forgot to light
most evenings and a tile saying cave canem to act as a cheap watchdog. Weapons were illegal in the city. In the country, anything was permissible. Out here in the wild, the hunting excuse let any small-time character who wanted to look big decorate his home with this all too obvious panoply. It didn’t mean he was able to use it properly, though even an amateur who wielded one of those wicked beasts would be capable of inflicting harm.
Petronius Longus reached into the ox cart and quietly buckled on his sword.
I would have followed suit, but just then a man appeared in the tumbledown abode. Above three snaggled wooden entrance steps, with rotten treads, it had a two-part stable door. Without warning, he looked out through the top; Perhaps he had heard us coming. Obviously he had seen us now.
Petronius and I at once strode forward to speak to him. Wild barking announced that a vile-tempered dog was behind the lower section of the door, desperate to attack us. The man wore a filthy sleeveless tunic, a week-old beard and a scowl. No chance of a civilised traveller-host relationship here: he wasn’t going to ask us in for pastries in a mock-marble peristyle. When Petro said we had come from Rome - - a pedigree that must have been obvious - - without a word, the rude householder swung back the lower door so that a powerful, ragged mastiff came bounding down the steps in a slather of rabid froth and sheer blind rage.
Justinus and Lentullus rushed forward. As always in a crisis, Lentullus knew no fear; he acted before he thought, then he fainted with terror afterwards. That was how he had nearly lost his leg. Now he grabbed the ferocious, snarling dog with both hands around its neck as it leapt at us. He hung on, intent on saving his beloved master. The man from the shack loped after the dog and lunged for it feebly; more by luck than judgement, he looped a chain around its heavy neck and clapped on a padlock. ‘Good boy, Fangs! He’s just being friendly,’ he mumbled, in the manner of all lacklustre owners. He had no understanding of his dog’s capabilities and strength, no hope of controlling it. He would be lucky if he wasn’t found one day, savaged to death by his own animal.
We stepped away. The berserk Fangs was now straining to drag his chain free of the big tree to which its other end was fixed. He so much wanted to kill us, he seemed likely to strangle himself. We would have no qualms about letting him. Thwarted, he started hurling himself at the tree.
‘Sorry, I forgot he was there. We don’t see many people and he gets excitable. Quiet, boy!’
There was no way the dog could be silenced, until the owner lobbed half an old amphora at him. It missed. The weighty crock could well have cracked the canine skull. Fangs seemed to know about this wine-jar trick. Immediately he piped down and slunk to the base of the tree where he just sat, bored and whining.
We all stood in the clearing and went through introductory formalities.
‘I am Probus, one of the Claudii,’ said the man from the shack. ‘I expect you have heard of us.’ He folded his arms and stared, not openly hostile yet proud of their notoriety.
‘One of the brothers?’ asked Petronius, not denying we had been told about these people.
‘That I am.’
‘Are you the family spokesman?’
‘Can be.’
‘Do any of the rest live around here?’
‘Several’
‘Give me some names?’ Petro appeared quite patient, though I thought he wanted to kick this swamp slug in the throat. In Rome he would have had the bastard up against a wall; the problem here was lack of walls. Nobody wanted to go near the tree where Fangs was chained. Pushing a suspect hard up against the shack would most likely cause the whole wreck to keel over.
‘Names?’ Probus gave Petro a slow look, then wiped his nose on where his sleeve would be if he had sleeves. His arm was hairy enough, and muscular. He slouched like a wimp, but I bet he fought dirty. ‘Names, eh?’ He was medium height, well built in a slovenly way, with his belt drooping to groin level and a small paunch hanging over it. ‘Everyone around here knows who we are.’
‘I come from Rome,’ Petronius told him again in a mild tone. ‘SPQR. I’d like to hear some details.’
‘I’m very busy,’ Probus boasted. ‘No time to draw a family tree.’
‘And there are a lot of you, I gather.’ Petronius still sounded friendly. I was waiting for him to explode. A cloud of midges began to swirl in front of my face and I biffed at them in irritation. ‘Did I hear of twenty-siblings?’
‘Justus was the eldest - -’ Probus counted on his filthy fingers. He had on a silly face, playing clever bastards. I felt my attitude harden. This could be the swine who had tortured a man for remonstrating about a trespass, beat him, cut off his extremities and left him to moulder. The gods only knew what had been done afterwards to the missing wife. That probably happened close to here.
‘Go on,’ Petro encouraged him, far too politely.
‘Justus dropped dead last year - according to you lot, he probably died of a bad conscience. Then two girls, me, Felix - Felix, the happy and fortunate - and a clever little sod too; well we lost him early, naturally … another sister, the twins Virtus and Pius, and Era, then triplets who all died at birth, Providentia, Nobilis - he’s the one you people usually blame, every time an apple falls from a tree and the owner squeals, Those Claudii stole it! - -
I had had enough. Probus continued his long list, but his sly, teasing attitude was more than I could take. Every name made me angrier. ‘Let’s stop messing about!’ Petronius snatched at my arm but I shook him off. ‘Probus, you know why we have come. A body was found; it was not pretty. Stop lying and admit that Modestus and his wife came here to complain.’
I strode forward. The thug stepped back in mock alarm. ‘Oh they came!’ he delighted in telling me. His black teeth showed in a gleeful grin. ‘And they’re not here now - - however many of you cocky Romans barge about looking for them!’
That was all he said, because I socked him. I hit him low and hard, then as he doubled up, I struck again. If I had been alone with him, I would have carried on for half an hour. I felt so much aggression, I startled myself.
‘Falco!’
Petro and one of the others dragged me off. ‘Don’t make me wish I hadn’t let you come,’ muttered Lucius Petronius, eye to eye with me and speaking low.
I wrenched free and stumbled away from him. Then I left him to deal with it. I walked off stiffly into the forest by myself.
XX
I strode through the woods in a straight line. No point getting lost. When I came upon a path, I poked a stick in the ground, upright, to show me where to turn on my way back. I had no plan. I was not following the precept that sometimes on a bogged-down investigation, striking out blind can lead you to a clue. I was just overwrought.
I had calmed down by the time I came across more marsh-dwellers.
I walked into a similar campsite, just as poor as the last, just as untidy, just as unedifying. It had scenic advantages, however. It looked out on fields, for one thing. They were not bad fields either, my country background told me that, though their boundary fences were in a bad state.
Three horrible hutments, arranged in a rough triangle, formed a kind of shabby hamlet, not one to feature in a tourists’ guidebook. What distinguished these from Probus’ lair was that each had a couple of beaten-up chairs outside for admiring the view or making it easier to shout abuse at the sky. Each had a washing line. No man who cultivates a reputation as a dangerous long-term pest pegs out his smalls. So a couple of the Claudius women were in view, one slowly hanging up limp garments, another seated in a dispirited pose on the steps of what was probably her home. Her cowed demeanour suggested she was not allowed to use the chairs. On a nearby patch of ground, some tousled children were kicking a bucket about; I counted four though from the racket there could be others.
The girl with the laundry had the thin body of a child of fourteen and the face of someone two or three decades older. Pain lurked in her eyes. It would stay there. She had seen things she would never forget but she was ne
ver going to share them. Her drab dress was short, shapeless, frayed, a grey piece of rag that looked older than she was. Nonetheless, she wore a string of crude stone beads and even a bangle that could pass for gold for a pawnbroker who was ninety and shortsighted. Some man who wanted to signify she had a lot to be grateful for had given her those. She should have thrown them back and got free of him.
Surprisingly, the women did not take offence that I had stepped out of the undergrowth. It did not mean they would be helpful.
‘The name’s Falco. I’m looking for Nobilis.’ No surprise at that, it seemed. ‘I think I took a wrong turn. You’re …?’
‘Plotia,’ said the one with laundry. ‘You want Nobilis?’ She nodded to the centre shack. I had the impression it was empty. ‘Gone away.’
‘Beach holiday at Baiae?’
‘Gone to visit his grandma.’
‘Is that a joke? I hear he’s a tough nut.’ Plotia just stared.
I walked closer. After the incident with Fangs, I looked around, in case there were other guard-dogs. Reading my thoughts, Plotia said, ‘We never have animals.’ Her gaze flickered; she stated sombrely, ‘Well not for long.’
I swallowed. Petronius once told me that pathological murderers tend to start their killing sprees while they are children. Find a man who takes prostitutes off the streets as a personal vocation, and he’ll probably have a set of neat jars with his childhood collection of dissected rats. I had suggested all boys are curious about dead animals. Petro said most just pick them out of the gutter; we don’t trap them on purpose and deconstruct them. Most of us don’t eviscerate our own pets.
‘What is your connection to the Claudii?’ I asked the women.
‘I’m married to Virtus.’ It was still Plotia answering. ‘Byrta belongs to Pius.’ Belongs to was a term that would have delighted our ancestors; my Helena would disdain it. [Note to scribe: delete that ‘my’. I don’t want my balls pickled.]
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