Apparently Anacrites was now lurching in and out of consciousness. He could yet lurch the wrong way and die. Once I would have been glad. Now the bastard had made me feel responsible. Meanwhile, whenever he opened his eyes, Ma pulled his mouth open too and spooned in chicken broth.
'Does he know where he is?'
'Not even who he is. He doesn't know anything.'
'Has he spoken?'
'Just mumbles like a hopeless drunk.'
There could be a reason for that. 'Are you giving him your brothers' wine?'
'Only a dribble.' No wonder he wasn't lucid. Uncles Fabius and Junius, who shared a farm when they were not trying to tear each other's throats out, produced a harsh red Campagnan rot-gut with a kick that blew the wax out of your ears. A goatskin or two was enough to lay out a whole cohort of hard-living Praetorians.
'If he can survive that, you must have saved him!'
'I never know what you've got against your uncles,' grumbled Ma.
I loathed their awful wine, for one thing. I also thought the pair of them were illogical, moody clowns.
Helena and I inspected the invalid. Anacrites looked unpleasantly pale, and already much thinner. I could not tell whether this was one of his conscious phases or not. His eyes were nearly closed, but not quite. He made no attempt to speak or move. Calling his name caused no reaction.
'Ma, I've found out more about what's been going on and I've decided it's too dangerous keeping him. He's part of the Praetorian Guard; I reckon they can be trusted to look after one of their own. I've spoken to a centurion I know, and Anacrites is going to be taken into the safety of the Praetorian Camp. A man called Frontinus will turn up and whisk him away secretly. Then don't mention to anybody that you had him here.'
'Oh I see!' complained Ma, highly affronted. 'Now I'm not good enough!'
'You're wonderful,' Helena soothed her. 'But if his attackers find out where he is, you're not strong enough to fend them off ' Actually, if I knew my mother she would have a damned good try.
Helena and I sat with Anacrites for a while, so Ma could have a rest. My mother's idea of having a rest was to gather five shopping baskets and rush out to the market, pausing only to shower Helena with rude comments on her appearance and dark advice on managing her pregnancy. I watched Helena bite her tongue. Ma scuttled off. If she met any of her witchy cronies, which was quite likely, she would be away for hours. This made a mockery of us coming to visit her, but was typical in my family. At least it prevented quarrels. I knew we had just narrowly avoided yet another one.
Anacrites, Helena and I now had the apartment to ourselves. Without Ma whirling to and fro it felt unnaturally quiet. She had stashed the invalid in a bed that had belonged at various times to my elder brother and me. Sometimes when we were boys we had shared it, so this had been the scene of much lewd talk and a multitude of ludicrous plans - plans that were now doomed to be forever unfulfilled. I left home, and ended up as an informer. My brother was dead. Before he was killed in Judaea Festus had dossed here on trips home from the army. The gods only know what scenes of surreptitious debauchery our little room had seen then.
It seemed odd to be here with Helena. Odder still that the familiar old bed, with its rickety pine frame and twisted webbing, now possessed a brown chequered cover that I did not recognise and a spanking new pillow. Before long my eyes were sending messages that had Anacrites not been inconveniently in possession I would have grabbed Helena and renewed my own acquaintance with the bed ...
'Don't push your luck,' murmured Helena, with what I hoped was shared regret.
Since there was no hope of persuading Anacrites to contribute usefully, the choice of conversation was ours. It was the morning after our dinner at the Camillus house. I had reported the latest facts to Helena, but we were still chewing over the story.
'Someone's been stupid,' I said. 'There may be a commercial conspiracy in Corduba. Presumably Anacrites and his man were attacked in a feeble attempt to deter investigation. The way that group of Baeticans left Rome immediately afterwards certainly makes it look as if they knew something about it. But our officials are aware of whatever's going on; Claudius Laeta can take whatever steps he thinks necessary from this end. He's made himself acting Chief Spy, apparently. It's his decision. I'm certainly not going out there.'
'I see,' replied my beloved, ever queen of the unexpected. 'There is nothing to discuss then.' Her brown eyes were thoughtful; that tended to precede trouble. 'Marcus, you do realise that you may have had a lucky escape the night of the dinner and the attacks?'
'How would that be?' I made an attempt to act the innocent.
'You're known as an imperial agent, and you had been talking to Anacrites. I expect you also found a reason to meet the beautiful dancing girl -' I pished. Helena carried on regardless. 'And you spoke to Valentinus. You were probably seen doing that, then when you both left the dinner at the same time, it must have looked like more than coincidence. But unlike Anacrites and Valentinus you didn't leave the Palatine alone. You came home to Fountain Court with two palace slaves, carrying your garum jar. Perhaps if it hadn't been for them you would have been set upon too.'
'I had thought of that,' I admitted. 'I didn't want to worry you.'
'I was worried.'
'Well, don't brood on it. This must be the first recorded incidence of a man having his life saved by an amphora of fish-pickle.'
Helena was not laughing. 'Marcus, you're involved whether you want to be or not.'
We were silent for a while. Anacrites seemed to be fading right before my eyes. I felt a surge of anger again. 'I'd like to get whoever murdered Valentinus.'
'Of course you would, Marcus.'
'Fellow feeling.'
'I know.'
Helena Justina always spoke her mind and let me know exactly where I stood. If there was any chance of an argument she set about it briskly. Sounding meek was worrying. It meant she might be planning some big surprise.
'Helena, I'm not going to let these killers get away with it. If they are still in Rome -'
'They won't be,' said Helena.
She was right. I had to swallow it. 'Then I'll be wasting my time as usual.'
Laeta will ask you to be the man who goes to Baetica.' Laeta can go red in the face and burst a blood vessel.' Laeta will make the Emperor or Titus order it.' 'They'll be ordering trouble then.'
She gazed at me sombrely. 'I think you ought to be prepared to go to Spain.'
Helena's offer seemed out of the question - and yet straight away I began to wonder if it might be feasible.
We believed we had nearly two months before the baby would be born. I did a rapid calculation: a week lost on the journey out, plus several days to travel inland to Corduba. Ten more days for returning home. In between, another week should be ample to identify and assess the personnel involved and tackle a solution ... Oh yes. Easy to go, do the job, and come home just in time to put down my luggage on the doormat and receive the newborn baby into my arms from a smiling midwife who had just finished tidying its proud and happy mama ...
A fool could convince himself that it would work, provided nothing went wrong. But I knew better. Travelling always takes longer than you hope. And things always go wrong.
It was far too tight. And what if the baby came early anyway? Apart from outfacing the oil cartel conspirators - something which hardly interested me, though that was what would make the state provide my fare - where in this ludicrous timetable was there any allowance for tracing Diana and her murderous musicians?
'Helena, thanks for the offer, but be sensible. Just because everyone else assumes I'm planning to bunk off and abandon you doesn't mean they are right!'
'I'm coming with you,' she told me. I knew that tone of voice. This was no mere suggestion. Being bossed and bullied by relatives was irritating her too much. Helena had decided to abscond from Rome.
It was at that moment that Anacrites opened his eyes and stared at me vaguely. By the looks of
him his body was giving up and his black soul was on the ferryboat to Hades. His mind was just about still here, however.
I told him bitterly, 'I've just been informed I have to sail to Baetica on this dead-end job of yours!'
'Falco ...' he croaked. What a compliment. He might not have known who he was, but he recognised me. I still refused to spoon-feed the bastard with broth. 'Dangerous woman!' he moaned. Maybe it was apropos of nothing, though it sounded like fair comment on my chosen partner in life.
He faded out again. Well, enigmas are what you expect from spies.
Helena Justina ignored him. 'Don't mention to your mother that we're going,' she instructed me 'And don't you tell yours either!' I retorted nervously.
PART TWO:
BAETICAN SPAIN - CORDUBA
AD73: mid April
The trader I consider to be an energetic man, and one bent on making money; but it is a dangerous career and one subject to disaster. On the other hand it is from the farming class that the bravest men and the sturdiest soldiers come, their calling is most highly respected, their livelihood is most assured and is looked on with the least hostility, and those who are engaged in that pursuit are least likely to be disaffected.
Cato the Elder
XVII
'You pay me by the mile,' said the carriage-hire man.
I didn't believe it. That would mean at the end of our hiring period I just had to lie to him about how far I had driven. He was an ex-legionary. How could he be so innocent?
'What's the catch?' I asked.
He grinned, appreciating that I had at least had the courtesy to query the system, instead of jumping in with intent to cheat. 'No catch.'
The hireman was a wide-shouldered former footslogger whose name was Stertius. I was unsure what to make of him; my mission was making me distrust everyone. This man owned a commercial transport business in the southern Baetican port of Malaca - mainly ox-wagons collecting amphorae of fish-pickle from all along the coast to bring them to port, but also gigs, carts and carriages for travellers. It would be an ideal cover if he engaged in espionage; he would see everyone who came and went. He had been in the Roman army; he could easily have been recruited by the legions to work for Anacrites; even Laeta could have coerced him somewhere along the line. Equally, local loyalty could put him firmly in league with the men I had come to investigate - or the dancing girl.
Helena sat down on our mound of baggage in the quiet, unobtrusive manner of a woman who was making a point. We had been sailing for a week, then landed in the wrong place so we now had a lengthy trip by road ahead of us. She was very tired. She was sitting in the hot sun. She did not need me dragging out what ought to have been a straightforward commercial transaction. She stroked Nux as if the dog were her only friend.
I still felt queasy from the ocean. It was possible to travel the entire way from Rome to Gades overland if you had the time to spare. Someone like Julius Caesar who wanted to show up well in his memoirs took pride in reaching Hispania without crossing water. Most people with interesting lives to lead preferred the quicker sea trip, and Helena and I were not in a good state for forced marches anyway. So I had agreed to take a boat. Getting this far was torture for anyone like me who could be seasick just looking at a sail. I had been groaning all the way, and my stomach was still not sure it had returned to land. 'I'm dazed. Explain your system.'
'You pay me what I freely admit is a hefty deposit.' Stertius had the typical sardonic air of an old soldier. He had retired from the army after decades in north Africa, then crossed the Straits to Spain to start his business. Up to a point I trusted him commercially, though I was beginning to fear he was the type who enjoys himself inflicting arcane mysteries on helpless customers. 'If you don't use up your allocation, I'll give you a rebate. If you overrun, of course, I'll have to charge you more.'
'I'm taking the equipage to Corduba.'
'As you wish. I'll be giving you Marmarides as your driver -'
'Is that optional?' I was facing enough unknowns. The last thing I wanted was to be saddled with someone else's employee.
'It's voluntary,' grinned the hireman. In the legionary sense!' It was compulsory. 'You'll get on with him fine. He's one of my freedmen. I've trained him well, he's a natural with horseflesh and he has a good temperament.' In my experience that meant he would be a maniacal driver who let the mules get the staggers and tried to knife his customers. 'Marmarides will bring the carriage home when you've finished. He'll tell you the mileage price at the end.'
'He'll just tell us? Excuse me!' Baetican commercial practice seemed to have its extraordinary side. 'I'm sure the amiable Marmarides has your absolute trust, but I like the right to query costs.'
I was not the first suspicious Roman to land in Malaca. Stertius had a well-worked-out routine for technical quibbles: he crooked one finger knowingly, then led me to the rear of the sturdy two-wheeled, two-mule carriage which I was attempting to lease. Its iron-bound wheels would bounce painfully on the track to Corduba, but the passenger compartment had a leather cover which would protect Helena from rough weather, including hot sun. Nux would enjoy trying to bite the wheels.
Stertius bent over one axle hub. 'I bet you've never seen one of these before,' he claimed proudly. 'Look, centurion: this commodious vehicle that I'm letting you have at negligible rates is fitted with an Archimedes hodometer!'
Dear gods, he was a mechanical enthusiast. A flywheeland-twisted-rope man. The kind of helpful character who asks for a drink of water then insists on mending your well- tackle that has been out of use for three generations. He was almost certainly building himself a complete siege warfare catapulta in the garden of his house.
The wheel hub over which we were crouched in the dust had been fitted with a single-tooth gear. Every rotation of the carriage wheel caused this gear to engage with a flat disc set vertically at right angles above it, which was cut into numerous triangular teeth. Each wheel rotation moved the disc on by a notch, eventually operating a second gear which in turn moved on a second disc. That one, which was horizontal, had been drilled with small holes, upon each of which was balanced a smooth pebble. Every operation of the top disc moved up a new hole, allowing a pebble to drop through into a box below, which Stertius had secured with a fierce padlock.
The top disc rotates one hole for every four hundred revolutions of the carriage wheel - which takes one Roman mile!'
'Amazing!' I managed to utter. 'What beautiful workmanship! Did you construct this yourself?'
'I do a bit of metalwork,' Stertius admitted shyly. 'I can't think why these are not fitted as standard on all hired vehicles.'
I could. 'Wherever did you get the idea, Stertius?'
'A toad-building with the Third Augusta in bloody Numidia and Mauretania. We used something like it for measuring accurate positions for the mileposts.'
'Amazing!' I repeated feebly. 'Helena Justina, come and look at this; it's an Archimedes hodometer!'
I wondered how many more colourful eccentrics I was doomed to meet in Baetica.
'There's just one thing that has to be understood,' Stertius warned me as Helena dutifully dragged herself over to inspect his mileage measurer. 'You'll find Marmarides can turn his hand to most things, but he won't deliver babies!'
'That's all right,' Helena assured him, as if we were a couple who had plans for all contingencies. Didius Falco is a Roman of the traditional, hardy type. He can plough his fields with his left hand, while his right delivers twins. At the same time he can spout a finely phrased republican oration to a group of senatorial delegates, and invent an ode in praise of the simple country life.'
Stertius gave me an approving look. 'Handy, eh?'
'Oh, I do my best,' I answered, with traditional Roman modesty.
XVIII
It took nearly a week's driving to Corduba. Stertius had charged us a deposit based on a main journey of a hundred and twenty-five Roman miles. I reckon he was accurate. He must have checked it already with his
miraculous hodometer. I guessed that crazy man had measured every road in Baetica, and he owned marked-up itineraries to prove it.
Nobody of status ever went the way we did. I had not planned it myself. Once we had chosen the sea trip there were further options available. One sailing route went north of Corsica then came south hugging the coast of Gaul and Tarraconensis; it was famous for shipwrecks. The alternative nipped between Corsica and Sardinia; provided we didn't run aground on either island and fall into bandits' eager hands it had appeared a better bet. It probably was for most people, though not those prone to emptying their stomach at the first ripple of a wave.
What most folk did then was to sail right past Malaca to Lades, and take a boat up the grand River Baetis. I had decided against that for excellent reasons: I wanted to disembark as soon as possible. I also planned to arrive in Corduba in an unexpected manner that would bamboozle my Baetican suspects. So I had pored over route-charts and picked out my landfall on the eastern coast at Carthago Nova, proposing then to drive along the Via Augusta, the main inland highway through southern Hispania. This formed the final link of the great Via Herculana; it was supposedly the immortal hero's route across Europe to the Gardens of the Hesperides, imbued with romantic associations as the pathway to the ends of the earth. Better than that, it would be a fast paved road with well-equipped mans ios.
A Dying Light in Corduba Page 10