'Financial motives have certainly been suggested. I'm prepared to be persuaded most of it was caused by complete irresponsibility.'
'That's a hard verdict on my character!'
'And it's a poor excuse for murder.'
'I have a good explanation for everything.'
'Of course you have. There will always be excuses - and I believe you will even convince yourself that the excuses are true.'
We were still standing at the top of the exit from the seam. Quinctius moved aside abstractedly as a chain of slaves began to climb out via the ladder, each with his head down as he carried a basket of newly hewn rocks. I signalled the quaestor to walk further off with me, if only to give the poor souls room, but he seemed rooted to the spot. They managed to get past him somehow, then another lot descended the ladder, most of them going down like sailors, with their backs to the rungs and facing out.
'Thank you for your frankness, Falco.' Quadratus ran his hand through that mop of luxuriant, smartly cut hair. He looked troubled, though perhaps only by the necessity to interrupt his self-appointed mission to inspect these mines. 'I shall consider what you have said very carefully, and Provide an explanation for everything.'
'Not good enough. These are capital charges.'
He was still standing there, a sturdy, muscular figure with a bland expression but a Pleasing, good-looking face. He had everything that makes a man popular - not merely with women, but with voters, strangers, and many of his peers. He could not understand why he failed to win over his superiors. He would never know why he did not impress me.
'Can we discuss this later?'
'Now, Quadratus!'
Apparently he did not hear me. He was smiling faintly.
He stepped towards the wooden ladder and began to descend. Ever incompetent, he had followed the method used by the more practised slaves - facing outwards instead of first turning around to give himself a proper hold.
I had done nothing to alarm or threaten him. I can say that faithfully. Besides, there were plenty of witnesses. When his heel slipped and he fell, it was just as he said of what happened to Rufius Constans - an accident, of course.
He was still alive when I reached him. He had crashed down on to a ledge, and then fallen another ladder's height. People rushed up and we made him comfortable, though it was clear from the first he would not be recovering. In fact we left him where he was and it was soon over. He never regained consciousness.
Because a man has to stick to his personal standards, I stayed with him until he died.
PART FOUR: BARCINO
AD73: 25 May
In some parts of the city there are no longer any visible traces of bygone times, any buildings or stones to bear witness to the past ... But the certainty always remains that everything has happened here, in this specific space that forms part of a plain between two rivers, the mountains and the sea.
Albert Garcia Espuche, Barcelona, Veinte Siglos
LXVII
From Castulo to the northern coast is a long, slow haul, at least five hundred Roman miles. It depends not just on which milepost you start counting from, but where you want to end up - and whether where you do end up is the place where you wanted to be. I had shed my spare mule then used my official pass for the cursus publicus and took it in fast stages, like a dispatch-rider - one who had been charged to announce an invasion by hordes of barbarians, or an imperial death. After several days I hit the coast at Valentia. I had come pretty well half way; then it was another long trek north with the sea on my right hand, through one harbour town after another, right past the provincial capital at Tarraco at the mouth of its great waterway, until at length I was due to reach Iluro, Barcino and Emporiae.
I never got as far as Emporiae, and I'll never see it now.
At every town I had stopped to visit the main temple, where I demanded to know if there was a message. In this way I had traced Helena, Aelia and Claudia from place to place, encouraged by confirmation of their passing through ahead of me - though I noticed that the brief dated messages were all written by Aelia Annaea, not Helena herself. I tried not to worry. I was closing on them fast, so I convinced myself our journeys would coincide at Emporiae as planned. Then I could take Helena safely home.
But at Barcino, the message was more personal: Claudia Rufina was waiting for me on the temple steps.
Barcino.
The one place on that heart-breaking, back-breaking journey that sticks in my mind. All the others, and the previous long cross-country and coastal miles, were obliterated from my memory the instant that I saw the girl and realised she was weeping into her veil.
Barcino was a small walled town in the coastal strip, a pausing place on the Via Augusta. It was built in a circlet of hills near the sea, in front of a small mountain that was quarried for limestone. An aqueduct brought in water; a canal carried the sewage away. The area was rural; the hinterland was divided into regular packets of land, typical of a Roman settlement that had started life as a military veterans' colony.
Wine-growing was the local commercial success, every farm possessing its kilns for making amphorae. Laeitana: the wme I had last drunk at the dinner for the Olive Oil Producers of Baetica. Wine export thrived so well the town had an official customs post on a bridge beside one of its rivers. The harbour was notoriously terrible, yet because of its handy location on the main route to Gaul, then onwards to Italy, the port was well used. Low breakers rolled unthreateningly on the beaches beyond the inlet. I could have cheerfully taken ship to Rome from here with Helena, but the Fates had another plan.
I had ridden in through the southeastern gate, a triple entrance set in the middle of the town wall. I took the straight road to the civic centre, past unpretentious two- storeyed houses, many of which had a section devoted to wine production or handicrafts. I could hear the trundle of corn- and olive-mills, with occasional bleats from animals. I never thought that my journey would be ending here. I was now so close to Emporiae, which I had Planned to use as our staging post; it seemed ridiculous that anything should intervene so late in the journey. I believed we were going to make it.
I reached the forum, with its modest basilica, tempting foodshops, and an open area dedicated to honorary monuments. It was here I saw Claudia. She was leaning against one of the fine local sandstone Corinthian columns in the temple, anxiously looking out for me.
My arrival had made her hysterical - which did nothing for my own peace of mind. I calmed her down enough to let her blurt out what had happened: 'We stopped here because Helena was about to have the baby. We were told they had a decent midwife - though it seems she has gone to deliver twins on the other side of the mountain. Aelia Annaea has rented a house and she's there with Helena. I came to find you if you arrived today.'
I tried in vain to compose myself. 'What are the tears for, Claudia?'
'Helena has gone into labour. It's taking far too long, and she's exhausted. Aelia thinks the baby may have too big a head -'
If so, the child would die. And Helena Justina would almost certainly die too.
Claudia led me as fast as possible to a modest town house. We rushed in through a short passage to reach an atrium with an open roof and a central pool. A reception room, dining room and bedrooms led off it; I could tell at once where Helena was because Nux was lying at full stretch outside the bedroom, with her nose Pressed right against the crack under the door, whining Pitifully.
Aelia's rental was clean and would have been prepossessing, but it was full of strange women, either clamouring dolefully - which was bad enough - or doing routine needlework as if my girl's suffering merely called for attendance by the civic sewing circle. A new spasm of agonising pain must have come over Helena, for I heard her crying out so dreadfully it shocked me to the core.
Aelia Annaea, ashen faced, had met us in the atrium. Her greeting was merely a shake of her head; she seemed quite unable to speak.
I managed to croak, 'I'll go to her.'
At leas
t this male forwardness silenced a few of the wailing women. I was weary and hot, so as I passed I rinsed my face in the atrium pool - another sacrilege, apparently.
The needles had stopped stabbing, while the hysteria increased.
I scooped up Nux, whose only reaction to me was a slight tremble of her tail. All she wanted was to reach Helena. So did I. I dumped the whining dog in Aelia's arms then I grasped the door handle. As I stepped inside, Helena stopped screaming just long enough to yell at me, 'Falco, you bastard! How could you do this to me? - Go away; go away; I never want to see you again!'
I felt a wild surge of sympathy with our rude forefathers. Men in huts. Men who really were capable of anything. Men who had had to be.
Behind me Aelia gasped, 'Falco, she can't do it; she's too tired. The baby must be stuck -'
It was all out of control. Helena looking ghastly as tears mingled with perspiration on her face; Aelia wrestling with the frantic dog; strange women fluttering uselessly. I let out a roar. Hardly the best way to regain calm. Then, infuriated by the noise and fuss, I seized a broom, and with wide sweeps at waist height I cleared the room of women. Helena sobbed. Never mind. We could panic and suffer just as well on our own; we could manage without interruptions from idiots. I strode to the door after them. Aelia Annaea was the only sensible one present so I rapped out my orders to her:
'Olive oil and plenty of it!' I cried. Adding thoughtfully, 'And warm it slightly, please.'
EPILOGUE
To L. Petronius Longus, of the IV Cohort Vigilorum, Rome:
Lucius Petronius, greetings from the land of the Laeitana vintage, which I can assure you lives up to its reputation, especially when drunk in quantity by a man under stress. I solved the Second Cohort's killing (see coded report, attached: the cross-hatch stands for 'arrogant bastard' but in the prefect's copy it should be translated as 'misguided young man'). For the time being I am delayed at this spot. As you no doubt surmise, it's a girl. She's beautiful; I think I'm in love ... Just like the old days, eh?
Well, old friend, anything you can do three times, I can manage at least once. Here's another report, which with any luck you will not be reading in the Forum in the Daily Gazette:
Hot news just in from Tarraconensis! Word reaches us from Barcino that the family of a close associate of the Emperor may have a reason to celebrate. Details to follow, but rumours that the baby was delivered by the father while the mother yelled 'I don't need you; I'll do it myself just like I have to do everything!' are believed to exaggerate. M. Didius Falco, an informer, who claims he was present, would only comment that his dagger has seen a lot of action, but he never thought it would end up cutting a natal cord. The black eye he acquired while attempting to ministrate has already calmed down. His finger was broken entirely by accident, when the noble lady grabbed his hand; relations between them are perfectly cordial and he has no plans to sue ...
Helena and I both feel completely exhausted. At the moment it seems as if we'll never recover. Our daughter is showing signs of her future personality; she closes her eyes on the crisis and goes fast to sleep.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: RESEARCH
While writing this book I learned of the death of Sam Bryson, who once gave me a practical demonstration of how Falco might thwart an assailant coming at him with a knife. We acted this out in a restaurant, which may have slightly surprised other people who were dining at the time ...
Neither the books I have plundered nor the archaeology I have cribbed will ever be listed as formal sources, because the Falco series is fiction, and meant purely to entertain. But even apart from librarians, authors and tour guides whose job it is, people have always been generous with their interest and help; this seems an occasion to mention just a small sample - for instance, Sue Rollin for reassurance on the Decapolis, Mick McLean for a list of metals that I use one day, Janet for steering me to hypothecs, Oliver for the rude joke about the camel, and Nick Humez for the even ruder song (with tune). I have to thank Sally Bowden who not only published me first, but then thoughtfully brought up her son to be au archaeologist - and Will Bowden, who enabled a trip to the Domus Aurea, and doesn't turn a hair when asked if a descent into the sewers might be possible ... Staff at London Zoo Reptile House were enormously helpful about snakes; then Bill Tyson described what a scorpion bite is really like ...
For this particular story, I relied heavily on Janet Laurence who selflessly handed over all her own notes on olive oil, and Robert Knapp who responded most kindly to a request from a complete stranger for a copy of his authoritative book on Roman Corduba, not to mention Senor Jose Remesal Rodrigez, who sent me his papers on the Baetican oil trade without even being asked. Most devoted of all must be Ginny Lindzey, who catalogued for me every detail of Jonathan's birth, and the accidental damage to Jeff during Tobin's - only to have this sacrificed to the editorial Pencil ...
And as usual thank you Richard, who walks the streets, eats the meals, pours the drink, keeps the tone masculine, carries the fish, photographs the dog, rehearses the fights (and other technically difficult scenes), and inspires the best lines.
A Dying Light in Corduba Page 39