He insisted on taking me to a bar the soldiers liked. By the time we arrived I knew his name was Silvanus. I offered wine, but he preferred beer.“That Celtic muck is fermenting in your belly, Silvanus!” I joshed. Pretending to be friends with a man I despised was a strain. “You’ll end up like some fat pink Celt.”
“I can handle it.” They always say that. He would never look pink, in fact. My banqueting guest was a swart southerner; he had arms clothed in dark hairs like a goatskin rug and was so coarsely stubbled he could have removed paint from woodwork with his chin.
“I’ve drawn the short straw on that barrel killing,” I said gloomily. That made him laugh, the lazy bastard. It meant he would not have to bestir himself; he liked seeing me suffer too. The laugh was openly unpleasant. I was glad I did not have to work with him.
I kept the beer flowing his way. I stuck with wine, surreptitiously diluting it with extra water when Silvanus wasn’t looking.
It took half a bucketful of beer to soften him up enough to start talking, then another half to slow him down on how he hated the climate, the remoteness, the women, the men, and the piss-poor gladiatorial games.
“So Londinium’s acquired it’s own dinky amphitheater? If I may say so, it’s a bit cut off out here—and aren’t any arenas usually near the fort? Mind you, I wouldn’t say you had anything that I would call a fort!”
“There’s to be a new fort, to stop fraternizing.”
“As if anyone would! So how do the lads like the arena?”
“It’s rubbish, Falco. We get puppy fights and pretty girls in armor.”
“Saucy stuff! Sex and swords . . . How lucky you are!” We drank. “Tell me what the mood is around here nowadays.”
“What mood?”
“Well, I was last in Londinium when Boudicca had done her worst.”
“Fine old times!” Silvanus gloated. What a moron. He could not have been here then. Even a man as dense as this would have had sorrow etched into his soul.
If he asked me what legion I served in, I would lie. I could not face it if this lightweight learned I had been in the Second Augusta. My tragic legion, led at the time by a criminal idiot, had abandoned their colleagues to face the tribal onslaught. Best not to think what a currently serving centurion would make of that.
Nor was I intending to ask Silvanus which outfit he graced. The Twentieth or Ninth, perhaps; both did fight Boudicca, and neither would be friends of mine. These days Britain also had one of the patched- together new Flavian units, the Second Adiutrix. I ruled it out. Silvanus did not strike me as a man from a new legion; he had old lag written all over him from his scuffed boots to his scabbard, which he had customized with tassels that looked like bits of dead rat. At least I knew he did not belong to the dire, gloating Fourteenth Gemina. They had been relocated to Germany to reform their habits, were that possible. I had met them there—still pushing people around and pointlessly bragging.
“This place should never have been rebuilt.” Silvanus wanted to carp about the town; it stopped me brooding about the army, anyway.
“Disaster has that effect, man. Volcanoes, floods, avalanches—bloody massacres. They bury the dead, then rush to reconstruct in the danger area . . . Londinium never had any character.”
“Traders,” Silvanus grumbled. “Wine, hides, grain, slaves. Bloody traders. Ruin a place.”
“Can’t expect high art and culture.” I spoke slowly and slurred my words like him. It was coming quite easily. “This is just a road junction. A huddle of industries on the south bank, a couple of cranky ferries coming across. North side, a few low-rise stinking warehouses . . . Everything about it tells you it’s nothing.”
“The end of the road!” exclaimed Silvanus. Slurred by a drunken centurion, it sounded even more unappealing than when Petronius had complained.
“Does that give you problems?”
“It’s a bugger to police.”
“Why’s that? The natives seem docile.”
“When not dropping each other down wells?” His voice cracked with mirth and I felt my hackles rise. I had known Verovolcus, even if I had not liked him. Silvanus failed to notice my expression. He was enlarging his theories. I told myself that was what I wanted. “This place is a draw to scum, Falco.”
“How come?”
“Every chancer who has lost himself or wants to find himself.”
“Surely it’s too remote for dreamy-eyed tourists?”
“Not for inadequates. Every tosspot with a warped personality. When they’ve tried all the other dead-end provinces, they sniff the wind and waft up here. No money, no likelihood of work, no sense.”
“It’s cold and inhospitable—drifters surely don’t like that?”
“Oh, sun and seduction are not for losers. They yearn for empty open spaces, they want to endure hardship, they believe suffering in a wilderness will expand their lives.”
“So they seek out the mist on the edge of the world, among the legendary woad-painted men? And now you have a wild-eyed population of ragged people in shanties—feckless, rootless characters who may go off pop.”
“Right. They don’t fit.”
“Are any running from the law?”
“Some.”
“That’s fun.”
“Joyous.”
“So here they are—looking for a new start.”
“Butting up against the innocent British who only want to sell shale trays to visitors. All the British want to see arriving here are importers of dodgy wine that’s passing itself off as Falernian. And now,” exclaimed Silvanus, who was close to passing out, which in theory was what I needed, “we are starting to get the others.”
“Who are those?” I murmured.
“Oh, these people know exactly what they’re doing,” he burbled.
“These are the ones to watch, are they?”
“You get it, Falco.”
“And who are they, Silvanus?” I asked patiently.
“The ones who come to prey on the rest,” he said. Then he lay down, closed his bleary eyes, and started snoring.
I had made him drunk. Now I had to sober him up again. That’s because the theory is wrong. When you bring a witness to the point of passing out, he does not know he is supposed to tell you all before he quits—he just goes ahead and drifts into oblivion.
This drinking hole was a colorless, chilly, hygienic establishment, provided for the soldiers. Britons, Germans, Gauls don’t naturally have a street life with open-air foodshops and wine bars. So this bar was Rome’s big gift to a new province. We were teaching the barbarians to eat out. When the soldiers arrived in new territory, the army would at once send someone to arrange recuperation areas. “I want a good clean room, with benches that don’t tip over, and a working dunny in the yard . . .” No doubt the local commander still came along every month to taste the drink and check the waitresses for disease.
It had the usual bleak facilities. Bare boards, scrubbed whitewood tables from which vomit could be easily cleaned, and a three-seat latrine out the back, where constipated inebriates could sit for hours, being maudlin about home. It stood near enough to their barracks for them to scuttle home easily once they were rat-arsed. It was years since I had glugged poison in a bar like this, and I had not missed the experience.
The landlord was polite. I hate that.
When I asked him for a bucket of water, I was led to the well. We were on much higher ground than at the Shower of Gold, and must have been some way above the water table. The landlord confirmed that there were no springs in this part of town. This time the wellhead was an evil pile of stones, green with decades-old algae. Wriggly things dimpled the surface of the water and mosquitoes flitted among the stones. If Verovolcus had been upended here, he would have suffered nothing more than a sinister hairwash. We trailed a bucket sideways and managed to get it half full.
“This is the best you can do?” I had had a bad experience with a well last year in Rome. I was sweating slightly.
“We don’t get much call for water in the bar. I fetch it from the baths when I have to.” He did not offer to do so now.
“So where do the baths obtain their supply?”
“They invested in a deep shaft.”
“I see that wouldn’t be economical for you—how are your lats swilled out?”
“Oh, washing water trickles along there eventually. It’s fine except when they have a big celebration for a centurion’s birthday . . .”
I refrained from imagining the effects on his latrine of thirty big legionaries who had eaten bowls of hot pork stew, all with extra fish-pickle sauce, after eighteen beakers of Celtic beer apiece and a fig-eating contest . . .
I threw the water over Silvanus.
Several buckets more and we reached a cursing stage. I was cursing. He was just lolling weakly, still in truculent silence. Some informers will boast about their efficient use of the “getting-them-drunk-so-they-tell-you-stuff” technique. It’s a lie. As I said, witnesses pass out too soon. Often it’s not even the witness who becomes incapable, it’s the informer.
“Silvanus!” Shouting was the only way to get through. “Wake up, you bundle of jelly. I want to know, have you had regular trouble around the Shower of Gold?”
“Stuff you, Falco.”
“Offer appreciated. Answer the question.”
“Give me a drink. I want a drink.”
“You’ve had a drink. I’ll give you another when you answer me. What’s going on behind the wharves, Silvanus?”
“Stuff you, Falco . . .”
This routine continued for some time.
I paid the bill.
“Leaving?” inquired the landlord. “But he hasn’t told you anything.”
He was never going to. “It will keep,” I answered breezily.
“What’s this about then?” He was nosy. It was worth giving him a moment.
I eyed him up. He was a bald smarmer in a very blue tunic with an unnecessarily wide belt. I tried to maintain a steady stare. By that time I was so bleary myself I could not have intimidated a shy scroll-mite. “Trouble at another bar.” I hiccuped.
“Serious?”
“A visitor from out of town was killed.”
“That’s nasty! Who copped it?”
“Oh—a businessman.”
“Trying to muscle in on a racket,” suggested the landlord knowingly.
“In Britain?” At first I thought he was joking. The landlord looked offended at the insult to his chosen locale. I modified my disbelief by whistling. “Whew! That’s a turnup. What are you suggesting? Protection? Gambling? Vice?”
“Oh, I don’t really know anything about it.” He clammed up and began wiping tables. He moved around Silvanus fastidiously, not touching him.
“Do you get problems up here?” I asked.
“Not us!” Well, they wouldn’t. Not at a semi-military bar.
“I see.” I pretend to drop it. “You from these parts?”
He winced. “Do I look like it?” He looked like a pain in the posterior. I had thought so even before I was drunk. “No, I came across to run this bar.”
“Across? From Gaul?” So he was part of the great swarm of hangers-on that moves in the shadow of the army. It worked to mutual advantage, when it worked well. The lads were entertained and provided for; native people found livelihoods in supply and catering, livelihoods that would have been impossible without Rome. Once, this man would have lived all his years in a clump of round huts; now he was able to travel, and to assume an air of sophistication. He was earning cash too. “Thanks anyway.”
I could have provided a larger tip for him, but he annoyed me so I didn’t. Anyway, I hoped I would not have to come back.
I propped Silvanus up against a wall and this time I did leave.
VIII
So now I knew there were rackets.
It had taken most of the afternoon to extract information I would rather not have stumbled on. To achieve that, I had drunk myself into a condition where it was best not to follow up that kind of clue.
I was just sober enough to realize this. One swig more, and it could have been fatal.
It was a good idea not to transport myself straight home like this. Not to the fluted halls of a procurator’s riverview residence. I did not care what the highly placed personnel thought, but my wife and my dear sister were a different prospect. Both Helena and Maia had seen me drunk before, and both could deliver ripe speeches on the subject. I felt rather tired, and unwilling to hear a reprise. I needed a bolt-hole for sobering up. Rome was stuffed with nooks where I could spend an hour chatting with amiable companions while my head cleared. Londinium offered nothing suitable.
So what kind of entrepreneur would seriously move in on a town like this? Only a stupid one.
I was a city boy. I did what we do. I went to the forum. The first part of the walk was downhill. That helped. After crossing the stream where Boudicca’s hordes had cast the severed heads of murdered settlers, it was back uphill. A mistake, I felt.
Romulus had more idea of where to place a forum. In Rome, after quaffing away a lunchtime, you can stumble off the Palatine or Esquiline, riotously unstable, and have to go no farther. Down in the valley of the Sacred Way you can lie on ancient pavements, gazing up at stupendous temples and statue-decked civic buildings, knowing you are at the heart of things. Collapse neatly and you will be left alone, drooping in a long shady portico steadying your back against some mighty Carrara column that may have propped up that noble boozer Mark Antony. Basilicas and sanctuaries line a mile-long stretch of glory, where centuries of thoughtful generals and princes have thrown up triumphal arches; the dense shade protects the somnolent from the unyielding sun’s blaze. Nearby fountains and basins offer cool water to the badly parched. In extreme situations, there is the ultimate rescue: at the Temple of Isis, loose women will offer to take you home for a lie-down.
So far, Londinium offered only a four-sided enclosure with a silent basilica. Stores, shops, and offices stood empty on the other three sides. A colonnade was deserted. Outside the perimeter stood the spanking shell of a solitary temple. That’s all. At least there was no sun.
I sat on the bollard, breathing hard. It was early August. While I was drinking with Silvanus there must have been a prolonged heavy rain shower. It was over now, and the day was warm enough to be comfortable in open shoes and a short-sleeved tunic, but the shine of water had been shrinking off the cambered roads as I walked there. Of the few people I passed, some thoroughly depressed folk were still standing in doorways as if sheltering. Fine drizzle drifted in the air. Agitated gusts of wind blustered around the buildings. The sky was a uniform gray and even in the late afternoon the light seemed to be failing gloomily. It was typically Britain, and it made my heart ache for the endless, bright, scented summer days of home.
Julius Frontinus had tried to impress me with talk of long-term expansion in the civic area. According to him there was a master plan that allowed for tacking on new forum facilities piecemeal as the town grew in size and expectations. I did not believe it. From where I sat in this deserted hilltop amenity, damp and low in spirits, there seemed no point in any of us being here. We Romans had come in the hopes of mining precious metals; as soon as our belief in Britain’s riches died, we should have given up. The worst legacy of the tribes’ rebellion was that we now felt chained by blood and grief to this pitiful, uninteresting, miserable territory.
I was still tipsy, but I went home anyway. My sister took one look at me then held her peace. How sensible.
Helena was closeted in our private suite, playing with the children. Julia, our two-year-old, spotted my demeanor with those great dark eyes that missed nothing and simply decided to observe proceedings. The baby, now five months, was lying in Helena’s lap throwing her limbs in all directions; she continued, gurgling, lost in her own gymnastic world while her elegant mother dodged the worst kicks and tickled body parts that asked for it. This was, in effect, h
ow Helena Justina had always dealt with me.
“Say nothing about my state.”
“I shall not comment,” Helena replied calmly.
“Thanks.”
“Been working?”
“Right.”
“Got nowhere?”
“Right.”
“Want a nice kiss and a bowl of food to take the nasty wine away?”
“No.”
She stood up and came to kiss me anyway.
Somehow the baby, Favonia, ended up being passed into my arms, then when I sat in Helena’s half-round wicker chair, little Julia scrambled in there with me too and lay smiling up at me. This left Helena free to stroke my hair smoothly, knowing I could not shake her off without harming the children. I growled. The baby may not have understood quite what she was at, but all three of my supposedly subservient females giggled at me. So much for being the top god in the household shrine. As in most families, patriarchal power held no meaning. Eventually I gave in to the onslaught of comfort and just slumped glumly.
Helena left me long enough to settle, then said quietly, “You do not like Britain.”
“You know that, love.”
“Marcus, is this situation dangerous to you personally?”
“Someone killed a man. That’s always bad.”
“Sorry!” When Helena was so reasonable, it cut like a reproof.
“I’m upset.”
“I know.”
We left it there. Later, after the children had been collected by staff from the nursery, when she thought I was up to the pressure, Helena told me how things had progressed that day here. We were supposed to be dressing for dinner, though neither of us had made a start.
“The governor has sent a dispatch rider to King Togidubnus. Frontinus decided it is best to admit what has happened. The hope is, this will be the first the King hears of it. The murder will be explained the way it sounds best—well, sounds least bad—and the messenger can try to judge whether the King knows something he should not.”
“The King is not involved. I won’t have that!”
“No, Marcus. So what do you think Togidubnus will do?”
The Jupiter Myth Page 4