“Turn up here, in an angry mood. Noviomagus is sixty Roman miles, plus. One day’s journey for an imperial post rider—if he chases. But he won’t; this is not war or the death of an emperor. So the King will know about the murder by tomorrow evening, say—”
“He won’t set out in the dark,” Helena said.
“So at first light in two days’ time he’ll be on his way. He may be an old man, but he’s fit. I need to supply answers, not by tomorrow but soon after.”
“Oh, Marcus, that’s not long enough.”
“It will have to be.”
I had no appetite for passing dainties on silver platters tonight. I did start to change my clothing, but I had more on my mind than a cultural soiree. Helena watched, not moving. She commented that there was little investigation I could carry out at this time of the evening. I answered that I needed movement. I needed results. I could do what I should probably have done this afternoon. I could revisit the Shower of Gold. I had no plan of how to tackle this, except that if they had changed the barmaid from the one I met, I would go in incognito.
“You will stand out as a Roman,” Helena remarked.
“I am a master of disguise.” Well, I had a scruffy tunic and a worn cloak.
“Your skin is olive and your haircut screams Rome.” My mad tangle of curls only said I had forgotten to comb them, but she was right in principle. My nose was Etruscan. I had the bearing of a man who had been given legionary training, and the attitude of the city-born. I liked to think that even in other parts of the Mediterranean my sophistication stood out. Among fair-skinned, blue-eyed lackadaisical Celtic types there was no hiding me.
Helena by now was rootling in her own clothes chest. “They will be expecting more officials—” Her voice was muffled, though not enough to hide a note of excitement. “Any Roman male alone will stand out as far too obvious.”
“This is where I need Petro.”
“Forget him.” Garments were being thrown in all directions. “With Petronius you just look like an official who has brought backup. Trust me,” Helena cried, popping back upright and immediately dragging her patrician white dress up and over her head. I thought briefly of hauling her straight into bed. “You need a girlfriend, Marcus!”
And I had one. No further explanation was required. Luckily there were staff to look after our children. Fired up with excitement, their noble mother was coming with me.
IX
Fresh off the boat!”
“Exactly the look.” I was unperturbed by Helena’s hilarity. “And smell!” I added, dipping my head to sniff: laundry damp—and whatever of me the Noviomagus washerwoman had failed to remove.
My tunic was a heavy, coarse-weave, dirty rust-colored thing—gear I had packed to use on a building site. Over it I had a traveling cloak with a pointy hood that gave me the look of a woodland deity. One who was not very bright. As well as a hidden dagger down my boot, I wore another openly; its scabbard hung on my belt alongside a money pouch. Add a trusting look, tempered by crotchety tiredness, and I could be any tourist. Ripe to be conned by the locals.
Helena stripped off all her normal jewelry, leaving only a silver ring I once gave her. She then put on a pair of large, surprisingly trashy earrings. If these were some old lover’s gift, she did right to ditch the swine. More likely, they were a present from one of her mother’s attendants. Her muted clothes were her own, and might have revealed her status, but she had hitched them up awkwardly and trussed them under her bosom with a complete lack of grace. She looked as if she possessed neither closet slaves nor hand mirror, nor even taste. She was no longer herself. Well, that was fun for me.
Don’t get me wrong. This was foolish and dangerous. I knew it. Two excuses, Legate: one, Helena Justina, daughter of the senator Camillus, was a free woman. If she wanted to do something I could not stop her, any more than her noble father ever had. Two, she was right. As part of a couple, I would be much less conspicuous.
Add to that, we were both bored silly with being well-mannered visitors. We yearned for stimulus. We both enjoyed shared adventures—especially when we sneaked off without telling anyone, and when we knew if we had told them, they would all disapprove hysterically.
We slipped out of the residence. Our departure was spotted, but when staff gave us a second look we just kept going. There was no point borrowing Aelia Camilla’s carrying chair. It would draw attention to us. We could manage on foot. Wherever we were going in this town would be close enough to walk.
I was getting my bearings. Londinium had not been developed by addicts of Hippodamus of Miletus and his structured gridiron street plans. It never grew from a major military base, so it lacked form and it lacked town walls. Instead of a four-square pleasing pattern, the T-shaped development followed one line across the river, then sprawled untidily in two directions, with houses and businesses ribboning along important roads. There were very few developed plots behind the few main streets.
On the north bank, two low hills were divided by several free- flowing freshwater streams. Industrial premises had been sited along the banks of the main stream. The forum stood on the eastern hill, and most of the new wharves lay at the foot of that particular high ground. Beyond, on the western hill, there must be houses amid perhaps further commercial premises, and I had seen what looked like smoke from bathhouse furnaces. Apart from major imports and modest exports operating from the wharves, this was a town of potters and tanners. Even among the houses, empty spaces were farmed. I had heard livestock as often as the marsh birds or the gulls following traders’ ships.
A straight arterial road led downhill from the forum, direct to the river. There it passed a landing stage for ferries and what would one day be the bridgehead. Crossing at forum level was what passed for the main road, the Decumanus Maximus, with a secondary east-west highway halfway down to the river. Helena and I took that road for a short while and crossed the forum approach.
The patchy development continued. Residential plots had sometimes been rebuilt with new brick houses or otherwise left as blackened patches of burned ground. It was almost fifteen years since the Rebellion, but recovery was still slow. After the tribes’ massacre, a few escapees must have returned to claim their land, but many had died without descendants—or with descendants who could no longer bear the scene. The authorities were reluctant to release land that appeared to have no owner. A land registry had existed, which prevented a free-for-all. There was plenty of space here anyway. Making the decision to sell off plots where whole families had died would be sorry work. So it might be decades before all the gaps in these stricken streets were filled.
Helena took my hand. “You’re brooding again.”
“Can’t help it.”
“I know, darling. One day all trace of what happened will vanish. It would be worse if everything had been made good immediately.”
“Insensitive,” I agreed.
“One of the saddest things I ever heard,” Helena mused gently, “is how the governor raced here to assess the situation, just before the furious tribes arrived. He knew he had insufficient troops and would be forced to sacrifice the town to save the province. So he closed his ears to pleas, but allowed those who wished to accompany him and the cavalry. Then, we were told afterwards, ‘Those who stayed, because they were women, or old, or attached to the place, were all slaughtered.’ Some people were attached to Londinium, Marcus. It made them stay to face certain death. That’s heartrending.”
I told her they were idiots. I said it gently. What I thought was worse, but she knew that. There was no need to be coarse.
Looking around, as we searched to rediscover the sad bar called the Shower of Gold, it seemed perverse for anyone to feel sentimentality for this town. The community had no aediles to oversee street cleaning or repairs. A few far-from-graceful porticoes offered red-tiled roofs, not so much for shade as storm protection. Lights were a luxury. In a couple of hours I would be getting out of here fast.
“Is th
at the place?” asked Helena.
“You’ve never been here,” I muttered.
“No, but I can read a signboard, darling.”
I peered at the crude fresco, with its vague representation of light streaming through a tip-tilted window. The paint had weathered so much I was surprised Hilaris ever spotted the name. We went in. The lintel was low-slung. Most customers must be midgets with rickets.
The serving girl, whose short legs I remembered, was missing. The taverner himself stared at us as we entered. He seemed to wonder what we wanted, coming in his bar, but that’s regular. It happens in Rome too. To serve the public requires a special type: unwelcoming, obtuse, inaccurate with coinage, and very deaf when called. Some informers are no better equipped. But most do have good feet. His were embossed with corns, and he had at least one toe missing. I could see this because there was no counter; he just perched on a stool.
We found our own table. Easy—there was only one. Since we were supposed to be a couple traveling, Helena took the purse from me and went to order. I sat and smiled, like a man who could not manage foreign currency and who would drink more than he was used to, if his wife let him loose.
She dropped the fresh-off-the-boat routine immediately and chose her own approach. “I don’t think we’ll have wine today. I hear yours suffers from interesting additives!”
“What do you mean?”
“Bodies.”
“Word gets round,” replied the landlord dourly.
“So what happened?”
“Nobody saw.” He spurned gossip. It could have been for the sake of his establishment, had it any reputation to protect.
“We just had to come and see the scene . . . Have you any fresh fruit juice?” Even I winced. Helena was forgetting she was in Britain.
“We only serve wine.” Her request was out of place, but he held back any sarcastic riposte. Too sophisticated—or just too much effort.
“Oh, we’ll risk it!”
“Nothing wrong with our wine. The man drowned in the well,” the dour fellow corrected her.
“Oh! Can we see the well?” she demanded excitedly.
He gestured to the yard door, pushed a jug at her, and left us to our own devices.
Helena went out to peer quickly down the well, then came back to our table with the jug.
“Cups, darling?” I teased, playing to a nonexistent audience, but the landlord had brought them, with overobvious efficiency. “Thanks, Legate!” I poured and tipped a cup to him. He gave me a brusque nod. “Sorry,” I murmured sympathetically. “You must be sick of sightseers.”
He made no comment, only sucked a blackened tooth. He went back to stand in silence among his amphorae in a corner, staring at us. I would normally have tried chatting with other customers—but there were none. And it was impossible to talk to Helena while the man was listening.
Now we were stuck. Stuck in a dark drinking hole that lacked atmosphere: a small square room with a couple of seats, about three shapes of wine flagon, no snacks evident, and a man serving who could crack marble with his stare. Once again I wondered why Verovolcus, a happy soul who was oppressively convivial, would ever have come here. The woman this morning had sworn nobody knew who he was or remembered him. But if tonight’s effort represented normal trade, it would be impossible to forget. The landlord must have had time to count the stitches on Verovolcus’ tunic braid.
He would certainly remember me, right down to the fact that I had forty-seven hairs in my left eyebrow. Uncomfortable, we drank up and prepared to leave.
With nothing to lose, as I paid him I bantered: “The Shower of Gold—I wish I had Zeus popping in at the window in a heap of cash! He could sleep with anyone he liked.” The landlord looked bemused. “You named your winery after a myth,” I pointed out.
“It was called that when I came here,” he snarled.
As we reached the doorway, people emerged from a dark passage that seemed to lead upstairs. One was a man who slipped straight out past me, adjusting his belt buckle in a way that was all too recognizable. He must be desperate; his companion was the barroom waitress. She was as ugly as I remembered. The squat little monster chinked a couple of coins into the petty cash bowl, and the landlord hardly looked up.
Servicing customers could be part of a waitress’s duties, but usually the girls looked better. Not good, but better. Sometimes quite a lot better.
She had seen me. “My girlfriend wanted to see the crime scene,” I told her apologetically.
“We’re going to charge for tickets,” snapped the waitress. To the landlord she added unpleasantly, “He was here with the nobs this morning. Has he been asking more questions?” There was no need to warn him; he knew how to refuse to cooperate. She rounded on me again. “We told you what we know, and it’s nothing. Don’t come again—and don’t bother sending your pals.”
“What pals? I sent nobody.”
Both waitress and landlord were now a little too truculent. We took the hint and left.
“Was that a waste of time, Marcus?” Helena asked demurely.
“I don’t know.”
Probably.
“So what shall we do now?”
“Use a trick of the trade.”
“Like what?” asked Helena.
“When you learn nothing in the first wine bar, try another one.”
X
Finding another was difficult. As a kindness to my lady I tried working back uphill, toward what passed for better parts of town. No luck. “Better” was a misnomer anyway.
We were forced to head back down toward the river, at one point even emerging onto a planked wharf. Nothing was moving on the water; we were right by a ferry landing point, yet it seemed a lonely spot. We retreated hastily. Up the next steep entry we hit a row of shops. Most seemed to sell either pottery or olive oil, the oil in the great round- bottomed Spanish amphorae Helena and I knew well from a trip we had made to Baetica. Wine seemed a scarcer commodity on public sale, but there was evidence that everyone in Londinium had access to the fine golden oil from Corduba and Hispalis. If everyone had it, presumably the stuff was sold at a reasonable price. Then from a street corner we spotted a small brown-tinged bay tree; half its leaves had been shredded by moths and its lead shoot was broken, but it seemed to serve the same advertising purpose as greenery outside any foodshop in the Mediterranean.
As we arrived, a waiter or the proprietor stepped outdoors and spoke to a bundle who was scavenging on his frontage. He was not abusive, but she scuttled off. I took it as a good sign that he repelled vagrants. We went inside.
Warmth hit us: bodies and lamps. It was much bigger and better lit than our first venue. A wine list had been chalked up on a wall, though there was nothing I recognized. The man who served us made no reference to the list, just offered red or white, with the extra option of beer. Helena, still in character, thought it would be fun to try British beer. Petro and I had done that in our youth; I asked for red. I wanted a water jug as well. With a head still sore from this afternoon, I was going gently. The waiter managed not to sneer. Roman habits were clearly not new to him.
This time we sat quietly, relaxed as we waited for our drinks. We gazed around. Both waiters here were thin, slight, hollow-cheeked, hardworking types with balding crowns, glossy black face hair, and lugubrious eyes. They did not look British, more likely from Spain or the East. So here was another establishment staffed by migrants. Who knows how many miles they had traveled, humping their possessions, their hopes, and their past history, to end up running a cheap bar that lay on the other side of everywhere. Their customers represented a shifting population too. Some were traders by their appearance: tanned, competent businessmen locked in conversations in twos and threes. None looked like Britons. The locals skulked at home. Places of entertainment in this town were catering for outsiders. As long as that continued, the province could hardly be civilized. It would just be a trading post.
Nearest to us was a man who reminded me of Silva
nus’ claim that Londinium was attracting oddballs. He was wrapped in many layers, with old rope for a belt around coarse trews, his skin ingrained with dirt, his hair lank and straggly.
“Want a doggie?” he demanded, as Helena made the mistake of watching him feed tidbits to a lean cur at his feet. The dog looked disgusting and whined unhappily.
“No, we have one already, thanks.” I was relieved that we had locked Nux in the bedroom before we came out. Pupped in an alley, Nux had moved up in the world when she adopted me, but she still liked making playmates of mongrels with bad characters.
“This boy’s very smart.”
“No, really. Ours is already a handful.”
He dragged his stool nearer, scraping it sideways on two legs. A leech who had found new victims. “British dogs are magic,” this dire parasite claimed proudly. Was he British, or just loyal to the commodity he hawked? Unlike other customers here, I thought he could be genuine. Which poor tribe did he belong to? Was he some unwanted lag kicked out of the enclosure by the Trinovantes or a reprobate shoved off a hillfort by fastidious Dubonni? In any culture, he would be the long-lost grisly uncle, the one everybody dreads. At Saturnalia, or the tribes’ equivalent, they no doubt spoke of him and shuddered, looking quickly over their shoulders in case he came limping home up the trail sucking grass in the huge gap between those awful teeth . . . “I sell as many as I can get, easy. Marvels. If you, fine lady, bought one of these—” A clawlike hand crept into the neck of his lowest undertunic, then scratched slowly. The dog at his feet, raddled with sarcoptic mange, joined in. Most of the fur was gone from its haunches; you could see every rib. For both of them the scratching was unconscious and continual. “I guarantee you’d get your money back four or five times over, selling it again in Rome or some big place.”
“That’s wonderful. Still, no thank you.”
He paused. Then tried again gamely. “He’ll be perfect if your husband hunts.”
“No, he doesn’t hunt, I’m afraid.”
The Jupiter Myth Page 5