“Sure?” She was sure. So was I, damn it. A city boy, I would rather go to the races any day.
The filthy salesman nodded at me secretly. I was being blamed for Helena’s resistance. “Bit of a tight-arse, is he?”
Helena smiled at me, considering. I smiled back. Then she told her new friend, “Maybe. But I love him. He thinks he’s a man of the streets; don’t disillusion him.”
“Illusions!” warbled the dogman loudly. “We all need illusions, don’t we?” Other customers glanced our way, pitied us for being trapped, then buried their snouts in their beakers. “Cherish your illusions, queenly one—lest the dark gods steal you to Hades unfulfilled!”
He was crazy. On the other hand, he could deal in abstract concepts and multisyllable definitions. I groaned. Did we have that gruesome icon, a man once wealthy, a man of intellect and background, who had fallen on hard times? Had he and his poetic soul been brought low by inadequacy of character, bad financial luck—or drink?
No, he was low-grade; he just liked selling dogs. He thought he would make a fortune passing off his lame, wormy hounds to dumb Romans. He hoped he might even sell one to Helena and me. Tough luck, dog-sharp.
Two men came in. The one in front was short and solid, the other was leaner and kept looking around. They were known to the proprietors. They disappeared with the senior waiter through a curtain to some inner recess. I heard raised voices. A short time afterward the two men emerged and left, unsmiling, walking rapidly. The waiter came out. He muttered briefly to his companion. Both looked hot and angry.
Most customers failed to notice. It was all quite discreet.
Helena had watched me watching them. “What do you think that was?”
“Market gardeners selling parsley.”
“Protection rackets? Moneylenders?” Helena thought along the same lines as me. “Do you think the owner paid them?”
“Difficult to tell.”
“If he did, he did not want to—and he made his feelings known.”
“If he paid up, fruit, those bagman won’t care about his attitude.”
“And if not?”
“Presumably they will be back—to ensure he changes his mind.”
We were speaking in low voices, ignoring the dogman. He knew enough to leave us to our confidential talk. Maybe he listened. It made no difference to me. If there were heavies leaning on shop owners, the sooner the better for them to learn that someone was checking up on them.
The waiters went around the tables, busying themselves. They served the dogman and several others automatically, so those must be regulars. This seemed a place to pick up local atmosphere, so we lingered. I accepted a refill and snacks. Helena was still progressing slowly through her beer; she would not admit to a mistake, though my guess was she did not care for it. The waiter expected her to leave half the beaker, but she would finish. Then she would say thank you very nicely when she left.
Helena Justina might be a senator’s daughter, but she was my kind of girl. I grinned and winked at her. She belched modestly.
I leaned back and grabbed olives from a bowl on a table behind me. The tidbits may have been communal. I acted as if I assumed so and got into conversation with the two men sitting there. They were negotiators, shifting supplies north for the army; then they took cattle hides south. The first part was profitable, they told me; the hides acted as ballast, filling their ships with flies. They had thought about transporting slaves instead, but there were too many problems. I joked that they should go into partnership with the dog trader—at which point the conversation died.
Helena had been watching the scavenger we saw earlier. That whey-faced skinny mite had now sneaked back inside; this time the waiters let her alone. Whenever customers departed, she wafted like a sylph to their table then devoured any food they left. There was rarely drink. One man leaned toward her and asked something; she shook her head. It may have been a sexual approach or he could have just asked if it was raining outdoors.
Nothing much seemed to be happening, so next time our beakers were empty I paid up and we took off. Outside, the streets were growing very dark. The temperature was balmy, though nowhere near as hot as Rome would be on an August night. There was no street life, just mosquitoes to smack. They had learned to head into town from the marshes at dusk for a bloody feast. Something had nipped my ankle badly, and Helena kept imagining they were dancing in her hair.
Helena took my arm to steady both of us as we walked. It took some time to find another bar to crawl to. In Rome there would be a foodshop counter on the street every few yards, and probably an inside drinking den on every block. You would not have to keep stopping to shake pea-grit from your shoes either. Londinium had paved roads, but most of its back alleys were rough underfoot. The town was built on gravel and brick earth. There were plenty of tile and brick kilns, and the old wattle-and-daub huts were being replaced with timber and brick dwellings. But I was yearning to walk on great warm slabs of Travertine.
I needed a pee too.
Not finding a venue that offered hygienic facilities, the issue was sorted in ways you need not know.
“What about me?” grizzled Helena. The perpetual beef of a woman on holiday in a strange town. I was the paterfamilias. My role was to find her somewhere. Like most holiday husbands, I had made my own arrangements and now lost interest. This aspect of the situation was pointed out to me.
“Are you desperate?” They always are. Still, we sorted that too, once she was desperate enough. We found a dark place and I stood on guard.
“That’s true love,” she thanked me gratefully.
The next time we ventured into what looked like a wine bar, it turned out to be a brothel. They had a table and two chairs outside, as enticement and camouflage, but once we stepped indoors we knew. We saw little sign of activity, but there was every appearance that business was good. As soon as I spotted the teenage scrubbers at the ready, white-faced in their drop-necked frocks and glass bead anklets, we backed out with polite smiles.
The madam did look British. All over the world, this is the first trade to develop when civilization hits the backward barbarians. Widows, for one, are quick to catch on. Widows and unmarried mothers who have to call themselves widows. This one had a direct manner and tired professional eyes. She had probably serviced soldiery outside Roman forts long before she set up here in the town.
Maybe the house of love gave us ideas. Not long after that, Helena and I stopped on a street intersection, moved close, and kissed. It was a long tender kiss, not lustful, but full of enjoyment.
We were still locked together in this friendly fashion when we noticed an odd smell. I realized traces of smoke in the air had been bothering me for a few moments. We broke off, walked on quickly, and found there was some nightlife in Londinium after all: a bakery was on fire.
XI
In Rome, a crowd would have gathered. In Londinium, only a few curious shadows lurked on the dark fringes of the street. Occasional bursts of flame lit their faces briefly. One overhead window creaked open and a woman’s voice laughed. “Someone’s had an accident! The dough dump’s copped it . . .”
I wondered what to do. There were no vigiles here, ready to whistle for colleagues to start a bucket line; no esparto mats; no siphon engine with a full water tank to dump on the blaze.
The building was well alight. You could see it was a bakery because the frontage doors were open; beyond the red-hot counter, two full-height ovens showed up inside, open-mouthed like ancient gargoyles. The flames were not coming from the ovens, however, but leaped all around the walls. Perhaps a spark in a fuel store had started this.
I grabbed at a spectator. “Is anyone inside?”
“No, it’s empty,” he answered, quite unconcerned. He turned on his heel and walked away, joining a companion ten strides from me. They glanced back at the bakery, then one slapped the other on the shoulders; they were both grinning as they walked off. I recognized them then: the two heavies who had
angered the waiters at our second wine bar. It was not the moment to pursue them. But I would know them again.
As if they had waited for the pair to leave, people now began to rally and douse the fire. It took some doing. I helped sling a few buckets. Someone must be fetching them from a well—another reused wine barrel? As we worked, one of the folding doors came away from its moorings and crashed down in showers of sparks. That should not have happened; it must have been damaged. Deliberately? It landed right up close to a group of panicking dogs, who had all been lashed to a pillar on individual strings. They kicked up a racket, frantic to escape. The door continued burning so it was impossible to approach the dogs. I tried, but they were too scared and they snarled too viciously.
One plunging hound had his coat on fire now. That caused him to yank his head even more violently, trying to free himself. The others became more alarmed as he clambered on top of them.
“Marcus, do something!”
“Hades—what?”
Someone ran past me, jerking my dagger from its sheath at my waist. I yelled. The slight figure darted in among the dogs, heedless of their teeth, and slashed at some master cord tying them to the pillar. Instantly they were off. Their rescuer still clutched hold of a central knot and was towed nastily along the rough ground. The group of barking canines raced two ways around another pillar, tangled crazily, then were apprehended by a man I recognized as the dirty dogseller. He grabbed the ties and took over. I cannot say his presence soothed the animals, but he was strong enough to hold them as he bent to inspect them for damage. Their barks subsided into whines.
Helena had gone to the rescuer; it was another familiar face: the pathetic scavenger. The dogman showed her no gratitude. He kicked and beat his hounds into submission, looking as if he would as soon kick and beat the girl too. She had been badly grazed through her rags and was crying. Averse to publicity, he soon went off into the darkness, muttering, leaning back against the undertow, amid a swarm of struggling hounds.
I retrieved my dagger from where it had fallen to the ground in the chase, then turned back to help with the fire again. I found we had professional help: some soldiers had arrived.
“The bakery’s beyond saving—just protect the premises each side!” They dealt with matters briskly, seeming unsurprised by the blaze. Well, fires are commonplace in towns and cities. I had already observed that oil was readily available. Lamps and stoves are always a danger.
“Lucky you turned up,” I complimented the officer in charge.
“Yes, wasn’t it?” he returned. Then I felt their arrival was no coincidence.
Silvanus was not leading this troop; he probably still nursed a sore head from our drinking bout, and anyway they were the night patrol. Regulars on this patch, who clearly expected trouble. Detachments had orders to check these streets at intervals. Businesses might be attacked at any time. Weighing in to help the public had become routine.
Was it routine to stand by and let a blazing building go up, while ostentatiously protecting nearby premises? Were the military tiptoeing around the racketeers? They would only do that if they were heavily bribed.
Of course nobody would acknowledge what was going on. “Rogue spark,” decided the officer. “No one at home to notice.”
Why was nobody at home at live-in business premises? I could work that out. Somewhere in this town lurked a baker who had rashly stood out for his independence and now knew his livelihood was doomed. He must have made some gesture of defiance—then he wisely ran.
Rackets usually operate in specific areas. Bars were one thing; if a bakery had been threatened, it was highly unusual. If all the shops, in all the streets, were being targeted, that was real bad news.
The soldiers were pretending to take names and addresses of witnesses. It would be for the secret service lists, of course. Anyone who cropped up on a military rota too often (twice, say) would go down as a disruptive element. Britons seemed to have learned about that; the sightseers melted from the streets. That left me and Helena. I had to tell the boys in red who we were. Ever so politely, we were offered a safe conduct straight back to the procurator’s residence: we were being shifted out of there.
Once, I would have objected. Well, once I would have given a false name, kicked the officer in the private parts, and legged it. I might even have done it for practice tonight, had I not had Helena with me. She saw no reason to run for it. Senators’ daughters are brought up to be trusting with soldiers; though rarely caught up in a street interrogation, when it happens they always say at once who their daddy is, then expect to be escorted to wherever they want to go. They will be. Especially the good-looking ones. A senator’s daughter with a harelip and saggy bust may simply be told to move along, though even then they probably call her madam and don’t risk pinching her bum.
“I say we’ve had enough excitement for one night. Helena Justina, these kind men are going to see us home.”
The quicker the better: Helena wanted to nurture the bleeding, weeping scavenger. “She’s hurt. We can’t leave her.”
The soldiers gathered and watched me react. They knew that the hunched, whimpering creature was a street vagrant. They knew that if Helena took her in, we would be infected with fleas and diseases, lied to, betrayed on every possible occasion, then robbed blind when the skinny scrap finally upped and fled. They knew I foresaw this. They refrained from grinning.
Helena was crouching on her knees beside the mite. She glanced up directly at the soldiers, then at me. “I know what I am doing!” she announced. “Don’t look at me like that, Falco.”
“Know the girl?” I murmured to the officer.
“Always around. Supposed to be a survivor of the Rebellion.”
“She only looks like a teenager; she must have been a babe in arms.”
“Ah well . . . So she’s a walking tragedy.” I knew what he was saying.
I tried not to seem frightening. The girl cringed anyway. Helena was talking to her in a low voice, but the girl just shuddered. Apparently she spoke no Latin. I had not heard her talk at any time, in any language. Maybe she was mute. Another problem.
The officer, who had followed me over, offered helpfully, “They call her Albia, I believe.”
“Albia!” Helena tried firmly. The girl refused to recognize the name.
I groaned. “She has a Roman name. Neat trick. One of us— orphaned.” She was little more than a skeleton, her features unformed. She had blue eyes. That could be British. But there were blue eyes all across the Empire. Nero, for instance. Even Cleopatra. Rome was damn well not responsible for her.
“This is a poor little Roman orphan,” the officer sympathized, digging me in the ribs.
“She looks the right age.” Flavius Hilaris and Aelia Camilla had a daughter who was born close to the Rebellion: Camilla Flavia, now radiantly fourteen, all giggles and curiosity. Every young tribune who came to this province probably fell for her, but she was modest and, I knew, very well supervised. This waif looked nothing like Flavia; her pitiful life must have been quite different.
“It really does not matter whether her parentage was Roman,” Helena growled up at me through gritted teeth. “It does not even matter that she was left destitute by a disaster that would never have happened if Rome had not been here.”
“No, sweetheart.” My tone was even. “What matters is that you noticed her.”
“Found as a crying newborn in the ashes after the massacre,” suggested the officer. He was inventing it, the bastard. Helena stared up at us. She was smart and aware, but she had a huge fund of compassion. She had reached her decision.
“People always adopt babes who are plucked alive from disasters.” Now it was me speaking. I too had a dry edge. Helena’s scornful gaze made me feel dirty but I said it anyway. “The wailing newborn lifted from the rubble is assured of a home. It represents Hope. New life, untouched and innocent, a comfort to others who are suffering in a stricken landscape. Later, unfortunately, the child becomes
just another hungry mouth, among people who can barely feed each other. You can understand what happens next. A cycle sets in: neglect leading to cruelty, then violence, and the most corrupt kinds of sexual abuse.”
The girl had her head down on her filthy knees. Helena was very still. I leaned down and touched Helena’s head with the back of my knuckles. “Bring her if you wish.” She did not move. “Of course! Bring her, Helena.”
The officer clucked quiet reproof at me. “Naughty!”
I smiled briefly. “She takes in strays. She has a heart as big as the world. I can’t complain. She took me in once.”
That had started in Britain too.
XII
It felt as if we had been out for hours. When Helena and I returned, the procurator’s residence was aglow with lamps. The house had an after-banquet feel. Although Hilaris and his wife ran their home quietly, while the governor was living with them they readily joined in the grim business of overseas diplomacy. Tonight, for instance, they had been entertaining businessmen.
Helena went to see her new protégée lodged somewhere secure, with her wounds salved. I threw on a better class of tunic and searched for sustenance. Wanting to tackle Hilaris and Frontinus about the local situation, I braced myself and joined the after-dinner group. There were still platters of figs and other treats remaining from the dessert course that had concluded the meal we missed. I piled in. The figs must be locally grown; they were just about ripe, but had no taste. A passing slave promised to find me something more substantial, but he never got around to it.
My hard day in the watering holes of Londinium had left me jaded. I kept a low profile. I had been introduced as the procurator’s relative, a detail that the other guests found pretty uninteresting. Neither the governor nor Hilaris gave away that I was an imperial agent, nor said I was charged to investigate the Verovolcus death. They would not mention the death at all, unless the subject came up, even though it must be the most exciting local news.
The Jupiter Myth Page 6