The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

  The diners were now sitting up on their cushioned couches, moving around to meet new people as the portable food tables were removed, and this gave us more space. When I arrived, they continued their conversations, expecting me to join in as and when I could or to sit tight meekly.

  I can’t say being a hanger-on appealed to me. I would never make a happy client to any patron. I wanted status of my own, even if it was a status people despised. As an informer I had been my own man; I had lived like that too long to change. Gratitude never came easy. I owed nobody anything, and I paid no tributes socially.

  The guests were a type I don’t care for: merchants looking to expand their markets. They were newcomers, or relative newcomers to Britain. Calling on the governor was meant to smooth their path. Of course, encouraging trade was part of the job for Frontinus. But tonight he kept talking about his plans to go west with the army: he was pleasant, but his heart lay in engineering and military strategy. He made it plain that he had spent part of his year establishing a big new base on the far side of the Sabrina Estuary and that he was preoccupied with going back to oversee a push against the unconquered tribes; so we were all lucky to have caught him on a brief return to the capital. Normally, he would only be here in winter.

  I wondered if the governor’s frequent absences on campaign contributed to lawlessness.

  When I had gone to extract Silvanus from his barracks, I had gained the impression there was a standard vexillation stationed there—part of a particular cohort or possibly small detachments from each of the legions. Officially they were the governor’s bodyguard, his equivalent of the Praetorian Guard nannying the Emperor. This was not because madman were likely to make assassination attempts. Attendant soldiery was part of the panoply of government. Whenever Julius Frontinus rode off to the scene of the action, most of those troops must go with him. Only a remnant of his guard would stay behind to do routine policing work.

  I would put this problem to Frontinus. He was no fool, and far from vainglorious. He did not require every available legionary to be glued to him to promote his standing. Nor was the army his sole interest. He would deal with civil projects evenhandedly, so Londinium’s security would be attended to. If we needed extra manpower here, I could probably persuade him to supply it.

  He had four legions in Britain; there was some slack to play with. The south and east had been consolidated and part-Romanized years ago. Pinning down the west was the subject of current attention. Unfortunately the north too had become a problem. Once the Brigantes, a major Rome-friendly tribe, had formed a large buffer zone, but under Frontinus’ predecessor that famously changed. It was a story of scandal, sex, and jealousy: Queen Cartimandua, formidable and middle-aged, fell heavily for her husband’s much younger spear-carrier. The lovers tried to take over. The outraged husband took against that. Torn loyalties plunged the once-stable Brigantes into civil war. Celebrity folly is fun, but not when the resulting strife loses Rome a good ally.

  Cartimandua had been apprehended, no doubt amid many raucous jokes from the legionaries, but our alliance with the Brigantes crumbled. Frontinus or whoever succeeded to his post would have to square up to this: more military commitment, new forts, new roads, and perhaps a full-scale campaign to bring the wild northern hills under Roman control. Maybe not this year or next year, but soon.

  Despite that, prudence dictated a reassessment of how the settled regions, including Londinium, were run. The troops ought to provide law-and-order cover; some of the lads would have to be withdrawn from biffing barbarians’ heads. There was no point in the army pushing out in all directions if chaos raged behind them. That was damned dangerous. Boudicca had shown all too clearly the risks of disaffection in the rear.

  “You’re quiet, Falco!”

  Frontinus called me over. He was talking to two of the most interesting guests, a glassmaker from the Syrian coast and a general trader, another easterner, a Palmyrene.

  “Jove, you’re both adventurous—you couldn’t have traveled much farther across the Empire!” I knew how to be gracious when I bothered. Frontinus slipped away and left me to it. He must have heard their stories already. The glassmaker had found the competition in famous Syrian workshops too much for him; he intended to set up in Londinium, train a few staff to blow down tubes and snap off multicolored rods, and get up a British production line. Since glass is so delicate, this seemed a better prospect than importing over long distances. Some fine-quality goods would undoubtedly continue to be brought from Tyre, but this man did seem to have chosen a province that could accommodate a new trade.

  The general import man just liked travel, he told me. A few hints led me to think he might have left quarrels behind him. Or perhaps some personal tragedy made him want a new start; he was old enough to have lost a treasured wife, say. He found Britain exotic and untried and was willing to negotiate any commodities that were in demand. He had even found a girl, a Briton; they were planning to settle . . . So if my theory was right, he was a second-time romantic, choosing new happiness in a changed environment.

  In another situation I would have been fascinated with these far-flung travelers—especially the fellow from Palmyra, where it so happened I had been. But neither appeared to be “preying” on this province in the way Silvanus had complained about. They had found avenues to explore, but that was to their credit. They posed no threat. They would be earning a living, providing sought-after goods, and offering the local people welcome opportunities.

  The fact was, my questions would not have been answered here. These were the wrong kind of men—far too legitimate. As usual, it was not my task to delve among the dirtier layers of humanity. I would not find my culprits cozying up to the governor. Racketeers never register their presence openly.

  I could be wasting my time anyway. However bad the scene shaping up behind the Londinium waterfront, it might be irrelevant to the Verovolcus killing. I did not even know that Verovolcus had run up against any extortionists. It was just a hunch.

  Aelia Camilla was leaving the party. To her husband, she merely signaled her intention to withdraw. She and Gaius were traditionalists; they shared a bedroom, without doubt. Later, they would exchange opinions of tonight’s party, discussing their guests. They would probably note my late arrival and speculate where I had been all day.

  On me, now a nephew by marriage, Aelia Camilla bestowed a few words and a goodnight kiss on the cheek. I told her briefly about Helena’s scavenger (it seemed wise; by tomorrow the girl might have laid waste to the household).

  Aelia Camilla pulled a face. But she made no complaint; she was loyal to Helena. “I am sure we can cope.”

  “Please don’t blame me for this.”

  “Well, you do want a new nursemaid, Marcus.”

  “But I would rather place my children in the care of someone who has known a happy life.”

  “This girl may have one,” disagreed Helena’s aunt, “if Helena Justina takes to her.”

  I sighed. “Helena will turn her around, you mean?”

  “Don’t you think so?”

  “She will try hard . . . Helena makes it her business. She turned me.”

  Then Aelia Camilla gave me a smile of enormous sweetness, which to my surprise seemed genuine. “Nonsense! Marcus Didius Falco, she never thought there was anything about you she needed to change.”

  It was all getting too much for me: I went to bed myself.

  XIII

  Next day, “Helena’s wild girl” quickly became an object of attention for the children in the house. Mine were too young to take much interest, though Julia was seen toddling up to stare. She was good at that. She came and stared at me sometimes, with an expression of private wonder that I preferred not to interpret.

  It was Maia’s bunch and the procurator’s darlings who adopted Albia. Their interest was almost scientific, especially among the girls, who solemnly discussed what was best for this creature.

  Clothing was found. “This dress is blue, which
is a nice color, but the dress is not too expensive to look at,” Maia’s Cloelia explained to me gravely. “Then if she runs away back to her life, she won’t attract the wrong kind of attention.”

  “She eats very quickly,” little Ancus marveled. He was about six, himself a faddy little boy who was always in trouble at mealtimes. “If we take her food, she eats it straightaway, even if she has only just had something.”

  “She has been starved, Ancus,” I explained. “She never had a chance to push her bowl away and whimper that she hates spinach. She has to eat what she can get, in case there is never any more.”

  “We don’t make her have spinach!” Ancus answered quickly.

  Flavia, the procurator’s eldest, was talking to the girl. “Does she ever seem to understand you, Flavia?” I asked.

  “Not yet. We are going to keep speaking to her in Latin and we think she will learn it.” I had heard the children naming household items as they towed Albia around with them. I even heard the eloquent Flavia describing me: “That man is Marcus Didius, who married our cousin. His manner can be abrupt, but that is because he has plebeian origins. It makes him uncomfortable in ornate surroundings. He is more intelligent than he lets on, and he makes jokes that you don’t notice until half an hour afterwards. He does work that is valued by the highest people, and is thought to have as yet underexplored qualities.”

  I failed to recognize this creature. He sounded grim. Who in Olympus had Flavia been listening to?

  It was difficult to say what the scavenger made of it. She had been plunged into this enormous residence, with its painted frescoes, polished floors, and high coffered ceilings, full of people who never screamed abuse at each other, who ate regularly, who slept in beds—the same bed every night. It was possible that her original parentage entitled her to some of those things, but she knew nothing of that. It seemed best not to suggest it. Meanwhile, the girl must have wondered, as others of us did, how long her stay in the residence would last.

  The slaves were contemptuous, of course. A street foundling was lower even than them. They at least had a point of reference in the family who owned them. They were well fed, clothed, housed, and in the Frontinus and Hilaris ménages they were treated with kindness; if ever freed, they would legally join their owners’ families, on pretty equal terms. Albia had none of those advantages, yet she was nobody’s property. She represented in the worst degree the adage that the freeborn poor live far less well than slaves in wealthy households. This cannot have comforted anyone. If the children had not been making such a pet of the creature, she would have had a hard time of it from the slaves.

  The household ointments were not healing her grazes. Maia’s children muttered among themselves about whether it was ethical to invade Petro’s room and borrow something from his medicine chest. It was famously well stocked. “Uncle Lucius forbade us to touch it.”

  “He is not here. We can’t ask him.”

  They came to see me. “Falco, will you ask him for us?”

  “How can I do that?”

  Crestfallen, Marius, the elder boy, explained, “We thought you would know where he is. We thought he must have told you how to contact him.”

  “Well, he didn’t tell me. But I can look in his box. Because I am an adult—”

  “I have heard that doubted,” stated Cloelia. All Maia’s children had inherited a rude trait, but apparently dear Cloelia was being merely factual.

  “Well, because I am his friend then. I shall need the key—”

  “Oh, we know where he hides the key!” Great. I had known Petronius Longus since we were eighteen and I had never spotted where he stashed that key. He could be very secretive.

  When I went to his room, we were all disappointed; his medicine chest was missing. I checked around more carefully. There were no weapons left behind either. He would never have left Italy without decent armory. It must be quite some drinking bout he was indulging in if he had taken a full chest of remedies and a sword.

  I went out later, on observation back in the riverside area. Marius came with me. He was tiring of the endless nurture of Albia. We both took our dogs for a walk. “I don’t mind if you sell Arctos!” Maia yelled after Marius. She must have heard about that dogman Helena and I encountered. “Your pup’s big and strong; he would make a lovely investment for somebody. Or a good meat stew,” she added cruelly.

  A stalwart boy, Marius pretended he had not heard. He loved his dog and appeared fairly fond of his mother; brought up by my strict sister and her slapdash drinking husband, he had long ago learned diplomacy. At eleven, he was turning into a caricature of a good little Roman boy. He even had a small-sized toga my father had bought for him. Pa had totally neglected the rites of passage of his own sons—mainly because he was away from home with his paramour. Now he thought he would treat his grandsons traditionally. (The polite ones, that is. I had not noticed him spoiling the gutter tykes.) I told Marius he looked like a doll; I made him leave the toga at the residence. “We don’t want to stand out as foreign prigs, Marius.”

  “I thought we had to teach the Britons how to live like proper Romans.”

  “The Emperor has sent a judicial administrator to do that.”

  “I haven’t seen such a man.” Marius was a literal boy who tested everything.

  “No, he’s out and about in the British towns holding citizenship classes. Where to sit in a basilica; what body parts to scrape with your strigil; how to drape your toga.”

  “You think if I parade about togate on the streets of Londinium I’ll be laughed at.”

  I thought it a possibility.

  Being inconspicuous was difficult with Arctos and Nux dragging at their leads. Arctos was a boisterous young beast with long matted fur and a wavy tail, whose father we had never traced. My dog Nux was his mother. Nux was smaller, madder, and much more proficient at nosing in filthy places. To the locals both our pups were piteous. Britons bred the best hunting dogs in the Empire; their specialty was mastiffs, so fearless they were a good match for fighting arena bears. Even their lapdog-sized canines were tough terrors, with short stout legs and pricked-up ears, whose idea of a soft afternoon was to raid a badger set—and to win.

  “Is Nux going to help you track a criminal, Uncle Marcus?” Nux looked up and wagged her tail.

  “I doubt it. Nux just gives me an excuse to wander about.” I then thought it worth trying: “Marius, old pal, did Petronius say anything to you about what he was up to, before he went off?”

  “No, Uncle Marcus.”

  The boy made it sound convincing. When I stared at him, he looked me in the eye. But even in Rome, a city crammed with the world’s worst confidence tricksters, the Didius family had always bred a special brand of sweet-faced liars.

  “You grow more like your grandfather every day,” I commented, to let him know I was not fooled.

  “I hope not!” quipped back Marius, pretending to be one of the boys.

  We spent a couple of hours trailing around the downtown district, with no luck. I discovered that the baker whose business burned down was called Epaphroditus, but if anybody knew where Epaphroditus had his bolt-hole, they were not telling me. I tried asking about the Verovolcus killing, but people pretended that they had not even heard that it happened. I found no witnesses who had noticed Verovolcus in the locality still alive; nobody saw him drinking in the Shower of Gold; no one knew who had killed him. Finally I mentioned (because I was growing desperate) that there might be a reward. The silence continued. Evidently the judicial administrator had failed, in his citizenship classes, to explain how Roman justice worked.

  We found a booth that passed for a pie stall and treated ourselves. Marius managed half of his, then I helped him finish, making up for my lack of grub yesterday. He had slathered his pie in fish-pickle sauce from the encrusted communal jug at the stall. I would have done the same at eleven, so I said nothing.

  “All these people you have been talking to seem rather law-abiding and dull.”
Most of my nephews had a dry wit. “You would think a man headfirst down a well would cause more fuss.”

  “Maybe murders occur more often here than they should, Marius.”

  “Well maybe we should nip off out of here then!” Marius grinned. Among my nieces and nephews I was viewed as a clown, though one with a hint of danger attached. His face clouded. “Could we get into trouble?”

  “If we upset someone. You can get into trouble anywhere if you do that.”

  “How do we know what to avoid?”

  “Use good sense. Be quiet and polite. Hope that the locals have been paying attention to the section about manners in their toga-folding lessons.”

  “And always keep an escape route when entering an enclosed area?” Marius suggested.

  I raised my eyebrows at him. “You have been listening to Lucius Petronius.”

  “Yes.” Marius, who was quiet by nature, hung his head for a moment. Bringing four young children all across Europe to their mother, Petro must have resorted to strict drill, for everyone’s safety. In Maia’s offspring he would have found intelligent listeners, keen to learn when plied with army and vigiles lore. “Lucius Petronius was good to be with. I miss him.”

  I wiped my mouth and my chin with the back of my hand, where the pungent fish pickle had dripped from his pie. “So do I, Marius.”

  XIV

  We were not the only ones missing Petronius. A letter had arrived for him from Rome.

  Flavius Hilaris had the letter, and he made the mistake of mentioning it to me when we were all at lunch. “If anybody sees your friend, it would be helpful to say I have this—”

  “Is it from a lover?” demanded young Flavia, unaware of the ripples her remark caused. With Petronius there were quite a few women in that category. Most were long in the past as far as I knew. Many would be too easygoing to correspond; some probably could not write. Petronius had always had the knack of staying on good terms with the flighty ones, but he also knew how to break free. His liaisons meant little; they ran their course, then usually petered out.