The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

  “His exciting love, the gangster’s wife perhaps,” jeered Maia. Petro’s stupid affair had been no secret anywhere on the Aventine. Balbina Milvia did try to stick, but Petro, with his domestic life in tatters and his job threatened, had shed her. He knew that dallying with Milvia had been dangerous.

  “A gangster!” Flavia was greatly impressed.

  “Please, all of you be serious.” Hilaris was more pinched than usual. “This letter comes from the vigiles. It is written by a tribune, Rubella. But it is passing on a message to Petronius from his wife.”

  “Ex-wife.” I did not look at my sister.

  As I said it, I realized that aspects of this letter, which clearly bothered Hilaris, were odd. He would deny that his province practiced censorship of correspondence, yet he had obviously read the letter. Why not simply hang on to it until Petro reappeared? Why was the letter from a tribune? Arria Silvia could write if she wanted to bother—unlikely, given the state of things between them—but she would hardly ask Petro’s superior to pass on her usual complaints about their three girls growing out of their clothing and how the slump in sales of potted salads caused her new boyfriend problems . . .

  Neither could I imagine any vigiles tribune, especially the hard-bitten Rubella on the Aventine, scribbling a fond note to wish Petro a wonderful holiday.

  How did Silvia know he was in Britain anyway? How did Petro’s tribune know? If he were taking leave, he would consider his destination his own business.

  “Give the letter to me if you like,” I offered.

  Hilaris ignored my offer to take custody of the scroll. “It was forwarded by the Urban Prefect.”

  “Official channels?” I stared. “The Prefect is so close to the top, he is virtually hung on the belt of the Emperor! What in Hades is going on?”

  He bent his head, avoiding my eyes.

  “What’s up, Gaius?”

  “I really don’t know!” Hilaris was frowning, and sounded slightly annoyed. He had given his working life to Britain, and he expected to be kept informed. “I thought you knew, Falco.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “Someone has died, Marcus,” interrupted Aelia Camilla, as if imposing sense on us. So her husband had been sufficiently perturbed to discuss the letter’s contents with her.

  “I didn’t know Petronius had much family.” Helena glanced quickly at me. He had some flat-footed relatives in the country, whom he hardly saw. An aunt in Rome. He did have contact with her, but who gets letters from estranged wives sent urgently half across the world—about an aunt? His Auntie Sedina was elderly and overweight; it would be no surprise if she passed away.

  Helena must have read in my face a reflection of her own fears. “Oh, not one of his children!” she burst out.

  Aelia Camilla was upset. “I’m afraid it is worse—it is two of them.”

  Everyone was horrified. The message from the tribune was curt bureaucracy: L. Petronius Longus was to be informed with regret that two of his children had succumbed to the chicken pox.

  “Which two?” Helena demanded.

  “It does not say—” Hilaris at once faced a barrage of female anger.

  You must send a signal urgently,” his wife commanded. “We have to be able to tell this poor man which of his daughters has survived!”

  “Are they all daughters?”

  “Yes, he has three daughters; he speaks of them very fondly. Gaius, you cannot ever have been listening.”

  Maia, my sister, had remained silent, but she met my eyes with horror. We knew that Petronius had been laid up with the chicken pox himself, no doubt caught from his children, as he traveled here through Gaul. All of Maia’s brood had it at the same time. Any of them might have died. If it had been Petro who succumbed, the four young Didii would have been stranded. Maia would have been bereft. I saw her close her eyes, shaking her head slightly. That was all the comment she could ever make.

  I was aware of her eldest, Marius and Cloelia, watching us with their eyes wide. We adults avoided looking at them, as if talking among ourselves conferred some kind of privacy.

  Thinking of the three Petronius girls, those of us who knew them were stricken. All three had always been delightful. Petro had been a solid father, romping with them when he was at home, but insisting on regular discipline. They were his joy: Petronilla, the sensitive eldest, a father’s girl who had taken her parents’ separation harder than the rest; sweet, neat Silvana; adorable, round-faced, barely school-age Tadia.

  We were realists. To bring three children into the world was the Roman ideal; to keep them alive was rare. Birth itself was a risk. A whisper could carry off an infant. More precious children died at less than two years old than ever marked the formal passage out of infancy at seven. Many slipped away before ten and never entered puberty. The Empire was filled with tiny tombstones, carved with miniature portraits of toddlers with their rattles and pet doves, their memorials full of exquisite praise for best-loved, best-deserving little souls, snatched away from grieving parents and patrons after lives of heartrending brevity. And never mind what the damned jurists say: Romans make no distinction between boys and girls.

  In an Empire whose business was the army, far-reaching trade, and administering lands overseas, many a father lost his children in his absence too. To be one of many would not make it easier. Petronius would blame himself, and he would suffer all the more because he heard the news a thousand miles away. Whatever past troubles had happened between him and Arria Silvia, he would have wanted to support her, then to comfort and reassure his remaining child. He would think it important to preside at the tragic funerals of the lost two.

  The worst was knowing this and knowing he did not know.

  It was too much. I left the room quietly, finding my way by instinct to the nursery. There I sat on the floor among the miniature chairs and walking frames, holding my own two warm little treasures tight. My mood must have affected them; Julia and Favonia became subdued, letting me embrace them for my own comfort.

  Maia came in. Only one of hers was in the nursery. Marius and Cloelia had disappeared; the eldest were allowed out if they promised to be careful. Ancus, a quirky soul, had decided he was tired and put himself to bed for a siesta. Rhea was here alone, crawling around on a rug, playing some long-winded epic game with a set of pottery farm animals. Maia did not touch her youngest daughter, just sat on a chair, hugging her arms around her own body, watching.

  After a long time, my sister asked me, “Do you think he knows?”

  “What?”

  She explained patiently, “Do you think someone else has already told him, and he has gone back home without informing us?”

  I knew why she asked. That would be just like him. Speaking about his loss would be too painful, and he would be angered by fuss. While others flapped and increased his anguish with well-meaning hysteria, he would want to move, fast.

  But I also knew how Petronius would have gone about it. Every debt settled up. Then the swift, scrupulous packing. Each bootstrap, tunic, and memento neatly positioned in his luggage roll. He might take himself off, but it would be evident that he had packed up and gone home.

  “He still doesn’t know. He is somewhere. I am certain.”

  “Why?” demanded Maia.

  “All his gear is in his room.”

  Well, all except the stuff he would need if he was doing something dangerous.

  Maia breathed harshly. “Then you have to find him, Marcus.”

  I knew that. The only problem was, I had no idea where to start looking.

  XV

  How could I work?

  Yesterday had been arduous. Today started well, but from lunchtime, with its dreadful news, everything fell apart. All anyone wanted was to go into huddles to discuss this shock. The only person who talked sense, in terms I recognized, was Helena.

  “Petronius may be anywhere in town, or he may even have traveled away. Don’t waste energy, Marcus. He will resurface when he’s ready. I
n the meantime, what’s lost?”

  “From his point of view, nothing,” I agreed somberly.

  “Silvia and the poor surviving child won’t be expecting anything from him yet. Once he knows, he will rush home to them.”

  “Right. Better let him finish whatever he’s up to.” He would need a free mind to cope. If he had swanned off with some woman, this would be the wrong moment to break bad news; he would feel guilty forever. If he was drinking, better let him sober up.

  “And whatever,” Helena asked narrowly, “can he be up to here in Britain anyway?”

  “No idea.” She glared at me. “Honest, sweetheart; I really have no idea.”

  We both sank into reverie. After a long time, Helena said, “He has only been gone a day.”

  A day and a night. Somehow I did not expect to see him back in the near future.

  I had to do something. He would not thank me for this, but I did it anyway. I drew up a missing-person sheet that Frontinus could issue to the legionaries.

  L. Petronius Longus, Roman male of thirty-four years, freeborn; good height; serious build; brown hair; brown eyes. If subject spotted, observe and notify governor’s office. Do not approach or arrest subject. Do not insult, beat up, or otherwise maltreat subject. If forced to make your presence known, urge subject’s immediate contact with the governor’s office and withdraw.

  Do not inform subject his heart is about to be broken, lads. Leave it to the old cliché, the appropriate quarters. This filthy task is detailed to his best friend.

  I did go out to look for him. I wandered about all afternoon. All I found were Marius and his dog, peering shyly into bars. I took them home. On the way, we ran into Maia and Cloelia. They claimed they were out shopping. I took them home too.

  As we arrived back at the procurator’s house, a swirl of horsemen and a carriage rattled up to its stately portico. That was all I needed: King Togidubnus had wasted no time and had already arrived. Since I still had no information or explanations on who had drowned his disgraced retainer, I was the one who would probably catch most of the crud the King threw—plus anything else Julius Frontinus added, hoping it would seem any lack of progress on the case was not his fault.

  Part of me did not care. A trousered killer had been killed himself, and if it started a war, well, at the moment I quite felt like a good war with somebody.

  There is a special atmosphere in official buildings when a political crisis starts.

  At one level everything continued as normal. Aelia Camilla ran her household quietly, showing by only the faintest frown that she anticipated difficulty in keeping mealtimes properly. The governor, the procurator, various officials, and the agitated King were all in conference behind closed doors. Efficient slaves came and went, carrying scrolls or refreshment trays. They were keyed up with excitement; there was a sense that routine business would be overridden. The diary was being scrapped: meetings that had been fixed for weeks were canceled or hastily rearranged. Dispatch riders and signalers were held at the ready. Arriving messengers were grounded in a side room and crisply advised that they would have to wait because of the flap. Local officers and officials were summoned in a hurry; escorted in; then they left again in double-quick time, most looking as though they had somehow been caught out.

  Nobody said what was happening. This was top-grade secret, with triple wax seals.

  I myself was never called in. It suited me. And I understood: the governor was trying to appease the King before we admitted how little progress we had made.

  On the cusp of afternoon and evening, Flavius Hilaris appeared briefly.

  “How’s it going?”

  He smiled wryly. “Could be worse.”

  “Could be better?”

  He nodded, looking tired. “Frontinus and I are dining the King strictly in private this evening. Out of respect for his grief.” And to keep him incommunicado for a while longer, no doubt. “He has seen the body—” I had not been aware that people emerged for an undertaker’s visit. I wondered if the corpse had been brought here. “The governor has agreed that a cremation may be held tomorrow; in the circumstances, very discreet. I shall go, as a friend and neighbor of the King. Official representation is ruled out, in view of Verovolcus’ disgrace. It will just be Britons from his home district.”

  “Want me to attend?”

  “Frontinus thinks not.” Luckily, I never believed that myth about murderers turning up to watch when their victims are being dispatched to Hades. Few murderers are that stupid.

  “It’s a funeral Roman-style?” I asked.

  “Pyre and urn,” Gaius confirmed. “The King is fully Romanized.” He saw my face. “Yes, I know it’s not his funeral. But he is Roman enough always to take charge!” I liked this man’s enduring quiet humor.

  I wondered what ceremony Verovolcus would have chosen for himself. Did he see himself as this much in tune with Rome? I doubted it. Would he really have opted for cremation in a haze of scented oils—or would he want to be buried with his severed skull between his knees, among his weapons and rich grave goods?

  “And what kind of grief is the King showing, Gaius?”

  “He knew Verovolcus from childhood. So despite whatever has happened, Togidubnus is depressed. He’s threatening to send his own boys in to scratch around for information.”

  “No harm in it,” I said. “I’ve done every possible initial check for witnesses. Let the Britons go over everything again if they wish. They may stir up something—or if not, at least Togidubnus may believe we did our best.”

  A senior clerk came to speak to him. Gaius had to go. He paused only to warn me that a formal meeting with the King had been arranged for me tomorrow morning. (I guessed I would also be called to a premeeting with Gaius and the governor at the crack of dawn, as they panicked over what I might say.) Then he asked if Helena and I would assist his wife in entertaining guests from the local community who were to dine here tonight. More earnest importers: I was not enthralled, but canceling their invitation would cause too many questions, and somebody ought to play host. I told the weary procurator he could rely on us.

  Aelia Camilla could have managed the dinner single-handed. As a diplomat’s wife she was well used to such events, and probably used to supervising them when Gaius was suddenly called away. But Helena and Maia were already dressing to help her, and she welcomed their support.

  I would become the male host, virtually a diplomatic role. It was a major shift upward for an informer. It meant a clean-shaven face and a toga. It also meant I had to be pleasant, even though being pleasant did not suit my mood.

  My presence was poor compensation for guests who had hoped to meet senior men: men whose interest would advance their careers in Britain. Not much of a stand-in! But Aelia Camilla assured them they would get a second chance with the genuine gold knobs.

  “Thank you, dear Marcus, for filling the gap so bravely.” She was a decent woman. Like Helena, she was by nature shy of strangers, though perfectly competent when social duty called. Both would have chosen to be traditional matrons shunning public appearances, though if anyone had instructed either to sit out of sight behind a curtain, both would have shot off barbs like an army of Parthians. Tonight they and Maia had lashed on extra jewelry, taken great care with the face paint, and braced themselves to exude warmth toward our guests.

  These were the usual ungrateful hogs in search of a free meal. We had a couple of loud Gallic wine importers from some Aquitanean fleece-those-guzzlers guild, and an extremely nervous Briton who wanted assistance in finding markets for exporting live oysters; he said he would have brought samples but it was out of season. Then there was a quiet businessman whose exact role I must have missed, though he seemed quite at home in ambassadorial surroundings. He knew not to pick his nose. The rest strode in the residence as if forgetting it was essentially a private house, then stared around, so I checked the comports and counted the cups. Anyone would think their taxes had paid for the place. Whereas if I kn
ew anything (and I did), their devious accountants had set up sly tax avoidance schemes.

  I indulged in some fun with this conversation topic, to repay the wine importers for their crass attitudes. I let the Gauls confide all their accountants’ cunning advice, then dropped in that I had been the Emperor’s Census tax investigator. “Off duty tonight!” I beamed, a swimmingly benevolent official host. I made the reassurance sound as insincere as possible.

  Helena stared at me suspiciously, then came over and swapped seats. Now I was looking after the oysterman. He did not have an accountant. I gave him some sensible hints about acquiring one if he was to trade long-distance successfully. The tricksters in the Roman fishmarkets would run rings around any amateur who sent his wares blind to the Emporium. “You need to use a negotiator. If their own percentage depends on it, they will ensure you get the right price.”

  “They do seem very expensive.”

  “But what’s your alternative? Are you intending to escort every barrel of seawater all the way to Rome personally? You’ll lose a lot of time that way, and then what? There is no guarantee you’ll find the best bidder once you get there. The retailers will all swear to you that Romans only want traditional Lucrine oysters, then when they’ve bought yours up cheaply they’ll sell them on as exotics from Britain at a massive profit: their profit, not yours!”

  “But I would like to see Rome.”

  “Then go, my friend. Go once, for pleasure. While you are there, fix yourself up with a product negotiator. You will cover his fees, believe me. Without help, you’ll go bankrupt among the Emporium sharks.”

  He thanked me profusely. Maybe he even trusted me. Maybe he would do it. From across the room, Helena gave me an approving smile, to which I returned a courteous salute. The oysterman was pale and gray himself, gnarled like his own produce. I wrote my home address on a tablet, grinned, and said that was where he could send a free barrel if he found my advice helpful. It might work. He might grasp the give-and-take of rewards and bribes that made Roman commerce interesting. Or perhaps I had just trained him to be as tightfisted as most traders.