The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

  After he went out, I myself sawed off slices of cold meat and gave us each a dish of olives. While the King stayed on his silver-backed couch, I went to a stool. We munched the soft white breakfast rolls and sipped water, no longer speaking. I pasted my ham to my roll with chickpea dip. He wrapped a slice of meat around a hard-boiled hen’s egg.

  “So what did Frontinus and Hilaris tell you I would want?” asked the King eventually.

  “I’ve had no opportunity to receive instructions, sir.”

  “What—no briefing?” He looked amused.

  “I was out walking this morning.” This was true. I had gone to the forum early, where I chalked up graffiti on a wall saying “LPL, contact MDF: urgent.” I had no great hopes. Petronius was unlikely to hang around that dreary spot. I risked murmuring frankly, “I expect our two great men are sweating shit!” The King chuckled even more. “But you and I, sir, don’t need a briefing before we communicate.”

  Togidubnus finished his egg and wiped his scrawny old fingers on a napkin. “So what do you really think, Marcus Didius?”

  I noted the more informal nomenclature. I chewed up an olive, dumped it’s stone in a dish, and told him. “I am still puzzled why Verovolcus went to that place. I have noticed an organized racket in the vicinity, though I have not been able to show any link, I admit.”

  “Are you saying that officials deny that this ‘racket’ exists?” demanded the King.

  “No.” They had managed to avoid admitting it, but they were diplomats. “Civilization brings much good, but you know it brings bad as well. I have no idea what criminal activities occurred when the tribes ran Britain from hillforts, but every society has its bandits. We bring you the city and we bring city vices. More complicated, perhaps, but all based on fear and greed.” Togidubnus made no comment. If he really had been brought up in Rome and had ever walked the Golden City’s teeming streets, he had seen at first hand the worst of organized grief and extortion. “Did Verovolcus hate Rome?” I asked.

  “Not particularly.”

  “But you said you ‘knew’ him. You meant something by that.”

  “He liked to be in the thick of any action, Falco. Being my liaison officer never quite suited him, but nor was he the type to sit on a farm watching cattle graze.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He would not go into exile meekly.”

  The King rose, went to the side table, inspected a flat bowl of cold fishes, tried one, decided against, and took another roll with some ready-sliced venison. That kept him busy, chewing bravely, for some time. I sat and waited.

  “So what do you want to tell me, sir?” I asked, when I was fairly sure he could get his words out again.

  He screwed up his lips, his tongue struggling with a shred of trapped venison in his back teeth. I pecked at breadcrumbs on my tunic. “He was not going to Gaul, Falco.”

  Togidubnus had spoken in a low tone, which I matched: “He meant to stay here in Londinium? Did he have friends here?”

  “No.”

  “Any means to live?”

  “I gave him some money.” That came out fast: conscience money. Whatever Verovolcus had done, his regal master had felt responsible for him.

  “Did he say anything, sir, about coming here?”

  “Enough.” The King set aside his empty watercup.

  “He spoke to you?”

  “No, he knew I would have had to stop him.”

  I filled in the story myself: “Verovolcus told his friends he was sneaking off to Londinium, not going to Gaul. He knew there was an expanding crime scene and he boasted that he would be part of it?” The King went so far as to nod. The rest was inevitable: “If there are rackets, and he tried to muscle in—then whoever runs the show here must have refused him an entry ticket.”

  They had done it in the classic style too: a striking death, which would attract public notice. A death that would serve as a warning to any other hopefuls who might consider invading the racketeers’ turf.

  XVIII

  Seeing Hilaris at one end of the corridor as I emerged, I bunked off the other way. I wanted space; I had to reach decisions. Did I take this further in person, or hand the whole packet over to the authorities?

  I knew what was making me hesitate. Acknowledging there were rackets, and in a province where the Emperor had once served with distinction, was politically inconvenient. I thought they were likely to drop the case.

  Music and the sound of voices drew me to a salon. The womenfolk were listening politely to a blind harpist. He was ill-shaven and expressionless, with a sullen, even pugnacious, young boy crouched at his feet, presumably to lead him around. He could play. I wouldn’t have walked far to hear him, but his technique passed. It was background music. Bland, melodious pattering that allowed people to talk over it. After a while you could forget the harpist was there. Maybe that was the point.

  I nudged up against Helena on a couch. “What’s this? Are we auditioning him for an orgy tonight, or taking culture a bit far?”

  “Hush! Norbanus Murena has sent him on loan to Maia. Such a kind thought.”

  “What prompted that?” I sounded like an ungracious brute.

  “I remember us talking to him last night about music.”

  “Maia was?” I managed not to laugh.

  Helena biffed me gently with the back of her wrist. “No, I think it was me, but you can’t expect a man to remember things properly.”

  I frowned. “Did you like Norbanus?” I trusted her instincts with people.

  Helena paused, almost undetectably. She may not even have known that she did so. “He seemed straight, decent, and ordinary. A nice man.”

  I sucked my teeth. “You don’t care for nice men.”

  Helena suddenly smiled at me, her eyes soft. I swallowed. One of the things I had always loved about her was her brutal self-awareness. She was eccentric; she knew it; she did not want to change. Nor did I want her to be a conventional matron with narrow vision and appalling friends. “No,” she agreed. “But I’m a grouse, aren’t I?”

  The harpist twiddled to the end of a tune. We clapped demurely. “How long have we got him for?”

  “I think as long as Maia likes.”

  “Olympus! That’s a cheat. Making up to a women by giving her a necklace, at least she gets to keep the jewels. This way, Norbanus takes his harpist back at the end of his flirtation, and meanwhile Hilaris has to feed the swine. I don’t suppose Maia suggested she must ask her head of household for permission?” I saw myself as Maia’s head of household—not that she ever did.

  “No, Marcus.” Helena looked pained, though not at the joke about my status; she thought my suggestion was rude. “Are you insisting she send him straight back? That would be an unkind rebuff. It’s just a loan. No one but you would see any harm in it.”

  Exactly.

  “We are pushed into accepting the loan,” said a quiet voice. “That is why Marcus hates it.”

  I looked back over my shoulder. Hilaris must have followed me here. He was now standing behind us and listening. I consulted him in an undertone: “Norbanus. One of your visitors last night. In property. Likes women, apparently. Gets his wicked way using flashy loans and gifts.”

  “I met him; I found him intelligent and well-mannered.” Hilaris paused. I could not tell whether he approved of those qualities or of property speculators generally. Perhaps not. “Uneasy?” he murmured in a low tone.

  I was, for some reason. “Why do I feel pressured, Gaius?”

  He dropped his hand on my shoulder for a moment and muttered, “I’m sure you are overreacting.”

  “My sister can look after herself,” I said, as if that was it.

  “Then let’s keep the musician for a while, if Maia wants to do so.” The choice was his; it was his house. “Do you have a moment, Marcus?”

  He wanted to discuss my meeting with the King. Well, it was his province too. And if there was a problem, it was his problem.

  Walking down a pa
inted corridor, vaguely heading for an office, we held a short, efficient discussion. Hilaris now acknowledged that Londinium had been targeted by extortionists. He said it happened everywhere, and that the provincial staff would address it as a normal law-and-order issue. I would continue to work on the Verovolcus death.

  He was a brilliant bureaucrat. It felt as if we had just devised a communiqué on major issues. Nothing substantial had changed, however.

  “I’m glad we are of one mind,” said Flavius Hilaris, in his diplomatic mode.

  “I’m glad you think so,” I replied, an informer still.

  “We shall beat this menace,” he maintained.

  He smiled and I did not. As I say, nothing had changed.

  The establishment might convince itself that social corruption was a force it could combat in practical ways, denouncing it with edicts. That baker, Epaphroditus, who made a stand but then fled in the face of certain retribution, knew the truth.

  “There’s another thing, Gaius—you’ve put the military onto the streets at night, but don’t get too complacent. I won’t say anyone at that shambles you pass off as a fort has been coerced—but you need to monitor them carefully.”

  Hilaris looked startled. “The commander is an excellent officer—”

  “Really.” I gave him a glance that said Frontinus needed to pep up the commander.

  “I’ll make a note: Falco recommends acquiring a decent fort—with a disciplinarian in charge! How is it, my dear Marcus, that when you are around, we always start with a small problem—or even no problem—then end up facing major chaos?”

  “You had the chaos all along,” I said. “I only exposed it.”

  “Thank you!” replied Hilaris with a rueful grin.

  Then we turned a corner and met a different kind of riot.

  Albia, Helena’s wild girl, had just hurled a vase and smashed it.

  Hilaris and I popped up like stage ghosts through a trapdoor; it caused an abrupt silence. Children, some my host’s, some Maia’s, one mine, froze and waited for the worst. Hilaris and I only paused, because we were each hoping the other father would weigh in like a good Roman disciplinarian.

  He cleared his throat and asked what was going on. Gingerly, I picked up a broken shard of fine turquoise-colored glass. The smashed vase had come from a new display in a room whose door stood open; the manufacturer we met at dinner last night had given samples as presents to Aelia Camilla. I plucked at the tunics of Julia and the Hilaris girl, Gaia, who were standing nearest to the breakage, shaking out the little girls’ garments to clear off any sprayed glass needles. I motioned all the children to step back from the broken fragments on the black-and-white mosaic.

  Flavia told her father quietly that Albia had wanted to go to the kitchen for food. Aelia Camilla had given orders against this. Yesterday there had been a row over missing raisins; Albia had devoured a full platter intended for the official evening dinner. It had messed up the dessert menu, annoyed the cook, and then Albia had of course been sick. Today the children had tried to explain that she must wait until lunch, but she took it badly.

  “Albia doesn’t understand,” Flavia said.

  I looked at the scavenger. “Oh, I think she does.”

  Albia and Flavia must be about the same age. Albia was smaller, skinnier of course, and stubbornly expressionless. I saw no reason to think her any less intelligent than the fine-featured Flavia.

  Albia had glanced at me once, then looked away, deliberately staring at the ground. Just before the vase broke there had been screaming—willful, unrestrained fury and noise, hysteria that even my little Julia would be ashamed of. I gripped Albia by the shoulders. Through the blue dress, I could feel the bones as I turned her to face me. Her pale face and thin bare arms were still badly grazed from when she rescued the dogs. Cleaned up, she had a washed-out look, with bloodless skin. Her hair was light brown, her eyes bright blue—that dark blue color most prevalent here in the north. But her unformed young features seemed familiar in style. I guessed she might be half British and half Roman.

  “She doesn’t understand!” squealed little Rhea defensively. Albia’s mouth was pressed in a tight line, as if to emphasize that.

  “Even a dumb bunny could understand!” I growled. “We took her in: she lives by our rules. Aelia Camilla will be very hurt that her beautiful glass has been broken. And on purpose, Albia!”

  The girl stayed mute.

  I was losing ground. With every second I seemed more like a cruel master threatening a troubled victim.

  “Are you going to make her be a slave?” demanded Gaia breathlessly. What had brought that on? It might be what the wild girl feared, but if she wouldn’t speak, how had she told the children? I sensed conspiracy.

  “Certainly not. And don’t tell her that I will. She’s not a prisoner of war, and nobody sold her to me. But listen to me, Albia—and the rest of you mark what I’m saying too! I will not tolerate willful damage. One more piece of destruction—and it’s back on the streets.”

  Well, that told them. M. Didius Falco, tough bastard and Roman father. My own tiny daughter’s eyes were wide with amazement.

  Hilaris and I walked on together. By the time we reached the end of the corridor, we heard another crash. Albia had defiantly smashed a second piece of ornamental glass. She did not even make a run for it but waited, chin up, while we walked back.

  I had given my ultimatum: there was no escape. So Flavius Hilaris, procurator of Britain, found himself with the task of quieting seven weeping children. I had been going out into town anyway, so I went at once—and I took Albia. With my hand heavy on her shoulder, I marched her back to the alleys she came from. I did not pause to let myself think what a typical middle-rank swine I had become.

  Nor did I dare tell Helena.

  XIX

  The scavenger accepted her fate in silence. I took her to a foodshop, one I didn’t recognize. It must be a daytime-only place. I sat her in a corner outside, in a short row of small square tables on the pavement, delineated by dry old troughs of laurel in Mediterranean style. I bought some food, since she was perpetually hungry, and told the owner to let her stay there if she caused no trouble. It was coming up to lunchtime but the caupona was quiet. I noted the name: the Swan. It was opposite a knife-seller. Two shops along was a more louche-looking wine bar, with a flying phallus sign between two enormous painted cups, called the Ganymede.

  “Wait for me here, Albia. I’ll be back again later. You can eat and look around. This is what you came from. It’s what you will go back to, if that’s your choice.” The girl stood beside the table to which I had propelled her, a thin, beaten figure in her borrowed blue dress. She looked up at me. Perhaps by now she was more miserable than morose. “Don’t fool around,” I told her. “Let’s get it straight. I know you can talk. You haven’t lived on the streets of Londinium all your life without learning Latin.”

  I left without awaiting a response.

  It was a hot day. The sun baked down almost as warmly as in Rome. People staggered through the narrow streets, huffing. In some places a pantiled portico created shade, but the habit of Londinium traders was to fill the porticos with impedimenta: barrels, baskets, planks, and oil amphorae found handy storage on what should be the pavement. You walked in the road. As they had no wheeled vehicle curfew here, you kept an ear out for approaching carts; some natural law made most creep up behind unexpectedly. Londinium drivers took the line that the road was theirs and pedestrians would soon jump if bashed into. Calling out an early warning did not occur to them. Calling out abuse if they narrowly missed you was different. They all knew Latin for “Trying to commit suicide?” And some other words.

  I was walking to the docks.

  In the heat the wooden decks that formed the wharves stank of resin. There was a lazy midday siesta feel. Some of the long warehouses were secured with chains and mighty locks. Others stood with their huge doors open; whistling or wood-sawing sounded from the bowels, though often
nobody was visible. Shipping had been packed along the moorings, sturdy merchantmen that could brave these violent northern waters. Occasional long-haired, bare-chested men fiddled about in bumboats, looking at me suspiciously as I passed. I tried polite greetings, but they seemed to be foreigners. Like all harbors, this long strip of water bobbed with apparently deserted vessels. Even in daylight the ships were left to creak and lightly bump one another in isolation. Where does everyone go? Are captains, passengers, and matelots all asleep on shore, waiting to disrupt the night with knife fights and carousing? If so, where in Londinium were the crammed lodging houses in which all the merry sailors snored away until the evening bats came out?

  Waterfronts have a special seediness. I buffed one shin against the other, trying to deter small, unbelievably persistent flies. A haze hung over the distant marshes. Here everything was desiccated by the heat wave, but the river had patches of rainbow oiliness, in which ancient rubbish floated among greasy bubbles. In what seemed to be dead water, a log end thumped against the piles. A slow tidal current was carrying debris upriver. If a bloated corpse had suddenly broken the surface, I would not have been surprised.

  No such thoughts troubled the customs officer. In his time he had probably fished out floaters—drowned bodies—but he remained as perky as they come. He operated out of a customs house near one of the ferry landings, a porticoed stone building that would stand at the bridgehead once the bridge was built. His office was crammed with dockets and note tablets. Despite the chaotic appearances, whenever someone came to register a cargo and pay their import tax, they were dealt with calmly and speedily. The clutter was under control. A young cashier presided over boxes of different currencies, working out the tax percentage and taking the money with panache.

  Lulled by unaccustomed sunshine, the officer had basked too much without his tunic. He was a big fellow, running to fat. His rolling flesh had originally been pallid, as though he was a northerner by birth; now it was striped with raw pink sunburn. He winced and moved stiffly, but took his punishment philosophically.