The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

  I was desperate to talk to him. I wanted to discuss the gangsters, and I had to tell him of his children’s deaths. But I took his warning to heart.

  So far he had not noticed me. I stood still, in what passed for a colonnade—hardly what Rome would know as a grand arcade. Petro made no move to enter the baths, but stood talking to a ticket man who had come out for air. They seemed to know each other. They looked up at the sky as if discussing whether the heat wave would persist. When new customers drew the gateman indoors, Petronius settled down on a small bench outside as if he were a fixture at the baths.

  This street had a slight curve and was so narrow that by crossing over to the other pavement I could walk up close, keeping tight against the wall, without Petro seeing me. His back was slightly turned in any case. A neat bank of cut furnace logs, nearly four feet high, was stacked—blocking the pavement of course—on the bathhouse boundary. This made the road almost impassable but formed a tiny free area outside the premises next door. The baths were unnamed, but the neighboring hovel had a painted sign with red Roman lettering, calling itself the Old Neighbour. I passed the open door and saw a dark interior whose purpose was undetectable. It looked more like a private house than a commercial property, despite the sign.

  Whatever it was, it offered me a handy broken stool on which to lower my tired body only a few feet from Petronius; now I could try to attract his attention. It would have been ideal, but just as I dropped out of sight preparing to cough loudly, I saw my damned little sister again, approaching from the other direction. She stopped dead just as I had done. Then, being Maia, she threw back her stole and marched straight up to Petronius, who must have seen her coming. I huddled up to the furnace logs. If this was a romantic assignation, I now had no way to leave without giving away my presence.

  But my sister’s manner had already told me that Petronius was not expecting her. Maia had had to brace herself to come and speak to him, and I knew why.

  XXII

  Lucius Petronius!”

  “Maia Favonia.”

  “You want to tell me to get lost?”

  “Would it work?” Petro asked dryly. Maia was standing, facing my way. I had to keep down low. Luckily she was not tall. “Maia, you are not safe here.”

  “Why; what are you doing?” That was my sister all over: crisp, blunt, brazenly curious. Part of it came from motherhood, though she had always been direct.

  “I’m working.”

  “Oh, but surely the vigiles have no jurisdiction in the provinces!”

  “Exactly!” Petro broke in harshly. “Shut up. I’m out of bounds. Nobody must know.”

  Maia lowered her voice, but she would not let go. “So were you sent here?”

  “Don’t ask.” His mission was official. Well, the bastard kept that quiet! I heard my own intake of breath, more angry than surprised.

  “Well, I’m not interested in that. I have to talk to you.”

  Then Petronius changed his tone. He spoke quickly, in a low, painful voice: “It’s all right. You don’t have to tell me. I know about the girls.”

  I was so close I could sense Maia’s tension. That was nothing to the emotion I could sense in Petronius. Somebody local came walking up the road. “Sit down,” muttered Petro, clearly thinking that by standing in front of him, agitated, Maia was attracting attention. I thought I heard the bench legs scrape. She had done as he said.

  After the man had passed, Maia asked, “How long have you known?” The acoustic had changed. I had to strain to catch what she said. She was more obviously upset, now that it was out in the open. “Did a letter reach you?”

  “No, I was told.”

  “Marcus found you?”

  “I did see him earlier.” Petronius was talking in staccato sentences. “I didn’t give him a chance. I suppose that’s why he’s been searching for me.”

  “We all are! So who did tell you?”

  Petro made a small sound, almost laughter. “Two little boys.”

  “Oh no! Not mine, you mean?” Maia was angry and mortified. I felt no surprise. Her children had been fretting over where their hero was; they knew about the tragedy; they were an outgoing group who readily took independent action. Petronius stayed silent. Maia finally said ruefully, “So much for telling them not to bother you . . . Oh, I am so sorry!”

  “They caught me right out . . .” Petronius sounded remote as he began to talk, in the way of the bereaved, needing to recite how he had learned his dreadful news. “I had already spotted Marius. He was sitting on a curbstone, looking depressed. Ancus must have wandered away from him and he saw me—”

  “Ancus? Ancus told you?”

  Petro’s voice softened, though not much. “Before I could growl at him to scarper, he ran up. I just thought he was pleased to see me. So when he climbed up on the bench, I put an arm around him. He stood here and whispered in my ear.”

  Maia choked slightly. I was stricken myself. Ancus was only six. And Petronius would have had no idea what was coming. “You were never supposed to hear this from children.”

  “What difference does that make?” Petronius rasped. “Two of my girls are gone! I had to know.”

  Maia let his outburst quieten. She, like me, must have been worried what young Ancus had blurted out, because she made sure Petronius was given the details properly “This is it, then. You have lost two; we were not told which, stupidly. People are trying to find out for you. Chicken pox. My guess is that it happened shortly after you left Italy. The letter didn’t say.”

  “I must have caught it myself when I said good-bye to them. I infected yours,” admitted Petronius. “I blame myself . . .”

  “They survived.”

  “I survived.” He was not the type to say he wished he had died instead, though it sounded close. “Just so I would have to live with this!”

  “You will, Lucius. But believe me, it’s hard.” My sister, who like most mothers had seen a child die, spoke bitterly. There was a silence, then Maia repeated, “I am sorry about the boys.”

  “It was all right.” Petronius was not interested in her apology. “Ancus told me, then Marius arrived and they sat down one each side of me and stayed there very quietly.” After a while he added, forcing some kindness into his voice, “And now you are sitting with me quietly.”

  “I lost my first daughter. I know there is nothing else I can do for you.”

  “No.” I had rarely heard Petronius so defeated. “Nothing.”

  There was quite a long silence.

  “Do you want me to leave?” Maia asked him.

  “Are you ready to go?” From his hostile tone, I guessed Petro was hunched motionless, staring ahead bleakly. I had no idea what Maia was doing. I had never seen my sister comfort the bereaved. Especially someone she had at least briefly wanted in her bed. That no longer seemed relevant—and yet she had persisted in the search for him. It was the old Didius affliction: she felt responsible. “I have to do this mission,” Petronius explained, in a well-mannered, meaningless tone. “I may as well finish. There’s nothing else for me.”

  “You do have a daughter left!” snapped Maia. “And there is Silvia.”

  “Ah, Silvia!” A new note entered Petro’s voice. He showed some feeling at last, though it was not clear whether his ruefulness was a comment on his ex-wife, himself, or even Fate. “I think she may want us to get back together. I already detected it when I saw her at Ostia. That boyfriend she took on is a loser, and now—” It poured out, then he stopped himself. “Now we have a child to console.”

  “So what do you want?” Maia asked him quietly.

  “I can’t do it! That’s the past.” He would know how many men had decided to stand firm in such a manner, only to be dissuaded. Pain and conscience were lined up to entrap him. His surviving daughter’s tearful face would haunt him.

  “Then Silvia has lost out all around.” I was surprised my sister could be so fair. It had even been she who had reminded him that Arria Silvia needed him
.

  “You think I should?” Petronius demanded brusquely.

  “I won’t tell you what I think. This is for you. But”—Maia had to add—“don’t make a mistake out of guilt.”

  Petronius gave a small snort of acknowledgment. If it helped him make his decision, he was not revealing his thoughts. He had always been tight over his personal life. When we shared a tent in the army, there were things he could not hide from me, but since then I had had to guess. He kept his feelings to himself; he thought restraint would help. Maybe that had in fact contributed to problems when he was living with Arria Silvia.

  Maia must have reckoned she had done all she could. I heard movement. She must have stood up again. “I’ll go now.” He said nothing. “Take care.”

  Petronius stuck to the bench but he must have looked up. “So, Maia Favonia! I understand the boys. But why did you come?”

  “Oh . . . you know me.”

  Another short bark of humorless mirth came out. “No,” replied Petronius, his voice blank. “I don’t know you. You know damn well that I wanted to—but that’s all over, isn’t it?”

  My sister left him.

  When Petronius leaped up abruptly and went inside the baths, I prepared to leave too. I should have gone after him. He was suffering. But explaining my presence would be too difficult. I had never wanted him to join up with my sister, nor her with him, but I was troubled by the scene I had just overheard.

  As I stood undecided, a third party intervened.

  “Please!” A sudden muffled whisper almost evaded me. “Please, Falco!” I was in no mood for intrusions. Still, hearing your name somewhere you don’t expect it always makes you react.

  I stepped into the road and looked up. Above me, at a window in this dump that was called the Old Neighbour, I saw Albia’s white face. She did not need to explain she was in bad trouble. And she was appealing for me to get her out of it.

  Now I myself was trapped. I had never heard Albia speak before. She was clearly terrified. I had brought her out onto these streets today. Helena Justina had promised her refuge, yet I had put the girl back in danger. There was nothing for it. I had to enter this dark, no doubt unfriendly house and fetch her. The old Didius affliction had kicked in again. Albia was my responsibility.

  XXIII

  The moment I set foot across the threshold, I knew what the house was. The entrance corridor was still empty. A small shabby side table, holding the door open, impeded my path. Somewhere to leave your hat—if you wanted it stolen. On it a cracked and filthy dish dared to request gratuities. There were none. Not even the usual broken quadrans to give people the right idea. Only some joker’s present of a rusty nail.

  The front of the house must have been designed as a shop, but the Roman-style folding doors on the frontage were jammed closed and seized up. I glanced in through an archway. It was untenanted and used only for storage of rubble and old horse bedding. Whatever went on here would go on upstairs. Cautiously I moved down the interior passage toward a shadowy stair flight going up into darkness. Underfoot was a pressed-earth floor. I knocked into a piece of broken furniture. Part of a cupboard. I was treading slowly, so I had time to steady it at the cost of a wood splinter in my right palm. I managed to muffle the noise. Above, there must be at least a couple of rooms. That would be standard for a live-in shop. Though I listened, I could gain no sense of how many occupants might be there.

  The stairs were wooden. As I climbed, they swayed and creaked as if the house was unsound. Dirt made this ramshackle property seem old, though it could not predate the Rebellion. Good going: derelict after ten years. The roofspace must be low; heat had been absorbed all day through the building fabric, so I moved upward into a stifling, airless atmosphere. The first loft-like space formed an antechamber, definitely used for the purposes I feared. Though the pallets on the floor were unoccupied, a faint sexual smell told its story. I tripped over a lamp, unlit of course. Anyone who wanted to inspect his bedmate would have to pay for extras. I bet no one bothered. The only light filtered up from the stairs; there were no windows.

  I could hardly breathe. Commerce here must be rapid. To call it a brothel would be linguistic outrage. This was a doss to which rank street-whores brought their undiscriminating marks. It was a toss-up which party in the grim couplings would be the rougher character, and who cheated whom the most. I knew there would be violence. I could believe there had been deaths. I had to pray there was no pimp asleep now, with his arms around an amphora and a large knife to hand. He would see me before I was aware of him.

  By feel, I discovered two doorways. I worked out which one gave onto the room with the window where I had glimpsed Albia. The door had been wedged on the outside, locking her in. I was not surprised.

  Quietly I removed the heavy wooden stave that held the door closed. Even more gently, I pushed my way in. Light filtered through the window, but I could hardly see where she was. She had cowered in a tiny ball, even though she knew I was coming. I assumed she trusted me, yet terror had her paralyzed.

  I gave a low whistle. “Come on. You’re safe. Be quick.” It was like freeing a trapped sparrow. First the creature froze, then it made a desperate bolt for the light. “Shh!”

  The girl had fled right past, barging her way between me and the doorpost. She had already spirited herself down the stairs. I let her go. As I turned to follow, the other door burst open. There was suddenly more light, a frightfully smoldering lamp, held aloft by a three-foot-high old baggage with ferocious bad breath and a vicious snarl. I think it was female, but I felt like a hero who had woken some foul mythical beast. “What do you want?”

  “I came for a girl,” I answered honestly. I pulled the door closed behind me, as if Albia might still be inside. “I saw her looking through the window.”

  “Not that one.”

  “I like them young.”

  “Not her!”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s not trained.” Well, that was a relief, mainly.

  “I can handle her.”

  “I said no!”

  The old woman was ghastly. A huge round face with features slammed on as if by a bad potter after he’d had too much to drink with his lunch. Flabby white arms, tremulous fat in the body, oily gray hair. Her flat dirty feet were bare. On a cord at her waist hung a bulging purse. She was wrapped in layers of grimy rags, their stiffened cloth twisted like cheese wrappings all around her body. This swaddling seemed to have trapped in the dirt, flea droppings, and smells. She was marinated in filth. And the evil madam oozed with redolence of her foul trade.

  “Why not?” I insisted. “What’s so special about that one?”

  “The Collector only brought her in today.”

  “Who’s the Collector? I’m sure he’s reasonable. Can I speak to him?”

  “Gods, where were you spawned? He won’t see you. Get out,” she ordered.

  Pretending to be a polite innocent, I replaced the heavy wedge that had held the door. “Can I come back later?”

  “No!” yelled the human fungus.

  Knowing I still had to find the girl, I refrained from any retort and left quietly.

  Albia was in fact waiting. As I came out half suffocated into the pleasant air, she whimpered. She had not been visibly beaten, though they had stripped her; she shivered in a torn undergarment, yet was clutching the blue dress the Hilaris children had found for her, now folded into a tight parcel that she gripped to her bony chest. Her only possession in the world. Her first decent experience. Maybe the sole reason why she did trust me.

  I nodded at her to come with me. We moved to the porch of the bathhouse, where I paused to clear my lungs; I needed to cough heavily or I would retch.

  “You stink, my girl.” I had been in the brothel for only a moment, but I felt I stank myself. I could wait. There was a decent baths back at the residence, but I needed to make Albia presentable before I returned her to Helena’s care. I had to do it for my own sake. “We’re going home.
It’s over now. Better get cleaned up first.”

  Petronius was lounging beside the attendant’s booth. Since he was on watch, I ignored him; that was the rule.

  It was men’s hour at a one-sex-at-a-time baths. There was no way I could send Albia through, and I was certainly not taking her. I persuaded the attendant to give me sponges and a bucket of warm water, then we put the girl in the changing room to wash herself. There were no customers in there at the lockers and at least it saved me having to worry about her slipping through a back entrance.

  “If she steals any clothes—”

  “She won’t.” She had her prized blue dress.

  A bench ran around the vestibule where tickets were sold. Two young women were seated there, massaging almond oil into their fingernails. They were respectably dressed, with shiny, well-turned-up hair and good postures, yet they gave the impression they were prostitutes. Girlfriends often sit around in pairs, dressed alike, of course, so maybe I slandered them. They seemed to be hanging around on spec, but did not make a pitch even while I was idly awaiting Albia. After watching my negotiations in silence, they both stood up and left.

  I walked back out onto the porch again, giving Petro the chance to stroll quietly after me.

  “What’s going on?” he murmured.

  “Helena’s protégée.” We stood side by side, looking at the street, and spoke matter-of-factly as if we were strangers exchanging polite words while one of us waited for a friend. “I have something to tell you, Lucius.” I had to pretend not to know about Maia. “It’s about your family—”

  “Skip it. I know.”

  “Ah . . . We’re heartbroken for you. They were lovely girls.”

  Petronius said nothing. I could feel him enforcing tight self-control. In the end he muttered, “So what brings you here?”

  I could play it that way. I wanted his advice. “I think I’ve just barged into a child prostitute racket.”

  “You stole that girl out of the brothel, Falco? That could be foolish.”