Helena Justina wanted very badly to hurl a cushion in my direction, but she kept her dignity. Her long hands were clasped firmly in her lap, to stop herself. “Did you find out what those women were doing in the street when they broke up your tussle with the brothel-keeper? Or were you too busy fooling with Chloris to ask useful questions?”
I felt my teeth set. “You, however, did ask them?”
“I managed a few inquiries while I was enduring their company.” She did not actually say coldly, While you were frolicking in the love nest. “There is a businessman trying to take over their group. He is being too pushy and they do not welcome it. They work without a manager and they don’t want to pay a cut to someone else.”
I wondered if this was the gangster Petronius was looking for. “What’s his name?”
“I never asked. All he wants is to exploit them. They know he runs brothels too,” Helena told me. “So when you tried to help Albia escape they weighed in. They told me you needed them!”
“That’s a cheap jibe, from you and them.”
Helena Justina had always been fair. She was silent for a moment, then agreed, “Albia told me the old woman was horrible.”
“Right.”
“Albia is very upset by what happened. I still have to tice the full story out of her.”
A silence fell. Once, Helena would have checked whether I had been hurt, looking me over for blood and bruising. No chance today.
“Anything else to tell me, fruit?”
She managed not to say, Don’t call me that! Instead, she pretended not to notice.
“Why did you bring the children?”
“You didn’t come home. We all went out to look for you.”
Unsaid was her panic. Rather than mention it to anyone at the residence, she had searched the streets herself. When she met Albia and heard I was in trouble, she must have clutched the children and run.
“You’re crazy, love. Next time tell your uncle and do it properly.”
“They were all still busy at dinner. We had a fascinating group of visitors.” I waited to hear more. “Norbanus came again, clearly to moon around Maia. I think we all expected that to happen. Maia seemed rather distracted but he took it politely. He behaves like a nice man.”
“I make a distinction,” I observed dryly, “between when you say someone is nice—and when you phrase it that he only seems that way.”
“Norbanus appears to be genuine,” Helena said.
“If he’s keen on Maia, I hope he is. But it’s always possible he may be the big mover that Petronius is chasing.”
Helena was too intrigued to fight now. “Surely Norbanus is too obvious. ‘Looking for property opportunities,’ as he claims to be, just shouts that here’s a man who could be an extortionist. But if so, he would disguise his interest.”
“You would think so. But such types do like to show their faces at the highest functions. They hover in legitimate circles, fooling themselves that they get away with it. Well, often enough they do.”
“It’s there they meet people who have influence,” Helena said.
“And important women! They don’t all glue themselves to molls with bright hair and corn-bushels of jewelry. Some hanker for females with fortunes and grand pedigrees. The women seem to go for it. The more glorious a reputation their ancestors sweated for, the quicker it is thrown away. If the Emperor had a daughter alive, she’d be good prey.”
“I’d like to see Vespasian deal with that!” Helena rather admired him. I reckoned the outlook could be dirty.
“So who else came to present themselves to Frontinus and Uncle Gaius this fine evening?”
“More importers wondering if they should be wearing togas—and a lawyer hoping for new clients.”
“If Britain now attracts speculative barristers, it’s all over. Civilization has come—with its misery and expense.”
“He could be the criminal,” Helena insisted.
“He could indeed. Did he have gold rings made of solid nuggets? Was he protected by large men with cudgels? What’s his name?”
“Popillius.”
“I must take a look at him.”
“Should that not be a job for Petronius?”
“Why should he have all the fun? If I think this partygoer looks promising, then I’ll shove Petro in the right direction.”
“You know best.”
“Don’t be like that.”
There seemed to be no more to say. I confessed that I was deeply weary and must go to bed. Though on the surface we had talked normally, Helena gave no sign that she was joining me.
When I reached the door I turned back and said quietly, “I have never talked to anyone the way I do with you.” Helena said nothing. I had made it worse. “I did nothing wrong. I’m sorry if you think I did.”
I had known how she felt. This was when she finally started showing it. “Well, Falco. The point is, we both know what you might have done.”
I could say nothing. The matter had been settled by her presence. But if Helena had not intervened—who knows?
Alone in bed, for hours I barely slept. Eventually, I roused groggily from light slumber and felt sure Helena had crept her way into the room. She had silently occupied a distant chair. Though it came with a footstool, a faint glimmer through the open shutters told me she was bunched up, hugging her knees. By now she must have realized how uncomfortable that was, but when my breathing changed she stopped fidgeting.
Well, she was here. But that was unavoidable. We were staying in someone else’s house. There were scores of rooms to go off to if you quarreled with your husband, but also scores of gossipy slaves making forays everywhere. Helena would be embarrassed if anyone should know our current state.
“Come over here.” It sounded more angry than I meant. No answer. Was I surprised? Next time I judged the tone better: “Come to bed, love . . . I’ll have to come and get you then.”
She would not accept that. Slowly she shuffled over and climbed in. Relieved, I fell asleep momentarily. Luckily, I woke again.
“Snuggle up with me.”
“No,” she said, on principle.
With a grunt I rolled over and captured her, folding her in a chaste, fully clothed embrace against my heart. “This is all over nothing, love.”
Men might argue, such occasions always are. Women would say that arguments over nothing are in fact over everything.
So we lay there, Helena still rigid and resisting. She was right to some extent. Even then as I nursed her through her misery, I was thinking about another woman—so in one sense I did betray her. How could I not remember, though? Chloris and I had dallied in lust and it had ended badly, all before I ever dreamed of meeting anyone like Helena. Had I not then happened to come to Britain, when Helena Justina happened to be over here, she and I never would have met.
I was a man. When I encountered an old girlfriend, I became romantically nostalgic (do women not do this?). But it was Helena I was holding in my arms tonight and I had no wish to change that.
At last I stopped reminiscing. Before I drifted off to sleep, I thought about a woman fondly for a little longer. That time if anyone was betrayed, it was not Helena.
XXVII
In the morning the fight still lay like heavy wet flock all around us. Helena rose by herself, made a brisk toilet, and ate breakfast in our room. That was to avoid prying questions at the communal buffet. She offered me nothing, but left enough on the tray if I wanted it. Sulking, I chose to go down to the dining room.
Maia had obviously heard about Chloris. She was in good form. “I always thought she was an evil little cow. And now she’s in the arena—that’s a disgrace. You’d let a woman like that threaten all you have nowadays? So how would you feel, Marcus, if Helena Justina divorced you?”
“Dumb question!” The tray upstairs in private became increasingly alluring; too late. I plucked a roll from a basket and sank my teeth into it.
We were hardly heading for divorce. Min
d you, all Helena and I had done in order to call ourselves married was to choose to live together; to end it, she only had to leave me. Roman law is extremely reasonable on these issues. Unreasonably so, many a client of mine would say.
My sister smirked self-righteously. “I thought we were shot of that schemer years ago. Don’t tell Mother that you saw her.”
“Get this straight. Chloris is past history, Maia. I’ll leave you to break the news to Ma about your slimy new beau, the music lover!”
“He has invited me to his villa, downriver.”
“What a terrible chatting-up line.”
“I may go.”
“You may regret it then.”
Helena entered the dining room, smart and ready for action. No glance passed between her and Maia; some women plunge into heart-searching with their girlfriends when they are distressed, but Helena shunned feminine conspiracy. That was why I liked her. She brought her problems to me: even when I was the problem. “I have been thinking, Marcus. You ought to talk to Albia about how Verovolcus died. She was always hanging around bars; she may have seen something.”
“Good idea.”
“I shall come too.”
I knew when to accept matrimonial help. “That will be nice.”
“Don’t fool yourself,” she said, ever honest. “I am watching what you are up to.”
I quirked up an eyebrow playfully. “All day?”
“All day,” she confirmed soberly.
I smiled and turned back to Maia. “By the way, I saw Petro yesterday.”
“Lucky you.”
I could tell that Helena thought I had just made it more likely my sister would be wafting down the River Thamesis for pastries and heavy seduction attempts at the Norbanus villa.
I now noticed that Maia’s son Marius had been sitting under a side table feeding his dog. The look he gave me was inscrutable.
Where was my own dog?
“I gave Nux to Albia to comfort her last night,” Helena said.
“You read my thoughts, Helena. Better face it. We think the same way; we’re a pair.”
“Oh, I know that!” she roared. It caused consternation among the slaves mopping a corridor. I managed a good kick at their water bucket as we walked past. “Marcus—try deciding what you want in life, so we can all get on with it.”
I stopped dead and spun her around to face me. The wet tiled floor made her skid slightly and I had to grab her hard. “I was captured. Nothing happened. Don’t waste effort wondering what I might have done. Here I am.”
Helena scowled. “That’s easy to say when you are safe here. What happens when you vanish into the stews and slums?”
“You have to take that on trust.”
“Trusting you is rather tiring, Marcus.”
She did look worn. She had two young children, one still being breast-fed. Our attempt at taking on a nursemaid had been more trouble than not having one. There had been some respite for her here at her aunt’s house, where there was practical help, but all the time she knew—indeed, I knew too—that we would be going home to Rome soon. Our endlessly demanding children would once again be all ours, and when I went out working she cared for them alone. If anything ever happened to me, Julia and Favonia would be her sole responsibility. Our mothers supported her—while causing more stress by bickering with each other. Ultimately, Helena spent a lot of time by herself, wondering where I was and what danger I was in.
Helena was worldly. She knew any man could stray. As soon as she saw Chloris she must have thought my day had come.
I did admit, it must have looked as if I thought that too. I could hardly blame Helena. How was I to foresee that M. Didius Falco, infamous lad about the metropolis, would end up being such a good boy?
Albia was skulking nervously. Do not imagine that rescue from brutal prostitution had made the girl grateful. In the part of my life I never talked about, I had been an army scout. During close contact with the enemy, as the tribes were then, I had had a few dealings with the boot-faced element of British society. The don’t-know, not-heard-of-that, never-saw-anything mob were as active here as in the criminal slums below the Esquiline in Rome, and being a conquered people gave Britons special rights in unhelpfulness. Routinely, they made life awkward for anyone Roman, often in very subtle ways. Albia had absorbed all that.
“Albia, you and I need to talk.” As I tackled the girl, Helena was shooing away children. They had clustered defensively around their returned friend; I hoped these innocents had no idea of her adventure with the prostitution ring. Nux, convinced as ever that she was the joy of my heart, left Albia’s side and climbed all over me. I had made the mistake of sitting down. I was trying to look nonthreatening. When the dog saw I was accessible, she jumped straight up on me. A hot tongue busily licked anatomical crannies that might need a wash.
Albia said nothing.
“Now don’t look so afraid.” Waste of breath. The girl crouched on a stool, expressionless. “Stop it, Nux . . . down, stupid doggie! Albia, the other night—” It felt about two weeks ago, though it was only four days. “A man was killed. It happened at the Shower of Gold. He was pushed down the well, upside down. He drowned.”
Albia still only gave me the wounded, empty stare of the destitute. Her face seemed whiter than ever, her spirit even more crushed.
“You are safe here,” Helena told her. Nux abandoned me and rushed over to Helena, clambering up on her lap. Helena subdued the dog with the competence she used to control our children. “Albia, tell Didius Falco if you saw anything that night.”
“No.” Was that saw nothing, or wouldn’t tell?
Nux looked from one to another of us, intrigued.
“Were you in the Shower of Gold, or anywhere near it, that night?” I repeated.
“No.” Useless. I was trying to net moonlight.
The more times she denied it, the more I doubted her word. Even if the desperate people did not lie, they withheld information. But if they could get away with it, they lied. Truth was power. To keep it gave them a last shred of hope. To pass it on left them utterly exposed.
“Albia!” Even Helena sounded sharp. “Nobody will harm you if you talk about this. Falco will arrest the men who did it.”
“I was not there.”
Even though Albia was so uncommunicative, I could tell one thing: she was absolutely terrified.
“Well, that was a dead loss.” I tried not to gloat.
“I’m really annoyed with her.” At least Helena did not blame me. “Albia’s a silly girl.”
“She’s just scared. She’s been scared all her life.”
“Well, haven’t we all!” From Helena Justina that was a shock. I stared. She pretended she had not said it.
“Now can I go out to play?” I whined.
“Things to do, Marcus.”
“What things, beloved?”
“Have a look at the lawyer, say.”
“Your friend Popillius?” I hoped in vain for praise that I remembered his name.
“I don’t feel friendly towards him and he’s not mine.”
“Good. I can put up with a lot,” I joked, “but if you run off with a legal man, that’s it, my girl!”
“Really?” she demanded in a light tone.
“Oh yes.” I frowned. “Dearest, you know that I cannot stand lawyers.”
The day was looking up. Popillius was presumably slick—aren’t they all in their business references?—but I found him in the act of being fleeced.
Helena had to let me out to conduct this next interview. She came with me, however. I waited patiently while she first fed Favonia; it gave me a chance to make snooty remarks about wishing my daughters to lead a quiet domestic life, not to be dragged out to unsuitable venues as they were last night. That enabled Helena to say she wished I could set them a good example then. Thus sniping, though cheerfully, we steamed off in a morning that was still good and hot, to a small rented house where a lawyer had set up in business. Despite
a flamboyant chalked sign outside that promised the best prosecutions north of the Alps and tactful, cheap defense speeches, clients had yet to take advantage of the services he offered. I looked for a no-win, no-fee notice but of course failed to find it.
Popillius sat sunbathing in a courtyard, where he waited for all those people who wanted outrageous compensation for wrongs. While at a loose end, he had been found by a British entrepreneur. A shy-looking hopeful had wandered in from the street. He had tufty hair and wide-apart short legs, and had set out a big flat tray of carved jet jewelry and trifles.
There were more of these jet-sellers than fleas on a cat; there always had been. In reality the soldiers in the legions, wanting presents for their girlfriends, snapped up the best-quality stuff while they were up on the frontier. In most parts of southern Britain there was as much chance of buying genuine sea-washed black stuff from Brigantia as of finding real turquoise scarabs beside the Pyramids in Alexandria.
I liked this seller’s patter. He owned up that there was fakery in the trade. His cheeky premise was that the best fakes were so good it was worth buying them in their own right. He was promising to let the lawyer corner the market, in the hope he would later make a killing when the fake stuff became openly collectible.
Helena and I watched peacefully. As Popillius set about fetching the cash for his hoard, we parked under what would have been a fig tree if we were in the Mediterranean. Here it was some anonymous bush. Someone appeared to be aware of the concept of shady courtyards with cool pergolas, though if you looked more closely, the yard had been recently used for keeping draft animals. It must have been roughly cleaned up for the lawyer when he wanted to rent.
The jet salesman made a feeble attempt to interest us, indicating that I should buy a trinket for Helena. He could see what a mistake that was. She herself rebuffed him. I waved him away more gently. “Sorry, pal; left my purse in the bedroom.” He knew I was lying, but he strolled off happily with his profits from the lawyer.
Popillius was a clean-cut sandy type. Thirties, maybe. Not quite too young to carry professional weight, but giving the impression he had energy and ambition, as well as his cynical greed for fees. He had a light, upper-crust voice, which was hard to place. A new man quite recently, I would say, maybe with grandparents who made it into the middle class, provincials even. Close enough for infant Popillius to have heard their tales of backwoods life, and to be sufficiently enthralled to tackle a remote province himself. Either that, or he absconded with a client’s funds and had needed to leave Rome fast.
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