The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

  “You should worry if he can only deal with you through your children.”

  “Yes. Well, that’s me—a mother!” Maia’s crisp retort echoed around the enclosed garden. Her voice dropped. “That is the only way anyone expects to treat me.”

  “There speaks a noble matron.” It sounded as if Aelia Camilla had smiled sadly. “Once we have the children . . . Of course, for a bride with her first husband at least there is a period when you deal with each other as adults. You never quite lose that.”

  Aelia Camilla had a batch of children now; there was at least one set of twins. Maia must have done some arithmetic, because she demanded quizzically, “Your first baby was a long time coming, wasn’t she?”

  “Flavia. Yes. We waited a few years to be blessed with Flavia.”

  “And you never knew why . . .”

  “It seemed inexplicable,” Aelia Camilla agreed. Something was going on here.

  “So, were you making sure that you wanted to have them?” My sister could be so blunt it was rude.

  To my surprise, the procurator’s wife took it well. “Maia Favonia, don’t accuse me of devious practices!” She sounded amused.

  “Oh, I don’t!” Maia was also laughing. “Though I am wondering, does Gaius Flavius know?”

  “You won’t expect me to answer that.” Aelia Camilla was a clever woman. Her polite manner made her seem stuffy, though I had always thought it was a front. She was after all sister to Helena’s father, and Decimus was a man I liked. His diffidence also hid a sharp intelligence. Brought up in our family, Maia had cruder social skills: nosiness, insults, accusations, rants, and that old favorite, flouncing off in a huff.

  “So what about you?” the procurator’s wife inquired directly. “Your eldest—”

  “My eldest died.” Like most bereaved mothers, Maia never forgot and she had never quite recovered from it. “I suppose that’s why I felt so much for the situation with Petronius . . . I was pregnant when I married. I was very young. Too young. Well caught out.”

  They were silent for a while. A paragraph mark in the conversation.

  “So now you have four, and you are widowed,” Aelia Camilla summed up. “Your children are not helpless. I think you have a choice. You could be independent—make time for yourself in the way that you missed as a young girl. You are so attractive, you are surrounded by men who want to take you over—but, Maia, it’s not for them to choose.”

  “Ditch them all, you mean?” Maia laughed. I was beginning to realize that after Famia died she must have been very lonely. He was useless in many ways, but he had a large presence. Since he was gone, even Helena had probably not talked to Maia like this. Ma might have given her good advice, but what girl listens to her mother over men? “Norbanus is very attentive,” mused my sister. Impossible to tell whether she was pleased by that.

  “Will you visit his villa?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “You could take my husband’s riverboat.” Maia must have looked puzzled, for Aelia Camilla added pointedly, “Then if you wanted to leave, you would have your own transport.”

  “Ah! I’m still not sure whether to go, but thanks . . . There have been others hovering. I got into a serious mess once, back at home.” I heard Maia’s voice cloud. She was talking about Anacrites.

  Aelia Camilla gave no hint of understanding that this was a reference to Maia being stalked by the Chief Spy. She could well know about it. I was under no illusions. Anyone of my rank arriving in a new province would be preceded by an intelligence brief. For all I knew, Anacrites himself had contributed to mine. My sister, having attracted his vindictiveness, must also be a special-category traveler.

  Aelia Camilla was now talking about her husband. “Gaius and I experienced problems at one time. I don’t say we were publicly estranged, but I was very unhappy for a period.”

  “It doesn’t show now,” said Maia. “You were a long way from home?”

  “Yes, and I felt a very great void between us.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The usual—Gaius stayed out too much.”

  “What—bars, or the Games?”

  “Well, I knew there were neither available.”

  “Oh, he said it was work!” Maia, chortling, knew all about that from Famia.

  “Genuine.” Aelia Camilla was loyal. “He had to travel long distances, sourcing precious minerals.”

  “How did you solve it? I gather you did solve it?”

  “Drastically. I forced him to see that the problem existed: I said I wanted a divorce.”

  “That was a risk! Hilaris did not?”

  “No. And I did not, Maia. Our marriage had been arranged for us by relatives, but it was right. We were in love. Sometimes more, sometimes less; but you feel it, don’t you? When it is right.”

  “So what are you telling me, Camilla?”

  “It made me believe that you should speak out. You cannot trust a man to face up to things, you know. Maia, you could lose him before you even start. There is too much to lose if you drift, thinking everybody understands one another.”

  A wicked note entered my sister’s voice. “Are you talking about Norbanus Murena?”

  Aelia Camilla chuckled. “No,” she said. “Someone else—and you know it.”

  Maia did not ask her who she meant.

  XXX

  The Norbanus harpist joined them. His twanging would have drowned out their conversation anyway, but they both stopped the gossip. They would certainly not discuss Norbanus Murena; anyone else male was also off-limits. If the tunesmith was meant to carry back news to his master, this shrewd pair had his measure. He was spoiling their fun too.

  Helena arrived soon afterward. I heard her dump a chair amid the garden party. Annoyance could be detected in the angry scratch of its legs.

  “Where’s our boy?” scoffed Maia immediately. “I thought you were guarding my brother all day!”

  “He found a friend.”

  “Anyone we know?”

  Helena made no answer.

  I waited awhile, then stood up. The others had their backs to me, but Helena looked up and saw me as I yawned and waved, making it plain I had been there on the balcony for hours. Perhaps she would feel guilty for doubting me. Perhaps not.

  I went to our room and she joined me almost instantly. Nothing uncomfortable was said, and I quickly narrated all that Chloris had told me.

  “I’ve acquired a witness, but one I can’t use. Still, if she will make a formal statement, Frontinus may be prodded to make arrests. Maybe if word leaks out that the culprits are in custody, other people will feel safe enough to come forward.”

  “King Togidubnus will want to know what that quarrel in the bar was about.”

  “I need to know that myself. If Pyro and Splice just pretend they had an argument about a wine bill, that’s not enough. I want to tie the Verovolcus killing to extortion. Then Frontinus can stamp on the racket.”

  Helena frowned. “Frontinus will support you, won’t he?”

  “Yes, though don’t forget his initial reaction was to gloss over the problem. I have to prove beyond doubt what is going on.”

  “And Petronius is working on the same lines?”

  “He is—but Frontinus must not know. If he finds out, Petro will be in hot water.”

  “You two!” she scoffed. “Why can neither of you ever do anything the easy way?”

  I grinned. “Come here.”

  “Don’t mess about, Falco.” She sounded like me, coping with Chloris.

  “No, come here.” I got hold of her. She was too interested in the Verovolcus story to resist. I held her nose to nose. We were peaceful with each other now. “I love you very much, you know.”

  “Don’t change the subject,” said Helena Justina sternly, but by then I was kissing her.

  I took my time. O reader, go and peruse a very long philosophical scroll for an hour. You damn well don’t need to know about this.

  Actually, y
ou can come back now. What happened was fairly satisfactory to a man who had been fighting off jealousy all night and morning—but what might have happened never did. Instead, we were interrupted by a wary slave of the procurator’s, who knocked on the bedroom door extremely shyly, looking for me. It was unclear whether he expected to find a vicious marital tempest or widescale pornography.

  “Can I help you?” I asked sweetly. I was fully clad and hardly blushed at all. I had of course spent my youth being caught almost in the act by my mother. I could look innocent in no time. Chloris could vouch for that.

  Forget Chloris. (I was now seriously trying to.)

  “Message.” The slave chucked the tablet at me and fled.

  It was from the customs officer, Firmus. He wanted me to come down to the ferry urgently. Somebody, the message said obliquely, had suggested that I would want to know they had found another corpse.

  XXXI

  The body was still lying on the deck. They were waiting for me before moving it: Firmus, a couple of his juniors, and a man who rowed the ferryboat to and fro on call. A silence fell, as I absorbed the sight. The others, having seen it once, stared at me rather than at the dreadful corpse.

  They had fished it out of the river this morning, Firmus said. None of us thought the man had drowned, however. That surprised me. Somehow after Verovolcus I had expected a pattern. But there was no parallel with the well-killing: this man had been battered to death. Someone had set about him with professional cruelty. To judge from the massive injuries he suffered, it would have taken a long time. The beating may even have continued after he had died. There was no foam around the lips, though being in the river would have washed it off. I looked in his mouth and still found no evidence to suggest he had been alive when he was tipped in the water. Firmus, and the ferryman, seemed to find that comforting.

  The body had tangled in the ferry; I thought this had happened very soon after its being put into the Thamesis. Death, too, must have taken place quite recently. Only this morning, by the freshness of the corpse. He had had no time to sink properly and had not reached the bloated stage, full of gas. Though less hideous this way, the thought that he had so narrowly missed seeing the killers dispose of the body upset the ferryman more.

  The last time I saw anyone murdered with such savagery, it was in Rome. Gangsters had inflicted the battering on one of their own.

  This dead man was fifty or sixty, thereabouts. I cannot tell you about his features; the face had been too badly damaged. Of modest build in most respects, he had quite strong arms and shoulders. His skin was ruddy, with no dirt on his hands, which had noticeably clean cuticles and fingernails. Along the inner side of both his arms were old healed marks, which looked like minor burns, the sort you obtain from a brush against a trivet or an oven edge. He was dressed in British clothing, with the neck flap that is common to the northern provinces. Under the blood lay a faint trace of something, a fine gray sludge that had thickened in the seams and braids of his brown tunic. He wore no belt. I guessed his tormentors had removed it and used it as one of the weapons to thrash him, its buckle causing some of those short cuts among his heavy bruising.

  “Know him, Falco?”

  “Never seen him before—” I had to clear my throat. “I can suggest who he may be, though. If this mucky deposit all over him was once flour-dust, that’s a clue. A baker called Epaphroditus vanished and his shop burned down the other night. It’s clear he had upset someone. Someone who must think that depriving him of his livelihood was not enough to punish him—or not enough to scare other people.”

  I straightened up and walked over to the still shocked ferryman. “What did you see?”

  “Nothing. I just felt something binding on the boat. I guessed we had a floater; I rowed in gently and Firmus helped me free it. I’ve seen plenty, but I’ve never seen . . .” He tailed off in distress.

  “Were you rowing over with a fare?”

  His eyes grew wide.

  I said quietly, “If it was the big man who is staying at the mansio, you can speak up.” I knew Petronius Longus must have seen the corpse at some time; the message from Firmus had hinted it was he who had advised fetching me. “It’s all right. He and I are a duo.”

  Firmus had been listening. “He’s gone back over there,” he intervened.

  I told the ferryman he would do better if he kept working, and persuaded him to take me across to the far side of the Thamesis. As we looped over slowly, first veering upstream and then drifting back, I looked down the wide gray river and thought black thoughts.

  The great river marked a geographic boundary. Even the weather seemed different; when we landed on the southern bank, the heat we had felt in the town was less oppressive. Mind you, it was now early evening.

  The mansio lay a short walk from the islands with their reeded banks, along the left fork of the big Roman highway. This was a decent full-width military road that went, I knew, far westward beyond the chalky downs to the entry port at Rutupiae. It had been the first route prepared by the invasion force and still carried arriving armed forces and most goods that came into Londinium overland. The mansio was a brand-new establishment; it only looked about a year old. A sign warned people, LAST GOOD DRINK BEFORE THE COLONIA. I found Petro glumly sampling this beverage.

  The landlord had been cagey, but must have been warned that I would be coming. I was led to a discreet table in a back garden where a second cup was standing ready. Petro quickly filled it for me.

  “Thanks! I need a drink.”

  “I warn you, Falco, it won’t help.”

  I drained the cup and started on a second one, this time adding water. “That was a mess.” The baker’s pulped flesh kept revisiting my memory. I set my beaker on the table, as nausea threatened.

  “Familiar?”

  “Took me right back to the Balbinus mob.”

  Petronius let out a grunt. He had a bread roll alongside him. He had managed two bites, automatically. Now it just sat there. He would throw it away.

  “Those were the days!” He sounded bitter. “You took your time getting here.”

  “Busy day. I had to go out and see a bastard lawyer, for one thing. Anyway, I’m staying at the residence. You can send a message which reaches there in a few minutes. Then the slaves spend all morning and afternoon passing it between themselves. Saying it is urgent slows them down.”

  Petro lost interest in that. “This is grim, Falco.” He must have been thinking for some hours. Now he plunged right in: “With your man, the drowned Briton, his fight could have been spur of the moment. There was a flare-up and he copped it. End of story.”

  “No, it was planned,” I broke in. “Tell you in a minute. Go on.”

  “This death was deliberate slow torture. Its aim was systematic terrorizing of the whole community.”

  “And the body was meant to be found?”

  “Who knows? If they want secrecy they should have weighed it down. They should have dumped it further downriver, away from habitation. No, they intend it to look as though they discarded him like rubbish. They want the next victims they lean on to have heard all about this . . . Did you talk to the ferryman?”

  “He’s gone into shock.”

  “Well, he told me the tide was on the turn. It looked as if the body had been chucked overboard to go downstream a bit, but it washed back unexpectedly.”

  “Chucked overboard—from what?” I queried.

  “A boat went down. The ferry had had to wait for it while he was coming to get me.”

  “Why didn’t you use the bridge?” I asked.

  “Same reason as you, Falco. Hilaris warned me they don’t maintain it.”

  I grinned, then became serious again. “When I asked him, the ferryman denied seeing anything.”

  “Do you blame him? Suppose this was the Balbinus mob, would you pipe up, ‘Oh, Officer! I saw the boat they threw this person off’? You’d have your eyes very tightly closed.”

  “So where were you a
t the crucial moment, Petro? Did you see this boat dumping him?”

  “I was aware of the boat,” Petronius admitted angrily. “Classic witness failure, Falco—I was paying no attention. I didn’t think it was important at the time.”

  “Big craft or small?” We had to drag it out of his memory while we could.

  Petronius cooperated gloomily. He was disgruntled that he, the professional, had failed to take note of a vital scene. “Smallish. Smart, a private river craft—pleasure not trade.”

  “Sailed or rowed?”

  He placed a wide palm on his forehead. “Rowed.” He paused. “There was a small sail too.”

  “Nameboard? Flags? Interesting prow?”

  He tried hard. “Nothing that stuck.”

  “Anyone visible?”

  “Couldn’t say.”

  “Hear a suspicious splash?”

  He grimaced. “Don’t be stupid. If I had, I’d have paid attention, wouldn’t I?” Something struck him. “There was somebody standing in the prow!”

  “Good—what about him?”

  It had gone. “Don’t know . . . nothing.”

  I frowned. “Why were you aware of the boat? Also, why did the ferry have to wait? The river’s wide enough.”

  Petronius thought. “The boat was stationary for a while. Drifting.” He pulled a face. “While they dropped him in, perhaps. They could have slid him over the side, the side away from me.”

  “Hades . . . That was stupid—right by the bridge and the ferry crossing!”

  “It was at the crack of dawn, but you’re on the dot: it was stupid. Anybody could have seen them. These villains don’t care.”

  “Anyone else about?”

  “Just me. I start early. I was here, squatting on the jetty.”

  “Would they have seen you signaling to call the ferry?”

  “No. I don’t bother. I was just sitting still, listening to the marsh birds and thinking about—” He stopped. His lost daughters. I dropped a hand over his forearm, but he shook me off. “I have a routine arrangement to be fetched at first light. The ferry was still moored opposite. If the people in the drop-boat were preoccupied, they may not have realized I was watching.”