The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

  “They were damned careless, all the same.” I thought about things. Life stank. “I still say, this is a wide enough river. Why did the ferryman wait?”

  Petro saw my point. “Wonder if he knows who owns that boat?”

  “And wanted to avoid them? Was he scared, then? . . . All right—so what about the corpse?”

  “Bumped up against us as we crossed. The ferryman would have pushed it away and hoped it sank. I made him hook it.”

  “Did he know beforehand that it was death by violence?”

  “I thought he just wanted to avoid trouble. He was horrified when he saw we had landed a corpse in that condition.”

  “And Firmus? Firmus happened to be there?”

  “Yes. He threw up in the drink.”

  We sat quiet for a time. Dusk was falling; if I wanted to make it back across the river I would have to move. I would have liked to stay and give Petronius solace.

  “I feel bad about leaving. I don’t like you being alone over here.”

  “I’m all right. Things to do, lad. Wrongs to right—villains to catch,” he assured me, his tone drab. Petronius had never been a pious hero. He was far too decent.

  Before I set off, I told him what I had learned today about the circumstances of the Verovolcus death.

  “It’s clear Splice and Pyro did it—but I wish I knew what Verovolcus was talking to them about at the bar.”

  “And who was the man giving them orders? What are you going to do?” asked Petro.

  “Report it all to the governor, I reckon.”

  “What will he do?” He managed to avoid sounding skeptical.

  “What I tell him, I hope. Now I have to decide what that should be.”

  “What do you think?” I knew he was dying to make suggestions. When we were lads out here in Britain he would have barged in, taking over if he could. But we were grown-up now. If no wiser, we were both more sad and tired. He held back, leaving me to take the initiative in my aspect of the case.

  “I think it’s time we arrested Splice and Pyro. Are you happy? Will it cut across you?”

  Petro thought quickly, then shook his head. “No. Time to shake things up. So long as I know what’s coming. But take care,” he warned. “You may be pulling out a support that brings the whole damn edifice crashing down on us.”

  “I see that.”

  Petro was trying to prophesy: “If you take out their main collectors, the group then has to reorganize. They’ll need to do it fast, or the locals will start enjoying their freedom. Way out here, the gangsters are very far from their normal resources. If they lose a crucial operative, I doubt if they have backup. They may make mistakes, become too visible. Then too, they have the worry of what Splice and Pyro may tell you.”

  “Nothing, trust me on it.” I was a realist.

  “Everyone has a weak spot. Everyone can be bought.” Bereavement, or something, was making Petronius sentimental. Gangsters’ enforcers must be the hardest men in the criminal underworld, and if Splice and Pyro had come from Rome, they were the worst of their type. “This is the end of the world. It’s frontier rules,” Petro insisted. “Frontinus could sink them in a bog and no questions asked. If their masters place bail for them, we’ll know exactly who their masters are. So they could be abandoned. They know they can be replaced; there is always some creep offering to become the gang’s new bagman. Pyro and Splice know it, Falco: this is dead-meat town for them if things start going wrong.”

  “Oh yes! I’m taking notes,” I scoffed, “for when we interrogate these babes! Cradle stories should frighten them witless. Whoever mashed Epaphroditus is obviously a nervous type—”

  Petronius sighed. “You suggest something then.”

  “What can I say? Arrest Splice and Pyro—then watch what happens. That’s as far as I can go, like you.”

  “It’s pathetic,” he said bleakly.

  “Yes.”

  We both knew it was all we had.

  Before I left to go and see the governor, I said, “Ask me who told me about the Verovolcus death.”

  “Who told you?” Petronius demanded obediently.

  “One of those gladiator girls.”

  “Oh, them!” Petronius gave a short mocking laugh. He had temporarily forgotten that he saw me being led off by the fighters in frocks. “So they captured you outside the brothel. Now you’re here, unscathed. How did you escape their clutches, lucky one?”

  “Helena Justina came and fetched me safely home.”

  He laughed again, though he could read the trouble in my face. “So which one coughed?”

  “She’s calling herself Amazonia, but we know better. Remember Chloris?”

  He looked blank, though not for long. He let out a shout. “You are joking! That Chloris? Chloris?” He shuddered slightly. “Does Helena know?”

  I nodded. Then, like the two boys we had been years ago in Britain, we both sucked our teeth and winced.

  XXXII

  A sunlit street. Not much of a street by Roman standards, but feebly shaping up. It is morning, though not early. Whatever is happening has had to be approved, planned out, and put in hand.

  A back-alley bar has a portrait of a short-legged, punk-faced Ganymede offering his lopsided ambrosia cup to some invisible sex-mad Jupiter. Waiters from the Ganymede stand halfway down the street, in conversation with a waiter from another place, the Swan. Its painted sign shows a huge randy duck pinning down a naked girl. All the waiters are talking about a dead baker. Everyone in the streets today is talking about him. By tomorrow he will be old news, but today on this fine morning, his grim fate is the main talking point.

  Even so, the morning glows. There is little feeling of menace, just a faint lowing from a stable somewhere, the scent of eggs frying, a smooth-haired dog with a long snout, scratching herself. Between the pantiled roofs of the ramshackle properties is a narrow glimpse of clear blue sky, subtly more mellow than blue skies in Italy.

  On the opposite side of the street from the two bars, a locksmith comes to his doorway to speak to a neighbor. They too are probably discussing the dead baker. They glance across at the group of gossiping waiters, but do not join them. After subdued words, the locksmith shakes his head. His neighbor does not linger.

  The locksmith returns to his booth, and a man walks toward the Ganymede. He is confident and worldly, his pace jaunty. As he approaches the bar, a small group of soldiers appear out of nowhere. Swiftly they back the man against a wall, hands up. He submits to a search, laughing. He has done this before. He knows they cannot touch him. Even when they march him away, he is jaunty. The waiters, having watched what happened, return at once to their individual bars.

  At the Ganymede, soldiers step out and arrest them. A man—tall, broad-shouldered, calm, brown-haired—goes in to search the joint. Another—sturdy, efficient, curly dark hair, handsome—identifies himself to the soldiers and follows the first inside the bar. Later they emerge, with nothing. Disappointed, they hold a short discussion, apparently about tactics. The bar is sealed. A soldier stays on guard.

  The street is peaceful.

  Elsewhere, at a barber’s, a customer is in the chair half shaved. Two men in plain clothes, though with military bearing, come up quietly and speak to him. He listens courteously. He removes the napkin from under his chin, apologizing to the barber, who steps back, looking anxious. The customer shrugs. He places coins in his barber’s hand, waving away objections, then he goes with the two officers who have sought him out. He has the air of an influential person who has found himself the victim of a serious mistake. His pained demeanor shows that he is too sophisticated, and perhaps too important, to create a public fuss about this error. It will be sorted. Once his explanation has been accepted by people in authority, there will be trouble. There is a faint implication that some high-handed fool will pay dearly.

  The disconcerted barber returns to his business. The next customer stands up quietly but does not take the shaving seat. He says a few words. The
barber looks surprised, then scared; he goes away with the man, who has dark curly hair and a firm step. That shop too is closed up and sealed.

  Another street lies peaceful now. The operation has gone well so far: Pyro and Splice, and some of their associates, have been lifted on the orders of the governor.

  XXXIII

  I had watched the two men being picked up. Petronius and I had searched the Ganymede: no luck. If there had ever been money or anything else kept there, it had recently been removed. In the room where Splice and Pyro lodged we found only personal possessions of a meager kind.

  Cursing, we made plans. Petronius Longus would lean on the ferryman for information about the boat that had dropped the baker in the Thamesis. He would also enlist the help of Firmus to try to discover where the attack on the baker had occurred. We felt it must be near the river—in a warehouse, probably. There would be bloodstains.

  I would see what happened about Splice and Pyro. The governor’s men would supervise their interrogation, but I expected to deal with the ancillaries: waiters and barber, plus any other hangers-on the army brought in. Soldiers were picking up the staff at the bar where Verovolcus died. Word had also been sent to Chloris to come in and make her deposition to the governor.

  I followed the arresting parties back to the residence. The enforcers were placed in separate cells. Neither was told the reason for his arrest. We left them to stew. They would be interviewed tomorrow. Neither knew the other had been detained—though they may have deduced it—and apart from the people who saw them being taken, nobody was informed by us that we had Pyro and Splice in custody. The waiters and the barber were put through preliminary interviews the same night. All refused to tell us anything. The barber may even have been innocent.

  Word must have raced back to the gang leaders. The enforcers’ lawyer came to importune the governor in midafternoon, only a few hours after the arrests. We already knew the lawyer: it was Popillius.

  Frontinus had Hilaris with him for this confrontation; I made sure I was there too. I felt Popillius had arrived too quickly and overplayed it. Frontinus must have thought so too, and took him up on it: “A couple of common criminals, aren’t they? Why do you want to see me?”

  “I am told they are held incommunicado, sir. I need to consult my clients.”

  When I first knew Julius Frontinus, he seemed an amiable buffer with an interest in arcane branches of public engineering works. Given command of a province, and its army, he had grown into his role fast. “Your clients are well housed; they will be fed and watered. They have to await the normal interview process.”

  “May I know the charge?”

  The governor shrugged. “Not decided. Depends on what they have to say for themselves.”

  “Why are they in detention, sir?”

  “A witness has placed them at the scene of a serious crime.”

  “What witness, please?”

  “I shall tell you at the proper time.”

  “Does the witness accuse them of committing this crime?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Nonetheless, it is wrong to detain them overnight and they need an opportunity to prepare their defense. I am here to put up their bail, sir.”

  Frontinus looked at the lawyer indulgently. “Young man—” There was a decade between them—a decade in years and a century in authority. Julius Frontinus looked an efficient general and empire-builder, which meant he was equally impressive as a high-grade magistrate. “Until I conduct an examination and evaluate the case, I can hardly set bail terms.”

  “And when are you likely to conclude the examination?” Popillius tried to be crisp.

  “As soon as the business of this province will permit,” Frontinus assured him calmly. “We are among the barbarians. My priorities are to keep Rome’s frontier secure and to found a decent infrastructure. Any civilian who interferes with that has to wait his turn.”

  Popillius knew he had lost vital ground, but he had kept his big throw to the last shake of the canister: “My clients are free Roman citizens.”

  “Matter of security!” Frontinus rasped. I had not seen him in full cry before. He seemed to be enjoying it. “Don’t make an ass of yourself. These men stay in custody.”

  “Governor, they have the right of appeal to the Emperor.”

  “Correct.” Frontinus would not budge. “If you assert the right, they go to Rome. But they go after I have interviewed them—and if I find a case to answer, then they go in chains.”

  When Popillius had left, Hilaris broke his silence. He offered thoughtfully, “He is inexperienced in these matters—but he will learn fast.”

  “Do we think he is behind all this?” asked Frontinus.

  “No, he seems to lack the depth to be running things alone.”

  “There are two main operators, in partnership,” I put in. “Though Popillius seems to have made himself too obvious to be one.”

  Hilaris smiled. “I take it you have conferred about the gang leaders with Lucius Petronius?” So Petro’s cover had been blown.

  “He is just the man you want for this,” I said loyally. Neither of the senior officials seemed upset. They both had the sense to see he was an asset. Pettiness about whether the vigiles had the right to send him here would be taken up later, if at all. If he made a significant contribution to the action, there would be no reprisal. Of course, if we failed to make headway, Petro’s secret interference would be blamed.

  Frontinus looked at me. “Find out who hired Popillius, if you can.”

  I hurried off to tail him as he left.

  I kept my distance, following Popillius all the way back to his rented house near the forum. It had struck me that associates might have been waiting to meet up with him outside the residence, but he was not approached. On foot, walking steadily, he returned straight home. I strolled twice around the block, to give him time to relax, then I went in.

  He was sitting alone in the courtyard at the same table as yesterday morning, busily writing on a scroll. “Falco!”

  I hauled a bench over to him, though he had not invited me to sit. “We need to talk,” I said informally, like a barrister colleague who had come to bargain pleas. Popillius leaned his chin on one hand and listened. He was no young fool. I had yet to decide if Hilaris was right, that Popillius lacked presence. Looking lightweight could be a cover; he could be thoroughly corrupt.

  I gazed at him. “This is a new kind of venture for you. Am I right?” No acknowledgment. “You’re getting in deep. But do you know what the mire is?”

  Popillius feigned mild surprise. “Two clients, held in custody, without charge.”

  “Shocking,” I answered. Then I stiffened. “It’s a routine situation. What’s unusual is the speed with which you popped up screeching outrage. A pair of crooks have been pulled in. That’s all. Anyone would think this was a grand political show trial involving famous men with big careers and full coffers.” Popillius opened his mouth to speak. “Don’t give me the sweet line,” I said, “about all free Romans being entitled to the best representation they can afford. Your clients are two professional enforcers preying on society, in the pay of an organized gang.”

  The lawyer’s expression did not change. However, he moved his hand down from his chin.

  “I don’t exaggerate, Popillius. If you want a distressing view of their handiwork, there is a smashed-up corpse on the ferry jetty. Go and have a look. Find out what kind of people are employing you.” I kept my voice level. “What I want to know is: when you took on Splice and Pyro, did you know their game?”

  Popillius glanced down at his documents. Pyro and Splice must have proper formal names. He would be using those.

  “Are you a salary hack, working full-time for mobsters?” I demanded.

  “That’s a sick question, Falco!”

  “You’re in a sick situation. Let’s suppose you really did come out to Britain to do harmless commercial case law,” I chivvied him. “Today somebody hired you, and
you accepted the fee. This is a simple extrication from custody. Justice for the freeborn. Exemplary legal point; their morals don’t come into it. Yours perhaps should. Because next time you are used by your principals—as you will be—the job will be more murky. After that, you will belong to them. I don’t suggest they will have you working on perjury, perversion of justice, and suborning witnesses in your very first month, but believe me, that will come.”

  “These are wild accusations, Falco.”

  “No. We have at least two really filthy murders here. Your banged-up clients are intimately linked to one killing; our witness saw them do the deed. I myself can place them at the premises of the second victim—a baker who had been harried by extortionists—just after he disappeared and while his building was being torched.”

  Popillius gazed at me quietly, though I reckon he was thinking hard. My guess was, the killings were news to him.

  He had had the full training. He was inscrutable. I would have liked to grab that scroll off him, to see what he had been writing. Notes on how Frontinus had rebuffed him? Suggestions of how the formal examination might turn out? Or simply listing his hourly charges to whatever cash-rich bastard would be paying for his time?

  So was Popillius an amateur whom they had had to hire in a hurry, the best Britain could offer to a gangster who encountered an unexpected problem? Or had they brought him here and positioned him as their legal representative? Worst of all—and looking at the quiet swine, it still seemed an open question—was he one of the gang leaders himself?

  “I have heard you out, Falco,” declared Popillius, his tone as steady as my own had been.

  I stood up. “Who is paying you to act for Pyro and Splice?”

  His eyes, hazel behind light lashes, flickered slightly. “Confidential, I’m afraid.”

  “Criminals.”

  “That is slander.”

  “Only if it is untrue. There are more cells waiting for associates, remember.”

  “Only if they have done something wrong, surely?” he sneered.