The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

  As soon as I put the spoon near the bee, it responded. Julia and I watched enthralled as its long black proboscis unraveled and dipped into the honey. I held the spoon steady with one hand, keeping Julia under control in my other arm. To be feeding a bee did feel rather wonderful. Visibly reviving right before our eyes, it began to shake its heavy wings. We sat back. The bee crawled about slowly, testing out its legs; it fluttered once or twice. Then it suddenly took off and zoomed away in powerful flight, high over the garden.

  “He’s gone home to his crib now. And you’re going to yours!”

  I picked up Julia and stood upright. As I turned toward the house, I noticed that Helena was now upstairs on the balcony. Someone was standing in the shadows with her, veiled and discreet: a woman. Julia and I waved to them.

  My daughter insisted that I put her to bed. I managed to avoid storytelling; rescuing a bee was enough tonight, apparently. I had a quick look at Favonia, who was sound asleep. Then I rushed to find Helena. She was back at the party, now alone.

  We spoke in low tones. “Did I see you with—”

  “Amazonia.”

  The blind harpist had strayed too near, insistently serenading us. I gestured to the boy, who led him around to take him off elsewhere. Musicians have always irritated me. “Where is she?”

  “Gone home.”

  “I would have spoken to her.”

  “She watched you being a good father,” Helena murmured. “Maybe it disconcerted her.”

  For some reason I felt embarrassed. Informers are hard men; we don’t generally go around rescuing weary bumblebees. We are famous for making women walk out on us and for expecting our children to be brought up as strangers. Still, doing it my way, I would never have some unknown fifteen-year-old who had quarreled with Mummy turning up on my doorstep with her luggage and her bad habits. Julia and Favonia would have their quarrels direct with me.

  “Well? What did Chloris have to say?”

  “She has given her statement,” Helena said quietly. “Then I showed her the visitors. It was no good. She could not recognize the man who was arguing with Verovolcus at the bar.”

  So he was not Norbanus, not Popillius, not any of the entrepreneurs who had come to Londinium and approached the governor. While that fitted what I had said all along, that chief gangsters would keep a low profile, we now had no idea who they might be, nor where to look for them.

  It seemed a quiet night, as Hilaris had said earlier. Too quiet.

  XXXVI

  I was called away. In a private office I found Lucius Petronius, wanting to see me.

  “Ah! Reporting in?”

  “Liaising, you big-headed bum.”

  “Master of charm, as usual.”

  “Shut up, Falco! Stop messing about—I’ve found a warehouse where I think that baker must have been attacked.”

  “Olympus! Out of all the hundreds—”

  “We searched quite enough!” Petro said with feeling. “Firmus and the customs boys helped narrow it down. There’s blood on the floor, and crudely hidden outside were bloody staves and even a belt.”

  “Damned careless! What was in the store?”

  “Not a lot. Firmus and his assistants will now watch the place. People nearby say the warehouse has been in regular use—odd boxes being taken away by boat almost every day.”

  “Cash? There won’t be much of that for a while, with Pyro and Splice in custody.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” Petronius was grim. “The gang has them covered already. I saw an argument at the Swan that was almost certainly about payoffs. I reckon the owner there was always lukewarm. Now he knows that the bagmen are in jail, he may have tried to dodge his payments.”

  “What happened?”

  “Somebody reminded him about his installment plan. That pimp from the brothel, the Old Neighbour. I’ve been watching him. The Old Neighbour is part of the Jupiter empire, you know.”

  “How come?”

  “When Zeus was courting Semele, his jealous wife Hera disguised herself as an old neighbor so she could advise the girl to question him about his true identity.”

  “Good thing it doesn’t happen to everyone,” I commented dryly. “I hate this mythical bosh. Shall we pull in the pimp?”

  “I’m not keen, Falco. If he’s put out of action too, we may not recognize the next replacement.” Petro looked thoughtful. “He reminds me of someone. But I haven’t placed him yet.”

  “He should be tailed—find out where he’s sending the money.”

  “We know where it goes. First to a warehouse, then it’s taken off by boat and shipped to Rome.”

  We stopped bickering and brooded. “I don’t like this,” I confessed.

  “Wise boy.”

  “Listen—the governor’s using his torturer. Amicus is taking his time with the hot pincers; it all seems too slow to me. You and I could shift things on much quicker with a little well-judged questioning.”

  “Let him play,” Petronius soothed me. “We have enough to do . . . A lawyer came to inspect the corpse, by the way. He said you sent him.”

  “Popillius. He’s here tonight. I had him down as a likely face for one of the gang. Or if he’s innocent, what was done to Epaphroditus may make him back out. He’s representing Pyro and Splice, he claims—or will be when the governor lets him talk to them.”

  Petronius looked intrigued. “Paid by?”

  “He refuses to say.”

  “He needs to be watched,” said Petro quickly. “Tell Frontinus to keep a visitors list for him.”

  “Tell him yourself. Come and eat with us. Frontinus and Hilaris know what you’re doing in their province. I bet even the gang has noticed your fine presence. You may as well stop skulking in that dirty tunic.”

  He joined the party, though he refused to change his outfit. It drew immediate comment from my sister, when she saw him come out into the garden alongside me. “That’s a disgraceful garment. You look like something the tide washed in.”

  “I’m clean underneath,” Petronius reassured her, taking a sneaky squint at Norbanus, accompanied by a leer to emphasize that he and Maia were old acquaintances. “I’ve been working at a public baths. Want to check?” he offered her, pretending to pull up his tunic.

  “No, I have enough children to inspect at bathtime,” Maia retorted.

  “We haven’t met,” Norbanus introduced himself. “Lucius Norbanus Murena—I’m in property.”

  “Lucius Petronius Longus—I’m not.” It could be taken as rude, or merely playful. Norbanus chose to smile.

  Apparently bored, Petronius wandered off to find himself a plate of food.

  The company had thinned out. We were almost down to family, though Norbanus had decided to include himself. Popillius was still here too, talking intently to the governor by the ornamental pool. Maybe I did him wrong earlier. Maybe he had come tonight intending to stick up for his two clients.

  I noticed Aelia Camilla looking toward Petro anxiously. She spoke to Gaius in an undertone; he nodded. Petronius was now munching, slightly by himself. Aelia Camilla waited until he had finished, then went and sat by him. Conversation had sunk to a murmur and I managed to overhear. “I am so sorry for your loss. This is perhaps not the time, but I don’t know whether you will stay with us tonight . . . We have tried to find out for you which of your children has survived. I just wanted you to know, my dear. Petronilla is alive and safe.”

  Petronius said something, very briefly. Aelia Camilla rose quietly and left him. I caught Helena’s eye. Tears started and she grabbed my hand. Even Maia seemed alert to the situation, though she was flirting with Norbanus, perhaps to distract him.

  Petronius stood up. To go into the house he would have had to pass too close by too many people. He walked away to a bench where he could sit with his back to us. He slumped with his head in his hands. We all knew that he was overcome. I moved, to go to him. Aelia Camilla shook her head, suggesting I give him privacy.

  Most of us were sil
ent when Frontinus and Popillius approached, having completed a circuit of the garden. Petronius, who must have recovered a little, had just raised his head and was staring at the pool. Popillius noticed him. “Is that the man who showed me the corpse this afternoon?” the lawyer demanded of me. I was ready to kick his feet from under him if he tried to go near Petronius; that was preferable to Petro himself lashing out.

  “Friend of mine. Corpses are his hobby.” My tone was brusque.

  “I thought he worked on the docks . . . What’s his official role?” This time Popillius addressed the governor.

  “Eyewitness,” snapped back Frontinus. “He saw the corpse pulled out of the river.”

  Popillius did not buy it. “Is he working for you, sir?”

  Frontinus was mild. “He has excellent credentials, but other people own him.”

  “People in Rome?”

  “It is no secret.” Either Frontinus had drunk too much tonight, or he was angrier than we realized that an officer had been sent here without due clearance. Before I could stop him he came out with it: “He’s a member of the vigiles.”

  “Then,” retorted the lawyer, as if he had scored a brilliant point, “he has no jurisdiction here!”

  “That’s right,” agreed Frontinus, sorting out the best remaining almond cakes on a comport. He was calm, and said almost satirically, “I am outraged to find him working in my province. If he discovers any dirty secrets I shall confiscate the evidence, and if he incriminates anyone, I shall claim all the credit.” Chin jutting, he leaned forward from the seat on which he had plumped down. Before he popped an almond cake in his mouth he told Popillius in a much harder tone, “Anyone who enables me to stamp hard on criminal organizers is welcome in Londinium.”

  Popillius could hardly rebuke Julius Frontinus, legate of Augustus, for wanting to run a clean town. The lawyer thanked Aelia Camilla for his dinner, then went home.

  Norbanus had been watching with some amusement. “A jurisdiction problem?” he inquired.

  Frontinus felt the need to add to his earlier statement: “I know Petronius Longus. I would bring him in on permanent secondment, but the Prefect of the Urban Cohorts won’t release him; he’s too good!”

  “Oh, so that’s what he does,” exclaimed Norbanus in a silky tone. I felt uneasy, but he turned back to Maia.

  Petronius stood up. He came back toward us, walking straight past Maia without looking at her. Aelia Camilla jumped to her feet, met him, and hugged him briefly. She passed him on to Helena, who was still weeping for him, so she too quickly embraced him and passed him straight to me. His face was drawn, and I could not help but notice that his cheeks were wet. He accepted our sympathy but was somewhere else, lost in suffering; he had different points of reference and different priorities.

  He continued toward the house. “Stay with us here, at least for tonight,” urged Aelia Camilla, calling out after him. He looked back and nodded once, then went indoors alone.

  Norbanus must have watched this short scene with even more curiosity; I heard Maia explaining, “A close friend of the family who has had a bereavement. We are all very fond of him.”

  “Poor man.” We could not expect Norbanus to show real sympathy. For one thing, he must be wondering just how close a friend to Maia this friend she was very fond of might have been. It was clear that a good guest would take his leave at such a sad moment, so this Norbanus did. Maia found the grace to go along and see him out.

  As soon as they were beyond earshot, I suggested to Hilaris that we have Norbanus tailed. I still viewed him with suspicion. It was impossible that he would return to his downriver villa after dark; taking a boat would be unsafe. So I wanted to discover where he stayed in town. A discreet observer set off after the Norbanus carrying chair when he called for it; luckily he had dallied at the door for conversation with Maia, so our man was securely in place when Norbanus left the residence.

  I went for a late-night drink with Hilaris in his study, while we compared notes and relaxed in private. We had always gotten on well. We talked for much longer than I realized. When I left him to join Helena in our room, all the corridors lay silent, dimly lit by earthenware oil lamps on side tables or spaced at intervals along the floor. The slaves had cleared up long ago.

  Wearily I made my way to the suites where houseguests were lodged. To my disgust even at that late hour, I ran into the damned harpist, loitering with his spotty boy. I told them to clear off, making a vow to have Maia return them to Norbanus next day. She could be polite about it, but we were overdue to shed the nosy pair.

  I badly wanted to be with Helena, but first I went to check on Petronius. He and I had had fifteen years of seeing each other through troubles; Helena would expect me to offer him solace. That meant if he was drinking, I would either join in or stop him. If he wanted to talk I would listen. Hades, if the poor lad was sleeping, I would even tuck him in.

  But another kind of comfort was on offer: I spotted Maia ahead of me. As I approached his door, I saw her knock quickly and go in. To reach my own room, I had to pass outside. Maia, stupidly, had left the door ajar. Maybe she thought she would be thrown out. Anyway, I could not carry on without them seeing me; once again I had been put in a position where I had to overhear my sister like a spy.

  “Petronius.” Maia simply spoke his name. It was more to let him hear she was there than anything.

  There was a faint light from an oil lamp that must be over by his bed. I could see Petro, stripped to bare feet and an unbleached undertunic; he was standing in front of a window, leaning on the sill, letting the night air fall on him. He did not turn around.

  “This is no good,” Maia advised him. “Sleep. You need to rest.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What are you doing, then?”

  “Nothing.” He did turn. He showed her empty hands. But he had a full heart. “Nothing at all. Remembering Silvana and Tadia. Waiting for the pain to end.”

  “Some of it will pass,” my sister said.

  Petronius swore coarsely.

  “Well, that ends the comforting part of the evening in good masculine style!” quipped Maia.

  “I don’t want people being bloody kind—I get upset.” He stepped toward her then, so in the small room they were standing close. “I don’t want pitying or chivvying—and I don’t want your sniping wit. Either go, Maia—or damn well stay!”

  “Which do you choose?” asked Maia, but the question was rhetorical for they had moved into each other’s arms.

  When they kissed it was neither young love blossoming nor established love reasserting itself. This was something much darker. They were both joyless and desperate. The way they had come together was deliberate and carnal; it struck me that nothing good would come of it for either of them.

  Freed by their self-absorption, I walked past unnoticed. I even managed to hook the door. I went on to my room, depressed.

  Helena twined herself around me when I came into bed, her head falling on my shoulder in its accustomed place. I held her affectionately and stayed quiet so she fell asleep. I did not tell her what I had just seen.

  XXXVII

  It was barely light when hectic knocking awoke me. Running footsteps sounded outside in the corridor. There were cries of alarm; then I heard a brief order and all the noises were cut off.

  Rousing myself, I flung open the bedroom door. Helena murmured behind me sleepily as light from the corridor lamps came in. A scared slave was waiting. He told me anxiously that the soldiers who were guarding our prisoners thought something had gone wrong.

  Hilaris appeared. Hair ruffled, and pulling on a long-sleeved robe like some barbaric Eastern potentate, he confirmed the worst: Pyro had been found dead.

  An hour of frantic activity later we had worked out something of what had happened. Perusal of the body told us beyond question that it was an unnatural death. Pyro was the bristle-chinned enforcer, not heavily built and yet a muscular, tough-looking specimen. He was about thirty-five or
forty, an age when many die, but he had been well nourished in his lifetime and was suffering from no obvious disease. He had not been told that the torturer was coming to work on him, but even if he guessed, none of us believed this hardened brute had died of fear or killed himself.

  His lips and mouth showed faint indications of corrosion burn: poison. The soldiers admitted they had found him collapsed, though he was still living at that stage. When they tried to revive him, he suffered fits. He was unable to speak and appeared to be paralyzed. Afraid of being disciplined for not watching him more closely, they had worked on him themselves—well, soldiers always believe they know better than doctors. He died. They then wasted what must have been a couple more hours debating what to do.

  This was a private house. The only reason prisoners had been kept at the residence was to be closer to the governor when he put them through his magistrate’s interview. They had been locked in windowless rooms that were normally stores. The soldiers were billeted in an improvised guardroom on the same corridor, but they admitted they had closed the door, probably so they could play illicit board games unobserved. This corridor was informally closed off with a rope but it was situated in the service area of the house. That put it near to the kitchen, essentially a public wing. Adjacent to the kitchen, as in many homes, was a lavatory.

  Members of the procurator’s private household mainly used the other facilities in the bath complex, but visitors would automatically seek out the kitchen, knowing there was bound to be a sit-down closet alongside. It had happened last night. All sorts of people had used that lavatory, in fact, including the soldiers and a carrier bringing in late-night deliveries of food for the dinner. Any of these could have noticed that the cook had prepared trays with basic meals for all the prisoners, and that two trays had remained on a side table after word went down that Pyro and Splice were to be deprived of sleep and food on the orders of the torturer.