The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

  I feared for him in Britain. Here, Petronius stood on his own. At least in Rome, with the seven vigiles cohorts in support, he had had some chance. The best backup on offer in Londinium was me. And I had only just learned of the predicament. With the old Balbinus mob, a mere hour was enough for them to pounce and tear a victim apart.

  So Florius was here. That meant Petronius Longus was virtually standing at the gateway to Hades, ready to tramp in after the guide with the downturned torch.

  What was I to do? Find him. Tell him Florius was in Britain.

  I guessed he knew. I hoped he did. That was probably why he had been sent here himself. So, find him and give him some cover—but where would he be?

  I considered all our leads. The henchman, Splice, had been marched off to custody among the troops, awaiting the torturer. Top suspects Norbanus and Popillius were being watched by the governor’s men. Florius would be Petro’s priority. I crossed town and headed for the wharves. I guessed Petro would be at the warehouse where the baker had been murdered. But he was not. I found Firmus, the customs man, who freely showed me what he and Petro thought had been the killing ground. He led me to one of many great stores that fringed the shore. Totally anonymous in the packed row of identical buildings, I could see why the gang chose it. It was sturdily constructed, fully secure for money or contraband. There was easy access, by water or even by road. All sorts of characters frequented the docks, too. Even hardened criminals from Rome—who tend to have distinctive habits and style—would merge in. Down here by the river, nobody would think twice if there were frequent movements in and out. And when they killed someone, nobody would hear the screams.

  “Petronius was here at first light,” said Firmus. “He wanted to talk to the ferryman—but the ferryman’s gone sick.”

  “What with?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “Fear.”

  “Didn’t Petronius try to find him?”

  “I think he tried. No luck. After that Petro disappeared.”

  I gazed at him. “So how will you get in touch with him if something happens at this warehouse?”

  “It’s not my job,” Firmus demurred. “We are only keeping watch, as a personal favor to Petronius.”

  “His famous charm!”

  “He’s a good sort,” said Firmus. Well, I knew that. “He’s doing a good job, that none of us would like to tackle. Maybe he’s stupid, but you can tell he’s the kind who thinks somebody ought to do what he’s doing, and if it’s not him it will end up being nobody.”

  “True.” I balked at following the logic, but his feelings were clear.

  “The customs service doesn’t have the manpower for this operation,” Firmus insisted. “Nor any support from higher up.” The pleasant, sunburned, roly-poly officer was sounding bitter now. “They see us as petty clerks, just turning over tax. We know what happens. We tell the ones in charge. They just pay us cobnuts and won’t even supply elementary weapons. We told the governor there is a large-scale operation working here, Falco. That poor sod the baker was murdered on my patch. But I’ve given up sticking my head over the fortress parapet.”

  I gave him a look.

  Firmus was unrepentant. “I’m not being paid danger money,” he said baldly.

  “Don’t you get military support?”

  “You are joking! So why should I and my men be stuffed, while the soldiers just play around and take backhanders from everyone?”

  “Including from criminals?”

  Firmus exploded. “Especially the criminals!”

  I let him rave. If he told me any more I was liable to get wound up myself.

  “I’ll mention you, if I see Petro,” Firmus relented.

  I nodded. “Thanks. Now tell me something, Firmus. If the criminal action happens on the wharves, why is my friend Petronius Longus spending time at that bathhouse several streets up the hill?”

  Firmus pursed his lips. “It’s a nice bathhouse . . . Excellent manicure girl. Blonde. Well, sort of.” He came clean. “He’s watching someone. Someone who uses that stinky brothel next to the baths.”

  “What, as a customer?”

  “No, no. He’s a flesh peddler. It’s his local office.”

  I caught on. “And this someone features big in the gang?”

  A guarded look clouded the customs officer’s normally open face. “I believe so.”

  I took a chance. “We know who it is. I need to find Petro to warn him and to back him up. We are looking for a top man called Florius.”

  “Well, good for you,” commented Firmus, in a distinctly quiet voice. He had known all along. I wondered how many others also knew, but were too scared to say.

  XL

  Petronius was not at the baths. The man in charge accepted that I was a friend, and said he thought Petro had gone back over to the residence. There, Helena told me I had missed him. “I may be wrong, Marcus, but I thought he was looking for Maia.” Helena was watching me closely.

  “Did he find her?” I asked in a noncommittal tone.

  “No, she had gone out.”

  I checked both their rooms. Petro’s was exactly as I had seen it that morning when I wanted to tell him about Pyro’s death. Maia’s looked as if a troop of wild monkeys had run through it; still, that was usual for her. She kept a well-run home, but her own quarters were always a tip. She had been the same since she was a girl—clothes strewn everywhere, lids open on boxes, and dried-up face paint mixed weeks ago in shells. Partly it was because she never spent any time there. Until that bastard Anacrites made her hunted and shrewish, she was too gregarious, always out and about.

  A potted plant, some feeble British thing, all leaves, stood on a side table. “Now, I wonder where that came from?” Sharp-eyed, Helena had noticed it. She had come up behind me, curious what I was thinking.

  “Is it new?”

  “Some love gift to Maia from Norbanus?” Helena speculated.

  “So it’s gardening now. Will he stand more chance with foliage than with his sinister harpist?”

  “She sent the harpist back this morning,” said Helena, as if she thought I might have had something to do with it. “The plant may be from someone else . . .”

  “So where’s she gone? I hope she’s not playing at country life with Norbanus in his villa.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “She told me she would.”

  Helena smiled. “She tells you a lot of nonsense. This villa seems rather odd, in any case. Marcus, the man who tailed the carrying chair came back this morning and reported to Uncle Gaius.”

  “And you just happened to be talking to your uncle at the right moment . . . ?” I grinned.

  Helena smiled again, serenely. “Norbanus lives in the northern part of town. According to the neighbors, he stays in Londinium every day. They were surprised even to hear he has a villa on the river. It sounds as if he never goes there.”

  “Why is he so keen to show it off to Maia then?” Was it purely his love nest for seductions? I preferred not to think about that. “What do these neighbors say of him?”

  “A very ordinary man.”

  “Informers know that no man is ordinary.”

  “Well, all men think they are special,” Helena retorted.

  I grinned. Luckily, I liked her to be prejudiced. “What about this one?”

  “Norbanus lives quietly. Talks to people pleasantly. Speaks fondly and frequently of his widowed mother. Pats dogs. Eats lunch at a local foodshop. Is respectful to local women and communicative with local men. He is generally liked, a good neighbor, they say.”

  “I especially like the touch about the mother.” I then told Helena that the quiet ones always harbor dark secrets. When killers or world-beating fraudsters are apprehended, their neighbors invariably shriek with surprise. First they deny that such a sweet person could have done something terrible. Later they themselves hone up sensational tales of how he dragged a teenage girl down an alley, and always had a weird look in his eyes . . . Helen
a commented on how cynical I was today.

  Well, maybe Norbanus was full of antique nobility. Even so, I did not want my sister cuddling up to him in some British bower. I went into Maia’s silent room and sat upon the bed, staring at the plant. Helena remained in the doorway, watching me thoughtfully. I told her what I had discovered that morning about Florius. “You never met him, did you?”

  She shook her head. “No. His relatives were bad enough. Petro had a visitation from Milvia once, when he was staying with us.” That would have been just after Petro’s own wife threw him out. Helena grimaced. “And Marcus, wasn’t it her horrid mother who barged in another time, blustering that our Lucius must leave her darling flower alone? As if we were not trying very hard to make him do just that—for his own sake!”

  “I wish Petro had taken the advice.”

  “The mother was a fright,” Helena reminisced. “All threats and venom. And Balbina Milvia! One of those girls I hate—bright eyes and loads of enviable jewelry. Much too pretty to bother with good manners or brains.”

  “Bad sex!” I exclaimed.

  Helena looked shocked. “How do you know that? Did Petronius Longus tell you, during some evil drinking bout?”

  “Actually, no. He has never talked about his lovers.” He and I had leered at plenty of women from wine bars over the years; I knew how he thought. “But you can see Milvia is only interested in herself. She wanted Petronius because having a secret lover made her feel important.”

  Helena still felt she had stumbled on evidence of some boys’ lewd game. She had never entirely trusted me not to be off on some affair. Chloris was the current suspect, of course. Frowning, she went back to our original discussion. “You thought Milvia was trouble.”

  “I was right.”

  “As for the husband, he was ineffectual.”

  “Not nowadays. It’s all change in the Balbinus mob. The mother is showing her age. Who knows where the willful wifey is? But Florius has transmogrified from a loose piece of gristle into one of the world’s tight dealers. His treatment of Verovolcus shows he suffers nobody to stand in his way now.”

  Helena was concerned. “Florius had you attacked once. Then Petro was caught alone, and he was very badly hurt.”

  “A warning.”

  “Yet Petronius is still determined to get Florius? While Florius knows exactly who he is dealing with: Petronius Longus of the vigiles inquiry team, who turned Florius’ sweet little, rich little wife into an adulteress—and then didn’t even want her, but dumped her back at home.”

  “I’m sure he gave Milvia a happy time first,” I said. It was automatic. Then I thought of him kissing my sister last night in that grim scenario, and I felt squeamish.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Helena. I shook my head. After a moment she let it go and said, “These people want revenge.”

  “That’s right. And they won’t quit.”

  I stood up. I stood wondering where my sister was. Off enjoying herself on some tryst with the suave and slimy Norbanus, while her last night’s lover was in serious trouble.

  I decided to retrace my steps to the baths. Petro would turn up sometime. But first the hour was late enough to take in lunch here. Hilaris must be ravenous too, after our dawn start when the corpse was found, for we met him also guiltily scrounging in the dining room. That was how Helena and I happened to be with him when a confidential messenger arrived from the troops. In a great hurry, the man was looking for the governor. Hilaris knew Frontinus was still working diligently on dispatches, but before the messenger was passed to the right office, Hilaris made him tell us what the fuss was.

  Splice had escaped.

  We all rushed with the messenger to see the governor. Frontinus heard the news with that neutrality good officials learn. He must have been angry, but waited to think through the implications before shooting off.

  “What exactly happened?”

  “I only know what I was told to say, sir.” The messenger skillfully let blame slide onto others. “The soldiers escorting the prisoner were somehow given the slip and they lost him.”

  “That was first thing this morning. How come I only just have word of it?”

  “They tried to recapture him, sir.”

  Frontinus was speechless. Losing a vital prisoner was inexcusable. But to me it seemed typical; I could imagine some slack bunch of lags out there, laughing among themselves: Oh, just say sorry to the old man—he’ll be all right about it . . .

  “I warned you about the troops.”

  “You did.” Frontinus was terse. In a frontier province, dereliction of duty was a decimation crime: one man in ten, chosen by lot, would be bludgeoned to death by his disgraced colleagues. That would not be the end of it. The effect on morale would be grim, both here and up at the frontiers when the rumors raced there.

  An aide was hovering. Frontinus rapped out orders, hardly pausing for reflection. “Get me the commander. Before he comes over, I want that detail stripped of their weapons and armor, then held in chains. They are to be guarded by men from one of the other detachments, not their own legion. Disarm their centurion and bring him here to me. I want every on-duty legionary to go out in a search party. I want the troops put on permanent standby. It goes without saying, I want the prisoner back.”

  Some hopes, I thought.

  “Today!” he added. Julius Frontinus now saw his provincial capital slipping into anarchy. Luckily, he was a practical man, and action helped him cope. Even so, I had rarely seen him so tight-lipped.

  I was even more depressed. But then I had worked against the Balbinus mob before.

  XLI

  On my way out I was stopped by a message from the torturer. Amicus, the sardonically named Befriender, had made up for losing the chance to prick holes in Pyro and Splice. He had tackled the waiters with a heated manicure set, then turned the recalcitrant barber almost inside out with a contraption I tried not to look at.

  “I am sorry not to have a crack at this Splice,” he grieved when I sought him out in the bowels of the residence. “He sounds an interesting prospect. I hope they get him back for me. Do you know how he acquired the nickname, Falco?”

  “I suspect you are about to tell me—and it will be unpleasant.”

  He chortled. Maybe his happy manner helped unnerve his victims; the contrast with his pain-inflicting side certainly disturbed me. “Splice wanted to punish two snackshop owners, cousins who shared a bar jointly, and who were refusing to pay up. He went in one night and hacked both men in two from top to bottom. Then he bound the left side of each body to the right-hand side of the other. He left the results propped up against the serving counter.”

  “Jupiter!”

  “That’s apt. Jupiter is a favorite with this gang,” agreed Amicus warmly. “Plenty of signboards with the same mythical theme. Apt, since the Best and Greatest is the patron god of grapes and wine. Also it lets everyone see just how many businesses have paid up.”

  “Yes, I worked that out.”

  “But you don’t spot them all,” rebuked Amicus. “I’ll come to that . . . First I shall tell you what I have.” He was pedantic in giving reports. “The organization works thus: there are two equal leaders, both currently engaged in setting up a British crime community. One takes the sporty premises—brothels, betting, and fixing fights for gladiators. The other collects neighborhood food and drink shops. They have come from Rome, but are planning to leave when their empire here is established. Pyro and Splice were intended to run this section for them.”

  “Does the gang have a tame lawyer, one Popillius?”

  “Not mentioned. They do have storage, ships, safe houses, a safe bathhouse even, and large groups of heavy fighters. Some thugs they brought here, mainly seasoned criminals who found Rome too hot for comfort. Some are being recruited locally. Bad boys are rushing to join them. That is how they met the man who died.”

  “Verovolcus, you mean? Yes, he was on the run . . . How do they attract these local boys? Don’t t
ell me they advertise for hired labor on a pillar in the forum—free time, victuals and drink, plenty of beating up the populace?”

  Amicus shrugged. “Word of mouth, bound to be. I can ask.”

  “It’s not important. Assuming we catch Splice again, what can he be charged with?”

  “He beat the baker to death. Pyro had picked the baker up, he was drinking at a wine bar called the Semele.”

  “One of Jupiter’s favored ladies.”

  “But did the baker know the gang ran it, or was he caught off guard?” wondered Amicus. “Pyro torched the bakery, of course; that was his job. He was then present for the killing at the warehouse, although Splice carried it out.”

  “That’s definite. Where’s your evidence? Witnesses?”

  Amicus shook his head. “This is secondhand, but I got it from the Ganymede waiters.”

  “The waiters won’t look good in court.”

  “No, but now you can build on the information. If you ever apprehend them, some of the backup bullyboys were in at the death. They also took the body on the boat and dumped it. The waiters heard all this when Splice reported to one of the two chiefs. The other didn’t need telling; it was his boat. He was present at the warehouse where the killing happened. He came to take some money-chests away by river, then removed the dead baker at the same time. Good housekeeping. Better than a skip.” I shuddered; even the torturer pursed his lips disapprovingly. “Now.” Amicus was coming to some special point. “I was asked to obtain names.”

  “Well, let’s compare,” I offered, knowing it would irritate him.

  Amicus announced rather pompously, “I was given Florius.”

  My answer was calm. “Gaius Florius Oppicus, to be precise.”

  The torturer tutted, as though I was quite out of order in obtaining my own information—especially if mine was better than his. “He is the vicious one, Falco. All agree he is vindictive, cruel, and out to prevent any attempts by the authorities to interfere.”