The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

  “Sounds right. Florius gave the order for the Verovolcus killing.”

  “No, hold it there, Falco!” Amicus held up a hand. “My sources say different. They claim it was an accident.”

  “Your sources sound insane!”

  “According to them, Verovolcus was despised as a potential rival and not wanted as a colleague. He had tried to slither in on the market, and he thought he was tough—but the hard Roman gangsters simply regarded him as a clownish amateur. He was put down the well just to teach him a lesson.”

  “Death’s a hard lesson,” I commented.

  “My sources dispute that,” Amicus insisted.

  “Your sources are lying. I saw the corpse, remember.”

  Amicus gave me a distasteful look; it was fine for him to haul men to the brink of death, screaming in agony, crippled forever and mentally destroyed, but he disapproved of me for inspecting so many who had actually died.

  He was starting to annoy me. “Come on—‘An accident?’” I scoffed. “The lawyer must have tutored them! Verovolcus was shoved in and drowned.”

  “The barber—”

  I laughed harshly. “Oh, your strong-willed resistant razorman!”

  The torturer grinned. He liked to think he was ascetic, but he was showing intense enjoyment. “The barber was a kitten once I found the right trick . . .”

  “Don’t tell me.”

  “Ah, Falco, you are too sensitive. He overheard Florius and the other top man discussing the incident afterwards. Apparently, Florius goes for the shaved-head look, to fool people he’s a hard bastard.”

  “Not when I knew him,” I growled.

  “Florius maintained what had happened was horseplay; he said they all went away laughing, expecting that the Briton would just climb out, embarrassed and wet. He was astonished later, when he heard that Verovolcus had been found dead.”

  “All a terrible mistake; my client is shocked . . . You sound like his lawyer again.”

  “Oh, don’t be cruel, Falco.”

  “Sorry! I don’t like insulting experts—but I’m on the Verovolcus murder for the old King. I cannot tell Togidubnus his retainer died as a result of a lighthearted game going wrong.”

  “Just tell him Florius did it, then.” Morality came in subtle shades among torturers. “He must be guilty of other crimes, Falco. And you have a witness who says he ordered this one.”

  “What do you know about my witness?” I asked apprehensively.

  “You’ve been careless. You were given information by a female gladiator called Amazonia, at a bar called the Cradle in the Tree.”

  I was horrified. “Don’t tell me it’s one of the gang’s establishments? But I thought of that; I checked the name. What has a rocking cradle to do with Jupiter?”

  Amicus was literate, a reader and learner, more knowledgeable than me about myths. He liked showing off too: “By ancient tradition, the god Jupiter was the son of a deity, Cronos. Cronos used to eat his children—a vicious way to avoid a prophecy that he would one day be displaced by his own son. Jupiter’s mother hid the newborn baby in a golden cradle hung in a tree between the earth and sky, so he could not be found by his jealous father, anywhere on land or sea.”

  “Oh shit!”

  “You and the girl were overheard, Falco.”

  “Then she is in danger . . .”

  “Of course, you could never produce a gladiatrix in court. Even so, Florius will want to wipe her out.” Amicus seemed to regard this outcome far more phlegmatically than I did.

  “I have to warn her—fast!”

  “One more thing.” The torturer’s manner became as dour as I had seen it. “This Florius also knows of a Roman officer who is tailing him. Falco, is that you?”

  “No. It’s a member of the vigiles.”

  Amicus approved of the vigiles as much as he disapproved of me. Petronius was professional, a salaried paramilitary, on a par with the torturer himself; I was an informer, so just a low-class liability. My new equestrian ring just made me a jumped-up fake. “Florius has sworn to get him.” Amicus had seen my face. “Friend of yours, is he?”

  “The best.”

  I was rushing to fetch equipment when I met Helena. As if she had read my mind, she was hurrying toward me, carrying my sword. Behind her followed that distinctive member of the gladiator group, the girl who wanted to be a boy. Or whoever.

  “Marcus! Chloris may be in difficulty—”

  “We need your help,” said the flat-chested androgynous sprite with the limpid eyes.

  “Tell me what’s happened!” As I spoke, Helena was helping me buckle on the sword.

  “That man who wants to take us over has asked for a meeting with Amazonia. She’s getting nervous about him. She thinks he might turn violent.”

  “She’s right,” I replied grimly. “He’s called Florius. He leads one of Rome’s worst criminal gangs—they are extremely dangerous. What’s more, Florius knows that she gave me a statement against him.”

  The messenger squeaked, “Well, she tried stalling him. But now he’s saying he will lean on the arena programmers. We will never get billing again unless we cooperate. She had to do something about it. She arranged to meet him at the arena this afternoon.”

  “Has she gone there? Did she go alone?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Fetch all your group! She will need anyone who can fight.” To Helena I muttered, “Florius is likely to turn up mob-handed. Tell the governor and your uncle. We shall need troops. If they don’t trust the garrison, ask them to send auxiliaries from their personal bodyguards.”

  Helena was pale. “What about Petronius?”

  “Tell him what’s up if you see him. But he has been on watch at that so-called office in the brothel by the baths. I bet Petro has known all along it was a regular haunt for Florius. If I know my boy, he’ll see Florius leave and he’ll tail him.”

  “I’ll go myself and tell Petro,” Helena decided.

  I had no time to argue. “Well, be very careful. Take Albia; she knows where it is.”

  XLII

  The arena lay in the northwestern sector of town. It was brand-new. Around it was a bare area where nobody yet lived or worked. On rough land on the town side stood a row of market-style stalls, their counters mostly covered at present, though when there was a show they would undoubtedly all be manned by conniving peddlers. One or two doggedly offered light snacks and statuettes of gladiators, even though today there were only a few casual sightseers milling about. A bear on a chain, probably nothing to do with the arena beasts, was being sadly paraded near an entrance gate. His teeth had been drawn. No self-respecting organizer would put him in the ring. Deprived of his fangs, he was starving to death.

  A janitor was letting in the curious to “see the arena” for a small tip. Word must have circulated that the girl gladiators were practicing. The usual sex-mad men with no work to do and no shame had ambled up for a squint at the muscles and short skirts. It looked as if these oddballs came to drool on a daily basis.

  Dear gods, there were even tourists. We needed to clear these people. No chance. The strollers would refuse to leave, once they sniffed out that an official operation was in train. People are nuts. They forget their own safety and want to gawp. And it would be obvious we had the place staked out. Oh Hades. Oh double Hades. Florius wouldn’t come anywhere near if he noticed a reception party.

  This Londinium amphitheater was nothing compared with the massive monument that Vespasian was creating as his personal gift to the people of Rome. The Emperor had drained the lake of Nero’s Golden House and was planning the largest place of entertainment in the world. At home, we had four teams of masons working flat out. A whole quarry had been opened on the road to Tibur; two hundred ox carts every day blocked the city highway as they hauled in the Travertine marble for cladding. The southern end of the forum was chaos, had been since the Emperor’s accession, would be for years yet. All the slaves captured in the pacification o
f Judaea were being worked to death.

  By contrast, Londinium’s toy arena stood in a bleak spot and was made of wood. I expected it to look as if it had been knocked together by a couple of leisure-time carpenters, but it was an expert job. These sturdy hewn timbers were no doubt a treasure-house of the single dovetail corner and the spiked half lap joint. We Romans had taught Britain the concept of an organized timber trade; we introduced decent sawyers, but also brought prefabricated building frames that could be rapidly assembled on site. The army started it; some forts came as kits—precut timbers and their fixing nails—ready to be thrown up in the face of the barbarians, seemingly overnight. A permanent armed force of any significance acquired its arena to keep the lads happy. This edifice signified that Londinium was now a legitimate part of the Empire and definitely on the up.

  I had arrived from the forum direction. After crossing the stream, I picked my way through an approach road strewn with mule dung and stood in the shadow of the east entrance as I considered the locale. To my surprise, someone had imported and planted a Roman stone pine, twenty feet from the way in. So far from home, the tree had established itself and must provide cones for ritual purposes.

  The smelly hangdog who was seeking gratuities from sightseers took one look at me, spat, and decided not to demand a ticket price. I glared at him anyway. He made to slink off. I called him back.

  “Run to the barracks. Tell them to send a detail urgently. Tell them there’s a riot.”

  “What riot?”

  “The bloody great big one that’s going to start while you’re running to the troops.”

  I walked through the arch, passing into the dark passage below the seating tiers, ignoring the audience approaches. Pedestrians had their own stairs up to the seats and were denied access to the ring. I could see the arena ahead through great ceremonial double doors, which currently stood open. Alongside them to the right-hand side was a small wicket gate with a well-trodden approach, no doubt used discreetly by attendants when they stage-managed events. That was closed. The arena looked the standard oval shape. It was maybe a thousand paces long on this, the greater axis, which ran west to east. Before I went in, I checked around the gloomy entrance interior. To either side were antechambers, both empty. One, which was probably used as the fighters’ rest room prior to bouts, contained a small shrine, currently lit by a single oil lamp. The other must be the holding chamber for wild beasts; it had a massive sliding panel to give admittance to the ring. That was down. I tested its pulley, which moved with silken ease for rapid operation. Single-handedly, I raised it a few inches, then let it fall back.

  I returned to the main passageway and passed through the huge open gates. They were set on a monumental wooden threshold, which I stepped over cautiously.

  The central area must have been dug out for several feet, drainage installed, and a heavy layer of sand brought in; there would be a deep hard-rammed base, with a few inches of looser material on top that could be raked over. Around the ovoid, supported on massive wooden posts, ran maybe fifteen to twenty tiers of wood-planked seats. I didn’t count. A crowd barrier held back spectators in the first row of seats. Below that ran a bare walkway all around the interior. Inside it stood a high square-cut wooden palisade. This entirely enclosed the center, so neither raging beasts nor human fighters could escape and nor could show-off madmen from the crowd leap in.

  The only access to the arena itself was here where I stood, or right opposite through the far end. That looked very far away. Its gates were closed, as far as I could tell. That was probably the way they dragged out the bodies. With no performance, the far end would not be in use today.

  Above me now towered the eastern gateway. The fighters would parade into the arena through these two mighty gates, which folded open inward on great metal hinges and pivots. Nervous combatants, their stomaches churning, would pass through the dark entrance into a dazzle of light and noise.

  A shiver ran through me. Last time I set foot in an amphitheater had been on that dreadful day when I had watched my brother-in-law, Maia’s hapless husband, being torn apart by the lions in Lepcis Magna. I did not want to remember. Standing here on the sand, I could hardly forget: the yells of the arena staff encouraging the animals, the lions’ roars, the crowd baying, Famia’s outrage and incomprehension, then his ghastly screams.

  Today was hot, though not so hot as the North African sun beating on open countryside. That arena, bursting with colorful characters, had stood outside the city, on a baking, bright seashore against the glinting blue of the southern Mediterranean. Today, unusually, the atmosphere at Londinium was more uncomfortable and sultry, with a storm approaching to break the weather, probably this evening. Sweat trickled down inside my tunic, even while I stood in dense shade under the gatehouse. Three feet ahead of me the sand looked blistering hot. Forget the golden glint of mica; there were dark, sordid patches. Attendants may brush away the blood, but foul traces of the past always linger. Heavy sunlight brings out a rank smell of recent and not-so-recent butchery.

  Far across the sand two figures moved. I turned my attention to the action.

  The measured clash of swords echoed within the hollow oval. Without the roar of the crowd, any amphitheater sounds odd. Here at ground level, looking straight down its full length to the closed gates at the other end, I was awestruck by the immense distance. You could shout to the other side at present, just about; if all the seats filled up, it would be impossible.

  Amazonia and her friend were circling. They were dressed in a parody of male gladiatorial gear: high-sided short white skirts, with wide waist belts that came up right under the bust. With a full audience, they would probably be bare-breasted, for titillation. Today, legs, shoulders, and forearms were armored. Was it usual for practice? They must sometimes exercise in the full weight of greaves and a breastplate. I could not tell who one of the girls was; she had a full face-helm. Of the two remote figures, Chloris seemed unmistakable. I maintain that if I had been closer, and had she not been hidden behind a slit-eyed bronze face mask, I would have checked her eye color. (According to Helena, I would have noticed the size of her bust.) At any event, Chloris had that distinctive long dark plait. And I recognized the boots I had seen being pulled off while she was threatening to ravish me.

  They swung, clashed, and swung: with real blades, not wooden practice swords. Sometimes one turned her back. Waiting until she sensed a blow coming, she would swipe up at an angle behind her, or spin suddenly to parry full face, laughing. There was a spirit out there in the practice. Those were genuine grunts of effort. I saw teeth bared with exultation after each successful maneuver. They were good, just as Chloris had boasted. They enjoyed the sport. They were operating as a team, of course. Professionals work for display. Programmed in pairs, their art looks more dangerous than it is. Their skill is to choreograph enough for effect, while also improvising to cause excitement. Blood, but no death. In performance they know each other well enough to stay alive—on the whole.

  I wondered if they had fought others for real. Must have done. They would be seen as second-rate otherwise—and these girls were clearly popular. The public accepted them as professionals. I wondered if my light-footed, lithe ex-girlfriend had ever killed anyone. I wondered if anybody on her team had died.

  Chloris had set Florius a task here. At present she was protected by sheer distance. The only way in to get to her would be by entering through a gate. Shinning up and over the safety barrier would be impossible; besides, there was no point. Out there in the center, she would see anyone coming, whichever direction he chose. Had she noticed me? If she was looking out for Florius, she should have done. I could not tell. The two girls seemed completely absorbed in their practice, and I knew better than to call out. Attracting their attention when they were working at that pace would be asking for a sword stroke to shear accidentally into flesh.

  There were too many people sitting in the tiers of seats. Apart from the men, there were couples an
d even a small group of silly school-age girls—eyeing up the men, of course. High in the presidential box I spotted one woman entirely on her own, wrapped closely in a stole; she could not be cold in this baking weather so it must be for anonymity. She seemed intent on the couple in the center—perhaps a would-be colleague longing to join their group, or maybe just lost in lesbian love for one of them.

  I decided to move from the gates. If Florius should come in behind me, I did not want to put him off. Everything was quiet. I set off around the interior, and kept walking.

  I caressed the pommel of my own sword reflectively. I wore it in the military way, high on the right, under the arm, ready to be extracted with a rapid wrist-swivel. The point was to keep free of your shield, but of course I was carrying no shield. Even coming overseas, I had not brought protection of that sort on what I thought was a trip to audit building works. Besides, a sword could be discreet but a shield was too obvious. In Rome going armed in the city would be illegal. Here in the provinces, personal weapons were tolerated by default (Mars Ultor, you try making a German or a Spaniard leave his hunting knife at home), though anyone acting suspiciously in the streets would be stopped by the legionaries and stripped of their blades, no questions asked.

  Well, anyone except enforcers, who bully or bribe their way into tooling up without hindrance. If money talks, bad money sings.

  It buys a lot of backup too, as I was soon to find out.

  Movement caught my eye. A far gate had partially swung open.

  At first it was impossible to make out what was happening or how many newcomers stood in the shaded entrance. I sped up, still on the perimeter, heading that way. The two girls in the center continued their practice, but turned their stance slightly, so both could observe the far gate.

  “Amazonia!” a man’s voice yelled. The girls stood still; she of the plait made a welcoming gesture, encouraging him to join them out in the arena. There seemed to be no response. The two of them waited. I left the wall and started off gently toward them.