The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

  He glared. “Not to me.”

  “Oh, let me tell you then!” Helena prowled the room. She was edgy and desperately worried about Maia. “You drink too much, you flirt too much, you do dangerous work,” she rattled off. “You are a risk to a woman who wants a good life—but Maia Favonia is aching to take that risk. You must be the most exciting man who ever courted her.” Petronius looked startled. Helena brought him down to earth: “And there have been plenty! Maia wants you—but she doesn’t want to be deceived by you. Her children love you—she doesn’t want them to be let down. And now if you don’t do something,” said Helena more quietly, stopping in her tracks, “she will die because of you.”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “So why,” demanded Helena furiously, “are you just sitting here?”

  “Because this is the game,” Petronius said baldly. He was indeed sitting (in a chair Maia herself had often used). His face was strained, but he must have slept last night, and I had seen him look worse on many other occasions. He explained in a grim tone, “They will give her back and take me instead—but first Florius has to toy with me.” He was right. Florius would humiliate him and torture him with fear for Maia. Only then would Florius reel him in. “It’s no fun unless I suffer. I am sitting here because I now have to wait until the bastard sends instructions.”

  Petronius was very quiet and still. He knew exactly what fate awaited him if he gave himself up to the Florius gang. With Maia at stake, he would make the sacrifice.

  LI

  They gave us a day and another night to suffer.

  While he waited for his next message, Petronius stayed at the residence. He ate sparingly, rested, occasionally sharpened his sword. He would not be allowed to use it. They would want him unarmed. This obsessive routine was just the old legionary’s way of keeping sane before an action. I was doing the same.

  I had my own tensions. From the moment Helena understood how serious the position was for Petronius, she made me responsible for saving him. Her dark eyes beseeched me to do something. I had to look away. If there had been anything I could have done, it would have been in hand.

  Officialdom had finally swung into action. I could not decide if I approved, but it was reassuring to have some movement that was independent of the gangsters. The governor took personal control. He had men very quietly searching every known place connected to the Jupiter empire. Unlike the usual noisy raids conducted by government agencies, the troops went in in small groups, lacking only fur slippers to deaden their footfall. One at a time, they picked through all the bars and other premises that had overt links with the enforcers. The Norbanus house and the villa downstream had already been gone over and sealed.

  Piecing together evidence for the gang’s past routine, Frontinus now reckoned they used to collect their gains in the warehouse on the wharf for security, then Florius would come from the villa to transport it downstream in his small boat. A larger oceangoing craft probably nosed up the estuary and took money-chests on board from the villa’s landing stage, before making for Italy. Since Petro’s search party yesterday evening had found nothing at the villa, it must all have been sent overseas quite recently and would not yet have reached Rome. The navy, the grandly named British Fleet that patrolled the northern waters, had been alerted, though it might be too late to intercept the latest consignment. A cordon was now in place between Britain and Gaul, though realistically the gang might yet slip through. A message was signaled back home to the vigiles. Both Rome and Ostia would be on the alert. It would be a pleasant irony if Florius and Norbanus were brought down through charges relating to import tax. But the penalty would only be a heavy fine, so that would not suit Petronius.

  We knew Florius was still in Britain. We assumed Norbanus was. Petro’s most favored venue for apprehending them was the warehouse where the baker had been killed. His customs contacts said it had been deserted, but he clung to his theory. The governor believed he could apprehend the fly-by-nights at the brothel. That was his bet as the place where, at the very last minute, my sister would be exchanged for Petronius.

  “Seems fair,” agreed Petronius, in his dry tone. He looked at me, with an expression I remembered from when centurions gave us information we distrusted, back in the legions years ago. He thought the governor was way off. Florius would know now that Petronius had had the brothel under surveillance; he was unlikely ever to reappear there.

  Petronius and I continued to wait at the residence. We had stopped honing our swords.

  The next message arrived in the early evening. This time they did not use Popillius, but a driver who jumped off a passing delivery cart and grabbed the residence steward by the neck of his tunic. In a hoarse whisper, the slave was told, “The swap will be at Caesar’s Baths! Longus is to come in an hour. Tell him—alone and unarmed. Try anything, and the woman gets it!” The man vanished, leaving the steward almost uncertain that anything had happened. Luckily he still had the sense to report it straightaway.

  There was no question of Petronius going solo. Nor could he go unarmed. He was a big lad, with a distinctive build; we had ruled out sending in a decoy. This was it.

  Provincial governors do not jump to attention just because some lowlife makes the call. Julius Frontinus surveyed the evidence cautiously, before he too decided this was genuine. “It’s right away from the river if they intend making a getaway. But it is near the Norbanus house; maybe they hid Maia Favonia somewhere we missed.” He drew himself up. “Maybe she was at these baths, or at the bar adjacent to them, all along.”

  Petro and I let it pass. We knew we would not be sent directly to the place where they were holding Maia. Petronius would be drawn to a meet, probably via several staging posts, then Maia would be brought to the last spot—if the gang believed the situation safe.

  “I’d like to put a search party into those baths.” Luckily Frontinus worked out for himself that that would jeopardize everything. “We just have time to assemble the support team at the venue,” he told us. “We shall be in place ready, before you two arrive.”

  We nodded. We both still wore our old skeptical expression. I saw Helena gazing at us curiously.

  When almost an hour had passed, Petronius and I combed our hair like boys going out to a party, checked our belts and bootstraps, and solemnly gave each other the legionaries’ salute. We set off together, side by side. Behind us at a safe distance came Helena in her aunt’s carrying chair, which would bring Maia home if we achieved the exchange. My role was to watch what happened—and find some way to rescue Petronius straight after the swap.

  We walked steadily, shoulder to shoulder. We paid no great attention to whether we were followed or observed; we knew we would be tailed by the governor’s men and we expected the gang to have lookouts too. We traveled at a pace that gave messengers time to nobble us. This happened as soon as we turned left on the Decumanus, heading for the bridge over the stream.

  It was the dogman who stepped out in our way. With his group of skinny, mangy hunting curs careering around his legs, he was unmistakable. “Is one of you Petronius?”

  We stopped and Petro acknowledged his name courteously.

  “Listen to this then.” His long-nosed hounds nuzzled us, gently slobbering on our tunics and bootstraps. “I was told to tell you, ‘The meet has been changed. Go to the Shower of Gold.’ Does it make sense?”

  “Oh yes.” Petronius was almost cheerful. He had bet me the first assignation was a bluff. Luckily I had agreed, so I lost no money. We had enough at stake.

  The governor and his men would sit around outside Caesar’s Baths, trying to hide behind bollards and drinking troughs. Petronius would be forced to abandon their support and walk into trouble at some other location.

  We executed an infantry turn in two smart stages. Anyone watching should have been impressed by our precision marching. Now instead of heading northwest we were heading southeast. We walked back past the chair, dividing one each side, and nodded politely to
Helena as she stared out at us anxiously.

  “New venue. Don’t worry. We expected it.”

  We then passed a troubled fellow, the governor’s tail, who was trying to make himself invisible in a doorway while he panicked about our change of plan.

  “Shower of Gold next!” announced Petronius loudly, hoping the man would realize we were not just going back home for a forgotten neckerchief: someone ought to inform the governor that things were more complicated than he had hoped. There could be several of these redirections yet.

  We reached the narrow side road where we had to turn off, then all too soon we halted at the entrance to the tavern’s own filthy byway. It was unlit and lying silent. We could see the Shower of Gold halfway along, its door outlined by a faint gleam of lamplight. We stood there, observing. Nothing moved.

  Now we were in a predicament we both dreaded: stuck at one end of a deserted alley, with dusk falling rapidly, in the certain knowledge that someone was waiting somewhere down that alley, intending to surprise and kill us. This was an ambush. It had to be. These situations always are.

  LII

  It was a still evening, with a pervasive cloud cover. It felt cool. The storm had reduced the sultry temperature, but you could still go without a cloak and be comfortable. Dampness was taking over, however. Mist from the nearby river and marshes made our skin and hair sticky. In Britain in late August nightfall varies with the weather. Had it been fine, we would still have had plenty of light. But rain was hovering nearby. In the narrow entry we peered through murk at shadows that could be hiding any kind of trouble.

  Petronius sucked his teeth and swore. “Classic!”

  The alley looked like a dead end. I could not remember. I had only ever come and gone one way. “I’m twitchy.”

  “Me too.”

  “It’s your call.”

  He thought for a moment. “You’ll have to wait here and cover this junction. If we both go in, there’s no way out behind us.”

  “Stay in sight as long as you can, then.”

  “They’ll make me go inside the bar.”

  “No, don’t go in unless they send Maia out.” I knew he would ignore that if he believed she was inside.

  We made no move.

  Adjacent buildings lay in darkness. It was difficult to tell if they were houses or commercial premises. In the absence of sun terraces or balconies with windowboxes to laze on, the population had vanished like razor shells in sand. None of the scents I would expect in Rome were present. No resins, or fragrant herbs, or flower garlands, or subtle bath oils pervaded these chilly streets. They seemed to have neither public bakery ovens nor apartment griddles on the go. Peering at the roofline, all I could see were pantiles and ridge tiles. Windows were closely latched with dense wooden shutters. I glanced behind. Some distance away down the wider cart track I could see Helena’s chair. Its discreetly armed bearers stood in position, motionless. Following instructions, Helena remained hidden behind drawn curtains.

  “If they stuff you in the bloody well, remember—hold your breath until I come and pull you out.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Falco. I never would have thought of that.”

  This was a quiet city. No one else seemed to be in the vicinity. No late-night cobblers or copper-beaters worked in their artisan booths. Pedestrians were missing. Where Rome would have had a cacophony of delivery carts after sunset, with their wheels trundling, their loads crashing, and their drivers famously cursing, Londinium operated no curfew and lay still.

  Silence. Silence and now a fine drift of miserable rain. Londinium, where Petronius and I as earnest young men had seen the worst of human grief. Once a desert of ashes and blood, now a city of small ambitions and great terror.

  “Well, here we are again. Londinium. This bloody place.”

  “Next time we’ll know to stay away.”

  “I’ll just be happy if there is a next time for anything.”

  “You optimist!” Petronius grinned. Then all at once some hidden device in his soul triggered him; he squared his wide shoulders, touched my elbow in an informal farewell, and set off.

  He walked on light feet, constantly looking everywhere. He kept moving, but he made a gentle pace. Halfway to the bar, he crossed from left to right and paused, turning sideways to scrutinize the house walls opposite. I saw the pale gleam of his face as he glanced my way, then it changed and I knew he was staring down to the far end of the alley. I moved to the corner, intending to scan the other street side.

  Something exploded from a ledge beside me. Brushing my face, I felt air, heard noise, knew abject fear. An old, squalid, horrible gray pigeon had flown up, disturbed, from a window ledge.

  Petronius and I stayed motionless until our panic died.

  I raised my arm. He signaled back. If they were going to rush us in the alley, it had to happen now. But nothing moved.

  Petronius walked silently to right outside the bar. He paused again. He tried the door handle. It must have given. He pushed gently, so the door swung open. A dim light flowed out around him. Still nobody aimed a spear or threw a knife.

  “Florius!” Petro had let out an enormous bellow. It must have been heard three streets away, but nobody dared peer out to see who was challenging the mobster. “Florius, this is Petronius Longus. I’m coming in. I have a sword but I won’t use it if you keep faith.”

  Desperately nervous, I kept my eyes swiveling everywhere for trouble. Now, I thought, now they will emerge from cover, trapping him. I waited for the thonk of an arrow or the streak of a shadow as some unseen watcher jumped. Nothing moved.

  The door to the wine shop had begun to swing closed. Petronius pushed it open again with his foot. He looked back at me. He was going in. This could be the last I would ever see of him. Stuff that. Keeping close to the wall, I set off down the alley after him.

  Petro had disappeared inside. Suddenly he was back again, outlined in the doorway, close enough to see me coming. “There’s no one here. Absolutely nobody. I bet Maia’s never even been here. We’ve been set up like idiots—”

  Hardly had he spoken when he knew how true that was. Like me, he must have heard that sound we knew so well from the old days: the well-oiled hiss of many sword blades, drawn from their scabbards simultaneously.

  Neither of us supposed for a moment that this was a convenient rescue.

  LIII

  If there’s one thing I enjoy, it’s being stuck up a blind alley in a grim province on a gloomy evening, while an unknown number of the military prepare to disembowel me.

  “Shit,” muttered Petronius succinctly.

  “Shit on a stick,” I qualified. We were in big trouble. No doubt of it.

  I wondered where in Hades they were hiding. Then I didn’t bother. They came swarming out of nowhere until they filled the alley. The big boys in red raced up in at least two directions. Others piled in on us through the back of the bar. Some leaped over barrels showily. A few squirmed around on their bellies. None of these tough lads felt it necessary to drop from the eaves or swing on a lintel, though to my mind it would have made the picture prettier. Why be restrained? With only two targets—both of us caught out and startled—their officer had had scope for dramatic effects. Properly stage-managed, the demise of M. D. Falco and L. P. Longus could have been a feast of theater.

  Instead of which, lazily, the soldiers just flung us back against the wall, yelled at us, and made us keep still by applying swords to places we preferred not to have cut. I mean, all over us. Petronius and I endured it patiently. For one thing, we knew this was a big mistake on their part, and for another there was not much choice. The legionaries were menacing; they all clearly hoped for an excuse to kill us.

  “Steady on, lads.” I cleared my throat. “You’re making asses of your whole damned cohort!”

  “What legion?” Petro asked the nearest one.

  “Second Adiutrix.” He should have been told not to communicate with us. If he had, he was shamefully forgetful. Still, ev
ery cohort carries some dopey boy who spends his entire service on punishment, eating barley bread.

  “Very nice.” Now Petro was being sarcastic. They were amateurs. Amateurs can be very dangerous.

  Whatever their outfit, they knew how to invest a quiet night in a dead-end town with the urgency factor. Petronius and I watched and felt like jaded old men.

  Our backup arrived. Helena Justina had emerged angrily from her chair and was demanding to speak to the officer in charge. Helena did not need to mount a tribunal to sound like a general in a purple cloak. Petronius turned to me and raised his eyebrows. She weighed straight in: “I insist you let these two men go at once!”

  A centurion emerged from the scurrying mass: Crixus. Just our luck. “Move along there, madam, or I shall have to arrest you.”

  “I think not!” Helena was so definite I saw him backstep slightly. “I am Helena Justina, daughter of the senator Camillus and niece to the procurator Hilaris. Not that this entitles me to interfere with military business—but I advise you to be cautious, Centurion! These are Didius Falco and Petronius Longus, engaged on vital work for the governor.”

  “Move along,” repeated Crixus. He failed to note that she had noted his rank. His career meant nothing, apparently. “My men are searching for two dangerous criminals.”

  “Florius and Norbanus,” Helena sneered. “These are not them—and you know it!”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” Cheap power makes for obnoxious clichés..

  “He knows damn well,” drawled Petronius loudly. “Don’t worry about us, sweetheart. This is men’s business. Falco, tell your bossy wife to hurry along home.”

  “That’s right, love,” I agreed meekly.

  “Then I’ll just go and feed the baby, like a dutiful matriarch!” sniffed Helena. “Don’t be late home, darling,” she added sarcastically.

  As if huffiness was in her nature, she stormed off. Disposing of a senator’s daughter was a problem the soldiers had not preconsidered, and even these renegades balked at it. They let her go. More fool them.