The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

The door was being opened wider. Outside, I was two strides from the slight-figured woman in red and reaching out for her.

  Suddenly, Petronius started and yelled something to me. At the same moment he was rushed. Gangsters snatched him and dragged him inside. The heavy door slammed shut. Petronius was gone.

  I ripped off the woman’s blindfold and understood what he had said.

  “That’s not Maia!”

  LV

  The woman turned out to be a pallid prostitute, half starved, and shaking with nerves. She said they had forced her to do the impersonation. Well, she would. Luckily for her, Silvanus yanked her back out of reach as I lashed out.

  As she blinked in the torchlight, I cursed my stupidity. Petronius knew my sister better than I did. He had seen—too late maybe—that this was a decoy: right height, but wrong shape and wrong build. The dress she wore was a tawdry, ill-dyed shade and of coarse-weave material. Even allowing for some distress, her walk was quite wrong.

  I raged at this hollow-eyed travesty to tell me where my sister was. She claimed she did not know. She claimed she had never seen Maia. She knew nothing about the children. None of them had been at the warehouse; none were at the customs house.

  She was led off.

  Someone slipped through the military cordon and joined us: Helena. She stood beside me in silence, carrying a cloak that I knew belonged to my sister—not that we had any use for it.

  If the decoy was right, the gang never had Maia, so no exchange had ever been possible. They would have lost nothing if Crixus had killed Petro at the Shower of Gold, and by believing they had power, we had let them get their hands on him unnecessarily. So where in Hades was Maia? And how could we extract Petronius before Florius killed him?

  The soldiers were itching to act. I agreed. My one thought now was to rescue Petronius. Already it could be too late.

  Florius knew what he had achieved. He appeared once more on that balcony, this time triumphantly showing us two of his men holding Petro between them. Now he had new demands. He wanted a ship, and safe passage for his men and himself to go aboard.

  It was at this moment that we were joined by the governor.

  Decisions were no longer mine to make. Frontinus must already have been briefed. He took stock very quickly. The life of a Roman officer was at risk, but a public building had been taken over, and if he allowed criminals to do as they liked in this way, his provincial capital would reach a state of anarchy. “I can’t have this. We’ll go in.”

  I kept myself under control as best I could. “If you attack the building, they will kill Petronius.”

  “Don’t fool yourself,” Frontinus warned. “They intend to kill him anyway.”

  We were taking too long. Frontinus left me and went into a huddle with his staff officers.

  “You could have kept him off the scene,” I muttered to Silvanus.

  “He’s no slouch. He wouldn’t hear of going home for borage tea and waiting for a report later. I don’t want him here, Falco, believe me. Can’t risk losing him to a bloody ballista bolt.”

  “Oh, such consideration for an imperial legate!”

  “It’s consideration for myself.” Silvanus grinned. “Just think of the reports to write if we let a legate of Augustus get wiped out!”

  Now I definitely knew that he was a member of the canny Second.

  While the governor brooded bureaucratically, the gang lost patience. Maybe they spotted Frontinus and guessed his hard attitude. Maybe the numbers of soldiers now arriving made them give up hope of negotiating their way out. A shutter smashed open; a ballista shot through the opening nearly killed Silvanus.

  We all fled for cover. Silvanus was desperately ordering men to remove Frontinus from the danger zone. There was nothing for it. The legionaries would fight to regain the customs house.

  “We can burn them out or batter them.”

  “Try to save the building,” Frontinus said dryly. “I have enough demands on my works budget.”

  We had no idea what was going on inside. I could only hope that the distraction of an attack would deter Florius from any plans to put Petronius through torture.

  I wanted to help but was rebuffed. “Keep out of the way. You’re not in the damned army now. Leave this to us, Falco.”

  Silvanus called the order. Timbers appeared out of nowhere; in a hail of missiles, men rushed the main entrance and started beating in the door. Forming a classic testudo, under walls and a roof of shields, they managed to approach close enough to pile in through windows and shin up to the balcony. Ballistae were fired, but they are long-range weapons. Once the legionaries ran up close, they were more than a match for the gangsters. The speed of their reaction to the first shot seemed to take the mobsters by surprise, and the boys in red soon burst in on them.

  There was a sharp bout of fighting inside. Silvanus and his men were ruthless. Ten or so heavies, some bleeding copiously, were taken into custody. A handful had been killed. Norbanus was captured. Soldiers swarmed through the offices, searching for Petro as a priority. Uniformed men ran in all directions. But in the chaos, our quarries escaped. I searched the building myself; I scanned all the prisoners and lines of bodies and wounded to make sure: unbelievably, Florius had given us the slip. There was no sign of him. No sign of Maia. No sign of Petronius.

  The legions do not mess about. A systematic beating of one captured gangster, with the others watching, soon produced information.

  “Where—is—Florius?”

  “The warehouse—”

  “You’re lying!”

  “No—he’s got a load of stuff there, going to Rome.”

  It was hard to believe. How could he have gotten past us? We had had men all along the wharf, and others in the backstreets. Silvanus and I pelted along there, followed by pounding legionaries. The wooden boards reverberated dangerously as we hared up to the store.

  The wide doors opened outward as they do in most stores to save making useless space inside. That made it difficult to break in. Silvanus pointed upward with one finger: on the warehouse roof a group of soldiers were hastily removing tiles. Leaning forward to listen, a rooftop legionary let us know in sign language that everything below was very quiet. He and his colleagues then continued lifting tiles.

  I frowned. “Something’s up—I’m worried. We have to get this right. Why seal themselves in, with us crawling all over the exterior? The longer they stay inside, the worse it gets. They can’t withstand a siege. Trust me, they are not intending to.”

  “There are no windows and no other doors—and we’re on the roof. Unless they’ve spirited themselves off in a cloud, they have to be still in there.” Silvanus was a literal man and he was obstinate. I remembered when he first showed us the Verovolcus corpse. He was helpful as far as he had to be, but he took no initiatives.

  Fortunately, initiative was not needed here. Sheer force broke through the doors. The huge place was empty.

  Helena Justina came up and touched my arm. “Listen—how could Florius have traveled along this part of the wharves with all the soldiers on guard?”

  “This is the gang’s warehouse, love. They killed that baker here—”

  “And they know the customs men were watching it! They would be daft to come back here. Marcus, they had plenty of money. Why would they stick to one warehouse? I bet they have others—and while you are all searching this area, have you noticed that the warehouses also extend further upriver? The gang could just as well be using one on the far side, beyond the ferry landing stage.”

  Helena was right. The ferryman had known about Florius.

  I pelted back along the wharf. I crossed the road by the customs house, shouting to the legionaries to help. There was a landing stage for the ferry, beyond the forum road. Beyond that were more lines of warehouses, packed along yet another wharf. While Silvanus and I had run in the wrong direction, his men must have continued to threaten the prisoners, and we found a group of soldiers breaking through various warehouse d
oors. The next part of our search took longer than I can bear to think about. One after another the stores were broken open. Eventually, with new information screwed out of the prisoners, the soldiers converged on what they thought was the right place. With Helena at my heels I pushed through, heedless of splinters. It was pitch-dark. Someone handed in a torch.

  “Petro!”

  There was no answer.

  “Petronius!”

  This place was crammed with loot. I started forcing my way past chests and bales. More slender, Helena grabbed the torch and slipped past me through the piles of stuff, rushing ahead into the darkness, also calling out. Behind us soldiers were still breaking in.

  Helena found Petronius first. Her scream chilled my blood. “Marcus, Marcus, help him—quick!”

  LVI

  He had not answered because he could not do so. Every ounce of his being was under stress. At the limit of his endurance, even our arrival almost caused him to waver. Hope was the last distraction he needed.

  Florius had left him absolutely stuck. He had taken his time to set this up. Petronius was tied by the waist with several long ropes lashed in a star-shaped pattern so he could not change position. Arms above his head, he was desperately holding on to a ring at the end of a long chain. It went up and over a pulley on a loading arm. To the other end Florius had attached a great crate of ballast. You know what ballast is—rocks, big enough to hold an empty ship steady in a storm. I could see the rocks piled high on top. It was perilously balanced immediately above Petro, jutting out over the edge of a walkway. An iron bar supported it halfway along. If Petro let go of the chain—or even loosed it a few inches—the crate would tip off its supports and crash straight down on him. The game was, Petronius had to last as long as possible, knowing that when his strength gave out, he would be crushed to death.

  Sinews were standing out in his forehead. Beads of sweat shone on his face. His mouth was a tight line, his eyes were squeezed shut; he was close to the limit.

  Helena and I flung ourselves beside him and dragged on the chain. I got one hand through the ring; there was no room for more. It was almost impossible to grip the cold slippery metal of the chain itself. Petronius breathed, but dared not give up. I carried less weight than him, though I did know how to use it; Helena was no feather, but she had never been the type of tomboy who did training at a gym. We all three clung on. The soldiers behind us must have been distracted by the chests of loot. I yelled for help, but we couldn’t wait.

  “Helena, fetch that coil of rope—” She obeyed, though when she loosed her grip on the chain, I felt it nearly jerk free. I could hardly talk to give instructions; luckily she was sharp. At my strained nod, she forced the rope through the ring we were holding, then ran to secure it. The upper walkway was supported on huge timber posts. Helena was able to wind the rope around the nearest. She had the sense to turn both ends several times, then tried to knot them.

  Men were now up on the walkway, running. A soldier appeared alongside us. Those above were seeking ways to take the strain on the balanced crate. Petro and I still clung on, scared to believe we were safe. We were not, yet. The nearest soldier desperately slashed his sword through the ropes holding Petronius. More men arrived. Nervously, Petro and I let go of the chain. Despite our alarm, Helena’s rope held. Arms caught Petro as he staggered. A soldier and I dragged him sideways as half his ties were released. Almost fainting, Petronius sank to the ground. Then the timber post creaked ominously. Suddenly the rope gave way.

  The crate crashed down in a hail of dust and rock. Amid tremendous noise, huge chunks of debris missed us all by inches. Petronius lay groaning open-mouthed, as the blood returned to his arms and hands. Coughing, Helena and I held him, massaging his stricken limbs and aching spine. His tunic was soaked, his brown hair plastered to his head with sweat.

  “Dear gods. That was too close, my lad.” I waited for him to say, What kept you? but he was too shocked to speak. He leaned his head against my arm, eyes closed but gradually breathing more easily. A soldier brought a water bottle. We got some into him.

  Above his head, my eyes met Helena’s. She reached over and touched my cheek. I turned and kissed her palm as she withdrew it. Petronius forced himself to revive enough to smile at her.

  He looked at me searchingly. I reported the best and worst. “We caught most of the gang. We’ve got Norbanus, but Florius was somehow missed. How in Hades did you and he get out?”

  “Uniforms,” croaked Petro. He waved his arm and I saw familiar crimson material lying discarded by a bale. “Red tunics.”

  “Crixus!” The bad centurion had supplied the one disguise that would take Florius unnoticed almost anywhere if there was enough chaos going on around him.

  “He’s taking a boat.” Petro was still mithering. “He had one hidden upriver. They’ve loaded more loot—”

  “Don’t talk,” murmured Helena.

  “Never mind me—where’s Maia?”

  “We still don’t know. But not here.”

  Petronius squirmed into a more upright position. He held his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. He moaned with frustration and misery. “I don’t think they ever had her.”

  “They said they did,” I reminded him.

  “They said a lot of things.”

  Long before he should have done, he was dragging himself upright. I gave him a shoulder to lean on. Once we brought him outside, Helena tried to wrap him in Maia’s cloak; he would have none of it, but when she told him whose it was, he took the garment and kept it over one shoulder, nuzzling his cheek against the woolen folds.

  We walked up the quay back to the prisoners at the customs house. Petronius took note of all of them. He knew some of them from Rome. Silvanus was organizing search parties for Florius and any other missed gang members. The wharf was still sealed, on the off chance we would roust them out. Men were searching all the warehouses. A bunch of the troops had huddled around one of the abandoned full-size ballistae, exclaiming over its sophisticated design. “It’s a damned automatic repeater—look, you can fill this barrel and it fires off a whole load of bolts without having to reload—” I was amused to see Frontinus among them.

  Eventually the governor tore himself away and arranged to remove the prisoners to safe custody, all except Norbanus. Petro wanted him.

  As soon as the customs house was cleared for use, we took Norbanus in there. Petro picked up his sword as we went in. He first kicked aside but then gathered up another weapon, one of the vicious handheld crossbows. “I’ve always wanted one of these!”

  “Look, it’s got a top-speed ratchet and a perfect trigger—and some kind person has primed it. That must have been helpful to Florius. Let’s try it out,” I said, menacing our charge with a snarl. We had not even tied him up. Why bother? Norbanus seemed to accept his fate, and the wharf outside was still full of legionaries. Some had remained inside here, but Petronius dismissed them; clearing away witnesses is always ominous for a prisoner.

  “I’ll have you here in the dark, out of public view,” Petronius told Norbanus pleasantly. “Just in case I forget my manners.” The vigiles were known for their harsh inquiry methods.

  “You could truss him up under some ballast,” I suggested. “Like Florius did to you—or is that too good?” I kicked Norbanus unexpectedly. I kicked him very hard. “Where’s Maia?”

  “I’ve no idea.” The businessman still sounded the same. Learning he was a master criminal should have altered our perception. Now we knew that the slick tongue and amiable smile were treacherous, yet he remained in character. It was real. That’s how some gang leaders succeed in holding authority: apart from occasional lapses into murder, they have winning ways.

  “Did you ever hold her?” Petronius demanded. He was the professional; I let him take the lead.

  “A small deception.” Norbanus was rubbing his leg where I had lashed out. I don’t normally resort to brutality, but my sister was still missing and I felt no regret.

&
nbsp; “Did she come to your villa?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Florius was there. Did he see her?”

  “I believe not.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “You will have to find him for yourself.”

  “You admit you were partners?”

  “I admit nothing.”

  Petronius caught my eye. This was going to be a long business. We might never extract any useful information.

  Helena appeared in a doorway. Petronius paused, unwilling to let her watch the dark actions afoot.

  “Marcus—” She seemed unwilling to be in the vicinity of Norbanus, or else unwilling to see how we dealt with him.

  “Unless it’s urgent, I can’t come.”

  I had told her to go back to the residence along with the governor, but she was always clingy after I had been in danger.

  “Never mind,” Helena said quickly.

  “No, wait. What is it?”

  “A boat.”

  “Leaving?”

  “No, arriving. Limping up with a broken mast.” It seemed irrelevant.

  “So long as it’s not Florius fleeing.”

  “No, don’t worry,” Helena assured me, and she withdrew.

  I thought I heard excitable voices outside, but the heavy doors blocked out most sound. Petronius and I resumed our interrogation.

  “Jupiter was a nice touch,” I said to Norbanus admiringly. “The patron of wine, women, and weather. Symbol of power too . . . But now you find out, Norbanus—thinking you had any power was the myth.”

  Petronius laid down the crossbow and with the flat of his palm pushed Norbanus across the office where we were holding him. It was soft, encouraging movement; there was no need yet for drama.

  “I want to know—” Petro’s voice was quiet. That made it worse. “I want to know everything about your sordid empire—here, and back in Ostia, and Rome. Norbanus, you are going to tell me every fiddle, every threat backed up with violence, every wretched, dirty scam. I’ll have the endless property portfolio, the seamy foodshop takeovers, the obscene child brothels, the pitiless beating up of innocents, and the deaths.”