Poseidon's Gold

by Lindsey Davis

  ‘Just thought I’d ask. I’m trying to find out what he was up to on his last trip to Rome.’

  ‘Afraid I can’t help you, Marcus. We had a few drinks, and he arranged a couple of jobs for me, but that’s all I saw of him.’

  ‘Anything special about the jobs?’ It was a forlorn hope.

  ‘Just normal business. Plastering over brickwork…’ I lost interest. Then Mico kindly informed me, ‘Marina probably knows what deals he had on. You ought to ask her.’

  I thanked him patiently, as if the thought of speaking about Festus to his girlfriend had never occurred to me.

  XIV

  If I was ever to solve the soldier’s murder I needed to take a more direct hand. Petronius Longus had warned me to keep away from Flora’s. I had no intention of obeying him. It was lunchtime, so I turned my feet straight towards the caupona.

  Wrong move: I was compelled to go past. One of Petro’s troopers was sitting outside on a bench beside the beggar on the barrel. The trooper had a pitcher and a dish of soggy stuffed vine leaves, but I knew what he was really doing there: Petro had told him to make sure I didn’t get in. The man had the nerve to grin at me as I passed by, faking a nonchalant expression, on the far side of the street.

  I went home to Ma’s house. My second mistake.

  ‘Oh Juno, look what’s straggled in!’

  ‘Allia! What have you come for-a bodkin or a pound of plums?’

  Allia was my second-eldest sister; she had always been Victorina’s closest ally, so I was as low in Allia’s affections as the grit in an empty amphora, and she had never featured at all in mine. She must have been here to borrow something-her normal occupation-but luckily she was leaving just as I arrived.

  ‘Before you start on about Festus-don’t!’ she informed me with her regular brand of truculence. ‘I know nothing about it, and I really can’t be bothered.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  There was no point in attempting to argue. We parted company on the threshold. Allia lurched off, big-boned and slightly ungainly, as if she had been mishandled during the birth process.

  Helena and Ma were sitting at the table, both fairly straight-backed. I threw myself on to a coffer, ready for the worst.

  ‘Allia has been telling us some interesting stories,’ Helena announced bluntly. That would be the Marina incident. It had been useless to hope she would never find out.

  I said nothing, but saw Helena lock her teeth on the left-hand side with an angry overlap. I was angry myself. Encountering Allia always felt like reliving several hours of childhood-the dreariest part that normal memory sensibly wipes out.

  Looking tired, Mother left me alone with Helena.

  ‘Stop looking so shifty!’ At least she was speaking.

  I drew a long breath, surreptitiously. ‘You had better ask me.’

  ‘Ask you about what, Marcus?’

  I wanted a chance to explain things away. ‘Ask about whatever poisoned thistle Allia planted in the melon field.’

  ‘I’ll find you some lunch,’ said Helena Justina, pretending she had not heard this magnanimous offer.

  She knew how to punish me.

  XV

  The lunch Helena provided was adequate, though no more. I shuffled off afterwards, looking as if I had useful work to do. In fact I spent the afternoon exercising at the baths. I wanted a chance to brood over the Censorinus killing-and to get myself in shape for whatever problems lay ahead of me.

  When I first appeared at the palaestra Glaucus gave me a sideways look. He said nothing, but I guessed he had been interviewed about me by Petronius.

  I was in no hurry to return to Mother’s house. As I dawdled along the Ostia Road the rain finally stopped. A pale sun forced itself through the clouds, touching roof finials and awning-poles with a cheerful gleam. I risked pushing my cloak back from my head. When I breathed, the air smelt cold but no longer full of storms. It was simply winter in Rome.

  The city half slept. The streets felt lonely. A few people who had no option scuttled here and there, but it was hardly the glad place I knew in warmer days. No one walked for pleasure in Caesar’s gardens, no one sat out on balconies shouting across to their neighbours, no one drowsed on stools in doorways, no one went to the theatre and filled the evening air with distant rumbles of applause. I heard no music. I saw no partygoers. The acrid smell of bathhouse smoke crawled sluggishly on the still air.

  Lights began to be lit. It was time to be going somewhere positive, even if the somewhere was not home. Wandering aimlessly could attract the wrong attention. Besides, it makes a man depressed.

  With nothing to lose, I had another go at Flora’s.

  This time there were no visible representatives of the watch. I had to be careful, since Petronius sometimes dropped in on his way home to dinner. I won’t say he needed to strengthen his resolve before he faced his wife and their three raucous children, but Petro was a man of habit, and Flora’s was one of his habitual haunts. I had a swift look round both outside and in before I let my feet come to a halt.

  I had timed it just right. Petro’s operative had done his job and reported back to the guardhouse. There were no other customers. The day’s wastrels had drifted off. It was just too early for the evening trade. Flora’s was all mine.

  I leaned on the counter. Epimandos, the shabby waiter, had been scraping out bowls, but the minute he saw me he dropped his spatula.

  ‘The usual?’ he let out before he could stop himself, but then he froze in panic.

  ‘Skip the food. I only have time for a half jug of house red.’ I was keeping him on tenterhooks. For once he leapt into action. The jug appeared so rapidly I nearly put my palm in it as I turned back from a quick survey of the street behind. Still no sign of Petronius.

  Epimandos was staring at me. He must be well aware I was chief suspect in the Censorinus case. He must have been amazed even to see me when the whole Aventine was waiting to hear I had been arrested.

  Still stringing him along, I took a huge swig of wine like a man intent on getting horribly drunk. Epimandos was bursting to ask questions, yet petrified what I might say or do. I amused myself bitterly wondering how he would react if I had actually done the deed; if I did get drunk; if I sobbed on his welcoming shoulder and confessed my crime like an idiot. He ought to be grateful I was here, providing a scene to thrill the customers with when he told them about it afterwards. Mind you, saying ‘Falco came in, drank a half-pitcher, then left quietly,’ would hardly grab their attention.

  I paid up, then made sure I had finished the wine, in case Petro appeared and I had to abscond hastily.

  Fear that I might be leaving without providing any gossip must have helped the waiter find his tongue. ‘People are saying you’re going to be arrested.’

  ‘People love to see someone else in trouble. I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘The men from the watch told me you’ll have a hard time getting out of it.’

  ‘Then I’ll be serving some slander writs.’

  Epimandos tugged at my tunic urgently. ‘But you’re an investigator! You can prove you’re innocent-‘ he had a touching faith in my skills.

  I interrupted his agitated mutterings. ‘Epimandos, how much to let me have a look at the room upstairs?’

  ‘What room?’ he gasped feebly.

  ‘Why, just how many nasty secrets are you hiding at Flora’s?’ The waiter blenched. This place had certainly been used by antisocial characters more than once. ‘Settle down. I’m not prying into the caupona’s murky past.’ He still looked terrified. ‘I mean the room where your lodger signed off from the legions before his time.’ Epimandos did not move or speak. I began more sternly: ‘Epimandos, I want you to take me up to the room Censorinus hired.’ I thought he was going to pass out. He had always been easily unnerved. It was one of the reasons I summed him up as a runaway slave.

  ‘I can’t!’ he finally whispered desperately. ‘They’ve roped it up. There was a guard here until ten minutes
ago…’ He seemed to be thinking up excuses.

  ‘Oh Hercules! You’re not telling me the body’s still in your pigeon loft?’ I glanced up expressively. ‘That’s a bit inconvenient. You’ll be losing trade if blood starts dripping through the ceiling. ‘ The waiter looked more and more uncomfortable. ‘Why can’t they drag the corpse away on a cart?’

  ‘It’s because he was a soldier,’ Epimandos croaked. ‘Petronius Longus said the army had to be notified.’

  That was rubbish. Most unlike my disrespectful friend Petronius. I frowned. Petro would always override what others regarded as proper formalities. I even wondered for a wild moment if he was stalling on the removal order so as to give me a chance for a squint…

  ‘Got any oysters tonight?’ I asked Epimandos.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think I’ll have some.’

  He found a slight increase in confidence now I had stopped talking about corpses. ‘We never have oysters, Falco.’ He was used to dealing with people who were deaf or drunk or both. ‘You’ll get oysters at the Valerian.’ The Valerian was the caupona on the opposite corner. It was neat and clean, but always empty. For no obvious reason the locals had decided to ignore the Valerian as steadfastly as they patronised Flora’s, even though Flora’s was overpriced and gave you gut-ache.

  ‘I can’t be bothered to shift. Epimandos, run over and get me a bowlful, will you?’

  Whether he grasped the idea or not, Epimandos let himself be bullied into running over the road. I hoped he had the sense to dally for a long chat with the Valerian’s waiter.

  I nipped through the kitchen area and up the back stairs. I knew where lodgers were installed, because when Ma’s Campania relations descended we sometimes bedded them out here. There were three rooms-two tiny cubicles over the kitchen and a larger one above the bar. Censorinus had had the biggest. I knew because its door was tied up.

  Petronius had returned my knife after his inspection, so I already had it out to slice through the rope, which had been wound on to two large nails by his men. Their efforts were pretty feeble, however. The web of heavily stranded hemp looked impressive at first glance, but a pantomime dancer could have made a forced entry without breaking a fingernail. I managed to drag one knot right off, which meant I would be able to replace it intact when I left. If I was fast, I might be able to come and go undetected.

  Without pausing to wonder any further about the pathetic attempt to deter entry, I opened the door gently on the room where the soldier’s murder had taken place.

  XVI

  Don’t ask me to describe it.

  You never expect what you find. Sometimes-the lucky times-any evidence that a violent crime has occurred seems hardly noticeable. So little shows that quite a few crimes must entirely escape discovery. At other times, the violence is horrendously clear. You reel back, amazed that anyone could wreak such savagery on another human being. This was one of those.

  This murder had been committed in a frenzy. Even my warning from Petronius had failed to prepare me. Petronius apparently believed in Greek understatement.

  We had talked about villains ‘making their mark’, as if Censorinus’s death might have been a syndicated killing ordered by some magnate in the underworld. As soon as I saw the room I gave up the idea. Whoever killed Censorinus Macer was acting under devastating stress.

  It had to have been a man. Impassioned women can achieve vindictive damage, but this act had taken brute strength. Blow after crazy blow, long after death had occurred. The face, when I forced myself to look at it, was difficult to recognise. Petro was right: there was blood everywhere. Even the ceiling was splashed. To clean the room properly would entail dismantling the furniture and swabbing the surfaces several times. Olympus knows what the killer must have looked like when he left.

  I felt reluctant to move around even now, after the gore had dried.

  But there was no point in having come unless I used the opportunity. I forced myself into routine activity.

  The place was roughly eight feet square. A small room. It had one small, high window, deeply recessed. A small bed. One blanket; no pillow. The only other furnishings were a cloak hook, beneath which a faded scarlet uniform item had dropped to the floor, perhaps during the murder, plus a stool that stood by the rickety bedhead. On the stool I saw one of Flora’s stained wooden trays with a full pitcher and a winecup that had been knocked on its side. The rich liquid gleam of the red wine in the pitcher mocked the dried and caking bloodstains everywhere else.

  Military kit had been neatly stowed at the foot of the bed. To reach it meant passing close by the dead soldier, whose remains lay half sprawled on the bed. I knew Petro and his men had managed to search the kit. I, with an indictment hanging over me, had to get there and do likewise.

  The man’s boots were lying just under the bed; I stumbled over one of them and barely avoided contact with the corpse. I gagged, managed to recover myself, then carried on.

  His boots were off; he must have been going to bed, in bed, or getting up. Someone else might have been joining him under the blanket for social reasons, but in my opinion an intruder did this. Censorinus was not dressed for company. Soldiers put their boots on before they answer a knock at the door. Soldiers always want to be able to kick out if they hate your face.

  Anyway, there was only one winecup on the tray.

  The rest of his stuff, as Petronius had said, appeared to be complete. I had seen it all before when I helped Censorinus pack to leave my mother’s house. Sword, dagger and belt; helmet; vine staff; knapsack of the usual small tools; spare red tunic and underwear. As he was on leave, he was not carrying spears or a shield. An old mansio bill was the only document. (From the Via Appia out on the Campagna, a place I knew.)

  The weapons were all stowed tidily. It confirmed my theory that he was caught completely off guard. He must have been attacked unexpectedly, making no attempt to reach his gear and defend himself. He must have died after the first ferocious blow.

  Had he been robbed? At Mother’s he had kept his financial arrangements from me. I could see an arm-purse on him now, unopened; that alone would not have held enough funds for his journey to Rome. The mattress looked as if somebody had pulled it askew looking for money, but that could have been Petronius. Until the body was removed there was no scope to investigate the bed properly. Censorinus would have to be lifted off first. I was desperate-but not that desperate.

  With the room in such a sorry condition, I was not prepared to ferret under floorboards either. There were practical problems. I was short of time, minus a jemmy, and unable to make noise. Petro would probably come back to do it. Better for him to find anything that was there.

  I tried to memorise everything so I could brood on it later. Later, something that meant nothing now might suddenly make sense.

  Averting my gaze, I eased my way past the body and escaped.

  I had to fight for self-control before I replaced the ropes, and when I turned round from doing that a figure standing in the gloom below frightened the wits out of me.

  ‘Epimandos!’

  We stared at one another. Even with the length of the stairs between us, I could see he looked petrified.

  I descended slowly until I reached him; the horror from above came after me, fingering my neck.

  He was standing in my way. He was carrying a whole earthenware pot of oysters, holding it in the crook of his arm quite easily; years of heaving great food containers from the fire to their counter-holes had given him muscle.

  ‘Forget it, I lost my appetite.’

  ‘Do you know who did it?’ he burst out in a frightened whisper.

  ‘I know it wasn’t me!’

  ‘No,’ Epimandos said. He was high in customer loyalty.

  I would have preferred time to recover, but while we were out there in the kitchen, away from other eyes and ears, I asked him about the night the soldier died. ‘I told the watch captain all that.’

  ‘You’re very public-
spirited. Now tell me.’

  ‘The same as I told Petronius?’

  ‘Only if it’s true! After Censorinus and I had had our little disagreement, when did he reappear?’

  ‘He came back in the evening.’

  ‘By himself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You sure of that?’

  Epimandos had been sure until I asked him; insisting he thought about it frightened him into doubts. His eyes moved rapidly as he quavered, ‘He was alone when he had supper here anyway.’

  ‘Did he stay in afterwards?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Drinking?’

  ‘He went upstairs.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘Like what?’ demanded the waiter suspiciously.

  ‘Anything at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did anyone come to see him afterwards?’

  ‘Not that I saw.’

  ‘Were you busy that night?’

  ‘Well… More than the Valerian was.’ That meant normal trade.

  ‘That evening, could anyone have gone indoors past you without you noticing?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ With the tight internal arrangements, front entry would be difficult for anyone avoiding notice. But the waiter could never watch the back end of the caupona, which we locals used as our private way out if we saw debt-collectors approaching down the street. Sharp bailiffs and their bully-boys came in that way.

  ‘Did you go out on any errands?’

  ‘No. It was pouring with rain.’

  ‘Were you working all night?’

  ‘Till we closed.’

  ‘Do you sleep here?’ Epimandos nodded reluctantly. ‘Show me where.’

  He had a cabin on one side of the kitchen. It was a dreary burrow. The occupant slept perched on a ledge with a straw pillow and a sludge-coloured coverlet. I noted few personal possessions-just an amulet on a nail and a woollen cap. I remembered my brother had given him the amulet, probably as a pledge for an unpaid bill.