Poseidon's Gold

by Lindsey Davis

  Marponius frowned. For a moment I had the illusion of controlling the situation, then the sensation altered. He made a gesture to Petronius. Some unpleasant challenge, previously arranged, was about to emerge.

  Petronius Longus, with his air of misery deepening even further, stood up from his seat on the far side of the tasteful room and came across to me. He unwrapped a piece of cloth he had been guarding, and held out an object for me to inspect. He kept it just beyond my reach, and made sure that Marponius and Helena could both watch my face.

  ‘Do you recognise this, Falco?’

  I had a split second to reach the wrong decision. Delay would have answered for me. I took the honest option, like a fool. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It appears to be one of my mother’s cooking knives.’

  Then Petronius Longus told me in a quiet voice, ‘Helena Justina found it this morning amongst other utensils on the caupona’s cooking bench.’

  XXVIII

  Criminals cut and run. For a second I knew why.

  I stared at the knife. It was not one to excite a cutler. There was a gnarled bone handle, attached by a stout iron ring to a heavy blade that tapered to a solid point. The point had a small twist, as if at some time in its past the knife had been trapped and bent; such a nick at the end of a strong knife is impossible to straighten out.

  It was like all my mother’s other knives. They were not a true set, but they had all come from the Campagna when she was married. They were tough country items that she wielded with great force. Plenty of other homes in Rome must have similar gear. But I knew this was hers. Her initials were scratched on the handle: JT, for Junilla Tacita.

  The room was quite large, but suddenly felt close and full of smoke from the braziers heating it. There were high square windows; I could hear a squall beating on the expensive glass, and one casement rattled. Squat slaves with straight-cut hair moved about constantly. Here was I, under threat of exile or far worse, while these ninnies came and went removing empty bowls and attending to the lamps. Helena dropped her hand back over mine; hers was icy cold.

  Marponius was doing everything strictly now. ‘Petronius Longus, have you shown this knife to Didius Falco’s mother?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She admits it must have been hers originally, but claims she lost this one at least twenty years ago.’

  ‘How can she be sure?’

  ‘She recognised the misshapen point.’ Petro’s quiet patience as he answered the judge’s questions only depressed me more. ‘She remembered it being caught in a cupboard door when her children were small.’

  ‘Has she any explanation as to how it reached the caupona?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Describe how it was found.’

  Petronius now had a set face. He gave his report with impeccable neutrality: ‘I had ordered the removal of the body this afternoon. Later I entered the caupona with a view to completing my search of the scene. The soldier’s corpse had been impeding a full investigation previously. I saw Helena Justina talking to the waiter at the foot of the stairs that run up from the kitchen to the rented rooms.’

  ‘I remember!’ said Marponius importantly.

  ‘At my approach, Helena turned towards me, and appeared to notice this knife on the work bench; she picked it up. Both of us have eaten at Falco’s mother’s house on many occasions. We both recognised the pattern and initials. Helena made no attempt to hide it, but handed it to me immediately. As you see, it has been washed, but is stained around the shaft junction with traces of reddish colouring.’

  ‘You take that to be blood?’

  ‘I am afraid so.’

  ‘What is your interpretation?’

  Petro dragged out the words slowly. ‘I asked the waiter about the knife. I didn’t tell him I knew where it came from. He maintained he had never seen it before; it was not one he used at Flora’s.’

  ‘Is this the weapon which killed Censorinus?’

  Petronius answered reluctantly. ‘It may well be. If the waiter is telling the truth, the killer may have brought his own weapon to the caupona. When he came down from the bedroom he washed it in one of the buckets of water that are always in the kitchen area; then he threw the knife among the other utensils.’

  ‘You’re looking for someone intelligent,’ I said dryly. ‘It was a good place to hide a domestic implement. Pity it was recognised!’

  Helena murmured in anguish, ‘I’m sorry, Marcus. I just saw it and picked it up.’

  I shrugged. ‘That’s all right. I never put it there.’

  ‘You cannot prove that you didn’t,’ said the judge.

  ‘And you cannot prove that I did!’

  Helena demanded of Marponius, ‘Are you really convinced that knowing someone had been stabbed upstairs, the waiter would not notice a strange knife among his tools?’

  ‘Epimandos is pretty vague,’ I said. Marponius looked unhappy, knowing it was bad practice to produce a slave in court. (Worse still if my pet theory was right and Epimandos was a runaway.)

  Petronius agreed with me: ‘He keeps a jumble of kitchen tools lying about at the back of the caupona. He’s dreamy, untidy, and he was hysterical after the corpse’s discovery. He could have missed anything.’

  I was grateful for his help, but had to go on. ‘Petronius, I still cannot accept unequivocally that this knife killed the centurion. Flora’s is not renowned for hygienic practices; the red stains may not be blood at all, or if they are, it may be left from cutting up meat. What I’m saying is, you cannot actually prove that this is the murder knife.’

  ‘No,’ he replied levelly. ‘But it’s about the right size for the wounds.’ It seemed too small, lying in his great hand. ‘It’s sharp enough,’ he added. All my mother’s knives were. They looked clumsy, but she used them a lot. They would slice through a cabbage stalk quite easily, taking any careless fingertip with them.

  ‘The knife could have been anywhere since Ma lost it. It’s not tied to me.’

  ‘You are her son,’ Petronius pointed out. ‘Junilla Tacita is famously defensive. I cannot altogether take her word that the knife had been lost.’

  ‘She would not lie, even for me.’

  ‘Would she not?’ Marponius asked, checking with me, Helena, Petronius. In fact none of us was sure. Attempting to appear reasonable, the judge said to me, ‘If you ever brought me a suspect with this amount of evidence, you know you would expect me to order a trial.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do it. I would not be convinced myself.’

  Marponius sniffed. My views were unimportant; he had too high an opinion of his own place in the world. I had my own thoughts on where he belonged: face down in a wet gulley with a rhinoceros standing on top of him.

  I glanced at Petro. Slowly he said, ‘Falco, I don’t want to believe you did this, but no one else is a suspect, and all the circumstantial evidence indicts you.’

  ‘Thanks!’ I said.

  I was feeling tired. This was hopeless. There was nothing I could say or do to extricate myself-or Helena, who looked like my accomplice in a bungled cover-up. The judge had completed his questions. He decided to hold both of us in custody.

  Normally I would have appealed for assistance to Petronius. As he was the arresting officer, I had to wait for somebody else to come forward with our bail.

  Somebody would. Helena Justina’s family would adore the chance to berate me for getting her into this.

  We were to be kept at the judge’s house temporarily. He had us locked in separate rooms, but as soon as the house quietened down I picked my way out of mine and into hers. Only the fact that Helena was also trying to break her lock with a brooch pin held me up.

  XXIX

  I came in and leaned against the door, trying to look debonair. Helena had stepped back. Still clutching the brooch, she gazed at me. Guilt and fear were in her eyes; they were brighter than ever with anxiety now I had arrived. Mine were smiling. Probably.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart. Are you breaking out to find me?’

>   ‘No, Marcus. I’m trying to escape before I have to face your wrath.’

  ‘I never get angry.’

  ‘Well you never admit it.’

  I could never be angry with Helena Justina when she was fighting back with that determined glint. We were in serious trouble, however, and we both knew it. ‘I am merely perplexed at how to extricate us from this mess, to which you must admit you have contributed…’

  ‘Don’t try being reasonable, Falco. The effort makes your ears go red.’

  ‘Well, if you wanted to get back at me for my fling with Marina, I could have suggested less drastic ways-‘ I stopped. There were tears welling in her eyes. Helena had made a terrible mistake and under the show of pride she was desolate. ‘I’ll get us out of this,’ I said, more gently. ‘Just brace yourself for some bad jokes from your father when he has to come here grovelling to Marponius while he coughs up your surety.’

  ‘Yours has been sent for too.’

  ‘Mine won’t come.’

  She would not be consoled, but we were on friendlier terms now. ‘Marcus, what happened to your face?’

  ‘It hit somebody’s fist. Don’t worry, fruit. Marponius hasn’t enough evidence against us to name a date for a hearing in court. That means he has to release us. If I’m free on bail I shall at least be able to pursue my enquiries without constantly having to dodge Petronius.’

  Helena looked rueful. ‘Your best friend-who now knows you’re living with an idiot!’

  I grinned at her. ‘He knew that already. He thought you were insane to take me on.’

  ‘He told the judge it was true love.’

  ‘And is he wrong?’ I reached for the brooch she was still holding, and pinned it back on her neatly. ‘Marponius believed him enough to lock us up in separate cells to prevent collusion. Well, then-‘ A tremulous smile from Helena answered my broad grin. I held out my arms to her. ‘So, my darling, let’s collude!’

  XXX

  It took so long for Helena’s papa to rally round, I began to dread that he was leaving us to stew. He might have refused to pay a judicial ransom to release me, but I did think he would rescue Helena. Her mother would insist on it.

  Helena’s conscience was tormenting her. ‘It’s all my fault! I just noticed the knife and took hold of it because I wondered whatever something of your mother’s could be doing there…’

  Holding her close I soothed her. ‘Hush! All the family go to Flora’s. Any one of them could have decided to take their own bread-cutter to attack the week-old rolls. And they are all daft enough to leave it behind afterwards.’

  ‘Maybe one of them will remember…’

  My money was on Festus as the culprit, so that was out.

  We were lying on a couch. (Purely for convenience; I had more tact than to seduce my girlfriend under the nose of a ‘man of ideas’.) Anyway, it was a hard couch.

  The room was dark, but noticeably more high-class than where I had been locked up. As a cell for a senator’s daughter, it passed. There was a gilt footstool for the couch. An apple log smoked in a fire-basket. We had dim lamps, a small Eastern carpet on one wall, side-tables bearing curios, and vases on shelves. It was cosy. We had privacy. There was in fact no reason why we should rush to decamp.

  ‘Why are you smiling, Marcus?’ She had her face buried in my neck, so I was surprised she realised.

  ‘Because I’m here with you…’ Maybe I was smiling because we had squared the odds.

  ‘You mean, we’re in terrible trouble as usual, but this time it’s my fault… I shall never forgive myself for this.’

  ‘You will.’

  The house had fallen quiet. Marponius was the type who dined alone then retired to his study to reread Cicero’s defence of Sextus Roscius. If ever he hired himself a dancing girl, it was so he would have an audience when he practised snippets of fine oratory.

  Caressing Helena’s head, I let my mind wander back over the day. Then my thoughts meandered even further, through childhood and youth, trying to make sense of the complex fiasco that had brought me here.

  So far I had established that my brother, the eternal entrepreneur, had probably connived with some of his fellow centurions to rob their legion’s savings bank; that he had purchased what might be a rare antique statue; and that his ship had sunk.

  I had not actually established, but I strongly suspected, that the agent employed by Festus might have absconded with the statue before the ship foundered. That was good, possibly. I might be able to track down the agent and make a quick denarius from the Phidias myself.

  Perhaps the agent had had nothing to do with it.

  Perhaps the ship had not really sunk.

  Then a more ugly possibility faced me. Maybe it had never sunk-and maybe Festus knew that. He could have lied about the Hypericon, then have sold the goods privately and run off with the money. If so, my role now was impossible. It was too late to cash in on the Phidias, I had no money to pay off the legionaries, and I could not clear my brother’s name for Ma.

  Almost everything I had discovered so far was dubious. It looked as if we had stumbled across the worst-ever crisis in my brother’s fabled ‘lupin round’: his business ventures in the grey economy. Those had usually failed-usually a day after Festus himself had safely pulled out of them. He always trod a sticky path, like a wasp on the rim of a honey jar. Maybe this time he had overbalanced and fallen in.

  Helena moved so she could see me. ‘What are you thinking about, Marcus?’

  ‘Oh, the Golden Age-‘

  ‘The past, you mean?’

  ‘Correct. The long-lost, glittering, glorious past… Probably not so glorious as we all pretend.’

  ‘Tell me. What aspect?’

  ‘It’s possible you have allied yourself with a highly dubious family.’ Helena laughed ironically. She and I were such close friends I could tell her the unthinkable: ‘I am beginning to wonder if my brother the hero in fact ended his days as a thief and a candidate for cashiering.’ Helena must have been expecting it, for she simply stroked my brow quietly and let me take my time. ‘How can I ever say that to Ma?’

  ‘Make quite sure of the facts first!’

  ‘Maybe I won’t tell her.’

  ‘Maybe she already knows,’ suggested Helena. ‘Maybe she wants you to put the record straight.’

  ‘No, she asked me to clear his name! On the other hand,’ I argued unconvincingly, ‘perhaps all this only looks like a scandal-but appearances deceive.’

  Helena knew my opinion: that is not how scandals work.

  She changed the subject, trying to ease my introspective mood by asking about what had happened to me earlier that day. I described the disrupted auction, then told her what I had learned from Geminus about my brother’s last business scheme, including the Phidias Poseidon. I ended with how I had been summoned by that ghastly urchin Gaius and had left my father in his office, surrounded by flotsam like some old sea god in a cave.

  ‘He sounds like you,’ she commented. ‘Hiding away from the world at the top of your sixth-floor apartment on the Aventine.’

  ‘It’s not the same!’

  ‘You don’t like people going there.’

  ‘People bring trouble.’

  ‘Even me?’ she teased.

  ‘Not you.’ I grimaced at her. ‘Not even today.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Helena suggested thoughtfully, ‘your elder brother also had a secret den somewhere?’

  If so, it was the first I knew of it. Yet behind his open, cheery attitude, Festus had been full of secrets. He had lived with his mother; he certainly could have used a hideaway. Jupiter knew what would be waiting there if ever I discovered it.

  We stopped discussing the issue because just then Marponius came in person to inform Helena that her father had arrived to free her. The judge was wearing his best toga for entertaining such splendid company, and a big grin because the surety he had demanded from the noble Camillus before he would release his dangerous daughter was extremel
y large. When he saw me in the same room he looked annoyed, though he said nothing about it. Instead, he enjoyed himself announcing that I too was to be set free on recognizance.

  ‘From whom?’ I demanded suspiciously.

  ‘From your father,’ grinned Marponius. He obviously knew I found the thought unbearable.

  Produced for our parents as a murderer and his accessory, we managed not to giggle inanely, but felt like bad teenagers being hauled off home from the town jail after some prank in the Forum that would horrify our ancient great-aunts when they heard of it.

  By the time we appeared, our two rescuers were close allies. They had met before. Now they had a disgrace in common and thanks to the judge’s ingratiating wine steward, they were both slightly drunk. Geminus was down on one knee having a good look at a large urn from southern Italy that was pretending to have Athenian origins. Camillus Verus had kept slightly more control of his manners, though only by a thread. He gave me a whimsical salute, while commenting loudly to my own father, ‘I suppose this makes a change from having to complain about their expensive hobbies, wild parties and shocking friends!’

  ‘Never have children!’ Pa advised Marponius. ‘And by the way, Judge, your urn’s cracked.’

  Marponius rushed to inspect his flawed property. While he was crouching on the floor, he managed to speak a few hurried words about releasing us into family custody, the fathers’ duties of supervision, et cetera. In return, Pa gave him the name of a man who could make the crack invisible (one of a horde of such dubious craftsmen known at the Saepta Julia). The judge then scrambled upright, shook hands all round like some theatrical pimp restoring long-lost twins, and let us escape.

  As we struggled out into the winter night, our happy fathers were still congratulating themselves on their generosity, making jokes together about how to supervise our parole, and wrangling about which of their houses we should be dragged off to dine in.

  Rome was cold and dark. It was late enough for the streets to be growing dangerous. Helena and I were hungry, but we had endured enough. I muttered that if they wanted to check up on us we would be with Ma, then we both fell into the chair they had brought for Helena and made the bearers set off at a cracking pace. I gave a loud instruction for Mother’s house, then once we got around the first corner I changed the directions to Fountain Court.