I was staring at the lamp that burned on the table quite openly, when a small voice murmured from the bedroom, ‘It’s only me.’
‘Helena!’ I tried to remember that one of the reasons I loved her was her startling knack of surprising me. Then I tried to play sober.
I snuffed the light, to disguise my state. I dropped my belt and fumbled off my boots. I was icy cold, but as a gesture to civilised living I shed a few layers of clothing. As soon as I stumbled to bed Helena must have realised my condition. I had forgotten the bed was new; in the darkness it was wrongly aligned for the path my feet knew, and the wrong height. Besides, we had moved it to avoid the great hole in the roof, which Smaractus had still not repaired.
When I finally found the bed, I fell in awkwardly, almost falling out. Helena kissed me once, groaned at my foul breath, then buried her face in the safer haven of my armpit.
‘Sorry… had to suborn some witnesses.’ Warmth and comfort greeted me alluringly as I tried to be stern. ‘Listen, you disobedient rascal, I left you at Mother’s. What’s the excuse for this?’
Helena wound herself around me more closely. She was welcome and sweet, and she knew that I was not complaining much. ‘Oh Marcus, I missed you…’
‘Missing me could get you hurt, woman! How did you get here?’
‘Perfectly safely. With Maia’s husband. He came right up and checked the room for me. I’ve spent an evening going around your sisters’ houses asking about the knife from the caupona. I dragged your mother with me, though she wasn’t keen. Anyway, I thought you would want to know the results,’ she excused herself weakly.
‘Bamboozler! So what’s the good news?’
I felt a small, but obvious, belch escaping. Helena shifted further down the bed. Her voice came faintly through the coverlet. ‘None, I’m afraid. Not one of your relatives can remember taking that knife from home, let alone ever using it at Flora’s.’
Even in the dark I could feel my head spinning. ‘The day’s not a total disaster. I heard a couple of things. Censorinus had a companion in Rome-Laurentius. It’s good. Petro will have to find him before he can indict me.’
‘Could this be the murderer?’
‘Unlikely, but possible…’ Talking was difficult. ‘And there is, or was once, a sculptor called Orestes-no, Orontes. He’s disappeared, but it’s given us another name…’ In the new bed, already warmed for several hours by Helena, relaxation was seeping gloriously through my frozen limbs. I wrapped myself around her more conveniently. ‘Dear gods, I love you…’ I wanted her safe, but I was glad she was here. ‘I hope Famia was sober when he brought you.’
‘Maia wouldn’t send me home without safe protection. If she had known it was a drunk I would be waiting for she would not have let me come at all!’ I tried to think up a rejoinder, but none came. Helena stroked my cheek. ‘You’re weary. Go to sleep.’
I was already doing so.
Hazily I heard her saying, ‘Your father sent a message. He suggests that tomorrow morning he should take you to visit Carus and Servia. He says, Dress up. I’ve put a toga out for you…’
I wondered who in Hades were Carus and Servia, and why I should allow these unbidden strangers to bother me with such formality. Then I knew nothing until I woke the next day with a splitting head.
XLI
It was late morning when I lurched from the apartment. I wore my favourite worn indigo tunic, since my idea of dressing up has always been to put comfort first; my heaviest boots, since the weather looked foul; a cloak, for the same reason; and a hat, to shade my eyes from painful light. My head hurt and my internal organs felt delicate. My joints ached. An upright posture seemed unnatural.
I went first to see Petronius. He was kicking his heels at the guardhouse, pretending to write reports while he sheltered from the weather. This made him glad of any excuse to wake up and hurl insults at a friend.
‘Watch out, boys. A hangover on legs just found its way in. Falco, you look like a fool who has been up all night consuming cheap drink in rough company.’ He had seen me do it before; I had done it with him.
‘Don’t start!’
‘Let’s have some gravity then. I assume you’ve come to present me with a nicely bound set of tablets detailing who killed Censorinus Macer, what their dirty motive was, and where I can find them tied to a pergola, awaiting arrest?’
‘No.’
‘Stupid to hope!’
‘I’ve got a couple of leads.’
‘Better than nothing,’ he answered grumpily.
‘What about you?
‘Oh I’ll stick with nothing. I like to feel safe. Why start dicing with evidence and proof?’ Luckily he settled down after this frivolity and talked plainer sense. He listed the usual enquiries. He had spoken to all the people who were in Flora’s the night the soldier died, but had learned nothing useful. ‘Nobody saw anyone with Censorinus, or noticed anyone go up the backstairs to his room.’
‘So that’s a dead end.’
‘Right. I grilled Epimandos a few times. I don’t like the shifty look in his eye. He’s a strange one, though I can’t prove anything against him.’
‘I think he’s a runaway. He looks worried because of that.’
‘He’s been there a few years.’
‘He has.’ I stretched my stiff limbs. ‘He always gives the impression of looking over his shoulder.’ That applied to most of Rome, so Petro received the news calmly. ‘Festus knew something about his past, I think.’
‘Festus would!’
‘Is it worth arresting Epimandos on suspicion?’
Petronius looked prim. ‘Arresting people on suspicion would mean arresting you!’
‘You did!’
‘Who’s starting now, Falco? In the damned waiter’s case, I decided against it, though I still have a man watching Flora’s dump. I don’t think Epimandos would conceal anything if he could clear you,’ Petronius told me. ‘He seems too loyal to you.’
‘I don’t know why that should be,’ I admitted honestly.
‘Neither do I,’ said Petro, with his usual friendly attitude. ‘Have you paid him to corroborate your story?’ I scowled; he relented. ‘Maybe Festus had something to do with it, if they were on good terms. Whatever it is, Epimandos is really panicking that he might have caused your brush with Marponius. I told him you were perfectly capable of getting yourself hauled up on a false charge without help from a dumb stew-doler.’
‘Well that should clinch a free drink for me next time I toddle into Flora’s! And how is our beloved Marponius?’
Petronius Longus growled contemptuously. ‘What are these leads you promised me?’
‘Not much, but I’ve two new names to follow up. One is a sculptor called Orontes Mediolanus who knew Festus. He disappeared several years ago.’
‘That sounds a dud line.’
‘Yes, leave that to me, if you like. I specialise in hopeless clues… Apart from him, there was a centurion called Laurentius recently in Rome, asking the same questions as Censorinus.’
Petro nodded. ‘I’ll take that on. It fits the form. I managed to prod your ma into remembering that Censorinus did go out a couple of evenings, saying he was seeing a friend.’
‘Ma never told me!’
‘You have to ask the right questions,’ Petro replied smugly. ‘Leave this to the professionals, eh Falco?’
‘Professional bollockers! Who was the friend?’
‘Your ma didn’t know. He was only mentioned casually. This Laurentius is a good candidate, though. They could have deliberately planted Censorinus with your mother to harass the family, while the other man stayed elsewhere and pursued other issues.’ Petro leaned back on his stool, flexing his shoulders as if he too was feeling the effects of the damp morning. He was a big, muscular character who hated drizzly weather. Except when he went home to play with his children, he needed to be out of doors; it was one reason he liked his job. ‘Did you spot that Campania mansio bill?’
His
eyes were half veiled, hiding any impression of collusion over me inspecting the dead man’s kit at the caupona.
‘I saw it,’ I confirmed, also keeping my expression bland.
‘Looked to me as if it was a reckoning for two.’
‘I didn’t notice that.’
‘It was not specific, but at country prices I’d say it covered hay for two horses or mules, and more than one bed.’ His voice dropped. ‘Wasn’t it for some place near your grandfather’s farm?’
‘Near enough. I would go out there, but it would be breaking my bail.’
‘Why not?’ Petro grinned at me suddenly. ‘After all, you went to Ostia!’
How in Hades did he know? ‘Are you following me, you bastard?’
He refused to say. ‘Thanks for the name of Laurentius. I’ll make enquiries among the military authorities, though if he was just in Rome on leave his presence may not have been registered officially.’
‘If he was here with Censorinus, pretending to be innocents on holiday,’ I pointed out, ‘he ought to have come forward the minute he heard about the murder.’
‘True,’ Petro agreed. ‘Suspicious, otherwise. If I have to, I’ll write and query him with the Fifteenth, but that will take weeks.’
‘Months, more likely. If his nose is clean with them, they won’t necessarily answer a civil enquiry at all.’
‘And if his nose is not clean with them,’ Petro answered with gentle cynicism, ‘they will disown him quietly, and still not answer me.’ Soldiers only had to answer to military law. Petronius could certainly ask a centurion questions, and if Laurentius was shown to have killed Censorinus, Petro could report it formally-but if the murder had been committed by a fellow legionary, then the legions would deal with the culprit. (That meant the legions would hush it up.) For Marponius and Petro this new angle could be frustrating. ‘There are better ways to proceed. My men can start checking the lodging-houses here; that’s more likely to produce results. If Laurentius is implicated, it may be too late to stop him leaving Italy, but I’ll have somebody watching at Ostia. If he’s spotted, I can ask him politely to return to Rome and talk to me-‘
‘He won’t come.’
‘Does it matter? If he refuses, he looks guilty and you’re cleared. By virtue of his non-co-operation, I can oppose any charges against you. Marponius would have to go along with it. So what are your plans, reprieved suspect?’
‘I’m going out with my damned father for an educational talk on art.’
‘Enjoy yourself,’ smiled Petronius.
Relations between us had improved drastically. If I had known it would be so easy to retrieve our long-standing friendship. I would have invented a name for a suspect days ago and given him someone else to chase around after.
‘To save you having to tail me,’ I replied with my customary courtesy, ‘I’m picking up Pa from the Saepta now, then spending the rest of the morning at some big house in the Seventh Sector, after which-if my parent sticks to his usual rigid habits-we’ll be returning to the Saepta prompt at noon so he can devour whatever the redhead has stuffed into his lunch-satchel.’
‘This is all very filial! When did you ever spend so much time in the company of Geminus?’
I grinned reluctantly. ‘Since he decided he needed protection-and stupidly hired me.’
‘Such a pleasure,’ chuckled Petronius, ‘to see the Didius family sticking together at last!’
I told him what I thought of him, without rancour, then I left.
XLII
Aulus Cassius Carus and his wife Ummidia Servia lived in a house whose exterior unobtrusiveness told its own tale of wealth. It was one of the few big houses built by individuals after the great fire in Nero’s time; it had then managed to escape both looters and arsonists during the civil war following Nero’s death. This house had been commissioned by people who flourished in hard times, and who had somehow avoided offending a half-mad emperor whose favourite subjects for execution had been anybody else who dared to proclaim artistic good taste.
Carus and Servia proved an unlikely moral: it was possible to be both Roman and discreet.
In a city where so many thousands were crammed into high-rising tenements, it always surprised me how many other folk managed to acquire large plots of land and live there in stately private homes, often virtually unknown to the general public. These two not only managed it, but did so in the classic Roman style, with blank walls apparently guarding them, yet an atmosphere of making their home available formally to anyone who produced a legitimate reason for entering. After a few words with their porter, Father and I established our business, and what had appeared from the outside to be a very private house opened all its public rooms to us.
A slave went off carrying our request for an audience. While we waited for a reaction we were left free to wander.
I had assumed my toga, but was otherwise my happy self.
‘You might have combed your hair!’ whispered Geminus. He eyed the toga; that had belonged to Festus, so it passed muster.
‘I only comb my hair for the Emperor, or women who are very beautiful.’
‘Dear gods, what have I brought up?’
‘You didn’t! But I’m a good boy, who won’t ingratiate himself with thugs who kick his ancient pa in the ribs!’
‘Don’t cause trouble, or we’ll get nowhere.’
‘I know how to behave!’ I sneered, subtly implying I might not draw upon the knowledge.
‘No one,’ decreed Didius Geminus, ‘who wears a coloured tunic with his toga knows how to behave!’
So much for my indigo number.
We had passed a senatorial statue, presumably not ancestral, since our hosts were only middle rank. Also in the atrium were a couple of loyal portrait heads of the Claudian emperors, their clean-cut boyish looks at odds with the gruff and rugged features of Vespasian who ruled Rome today. The first general collection was out of doors in a peristyle garden just beyond the atrium. In March the effect was bare horticulturally, though the art showed up well. There were various columnar herms, among a rather twee gathering of hounds and hinds, winged cupids, dolphins, Pan among the reeds, and so forth. They had the inevitable Priapus (fully formed, unlike the vandalised creature at Father’s warehouse), plus a gross Silenus sprawled on his back while a fountain trickled uncertainly from his wineskin. These were ordinary pieces. As a plant lover, I took more interest in the Eastern crocuses and hyacinths that were enlivening the garden.
My father, who had been here before, led me with a firm step to the art gallery. At this point I began to feel shafts of envy.
We had passed through several quiet, well-swept rooms with neutral decor. They contained a spare quantity of extremely good furniture, with one or two small but superb bronzes displayed on plinths. The entrance to the gallery was guarded by not one, but a pair of gigantic sea creatures, each bearing nereids on their threshing coils, amid fulsome waves.
We crept between the sea-nymphs and in through a majestic portal set. The alabaster door-case stood as high as my rooms at home, with huge double doors in some exotic wood studded with bronze. They were folded back, probably permanently since pushing them closed would take about ten slaves.
Inside, we were dumbstruck by a twice life-size Dying Gaul in glorious veined red porphyry. Every home should have one-and a stepladder for dusting him.
Then followed their set of Famous Greeks. Rather predictable, but these people had crisp priorities in throwing together a set of heads: Homer, Euripides, Sophocles, Demosthenes, a handsome bearded Pericles, and Solon the Law Giver. Crowding afterwards came some anonymous dancing maidens then a full-length Alexander, looking nobly sad but with a good mane of hair that should have cheered him up. These collectors preferred marble, but allowed in one or two excellent bronzes: there were Spear Carriers and Lance Bearers; Athletes, Wrestlers and Charioteers. Back with the classic Parian stone we came on a winged and sombre Eros, plainly in trouble with some mistress who had stamped her foot
at him, facing a pale, even more remote Dionysus contemplating the eternal grape. The god of wine looked youthful and beautiful, but from his expression he had already realised his liver would be for it if he carried on that way.
Next came a wild jumble of delights. Plenty and Fortune; Victory and Virtue. A Minotaur on a pedestal; a caseful of miniatures. There were graceful Graces, and musing Muses; there was a colossal group of Maenads, having a ripping time with King Pentheus. There was what even I immediately recognised as a more than decent replica of one of the Charyatids from the Erechtheion at Athens. Had there been room, they would probably have imported the whole Parthenon.
The Olympian gods, as befitted their status, were lording it in a well-lit hall to themselves. Enthroned there were Jupiter, Juno and Minerva, that good old Roman triad, plus a formidable Athene, partly in ivory, with a pool to keep her humid. There was, I noted bleakly, no lord of the oceans-unless (faint hope) he was away in a workshop being cleaned.
All these pieces were astounding. We had no time to scrutinise how many were original, but any copies were so good they must be desirable in their own right.
I can only summon up a certain amount of reverence before an uncontrollable need to lighten the atmosphere sets in: ‘As Ma would say, I’m glad someone else has to sponge this lot down every morning!’
‘Hush! Show some refinement!’ This was one of my many quarrels with Pa. Politically, he was perfectly shrewd, and as cynical as me. Move on to culture, and he became a real snob. After selling antiques to idiots for forty years, he should have been more discerning about owners of art.
We were about to leave the Hall of the Gods when the owners thought it time to appear. They must have reasoned we would be gasping with admiration by now. On principle I tried to look too ethereal to have placed a value on the goods; no one was fooled. One of the reasons for letting folk walk around was so they could reel at the stupendous cost of what they had just seen.
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