Poseidon's Gold

by Lindsey Davis

  ‘And after the trick he pulled on Festus, he owes us a free commission or two!’

  Helena tried it out: ‘So Festus was simply wanting to say to him, “Come and look at this Phidias Zeus I’ve just brought home, and make me four more of them”…’ She jumped in her seat. ‘So Marcus, this means the original must have been somewhere it could be viewed! Somewhere Festus could have shown it to the sculptor that very night-somewhere here in Rome!’

  She must be right. It was here. It was worth half a million, and as my brother’s heir and executor, part of it belonged to me. It was here, and I would find it if it took me twenty years.

  ‘If you can find it,’ said Helena quietly, ‘I have an idea how you two could get your own back on Cassius Carus and Ummidia Servia.’

  Father and I pulled our seats closer, and gazed at her like attentive acolytes at a shrine.

  ‘Tell us, my darling!’

  ‘To make my idea work properly, you will have to pretend you believe they really did lose their money on the Poseidon. That means you will have to put together the half-million sesterces and actually pay over the cash-‘

  We both groaned. ‘Must we?’

  ‘Yes. You have to convince them that they’ve beaten you. You have to lull them into a false sense of security. Then when they are full of themselves for cheating you, we can make them over-reach and fall for this proposal of mine…’

  That was when Helena, my father and I sat together around my table, and hatched the scheme that would give us our revenge. Father and I put forward some refinements, but the basic plan belonged to Helena.

  ‘Isn’t she bright?’ I asked, hugging her with delight as she explained it.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ agreed my pa. ‘If we bring this off, maybe you’ll use the proceeds to let her live somewhere more appropriate.’

  ‘We have to find the missing statue first.’

  We were nearer to that than we thought, though it took a tragedy to bring us near enough.

  It was a good afternoon. We were all friends together. We had schemed, and laughed, and congratulated ourselves on how clever we were and how skilfully we were planning to turn the tables on our opponents. I had given in over the wine, which we poured into beakers for toasting each other and our scheme of revenge. With it we ate winter pears, laughing again as the juice ran down our chins and wrists. When Helena took a fruit that was going brown, my father reached for a dinner knife and cut off the bruised portion for her. Watching him hold the fruit in one sturdy hand while he pared off the bad part, stopping the knife-blade against his blunt thumb, a pang of reminiscence took me back a quarter of a century to another table, with a group of small children clamouring to have their father peel their fruit.

  I still did not know what we had done to drive him away from us. I would never know. He had never wanted to explain. For me that had always been the worst part. But perhaps he simply could not do it.

  Helena touched my cheek, her eyes quiet and understanding.

  Pa gave her the pear, cut in slices, popping the first piece into her mouth as if she was a little girl.

  ‘He’s a demon with a blade!’ I exclaimed. Then we laughed some more, as my father and I recalled how we had rampaged against the painters as the dangerous Didius boys.

  It was a good afternoon. But you should never relax. Laughter is the first step on the road to betrayal.

  After Father had gone, normality resumed. Life reasserted its usual grim messages.

  I was lighting a lamp. I wanted to trim off the burnt wick. I was thinking about nothing as I tried to find the knife I normally used. It was missing.

  Pa must have walked off with it.

  Then I remembered the knife that had stabbed Censorinus. Suddenly I understood how a knife which had once been my mother’s had arrived at the caupona. I knew how my mother, who was so careful, could have lost one of her tools. Why when Petronius Longus had asked her about it, she had chosen to seem so vague-and why when Helena tried to question members of the family, Ma had almost feigned disinterest. I had seen her being vague and unresponsive on the same subject scores of times. Ma knew exactly where that ‘lost’ knife had gone twenty years ago. Its discovery must have placed her in a terrible dilemma-wanting to protect me, and yet aware that the truth itself would not spare our family. She must have put the knife in my father’s lunch-basket, on the day he left home. Either that, or he had simply picked it up for some job or other and carried it away with him the way he had mine today.

  My father had been in possession of the murder weapon.

  Which meant that the main suspect for killing Censorinus would now appear to be Didius Geminus.

  LIX

  It was a wild idea. Those are the ones that always seem the most believable once they strike you.

  This was one thing I could not say to Helena. Not wanting to let her see my face, I stepped on to the balcony threshold. Ten minutes ago, he had been here, joking with the two of us, more friendly than he and I had ever been. Now I knew this.

  He could have lost that knife, or even thrown it away, a long time ago. I did not believe he had. Pa was famous for collecting cutlery. When he lived with us, the decreed system was that every day he was given a knife in his lunch-basket; he usually pinched the daily knife. It was one of the irritating habits by which he made his presence felt. He was always in trouble about it, one of the endless wrangles that colour family life. Sometimes he needed a sharp blade to prod a suspect piece of furniture, testing for worm. Sometimes he had to swipe through the cords tied around a bale of new stock. Sometimes he palmed an apple from a fruit stall in passing, then wanted to cut slices as he walked. We children bought him a fruit-knife for a Saturnalia present once; he just hung it on the wall of his office, and went on exasperating Mother by filching the picnic tools.

  He must still do it. I would bet he was driving the redhead to distraction with the same little game-still on purpose, probably. And the day Censorinus died, maybe the knife in his pouch had been that old one.

  So my father could have killed the soldier. Why? I could guess: Festus again. Rightly or wrongly, Geminus must have been trying to protect his precious boy.

  I was still standing there, lost in desperate thoughts, when we had another visitor. It was so close to my father’s departure, and Geminus was so much on my mind, that when I heard feet on the stairs I thought it must be him again, coming back for a forgotten cloak or hat.

  They were old feet, but they belonged to someone lighter and more fragile than my hefty pa. I had just worked that out, with great relief, when the new arrival staggered in. Out of context, it took me a moment to recognise his troubled voice as he asked for me. As I came in from the balcony I saw Helena, who had been full of concern for the old man, grow suddenly still as she noticed my own frowning face. The light I had meant to attend to was flaming up madly; she strode across and blew it out.

  ‘Oh it’s Apollonius! Helena Justina, this is the man I was telling you about the other day; my old teacher. You look terrible, Apollonius. Whatever’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he gasped. It was a bad day for elderly folk at Fountain Court. First my father had arrived whey-faced and coughing. Now the six flights of stairs had nearly finished Apollonius as well. ‘Can you come, Marcus Didius?’

  ‘Get your breath! Come where?’

  ‘Flora’s. Something has happened at the caupona; I am sure of it. I sent a message to Petronius Longus, but he hasn’t appeared, so I thought you might advise me what to do. You know about crises-‘

  Oh I knew about those! I was up to my neck in them.

  Helena had already fetched my cloak from the bedroom. She stood holding it, staring hard at me but keeping her questions to herself.

  ‘Stay calm, old friend.’ I felt a strange, deep, gentle care for other people who were in trouble. ‘Tell me what has disturbed you.’

  ‘The place has been shuttered since just after lunchtime-‘ Flora’s never closed in the afternoon.
So long as there was a chance of extracting a copper from the public for a lukewarm stuffed vine leaf, Flora’s never closed at all. ‘There is no sign of life. The cat is scratching at the door, crying horribly. People have been beating on the shutters, then just walking away.’ Apollonius himself probably had nowhere else to go. If he found the caupona unexpectedly closed he would just sit outside on his barrel hopefully. ‘Oh please come, if you can, young Marcus. I feel something is dreadfully wrong at that place!’

  I kissed Helena, grabbed my cloak and went with him. The old man could only go slowly, so when Helena decided not to be left out, she soon caught up with us.

  We saw Petronius arrive at Flora’s just ahead of us. I was glad of it, although I would have gone in on my own otherwise. But Apollonius was not alert to the sensitivities. I was still under suspicion for what had happened to Censorinus. If there was some new upset at the scene of his murder, it was better to have official company.

  The caupona was as the old man had described. Both huge shutters had been drawn across the wide entrances in front of the counters; both were securely locked from inside. It looked as I had rarely seen it except at the dead of night. Standing in the street, Petronius and I tossed up pebbles at the two small windows in the upper rooms, but nobody responded.

  Stringy was gnawing at one doorpost miserably. He rushed up to us, hoping we might give him some dinner. A caupona cat does not expect to find himself hungry; he was thoroughly indignant. Petronius picked him up and fussed him while he stared at the locked building thoughtfully.

  Across the street at the Valerian there were more customers than usual. People, some of whom would normally have been wasting a few hours at Flora’s, turned on their elbows to watch us, while eagerly discussing the unusual activity.

  We told Apollonius to wait outside. He sat down on his barrel; Helena stopped with him. Petronius gave her the cat, but she put it down fairly swiftly. Even though the poor girl had fallen for an informer, she did have some principles.

  Petro and I walked round to the back alley. There was the usual stink of kitchen rubbish; the usual seedy atmosphere. The stable door was locked-the first time I had ever seen that. It was of flimsy construction; the lower portion was weaker and gave way to a hard shove from Petronius. He reached in and fiddled with the bolts on the upper half, eventually giving up and simply ducking underneath. I followed. We emerged inside the kitchen area. Everywhere was completely still.

  We stood, trying to see in the dark. We recognised that silence. We knew what we were looking for. Petronius always carried a tinder-box; after several attempts he struck sparks, then managed to find a lamp to light.

  As he held up the little lamp he was standing ahead of me, his bulk blocking my view. His shadow, that great head and the raised arm, sprang up to the side of me, flickering alarmingly on the rough caupona wall.

  ‘Oh shit, he’s dead!’

  I assumed it was another murder. Still locked in my own preoccupations, I thought drably, Geminus must have come here and killed the waiter just before he turned up at Fountain Court so full of concern for us, so full of laughter and fun…

  But I was wrong. I had hardly begun to feel angry with my father when Petronius Longus moved aside for me.

  I noticed another shadow. By the single flame of the feeble lamp, its slow motion attracted attention as a long, dark, slanted shape turned slightly with some changing air current.

  In the well of the stairs was Epimandos. He had hanged himself.

  LX

  Petronius had the longer reach. He cut the body down, not even needing the stool Epimandos had used. We were far too late; the corpse was cold. We carried him into the deep dark of the interior, and laid him on a counter. I fetched the thin blanket from his bed and covered him. Petronius unlocked and partly pushed open a shutter. He called in the others.

  ‘You were right, Apollonius. The waiter’s topped himself. It’s all right; don’t be afraid to look. He’s decent now.’

  The old teacher came into the caupona, showing no excitement. He looked at the covered body with compassion. He shook his head. ‘Saw it coming. Only a matter of time.’

  ‘I must talk to you,’ Petronius said. ‘But first we all need a drink-‘

  We looked around, but then gave up. It seemed tactless to raid Flora’s. We all went over to the Valerian. Petronius told the other customers to make themselves scarce, so they wandered across to Flora’s and stood outside in huddles. Rumours had spread. A crowd collected, though there was nothing to see. We had locked up after us. Petronius, who had his soft side, even brought away the distressed cat.

  The Valerian had a quiet atmosphere and quite good wine. The waiter allowed Petro to feed Stringy, which was sensible because Petronius was looking for an excuse to start a fight over nothing just to ease his feelings. He always hated unnatural death.

  ‘This is a tragedy. What can you tell me?’ Petro asked the teacher wearily. He was stroking the cat and sounded as if he was still looking for trouble. Apollonius blanched.

  ‘I know a little about him. I’m at the caupona frequently…’ Apollonius left a small, tactful pause. ‘His name was Epimandos; he had been a waiter there for five or six years. Your brother,’ he said, turning to me, ‘arranged the job for him.’

  I shrugged. ‘I never knew that.’

  ‘There was some secrecy surrounding it.’

  ‘What secrecy?’ demanded Petronius. Apollonius looked shy. ‘You can speak freely. Was he a runaway?’

  ‘Yes, he had been a slave, I believe,’ agreed my old geometrist.

  ‘Where did he come from?’

  ‘Egypt, I think.’

  ‘Egypt?’

  Apollonius sighed. ‘This was told to me in confidence, but I suppose now the man is dead…’

  Tell me what you know!’ Petro commanded bluntly. ‘That’s an order. This is a murder enquiry.’

  ‘What? I thought the waiter had committed suicide?’

  ‘I don’t mean the waiter.’

  Petro’s angry manner was making Apollonius clam up. It was Helena who reassured him, asking gently, ‘Please tell us. How did a slave from Egypt end his days serving in a caupona here?’

  For once my terrible teacher managed to be concise. ‘He had had a bad master. I understand the person was notorious for his cruelty. When Epimandos ran away, Didius Festus found him. He helped him come to Italy, and to obtain work. That was why Epimandos had a special regard, Marcus, for members of your family, and for you.’

  I asked, ‘And do you know why Epimandos killed himself today?’

  ‘I think so,’ Apollonius responded slowly. ‘His cruel master was the medical officer in your brother’s legion.’

  ‘This all happened when Festus and the Fifteenth Legion were stationed at Alexandria?’

  ‘Yes. Epimandos worked in the infirmary, so everybody knew him. After he escaped and came to Rome he was terrified that one day somebody would walk into Flora’s, recognise him, and send him back to that life of torment. I know there was an occasion recently when he thought he had been noticed-he told me so one evening. He was in great distress and had got himself extremely drunk.’

  ‘Was that Censorinus?’

  ‘This he did not actually say,’ Apollonius replied carefully.

  Petronius had been listening in his fatalistic way. ‘Why have you never mentioned this before?’

  ‘Nobody asked.’

  Well he was only the beggar.

  Petro stared at him, then muttered to me, ‘Censorinus was not the only one who noticed the waiter. Epimandos probably killed himself because he guessed he had also been recognised by Laurentius. It happened when we ourselves invited the centurion to Flora’s earlier today.’

  Remembering how the waiter had shot out of sight when Laurentius looked at him, I believed it and was appalled. ‘Do you know this for certain?’

  ‘Afraid so. After we all left the place, Laurentius was puzzling over why the waiter had seemed familiar. He fi
nally remembered where he had seen Epimandos before, then realised its implication regarding the death of Censorinus. He came straight to see me. That was one reason why I was delayed when Apollonius sent his message.’

  I had been feeling grey before this news, which was deeply depressing. It did solve some of my problems. For one thing, it showed my brother Festus in a better light (if you approve of helping slaves escape). It also meant I could stop panicking over Geminus. This reprieve for my father had hardly sunk in; I must still have looked dreadful. I was coming to terms with just how relieved I felt.

  I suddenly realised that Helena Justina was gripping my hand fiercely. Saving me mattered to her so desperately she could no longer hold back: ‘Petronius, are you saying that the waiter must have been the soldier’s murderer?’

  Petronius nodded. ‘I reckon so. You’re cleared, Falco. I shall tell Marponius I am no longer looking for a suspect in the Censorinus case.’

  Nobody gloated.

  Helena had to be certain about all this. ‘So what happened the night he died? Censorinus must have recognised the waiter, possibly while he was in the midst of quarrelling with Marcus. Later perhaps he had a confrontation with the waiter. When Epimandos realised the trouble he was in, the poor soul must have been in despair. If Censorinus was spiteful, maybe he threatened Epimandos with returning him to his master, and then-‘

  She was so unhappy Petro finished it for her. ‘Epimandos took him up a drink. Censorinus obviously failed to realise the danger he was in. We can never know if he really did threaten the waiter-and if so, whether the threats were serious. But Epimandos was clearly terrified, with fatal results. Desperate, and more than likely drunk, he stabbed the soldier with a kitchen knife which he snatched on his way upstairs. His terror of being returned to the medical orderly explains the ferocity of the attack.’

  ‘Why did he not run away afterwards?’ Apollonius asked thoughtfully.

  ‘Nowhere to run,’ I answered. ‘No one to help him this time. He tried to discuss it with me.’ Remembering Epimandos’s pathetic attempts to get my attention I was furious with myself. ‘I dismissed him as just curious-the usual sensation-seeker who hangs around after a murder. All I did was brush him aside and threaten vengeance on whoever had committed the crime.’