Poseidon's Gold

by Lindsey Davis

  I sat down at Ma’s kitchen table. My women surveyed me as if I were something they ought to catch in a beaker and put out on the back steps. ‘I had a job to do, remember. A certain party commissioned me to investigate Didius Festus.’

  ‘And what did you find out?’ Mother demanded. ‘Nothing good, I dare say!’ She seemed to be her old self.

  ‘Do you want to know?’

  She thought about it. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Let’s leave it alone, shall we?’

  I sighed gently. That was clients for you. They come pleading with you to save their skins, then when you’ve given up weeks of hard effort for some pitiful reward, you take them the answer and they stare at you as if you’re mad to bother them with these puny facts. A case that was all in the family made things no better, though at least I knew the parties from the start, so I was prepared for it.

  A bowl of food appeared before me. Ma ruffled my hair. She knew I hated that, but she did it anyway. ‘Is it all sorted out?’ This was a purely rhetorical question, meant to soothe me by pretending to show an interest.

  I took a stand. ‘All except the knife!’

  ‘Eat your dinner,’ said my mother.

  Helena muttered to Ma apologetically, ‘I’m afraid Marcus has a fixation with tracing your old cooking knife-‘

  ‘Oh really!’ snapped my mother. ‘I don’t see the problem.’

  ‘I think Pa took it.’

  ‘Of course he did.’ She was perfectly calm.

  I choked. ‘You could have said that in the first place!’

  ‘Oh I thought I did…’ I would get nowhere trying to pin her down. Now everything was my fault. ‘What are you making so much fuss for?’

  I must have been exhausted, because I came straight out with the question everyone had been too sensitive to pose to her: ‘If Pa pinched the knife when he left home, how did it reach the caupona?’

  My mother appeared to be offended she had reared such a fool. ‘Surely it’s obvious! It was a good knife; you wouldn’t throw it out. But that woman of his wouldn’t want someone else’s equipment in amongst her own kitchen tools. First chance she got, she gave it a decent home somewhere else. I would have done the same,’ said Ma, without vindictiveness.

  Helena Justina looked as if she were trying not to laugh.

  After a silence it was Helena who risked an even braver question: ‘Junilla Tacita, what went wrong between you and Geminus, all those years ago?’

  ‘Favonius,’ replied my mother, rather shirtily. ‘His name was Favonius!’ She had always said that changing his name and pretending to become someone else was ridiculous. My father (said my mother) would never change.

  ‘What was the reason he left?’

  Helena was right. My mother was tough. There was no real need to tiptoe around these dainty issues which she must have faced squarely in her time. Mother answered Helena quite freely: ‘No special reason. Too many people crammed in too small a space. Too many quarrels and too many mouths to feed. Then people give up on each other sometimes.’

  I said, ‘I never heard you tell anyone that before!’

  ‘You never asked.’ I had never dared.

  I ate my dinner, keeping my head down. Coping with family, a man needs to build up his strength.

  Helena Justina was seizing her chance to explore. She should have been an informer; she had no inhibitions about asking tactless questions. ‘So what made you marry him? I imagine he must have been very good-looking in his younger days.’

  ‘He thought so!’ Ma chuckled, implying otherwise. ‘Since you ask, he seemed like a good prospect, with his own business and no hangers-on. He ate well; I liked the way he cleaned up a dinner-bowl.’ A rare nostalgic haze came over her. ‘He had a smile that could crack nuts.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I scowled.

  ‘I know!’ Helena Justina was laughing, probably at me.

  ‘Well, he must have caught me in a weak moment,’ decided Ma.

  I did tell her what the prisoners had said about her famous son. She listened, but what she thought or whether she was pleased to know it was impossible to tell.

  She must have had another weak moment after that, because she suddenly exclaimed, ‘Did you leave him at the Saepta then?’

  ‘Who? Geminus?’

  ‘Somebody ought to get him out of there.’ I felt the familiar formidable sense of pressure as once again my mother was planning an unwelcome job for me. ‘He shouldn’t be left there all on his own, brooding and getting drunk. It’s Tuesday!’ Ma informed me. ‘He’ll have nobody at his place.’ Quite right. Pa had told me his redheaded fancy piece, Flora, would be over at the caupona, on her weekly visit, going through the accounts. ‘There’s a new waiter at that food stall; she’ll be wanting to supervise.’

  I could hardly believe what I was hearing. In connection with the family, my mother knew everything. You could never escape it; not even if you left home for twenty years.

  ‘I’m not going to be responsible-‘ I mumbled weakly.

  Then, needless to say, I left for the Saepta Julia.

  LXXI

  The Saepta was supposed to close in the evening, but rarely did. Jewellery stalls do most of their trade at night. I always enjoyed the atmosphere after dinner. Streamers of small lamps were lit around the porticoes. People relaxed. There were faint odours of spiced meat and fried fish from itinerants selling hot food from trays. The small shops looked like glittering caverns of treasure as the lights gleamed off the metalware and gems. Trash you would never look at by day turned into highly desirable curios.

  My father’s office had lost its Egyptian furniture but had gained, courtesy of a forthcoming sale, an elephant’s foot, some African war gear with a funny smell, a stone throne that could convert into a personal lavatory, two copper cauldrons, three tall stools, a small obelisk (suitable for a garden ornament) and a rather nice set of glass jugs.

  ‘I see you’re back on target to make a fortune out of junk! The mulberry glass could turn into a real sale.’

  ‘Right. You should come into partnership; you could be good at this.’ My father appeared to be sober: quite a surprise.

  ‘No thanks.’ We stared at each other, each thinking over the failed statue scam. The mood between us prickled savagely. ‘I’ve done my best, Pa. I went to the Carus house tonight and planted the thought that they bought a fake. They may have the Phidias, but they’ll never enjoy it.’

  ‘This is really good!’ rasped my father sarcastically. ‘Some people convince the customers that fakes are real. We have to live the hard way-we pretend that the genuine article is a fraud!’ He launched into the normal family flattery: ‘This is your fault!’

  ‘I admit it. End of subject.’

  ‘I left you in charge,’ he roared at me bitterly.

  ‘Orontes was your contact! I’ll trace him, don’t worry,’ I threatened, enjoying the prospect of knocking out the sculptor’s brains.

  ‘No point. He’ll be miles away with that frowsty whore Rubinia.’ My father was as angry as I was. ‘I’ve not been idle either; I’ve been to see Varga and Manlius. He’s left Rome all right.’

  ‘I’ll get him back!’ I insisted. ‘We still have four blocks of good Parian marble-‘

  ‘It won’t work,’ Pa answered rebelliously. ‘You cannot force an artist to produce on command. We’d risk him splitting the stone or turning it into some crass cupid with a dimpled bum that you wouldn’t stick on a bird-bath. Or a boudoir nymph!’ (His worst insult.) ‘Leave it with me. I’ll find someone.’

  ‘Oh that’s rich. One of your hacks, I suppose. We’re back in the world of putting false noses on damaged busts, distressing brand-new carpentry, adding Greek handles to Etruscan urns-‘

  ‘I’ll find somebody else, I said! Someone who can do us a decent copy.’

  ‘Nice Lysippus?’ I sneered.

  ‘A nice Lysippus,’ my father agreed, not turning a hair. ‘Better still, four of them. Wrestlers would be popular.’

&
nbsp; ‘I’ve lost interest,’ I complained bitterly. ‘I’m not cut out for this. I know nothing about sculpture. I can never remember whether the canon of perfect proportion is supposed to be illustrated by the Spear Carrier of Polyclitus and the Discus Thrower of Lysippus-‘

  ‘Wrong way round,’ said my father. Actually I knew I had it right. He was trying to unnerve me. ‘And it’s the Scraper, not the Discobolos, who illuminates the rule.’

  ‘Four wrestlers then.’ Defeated by his tireless villainy, I calmed down. A new sculptor would have to be paid his commission, but four good copies of fashionable originals would still bring us in a birthday present and a half.

  ‘You want to learn how to stay peaceful,’ advised Pa. ‘You’ll do yourself damage blowing off like that every time the Fates hand you a small reverse.’ He was the world’s most blatant hypocrite.

  I noticed we both had our arms folded as we both seethed. With the same wild hair and our chests thrust out, we must have looked like a pair of antique warriors squaring up under the beaded rim of a cinerary vase. He remembered to ask what I had come for.

  ‘Rumour had it you were drunk. I’ve been sent to shove your head under a fountain and drag you off home safely.’

  ‘I’m sober-but I’ll get drunk with you now if you like,’ Pa offered. I shook my head, though I knew it was a kind of truce.

  He sat back on the old couch, considering me. I stared back. Since he was perfectly sober and not visibly brooding, it seemed time to put an end to my pointless trip. Something was delaying me. There was something I had been thinking about subconsciously.

  ‘So what are you hanging about for, Marcus? Want to have a talk?’

  ‘There’s no more to say.’ There was only one chance for this sort of submission, so I waded straight in: ‘I could ask you a favour, though.’

  My father was startled, but managed to rally: ‘Don’t strain a gut!’

  ‘I’ll ask you once, and if you say no we’ll forget it.’

  ‘Let’s not make a Pythian dance out of it.’

  ‘All right. You’ve got five hundred thousand sesterces bricked into the wall chest behind you, am I right?’

  Father looked guarded. He dropped his voice carefully. Involuntarily he glanced towards the gloomy red curtain behind his couch. ‘Well yes, that’s where it is-at the moment,’ he added, as if he suspected me of planning to steal it. His suspicion reassured me. Some things remained beautifully normal, even though I felt sick and light-headed.

  ‘Consider this then, Father. If we had never found the Zeus, you were so sick of having auctions disrupted we would have paid the money to Carus, with no prospect of recouping it. Your money chest and my bank box in the Forum would both be empty now.’

  ‘If you want your contribution back-‘

  ‘I want more than that,’ I apologised.

  My father sighed. ‘I think I know what’s coming.’

  ‘I promise this is the first and only time in my life I’ll lean on you.’ I took a deep breath. There was no need to think about Helena; I had been thinking about her for the past twelve months. ‘I’m asking for a loan.’

  ‘Well, what are fathers for?’ My father could not decide whether to mock me or to groan. There was no suggestion of refusing, even for a joke.

  Asking the question had made me feel nervous myself. I grinned at him. ‘I’ll let you see the grandchildren!’

  ‘What more can I ask!’ quipped Geminus. ‘Four hundred thousand was it? Carus paid up in big gold ones. At four sesterces to the denarius and twenty-five denarii to the aureus, that will be four thousand-‘

  ‘It has to be invested in Italian land.’

  ‘Land then. I dare say I can find an agent to buy us a bog in Latium or a bit of Alban scrub… ‘ He rose from the old couch and pulled back the curtain, fetching out the key on its greasy thong. ‘You’ll want to have a look at it.’

  We stood side by side as he unlocked the chest. Even before the lid came up completely I could see the soft gleam of the aurei sparkling under the heavy woodwork. The money chest was full. I had never seen so much gold. The sight was both soothing and terrible.

  ‘I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘Take your time,’ said my father gently. He knew what this had cost me. I would be in hock to him for the rest of my life-and that had nothing to do with the money. The four hundred thousand was only the start of this debt.

  He closed down the lid and locked the chest. We shook hands. Then I went straight to the Palatine and asked to see Vespasian.

  LXXII

  Under the Flavian emperors the imperial palace was being run with an atmosphere so professional it was positively staid. Sufficient Neronian flimflam remained here to make their serious efforts appear almost ridiculous by contrast. Beneath the exquisite painted panels, stuccoed ceilings with frivolous arabesques, extravagant carved ivory and massed beaten gold, sober teams of bureaucrats now toiled to drag the Empire back from bankruptcy and make us all proud to belong to Rome. Rome itself was to be rebuilt, its most famous monuments meticulously restored while carefully chosen additions to the national heritage would be positioned at suitable spots: a Temple of Peace, nicely balancing a Temple of Mars; the Flavian Arena; an arch here; a forum there; with a tasteful number of fountains, statues, public libraries and baths.

  The Palace had its quiet times, and this was one of them. Banquets were held, since a cheerful and well-run banquet is the most popular form of diplomacy. The Flavian regime was neither mean nor cold. It valued teachers and jurists. It rewarded entertainers. With luck, it would even reward me.

  In normal circumstances personal petitions for social advancement would be left with the Palace chamberlains to await a decision in maybe months’ time, although reviewing the Senatorial and Equestrian Lists was a Flavian priority. One of Vespasian’s first acts had been to appoint himself Censor, with the aims of conducting a headcount for taxation purposes and bringing new blood to the two Orders from which public posts were filled. He had his own ideas about suitable people, but never despised the noble Roman art of putting oneself forward. How could he, after he, a rather despised member of the Senate, had put himself forward successfully for the post of emperor?

  Adding my scroll to the mountain in a chamberlain’s office did not suit the Falco temperament. Since I was known as an Imperial agent I walked in, looking as if I had some sinister affair of state on my mind, and jumped the queue.

  I was hoping to find the old Emperor in jovial mood after his dinner. He worked early and late; his most redeeming country virtue was simply getting things done. Evenings were when he was in good spirits, and when favours should be asked. Evening was therefore when I turned up in my toga and best boots, barbered neatly but not effeminately, aiming to remind him of successful missions on my part and old promises on his.

  As usual, I left my luck with the Guard on the door. Vespasian was out of Rome.

  The Flavians were famous as a family team. Having two grown sons to offer long-term stability had been Vespasian’s chief qualification. He and his elder son Titus were virtually partners now; even the younger, Domitian, took a full part in public duties. The night I came to beg for advancement both imperial sons were working; the chamberlain, who knew me, told me to choose which Caesar I wanted to see. Even before I had made up my mind I knew the best choice was to walk away. But I was geared up for action, and could not back down.

  Not even I could ask Titus, who had once cast interested eyes on Helena, to give me promotion so I could snatch the girl myself. There had been nothing between them (as far as I could ascertain), but without my presence there might have been. He had a pleasant mentality, but I hate to push a man beyond reasonable limits. Tact necessarily intervened.

  ‘I’ll take Domitian.’

  ‘Best thing. He’s doing the public appointments nowadays!’ The Palace staff laughed. Domitian’s fervour in handing out postings left and right had caused even his mild father to criticise.

  Despite
jumping the queue, I had to wait about. I ended up wishing I had brought one of the judge’s encyclopaedias to read or my will to write. But finally it was my turn, and in I went.

  Domitian Caesar was twenty-two. Handsome; solid as a bullock; curly-topped, though hammer-toed. Brought up among women while his father and Titus were away on public duties, instead of his elder brother’s sweet disposition he now had the introverted, obstinate air that is more often found in an only child. In his first acts in the Senate he had made mistakes; as a result he had been demoted to organising poetry competitions and festivals. Now he conducted himself well in public, yet I distrusted him.

  There were reasons for that. I knew things about Domitian that he would not want repeated. His reputation as a plotter had foundation: I was in a position to indict him for a serious crime. I had promised his father and brother they could rely on my discretion-but my knowledge was what had prompted me to choose him of the two young Caesars, and I walked into his presence tonight full of confidence.

  ‘Didius Falco!’ I had been announced by officials. It was impossible to tell from his greeting whether the young prince remembered me.

  He wore purple; that was his privilege. His wreath was fairly plain and reposing on a cushion. There were no mounds of grapes or jewel-encrusted goblets, very few garlands and certainly no sinuous dancers writhing around the floor. He was attending to public business with the same seriousness as Vespasian and Titus. This was no debauched, paranoid Julio-Claudian. Yet I knew he was dangerous. He was dangerous-and I could prove it. But after so many years in the business, I should have known that did not make my own position safe.

  The room was of course full of attendants. Slaves who looked as though they had work to do were, as always in the Flavian audience chamber, quietly proceeding with their business, apparently unsupervised. There was someone else there too. Domitian gestured to a figure on the sidelines.

  ‘I have asked Anacrites to join us.’ My request for an audience would have been relayed long before I was actually summoned; during the tedium of my long wait, this disaster had been arranged. Domitian thought I was there as an agent. He had sent for support. Anacrites was the Palace’s official Chief Spy.