Shadows in Bronze (37 page)

LXXXI

At night the wineshop had a packed, rancid atmosphere. Its customers were paviours and stokers, muscular men in their working tunics who had big thirsts and shed their sweat readily once they sat still. I moved in among them extremely politely, edging my way past brawny backs to the counter. I ordered a flagon from the ugly old madam, and said I would wait outside. As I guessed, it was the daughter who came out with it.

'What's a pretty girl like you doing in this shack?'

Tullia gave me the smile she kept for strangers as she organized the jug and beaker from her tray. I had forgotten how attractive this wineshop barmaid was. Her huge dark eyes looked at me sideways, assessing whether I might be susceptible, while I seriously wondered too. But tonight I stayed cold, with a lean core of sadness: the sort of sinister fish flirty girls who know their business always avoid.

Tullia knew; as she flounced off I grasped her dainty wrist.

'Don't go; stay here with me!' She laughed, with practised artistry, trying to buff me off: 'Sit down, sweetheart.' She peered at me closer to see how drunk I was, then recognized I was manic sober.

'Hello, Tullia!' Alarmed, her eyes went to the curtained doorway for help. 'I've lost something, Tullia; has anybody handed in a large green cameo ring?' She remembered why she knew me. She remembered I might not be in a healthy mood. 'The name's Falco,' I reminded her softly. 'I want to talk. If you call out your big friends, you will find yourself over the river, having this chat with the Praetorian Guards instead. I have the advantage that I quite like pretty girls. The Praetorians are famous for not liking anyone.'

Tullia sat down. I grinned at her. She was not reassured.

'What do you want, Falco?'

'Same as the last time. I'm looking for Barnabas.'

Someone looked out of the doorway. I reached for an empty cup from another table and with a comfortable expansiveness poured Tullia a drink. The head disappeared.

‘He's away,' Tullia tried, her tone too guarded for it to be the truth.

'That's interesting. I knew he went to Croton and Cape Colonna -' I could tell these place names were new to her. 'Then he picked up the same sunny glow as me in Campania. I noticed the tan when he went out just now, but I'm not keen on talking to him in the presence of a group of Palace spies.'

The fact that ‘Barnabas' was in trouble did not surprise the barmaid in the least. That his trouble involved the Palace frightened her.

'You're lying, Falco!'

'Why should I? Better warn him, if he's a friend of yours.' She looked shifty. I weighed in at once. 'Are you and Barnabas keeping company?'

'Perhaps!' she said defiantly.

'Regular?'

'Maybe.'

'More fool you!'

'What does that mean, Falco?' From the narrow way Tullia asked this I could see I had caught her interest.

'I hate to see a beautiful woman throw herself away! What has he promised you?' She said nothing. 'I can guess! You go along with it? No. You look as if you've learned by now not to trust anything you hear from men.'

'I don't trust you either, Falco!'

'I knew you were intelligent.'

With a shimmer of cheap ear-rings Tullia fetched a light from the other table so she could watch me more closely. She was a tall girl, with a figure which in a better mood would be a pleasure to watch.

'He's not serious,' I warned.

'He offered to marry me!'

I whistled. 'He's got taste! So why the doubts?'

'I think he has another woman,' Tullia announced, leaning on her pretty elbows and fixing me.

I thought about his other woman in an offhand way. 'Could be. There was someone in Campania he was hanging round.' I fought to keep my face neutral. 'I suppose if you asked him he would only deny it - unless you had some evidence... Why don't you do some detective work? Now he's out,' I suggested, 'you could investigate his room. I dare say you know how to get in?'

Naturally Tullia knew.

We crossed the street together and climbed sordid stairs which hung together merely by a lath or two. As we went up my nostrils clenched against the stench of a huge unemptied nightsoil vat in the well of the building. Somewhere a heartbroken baby wailed. The door to the Pertinax apartment had shrunk in the summer heat so it hung aslant on its hinges and needed to be lifted bodily.

The room was bare of character, partly because unlike his Campanian hayloft no one had filled this with artefacts for him, and partly because he had no personality anyway. There was a bed with one faded coverlet, a stool, a small cane table, a broken coffer - all stuff that came with the room. Pertinax had added only the normal filthy plate he lived with when there was nobody to wait on him, a pile of empty amphorae, another pile of laundry, a pair of extremely expensive boots with the mud of that farm on Vesuvius still unscraped on their toestraps, and some open baggage packs. He was living out of his luggage, probably from idleness.

In my helpful way I offered to look round. Tullia hovered in the doorway, keeping a nervous eye out for movements below.

I found two interesting items.

The first was lying on the table with the ink barely dry - documents drawn up that evening by the scribe I had seen with Pertinax. I replaced the parchment wretchedly. Then, because I was a professional I continued to search. All the usual hiding places appeared to be empty: nothing under the mattress or the floor's uneven planking, nothing buried in the dry soil of the flowerless window box.

But deep in the empty coffer my hand found something Pertinax must have forgotten. I nearly missed it myself, but I was bending low, taking my time. I brought out a huge iron key.

'What's that?' whispered Tullia.

'Not certain. But I can find out.' I straightened up. ‘I'll take this. Now we'd better go.'

Tullia blocked my path. 'Not until you tell me what that writing is.'

Tullia could not read; but she had realized from my grim face that it was significant.

'It's two copies of a document, as yet unsigned -' I told her what they were. She went pale, then she reddened with anger.

‘Who for? Barnabas?'

'That is not the name the scribe has written. But you're right; it's for Barnabas. I'm sorry, sweetheart.'

The barmaid's chin lifted angrily. 'And who is the woman?' I told her that too. 'The one from Campania? 'Yes, Tullia. I'm afraid so.'

What we had found was a set of marriage certificates, prepared for Gnaeus Atius Pertinax and Helena Justina, the daughter of Camillus Verus.

Well a girl does need a husband, as the lady said.

LXXXII

'Is she attractive? Tullia forced herself to ask me as we hurried down into the dark little street.

'Money always is.' Pausing to check for observers, I asked nonchalantly, 'What was his attraction - good in bed?'

Tullia laughed derisively. I took a deep, happy breath.

Safely in the gloom of the wineshop, I grasped the girl by her shoulders. 'If you decide to ask him about this, make damn sure you have your mother with you!' Tullia was staring at the ground stubbornly. She probably knew already that he could be violent. 'Listen, he'll tell you he has a reason for that document-'

Abruptly she looked up. 'Getting the money he talks about?'

'Princess, all Barnabas can ever get now is a freedman's grave.' She might not believe me, but at least she was listening. 'He will tell you he was married to this woman once, and needs her help to acquire a large legacy. Don't fool yourself; if he ever gets the legacy, there's no future for you!' The barmaid's eyes took on an angry glint. 'Tullia, he already has an Imperial posse tailing him - and he's rapidly running out of time.'

'Why, Falco?'

'Because according to the Encouragement of Matrimony laws, a woman who stays single more than eighteen months after divorce cannot receive legacies! If he wants to inherit anything using his ex-wife, he'll have to move fast.'

'So when were they divorced? Tullia demanded.

'No idea. Your friend with his eyes on the cash was the husband; better ask him!'

Having laid my bait, I nodded farewell and pushed through the brawny clientele to the outer door. Outside, two customers had come across my abandoned flagon and promptly tucked in. I was all set to express my indignation when I noticed who they were. At the same moment the two freebooters, who were Anacrites' watchdogs, recognized me.

I backed indoors, gestured expressively to Tullia, then barged through the crush and opened the door she had used to let me out when I had been there before.

Ten seconds later the spies burst indoors after me. They stared round wildly, then spotted the open door. The paviours parted tolerantly to let them run over there, then closed once more into an impenetrable pack.

I hopped up from behind the counter, waved at Tullis, and skipped out the front. It was the oldest dodge in the world.

I made sure I disappeared by a route that would avoid spy number three if he was back in the main street.

When I traipsed across the river again it was too late to do any more. The first rush of delivery carts was already petering out; the streets were busy with wagons of wine barrels, marble blocks and fish-pickle jars, but the initial frenzy that always occurs after curfew had passed. Rome was becoming more watchful as late-night diners braved the dark byways to go home, accompanied by yawning torahbearers. An occasional solitary walker sneaked through the shadows, trying to avoid attention in case robbers or deviants were breathing nearby. Where there had been lanterns hung on loggias they were now flickering out - or being doused deliberately by housebreakers who wanted a dark run home later with their swag.

It seemed probable that my own apartment was being watched by the Chief Spy, so I went to my sister Maia's house. She was a better provider than any of the others, and better tempered with me. Even so it was a mistake. Maia greeted me with the news that Famia would be really glad to see me, because he had brought home to dieter the jockey he had persuaded to ride my horse in Thursday's race.

'We had calf's brain custard; there's some left, if you're interested,' Maia informed me. More offal! Maia had known me long enough to know what I thought about that. 'Oh for heavens' sake, Marcus, you're worse than the children! Cheer up and enjoy yourself for once...'

I threw myself into it with all the jollity of Prometheus, chained to his rock on the mountainside, watching for the daily raven to fly in and peck his liver out.

The jockey was of previously unblemished character, but that didn't mean much. He was a tick. And he thought I was his new sheep. But I was used to brushing off parasites; the jockey was in for a surprise.

I forget what his name was. I made a point of forgetting. All I do remember is that he and that wastrel Famia expected me to pay far too much for the runt's pitiful services, and that considering I was giving him a chance to ride his heart out in the city's premier stadium, with Titus Caesar in the president's box, it ought to have been the jockey who paid me. He had a mean size, and a seamed, truculent face; he drank too much, and from the way he kept looking at my sister, he expected the women to drop at his feet.

Maia ignored him. One thing I could say about my youngest sister was that unlike most women having made one ghastly mistake in life at least she stuck with it. Once she married Famia, she never felt the necessity to complicate her problems by having crass affairs.

Fairly early on in the process of allowing the jockey to drink Famia and me out of pocket I disgraced myself. I had been sent to fetch a wine flask, but I slipped off to see the children. They were supposed to be in bed, but I found them playing chariots. Maia was bringing up her children to be surprisingly good-natured; they could see I had reached the flushed and niggly stage, so they lured me into the game for a while and one told me a story until I nodded off, then they all tiptoed out leaving me fast asleep. I swear I heard Maia's eldest daughter whisper, 'He's settled! Doesn't he look sweet?'

She was eight. A sarcastic age.

I had originally intended to hole up at Maia's until any spies had gone home to their own sleazy burrows, then slide back to the Falco residence. I should have done it. I shall never know whether anything would have been different if I did. But there must be a chance that if I had gone to my own apartment that night instead of bedding down at my sister's, it would have saved a life.

LXXXIII

August.

Sultry nights and steamy tempers. A few hours later I was awake again, too hot and too wretched to relax. A bad time of year for men with troubled spirits and women who were enduring difficult pregnancies. I thought about Helena, making my heartache worse as I wondered whether she too was lying sleepless in this sticky heat, and if so, whether she was thinking of me.

Next morning I woke late. Maia kept a peaceful house.

Tossing all night in my clothes never bothered me. But I had taken against the washed-out tunic I'd put on yesterday. I became obsessed with the hope of changing this dull rag for a livelier shade of grey.

Since I could not risk colliding with Anacrites' scabs at my apartment, I persuaded my sister to go there instead.

'Just call in at the laundry. Don't go up; I don't want them to follow you home. But Lenia's bound to have some clothes of mine to collect-'

'Give me the money to settle your account then,' ordered Maia, who had a good understanding of the customer relations Lenia enjoyed with me.

Mafia was gone a long time. I went out in yesterday's tunic anyway.

My first task was to check with the Censor the date of Helena's divorce. The record office was closed because it was a public holiday, a frequent menace in Rome. I knew the watchman, who was used to me turning up out of hours; he let me in by the side entrance for his usual modest fee.

The document I wanted must have been deposited early last year, because afterwards Helena had gone to Britain to forget about her failed marriage, which was where she met me. Knowing that, I found the paperwork in an hour. My wild stab had been unerringly accurate: Helena Justina had shed her husband eighteen months ago. If Pertinax wanted her to many him within the time limit for inheritance, he had just three days left.

Next I walked around the Aventine, hunting for the man who might identify the big iron key I found hidden in that chest. This was my own sector, though among one-man byways where I rarely went. Eventually I bumped round a corner where some slack-mannered basket weaver had piled giant hampers and panniers all over the pavement, lethal to passers-by. I stubbed my toe on the kerb while I was looking out for the antisocial caneware, then came across a fountain where a river god was contemplating the sad rivulets that trickled from his navel as morosely as he had been three months before. Kneeling in the lichen, I scooped up a drink then started banging on doors.

When I found the right apartment, its burly, black- bearded occupant was at home, relaxing after lunch.

'I'm Didius Falco. We met once...' He did remember me. 'I'm going to show you something. I want to know where it belongs. But only tell me if you feel sure enough to repeat it in a court of law.'

I produced the iron key. The man held it in one hand and gave due consideration before he spoke. It was nothing special: the straight sort, with a large oval handloop and three plain teeth of even lengths. But my potential witness ran his forefinger over a faintly scratched letter which I had noticed myself on the widest part of the stem. Then he looked up, with those deep, dark, beautiful oriental eyes.

‘Yes,' said the priest of the Little Temple of Hercules Gaditanus sadly. 'That is our missing Temple key.'

At last: hard evidence.

Seeing the priest wiping off his beard with a dinner napkin reminded me I was short of sustenance myself. I had a bite in a cookshop, then strolled along the river walk, thinking about my discoveries. By the time I returned to Maia's house I was more optimistic.

Maia had been to Lenia's, come home for lunch, then vanished to visit my mother, but she had left a bundle of my garments, most of which I recognized dismally; these were all the tunics I had never bothered to pick up from the laundry because they had sleeves unstitched or lamp-oil burns. The most decent was the one I had worn when I disposed of the warehouse corpse. I had dumped it on Lenia afterwards, where it had been waiting to be paid for ever since.

I sniffed at it, then pulled myself into the tunic, and was pondering my next move against Pertinax when Maia came home.

‘Thanks for the clothes! Was there any change?'

‘Coinedian! By the way, Lenia said somebody keeps trying to find you - and since the message is from a woman, about an assignation, you may want to know-'

‘Sounds promising!' I grinned cautiously.

‘Lenia said...' Maia, who was a pedantic messenger, prepared a faithful recitation. ‘Will you meet Helena Justina at the house on the Quailed because she has agreed to talk to her husband and wants to meet you there? Are you working on a divorce?'

‘No such luck,' I said, with foreboding. 'When am Ito go?'

'That could be a snag - the servant mentioned this morning. I would have told you at lunchtime, but you weren't here-'

I spat a short exclamation, then shot from my sister's house without waiting to kiss her, thank her for yesterday's custard, or even explain.

The Quirinal Mount where Pertinax and Helena had lived when they were married was unfashionable, though people who rented apartments in this pleasant, airy district were rarely doing so badly as they complained. While Vespasian was still a junior politician his youngest child Domitian, the scorpion's sting in the Emperor's success, had been born in a back bedroom in Pomegranate Street; later the Flavian family mansion had been there before they fixed up a palace for themselves.

I felt odd, coming back to the place where I had worked thinking Pertinax was dead. Odd, too, that Helena regarded her old home as neutral ground.

Since our house clearance, the building itself remained unsold. It was what Gemini would call a property 'waiting for the right client'. By which he meant, too big, too expensive, and with a nasty reputation for harbouring ghosts.

How true.

There was a porter from the Palace payroll whom I had installed to guard the mansion until its freehold was transferred. I expected him to be fast asleep at the back of the house, but he answered my urgent banging almost at once. My heart fell: that probably meant he had been roused from his normal slumbers by previous activity today.

'Falco!'

'Has a man called Pertinax been?'

'I knew he was trouble! He claimed to be a buyer-'

'O Jupiter! I told you to keep out passing speculators - is he still here?'

'No, Falco-'

'When was it?'

'Hours ago-'

'With a lady?

'Came separately'

'Just tell me she didn't leave with Pertinax.'

'No, Falco. '

I squatted on the porter's stool, held my temples until my temper cooled, then made him go calmly through what had occurred.

First Pertinax himself had conned admission. He started walking round quietly, just like a prospective purchaser, so since there was nothing to steal the porter left him to it. Then Helena arrived. She asked after me, but came in without waiting.

At that point she and Pertinax seemed like a couple - probably, the porter deduced, virtual strangers whose marriage their relations had recently arranged. They walked upstairs, where the porter heard them arguing- nothing out of the ordinary when two people view a house: one always loves the outlook while the other hates the amenities. My man kept his head down, until he heard voices more sharply raised. He found Helena Justina in the atrium, looking badly shaken, while Pertinax was bellowing at her from the landing above. She ran out straight past the porter. Pertinax rushed after her, but at the street door he changed his mind.

'Did he see something?'

'The lady was talking to a senator outside. The senator could see she was upset; he helped her into her chair, urging the bearers to hurry-'

'Did he go with her?'

'Yes. Pertinax hung in the doorway, muttering, until he saw them leave together, then he made off too-'

My first thought was that the senator must have been Helena's father, but I learned differently almost at once. Violent knocks announced Milo, the dog-taming steward.

'Falco - at last!' Milo gasped, out of breath despite his fitness. 'I've been looking for you everywhere - Gordianus wants you at our house urgently-'

We wheeled out of the Pertinax house. Gordianus also had a mansion on the Quirinal; on the way Milo told me that the Chief Priest had brought himself to Rome, still out for vengeance from his brother's murderer. Since the Quirinal was such a respectable district, after last night's sticky heat Gordianus had risked an unattended morning stroll. He had spotted Pertinax; followed him; watched Helena arrive; then saw her rush out. All Milo could tell me was that immediately afterwards Gordianus himself took her home.

'You mean to his house?'

'No. To hers-'

I stopped dead.

'When his own, with all his servants, was only three blocks away? He, -a senator, walked all across the city to the Gapena Gate? Why the urgency? Why was the lady so distressed? Was she ill? Was she hurt?' Milo had not been told. We were within sight of the street where he said Gordianus lived, but I exclaimed, 'No, this is bad news, Milo! Tell your master I shall come and see him later-'

'Falco! Where are you rushing of to?'

'The Capena Gate!'