Some traditions continued, regardless of the personnel. Ma had always sent him out with his midday meal in a basket. If he was sleeping away while he guarded some particularly valuable hoard, she doggedly despatched one of us with the bread, cheese and cold meat. Now the redhead was supplying him with his daily snack-probably no longer to keep him out of expensive foodstalls, but simply because he had been trained to the routine.
I hated to be drawn into these new domestic arrangements. However, Helena had pushed me off without sustenance, and I was starving. I ate his meal. 'Thanks. Not up to Mother's standards, she'll be glad to hear.'
'You always were the charming one,' sighed Pa.
He lived in style, actually. After I had chewed through the cold kidneys rolled in bacon, with slices of must cake soaked in a piquant sauce, my father roused himself enough to say, 'You can leave me the beetroot.'
That took me back. He had always been a beet addict. 'Here, then… Your bacon's filled a hollow, but I could do with something to wash it down.'
'Upstairs,' said Pa. 'You'll have to go yourself.'
I made my way to the office. Here there was no evidence of the vandals, so perhaps Pa's intervention had stopped them reaching this far. Presumably they would have tried to break into the money chest. There was a possibility they would come back again for it, I reflected anxiously.
I was still poking around for a wine flask when Geminus staggered up behind me after all. He found me looking at that week's special.
It was one of the pots he loved, painted in a warm amber, with darker reliefs in several earthy tones. He had it set up on a none-too-subtle plinth. It appeared to be extremely old and Ionian, though I had seen similar at sales in Etruria. It had panache. There was a pretty striped foot, then a base decorated florally, above which the wide body carried a scene of Hercules leading the captive Cerberus to King Eurystheus, the king so terrified he had leapt into a large black cooking pot. The characters were full of life: Hercules with his lionskin and club, and Cerberus every inch a hound from Hades, his three heads distinguished by different shades of paint. Apart from his wriggly entourage of spotted snakes, Cerberus reminded me of Junia's dog, Ajax. The vessel was beautiful. Yet somehow I felt dissatisfied.
Geminus had come in and caught me frowning. 'Wrong handles!'
'Ah!' The oldest story in the world of fakes. 'I knew something was odd. So your repair man needs a lesson in art history?'
'He has his uses.' The noncommittal tone warned me not to pursue this; I was intruding on the profane mysteries.
I could guess. Sometimes an article comes up for sale with an uncertain history or unconvincing provenance. Sometimes it is better to adapt the said item before it appears publicly: change a bronze palmette to an acanthus leaf; swap the head on a statue; give a silver tripod a satyr's feet instead of a lion's claws. I knew it was done. I knew some of the handy adaptors who did it. Sometimes I had been the frustrated member of an auction audience who suspected the changes but could not prove deceit.
It was part of my informing job to be aware of these procedures. I had a sideline tracing stolen art, though it never paid well. Collectors always expected a bargain, even for normal services. I grew tired of presenting an expenses bill, only to be asked if that was the best I could do on it. Most people who had treasures thieved were full of cheek, but they were novices. Giving them a ten per cent discount 'for trade' was an insult to the real connoisseurs at the Saepta.
'It's not what you're thinking,' my father told me suddenly. 'I got it for nothing. The whole top was missing. My man re-created it, but he's an idiot. With a wide neck, it should have body loops-' He gestured to make two lugs set below the shoulders. The repair had its two handles carried up and hooked on to the throat, like an amphora. 'He can't tell a vase from a bloody jug, that's the truth of it.' Catching my sceptical look, he felt obliged to add, 'It's for sale "as seen". Naturally I'll mention what's been done-unless I really take against the customer!'
I restricted myself to saying, 'Strikes me the demigod has tied Cerberus on a rather thin piece of string!'
Then Pa produced the ritual wine tray, and we sat around with the silly cups again.
I tried to take a firm filial grip. 'Now stop behaving like a bonehead. This time you're going to tell me what is going on.'
'You're as bad as your mother for having a rant.'
'Somebody doesn't like you, Father,' I said patiently. 'Somebody other than me!'
'Someone wants some money,' sneered my honourable parent. 'Money I refuse to give.'
'Protection?'
I saw his eyes flicker. 'Not in essence. Paying up would protect me from this aggravation, certainly; but that's not the dispute.'
'Oh there is a dispute then?' I demanded.
'There was.'
'Is it not settled?'
'Temporarily.'
'So they will leave you alone for now?'
'For the time being.'
'How did you achieve that?'
'Simple,' said Geminus. 'While they were kicking seven bells out of me yesterday evening, I told them the person they really needed to argue with was you.'
XXXVI
I assumed an expression of Roman steadfastness and calm.
'What's up, son? Fly gone up your nose?'
'I'm staying detached.'
'You can't. You're in this-up to your neck.'
'I'll abdicate.'
'Afraid not,' he confessed. For once he looked guilty. 'Not possible.'
This was ridiculous. Marponius was going to be planning a new trial list soon; I should have been back at Ostia seeking to clear my name.
No, I shouldn't have been in this mess at all. I should have been living with my beloved in some peaceful villa in the country where my worst concern was whether to spend the morning catching up on my correspondence, or peel an apple for Helena, or go out and inspect the vines.
'You look upset, son.'
'Believe me, even before this news I was not exactly overflowing with Saturnalian jollity!'
'You're a Stoic' I knew my father had no time for any flavour of philosophy. A typical Roman prejudice, based on the simple concept that thought is a threat.
I blew out my cheeks in irritation. 'Let me struggle to understand what is happening. You know some violent people who have a long-standing grievance, and they have just been told by you that I'm the person they want to tackle about their debt? So good-mannered of you to warn me, Didius Geminus! Such fatherly respect!'
'You'll dodge out of it.'
'I hope so! After I've dealt with any inconvenience from the auction-busters, I'll be looking for somebody else to attack. I advise you to start getting nippy yourself.'
'Show some piety,' complained my father. 'Show some parental reverence!'
'Cobnuts!' I said.
We were both breathing heavily. The situation felt unreal. Once, I had vowed I would never speak to my father again. Now here I was, sitting in his office with curious Egyptian gods peering over my shoulder from some inconsequential red and yellow furniture, while I let him lumber me with Hercules knows what troubles.
'Was your roughing-up arranged by the legionaries?'
'No,' said Pa. He sounded pretty definite.
'So it's unconnected with the death of Censorinus?'
'As far as I can see. Are you going to help out?'
I swore, not bothering to keep it under my breath. If I had stuck to my contempt for him, I could have avoided this. I ought to walk out now.
Yet there was only one answer to give him. 'If you're having a problem, naturally I'll help.'
'You're a good boy!' Geminus smirked complacently.
'I'm a good informer.' I kept my tone low and my temper cool. 'You need a professional for this sort of work.'
'So you'll do the job?'
'I'll do the job, but while I'm trying to save my neck on the other count I can't spare much time to dabble in auction fraud.' He must have known what was coming even before I
dished it up: 'If I break into my schedule to do you a favour, you'll have to pay me at top rates.'
My father leaned back and stared at the ceiling in momentary disbelief. 'He's not mine!'
Unluckily for both of us, I certainly was.
'If you don't like it,' I mocked, 'you have a father's usual remedy. Go ahead-disinherit me!'
There was a shifty pause. In fact I had no idea what would happen, on my father's death, to the proceeds of his long auctioneering career. Knowing him, he had not addressed the issue. So that was another mess for me to sort out one day. If only to avoid it, I did my duty mentally and wished him a long life.
'I gather you're short of collateral?' he smiled, immediately all smoothness again. He passed a weary hand through those uncombed grey curls. 'Ah well, what are fathers for?' More than I ever got from this one. 'I'll hire you if that seems to be the form. What are these rates we hear so much about?' I told him, making a quick calculation and trebling them. (Well, he wanted me to get married.) He whistled in outrage. 'No wonder you never have any clients. Your charges are deplorable!'
'No worse than the auction percentage-and I work a lot harder for my wages. All you have to do is bawl loudly and bluff people. Informers need brains, bodyweight, and a gripping business sense.'
'And too much cheek!' he commented.
'So that's a contract,' I said.
Whatever it was we were clinching had yet to be revealed. That did not bother me. Shyness was usual among my clients. The inquisition of the prospective customer was the first part of any job I ever did, and usually the trickiest. Compared to that, asking questions of mere villains, cheats and bullies was easy labour.
Pa poured himself more wine. 'Drink on it?'
'I'll keep sober if I'm working.'
'You sound like a prig.'
'I sound like a man who stays alive.' I reached out and grasped his wrist, preventing him from lifting the cup. 'Now tell me what the job is.'
'You aren't going to care for it!' he assured me contentedly.
'I'll deal with my emotions. Now feel free to elaborate!'
'I should never have got you into this.'
'Agreed. You should have shown restraint when those bastards were applying their boots to the apples of your Hesperides-' I was losing my temper (yet again). 'What's the wrinkle, Pa?'
Finally he told me, though even then extracting the details was like squeezing olives through a jammed press.
'This is how it is. Things take time in the fine-art world. When people are commissioning creative works, they don't expect quick deliveries, so the fashion is to let problems ride.'
'How long ago did this marathon start?'
'Couple of years. I received an enquiry; I put the people off. I said it wasn't my problem; they didn't believe me. This year they must have remembered to do something about it, and they came back. More insistent.'
I was grinding my teeth. 'More aware, you mean, that they were losing cash? On whatever it is,' I added, though I knew.
'Exactly. They became aggressive, so I threw my javelin.'
'In a manner of speaking?'
'Well I told them to push off.'
'With spicy phraseology?'
Lindsey Davis
Poseidon's Gold
'They might have thought so.'
'Jove! Then what?'
'It went quiet for a bit. Next the auctions were invaded. Last night it was the warehouse-and me, of course.'
'You may have been lucky last night. Read the dead sheep's liver, Pa. If these people are not soon satisfied, somebody may end up damaged even more severely. From what you mentioned earlier, these bruisers may bash me?'
'You're tough.'
'I'm not a demigod! And actually, I don't enjoy spending my life looking over one shoulder for large types with nails in their cudgels who want to practise hunt-the-decoy through the streets.'
'They don't want bloodshed.'
'Thanks for the reassurance, and tell that to your kicked ribs! I'm not convinced. There was a dead soldier at Flora's Caupona who may have inadvertently stepped in these people's way. That worries me-'
'It worries me,' cried my father. 'If you're right, there was no need for that!'
'I'd rather not have people standing round a pyre next week saying the same thing over me! In a minute I'm going to start demanding names from you-but first I have a crucial question, Father.' He looked pained at my tone, as if I were being insensitive. I forced myself to keep my voice level. 'Just tell me: does this problem of yours have anything to do with big brother Festus and his missing Phidias?'
Our father found an expression of amazement from his skilled repertoire. 'However did you realise that?'
I closed my eyes. 'Let's stop acting the farce, shall we? Just come clean!'
'It's quite simple,' Pa acquiesced. 'The people who want to talk to you are called Cassius Carus and Ummidia Servia. A couple. They don't socialise in a vulgar way, but in the trade they regard themselves as persons of influence. They have a big house with a private art gallery, nice place off the Via Flaminia. They collect statues. They had been lined up by Festus to acquire his Poseidon.'
I was already groaning. 'How closely lined up?'
'As tight as they could be.'
'And persons of influence don't like to be diddled?'
'No. Especially if they intend to go on collecting-which carries some risks, as you know. People want a reputation. They don't like their mistakes to be publicly known.'
I asked, 'Were they diddled?'
'I reckon they think so. Carus and Servia were certainly expecting to receive the property. But then Festus lost his ship, so he failed to deliver it.'
'Had they actually paid for the goods?'
'Afraid so.'
I pulled a face. 'Then they were definitely diddled-and we are rightly being chased. How much-if it's not a saucy question-are we two honest brokers being asked to find?'
'Oh… call it half a million,' muttered Pa.
XXXVII
When I left the Saepta Julia, the air was thin and cold. I nearly went into the Agrippan Baths, but could not face a long walk home on a winter evening after I had let myself be made happy and warm. Better to do the heavy work, then relax.
Pa had offered me a lift in his ornamental litter back to the Thirteenth Sector, but I elected to walk. I had had enough. I needed to be alone. I needed to think.
Helena was waiting. 'Just a quick kiss, my darling, then we're going out.'
'What's happened?'
'I'm really getting grown-up work! First my mother employs me to prove Festus is not a criminal; now my father has hired me because Festus probably is.'
'At least your brother brings in jobs,' said my beloved, ever the optimist. 'Am I coming to help?'
'No. The irrepressible Geminus has fingered me for the Phidias. Some quick-tempered creditors may be coming here to look for me. You'll have to be stowed somewhere safer until the heat's off. I'll take you to the relation of your choice.'
She chose going back to Ma again. I took her; ducked the maternal enquiries; promised to see them both when I could; then trudged off through the gathering darkness towards the Caelian.
I was now determined to track down my brother's friends, the loathsome wall painters.
I tried the Virgin, without luck.
I tried all the other places where Varga and Manlius were supposed to hang out, but they were not there either. This was tiresome, but par for the course in my work. Investigating consists mainly of failure. You need thick boots and a strong heart, plus an infinite capacity for staying awake while parked in a draughty pergola, hoping that that strange scuttling sound is only a rat, not a man with a knife, though all the time you know that if the person you are watching for ever does turn up, they will be a dead loss.
Helena had asked, 'Why don't you go straight to the art collectors and explain?'
'I will go. I hope to have something to offer them first.'
As I stood
watching an extremely nasty doss-house in the worst area of a bad district in this heartless city, it did seem unlikely that a rare old Greek statue would be standing around here with its toes as cold as mine, waiting for a lift in a waggon to a more refined environment.
I must have been there on surveillance for four hours. On a cold March Thursday, that's a long time.
The street was pitch-dark. It was short, narrow, and stinking; an easy touch for comparisons with life. The night-life was plentiful: drunks, fornicators, more drunks, cats who had learned from the fornicators, even drunker drunks. Drunken cats, probably. Everyone round here had been at an amphora, and I could understand it. Everyone was lost. The dogs; the cats; the humans. Even the fire brigade, wandering up with half-empty buckets, asked me the way to Oyster Street. I gave them correct instructions, then watched their smoky flare disappear in the wrong direction anyway. They were going to a tavern for a quick one; the fire could just blaze.
A whore offered me a quick one of the other sort, but I managed to plead poor plumbing. She cackled and launched into medical theories that made me blush. I told her I was one of the vigiles, so with a vicious curse she staggered off. Beyond the corner, where the streets were wider, even the normal night-time rumble of delivery carts seemed slack tonight. Beyond that, sharp on the frosty air, I heard the call of a Praetorian trumpet sounding the watch over their great camp. Above my head, where the stars should be, only blackness loomed.
Eventually the passers-by thinned out. My feet were frozen. My legs were too exhausted to stamp. I was wearing two cloaks and three tunics, but the chill had slid right under them. This was some way from the river, but even here the Tiber fog seeped into my lungs. There was no breeze; just that still, deceptive coldness like an animal that eats your heart while you stand.
It was a night when professional burglars would glance quickly outside, then decide to stay in and annoy their wives. Heartbroken women would be hanging around the Aemilian Bridge waiting for a quiet moment to edge over the parapet and jump into oblivion. Tramps would cough to death in the gateways at the Circus. Lost children and runaway slaves would huddle against the huge black walls under the Citadel, slipping into Hades by accident when they forgot to breathe. There was no blizzard; it was not even raining. But all the same it was a bitter, baleful, dolorous night, and I hated to be out in it.
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