Time to Depart

by Lindsey Davis

  I cleared one room and used it to store any stuff I could reclaim. By the end of the evening I had made good headway and felt pleased with my work. One more stint would reduce the apartment to a shell, then Helena and I could start thinking about what was needed next. I had not found many bad mending jobs to do. The decor would probably be a pleasure to tackle once I had braced myself to start. Living in the kind of hovels I did, I had never had much call to be a dado and fresco man so this would be something new. Everywhere needed a furious scrubbing, but it struck me that while I was attached to the Fourth Cohort I might be able to wangle help from the fire-fighters to bring the water in …

  On my final trip down to street level I found I had been donated an old bench and a soaking-wet counterpane in my rubbish skip. I turfed them out, then covered the skip, and roped it too. I went to the nearest baths to cleanse myself of dust and sweat, mentally adding sweet oil and a strigil to the list of things I would bring across next time I came to work. After I rinsed the dirt from my hair, I also added a comb to the list.

  It was dark when I made my way back up Fountain Court. I felt tired but satisfied, as you do after hard labour. My muscles were stretched, but I had relaxed at the baths. I felt on top of life. Playing the thorough type, I stepped over to look under the cover and check my skip again.

  In the gloom I nearly didn’t see what was there. If I had still been tipping rubbish in, I would not have noticed a thing. That was somebody’s intention. Rome being the city it is, whoever put the young baby in the cart meant him no good. He was cute, and gurgling trustingly, but a baby who gets dumped by his keeper does not easily acquire another – not unless he is grabbed by a woman who is purposely watching the middens in case someone abandons an unwanted newborn. Nobody in Fountain Court felt that desperate. Whoever ditched this little one had left him to die. They would not have expected anybody else to pick him up and take him home.

  Since it was me who found him, that was what I did.

  XXV

  ‘Only you could do this!’ Helena groaned.

  ‘Your lucky day!’ I told the babe. ‘Here’s a nice lady who only wants to cuddle you. Listen to me. She’s a pushover for big brown eyes and a showy grin –’

  ‘This is no good, Marcus.’

  ‘Very true. I’m determined to be firm. I’m not allowing other people’s unwanted goods in my rubbish skip. I paid for it, and I’ve got plenty of clutter to shift for myself –’

  ‘Marcus!’

  ‘All right, but once I picked him up and took him out, what was I supposed to do? Lay him down in the gutter and just walk off?’

  Helena sighed. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘He’ll have to find himself a berth somewhere. This is just a temporary reprieve.’ It had a callous ring.

  I noticed Helena made no attempt to come and take the child. He stared at me, as if he realized this could be the big tricky moment in his life. He was quite a few months old, enough to take notice of his surroundings anyway.

  He looked healthy. His hair, which was dark and slightly curled, had been trimmed neatly. He wore a proper little tunic, in white, with embroidery at the neck. He had been wearing it much longer than he should, however. That kind of babywear usually belongs to families where the children are changed regularly, almost certainly by a nurse; this baby had not been cleaned up, perhaps for days. He was soiled and sore. I was handling him gingerly.

  ‘Poor little fellow needs a bath.’

  ‘I’ll find you a big bowl,’ snorted Helena. She was definitely not going to help.

  ‘Luckily you’ve come to a home where the women are fierce but the men understand it’s not your fault,’ I told him. When I talked, he hardly seemed aware of me. I tickled his chin, and he did condescend to wave his feet and hands about.

  He was a very quiet baby. Something about him was too subdued. I frowned, and Helena, who had by then brought me a bowl of warm water, looked at me closely the way she did when she thought I was drawing conclusions. ‘Do you think he has been mistreated?’

  I had lain him on his back on a tunic on the table while I took the clothes off him. He was not afraid of being handled. He was plump, a good weight. There were no bruises or unhappy marks on him.

  ‘Well, he looks unharmed. But there’s something odd,’ I mused. ‘He’s too old, for one thing. Unwanted babies are abandoned at birth. This lost mite must be nearly a year old. Who keeps a child so long, looks after him, grows fond of him – and then carefully pushes him under a canvas in a rubbish skip?’

  ‘Someone who knows it’s your skip!’ suggested Helena dryly.

  ‘How could they? I only got it tonight. And if they wanted me to find him, why wait until I’d finished work, covered it up, and could not be expected to look inside again? I only found him by accident. He could have died of exposure or been gnawed by rats or anything.’

  Helena was examining a loose cord around his neck, a twisted skein of coloured material. ‘What do you think this is? It’s very fine thread,’ she said, unravelling it partially. ‘One of the strands could be gold.’

  ‘He’s had an amulet probably. But where’s it gone?’

  ‘Too valuable to throw away with the child!’ Helena Justina was growing angry now. ‘Some person felt able to abandon the baby – but made sure they kept his bulla.’

  ‘Perhaps they removed it because it might have identified him?’

  She shook her head sadly, commenting, ‘This never happens in stories. The lost child always has a jewel very carefully left with it so years later it can be proved to be the missing heir.’ She softened slightly. ‘Maybe his mother cannot keep him, but has preserved his amulet as a memento.’

  ‘I hope it breaks her heart! We’ll make sure we keep his tunic,’ I said. ‘I’ll get Lenia to wash it, and I’ll ask her if any of the laundry girls have seen it before. If they have they are bound to remember the embroidery.’

  ‘Do you think he’s a local baby?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  Somebody knew. If I had had more time, I might have traced his parents, but the rubbish-skip babe had picked the wrong moment to be dropped on me. Working with Petronius on the Emporium heist was going to take up all my energies. In any case, finding parents who don’t want their babies is a dead-end job.

  I had done the child a favour, but in the long run he might not thank me for it. He had been found in a district so poor that we who lived there could hardly keep ourselves alive. On the Aventine, three times as many children died in infancy as those who survived, and many of the survivors grew up with no life worth speaking of. There was little hope for him, even if I did find somebody to take him in. Who that could be I had no idea. Helena and I had our own troubles; at this stage we were certainly not available to foster unknown orphans. There were too many children already in my family. Although no member of the Didius clan would be made to suffer this child’s fate, finding space for an extra who had no claim on us was inconceivable.

  We could sell him as a slave, of course. He wouldn’t be overjoyed about that.

  The baby seemed to like being washed. The sensation appeared to reassure him, and when Helena allowed her guard to slip and started a gentle splashing game, he seemed to know he was expected to chuckle and play along with her. ‘He’s not a slave’s baby,’ I observed. ‘He’s already been among feckless time-wasters who throw water all over the room!’

  Helena let me haul him out, though she did find a towel to dry him on. He must have decided that now he could start in with the serious demands: food preferably. We had patted him all over, allowing him a few more tickles on the way, and rolled him in a stole while we thought about where we could stow him safely overnight. Then the babe decided to assert himself and began roaring.

  Unluckily for Helena, that was the moment when the Palace slave arrived to ask me to an urgent confidential meeting with the Emperor’s eldest son.

  I managed not to grin as I kissed Helena tenderly, apologised for bunking off – and
left her to cope.

  XXVI

  Rome was full of litters taking the wealthy out to dinner. It was, therefore, also full of harshly squabbling voices as the slaves carrying the litters vied for road space with the heavy carts delivering necessities that were now permitted to enter the city. Flutes and harps occasionally tweedled above the havoc. Around the temples and courts in the Forum I noticed the good-time girls, the night moths, already hovering. There seemed to be more than usual. Maybe I had prostitutes on the brain.

  I was being taken to the Golden House. The slave made enquiries at the marble-clad entrance while Praetorians gave us nasty looks. I was led in to the west wing, the private apartments where I had never been before. Once past the Guards, there was a quiet atmosphere. It was like entering a friendly home, though one with sumptuous embellishments.

  Titus was in a garden. The state bedrooms were all designed to face across the Forum valley, with views that would once have included the Great Lake and which now took in the building site of the Flavian amphitheatre. Behind them, decorously lit with outdoor lamps, lay this private, interior court. It was dominated by an immense porphyry vase but also contained select pieces of statuary chosen to delight Nero. The planting was tasteful, the topiary pristine, the seclusion divine.

  The Emperor’s heir and colleague was sitting with a woman who must have been nearly forty years older than him. Since he was a handsome man in his thirties who was currently unmarried, my imagination leapt wildly. She couldn’t be his mother; Vespasian’s wife was dead. The Chief Vestal Virgin would be a regular visitor at the Palace, but this elderly biddy wasn’t dressed as a vestal. They had been talking together pleasantly. When he saw me being brought through the colonnade, Titus began rising as if he meant to excuse himself for our discussion, but the woman held out a hand to prevent him. He then kissed her cheek before she herself rose and left him. This could mean only one thing.

  Her name was Caenis. She was Vespasian’s freedwoman mistress. As far as I knew, Caenis did not interfere in politics, although any woman whom Vespasian had cherished for forty years and whom Titus treated respectfully must have the potential for enormous influence. The freedwoman was a scandal waiting to happen, but the cool glance she gave me said that scandal stood no chance.

  As she passed me, I stood aside meekly. Her intelligent gaze and upright carriage reminded me of Helena.

  ‘Marcus Didius!’ Titus Caesar greeted me like a personal friend. He had noticed me looking at his noble father’s not so noble ladyfriend. ‘I was telling Caenis your story. She was listening very sympathetically.’

  I was pleased the Emperor’s mistress found details of my life entertaining, though I noticed that Titus had not introduced us so the lady could award me a bag of gold, a kindly word, and my heart’s desire.

  ‘Are you well?’ Titus was asking, as if my health were of major significance to world events. I said I was. ‘And how is the splendid daughter of the excellent Camillus?’

  Titus Caesar had in the past looked at Helena as if he found her as attractive as I did. This was one reason why she and I had been spending time abroad, in case he decided his famous fling with the Queen of Judaea was completely doomed and looked around Rome for a replacement. While Helena would make a perfect substitute for a beautiful, spirited and slightly naughty royal, this would leave me bereft and with little hope that Queen Berenice would fancy me as a quid pro quo. So I was resisting a swap. I thanked him for asking, then made damn sure he knew the truth: ‘Helena Justina is fit, flourishing – and doing me the immeasurable honour of carrying my heir.’

  If he drew an unexpected breath, he disguised it well. ‘I congratulate you both!’ Titus Caesar had the knack of sounding as if he meant exactly what he said.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I replied, a mite sombrely.

  There was a small pause. Titus gazed at the dimly visible topiary. I restrained any urge to feel smug. Putting one over on the Emperor’s elder son was not clever. Everyone knew Titus had a very pleasant temperament, but he could also have me sent down to Hades by the short route.

  ‘This will be a difficult time for you, Falco. Is there anything I can do to assist?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. I did once make Helena and her parents a rather rash promise to improve myself socially and marry her – but your brother tells me the equestrian rank is to be kept select, and I am not the right material.’

  ‘Domitian said so?’ Titus appeared unaware of it. I didn’t blame him. Rome was full of eager self-improvers; he could not expect to keep daily track of all of us. However, it might have been sensible to watch the ones that his family had kicked in the teeth.

  ‘Obviously, you will not wish to overrule your brother, sir.’

  ‘Oh obviously not,’ Titus agreed, though I detected exasperation that his brother had chosen to antagonise me. He was publicly loyal to Domitian, but his private opinion might be interesting. ‘So you have been having a bad time lately? I discover you went to Nabataea, on the state’s behalf, and encountered difficulties?’

  ‘There was no difficulty with Nabataea,’ I told him. ‘Only with the shark who sent me there.’

  ‘Anacrites! I’d like to hear your side of the story sometime,’ Titus offered in a friendly tone. That left me worrying exactly what side of the story Anacrites had already told. I said nothing. Titus had known me long enough to realise when I was angry. Sometimes complaints have more effect if you make people sweat. ‘My father would welcome a report – if you will consider it.’ I love to see a prince pleading. ‘We do need a confidential assessment of the situation in the desert.’

  I smiled. Without a word, I produced a slim scroll from my tunic. Helena, smart girl, had not only forced me to write up my findings, but tonight she had guessed that I might find occasion to hand in my homework. This way Anacrites took no credit. He would not even know what I had said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Titus gently, balancing the scroll between his well-manicured fingers. ‘You always serve us well, Falco. Both my father and I have a high opinion of your judgement and trustworthiness.’ In fact they hated informers, and only used me when desperate. This must be leading somewhere. ‘Do you want to tell me about the problems you encountered?’

  It was an invitation to land Anacrites in mule dung. Needless to say I took the sophisticated option: sheer stupidity. ‘It’s not important, Caesar. I survived.’

  ‘I think it is important.’ Titus was acknowledging that spies receive speedy justice in hostile foreign kingdoms. ‘You were sent incognito and somebody accidentally exposed you.’

  ‘Deliberately exposed me,’ I corrected in a mild tone.

  ‘Do you want an enquiry into that?’

  ‘Best not find out,’ I sneered. ‘Anacrites is too dangerous to dismiss. Better for him the telling demotion: say, conducting a very long survey of ordering procedures for sanitary materials in the public-works domain.’

  Titus had always privately enjoyed my cynicism. He ran both hands through his neat hair. ‘Falco, why is it when I talk to you I always end up wondering whether I can stand the pace?’ He knew why. He was the Emperor’s son, and would be Emperor himself. Few people would ever again offer him a decent argument.

  ‘I’m a sterling debater, Caesar.’

  ‘And modest!’

  I produced a gracious shrug. ‘And the only kind of fool who’ll risk offending you.’ He accepted it, and laughed.

  ‘And have you been paid for your work?’ Titus then asked narrowly. Whatever Vespasian and he wanted from me next must be spectacularly unpleasant.

  ‘Please don’t trouble yourself. When the omens are right for the accounts clerks I shall draw my standard fee, Caesar.’

  ‘There will be an addition,’ Titus remarked.

  ‘That’s most kind.’ I was convinced something big was coming.

  The pleasantries had been cleared away. Titus admitted that there was a reason why I had been summoned at night, without any record-takers present. He
said the matter was confidential and sensitive; I could have guessed both. However, I had not guessed what I was being asked to undertake. And when I knew, I hated it.

  * * *

  ‘What I am going to say to you must remain a complete secret. Nobody – nobody, Falco, however close to you – is to be told what we discuss.’

  I nodded. You commit yourself to this kind of nonsense like a lamb. That’s the trouble with secrets. Until you know what they are, how can you tell whether your ethical element approves of them?

  ‘Marcus Rubella,’ Titus began crisply, ‘is a recent appointment to the tribunate of the vigiles.’ Quite so. Vespasian’s man. The city cohorts must be reckoned to be fairly loyal, since even while his predecessor and rival, Vitellius, had ruled Rome, Vespasian’s brother Sabinus had been Prefect of the City. Sabinus, a popular man trying to keep the peace in impossible times, inspired lasting respect. To reinforce that, officers throughout the civil institution in Rome were now, like those in the legions, being changed as the new Emperor handed out rewards and replacement where applicable.

  ‘I met Rubella,’ I said conversationally.

  ‘I know that,’ Titus said. A bad feeling was already creeping over me.

  ‘Seemed an interesting character.’

  Titus smiled. ‘That must be some kind of cautious shorthand – Rubella said much the same about you.’ So, since interviewing me only that morning, Marcus Rubella, the tribune of Petro’s cohort, had been talking to Titus. Another evil sensation hit me somewhere in the lower gut.

  ‘This is rather unpleasant,’ Titus explained inexorably. ‘Rubella is disturbed about the low level of ethics amongst his men.’

  Of course I had seen it coming, but I drew a harsh breath. ‘Rubella thinks the Fourth accept bribery?’