The Jupiter Myth mdf-14

by Lindsey Davis

  Through the open western gate then raced a new contender. This would be a big thrill for a watching crowd: a girl fighting from a light, rapid two-horse British chariot. It was Chloris. She had a driver, while she herself leaned out over the wicker side, one arm raised with her drawn sword. She went straight for Florius. Splice had to avoid the chariot. He leapt from his horse, cursing, but reached Florius, and grappled him. Torn between avoiding Splice and dodging the maddened bear's needle claws, Florius ended up with his back to Splice, who gripped him with one arm across his chest while pummelling him with his free fist. The driver wheeled the chariot around them in a tight circle, looking for a chance to get close. Then in the chaos, she made the mistake of driving too fast over the bear's chain. A wheel jerked violently and left the ground. The chariot skewed, flew up, and nearly went over. Chloris, unprepared, was flung out. She lost her sword but scrambled after it. Finding itself free, the bear leapt and clambered on to the horses. The terrified girl driver screamed and threw herself off the side, landing on Petronius and temporarily flooring him. The chariot careered on into the main fight at the centre of the arena, now looking as if the great black bear was riding in a circus act.

  Apart from this mad scene, there was a sudden tense pause. Florius was being dragged backwards by Splice. Petro, Chloris and I were regrouping to tackle him.

  Then the light changed. The heavens closed and it grew dark as a portent.

  Dry in the mouth, I saw no way this could end well. In the eerie new half-light, fighting would be even more dangerous.

  As I struggled towards Splice and Florius, Petro pounded after them too, in an easy style, on his long legs. Many a thief had been caught out and brought down, thinking Petro was putting no effort into a chase. He was gaining, but Splice was aware he had trouble. He turned, using Florius as a human shield, ready to fight Petro for possession of the gang leader.

  In the main battle, heavies still appeared to be fighting each other, though some broke away from the pack to support their leader. It split the action nicely but there was still work for the girls. A hasty glance told me those honeypots were excellent. What they lacked in weight they made up in training and bladework. A stamp and a flick brought a man down before he had even started fighting them. They were not squeamish: if a slashed artery would stop an opponent, they wasted no energy with a death blow – which takes strength – but sliced into an accessible limb, then leapt away as the blood spurted.

  Those I could see were methodically working through anyone who came at them.

  Petro and I would have made short work of Splice, and if Florius was killed, well, no complaints. We were thwarted, however: the loose chariot swerved back at us, its horses crazed with fear of the slavering bear. Out of control, it rattled between us and our quarry. We tried leaping for the horses' heads but were knocked aside. I heard Petro curse.

  'You brought the hairy boy racer!' I complained.

  'I didn't know he was chariot-mad.'

  Some of the bodyguards now rushed us. Not sure even if they were for Florius or Splice, I took on two of them. Without armour, this was no fun. I had put one man down before Petro joined me. Close by, Splice and Chloris were hard at it. Florius was on the ground, Splice holding him down with his foot. Other thugs were there in support. Chloris was labouring. The heavies had no scruples about attacking women. They were pressing in on Chloris; I was losing sight of her. Petro and I made a big effort, finishing off our opponents with savage sword strokes.

  Chloris had no intention of letting us in on the fight against Splice. She was letting out high-pitched grunts of effort every time she struck a blow. Even that hard nut Splice looked anxious.

  More thugs were arriving. The chariot veered back towards us and turned over on its axle, cutting them off. The bear sprang off, sideswiping me with a hot, heavy flank and pouncing on one of the bodyguards. I smelt its rank odours and heard a scream. The man was down. There were shouts, jeers, frantic growls.

  A female voice shrieked, then I saw Splice fall. Chloris stabbed him again hard; he was done for. Miserably wriggling from under them, Florius escaped the pack and made a run for it. The heavies were fighting the bear. It was overcome by weight and numbers. They kicked and slashed at the creature, which fought back viciously. Chloris raced after Florius. Petro and I burst through the mob and took off after her.

  Chloris and Florius were already halfway to the eastern gate. They attracted attention, so when Petro and I reached the centre of the arena, men ran out to intercept us. In the lead, I raised my sword and let out a tremendous shout. There were more than I could handle, but I was fighting mad.

  'Falco!' Petronius could see the odds.

  I took the head half off the nearest brute while he stood with his mouth open. I still don't know how I did that. It felt good though. In my next onslaught I went for two at once. Now the thugs scattered away. I was on my own for half a minute, then I was aware of Petronius alongside.

  Other things were happening.

  Rattling chains signalled the opening of the huge hatch for animals at the eastern gate. It shot up; new figures raced out, amid the frantic noise of baying dogs.

  'Watch out!' Petronius called to me. If these were arena-trained, they were killers. We made a run for the outskirts. Some of the heavies were less lucky. The pack of hounds were on them, hot for blood. To my astonishment, in among the dogs I saw the slight, pale form of our rescued girl, Albia, wild-eyed and cheering them on. Running in behind in a flash of blue came my own Helena. After her lumbered the dogman, waving his arms, puffing with effort, protesting in a way that said he had not parted with his dogs willingly. Helena turned to remonstrate, defending the hijack.

  Petronius and I had lost Chloris and Florius in the melee. Petro spotted them first. Almost at the gate, Florius kept going, unaware how closely he was being chased by Chloris. He thought he was safe. Then Chloris leapt on him from behind. We heard him gasp. He went flat, swallowing sand.

  Chloris was up again. Merciless, she hauled Florius to his feet, her sword at his throat. She was angry. 'Get up, you bastard!'

  A grumble of thunder disturbed the summer afternoon. It seemed to be darker than ever.

  'We'll take him -' commanded Petronius as we two ran up, breathless. He thought himself the gallant type, which meant never subservient to women.

  'Stuff you!' growled Chloris. I bent double, getting my breath. We had run almost the length of the arena, after fighting hard.

  'This rat is mine -' Petro would never learn. Sweating hard in the sultry temperature, he drew a forearm across his brow.

  'No, I want him,' Chloris insisted.

  'I've been after him for years!'

  'And now I've got him!' Chloris backed away, dragging the gangster like a barley sack. White-faced in her grip, he now looked like the old bundle of gibbering nonentity. Leather trousers don't turn a wimp into a demi-god. He may have shaved his head but he still had all the personality of a dirty rag. He was so scared he was dribbling.

  'How's the wife, Florius?' Petronius taunted.

  'I'll have you for this, vigilis!'

  Out in the arena the female gladiators were now sporting with the Florius bullies. Blades flashed and women laughed harshly. Maddened horses ran free. The dogs were chasing around, showing themselves to have no pedigree as mastiffs, but to be simple-hearted British curs with mange and fleas and a love of fun. They fastened their teeth in the gangsters' garments and swung in the air, like Nux tugging a rope end as a game.

  Helena was coming towards us, pulling Albia away from the area of danger. Even in this weird light I could see the little scavenger, bright-eyed with excitement, clearly relishing life in the adventurous Falco household. Then she spotted and recognised Florius. He must have been at the brothel while she was a prisoner. He must have done something to her. Albia stood stock still and began to scream.

  Her piercing shrieks caught us all out. I covered my ears briefly. Florius ignored the girl. Seizing his momen
t, he bucked and broke free. Chloris reacted instantly, but he slashed her with a brutal fist across the face, and snatched her sword. Her wrist was sliced as she tried instinctively to grab it back. Before anyone could stop him, he had stabbed her in the belly with a wild, circular stroke. Florius, who normally let others do his killing, staggered and looked startled.

  With a murmur of surprise, Chloris collapsed to the ground. There was blood everywhere. I fell on my knees beside her and fumbled to staunch it, but he had ripped her open fatally and no one could push back the unravelling gut. The task was hopeless I still knelt there, disbelieving and sick.

  'She's dying,' said Petronius Longus harshly. He was wrong for once, and I knew it. She was dead.

  XLIV

  A huge crack of thunder scared all Hades out of everyone. Ferocious lightning split the skies. Torrential rain ruined visibility and left us gasping – just as Florius seized his chance and made a bolt for it.

  'Leave her!' Helena commanded. She pulled off her stole, its fabric already soaked in patches, and laid the blue material over Chloris as I wiped my hands and forearms on the sand. Out in the arena there were plenty of bodies, most of them male. The women were starting to look over here; one or two began to run. At the far gate I could see a few red tunics: soldiers had arrived, at least in small numbers. Some were talking with the heavies; most were casually examining the dark corpse of the dead bear.

  'Marcus!' urged Petro.

  'Leave her to us,' Helena repeated, giving me a shove. 'Go! Go after Florius!'

  Petronius was already going, so as if in a dream I followed him.

  Now we knew we were in Britain. Dear gods, any softness I was feeling for this province was wiped out by that first tremendous onslaught of rain. Storms in the Mediterranean have the grace to come at night. Why, when the weather broke in northern climes, did always it happen in the afternoon?

  No building in town was likely to be so well drained as the amphitheatre, but the sheer quantity of water pelting down earthwards had us splashing through torrents even in the shelter of the gateway. The drainage gullies were already thundering with water. Above, sheets of rain careered off every tier of seats. The passageway between the public barrier on the first row and the safety palisade had flooded almost instantly.

  Outside the amphitheatre we could not have been more exposed, anywhere in Londinium, except on the river. Petronius and I staggered from the gateway, with our clothes plastered to our bodies and our hair stuck down, while rivulets cascaded from all parts of us. I felt I could drown in what was streaming off my nose. My eyes were filled with water. My feet stuck to my dead-weight boots, which I could hardly lift from the sodden ground.

  We peered about but Florius had vanished. Dim figures, hunched, covering their heads as best they could, scurried away in different directions through the rain and mist. Petro tried asking them, but they shook him off. If Florius had found or grabbed a cloak from someone, we would never pick him out.

  Lightning still careered across the pitch-dark skies, illuminating our stark faces. Petronius flung an arm in one direction, then he hared off. I turned right. I would be heading towards open country, a fool's errand. Another appalling roll of thunder cracked all around. If there had been a doorway, I would have rushed for shelter and abandoned everything.

  The track that led from the arena hit a road. I jarred my knee when I first pounded on the metalled surface, but I limped on, as the rain increased. I hated this place. I hated the weather. I hated the damned badly run, vulnerable society that had let Florius in, and the administration that did nothing to control his antics. I hated the planners who positioned arenas in remote locations. I hated life.

  Didius Falco, ever the cheery one in a gathering.

  I turned south, making for a built-up area. The first place I reached seemed to be industrial premises, with what sounded like machinery working. I half opened a door. There must be a treadmill. It was pitch dark but I could hear the rackety clatter of its paddles, with the dribbling kiss of the water being raised then sloshed into a collection chamber. It sounded rather tentative.

  I could have sheltered, but it might be hours before the rain let up. I still entertained faint hopes of catching up with Florius. I called out, but nobody answered, so I plunged back outside into the storm again.

  Exhausted by the effort of running through such weather, I then found somewhere more promising: glimpsed through the darkness stood a cluster of buildings. As I approached, head down against the storm, fortune for once smiled. The place had a commercial look. Someone was standing in the open doorway, staring out, but he drew aside to let me in. Warmth hit me. Civilisation awaited. I understood: visitors to the arena had been provided with a set of public baths.

  Ever cautious, I searched for a nameboard. There was a pale fresco above the table where they took the entrance fees. It was called Caesar's. Well, that sounded just fine.

  XLV

  'No swords!'

  'In the name of the governor; I have to search this place!'

  I wanted to bathe. I wanted to shed my drenched garments, drop my weapon from my wet fist, peel off my leaden, sodden boots, then sit on a hot ledge, letting insidious steam wrap around me while I drowsed off. If my conscience allowed me to give up, I could happily stay here for days.

  'Is this official? Got a warrant?' No one had warrants in the provinces. Hades, no one had warrants in Rome. If the vigiles banged on anybody's door, anxious to have a look around, the proprietor would let the roughnecks in and start saving up to pay for breakages.

  I waved my sword angrily. 'This is my warrant. You want to argue, you can send a runner to the procurator's residence.'

  'What – in this weather?'

  'Then shut up and show me round like a bath keeper who wants to retain his licence.'

  They were probably so keen to have bath houses built in Britain that no licence system operated either. Who would police it, if there were no vigiles? Legislation without enforcement is a bad principle.

  Licensing of commercial premises was something we did have at home, with pompous baby senators prancing around as aediles, deadly keen to shift their togate backsides upwards on the cursus honorem, and meanwhile concerning themselves with nosy checks on opening hours, plebeian licentiousness and fire precautions. A bribe to their escort usually moved the irritation up the street to the next victim.

  Here, where bureaucracy had yet to grow taproots, the simple power of language seemed to impress. I can't say I was led around like a hygiene inspector, but I was allowed to wander through the hot and cold rooms undisturbed.

  My life as an informer seemed to be spent in constant searches of wet-floored baths; they were treacherous when in a hurry, wearing boots. It was hard to concentrate while skidding across slippery tiles face-first into a ridged wall which was shot through with hot air tubes. At least the din of thunder from outside was muffled by thick masonry roofs. Here, apart from routine tricklings and gurgles, was a cocoon of warmth and silence.

  Silence was not what I expected. This was a spacious suite of hot rooms, yet there were no customers. This dark establishment lacked the sociability the Roman baths are intended to offer. Nobody at all was debating philosophy, discussing the Games, swapping gossip, or buffing beanbags for exercise. It was another failure for the British judicial legate's citizenship lessons. Come to that, the body oils smelt rancid.

  'Are you always deserted? This is a big place!'

  'There is supposed to be a new fort coming.'

  'Who knows when! How do you make a living? Who uses your baths?'

  'Soldiers mainly. They like the bar next door. They were in earlier. They all got called out on an exercise.' That would be the governor, ordering the troops to search for Splice.

  A thought struck me. The barkeeper who had helped me entertain the centurion, Silvanus – it felt about six weeks ago – had talked about fetching his water from a bath house. 'Does a military drinking den use your water?'

 
; The owner nodded. 'We have a well with a treadmill and a waterwheel,' he informed me proudly. 'There is nothing like our system anywhere north of Gaul -'

  'Indoors?'

  He gestured in the direction I had come from. 'We had to build the well where the water is.'

  'Oh I saw your well-head premises.' That was behind me in the storm; I lost interest. 'So which way is the bar?' I demanded.

  'Right next door,' replied the bath keeper, as if surprised I did not know. 'Caesar's. Same as us.' Well, that saved the drunks having to remember two names.

  I left Caesar's Baths and hurried a few strides through a large, spreading puddle, to Caesar's Bar. When I walked in, who should I see gloomily supping a flagon, but my dear pal Lucius Petronius.

  He half rose, looking anxious. Immediately all my pain over Chloris resurfaced. 'You all right, Falco?'

  'No.'

  He called for another beaker and pushed me on to a bench. 'Grieve. Do it now.' He meant, while I was here with him, not with Helena. Bad enough that she had seen me distraught, red to the elbows with the blood and intestines of a past lover. I glanced down at my clothing.

  At least the rain had washed away some of the mess. As for grief, that decides its own timing.

  Petronius had his elbows on a table, his boots off on the floor to dry, and his big bare feet in a towel. He looked depressed, yet oddly comfortable. He had lost his quarry in the teeming wet, and he had bunked off. I couldn't argue, because so had I.

  'You found him, of course?' I challenged, shaking water from my hair.

  'I will,' Petro croaked: he was obsessive.

  I drank, then wiped my mouth. 'He looked a bit different! That was a shock. I remember him as a soggy lump with hangnails and lanky hair, dreaming he would open his own racing stable – which he never would have done.'

  'Power sharpened him up,' growled Petro. Now he goes for snappy clothes.'