“I write to her,” Sosia explained, as if she read my thoughts.
I said nothing. I was leaving. There was no longer anything to say. I stood, half aware of the clean scents of summer flowers and the lazy warmth beating off the stones.
“I tell Helena everything.”
I stared at her more kindly, smitten with unease. It is an odd fact, you feel more ashamed when you have nothing to answer for than when you are disguising some brazen act of scandal.
Since I was still silent, Sosia continued to talk. It was her one annoying habit; she never could sit quiet.
“You’re really going away? I won’t see you again? There’s something I want to say. Marcus Didius Falco, I’ve been wondering for days how to ‘
She had used my formal name. No one ever did that. Her respectful tone was more than I could bear. I had stumbled into a real emergency. My anger fled.
“Don’t!” I exclaimed urgently. “Sosia, believe me, when you need to spend days composing your script, the reason is it’s best to say nothing at all!”
She hesitated.
“You don’t know ‘
I was a spare-time poet; there were many things I would never know, but I recognized this. “Oh Sosia - I know!”
For one fantastic moment I flashed into a dream where I took Sosia Camillina into my life. I flashed back. Only a fool tries to step across the barriers of rank in that way. A man may buy himself into the middle class, or have the gold ring donated to him for services to the Emperor (especially if the services are of a dubious kind), but so long as her father and her uncle knew what they were about and her uncle must, he was a millionaire then even with that queer problem of having no mother to name, Sosia Camillina would be disposed of in some way to enhance her own position and their family bank account. Our two lives could never converge. At heart she understood, for despite her brave attempt she stared at her toes in their knotted gold sandals, biting her lip but accepting what I said.
“If I need you she began in a subdued tone.
I replied briskly, for my own sake. “You won’t. In your sweet, sheltered life you have no need of anyone like me. And Sosia Camillina, I really don’t need you!”
I left quickly so I should not see her face.
I walked home. Rome, my city, which had been until then a never failing solace, lay before me like a woman, secretive and beautiful, demanding and rewarding, eternally seductive. For the first time in my life, I refused to be seduced.
XVII
I did see Sosia Camillina again. She asked me to meet her. Of course I went. I went as soon as I could.
By then summer was nuzzling autumn’s neck. The days seemed equally long and hot, but towards dusk the air began to cool more quickly. I went out to the Campagna for a grape gathering holiday, but my heart was never in it and I came home.
I had not been able to shift the silver pigs from my mind. This puzzle had gripped my interest; no amount of raging at the way I had been teased along by Decimus Camillus could alter that. Whenever I saw him, Petronius Longus asked after my progress. He knew how I felt, but was too enthralled for tact. I started to avoid him, which depressed me even more. In addition, the whole world was watching our new emperor Vespasian. There was no possibility of gossiping at the barber’s or the baths, the racetrack or the theatre, without an awkward twinge because I could not forget what I knew.
For six weeks or longer I lay low. I bungled divorce cases, failed to serve writs, forgot the dates of court appearances, tore ligaments at the gym, insulted my family, dodged my landlord, drank too much, ate too little, gave up women for good. If I went to the theatre I lost the thread of the plot.
Then one day Lenia cornered me.
“Falco! Your girlfriend’s been.”
Out of habit I demanded which? I still liked to imply I was harassed by half-naked Tripolitanian acrobats every afternoon. Lenia knew perfectly well I had given up women; she missed the clip of their little sandals and the giggles on the stairs when I brought them in. She also missed the shrieks of indignation when my mother swept them out with the dust next day.
“Little miss dainty with the pedigree and bangles. I let her pee in the bleach vat, then she wrote a note upstairs…”
I took the stairs in a rush. I reached the apartment all asplutter with a hacking throat. My mother had been: a pile of mended tunics, a picture of a chariot drawn on a slate by my niece, a mullet in a covered dish. I flung these aside as I searched.
The note was in my bedroom. An odd pang caught me, to imagine Sosia there. She had pegged her message on my pile of poetry under the jet bracelet that I knew. I wondered if she noticed that “Aglaia, Radiant Goddess’, was really about her. All the girls in my odes are called Aglaia, a poet needs to protect himself.
Sosia had left me a wooden tablet, unlaced from one of those four-page pocketbooks and then inscribed deeply with a stylus in a round hand that had never done serious writing:
Didius Falco, I know a place where they may keep the silver pigs. If I show you, you can claim your bonus. Will you meet me at the Golden Milestone in two hours? If you are too busy, I will go for you and see…
I pounded back downstairs in a blind panic.
“Lenia! Lenia, what time was she here ‘
They were waiting for me calmly, at the foot of the last flight.
Smaractusl
Below me, shadows moved, their bare feet noiseless on the stone steps: my landlord’s gladiators, after my unpaid rent.
I have an arrangement with the cloak maker who lives on the second floor that in an emergency I can run through his room, fling myself over the balcony onto the fire-fighting porch, then drop into the street. I had passed the cloak maker door. I half turned back. The door opened. Someone who was not the cloak maker came out.
They were straight from Smaractus’ insanitary gym and in full fighting rig. Below me, the type called myrmillons, glistening with oil above their body-belts, their right arms padded and ringed with metal from collarbone to fist, their solid high-crested helmets shaped like curling, sneering fish. Above me, when I whirled round, two light, laughing men in tunics only, but each with a fiendish net coiled on his arm his fishermen.
I whipped back.
“Didius Falco! What’s the rush?”
I recognized the one who spoke. I recognized his build. He crouched slightly, in fighting stance, faceless behind his helmet grille. I must have exclaimed.
“Oh no! Not now, oh gods, not now ‘
“Now, Falco!”
“You can’t, oh you can’t - ‘
“Oh we can! Let’s show the man…” Then both fishers flung their nets down over my head.
I knew, as I struggled hopelessly in two ten foot circles of biting cords, that it was going to be much worse than being arrested by the aedile’s bullyboys. If Smaractus was just making his point, they would tenderize me like an octopus slammed on the foreshore rocks. If he had found himself a new tenant for upstairs, I was finished. It was going to be as bad as anything could be. My only comfort was that I would know very little about it once I managed to pass out, and that perhaps I would never wake up.
There were probably five of them, but it seemed more. The fishers could not be seen with their spiked tridents in the open streets, but the myrmillons had brought their wooden practice swords. As I flailed in the nets, they beat me systematically until I faded in a smother of disjointed sounds.
I was coming to. New tenants must be thin on the ground. Perhaps they had heard what life in a Smaractus apartment is like. The office was mine still; I was waking up.
Not in my room; somewhere else.
I felt desperately tired. Pain lapped around me as thick as spilt nectar, then I swirled in a torrent of sensation and fierce noise back up from the whirlpool.
“He’s coming round! Say something, Falco!” Lenia ordered.
My brain uttered words. I heard no sound; my cotton ball mouth never moved.
I felt sorry for this Falco if
he hurt as much as me. I had left the world for perhaps thirty seconds, perhaps a hundred years. Wherever I had been was better than here, and I wanted to go back.
“Marcus!” Not Lenia any more. “Don’t try to talk, son.” Lenia had sent for my mother. Good heavens.
Slowly the red blur behind my eyelids solidified. Slowly I and that other poor man they called Falco fused together.
This is Who said that? Me or Falco? Him I think.
My mother’s voice, acid with relief, spoke: “This is why people keep up with their rent!”
Lenia loomed over me, her neck haggard as a giant lizard. “Lie still!” she said. I sat up.
My mother had helped. Anything to lie down again, but her
arm at my back held me upright like a puppeteer’s softwood stick.
My mother raised my head, holding me under the chin with the firm, neutral grip of a lifelong nurse. She treats me like a hopeless case. She speaks to me as if I were a delinquent child. The loss of my great-hearted brother burns between us like wormwood in the throat, a perpetual reproach. I don’t even know what she reproaches me for. I suspect she doesn’t know herself.
She seemed to believe in me now. Mother said, in a voice that forced sense deep into the mash that had once been my brain, “Marcus! I am worried about the little girl. We read her note. I sent Petronius to find her, but you ought to go ‘
I reached the Forum in a litter, shouldered through the crowds like some gross eunuch with more money than taste. We jostled to the Golden Milestone, from which all the roads in the Empire take their distance. I thought of her, waiting to meet me at the heart of the world. No sign of her now. One of Petro’s troopers gave me a message to meet his captain in Nap Lane. The man held back, still expecting someone else. I set off on foot.
Hunting for the right back alley I found some sewer men ferreting round a manhole as sewer men like to do. They were working with more energy than usual. Concrete was being shovelled underground frantically, with not a wine gourd of refreshment in sight.
I addressed them with a formality of tone I reserve for specialists: “Sorry to interrupt. Have you possibly had a moment to spot Petronius Longus, the captain of the Aventine watch?”
The foreman gave me the benefit of his philosophy of life: “Listen centurion, when the Great Drain starts gulping the Sacred Way into the shit after five hundred years, the nav vies shoring up the culvert have better things to do than take a census of passersby!”
Thanks for your trouble,” I replied politely. For once it worked.
“Back of the pepper warehouses,” he admitted gruffly. “Whole crowd of silly devils stirring up the dust.” I was already half way there, calling my thanks.
There was no rush.
Nap Lane lay on the south side of the Forum near the spice markets. It was typical of the steep, twisty side routes
that dive off our major streets, only just wide enough for a waggon to force through, clogged with dry mud, littered with broken spars of wood and waste. Shutters leaned off their hinges overhead where the buildings jutted over the street, hiding the sky. There was a musty smell of night-time occupation by degenerates. A cat yowled viciously as I went past. It was the sort of hole where you worry if you see someone coming and worry if you don’t. It seemed a sorry end for the stately caravans that swung the treasures of Arabia, India and China halfway across the world for sale in Rome.
The warehouse I wanted looked abandoned; there was lush vegetation clogging the ruts in its gateway and a wrecked waggon lurching on one axle outside. I found them in an open yard, Petronius Longus and nearly a dozen men. Even before I turned in at the gate, the voices of saddened professionals warned me what to expect. I had heard that subdued note so many times before.
Petro strode towards me. “Marcus!”
I lost any hope or doubt.
He reached me, he grasped both my hands. His eyes flickered over my bruises, too preoccupied to take them in. He would never be hardened. While other men sit in oyster bars being cynical over nothing, Petronius Longus merely gives his slow, tolerant smile. Turning back at some movement, he put an arm round my shoulders, completely unable to tell me what had happened. It didn’t matter. I already knew.
They had found her inside the warehouse. I arrived at the moment when they were carrying her out, so that was when I saw her for the last time. Her white dress hung like a hank of wool over a grim trooper’s arm while her head lolled backwards in a way that was unmistakable: Sosia Camillina was dead.
XVIII
Darkness, flares, the patrol waiting for the magistrate. They coped with strangled prostitutes and fishwives battered with staves, but this touched the senate no worse to solve, but menacing paperwork.
Petronius groaned in despair. “We wasted hours searching. Squeezed the throats of a trail of pimps who had watched her. Found the lane, battered five different watchmen before we identified the place. Too late. Nothing I could do. Just nothing I could do… This damned city!”
He loved Rome.
They laid her down in the yard.
It is usually easy to maintain some detachment at this point. I rarely know the victim; I don’t meet the victim until after the crime. That order of events is what I recommend.
I covered my face.
I was aware of Petronius Longus dragging back his men. We had been colleagues for a long time. We fought life from the same side. He granted me as much leeway as he could.
I stood, a yard from her. Petronius came to my shoulder. He muttered. Crouching, his big hand softly closed her eyes. He stood by me again. We were both looking down at her. He was looking at Sosia to avoid looking at me. I was looking at Sosia because there was nothing else on this earth that I ever wanted to look at again.
Her sweet face was still bright with the flimflammery a young woman of her station paints on. Beneath, her skin tones were stone-white as alabaster. It was her; yet it would never be her. There was no light and no laughter, only a motionless, eggshell-white case. It was a corpse, yet I could not deal with it as a corpse.
“She cannot have realized,” Petro murmured. He cleared his throat. “That was all. No nasty work.”
Rape. He meant rape, torture, indignity, indecency.
She was dead and this poor fool was trying to tell me she had not been terrorized! I wanted to rage at him that nothing else mattered. He was trying to tell me it was quick. I could see that! One short, hard, violent upward blow had killed Sosia Camillina before she guessed what the man would do. There was very little blood; she had died of shock.
“Was she dead when you arrived?” I asked “Did she say anything?”
Routine questions, Marcus. Cling to your routine.
Pointless even to ask. Petronius shrugged helplessly, then moved away.
So I stood there, and was as nearly alone with Sosia as I would ever be again. I wanted to hold her in my arms, but there were too many people. After a while I just dropped down on my heels and stayed with her while Petro kept his squad dies at rest. I could not speak to her, not even in my head. I no longer really looked at her, lest the sluggish wake of her spilt blood should defeat me.
I sat there, living through what must have happened. It was the nearest I could come to helping her. It was the only way I could comfort her for dying so alone.
I know who it was. He must realize that. One day, however carefully he protects himself, the man will answer to me.
She found him there, writing (that was evident). Writing what? Not a tally of the silver bars, for she was wrong, there were no bars, though we turned the deserted warehouse over for days. But he was writing, because lampblack from the wet ink stained her white dress around the wound. Perhaps she knew him. When she found him, he realized she needed to be silenced, so he stood up and rapidly stabbed her, a rising blow through the heart, once, with his pen.
Petronius was right. Sosia Camillina could not have expected that.
I rose. I managed neither to stumble nor break down.
>
“Her father…”
“I’ll tell them,” stated Petronius drably. A task he so hated. “Go home. I’ll tell the family. Marcus, just go home!”
I decided after all to let him tell them.
I could feel his eyes watching me as I walked away. He wanted to help. He knew there was nothing anyone could do.
XIX
I went to the funeral. In my line of work, this is traditional. Petronius came with me.
According to custom, they conducted the ceremony out of doors. They came in procession from her father’s house, bringing Sosia Camillina in an open bier with garlands in her hair. The cremation took place outside the city near the family mausoleum on the Appian Way. They dispensed with professional mourners. Young men who were friends of the family carried her funeral bed.
There was a blustery wind. They brought her through Rome in daylight, with flute music and lamentation, disrupting the city streets. At the pyre, built of untrimmed wood like an altar and with dark leaves woven round the sides, one of the young bearers stumbled. I stepped forward to help, without looking. The bier was so light it nearly flew from our hands as we swung it up.
Her father’s oration was short, almost perfunctory. That seemed right. So too had been her life. What Publius Camillus said that day was simple, and simply the truth.
“This was my only daughter, Sosia Camillina. She was fair, reverent and dutiful, snatched from the world before she could know the love of a husband or child. Receive her young soul gently, O ye gods…” He seized one of the torches and, with formally averted gaze, he lit the pyre.
Lindsey Davis - Falco 01 - Silver Pigs Page 6
