Venus in copper mdf-3

by Lindsey Davis

  I grinned, then we sat together in silence a few minutes more.

  After jail, this room in her father's house was a haven of tranquillity. Here we had rag rugs and tasselled cushions to make us comfortable. Thick masonry muffled out sounds from the street, while light flowing in through high windows on the garden side lit walls which were painted as mock marble, the colour of ripened wheat. It provided a gracious impression- though a slightly faded one. Helena's father was a millionaire (this was not good detective work on my part, just the minimum qualification for the Senate); yet even he regarded himself as struggling in a city where only multimillionaires attracted election votes.

  My own position was far worse. I had no money and no status. To carry off Helena on respectable terms, I would have to find four hundred thousand sesterces and then persuade the Emperor to add me to the list of pitiful nonentities who form the middle rank. Even if I ever managed it, I was for her a disreputable choice.

  She read my thoughts. 'Marcus, I heard your horse won his race at the Circus Maximus.'

  Life does have its compensations: the horse, who was called Little Sweetheart, had been a lucky bequest to me. I could not afford to stable him, but before he went to the horse sales I had entered him in just one race- which he won at amazing odds. 'Helena, you are right; I made some money on that race. I might invest in a more impressive apartment, to attract a better class of client.'

  Her head nodded approvingly, close against my knee. She had her hair pinned up with a pantheon of ivory bodkins, all with knobs carved as strict-looking goddesses. While I mused about my lack of money I had pulled one out, so I stuck it in my belt like a hunting knife, then teasingly set about capturing the rest. Helena squirmed in mild annoyance, reaching for my wrists. Eventually she knocked my fistful of pins to the floor; I let her flail around trying to find them while I carried on methodically with my plan.

  By the time I had her hair all loose, Helena had repossessed her bodkins- though I noticed she let me keep the one stuffed in my belt. I still have it: Flora, with a crown of roses which is giving her hay fever; she turns up sometimes when I burrow for lost pens in my writing-box.

  I spread out Helena's shining hair the way I wanted it. 'That's better! Now you look more like a lass who might agree to being kissed-in fact you look like one who might even kiss me of her own accord…" I reached down and pulled her arms round my neck.

  It was a long, deeply appreciative kiss. Only the fact that

  I knew Helena very well made me notice that my own passion was meeting unusual restraint from her.

  'What's this? Gone off me, fruit?'

  'Marcus, I can't-'

  I understood. Her miscarriage had shaken her; she was wary of risking another. And she was probably afraid of losing me too. We both knew more than one bright spark of Roman rectitude who would automatically ditch a distressed girlfriend at a time like this.

  'I'm sorry-' She was embarrassed, and struggling to escape. But she was still my Helena. She wanted me to hold her almost as much as I wanted to. She needed to be comforted- even though for once she shrank from encouraging me.

  'My darling, it's natural.' I loosened my grip. 'Everything will right itself…" I knew I had to be reassuring so I tried to treat her gently, though it was hard to take disappointment when it felt so physical. I was cursing, and Helena must have been aware of it.

  We sat quiet and talked about family matters (a bad idea as usual), then not long afterwards I said I had to leave.

  Helena took me to the door. The porter had now disappeared altogether so I undid the bolts myself. She threw her arms round me and buried her face in my neck. 'I suppose you'll run after other women!'

  'Naturally!' I managed to make a joke of it too.

  Her huge stricken eyes were affecting me badly. I kissed her eyelids then tormented myself, holding her tight against me while I lifted her right off her feet. 'Come and live with me!' I urged suddenly. 'The gods only know how long it will take me to earn what we need to be respectable. I'm frightened of losing you; I want to have you close. If I rent a bigger apartment-'

  'Marcus, I just feel-'

  'Trust me.'

  Helena smiled, and pulled my ear as if she thought that was the quickest way to make our difficulties permanent. But she promised to think about what I had said.

  My step lightened as I walked home to the Aventine.

  Even if my lady was reluctant to join me, with my winnings on Little Sweetheart there was nothing to stop me leasing a more gracious apartment anyway… Knowing what I was going home to, the thought of living somewhere else was bound to cheer me up.

  Then I remembered that before I was hauled off to prison, my uncashed betting tokens had been swallowed by my three-year-old niece.

  Chapter IV

  The Eagle Laundry, Fountain Court.

  Of all the groaning tenements in all the sordid city alleyways, the most degrading must be Fountain Court. It was five minutes off the great road from Ostia, one of the most vital highways in the Empire, but this ulcerous spot in the armpit of the Aventine could have been a different world. Up above, on the double crests of the hill, were the great Temples of Diana and Venus, but we lived too close to see their lofty architecture from our deep, dark warren of aimless, nameless lanes. It was cheap (for Rome). Some of us would have paid the landlord more just to have him hire a pair of competent bailiffs to evict us into the fresher air of a better street.

  My apartment was high in a vast, ramshackle block. A laundry occupied all the space at street level; woollen tunics awaiting collection were the only things in our neighbourhood that were clean. Once on, their pristine condition could be ruined by one short trip down the muddy single track that served as both our exit road and the nearest we had to a sewer, amidst the smuts from the lampblack furnace where a one-eyed stationers' supplier brewed stinking domestic ink, and the smoke from the beehive ovens where Cassius our local bread-man could char a loaf to the verge of destruction like no other baker in Rome.

  These were dangerous byways: in a moment of lapsed concentration, I sank to the ankle in sticky brown dung. While I was muttering and cleaning my boot on a kerbstone, Lenia the laundress stuck her head round a line of tunics. Seeing me, she bustled out to deride me as usual. She was an ill-kempt bundle who approached with the gracelessness of a swan landing on water: wild writhings of luridly dyed red hair, watery eyes, and a voice that was hoarse from too many flagons of badly fermented wine.

  'Falco! Where've you been all week?'

  'Out of town.'

  It was unclear whether she knew I meant in the Lautumiae. Not that Lenia would care. She was too lazy to be curious, except in closely defined areas of business. Those included whether my filthy landlord Smaractus was being paid his dues-and she only became really curious about that after she decided to marry him. A decision made for purely financial reasons (because Smaractus was as rich as Crassus after decades of squeezing the Aventine poor) and now Lenia was preparing for her wedding with the clinical will of a surgeon. (Knowing that the patient would pay heavily for her services, after she had carved him up…)

  'I gather I'm in credit,' I grinned.

  'You finally found out how to pick a woman!'

  'True; I rely on the Parian perfection of my face-'

  Lenia, who was a harsh critic of the fine arts, cackled cynically. 'Falco, you're a cheap fake!'

  'Not me-I come with a certificate of quality from a lady of good repute! She likes to pamper me. Well I deserve it, of course… How much has she contributed?'

  I could see Lenia opening her mouth to lie about it; then she worked out that Helena Justina was bound to tell me, if ever I had the good manners to discuss my debt. 'Three months, Falco.'

  'Jupiter!' That was a shock to my system. The most I ever reckoned to donate to my landlord's retirement fund was three weeks (in arrears). 'Smaractus must think he's been transported on a rainbow to Olympus!'

  I deduced from a certain cloudiness in Lenia's
expression that Smaractus had yet to discover his luck. She changed the subject rapidly: 'Someone keeps coming here asking for you.'

  'Client?' Nervously I wondered if the Chief Spy had already discovered me missing. 'Take his details?'

  'Oh I've better things to do, Falco! He turns up every day and every day I tell him you're not here-' I relaxed. Anacrites would have had no reason to be looking for me until this afternoon.

  'Well, I'm back now!' I felt too weary to be bothered with mysteries.

  I set off up the stairs. I lived on the sixth floor, the cheapest of all. It gave me plenty of time to remember the familiar smell of urine and old cabbage ends; the stale pigeon droppings staining every step; the wall graffiti, not all of them at child height, of stickmen charioteers; the curses against betting agents and the pornographic advertisements. I knew hardly any of my fellow tenants, but I recognised their voices quarrelling as I passed. Some doors were permanently closed with oppressive secrecy; other families opted for no more than curtained entrances which forced their neighbours to share their dismal lives. A naked toddler ran out of one, saw me, and rushed back inside screaming. A demented old lady on the third floor always sat in her doorway and gabbled after anyone who came by; I saluted her with a gracious gesture which set her off into torrents of venomous abuse.

  I needed practice; I was stumbling when I finally reached the top of the building. For a moment I listened: professional habit. Then I operated my simple latch-lifter and pushed open the door.

  Home. The sort of apartment where you go in; change your tunic; read your friends' messages; then find any excuse to rush straight back out again. But today I could not face the nightmares on the stairs a second time, so I stayed in.

  Four strides permitted me to survey my premises: the office with a cheap bench and table, then the bedroom with a lopsided contraption that served as my bed. Both rooms had the worrying neatness that resulted when my mother had enjoyed three days of uninterrupted tidying. I looked around suspiciously but I reckoned no one else had been there. Then I set about making the place my own again. I soon managed to knock the sparse furniture askew, rumple the bedclothes, spill water everywhere as I revived my balcony foliage, and drop all the clothes I had been wearing onto the floor.

  After that I felt better. Now it was Home.

  Prominent on the table, where not even I could miss it, stood a ceramic Greek bowl which I had bought off an antiques stall for two coppers and a cheeky smile; it was half full of scratched bone counters, some with extremely odd streaks of colour. I chortled. The last time I saw these was at a ghastly family party where my little niece Marcia had seized them to play with and swallowed most of them: my betting tags.

  When a child has eaten something you prefer not to lose, there is only one way- if you are fond of the child- to recover it. I knew the disgusting procedure from the time my brother Festus swallowed our mother's wedding ring and pressured me to help him find it. (Until he was killed in Judaea, which put an end to my fraternal duties, there was a tradition in our family that Festus was the one who was always in trouble, while I was the fool he always persuaded to dig him out of it.) Gulping down family valuables must be an inherited trait; I had just spent three days in prison wishing constipation on my feckless brother's sweet but feckless child…

  No need to worry. Some hard-headed relation- my sister Maia probably, the only one who could organise-had gallantly retrieved these tags. To celebrate, I pulled up a floorboard where I had half a wine jar hidden away from visitors and sat out on my balcony with my feet up on the parapet while I applied all my attention to a restorative drink.

  As soon as I was comfortable, a visitor arrived.

  I heard him come in, gasping for air after the long climb. I kept quiet, but he found me anyway. He pushed through the folding door and accosted me chirpily. 'You Falco?'

  'Could be.'

  He had arms as thin as pea-sticks. A triangular face came down to a point at a dot of a chin. Above it ran a narrow black moustache, almost ear to ear. The moustache was what you noticed. It bisected a face that was too old for his adolescent body, as if he were a refugee from a province racked by twenty years of famine and tribal strife. The true cause was nothing so dramatic. He was just a slave.

  'Who's asking?' I prompted. By then I had warmed up enough in the late-afternoon sunshine not to care.

  'A runabout from the house of Hortensius Novus.'

  He had a faintly foreign accent, but it lay a long way back behind the common lilt all prisoners of war seem to contract in the slave market. I guessed he had picked up his Latin as a small child; probably by now he could hardly remember his native tongue. His eyes were blue; he looked like a Celt to me.

  'You have a name?'

  'Hyacinthus!'

  He said it with a level stare that dared me to scoff. If he was a slave he had enough problems without enduring ribaldry from every new acquaintance just because some overseer with a filthy hangover had stuck him with the name of a Greek flower.

  'Pleased to meet you, Hyacinthus.' I refused to present a target for the aggressive retort he held ready. 'I've never heard of your master Hortensius. What's his problem?'

  'If you asked him, he'd say nothing.'

  People often talk in riddles when they commission an informer. Very few clients seem capable of asking straight out, What are your rates for proving that my wife sleeps with my driver?

  'So why has he sent you?' I asked the runabout patiently.

  'His relations have sent me,' Hyacinthus corrected me. 'Hortensius Novus has no idea I'm here.'

  That convinced me the case involved denaru, so I waved Hyacinthus to my bench: a hint of cash worth being secretive about always perks me up.

  'Thanks, Falco; you're a regular general!' Hyacinthus assumed my invitation to sit included my winejar too; to my annoyance he dodged back indoors and found a beaker for himself. As he made himself at home under my rose pergola he demanded, 'This your idea of a gracious setting for interviewing clients?'

  'My clients are easily impressed.'

  'It stinks! Or is this just one of the drop-ins you keep around Rome?'

  'Something like that.'

  'It was the only address we had.' It was the only address I had. He tried the wine, then spluttered. 'Parnassus!'

  'Gift from a grateful client,' Not grateful enough.

  I poured myself a refill, as an excuse to shift the winejar out of his reach. He was having a good squint at me. My informality made him doubtful. The world is full of straight-haired fools who think curly-tops who grin at them cannot possibly be good businessmen.

  'This place has all I need,' I said, implying that to exist in such squalor I must be tougher than I looked. 'The people I want to meet know where to find me-while the ones I may be avoiding are put off by the stairs… All right Hyacinthus, I don't issue a prospectus of my services, but here's what I can offer: I do information-gathering of a mainly domestic type-'

  'Divorce?' he translated, with a grin.

  'Correct! Also investigating prospective sons-in-law on behalf of sensitive fathers, or advising recent legatees whether their bequests involve any hidden debt. I do leg-work for lawyers who need more evidence-with a court appearance if required. I have contacts in auctioneering and I specialise in recovery of precious artworks after theft. I don't tackle draftdodgers or debt collection. And I never fix gladiatorial fights.'

  'Squeamish?'

  'Better sense.'

  'We shall want to take up references.'

  'So will I! All my business is legitimate.'

  'How much do you charge, Falco?'

  'Depends on the complexity of the case. A solving fee, plus a daily expense rate. And I give no guarantees, other than a promise to do my best.'

  'What is it you do for the Palace?' Hyacinthus threw in suddenly.

  'I don't work for the Palace now.' It sounded like official secrecy: a pleasing effect. 'Is that why you're here?'

  'My people felt a Pal
ace man came ready recommended.'

  'Their mistake! If they hire me I'll do a decent job, and be discreet. So, Hyacinthus, are we in business?'

  'I have to invite you to the house. You'll be told about the case there.'

  I had intended to go anyway. I like to inspect the people who will be paying me. 'So where am I heading?'

  'The Via Lata sector. On the Pincian.'

  I whistled. 'Highly desirable! Are Hortensius and his relations people of rank?'

  'Freedmen.'

  Ex-slaves! That was new for me. But it made a change from vindictive officials and the hypocrisies I had run up against with some of the senatorial class.

  'You object?' Hyacinthus enquired curiously.

  'Why should I, if their money's good?'

  'Oh… no reason,' said the slave.

  He finished his drink and waited for another, but I had no intention of offering. 'We're on the Via Flaminia side, Falco. Anyone in the district will point out the house.'

  'If Hortensius is to know nothing about this, when shall I come?'

  'Daytime. He's a businessman. He leaves home after breakfast usually.'

  'What's his business?' My question was a routine one, but the way Hyacinthus shrugged and ignored it seemed oddly evasive. 'So who do I ask for?'

  'Sabina Pollia-or if she's unavailable, there's another called Hortensia Atilia-but it's Pollia who is taking the initiative.'

  'Wife?'

  He gave me a sly grin. 'Novus is unmarried.'

  'Don't tell me any more! So the females of his household are hiring me to frighten off a gold-digger?' Hyacinthus looked impressed. 'When a bachelor has a houseful of formidable women- and don't tell me Hortensius Novus hasn't,' I growled, 'because you're here behind his back on their behalf-why does he always decide that the solution to his troubles lies in marrying another one?'

  'Now tell me you don't do gold-diggers!' the runabout retaliated.

  'All the time!' I assured him glumly. 'Gold-diggers are wonderful women: the bedrock of my trade!'

  As he left he said, 'If you ever do think of leasing a more respectable apartment-'