Shadows in Bronze

by Lindsey Davis

  Today’s events brought me up sharp. Snooping round that warehouse displayed an unhealthy interest in events any sensible freedman would want to pretend he knew nothing about, and attacking me was a fool’s game. I knew I could still not get on with my work with a clear mind, so I bestirred myself to make some more enquiries among the waifs we had not yet sent to the slave market.

  ‘Who knows Barnabas?’

  ‘What’s in it for us?’

  ‘Give me something else to think about and I may forget to beat you-‘

  Screwing facts out of these noodles was hard work. I gave up and hunted down Chrysosto, a Levantine secretary who would sell for a high price once we released him for auction, though at present I was using him to make up inventories.

  Chrysosto was a limp bladder with seedy skin and a bleary-eyed look from poking his nose into crannies when a nose is best not applied. He was displaying a white tunic, much too short in the hem, though the legs he was so proud of were just the usual pale shanks that lurk in offices, finished off with hairy knobs for knees and crumpled sandals. You could knock in tent pegs with his hammertoes.

  ‘Stop scribing a moment - what was special about Barnabas?’

  ‘Oh, his honour and Barnabas grew up on the same farm.’

  Under my gimlet gaze Chrysosto edged his skinny pins behind a table. He had probably started out with talent, but writing letters for a man with a slow brain and a short temper soon taught him to disguise his initiative.

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘A Calabrian scruff’

  ‘Did you like him?

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Do you reckon he knew what your master was up to?’

  ‘Barnabas reckoned he knew everything.’

  This well-informed Calabrian had been made a free citizen, so in theory if he wanted to moonlight that was up to him. Since his patron was a traitor, I had originally sympathized if he thought skipping from home was a sensible move. Now I wondered if he had taken himself off because he was up to something slippery.

  ‘Any idea why he should run away, Chrysosto? Was he very cut up about your master’s death?’

  ‘Probably, but no one saw him afterwards. He stayed in his room with the door bolted; he had his food left outside. None of us had ever got on with him, so no one tried to interfere. Even when he went to jail to ask for the body no one here knew. I only discovered he had organized the funeral when the undertaker brought a bill.’

  ‘Did no one at all attend the cremation?

  ‘No one knew. But the ashes are there in the family mausoleum; I went to pay my respects yesterday. There’s a new urn; alabaster-‘

  So being an aristocrat had protected the young Senator from being tumbled into a sewer. After he had died in prison his body had been released for expensive funeral rites, even though they were conducted by his freedman, alone and in secrecy.

  ‘One more thing. When your master gave Barnabas his freedom, did he set him up in business - anything to do with importing grain, for instance?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. All those two ever talked about were horses.’

  By now Barnabas was causing me considerable alarm. My message through Tullia about his legacy might draw him back here if he wanted the cash. To reinforce it even if he stayed away I sent out a runner to scrawl up a bill in the Forum promising a modest reward for news of his whereabouts. That might entice some friendly citizen to hand him over to a member of the watch.

  ‘What reward shall I put, Falco?’

  ‘Try three sesterces; if someone’s not very thirsty, that may buy his evening drink…’

  Which reminded me, I was ready for one myself.

  VI

  There was no need to leave the house in search of refreshment. The man who had once lived here was called Gnaeus Atius Pertinax, and he had left behind everything for a comfortable lift: there was plenty to drink, and I had ready access.

  Because Pertinax was a traitor, his property was forfeit-snapped up by our jovial new Emperor. Some poor-quality farms in Calabria (like the one where he and Barnabas grew up) had already been seized. A few items that still belonged to his aged father were grudgingly returned: some lucrative tenement leases and a pair of handsome racehorses. There were a couple of ships too, though the Emperor was still debating whether to keep those for the state. Meanwhile we had confiscated this mansion in Rome, stuffed with highly desirable contents which Pertinax had grubbed together as such playboys do: through personal legacies, sharp efforts in trade, gifts from his friends, bribes from business colleagues, and successes at the racetrack where his judgement was excellent. The mansion on the Quirinal was being turned over by three imperial agents: Momus, Anacrites and me.

  It had taken us nearly a fortnight. We were doing our best to enjoy this drudgery. Every night we recovered, lying in a banqueting room still faintly perfumed with sandalwood, on huge carved ivory couches with mattresses of fine-combed wool, working our way through what was left of the late owner’s fifteen-year-old Alban wine. On one of his tripod tables we controlled a silver wine warmer, with a chamber for burning charcoal, a tray for ash, and a little tap for letting off our drink when it was perfectly mulled. Slim lampstands with triple lions’ feet burned fine scented oil for us as we all tried to convince ourselves we should hate to live in luxury like this.

  The mansion’s summer dining room had been decorated by a talented fresco artist; spectacular views across a garden showed the Fall of Troy, but even the garden turned out to be minutely painted stucco on the indoor wall, complete with realistic peacocks being stalked by a tabby cat.

  ‘Our late host’s wines,’ Anacrites declared, pretending to be a bumptious connoisseur (the sort who makes a lot of noise, but doesn’t really know), ‘are almost as tasty as his domestic scenery!’

  Anacrites called himself a secretary; he was a spy. He had a tense, compact frame and a bland face, with unusual grey eyes and eyebrows so faint they were nearly invisible.

  ‘Drink up then!’ Momus chivvied rudely.

  Momus was a typical slave overseer: shorn head to deter lice, wine gut, greasy belt, grubby chin, croaky voice from the diseases of his trade, and tough as an old nail stuck in wood. He was clearing out the personnel. He had evicted all the freedmen with little cash gifts to make them grateful, and was now hatching up the slaves we had found crammed into barracks at the back of the building complex. The Senator had collected his own manicurists and hair-curlers, pastry chefs and saucemakers, bath slaves and bedroom slaves, dog-walkers and bird-tamers, a librarian, three accountants, harpists and singers, even a squadron of nippy young lads whose sole job was running out to place his racing bets. For a youngish man, with no family responsibilities, he had equipped himself splendidly.

  ‘Making progress, Falco? Momus asked, using a gilt perfume bowl as a spittoon. I got on well with Momus; he was crooked, filthy, slapdash and devious - a pleasantly clear-cut type.

  ‘Cataloguing a consul’s son’s homely chattels is an education for a simple Aventine lad!’ I saw Anacrites smile. Friends of mine had warned me that he had been poking into my background until he must have known what floor of which crumbling tenement I came from, and whether the room I was born in thirty years ago faced into the courtyard or over the street. He had certainly discovered whether I was as simple as I looked.

  ‘I ask myself;’ groaned Momus, ‘why anyone with all this loot needed to risk it offending the Emperor?’

  ‘Is that what he did?’ I asked, innocently. We three spent more time watching each other than looking for conspirators. Momus, who was a dedicated eavesdropper, went unconvincingly to sleep. His splaytoed feet turned up at a perfect right angle in his black boots, which were rigid, the better to kick slaves.

  I was aware of Anacrites eyeing me. I let him get on with it. ‘Happy day, Falco?’

  ‘Dead men and eager women all the way!’

  ‘I suppose,’ he probed, ‘the secretaries at the Palace are keeping you in the
dark?’

  ‘Seems the general idea,’ I replied, none too pleased by the thought.

  Anacrites helped me make up lost time with the Alban nectar. ‘I’m trying to place you, Falco. What’s your role?’

  ‘Oh, I was the son of an auctioneer until my happy-go-lucky father skipped from home; so now I’m off-loading this playboy’s art and antiques onto the fancy goods stalls in the Saepta Julia…’ He still looked curious so I carried on joking. ‘It’s like kissing a woman - unless I’m sharp, this could lead to something serious!’

  Anacrites was searching the dead man’s private documents; I knew that. (It was a job I would have liked myself.) He was tight lipped, an insecure type. Unlike Momus, who could carelessly sell off eight Numidian litter-bearers as two poultry-carvers, a charioteer and a fan dancer from Xanthus, Anacrites was examining the study here with the fine detail of an auditor who expects another auditor to be round later checking him.

  ‘Falco, Momus is right,’ he fretted. ‘Why take the risk?’

  ‘Excitement?’ I offered. ‘After Nero died, plotting who to make into the next Caesar was a more thrilling game than tossing up knucklebones. Our man enjoyed a gamble. And he was due to inherit a fortune, but while he was waiting for it, one house on the Quirinal may not have seemed too special to a jumped-up junior official who wanted Rome to notice him.’

  Anacrites pursed his mouth. So did I. We looked around. The expensive Pertinax mansion seemed special to us.

  ‘So,’ I prodded, ‘what have you discovered from his honour’s papyrus rolls?’

  ‘A pretty dull correspondent!’ complained Anacrites. ‘His friends were racetrack loudboys, not literary types. But his ledgers are immaculate; his accountant was constantly kept up to scratch. He lived for his cash.’

  ‘Found any names? Details of the plot? Proof?’

  ‘Just biography; half a day with the Censor’s records could have winkled out most of it. Arius Pertinax came from Tarentum; his natural father had rank, and friends in the south, but neither cash nor influence. At seventeen, Pertinax put that right by attracting an ancient a-consul called Caprenius Marcellus who had plenty of status and oodles of money, but no heir-‘

  ‘So,’ I encouraged, ‘this elderly moneybags plucked young Gnaeus fully grown from the Heel of Italy and adopted him?

  ‘In the best tradition. So now Pertinax Caprenius Marcellus had grand ideas and a monthly allowance to pay for them. His new father adored him. He served as a tribune in Macedonia-‘

  ‘A safe, warm province!’ I interrupted again, with an edge; I did my own national service in Britain: cold, wet, windy - and at that time (during the Great Rebellion) dismally dangerous.

  ‘Naturally! A lad with a future has to look after himself! Back in Rome, as his first stepping stone into public life be marries the serious daughter of a rather dull senator, then promptly gets elected to the senate himself - first attempt; the rich boy’s privilege.’

  At this point I reached forward and gave myself more wine. Anacrites remained silent, savouring his, so I let myself paint in some colouring I thought he might not know: ‘The Senator’s safe-looking daughter was a mistake; four years into their marriage she smacked Pertinax with an unexpected notice of divorce.’

  ‘Ah!’ smiled Anacrites in his silky way. It was part of his mystique as a spy to know more about other people than they knew about themselves. Even so, I knew more than he did about the ex-wife of Atius Pertinax.

  One thing I knew was that a fortnight ago she seduced a citizen called Falco - much against his better judgement, though not at all against his will.

  I drained off my glass. Staring at it, I went on. ‘I met Pertinax, once.’

  ‘In your work? What was he like?

  ‘Describing him politely is more than I can manage without another drink!’ This time we both squeezed the sweet amber from its silver samovar. Anacrites, who liked to appear civilized, took warm water in his. I watched him dip his wrist gracefully to regulate the drips front a jewelled jug, then swirl the liquors to mix them in his glass. I had my water the way I like it, in a separate cup.

  I enjoyed my wine for a moment, ignoring the water, then said of Pertinax: ‘Vicious. A real thresher shark! By the time I blundered into him he was an aedile -‘ Junior law enforcement officer, in support of a district magistrate. ‘Pertinax had me arrested on a pretext and badly beaten up, then his friendly subordinates wrecked my apartment and tore my furniture apart.’

  ‘Did you make a complaint?’

  ‘Against a senator?’ I scoffed. ‘And see the magistrate turn out to be his uncle, who would dump me in prison for contempt?’

  ‘So the aedile used his baton on you, and now in return,’ Anacrites suggested, glancing round, ‘you’re rifling through his honour’s Macedonian curios!’

  ‘Rough justice,’ I smiled, handling the spiralled white stem of my wineglass delicately.

  ‘Apt!’ I could see speculation working in his pale eyes. ‘So, you met Pertinax .’ I guessed what was coming. ‘Rumour has it you are no stranger to his wife?’

  ‘I’ve done work for her. Hasty temper and high principles - not your type!’ I insulted him calmly.

  ‘Is she yours?’

  ‘Hardly! She’s a senator’s daughter. I pee in the gutter, scratch my backside in public, and have been known to lick my plate.’

  ‘Ha! She never remarried. I reckon this divorce of theirs may have been some kind of blind-‘

  ‘Nix!’ I snorted. ‘Pertinax was arrested because his ex-wife reported him’

  Anacrites looked sore. ‘No one saw fit to warn me of that. I was all set to march in and interrogate the woman-‘

  ‘Best of luck!’ I said drily.

  ‘Why expose him? Vindictiveness?

  A fair question; yet my hackles rose. ‘Politics. Her family supports Vespasian. She never realized that if Pertinax was clapped in prison his cronies would muffle him before he could be interrogated-‘

  The spy winced; he knew how his enforcement colleagues extracted information in the quiet privacy of a jail cell. ‘So, Pertinax Marcellus - Hail and Farewell!’ cried Anacrites with mock reverence.

  Personally, I’d rather find my way across the Styx with no passport at all, than be handed into Hades with the blessing of the Emperor’s Chief Spy.

  It was time for Anacrites to report to the Emperor. Momus was asleep, his dirty toes turned out.

  Anacrites looked at me from that smooth, cynical face; I decided I could work with him - so long as I always kept one hop ahead.

  ‘You’re assessing me for Vespasian,’ I suggested, ‘while Momus-‘

  ‘Puts in a nightly report on us both!’ Anacrites breathed with clerkish contempt. His light eyebrows lifted scornfully. ‘So, Marcus Didius Falco, where does that place you?’

  ‘Just settling old scores with Pertinax!’

  Anacrites could not bring himself to trust me; sensible lad. Nor, needless to say, did I trust him.

  Tonight when he got up to leave I unravelled my crumpled toga and tagged along. We went out very quietly, leaving Momus behind, fast asleep.

  VII

  A warm May night in Rome. We paused on the doorstep, and sniffed the air. A faint spattering of tiny stars hung above the twin peaks of the Capitol. An aroma of hot forcemeat sausage made me suddenly ravenous. Music sounded in the far distance, while the night was alive with the laughter of men who had nothing to regret.

  Anacrites and I set off down the Vicus Longus briskly, to deter unwelcome night trade. We passed the Forum on our right and entered the Palatine complex via the Clivus Victoriae. Above us the official suites looked cheerfully lit, though if the Emperor or his sons had been entertaining, their banquets had already broken up; our painful new dynasty kept its state in respectable style.

  At the Cryptoporticus, Nero’s grand galleried entrance, the Praetorians let us through with a nod. We went up. The first people we encountered, and the last I wanted-to see, were t
he Senator Camillus Verus and his daughter Helena.

  I swallowed, with one cheek tightening; Anacrites smiled understandingly (rot him!) and made a swift exit.

  The Senator had a fluffed-up, formal, newly laundered look. I winked at his daughter affectionately, even in front of him; she gave me a faint, rather troubled smile. Strong looks and a strong character: a girl you could take anywhere - so long as the people who lived there did not mind being told frankly what was wrong with their lives. Helena was austerely swathed in grey, her feet kicking at the heavy, flounced bent of a woman who had been married, her dark head topped by a pointed plain gold diadem. The scroll which Camillus was carrying said they had been here to petition the Emperor, and I could guess their plea: Camillus Verus was a stalwart supporter of Vespasian; he had had a brother who had not been. The brother conspired against the new Flavian dynasty; was exposed, killed, and left to lie where he felt. I had been wondering how long it would take for the Senator to decide his brother’s soul was his responsibility. Now I knew: eleven days. He had come to ask Vespasian for the warehouse corpse.

  ‘That’s Falco!’ I heard Helena say, chivvying her father. ‘He’ll find out for us-‘

  The Senator’s wife was a supportive woman but I could see why it was his daughter he brought today. Beneath her quiet public front Helena-Justina always meant bunion. Luckily she was still preoccupied after their mission in the throne room and barely reacted to meeting me. Her father planned their present; he said to me the Emperor was being difficult (not surprisingly); then Helena waded in, wanting me to investigate.

  ‘That rather cuts, saves me working for the Palace-‘

  ‘When did that stop you? Camillus himself assaulted me cheerfully; I grinned, but let their proffered commission drop.

  ‘Sir, if your brother has been bundled into oblivion by a gang of off-duty Praetorian will it really make you feel better if you know?’ Helena fell ominously silent. It boded ill for somebody; I guessed who. I tried not to remember the sordid details of her uncle’s end, in case she read my face.