Shadows in Bronze

by Lindsey Davis

  ‘Don’t despair yet.’ By nature Helena was a fighter and an optimist; I dropped my hand over the one she had smacked down. ‘This is not like you!’

  She broke away restlessly. ‘Aufidius Crispus is wickedly powerful. He has far too many well-placed friends. Falco, you must stop him!’

  ‘Helena, I can’t even find him!’

  ‘Because you’re not trying.’

  ‘Thanks for the flattery!’

  ‘I don’t need to boost your confidence; you have a high enough opinion of yourself!’

  ‘Thanks again!’

  ‘What have you achieved chasing Crispus? You’re pottering in the sunshine on this lead-selling lark - you aft, pretending to be an entrepreneur! I suppose you’ve been showing off to all the women who run wayside wineshops -‘

  ‘A man needs some pleasure!’

  ‘Oh shut up, Falco! You must find out what Crispus intends and prevent it-‘

  ‘I’ I said briefly, but she went storming on.

  ‘If you won’t do it for the Emperor, at least think of your own career-‘

  ‘That stinks! I’ll do it for you.’

  Too late I saw her flinch. ‘I’m not your tribune’s girlfriend making herself available to the new intake of recruits; Falco, spare me the cheap dialogue!’

  ‘Cool down. I’m doing my best. What you call ‘pottering’ is a methodical search-‘

  ‘Well have you found anything?’

  ‘Aufidius Crispus goes nowhere and sees no one - according to them. There’s a conspiracy of silence among the well-heeled seekers of sea air -‘ I watched her anxiously; women of her rank were well taken care of, yet her eyes had a heaviness which even discreet cosmetic had failed to disguise. Paint can be a cruel friend. I risked seizing her hand again. ‘What’s bothering you, treasure?’ She escaped from me angrily. ‘Helena - what’s de matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Oh, cobnuts! Well, what was the other thing you had to say?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Nice girls don’t quarrel with men who buy them langoustines!’

  ‘There was no need for that!’ Her face set, hating me for what she saw as false concern. ‘You and your friends had shrimps; I don’t expect special treatment-‘

  ‘If you did, you wouldn’t get to eat with my friends-‘ ‘I like shrimps-‘

  ‘That’s why you like me… Lady, I thought we were talking about the peace of the Empire - tell me your story!’

  She took a deep breath and abandoned our spat. ‘When Aufidius Crispus left the villa Rustica after seeing Marcellus, I happened to walk through the room where they had been, before it was cleared. The flagon was empty. And on the tray were three wine cups.’

  ‘All used?’

  ‘All used.’

  I considered it. ‘Maybe Crispus brought someone with him; his litter was closed-‘

  ‘I was on our roof garden when he left; he was alone.’

  Sweet thought: a senator’s daughter spying over balustrades and discreetly counting cups! ‘Could this mean Barnabas?’

  ‘I doubt it, Falco. My father-in-law never allowed Barnabas the run of his house. While I was married, staying with Marcellus was the only time I enjoyed normal family life; he excluded the freedman and allowed me my proper place - in fact he still does. He might grant Barnabas shelter, but he would never include him at a private meeting with a senator.’

  ‘Don’t discount the possibility,’ I warned. ‘Could Marcellus be entertaining some secretive house guest?’

  She shook her head. ‘Helena Justina, I need access to explore the villa Rustica-‘

  ‘First find Aufidius Crispus!’ she interrupted fiercely. ‘Find Crispus - do what Vespasian is paying you for!’

  Scowling, I paid up; then we left the restaurant. ‘

  We walked slowly on the road by the shore while we waited for her bearers to reappear. The hard note remained in her voice: ‘Do you want me to introduce you to Aemilius Rufus in Herculaneum?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘So you won’t go!’

  ‘I’ll go if I find I need to.’ She exclaimed with annoyance as I tried to rally her. ‘Look, let’s not fight… Here are your chair men. Come on, fruit-‘

  ‘Fruit? That got her, bursting into her rare, sweet, unexpected laugh.

  ‘Did Pertinax have a pet name for you?’

  ‘No.’ Her laughter subsided instantly. No comment seemed necessary. Then she turned to me with a deliberate look. ‘Will you tell me something? Was it when you were working at my ex-husband’s house that you changed your mind about us?’

  My face must have answered her.

  I remembered the comfortable stylishness of that house on the Quirinal, which I knew had been a wedding gift from Marcellus to Helena and Pertinax. Only the gods could say what other sumptuous luxuries had been showered on the young couple by their relations and friends. Geminus and I must have catalogued some of it. Tortoiseshell bedheads. Mosaic glass serving bowls. Gold filigree plates. Exotic embroidered coverlets Queen Dido might have slept under. Polished maple table tops. Ivory chairs. Lampstands and candelabra. Camphorwood chests… and innumerable perfect sets of spoons.

  ‘Marcus, surely even you could understand that if a house was all I wanted, I would never have arranged my own divorce from Pertinax?’

  Just being realistic!’

  Helena slipped from my side and into her chair before I could even consider how to say goodbye. She closed the half-door herself. The bearers were stooping to the carrying poles; I grasped at the door, wanting to hold her back. ‘Don’t!’ she commanded.

  ‘Wait - shall I see you again?’

  ‘No; there’s no point.’

  ‘There is!’ There had to be.

  I gestured the bearers to stop but they would only take orders from her. As the chair lurched when they raised it, I glimpsed her expression. She was comparing me with Pertinax. Rejection by a husband who was too crass to know what he was doing had been bad enough; though since no senator’s daughter has much say in the choice of her husband, Pertinax was simply a false entry in life’s ledger that could be cursed and written off. To go straight from him to a cynical lover who left her after the most casual kind of usage was entirely her own mistake.

  Of course, I could have told her it happens every day. Women who know they know better frequently cast themselves at treacherous men whose sense of commitment only lasts as long as the rascally smile that gets them into bed…

  Unlike Helena Justina, most women forgive themselves.

  Just when I was prepared to be totally honest in order to keep her, she dragged the window curtain right across and shut me out. I had no need to consult the Sybil at Cumae to realize my exclusion from Helena’s life was intended to be permanent.

  I stood there, still with my mouth open to tell her that I loved her, while the bearers sneered at me churlishly and carried their lady away.

  Part Four

  HARPING IN HERCULANEUM

  THE BAY OF NEAPOLIS

  July

  Perhaps you may be expect* a trot* of dancers,

  Gov girls, with their wanton songs and routines

  JUVENAL, Satire XI

  XLII

  The town of Herculaneum was very small, very sleepy, and if any interesting women lived there, they were hidden behind locked doors.

  There was no rubbish in the streets. At Pompeii the town council had to provide stepping stones to help pedestrians cross the dubious substances which seeped and stagnated from their roads; the Herculaneum councillors believed in wider pavements - wide enough to hold a hot-piemen’s convention, only it was a place which frowned on pies. And at Herculaneum rubbish never showed its face.

  I hated Herculaneum. It had tasteful, well-scrubbed houses owned by people of little character who thought a lot of themselves. They lived in prim little streets. The men spent their days counting their money (of which they had plenty), while th
eir good ladies were carried in closed litters from their own safe doorsteps into the homes of other respectable women, where they sat around plates of almond cakes and talked about nothing until it was time to go home again.

  Unlike Pompeii, where we had to bawl to make ourselves heard, in Herculaneum you could stand in the Forum at the top of the town and still hear the seagulls at the port. If a child cried in Herculaneum its nursemaid dashed to gag it before it was sued for a breach of the peace. At Herculaneum the gladiators in the amphitheatre probably said ‘I beg your pardon? each time their swords did anything so impolite as landing a nick.

  Frankly, Herculaneum made me want to jump on a public fountain and shout a very rude word.

  Pompeii had informed me he would use up most of my lead on the orders we had already obtained. (The news came earlier than I calculated, though I was not surprised; I expected the plumber to cheat me a little, according to the customs of his trade.) So this was my last chance. We were here, with Nero and one last cartload of samples, hoping to prise out further details of Aufidius Crispus’ plans (or even, if my luck took a special turn, to discover where the elusive sardine had parked his pretty ship).

  I had no intention of visiting the magistrate Helena Justina had mentioned. I was sharp; I was tough; I was good at my job. I did not need a self-appointed supervisor. I would find my information for myself.

  While I nosed round Herculaneum looking for it, I admitted to Larius that we had reached the limit of the expenses Vespasian would want to pay.

  ‘Does that mean we have no money?’

  ‘Yes; he’s mean with failure.’

  ‘Would he pay you more if you found something out?’ ‘If he thought it was worth it.’

  Some people might panic; I felt shifty myself. But Larius uttered stoically, ‘We’d better make sure we discover something quick!’

  I liked my nephew’s attitude. He saw life in simple terms. Once again I mused how his tenacious approach would make Galla’s eldest an asset in my line of work. I mentioned it, as Nero approached Herculaneum’s wide main street (it was called the DecuMomus Maximus, which is what every two-goose town in Italy calls its main street). Larius responded to my careers advice by telling me about a wall painter Ventriculus had introduced who was offering him summer employment sketching figures on a frieze.

  I knew nothing about this; I was highly annoyed. I told my nephew what I thought of artists. His chin jutted, with the irritating tenacity I had previously admired.

  This particular DecuMomus Maximus was the cleanest and quietest I ever saw. It was partly thanks to an immaculate vigilante who marched up and down there so respectable locals who needed to know if their dinner would be ready could ask him the time. His other method of serving the community was pointing out to layabouts like us that on the main boulevard at Herculaneum wheeled traffic was not allowed.

  When he roared it out I had just noticed the bollards standing up like mileposts to block our way. We had been cruising towards the courthouse (I could see the sun glinting off a bronze charioteer outside this elegant basilica). There was an arch across the road ahead, which probably led to the forum, a row of shops alongside us, and a fountain which Nero was treating to a tentative sniff.

  I hate disciplinarians. This one ordered us away from the DecuMomus with the good breeding I expect from a country official, which was none. For a bone bodkin I would have told him where to stuff his swagger stick, even if it meant we were run out of town… Larius caught my eye.

  ‘Just tell him we’re sorry and we’ll go!’

  I could not altogether blame the man for abusing us. My nephew and I had made the mistake of buying cheap holiday haircuts, with the usual preposterous results. We had gone to an open-air barber by the gladiators’ barracks in Pompeii, who had taken three hours of sombre snipping to turn us out like murderers. Also, we were now eating pilchards wrapped in vine leaves, which no one from Herculaneum would Oran of doing in the street.

  We turned downhill towards the port. There were side streets to either hand; Herculaneum was built on a pedantic Greek grid. To save me the trouble Nero chose a direction himself. It was a picturesque scene of overhangs and pilastered walkways; a basket-weaver dreaming on his stool, and an old woman who had been out for a lettuce who stood decrying modern society to another old baggage who had been out for a loaf. Into this maelstrom of the Herculaneum highlife our mad ox eagerly plunged.

  The disaster happened quickly, as disasters love to do.

  Nero swung off to the right. There was a packman’s donkey tethered outside a dosshouse, a strong young male with sleek ears and a pert backside: Nero had spotted the grand passion of his life.

  As he turned he rammed the cart hard against a pastry cook’s portico. The weight of lead held us fast, so he broke free. The vibrations from his joyful bellow brought down four rows of roof tiles. Stoneware went flying under his hooves as he ditched us and skittered through some potter’s produce with that special dainty, high-stepping tread of a bull on the loose, all set to swerve on the spot with a horn at the ready if approached. The parts of him that were supposed to be deactivated were swinging heavily, with perilous implications for the donkey.

  Women burst onto first-floor balconies. In colonnades at street level little children squealed in terror then stopped, fascinated by the scene. I grabbed the rope we kept for winding round the ox’s horns and bounded after him, reaching Nero just as he reared and dropped onto his new friend. Young Ned wheezed, and squealed rape. Some misguided cookshop boy caught hold of Nero’s tail. Next minute all the breath was smashed out of me as a thousand pounds of copulating ox swung round to free his rear end and sideswiped me against the dosshouse wall.

  The wall, which was made of cheap rubble in a wicker frame, sagged under me enough to prevent broken bones.

  I rebounded out of the house wall in a shower of stucco and dust. By now Larius was darting about on the sidelines, squeaking useless advice. What I really needed was a harbour crane. I would have run away to hide, but one fifth of this maniacal bovine belonged to Petronius Longus, my best friend.

  People were trying to rescue Neddy with anything to hand. Mostly they hit Larius and me by mistake. I walked face first into a hastily flung pail of water (or something), while my nephew took a nasty thwack from a marrow on the tender part of his neck. The donkey was trying to kick up his hind legs with some evidence of character, but once he got stuck underneath he could only brace himself for a painful surprise.

  At Nero’s moment of glory fortune rescued us. His victim’s legs gave way (I had been frightened for his heart). Ass and ox collapsed to the ground. Ned scrambled up trembling, with a wild look in his eye. I swiftly lassooed Nero round a back leg, Larius sat on his head, and our big boy wrestled savagely beneath us - then quite suddenly gave in.

  We should have been the heroes. I did expect a tussle over compensation for damaged shop fronts, and perhaps a claim under some lesser-known branch of the Augustan marriage laws, for permitting a draught animal to spike a donkey adulterously. What happened was much more interesting. The vigilante from the DecuMomus Maximus had noticed us shouting at our ox with an Emperor’s name. We assured him he had misheard. We called Nero ‘Spot’; the fool ignored us. We called Nero ‘Nero’ and he ignored it too, but apparently that didn’t count.

  Larius and I were both arrested. For blasphemy.

  XLIII

  The lockup for vagrants was a converted shop at the side of a temple.

  ‘Well, this is a new one!’ I chortled.

  My nephew reassumed his old moody look. ‘Uncle, how are you going to tell my mother I’ve been in jail?’

  ‘With great difficulty, I expect.’

  The jailor was an amiable duffer who shared his lunch. His name was Roscius. He had a grey spade-shaped beard and side whiskers; we gathered from his easy-going attitude that Herculaneum was the sort of inferior town which frequently arrested innocent visitors. He did keep a cellar, where
he dumped anyone who looked a bit foreign, but we two had the honour of being chained to a bench where he could chat.

  ‘Know a senator called Crispus?’ I asked, mainly to impress Larius with my unflappable professional expertise.

  ‘No, Falco.’ The jailor was a man who spoke, then slowly thought about it. ‘Not Aufidius Crispus? He had a house in Herculaneum; sold it to buy that boat-‘

  ‘Seen him lately?’

  ‘No, Falco.’ He thought; then opted for caution this time.

  Larius felt things were unproductive. ‘Show Roscius your pass!’ I fetched it out; Roscius read it and handed it back.

  Larius closed his eyes in desperation. I returned the pass to Roscius. ‘Aha!’ he said, not getting the point, but noticing that there might be one.

  ‘Roscius, my friend, could you float that the way of a magistrate? If there’s one named Aemilius Kuhn, better choose him.’ It still went against the gram, but whoever provided the jailor’s lunch had used cold meat which turned up at the edges with a sinister dark rim. Our own relations were too far away to send provisions in. I reckoned I had about three hours before my nephew’s hungry stomach gained the side effect of a very nasty attitude.

  Roscius sent the pass to Helena’s friend. We took turns with his flagon and all got slightly drunk.

  Towards the end of a peaceful afternoon two slaves turned up to say that one of us lads had to stay locked up, but the other could come with them. I explained to Larius that he would have to be the hostage, since Rufus was the friend of a friend of mine.

  ‘Just hurry up, will you?’ Galla’s treasure snarled. ‘I could murder a bowl of Baian beans!’

  The house of Aemilius Rufus was a modest affair, though he probably owned a stack of gracious architecture elsewhere. This one had the atmosphere of an unvisited museum. It was furnished in a heavy style with wall friezes of battle scenes and grand spiky furniture, formally arranged, which I would never dare sit down on in case I nudged a leg out of line. It was a house without the grace of children, pets, the trickle of a fountain, or growing plants. If there was a gecko on the gloomily lacquered ceilings, he kept his head well down.