I almost suggested we went out to the baths together, but some lucky fluke stopped me. I hooked myself upright, stretched, and hopped over to fetch my wine; once in possession I condescended to sit on his couch to facilitate clinking cups like the cronies we weren’t. Aemilius Rufus favoured me with his relaxed, golden smile. I buried myself gratefully in his Falernian, which was immaculate.
He said, ‘I’m sorry I never saw much of you when you were tutoring my sister. I have been hoping to put that right-‘
Then I felt his right hand fondling my thigh, while he told me what beautiful eyes I had.
LXIV
I have only one reaction to approaches like that. But before I could trump my fist against his handsome Delphic jawbone he removed his hand. Someone he could not be expecting came into the room.
‘Didius Falco, I’m so glad I caught you!’ Bright eyes, clear skin, and a swill, light step: Helena Justina, the darling of my heart. ‘Rufus, excuse me, I came to see Fausta but I gather she is dining out… Falco, it’s much later than I expected, so if you are going back to the villa,’ she suggested serenely, ‘may I travel under your protection? If that suits your own plans, and is not too much trouble-‘
Since the magistrate’s wine was the very best Falernian, I drained my cup before I spoke.
‘Nothing is too much trouble for a lady,’ I replied.
LXV
‘You might have warned me!’
‘You were asking for all you got!’
‘He seemed such a gentleman - he caught me by surprise…’
Helena giggled. She was heckling me through the window of her sedan chair while I walked alongside grumbling. ‘Drinking wine with him, snuggling on one seat with your tunic up over your knees and that doe-eyed, vulnerable look-‘
‘I resent that,’ I said. ‘A citizen ought to be able to drink where he likes without it being interpreted as an open invitation to advances from men he hardly knows and doesn’t like-‘
‘You were drunk.’
‘Irrelevant. Anyway I was not! Lucky you came to see Fausta-‘
‘Luck,’ rapped back Helena, ‘had nothing to do with it! You were away so long I started worrying. I passed Fausta actually, going the other way. Were you glad I came?’ she suddenly smiled.
I stopped the chair, brought her out, then made the bearers walk ahead while we followed in the twilight and I demonstrated whether I was glad.
‘Marcus, why do you think Fausta was heading for Oplontis? She had discovered that a certain someone will be at Poppaea’s villa again, treating the commander of the fleet to dinner again.’
‘Crispus?’ I groaned, and reapplied myself to other things. ‘What’s so special about the Misenum prefect?’ wondered Helena, unimpressed by the distractions I was offering.
‘No idea.’
‘Marcus, I shall lose my earring; let me take it off.’ ‘Take off anything you want,’ I agreed. Then I found myself being drawn into considering her question. The damned Misenum fleet commander had adroitly intruded himself between me and romantic mood.
Ignoring the British squadron, which is almost beneath the notice of anybody civilized, the Roman Navy orders itself in the only way possible for a long narrow state: one fleet based over at Ravenna to guard the eastern seaboard, and another at Misenum in the west.
Answers to several questions were suggesting themselves now. ‘Tell me,’ I broached thoughtfully to Helena. ‘Apart from Titus and the legions, what was the key feature of Vespasian’s campaign to become Emperor? What was worst in Rome?’
Helena shuddered. ‘Everything! Soldiers in the streets, murders in the Forum, fires, fever, famine-‘
‘Famine,’ I said. ‘In a senator’s house I suppose you managed as normal, but in our family no one could get bread ‘
‘The corn!’ she responded. ‘It was critical. Egypt supplies the whole city. Vespasian had the support of the Prefect of Egypt, so he sat all winter in Alexandria, letting Rome know that he controlled the grain ships and without his good will, they might not come.
‘Now suppose you were a senator with extraordinary political ambitions, but your only supporters were in deadbeat provinces like Noricum-‘
‘Noricum!’ she chortled.
‘Exactly. No hope there. Meanwhile the Prefect of Egypt still strongly supports Vespasian, so the supply is assured - but suppose this year, when the corn ships hail in sight of the Puteoli peninsula-‘
‘The fleet stops them!’ Helena was horrified. ‘Marcus, we must stop the fleet!’ (I had a curious vision of Helena Justina sailing out from Neapolis like a goddess on a ship’s prow, holding up her arm to stop a convoy in full sail.) She reconsidered. ‘Are you really serious?’
‘I think so. And we’re not talking about a couple of sacks on the back of a donkey, you know.’
‘How much?’ demanded Helena pedantically.
‘Well, some wheat is imported from Sardinia and Sicily; I’m not sure of the exact proportions, but a clerk in the office of the Prefect of Supply once told me the amount needed annually to feed Rome effectively is fifteen billion bushels -‘
The Senator’s daughter permitted herself the liberty of whistling through her teeth.
I grinned at her. ‘The next question is, whether Pertinax or Crispus is now the prime mover of this abominable plan?’
‘Oh that’s answered!’ Helena assured me in her swift, conclusive way. ‘It’s Crispus who is entertaining the fleet.’
‘True. I reckon they were in it together, but now Pertinax has taken to assaulting all and sundry, Crispus views him as a liability… The corn ships leave for Egypt in April -‘ I mused… Nones of April - Galatea and Venus of Paphor, four days before the Ides, Flora; two days before May, Bulimia, Concordia, Partheuope, and The Graces… ‘It takes three weeks to get there and as much as two months to sail back again against the wind. The first ones home this year must be overdue -‘
‘That’s a problem!’ Helena muttered. ‘If this fiasco takes to the water, you’ll be stuck!’ I thanked her for the confidence, and quickened my step. ‘Marcus, how do you think they are planning to proceed?’
‘Hold up the ships when they arrive here, then threaten to sail them off to some secret location? If I was doing it, I’d wait until the Senate sent some stiff-necked praetor to negotiate, then start emptying the sacks overboard. The vision of the Bay of Neapolis being turned into one vast porridge bowl would probably produce the sight effect.’
‘On the whole,’ said Helena with feeling, ‘I’m glad it’s not you doing it! Who asked you to investigate the corn imports?’ she asked me in a curious tone.
‘No one. It was something that I stumbled on myself.’ For some reason Helena Justina hugged me and laughed. ‘What’s that for?’
‘Oh, I like to think I’ve cast my future into the hands of a man who is good at his work!’
LXVI
I decided to raid Poppaea’s villa while Crispus was there.
Ideally I would have slipped inside the place on my own. My expertise as an informer would lead me straight to the diners at the moment when they concluded the sordid details of their plan; then, equipped with hard evidence, M. Didius Falco, our demigod hero, would confront them, confound them, and single-handedly clap neck-irons on the lot.
Most private informers will boast of such ideal episodes. My life had a crankier pattern of its own.
The first problem was that Helena, Petronius and Larius, who were all highly inquisitive, came too. We arrived like second-rate temple drummers, too noisy - and too late. As we stood on the terrace debating how best to get in, the supper party streeled out past us. There was no chance of extracting a confession from any of them - or the slightest sense.
Crispus himself led the exodus, feet first and face down; he knew nothing about anything. The dispassionate slaves who were bringing him to his skiff had simply lifted the dinner table he had fallen across, limbs akimbo, then bumped him outside on it like a finished dessert course, with toni
ght’s limp wreath hung on one of the handles and his shoestraps through another. It would be a long time before his honour woke up, and he would not make a good subject for interview at that point.
His guests had been the commander from Misenum, plus a group of trireme captains. The navy was made of really stern stuff. During the recent civil wars we had had a bad outbreak of piracy in the Black Sea, but here on the west coast things had stayed peaceful since Pompey’s day. The Misenum fleet had little to do but cope with the many claims on their social life. Round the Bay of Neapolis there were parties every night, so the navy spent most evenings infiltrating private functions in search of free drink. Their capacity was enormous and their expertise at steering a course home afterwards while singing jolly songs in fabulously obscene versions made sober men blench.
When they first emerged from the house, half a dozen trireme captains were pretending to be hunting dogs. They were nipping each other, yowling, yapping, begging with their front paws, panting with their tongues out, sniffing at the moon and at the insalubrious backside of whoever was in front. Their delight in their own silliness was a joy. Their fleet commander circled these splendid fellows on all fours, basing like a Lactarii sheep. They all milled around like Greek coinedians whose producer had failed to plot their moves on stage, then the situation somehow gelled of its own accord; they surged up a gangway with heavy arms on each other’s shoulders, locked in a loving chain like blood brothers, lifting their knees as they danced. One nearly fell overboard, but at the summit of his arc over the water his comrades used centrifugal force to swing him back, chorusing a wildly soaring whoop. Trailing its gangplank, their transport disappeared.
The evening seemed more melancholy after they had gone. Petronius said his respect for the navy had trebled on the spot.
We were leaving when Helena Justina remembered her friend. I wanted to abandon Fausta, but was overruled. (One reason why an informer should work alone: to avoid being dragged into good deeds.)
The lady was lurking in the atrium, weeping copiously. She had been at the amphorae. This would only seem a good idea to a wine merchant with sinking profits (if such a man exists).
All around her the caterers were tidying up, ignoring the dishevelled spectre sobbing on her knees. I could see Helena stiffening. ‘They despise her! She’s a woman, behaving stupidly, but worst of all, she has no man to look after her-‘
Silvia and Petro stepped back shyly, but Helena had already forced a slave to stop and explain. He said Fausta had made another indomitable foray into the villa, halfway through the meal. The banquet had been a racy one: all male, with all-female entertainment .
‘And Aufidius Crispus,’ cried Helena haughtily, ‘was entwined with a Spanish dancing girl?’
‘No madam…’ The slave looked sideways at Petro and me. We grinned. ‘Two, actually!’ He was happy to go into details but Helena hissed through her teeth.
Evidently Fausta had simply crumpled and withdrawn, in the kind of abject grief that was her well-known speciality; Crispus probably never even saw her. Now she was stuck out here in an unoccupied villa, while the caterers had pushed all the empty amphorae off a jetty into the sea and were about to leave.
Helena made a lively fuss until someone brought the lady’s chair. Fausta’s bearers tonight were an ill-matched set of Liburnian slaves, one with a limp and one with a set of venomous neck boils. ‘Oh, we cannot leave these ninnies in charge of her!’ Helena declared.
Without admitting liability, Larius and I managed to insert Fausta into her chair. The slaves lurched her as far as the inn at Oplontis, but while we were discussing what to do next she slipped off and scampered onto the beach proclaiming a curse on men, naming the parts which she wished to wither and drop off them in such detail that it made me queasy.
I had had enough of her whole family. But to please Helena, I agreed to waste more of what could otherwise have been a pleasant evening and somehow deal with her…
With luck, some bandit in need of a scullion to warm his broth would kidnap Fausta first.
I insisted on putting Helena in her own litter back on the road to the villa. This took quite a long time, for reasons that are nobody’s business but mine.
By now most of the coast lay in darkness. When I returned to the inn Fausta had disappeared. Although it was so late, I found Larius talking poetry to the nursemaid Ollia on a bench in the inn courtyard; at least he had progressed from Catullus to Ovid, who has a better outlook on love and, more crucially, on sex.
I sat down with them. ‘You been philandering, uncle?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. No senator’s daughter would enjoy being bedded on the bare ground among a lot of curious spiders with a pine cone in her back!’
‘Really? asked Larius.
‘Really,’ I lied. ‘What coaxed Aemilia Fausta away from the sand happers?’
‘A kind-hearted, off-duty watch captain. He hates to see noblemen’s sisters sitting drunk on beaches.’
I groaned. Petronius Longus was always a soft touch for a sobbing girl. ‘So he threw her over his shoulder, stuffed her into the chair while she declaimed what a nice man he was, then he marched of her pathetic entourage to Herculanem himself?’
Larius laughed. ‘You know Petro!’
‘He won’t even bother to ask for a reward. What did Silvia say?’
‘Nothing - very pointedly!’
It was a beautiful night. I decided to hitch up Nero and meet Petro with transport home. Larius decided to keep me company; then, because they were young and illogical, Ollia came as company for him.
When we reached the magistrate’s house the door porter told us Petronius had arrived with the lady but since she was none too stable in her party shoes, had helped her indoors. Rather than risk fending off suggestions for fun with Aemilius Rufus, we waited in the cart.
Petro, who was a long time coming out, seemed surprised to find us there. We were all napping, so he swung into the front seat and took up the reins. He was the best driver among us anyway.
‘Watch that magistrate!’ I warbled. ‘His Falernian is decent but I wouldn’t want to meet him behind a bath house pillar in the dark… His sister give you much trouble?’
‘Not if you ignore the usual “Men are disgusting; why ain’t I got one?” stuff.’ I said some hard words about Fausta, though Petronius maintained the poor little thing was rather sweet.
Larius was nodding off on Ollia’s comfortable shoulder. I had a better woman to think about than some louse of a magistrate’s fool of a sister so I huddled in a corner and went to sleep too, lulled by the cart’s gently creaking motion through the warm Campanian night.
Ever good-natured, Petronius Longus hummed to himself quietly as he drove us all home.
LXVII
Two days later the magistrate tried to arrest Atius Pertinax. It was Petro’s daughter’s birthday so I had slipped down to Oplontis with a gift. After my spurning him, Rufus made no attempt to warn me. So I missed the action.
There was not much to miss. Rufus should have followed my advice: since the Villa Marcella was orientated seawards, the discreet approach was down the mountain from above. But when orders to apprehend Pertinax arrived from Vespasian, Aemilius Rufus grabbed a troop of soldiers and dashed up the main estate road, prominently visible to the house.
Marcellus gave him a frosty greeting and permission to search, then sat in the shade to wait for the idiot to discover the obvious: Pertinax had fled.
Once the furore had subsided, Helena Justina followed me to Oplontis with the tale.
‘Gnaeus rushed off riding with Bryon. Bryon, in all innocence apparently, came back later with both horses, to say the young master had decided to go for a cruise-‘
‘He has a boat?’
‘Bryon left him on Aufidius Crispus’ yacht.’
‘Does Crispus know there is an arrest warrant?’
‘That’s unclear.’
‘Where was the yacht?
/>
‘Baiae. But Bryon saw her sail.’
‘Brilliant! So the illustrious Aemilius Rufus has flushed Pertinax onto the fastest thing between Sardinia and Sicily…’
Rufus was useless. I would have to charter a ship and look for the Isis Africa myself. It was too late in the day now, so at least I could enjoy one more evening with my lady first.
Silvana was the birthday girl (Petro’s middle daughter; she was four), and tonight the children were joining our evening meal. We were delayed, however, because we had hit one of those joyful family crises without which no holiday is complete. Arria Silvia found the nursemaid Ollia in floods of tears.
Two brisk questions about Ollia’s personal calendar revealed that my prophecy about the fisherboy must be correct. (He was still hanging around every day.) Ollia denied it, which clinched the verdict. Sylvia gave Ollia a slap round the head to relieve her own feelings, then instructed Petronius and me to sort out the inconvenient lobster catcher, now that it was too late.
We found the young gigolo preening his moustache by an old lead-stocked anchor, Petro got an arm up his back rather further than his arm was meant to go. Of course he claimed he never touched the girl; we expected that. We marched him to the turfy shack where he lived with his parents and while the youth sulked Petronius Longus put the whole moral issue in succinct terms to them: Ma’s father was a legionary veteran who had served in Egypt and Syria for over twenty years until he left with double pay, three medals, and a diploma that made Ollia legitimate; he now ran a boxers’ training school where he was famous for his high-minded attitude and his fighters were notorious for their loyalty to him…
The old fisherman was a toothless, hapless, faithless cove you would not trust too near you with a filleting knife, but whether from fear or simple cunning he cooperated eagerly. The lad agreed to marry the girl and since Silvia would never abandon Ollia here, we decided that the fisherboy had to come back with us to Rome. His relations looked impressed by this result. We accepted it as the best we could achieve.
Shadows in Bronze Page 28
