‘Good to meet up with you, Falco! All well?’
‘I’ve had some narrow shaves. Pertinax has just tried to murder me the same way he attacked you… Tell me, how did you discover he was still alive?’
‘You were right, my brother had written to warn me. He had left the letter with his banker; after you left Colonna it came to me.’
‘Any news of your wounded deputy, sir?’ I was half prepared for the answer. Gordianus raised his eyes to heaven: the standin priest was dead. Another charge against Pertinax, though as usual without proof.
We put out across the Bay with a brisk breeze in the Set Saltine’s favour. Gordianus asked if I recognized the ship. I thought not, and I was right because in fact I had never seen her, but when he called out to the captain to make for Capreae, I realized I had heard of her. The captain was a friend of mine: a lively, beady-eyed little fellow in a curly hat like an upturned field mushroom, who had been standing by rather sheepishly, waiting to be recognized…
‘Lau! This would be a happy moment on a better day!’
I introduced my nephew, who was craning to get an artistic perspective on my friend from Croton’s strange two-sided face. Larius slouched up shyly, a suspicious beanpole in a grimy tunic, still wearing his satchel from when we were selling lead. Then I glanced sharply between Gordianus and the sea captain. ‘Did you two know each other all along?’
Gordianus laughed. ‘No; we met when I needed a charter to bring my household from Cape Colonna to Paestum. Your name came up later, and I heard about your adventures together then.’
‘Bit of luck falling in with somebody reliable!’
‘True. Laesus will stay until this business is settled. He helped me find Aufidius Crispus; then when Crispus confirmed the truth about “Barnabas”, Laesus worked with Milo keeping track of Pertinax.’ We leaned back against the ship’s rail, as the crew adjusted the mainsail for a long haul out along the Surrentum coast. ‘Tell me what you think of this man Rufus?’ Gordianus abruptly asked. ‘It struck me he had rather a casual attitude.’
‘Oh, he’s intelligent, and hard working in the community.’ I knew better than to criticize a fellow senator to Gordianus merely for enjoying old wine and young waiters. On the other hand, the bungled attempt to arrest Pertinax was unforgivable. ‘His shambles at the Villa Marcella speaks for itself.’
Gordianus humphed. ‘Self-centred and immature!’ was his terse verdict on the magistrate. It explained why he had opted to continue his private search for Pertinax even after raising an official hue and cry.
Something struck me and I turned to Milo, who was slouching by the mainmast forestay. ‘If you were trailing Pertinax, you must have been there when he bludgeoned my friend at the inn!’ He was. Milo always made me angry - but never so angry as this. ‘Jupiter and Mars! When Petronius Longus came to the doorway, why didn’t you shout?’
‘We had heard Pertinax ask for you!’ Milo jibed unpleasantly. ‘Sorry we couldn’t stay to help; we followed him back to the yacht…’
I had to walk away by myself to the far end of the ship, to stop myself feeding the steward to the porpoises in shreds.
The journey out to Capreae always seems further than it looks. The sour old Emperor Tiberius chose himself a good sanctuary; plenty of time to prepare visitors a grim welcome before incoming ships berthed.
I was not seasick, though I thought about it uneasily.
‘You all right?’ Larius asked solicitously. I explained that making kind enquiries of people who had queasy stomachs never helps.
Larius, who loved ships and never felt ill at sea, leaned on the rail beside me, enjoying his trip. As the endless cliffs of the Laetarii peninsula eased slowly past he squinted against the breeze, happily absorbing the spray and the sunlit ocean scenery.
‘Uncle Marcus, Helena suggests I ought to talk to you.’
‘If it’s about your bloody wall painting, I’m not in the mood.’
‘It’s about Ollia.’
‘Oh, it’s a joke!’ He gave me a disapproving look. ‘Sorry! Go on then.’ Larius, the shocking romantic, adjusted his pose like a figure - head braving the storms of life, with his limp hair blowing back from his forehead and a stalwart expression. A sea trip brought out the worst in him.
‘Ollia is not having a baby; that was Silvia’s mistake. As a matter of fact, there was never anything between Ollia and the fisherboy-‘
‘Goodness!’ I scoffed. ‘Then why didn’t she deny it? Or him?’
‘They both did.’
True. ‘So what’s the real story?’
‘He kept hanging around and she didn’t know how to get rid of him. Everyone else had the wrong idea about it-‘
‘Except you?’ I hazarded.
Larius blushed. I hid a smile. He went on earnestly. ‘Ollia was too frightened of Silvia to explain.’ I grinned. The fisherboy never wanted her-‘
‘So what was his angle?’
‘He wants to go to Rome. To better himself ‘ I let out an expression of contempt. ‘Oh, he’s all right,’ Larius muttered. ‘Petro says he has tried so hard we ought to take him anyway. My father would have him as an oarsman; it gives a let-out for me…’
‘In order to do what, sunshine?’
‘To be a wall painter in Pompeii.’ I told Larius if he wanted to be so stupid I was still not in the mood.
I had a good look at him; he seemed to have filled out to a more easy-going figure while we were away. He dropped the fresco painting plea, but I had the impression that was only because it was all fixed anyway.
‘Well, give Ollia my congratulations on her escape from motherhood-‘
‘About Ollia’ Larius began.
I groaned, trying not to laugh. ‘I can guess. Ollia has decided her great dream is a poetry-reading lank with ochre paint in his fingernails? Larius hid his hands but I was pleased to see he stood up to me.
They had one of those sweet, neat plans young people so rashly inflict on themselves. Larius insisted on describing it to me: home to Rome; explain to his mother; back to Pompeii; learn his trade; earn enough to hire a room with a balcony-
‘Vital equipment for a bachelor on his own!’
‘Uncle Marcus, why are you always so cynical?’
‘I’m a bachelor blessed with a balcony!’
Then they would get married; wait two years while Larius saved more money; have three children at two-year intervals; and sedately spend the rest of their days deploring the raggedness of other people’s lives. There were two possibilities; either they would grow out of each other and Ollia would run off with a sandalmaker - or, knowing Larius, he would manage the whole daft scheme.
‘Helena Justina found out all this? What does she think?’
‘She thought it was a good idea. Helena gave me my first commission,’ Larius told me with a sly look. ‘I drew her a still life: you, fast asleep with your mouth open.’
‘She never kept it?’
‘Oh yes! She wanted a souvenir of her holiday…’
I said nothing, because a sailor gave a cry: Capreae.
When we set out the day had been overcast. Passing Surrentum the shoreline cliffs had been a shadowed mix of dark-green vegetation and honey-toned rocks against the hazier colours of the mountain range behind; the sea was a rippling pewter grey, slightly threatening beneath the sullen sky. Now, as we approached the island which lay like the double hump of two basking whales, the cloud cover thinned. Only the frothy white triangle which often hovers above Capreae still served as a marker from afar. We sailed on in bright sunlight, over a blue sea of gemstone intensity.
The island seemed to rush nearer at a faster speed. From the main harbour a small regatta of pleasure boats streamed out, their sails making a line of dark red dots in apparently haphazard chase. If the kit Africans had been among them we should never have picked her out, but as Curtius Gordianus gave Laesus directions we left the little boats far to one side while we pressed in close to t
he sheer crags. Slowly we explored these deep secluded bays where access could only ever be by water. Sometimes dark cave mouths gaped in the rock wall above. All round the island there was plenty of activity from fishing and excursion boats, though none disturbed the limpidly bright lagoon where the Sea Scorpion finally crept in and found the Isis moored.
Crispus and Pertinax were bathing. It was a strangely relaxed scene.
We sailed closer without fuss, and Laesus dropped anchor. The swimmers were watching us. Keeping his face hidden, Gordianus hailed Crispus cheerfully, like some old friend whose arrival today was a happy coincidence. We saw Crispus float on his back as if he were considering, and possibly cursing, us; then he set off to his yacht with a lazy overarm stroke, following Pertinax who had started swimming at once. Once it became clear they were not weighing anchor the Chief Priest and I were rowed across to them, taking Milo, in a skiff.
When we clambered abroad, Aufidius Crispus was towelling off on deck, a squat, muscular figure covered in dark hair. Pertinax had disappeared into the galley, as if to dress in privacy; perhaps he hoped we were casual visitors who would not stay. Crispus pulled on a loose red tunic whose metallic braid was well tarnished from frequent exposure to salt spray. He shook water from his ears with a vigour I remembered him applying to other things.
‘What a surprise!’ he said, with no surprise at all on his swarthy jowls. He was expecting the magistrate, but accepted we had come to take over the arrangement, for he called out robustly, ‘Gnaeus! Come out here; I want you to meet some old friends!’
Since there was little else for it, Atius Pertinax shuffled on deck. He wore a white tunic already belted, and his usual tight expression. When he recognized Gordianus his river-water eyes became guarded. Reluctantly he grinned; then slouched closer, offering to shake hands.
Remembering his brother, Gordianus hand dropped. He could not bear the proffered handclasp. I stepped forward myself.
‘The name’s Falco,’ I announced, as our quarry jerked his head in annoyance and shock. ‘I’m supposed to be dead - but so are you.’ Then I stood to attention and formally announced: ‘Gnaeus Atius Pertinax Caprenius Marcellus, also known as Barnabas, in the name of Vespasian Augustus you are under arrest! I am taking you into custody and transferring you to Rome. You have the right to a trial by your equals in the Senate, or you may exercise every citizen’s privilege and appeal to the Emperor himself. To do that,’ I informed him with relish, ‘you must prove who you are first!’
‘What are the charges?’ Pertinax blustered.
‘Oh, conspiracy against the Empire, murder, religious arson, assault on a Roman watch captain - and intending to murder me!’
LXXI
Pertinax looked as if he was really seeing me at last. Yet his arrogance was barely dented. I think he failed to grasp how for the second time since their plot had failed he was threatened with a jail term, while his associates were coolly abandoning him. I almost pitied his plight - but when someone wants to kill me, my better nature fades.
I stood with my feet planted slightly apart, aware of the shifting deck beneath them, and the fragility of the Lass after the Sea Scorpion’s workaday bulk.
Pertinax shot a wizened glance at Crispus, evidently supposing he would be arrested too. Crispus shrugged, and failed to enlighten him. I nodded to Milo. Since the skiff we had come across in was too small to take more than three, Milo transferred first to the Sea Scorpion with the prisoner, then sent it back empty for Gordianus and me.
While we waited none of us spoke.
The skiff came creeping back towards the yacht. Crispus exchanged courtesies with Gordianus, wishing him well for his position at Paestum. They both ignored me with a sort of polite deference, as if they were at a highly important banquet and had spotted a happy weevil winking out from a bread roll.
I myself was in no mood for self-congratulation. The sight of Atius Pertinax only made me feel sour. Until I landed him in a very solid jail cell, I would not relax.
I sent Gordianus down into the skiff first.
‘Well, thanks for the delivery, sir!’ The yacht rolled, such a delicate craft that the motion disturbed my balance; I grabbed at the rail. ‘You can rely on Vespasian’s gratitude.’
‘I’m glad,’ smiled Crispus. Here on his yacht in his holiday clothes, he looked older and shabbier than when he was fired with confidence at the Villa Poppaea - though more like a man you could go out with on a fishing trip.
‘That so?’ I asked levelly. ‘So I can rule you out of any wicked schemes I’ve found involving Egyptian grain ships?’
‘Dropped it,’ Crispus admitted, frankly enough apparently.
‘What - no joy from the fleet?
He made no attempt to repudiate the plan. ‘Oh, the commander and the trierarchs will drink with anyone who pays for the liquor - but the marines all think of themselves as soldiers. Give your man his credit, Falco; Vespasian has the army’s full loyalty.’
‘They know Vespasian is a good general, sir.’
‘Well, let’s hope he makes a good Emperor too.’
I studied his face. Helena was right; he took his losses casually, however large the stake. If they were losses. The only way to find out was to give him his head, then watch him.
As I swung over the rail ready to descend, Crispus steadied my arm. ‘Thanks. I meant what I said; I imagine you can ask Vespasian for whatever post you want,’ I promised, still trying to salvage him.
Aufidius Crispus flashed a sly glance down at the skiff where Gordianus had slewed in the bow in his usual lumpish style. ‘I’ll need more than a damned priesthood then!’
I grinned. ‘Ask away! Good luck, sir, see you in Rome…’
Perhaps.
So far recapturing Pertinax seemed too easy. I ought to have known. The Fate who controls my destiny has a sinister sense of fun.
The Sea Scorpion’s skiff had rowed us halfway to its mother ship when a newcomer appeared in the lagoon. Gordianus glanced at me. It was a trireme from the Misenum fleet.
‘Rufus!’ I muttered. ‘Trust him to turn up in his rosebud wreath when the banquet is already breaking up!’
The newcomer had glided up in silence but as soon as we spotted her they started the drum. On the side we could see, eighty oars dipped. As the rowers took their time from the drummer, sunlight flashed once off the shields and speartips of the squadron of marines who lined the trireme’s fighting deck. She was steely-blue and grey, with a proud flash of scarlet round the horn on her nose. A vividly painted eye gave her a swordfish ferocity as she streamed forwards, lethally propelled by three huge banks of oars. Behind me I heard barrel-chested Bassos, the bosun of the Iris, utter a warning shout.
In our skiff the sailor who was rowing paused uncertainly. Though triremes are the navy’s workhorses, and common enough in the Bay, to see one speeding at full thrust still stopped the breath. Nothing on water was so beautiful or dangerous.
Gordianus and I watched her come towards us. I realized she was passing dangerously close. We were terrified. We all glimpsed her jaws - the heavy timbers cased in bronze that formed her ram; that ever-open, evilly serrated mouth just above the water line. She passed so near we heard the grumble of the tholepins and saw water streaming off the blades as her oars rose. Then our own rower flung himself prone and we all clung to the skiff as huge combers from the trireme’s wake buffeted our tiny craft.
We waited, knowing a trireme can turn on her own length. We waited for her to impress her terror on the Crispus yacht then swirl to a halt, dominating the lagoon. Helpless in her path, like a highly decorated piece of flotsam, the Isis Africana waited too. But the trireme did not stop. Just before impact, Aufidius Crispus took his last whimsical decision. I recognized his red tunic as he dived.
With that fatal flaw in his character, he had made the wrong decision yet again.
He went straight under the triseme’s starboard blades. Only the top tier of oarsmen, those on the outrigger who coul
d see the blades, would have known he was there. I glimpsed his torso once, churning hideously. Oars locked. A couple snapped. The rest ruffled on without pause, like the fluted fin on some gigantic fish, as they drove the great ship’s slender keel straight into the yacht. The ram took her in full snarl. There was no doubt it was deliberate. The trireme ran into the his with one fierce stroke, then straightway backed oars: the classic manoeuvre to hook out her victim’s shattered timbers as the two ships wrenched apart. But the his was so small that instead of pulling free, the trireme hauled the yacht’s rumpled carcass backwards too, impaled on its nose.
Everything went quiet.
I noticed that the trireme was called Pax. In the feckless hands of an incompetent, small-town magistrate, it was hardly apt.
Our boatman had lost his oar; he swam for it, leaving us rocking on the turbulent sea. When we pulled him back aboard he turned the skiff towards the trireme, and we braced ourselves for recovering what we could.
By the time we pressed near enough, the choppiness was settling. The crew of the his were clinging to lines and being slowly brought on board the Pa, while marmes swanned over the mighty bronze ram, hacking off what was left of the yacht. Splintered shards of the beautiful toy skirled on the bay. We could hear screams from within a juddering fragment of the hull where a crewman was trapped; although the marines fought to save him, the timbers broke away and took him to the bottom before they managed it. Sickened, Gordianus and I left them to it and hauled ourselves up a rope ladder over the light-boned hull of the trireme to confront the magistrate. We came aboard in the stern. Rufus made no attempt to meet us, so we both walked the huge length of the ship and came up to him just at the moment when a group of marines, aided by the grim-faced bosun Bassus, dragged what was left of Aufidius Crispus in over the rail.
Another corpse.
This one thudded on deck streaming wet, with that thin, crimson poignancy fresh blood takes on when mixed with sea water. Yet another corpse, and yet again no need for it. I could tell Gordianus was as angry as I was. He wrenched off his cloak, then he and I wrapped the battered body in it; he spoke one harsh word to Aemilius Rufus before he turned away: ‘Waste’
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