We stopped on the way to look into some outbuildings, including one where olives that were stored for domestic consumption were kept in amphorae, packed in various preparations to preserve them through winter. While we were engrossed, disaster struck. We arrived at the small garden area in front of the main building just as Helena was trying to catch Nux. The dog rushed towards us ecstatically, with what appeared to be a twig in her mouth.
Optatus and I both immediately knew what it really was. I cursed. Optatus let out a wild cry. He seized a broom and began trying to smash it down on the dog. Helena squealed and stepped back. Loosing off a smothered protest, I managed to grab the culprit, picking up Nux by the scruff of her neck. We jumped out of reach of Optatus. With a hard tap on the nose I prised the trophy from Nux, who compounded her crime by scrabbling free again and leaping about yapping and pleading with me to throw the thing for her. No chance!
Optatus was white. His thin frame went rigid. He could hardly speak for anger – but he forced the words out:
'Falco! Your dog has torn up the cuttings in my nursery bed!'
Just my luck.
Helena captured Nux and carried her off to be scolded, well out of sight. I strode back to the churned-up plant nursery, with Optatus stalking at my heels. Nux had torn up only one tree, in fact, and knocked a few others over. 'I'm sorry; the dog likes chasing things, big things mainly. At home she's been known to frighten vintners delivering wine amphorae. She has simply never been trained to be loose on a farm…'
Scuffing earth flat quickly with the side of my boot, I found the damage much less than it could have been. Nux had been digging, but most of the holes had missed the little trees. Without asking, I found where the rescued cutting belonged and replaced it myself. Optatus stood by in fury. Part of me expected him to snatch the twiglet from me; part knew he was shrinking from it as if the dog had contaminated his treasure.
I picked off the damaged leaves, checked the stem for bruising, redug the planting hole, found the support stake, and firmed in the little tree in the way my grandfather and great-uncle had taught me when I was a small boy. If Optatus was surprised that a street-pounding Roman knew how to do this, he showed nothing. His silence was as bleak as his expression. Still ignoring him, I walked quietly to the water barrel and fetched the jug I had seen him use earlier. Carefully I soaked the plant back into its old position.
'It's gone limp, but I think it's just sulking.' I arranged its sackcloth windbreak, then I stood up and looked straight at him. 'I apologise for the accident. Let's look on the bright side. Last night we were strangers. Now everything's changed. You can think me an inconsiderate, wantonly destructive townee. I can call you an oversensitive, agitated foreigner who is, moreover, cruel to dogs.' His chin came up, but I wasn't having it. 'So now we can stop sidestepping: I'll tell you the unpleasant political nature of the work
I'm really sent here to do. And you,' I said clearly, 'can give me a true assessment of what's wrong in the local community.'
He started to tell me which plot in Hades I could go and sink my roots in. 'Perhaps first of all,' I continued pleasantly, 'I should warn you that I came to Corduba to investigate two matters: one involves a scandal in the oil market – and the other is murder.'
XXI
I had managed to strike Optatus dumb, which was no mean feat. When normally silent types do decide they are bursting with indignant exclamations, they tend to be unstoppable. But on a quiet sunlit slope among the timeless dignity of olive trees, murder sounds a powerful word.
'Falco, what are you talking about?'
'One man dead, possibly two of them, in Rome. And it looks as if somebody from Baetica arranged it.' That night I had dinner at the Palace seemed a long way off, yet the thought of Anacrites lying pallid and still and almost a stranger to himself came clearly to mind. Even more vivid was Valentinus' corpse: that young man so like myself, lying in the dim light of the Second Cohort's engine house.
Marius Optatus looked disgusted. 'I know nothing of this.'
'No? Then do you know two big landowners called Licinius Rufius and Annaeus Maximus? When I was introduced to them they set themselves up as honest men of high renown – but they were in doubtful company that night, and after the attacks they behaved very oddly themselves. Then what about a scapharius called Cyzacus? Well, when was a bargee to be trusted? A navicularius called Norbanus? He's a Gaul, I believe, and a shipping negotiator into the bargain, so you don't have to pretend to like him. When I met them all these fellows were dining with someone you certainly do know – a certain Roman senator called Quinctius Attractus! In Rome he's regarded as a big bean in Baetica, though in Baetica you may prefer your legumes home-grown. He's regarded by me as a very suspicious character.'
'Attractus has for some time been inviting groups of people to visit him in Rome,' Optatus agreed, blinking with amazement at my angry speech.
'Do you think he's up to no good?'
'After my experience of him as a landlord, I'm bound to think that – but I'm prejudiced, Falco.'
'I'll ask you something different then. You're a bachelor, I gather; I don't suppose you have any lithe girlfriends in Hispalis who might just have returned abruptly from a trip to Rome?'
Optatus looked po-faced. 'I know nobody from Hispalis.' 'You'd know this one again if you saw her; she's a dancer – just bursting with talent of one kind or another.' 'There must be thousands of girls who dance, but most of them have gone to Rome -'
'With their fee paid by Attractus? And a habit of leaving their props behind at the scenes of bloody crimes?'
I had been going too fast for a countryman. 'Who are you?' Optatus demanded in apparent bewilderment. 'What are these people from Baetica to you? What harm are you bringing them?'
'The harm has been done,' I retorted. 'I saw the corpse, and the dying man too. Now I'm looking for the killers, at the request of Titus Caesar – so if you're honest, Marius Optatus, you will help me with my task.'
The tall, pale figure beside me began to recover his equanimity. Crouching down on one knee he firmed in the disturbed cutting to his own satisfaction. There was nothing wrong with the way I had replanted it, but I stood unmoved while he left his own scent on the damned thing.
He stood up. He had become more serious than ever. Brushing soil from his long hands he stared at me. Enduring the fascinated gaze was routine work for an informer and I remained relaxed. I could stand hostile scrutiny. 'So what do you see?'
'You know what you are, Falco.'
'Do I?'
'You arrive like a naive tourist.' Optatus had assumed a critical voice to which I was no stranger. He had stopped regarding me just as a rather raffish Roman in a patched tunic. He had realised he hated what I did. 'You seem inoffensive, a mere joker, a lightweight. Then people notice that you are a watcher. You have a stillness which is dangerous. You carry a sharp knife, hidden in your boot; you cut asparagus like a man who has used that knife for many unpleasant tasks.'
My knife had certainly hacked some bad meats, but he wouldn't want to know about that. 'I'm just a joker.'
'You tell jokes, while unknown to your listener you are measuring the quality of his conscience.'
I smiled at him. 'I am the Emperor's agent.'
'I have no desire to know of this, Falco.'
'Well, that's not the first time a prude told me my presence tainted his air.'
He stiffened, then accepted the rebuke: 'You will say that your work is necessary, I realise that.'
I clapped him gently on the shoulder, to reassure him if possible. He himself seemed like an innocent abroad. According to my famous worldly experience, that probably meant he was a devious swine, and setting me up.
We began walking towards the house again, along a dry track where even so early in the year the soil smelt hot and dusty. The red Baetican earth had already stained my boot- leather. It was pleasant weather. Just the kind of day when the men who were plotting the olive oil cartel were probably riding ou
t on fine Spanish horses to each other's estates, refining their plans.
'Optatus, I mentioned some names. Tell me about them. I need to know how the men I saw in Rome relate to each other and to their fine friend Attractus.'
I watched him struggle with fastidious dislike of the topic. Some people are eager to gossip, but a few unusual souls do find discussing their neighbours distasteful. These are the ones who are best value to an informer. They are offended by offers of payment, and better still they tell the truth.
'Come on, Marius! You must know the Corduban oil tycoons. The Annaeii are one of the most prominent families in Corduba. Annaeus Maximus ought to carry top weight in Baetica. He's from the family of the Senecas; we're talking about extraordinary wealth.'
'This is true, Falco.'
'Since it's public knowledge, there is no need to be coy. So what about Licinius Rufius?'
'Not so grand a family.'
'Any senators?'
'No, but their time must come. Licinius himself is elderly but he has worked to become important in Corduba and he intends to build a dynasty. He is extremely ambitious for his two grandchildren, whom he brought up when their parents died. The young man should do well -'
'Local priesthoods and magistracies?'
'Rufius Constans is bound for Rome, Falco: it is a distinct and separate career.' I gathered Optatus slightly disapproved.
'Doesn't the one lead to the other?'
'That is not how it works. In the provinces you have to make a choice. Think of the Annaei whom you mentioned: the elder Seneca was a leading citizen and famous author and bibliographer, yet he remained socially obscure. Of his three sons, the first went straight into a senatorial career in Rome and achieved prominence, the next became an equestrian first, also in Rome, and only entered the Senate when he showed the promise that was to make him a major figure. The youngest son remained all his life in Corduba.'
'As the Annaei nowadays all choose to do?'
'There is no disgrace in provincial life, Falco.'
'Rome has its moments too,' I commented. 'So going back to the other man's grandson, Rufius Constans – This young man, a jewel of Baetican high society, is in his early twenties and to promote him his grandfather took him off to Rome recently?'
'I heard so.'
'He enjoys the theatre, I'm told!'
'Is that significant?'
'I didn't think so when I heard it – but he went with your new provincial quaestor. If the younger generation are so friendly, their elders may be nuzzling up to each other too.'
'People here tend to keep Roman landowners like Attractus at arm's length. He has hardly ever been here.'
'But they go to Rome at his invitation? Maybe he helps them with the fare. Then they arrive, eager to see the Golden City, flattered by the attention of a man with influence. Clearly he does have influence – he's the type who can get the Senate to vote a particular provincial post to his son.'
'You think his visitors become open to persuasion?'
'He may be offering just what they want: for instance patronage for the Rufius grandson – and did you say there's a girl in that family?'
'Claudia Rufina is expected to marry my ex-landlord's son.' Optatus never mentioned his dispossessor by name if he could avoid it. Nor the quaestorly son. 'I trust Licinius, Falco. For instance, I shall be sending the olives from this estate to his presses next autumn, so we don't get cheated elsewhere. Of the others you mentioned,' he went on crisply, trying to blot out mention of his own troubles, 'Norbanus is a shipping negotiator, as you said. He buys and sells space in the ocean-going craft that come upriver as far as Hispalis. I have met him, but I don't know him well. My family used someone else.'
'Any reason for not using him?'
For once Optatus smiled. 'Ours was a remote cousin.'
Norbanus, however, is the most well known. He is chief of the guild of negotiators at Hispalis. He also has his own office at Ostia, in the port of Rome.'
'He's well-to-do, then. And Cyzacus must be top man among the Baetis bargees?'
'You have heard of Cyzacus?'
'You mean, how do I know he's the tribal chief? I worked it out Attractus appears to go for the most prominent men. So how do they all get on together? Norbanus and Cyzacus seemed to be deep in gossip. Are the two estate owners close drinking cronies too?'
'Shippers and landowners exist in mutual contempt, Falco. Cyzacus and Norbanus would have been lucky to get anybody else to speak to them. They and the producers spend most of their lives trying to mislead each other about prices or complaining about late deliveries, or how the oil has been handled… As for Annaeus and Licinius, they are in the same business as each other, so they are rivals in earnest.' That was good news. Wedges might be inserted here. This is how conspiracies are toppled by agents who know how. We find a cosy clique, which has internal rivalries, and we nimbly cause dissent. 'One difference is, the Annaeii came from Italian stock many years ago, the very first Roman settlers here. The Rufii are of pure Spanish origin and have ground to make up.'
'I see you have plenty of local snobberies!'
'Yes, people who have vital interests in common do love to despise one another for grand reasons.'
'Tell me, what makes the two olive growers hate each other? Is it purely commercial jostling?'
'Oh, I think so. There is no deadly quarrel,' Optatus told me rather wryly, as if he assumed I thought provincial towns were hotbeds of family feuds and intriguing sexual jealousy. Well, no doubt they had their fun, but making money took precedence. On the other hand, in my work, when people denied the existence of strong emotions, it was usually a prelude to finding corpses with knives in their backs.
We had reached the villa rustica. I could hear Nux barking, probably in protest because Helena had locked her up. I made my retreat before Optatus could remember his heartache over the torn-up tree.
XXII
Corduba sits on the north bank of the River Baetis, overlooking a fertile agricultural plain. Marmarides drove Helena and me there the next day. Where the navigable water petered out into spongy pools and channels we crossed a bridge, made of stone, which everyone claimed replaced one that Julius Caesar had built. Even in April the river was virtually fordable at this point.
Corduba has an old local history, but had been founded as a Roman city by Marcellus, the first Roman governor of Spain. Then both Caesar and Augustus had made it a colony for veteran soldiers, so Latin was the language everyone now spoke, and from that staged beginning must have come some of the social snobberies Optatus had described for me. There were people with all sorts of pedigrees.
Even while it was being colonised the district had a turbulent history. The Iberian landmass had been invaded by Rome three hundred years ago – yet it had taken us two hundred and fifty to make it convincingly ours. The numerous conflicting tribes created trouble enough, but Spain had also been the entry route for the Carthaginians. Later it made a fine feuding ground for rivals every time prominent men in Rome plunged us into civil war. Corduba had repeatedly featured in sieges. Still, unlike most large provincial centres I had visited, mainly on the frontiers of the Empire, there was no permanent military fort.
Baetica, which possessed the most natural resources, had yearned for peace – and the chance to exploit its riches – long before the wild interior. At home in the Forum of the Romans was a golden statue of Augustus set up by wealthy
Baeticans in gratitude for his bringing them a quiet life at last. How quiet it really was, I would have to test.
We passed a small guardhouse and crossed the bridge. Beyond lay stout town walls, a monumental gate and houses built in the distinctive local style of mud walls topped with wood; I discovered later the town had a prominent fire brigade to cope with the accidents that endanger timber buildings in close-packed urban centres where! amp oil is very cheap. They also boasted an amphitheatre, doing well according to a rash of advertising placards; various bloodthirsty-sounding gladiators wer
e popular. Aqueducts brought water from the hills to the north.
Corduba had a mixed, cosmopolitan population, though as we forced a passage through the twisting streets to the civic centre we found the mixture was kept strictly separate – Roman and Hispanic areas were neatly divided by a wall running west to east. Notices carved on wall plaques emphasised the divide. I stood in the forum, labelled as Roman, and thought how odd this strict local schism would seem in Rome itself, where people of every class and background are thrust up against each other. The rich may try to keep apart in their mansions, but if they want to go anywhere – and to be anyone in Rome you must be a public man – they have to accept being buffeted by the garlic- eating hordes.
I had a good idea that in Corduba both the elegant Roman administrators and the aloof, inward-looking Baeticans would soon find themselves in a close pact on one subject: disapproval of me.
Like all decent tourists we had made our way first to the forum. It was in the northern sector. As soon as we enquired for directions I learned that the governor's palace was back down by the river; distracted by talking to Helena, I had let myself be driven past it. Helena and Marmarides, who were keen to see the sights, went off to explore. Helena had brought a town plan left behind by her brother. She would show me any decent landmarks later.
I was obliged to register my presence with the proconsul of Baetica. There were four judicial regions in this sun- drenched province – Corduba, Hispalis, Astigi and Gades. I knew therefore that there was only a one in four chance of finding the governor at home. Since the Fates regard showering me with disappointment as a good game of dice, I expected the worst. But when I presented myself at the proconsular palace, he was there. Things were looking up. That didn't mean I could get the mighty man to meet me.
I set myself a pleasant wager: seeing how soon I could wangle an official interview. I tried to make my approach subtle, since there was an obvious need for secrecy. A simple request fell flat. Producing a tablet with the dignified seal of Claudius Laeta, Chief of Correspondence to the Emperor, obtained mild interest among the flunkies, who must have written Laeta's name on a few thousand dreary communiques. One neatly cropped fellow said he would see what he could do then ducked out into a corridor to discuss his last night's wine consumption with a friend. I put on the bleak expression auditors wear when tasked to eliminate excessive staff numbers. Two other relaxed lads put their heads together and worked out their order for lunch.
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