The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

  Those two trays had stayed for hours, just outside the kitchen. Then somebody removed them. The cook, fully preoccupied with serving up a banquet, thought nothing of their disappearance. The soldiers told us they came across the trays in the prisoners’ corridor; they supposed Amicus had changed his orders so they delivered the food. Pyro ate his.

  The waiters and barber, who had been fed earlier, were all fine. Splice had refused to eat: he was frightened the governor would have him poisoned—not that the rest of us blamed Frontinus for what had befallen Pyro. But thanks to his fears, Splice remained alive. His foodbowl was now taken to be tested on some stray animal. It would die; I did not need to see the results.

  Everyone in the kitchen had been working flat out last evening. Guests had come and gone. Beyond muttering, “It’s that door there, sir!” several times, the staff had taken no notice.

  Aelia Camilla swore by the probity of her cook. He was a big Trinovantian with a thick mustache, who looked more like a seaman than a gourmet chef, though someone had trained him well. He cannot have had traditional knowledge of rabbit richly stuffed with calves’ brain and chicken, or even simple Roman custard or roasted dates Alexandrian. I suspect Aelia Camilla had taught him herself; she certainly rounded on her husband when angry questioning from Hilaris reduced the big cook to tears.

  The governor turned up, naturally furious. Frontinus gave orders to have Splice transferred to the greater security of the fort. He was forgetting one important fact: Londinium did not have a secure fort. I pointed it out. Splice was sent to the military anyway.

  There was nothing more to learn. I went to find Petronius. He needed to know that Pyro had been eliminated, presumably by an accomplice from the gang. I needed to discuss the implications.

  I rapped on his bedroom door, intending to hover outside in the corridor to avoid embarrassment. The secretive Petronius had known since our army days how to keep his women to himself.

  When there was no answer, I forced myself to open the door. As I had guessed by then, the room was deserted, its bed neatly made with smoothed pillow and covers. He had gone back on watch already.

  Anxious, I decided I would pack in some breakfast; today was likely to be busy. I had forgotten that the cook was hysterical. So far there were only a couple of roughly chopped loaves and some rubbery eggs that must have sat in the pan on a racing boil for at least an hour. Even more annoying, I was joined for my grim repast by my sister.

  I expect the worst from women, but in contrast to our siblings (who were a bunch of hussies), I had always believed that my sister Maia was a virgin schoolgirl, a decent young woman, and a chaste wife. While it’s true Famia had gotten her pregnant, she had then married him. And they had stayed married.

  Now I had seen her embarking on a night of savage physicality—yet she appeared the next morning looking the same as usual. She gave a grunt when she saw me and was soon eating a light breakfast in her accustomed grumpy silence. I found this troublesome. What was the point of any man expending himself on white-hot lovemaking, in the arms of a woman he had eyed up yearningly for years, if the experience only left her irritably picking stale crumbs from her teeth?

  It raised another doubt. Petronius and I swore by that old line all bad boys believe: you can always tell. That was evidently untrue.

  “What are you staring at?” demanded Maia.

  “That egg’s a bit black . . . I found your harpist lurking in a corridor very late last night. Get rid of him, sis. He’s spying.”

  “He’s blind.”

  “His boy is not.”

  Maia fell silent. I could imagine her thoughts. The harpist was going back, no question. However, when I asked politely what plans she had today, she astonished me. “Oh, I think I’ll take up Norbanus on his offer to go downriver to his country place.”

  And I liked to think that juggling lovers was a male preserve.

  “You would do better spending some time with your children,” I told her primly. My sister shot me yet another scathing glance.

  I had been intending to go out to find Petro with the news about Pyro. But then we were joined at breakfast by another early-rising houseguest: King Togidubnus.

  “This is a first!” I joked politely.

  “Yes, you’re usually long gone when I trot along—old man’s privilege. Today I heard the commotion.”

  “I’m sorry that you were disturbed, sir. To tell the truth, since I hadn’t seen you recently, I assumed you had gone back to Noviomagus.”

  “Things to do,” replied the King, frowning at the meager supplies on the buffet. “Does this prisoner’s death mean you are losing your case, Falco? What about my commission to find who killed my man?”

  “I am making progress.” Well, I knew how to lie.

  “I heard the suspect was being tortured. Is that what killed him?”

  “No, he had not yet been touched.”

  “So you had no evidence out of him?” the King noted sourly.

  “We’ll get there . . . I may call up help from my nephew and brothers-in-law. I guess you would be glad if they stopped carousing around your district anyway?” Larius, my nephew from Stabiae, and Helena’s two younger brothers were taking leisure time at Noviomagus—up to all the ghastly pursuits of young men. The Camilli were supposed to act as my assistants, though they were untrained and probably not safe to use in a case that involved professional criminals.

  “We are managing to survive their presence,” said the King, commendably tolerant. The lads were rabid hitters of nightspots. If there was trouble around, they found their way straight into it. “I want Larius to stay and paint for me.” My nephew was a fresco artist of great distinction. He had been brought to Britain to work on the King’s palace. Maybe thinking about the project, on which Verovolcus had been his liaison officer, brought Togidubnus’ mind back to the stalled investigation. “My men have been pursuing inquiries, just like you, Falco.”

  “Any luck?”

  It was merely a polite question, but the King surprised me once again. This day was becoming stressful. All this time, the Atrebates had been in serious contention with Petro and me—and they had pulled off a coup. The King boasted genially: “I think you will be impressed, Falco! We have persuaded the barmaid from the Shower of Gold to tell us all she knows.”

  I choked on my beaker of goat’s milk. “Oh?”

  “We have her in a safe house,” Togi told me with a twinkle. “In view of what has happened to your own witness, I think I had better make ours available, don’t you?”

  XXXVIII

  The atrebates managed not to smirk. There were four of the King’s retainers, loose-limbed warriors with flyaway red hair. In the summer heat they had cast off their colorful long-sleeved tunics and were bare-chested (with sunburn). All boasted gold bracelets and neck chains. A bunch of spears leaned against a wall, while their owners lounged about in a yard. They were hiding their prize at a farm in the northeast of the town. When I was brought to see her at least it livened up a boring day for them.

  “Obviously we have to protect her,” the King had said to me. “Once she has given her evidence and helped to secure a conviction, she will be set up in a wine shop of her own in my tribal capital, away from here. You may not approve of the way we have handled her,” Togidubnus suggested rather warily.

  I grinned. “When dealing with people who trade in vice and extortion, it seems only fair to retaliate with bribery.”

  He bridled. “I am not paying her to lie, you know!”

  “Of course not, sir.” Even if he was, so long as she piped up boldly and stuck to her story with due diligence, my conscience would cope.

  She was still too stout, too ugly, and too slow on the uptake for me. She was still four feet high. But they had provided her with new clothes, so she looked like a middle-class shop owner: a role that, with the King’s promise of the new wine bar in Noviomagus, she intended to achieve.

  The former waitress had already assumed an expr
ession of great respectability. She reminded me of my mother, laying aside her working clothes for a festival, combing her hair in a fancy style (which did not suit her), and suddenly turning into a stranger. Ma used to drink too much and be indiscreet about the neighbors on such occasions. This one was sober at the moment, and certainly wanted to appear polite.

  When I was taken to her by the slightly po-faced Atrebatan warriors, she did not exactly offer me cinnamon bread and borage tea, but she sat, with her knees close together and her hands firmly clasped in her lap, waiting to impress me with her newfound status. She was apparently looking forward to a life where she no longer had to sleep with customers; or at least, she said, not unless she wanted to. It almost sounded as if some sharp lawyer had been talking to her about the legal rights of tavern landladies. As such, I reckoned she would be a terror. She seemed extremely keen on the idea that she would be in charge. Of course, most underlings reckon they can run places far better than the boss. (This was certainly true in the case of the legendary Flora’s, a caupona run by my sister Junia, who had all the public catering skills of a ten-year-old.)

  “We meet again!” I challenged her. “I don’t suppose you remember me; I’m Falco. I like to think women find me looming large in the memory, but modesty is a fine Roman virtue.”

  She giggled. That was a new and decidedly offputting trait.

  She was now being called Flavia Fronta. One of the weapons in the governor’s armory was to extend Roman citizenship to favored barbarians. In return, he hoped to people his province with loyal little friends of the Emperor, obsequiously named after him. It had a knack of working. And it cost nothing.

  “So, Flavia Fronta!” I was trying hard not to remember her as the grimy purveyor of sex and bad temper that I had seen twice at the Shower of Gold. The Atrebatans were observing me. Access to their witness was only granted on condition they watched to see that I did not extract new clues from her unfairly. It put my methods under closer scrutiny than I liked. “I understand you are now giving a statement about the death of Verovolcus?”

  “Yes, sir, that was terrible.” I nearly choked with laughter at her change of tune. She was quiet, dutiful, and respectful. Frankly, I thought she was lying through her teeth.

  “Tell me, please.”

  Civilization had a lot to answer for. She had come up with a painful new speaking accent. In these affected vowels, she recited the evidence as if tutored: “A British man I had never seen before came to our bar that evening and sat down with Splice and Pyro.”

  “Did you hear what they talked about?”

  “Yes, sir. The British man wanted to join in their business—which is rather unpleasant, as you probably know. They did not want to let him in on it.”

  “So they were not all friendly together?”

  “No. They had met him to complain about his interest. He offered to work with them, but they laughed at him. He said he was from this province and would do what he liked in Londinium. They soon showed him how wrong he was. You know what happened. They tipped him up and pushed him in the well.”

  “Did none of you try to stop them?”

  “I was too scared. The owner would not interfere.”

  “Was he paying Pyro and Splice for protection?”

  “Oh yes. He’s terrified of them.”

  “Pyro and Splice are well known at your bar? And you consider them violent?”

  “Yes, sir. Very violent.”

  “And what about the third man, their companion?”

  “He comes in sometimes.”

  “How do you regard him?”

  “Someone to avoid very carefully.”

  “And who is he?”

  “I only know he comes from Rome, sir.”

  “You think he is a leader of the gang?”

  “Oh yes. Everybody knows he is; he brought Pyro and Splice and other people over to Britain. They had always worked for him. He runs everything.”

  “And let’s be quite sure—he was the man giving the orders, the night Verovolcus was killed? Did you yourself hear him do that?”

  “Yes, he said, ‘Do the deed, boys!’ And so they did.”

  “Did he go out into the yard where the well was?”

  “No, he just sat at the table where he was. And smiled,” Flavia Fronta shuddered. “That was horrible . . .”

  “I’m sorry I have to ask you to remember. Now, when this man gave them that order, Pyro and Splice knew exactly what to do? They must have discussed it beforehand?”

  “Yes. The man could not believe it was happening to him. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes . . .” Her expression of pity for Verovolcus seemed genuine. The Atrebatans glanced at each other, nervous of the chilling, deliberate violence she described. They had all known Verovolcus, presumably.

  I pursed my lips. “This organizer is an evil man. We badly need to know who he is. It is a shame you have no idea of his name.”

  “Oh don’t I?” the woman asked, enjoying herself.

  I paused. “You told me all you know is that he comes from Rome.”

  “That’s right,” said Flavia Fronta. “But I do know his name.”

  For a blissful moment, I thought she was going to tell me. No such luck. Working in a downtown bar had taught the lady basic self-preservation. She gave me a whimsical smile. “Now go on—you must think I’m daft! If you stick Pyro and Splice in court, then yes, I’ll give evidence. After I’m safe in my own little wine shop, far away down south, then I’ll tell you who the big man is.”

  I managed to keep my temper. I did wonder whether to hand over this self-satisfied baggage to Amicus. But I came from Rome; I knew how tough women could be. She was just the sort to become his first non- responsive victim and thwart us.

  “You’re very wise,” I told her with admiration. “Let me give you a warning, however. Pyro is dead. He died last night; it seems this gang have a long reach, and they got to him even in the official residence.” She looked worried. “If anything happens to Splice now—or if he confesses voluntarily when tortured—you will be left with no bargaining power.” She looked really worried. “King Togidubnus will have no need for gratitude; there will be no wine bar in the south. If I were in your shoes . . .” I glanced down, and yes, the Atrebatans had bought the frowsty dame a pair of new patterned footgear in which to cram her misshapen hooves. “Then I would cooperate at once.”

  Flavia Fronta was watching me thoughtfully.

  “We are going to find this man anyway,” I bragged. Maybe it was even true. “But speed matters. That’s where your help could be invaluable.” She was still silent. I shrugged. “Of course, it is your choice.”

  Never underrate the appeal of choice for those whose lives have, until then, lacked any chance of it. Flavia Fronta half covered her mouth with a nervous hand. Then she whispered, “His name is Florius.”

  XXXIX

  Florius! So this was the Balbinus mob again.

  Florius must be the second man Petronius was hunting, the one he had already chased for a long time. It had seemed personal: well, he and Florius certainly had reasons for a feud. Petro had slept with the little Florius wife—which led to the breakdown not of their marriage, but his own.

  I racked my brains to remember what I knew. I had met Florius—back in the days when he seemed like a worthless and harmless hanger-on. His marriage to a gangster’s daughter was incongruous; Florius, a shambling, feeble, untidy bundle who spent his days at the races, gave the impression that he had been chosen as Balbina Milvia’s bridegroom simply because he was a soft pudding the family could push around. It had looked like a ploy to protect her father’s money. If her papa were arrested, his property would be forfeit, but Roman law has a fine respect for marriage; if Milvia’s dowry chests were labeled “sheets and coverlets for the bride and her future children” they would probably be sacrosanct.

  Petronius and I had chased down Balbinus, whose vicious gangs had been terrorizing Rome. We eliminated him, incurring the ha
tred of his widow. Petro then complicated everything when he decided to bed dear little Milvia. She was ten years younger than him and thought he was serious; she even talked of them marrying. Florius cannot have taken that well—if he knew—which he probably did, because Milvia was dim enough to tell him everything. If she hadn’t, her spiteful mother would have done. I had heard that the mother then made the married couple stick together (to protect the money), but life in their house must have been a strain ever since.

  If Florius really had been a soft blob, there would have been no problem. But I could remember watching how he straightened up after his father-in-law died. His moment had come. Florius immediately started plotting to take over. Remnants of the Balbinus organization still existed, though weakened. Florius would be welcomed. Underworld associates love crime lords’ relatives; they have a big sense of history. His mother-in-law, Flaccida, was hoping to regenerate the family empire, and when Petronius Longus rebuffed pretty Milvia, even Milvia may then have supported Florius’ new career. Being married to the top enforcer would suit her. She had always claimed to be unaware of her late father’s occupation—but she loved the money.

  Florius threw himself into racketeering. His dead father-in-law had shown him how to do it. His rise must have been swift. The description of that third man ordering Pyro and Splice to dispose of Verovolcus, while he was callously sitting tight, showed a totally different character from the vague lump absorbed in his betting tokens whom I had first met. Florius was now a full villain.

  I myself saved up tangling with crime lords for special occasions, days when I wished to toy with suicide. But Petronius presumably kept his eye on the reviving gang. He wanted to finish what he and I had started. He was planning to obliterate them. They probably knew his intentions.