The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

  There was a long silence. Then Albia spoke, surprisingly strongly: “The fat woman told me I had to work for them. I never thought I would come back to you and Marcus Didius. I thought I had to do what they said.”

  Helena managed not to react angrily, but I saw the muscles tighten around her mouth. “And what about the man?”

  “He made me do what you have to do.”

  Helena was now holding the girl, half turned away from me. Petronius was gripping his hands, lest he smash something. I put my palm against Helena’s back.

  “Did you know about that already, Albia?” she murmured.

  “I knew what people did.”

  “But it had not happened to you before?”

  “No.” The young girl suddenly began crying. Tears fell, almost without sobs. Her grief and desolation were heartrending. “I made it happen—”

  “No. Never believe that!” Helena exclaimed. “I cannot change what has been done to you, but you are now safe with us. I will help you tell this story to the governor. Then the man and the old woman can be stopped from hurting other girls like you. You will know—and it may help you, Albia—that you have fought back against him. Him and his kind.” After a moment Helena added in a hard voice, “Men are not all like that, I promise you.”

  Albia looked up. She was gazing from Helena to me.

  “Men and women can be happy together,” Helena said. “Never forget that.”

  Albia stared at me. This was the longest communication any of us had had with her, so what came next was understandable. She must have been brooding over it most of the time she had been with us: “You find people. Will you find my family?”

  It was always the most painful question an informer could be asked. Either you cannot trace the missing ones, and you never stood a chance of doing so, or you do find them and it all goes badly wrong. I had never known a good outcome. I refused to handle such requests from clients anymore.

  “I can only tell you the truth, Albia. I don’t think that I can do it,” I said.

  She let out a cry of protest.

  Stopping her, I went on steadily: “I have thought about it for you. I believe that your family must all have died in the fighting and the fire when Queen Boudicca attacked Londinium. You must have been a baby then. If anyone had lived, they would have looked for you.” Probably that was true. If they had run away and just abandoned the baby, it was best she never knew.

  “They were lost, Albia,” said Helena. “Love them—but you have to let them go. If you choose to come with us, we will take you far away, and you can forget all that has happened in between.”

  Her words made little impression. Albia was at her lowest ebb.

  Petronius and I left Helena to take care of the girl as best she could. We went to the door, staring out at the rainstorm. He hopped on one foot, strapping back a boot.

  “She will be scarred forever. You’ll have your work cut out to save her.”

  “I know!” And that was even if Florius had not given her disease or pregnancy to contend with. Only time would tell us that. Helena would have to watch her carefully and tactfully.

  Petronius Longus was lost in silence now. I had my own misery to preoccupy me. He, I knew, was thinking that somehow, somewhere, he would get Florius.

  XLVI

  Time had brought an abrupt halt to the storm.

  The landlord or waiter came out to stare at the clearing skies. He was not the man I remembered. That one had been a bald Gaul in a blue tunic with a stupid belt. He had been self-composed and professional. This was a wiry scruff who had taken an eternity to attend to us and who seemed ignorant of the stock.

  The change in staff had been bothering me. In my mind I had been waiting for my acquaintance to reappear, but it was not going to happen. I had disliked him, but the thought that he had been usurped by this inadequate gave me a bad taste. I forced myself to take notice. “Someone else was serving, the last time I came here.”

  This man’s eyes glazed slightly. “He left.”

  “Itchy feet?” That was not the impression I had had at the time. That other man, who had helped me try to sober up Silvanus, had come over to Britain to make a success of himself. He had seemed settled in the soldiers’ bar, ready to stay as a long-term resident. So where was he now? Who drove him out?

  The new man shrugged. That was when I noticed that the old signboard with the hook-nosed general’s head had been taken down. Somebody was repainting it.

  “Changing your name? What are you calling yourself now?”

  “I haven’t decided,” he hedged, as if he hated my close scrutiny. Then I knew what all this meant.

  “Plenty to choose from,” I retorted grimly. “Day like today, the Lightning Bolt would be a good one.”

  “That’s right,” joined in Petronius, who took the point; he spoke with menace. “Anything to do with Jupiter is always popular.” To me he muttered, “If they’ve spread this far north in the city, Frontinus has to take account!”

  If this really was a new manager installed by the Florius gang, he knew we were on to the takeover, but simply gave us a contemptuous look.

  I called to Helena that we should all leave. She was cold and uncomfortable, and suggested we should warm up at the baths next door. If we struggled back to the residence there would be hot water and dry clothing, but we were all too chilled to pass up this opportunity. It was not entirely self-indulgent. Petronius and I could plan what to do next.

  We waded through the flooded street; the drains were so full of water they had backed up. Our party was silent. I was already thinking.

  Florius would not return to the brothel. Not if he reasoned that Petronius must be watching the place. The governor could safely raid it and haul in the old hag, with any hangers-on. We could then search the river for the Florius boat and discover whatever other haunts he had.

  For the time being, Florius would lie low.

  Maybe.

  When we entered the baths, I winked at the manager, who then found himself haggling. Petronius Longus had taken charge; he wanted a party discount, which was pushing it for a mere four people. Still, the vigiles expect respect for their position, just as gangsters like Pyro and Splice do. All the manager could do was mutter feebly about their high-quality service and how they had plenty of hot water . . .

  “They have a waterwheel!” I exclaimed cheerily. “And a very tired slave who trundles it.”

  “Myron!” retorted the bathkeeper. “Nothing wrong with Myron’s legs! He rattles it along.”

  That wasn’t what I remembered. I tried to ignore it, but the comment niggled. I sighed. “Save a strigil for me—I want to check something . . .” I did not tell Petro, but I suddenly realized I might have missed Florius by a hair’s breadth.

  It took no time to hop back to that building where I had looked in at the waterwheel. In fine weather, it seemed pretty close. Outside the shack, I paused. This was stupid. I was chasing someone dangerous; I should have brought Petronius with me. I drew my sword. Very gently I pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  I noticed immediately that the waterwheel was chuntering much more robustly than before. The man on the treadmill must have extra energy. The light was dim even now that the storm had abated, but I could make out the works. The raising system was spectacular. It had been installed inside a huge wood-lined well that was so wide two men could have stood in it with their arms outstretched. They might have drowned if they tried it, however; I could not see how deep the shaft went. Remembering past terrors, I felt sick just looking down it. If Verovolcus had been pitched in here, he would have vanished from view and nobody would ever have found him. That would have spared me a lot of grief.

  A looped iron chain, operated by a wheel, dropped into the pitch-dark depths below, bringing water up in a long line of rectangular wooden buckets. A human treadmill alongside kept the upper wheel rotating and the buckets churning. I found the treadmill, grabbed a rung, and hung on. The mechanism was a
bout ten feet high, worked by a man inside who kept walking doggedly all day, presumably. Jarred by the pressure as I braked his wheel, he now stopped. He was a stick-insect slave in a headband who looked offended that I had broken in on his solitude.

  “You must be Myron. Having a bad day, are you? I’m sorry to intrude again. Tell me, Myron, who made you take a rest from your work, earlier?”

  Myron eyed up my sword. Still, he was game. “Are you going to pay me to tell you?”

  “No. I’m going to kill you if you don’t confess.”

  “Fair enough!” A pragmatist.

  “He’s a racketeer,” I warned. “You’re lucky to be still alive. Shaved head and ridiculous trousers, am I right?”

  Myron nodded and sighed. “I didn’t even get a rest—he just jumped right in with me. Was it you who opened the door? He was squashed here, with his hand over my mouth.”

  “Better than up your bum.”

  “Oh, I get no fun! He kicked me and made me keep on walking so it would sound normal.”

  “You weren’t going at your normal pace.”

  “He was getting in my bloody way.”

  “Where did he go afterwards?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care. He gave me a belting and told me to keep my mouth shut about seeing him. Why should I? You’ll just belt me again . . . If you catch him, do give him a wallop for me. I do a good job, without all this.”

  “Did you know him? He’s called Florius.”

  “Seen him before. He came around with some other fellow, wanting to invest in the bathhouse. They know there’s going to be a fort, I daresay. I’ll be flogging along at a fast pace then.” This gang’s tentacles were extending everywhere—and they were quick to find investment opportunities. Myron added, “They call themselves the Jupiter Company. Nice ring!”

  “Heavenly! Who was the other man?”

  “Don’t know. Perfectly decent stiff. He was actually polite to me.”

  “Don’t be fooled, Myron. Either of them would slit your gullet.”

  “Ah yes,” exclaimed Myron, who must be a bit of a character. “But the one who was not Florius would apologize nicely first!”

  I returned to the baths and picked up my companions. There was no point depressing them by revealing that Florius had fooled me. I told them it was time to go. I was too upset myself to bathe.

  We were all tired out, and on the way home human error brought us away from the direct route and to the area near the forum. Shivering now, we pressed on as the skies cleared more and the rain left only a faint haze. No sun came out. Instead, a breeze blustered around us. The air, which should have cleared, was heavy with moisture, humidity clogging the atmosphere. It clogged the lungs too. We were all wheezing.

  As our road climbed, we soon realized we were at the rear of the civic center.

  “That’s the lawyer’s house,” said Helena. I nodded. I could not care less. “You should tackle him,” she instructed me.

  “What, now? What about?”

  “His clients. Pyro and Splice. He may not know their fates—or if he does, you could ask him how he found out.”

  I was tired, cold, wet, and miserable. I would have liked to be the slapdash kind of informer who ignored loose ends. No chance. I had often told Helena that flair and intuition were all I needed, but she forced me to use dogged sleuthing. For her, being wet through and weary was no excuse. She dragged me into the Popillius house. We had to take Albia, and Petro came too out of curiosity.

  Popillius looked pleased to have company. Well, lawyers are gregarious.

  “I’m Falco, and you know Helena; we have Albia with us. Albia in fact is contemplating a claim for damages against your employers—” Popillius’ sandy eyebrows shot up. I bet he was now wondering if Albia would hire him; he would not wonder for long, once he worked out that she had no money. “And this is Petronius Longus, a member of the Roman vigiles.”

  He had blinked slightly as I reeled off the introductions. Clearly remembering that Frontinus had revealed what Petro did, Popillius looked hard at him. Petro just glared back. The vigiles are used to being despised. They are rude, brutal, and proud of it. “May I offer refreshments?”

  “No, don’t put yourself out.”

  “The young girl seems troubled . . .”

  But Helena drew Albia aside and sat with her. Petronius looked on caustically, while I braced up to Popillius.

  “Popillius, a question: have you managed to see your two clients yet?”

  “I have not. In fact, I may have to get angry with the governor, if this delay continues—”

  Petronius barked with laughter. “I wouldn’t try it!”

  I kinked up an eyebrow at Popillius. “No one has told you?”

  The lawyer was on the alert now. He gave me an inquiring look, not speaking.

  “Pyro is dead,” I told him bluntly. “He collapsed last night. Apparently poison.”

  He considered this very briefly. “I am shocked.”

  “If you’re going to suggest that the governor arranged the death,” I added, “don’t even think of it.”

  Popillius’ gaze was shadowed with caution. “Why should I suspect the governor? Why ever would Frontinus—” He was a persistent cross-examiner.

  “For an easy life. Remove an awkward criminal without the need for evidence, or the risk of trying him.”

  Popillius seemed to be genuinely baffled. “I find that out of character. And what risk of trial?” he demanded.

  “The risk that the criminal might get off.”

  He laughed. “Is that a compliment to my speechmaking? So—” Popillius abandoned that line. “The man you know as ‘Splice’—what has happened to him? I must see him.”

  “You’ll have to find him first,” scoffed Petro.

  “What has happened?”

  “He escaped from custody,” I acknowledged somberly.

  “Pyro was probably wiped out by the gang,” Petro added, being professional. “To stop him talking. Splice may have reckoned he had lost his value for them too, so once on the loose he turned on them.”

  “Wait, wait—” Popillius broke in. “Go back a stage. You are telling me my client escaped?”

  “Fixed up by you, Popillius?” I inquired satirically.

  Popillius retaliated, “Just be professional and tell me what is going on.”

  We sat either side of him and talked to him like schoolteachers. “One of your imprisoned clients has been relieved of his life while in custody—”

  “Splice saved his skin by not eating the tainted trayful—”

  “Then while he was being removed to a safer place, somehow the troops managed to ‘lose’ him.”

  “Bribes were used,” decided Petro flatly.

  “And who is the prime suspect for paying them?” I asked him.

  “Falco, I’d say, look for a crooked lawyer.”

  “Face it,” I advised Popillius. “If you work for gangsters you are assumed to be their fixer.”

  Popillius growled. “I merely accepted clients, in a case where legal intervention was justified.”

  “Well, you’ve lost them both now.” I was grim. “Pyro was poisoned—and Splice has been killed in a fight.”

  “Are you sure, or is this hearsay?”

  “I saw it. How exactly were you first approached to take them on?”

  Popillius replied openly: “Somebody’s slave brought me a letter. It outlined their position as prisoners and asked what my fee would be.”

  “Who sighed the letter?” Petronius demanded.

  “Anonymous. The proverbial ‘Friends of the Accused.’ It happens. Usually the reason is, they don’t want the man in question to feel obligated and embarrassed afterwards.”

  “So how did you answer?” Petro snapped back. “Was that by letter too?”

  Popillius nodded. Cynically, I then asked, “How could you be certain that you would be paid?”

  He smiled slightly. “My terms were payment in advanc
e.”

  “Oh, smart! The upfront cash arrived, I take it?” Again he nodded. “So,” I summed up, “you never had any direct dealings, and you still don’t know who your principals are?”

  Popillius gazed at me. That was when he chose to surprise us. He leaned back, with his hands linked on his belt. “Not quite,” he retorted. “I do know who commissioned me. And more important to you, perhaps—he does not know yet that I traced him.”

  Petronius and I looked at each other. Even before Popillius continued, we understood what he was going to do. It appalled us that he was about to undermine our prejudice—but his last speech warned us: he would tell us the name.

  We were lads of tradition; we were shocked. But it was true: we were staring at an honest lawyer.

  XLVII

  Even Helena had stopped murmuring to Albia. Helena had wonderful ears. Those shapely shells were perfect for pearl earrings, tempting to nibble—and they could single out whispered words of scandal from right across a humming banquet hall. She held up a finger to keep the girl silent.

  Petronius Longus placed his hands flat on his thighs, breathing slowly. “You are about to do something noble, Popillius?”

  “I am not as stupid as you seem to think,” returned the lawyer peacefully.

  A half-grin fixed itself on Petro’s face. “You tailed the slave!”

  “Of course,” confirmed Popillius with a light inflection. “When the legal profession are offered anonymous clients, it is regular practice.”

  Petronius winced. “And to whose house did the slave return?”

  “That of Norbanus Murena.”

  Petronius and I leaned back and slowly whistled. Popillius looked reflective. His voice was low, almost sorrowful, as he contemplated the devious world. “The perfect neighbor, I am told. A decent man, with an elderly mother upon whom he dotes. She is not with him in Britain, if the lady really exists. Which I regard as unproven, incidentally.”

  Petronius and I both shook our heads in amazement.

  “So why are you telling us?” I queried.

  “That should be obvious,” the lawyer replied piously.