The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

  “You hate and despise gangsters?”

  “As much as anyone.”

  “But you take their money?”

  “If there is a justification legally.”

  “Then why give Norbanus away?”

  Now Popillius did look slightly embarrassed, but the mood was fleeting. “I was hired. I took the case.”

  I still did not see the point.

  “You told me Pyro was poisoned by these gangsters,” explained Popillius. Then he showed us that a lawyer’s conscience is a tender thing: “I have been paid for my services and I will defend his interests. What has happened to Pyro is an outrage. I cannot allow anyone to kill my client and get away with it.”

  XLVIII

  So Florius was in partnership with Norbanus Murena.

  There was a sensible course of action (go home; inform governor; change into dry tunics and put feet up while governor took risks). Then there was the course Petronius and I chose.

  I blame Helena Justina. She reminded me that Norbanus also lived in the northern part of town, nearby. Popillius told us the address. He lent his carrying chair to take Helena and Albia back to the residence. When he offered to escort them himself, I refused.

  “So I may be an honest lawyer—but you don’t trust me!” he twinkled.

  “Not with my wife,” I replied.

  The lawyer’s directions took us to a neat house on the bank of the main stream. There stood several shrines to the Three Mother Goddesses, bulging British deities sitting among fruit and baskets of wool and looking as if they would clout anyone disrespectful rather hard around the ears. A couple of other buildings in the vicinity were using the water supply for light industry, among them a pottery and a decorative metal works. These must be where those neighbors lived who thought Norbanus such a nice man.

  Petronius and I approached quietly. We walked discreetly all around the boundary. It was quiet. Nobody was about that we could see. But if this was the headquarters of a major gang of criminals, armed personnel could be all over the grounds, waiting to ambush us.

  “You knock on the door,” I said. “He knows me.”

  “He’s met me too.”

  We were behaving like naughty schoolboys who planned to disturb the porter then run away. We did not make a move, however. We were taking stock. For one thing, while Norbanus had no reason yet to suppose we were onto him, this house lay close to the arena, and not far from the waterwheel hut. There was a possibility that Florius had hidden up here. If we had only associated him with Norbanus before this, we could have searched this house in time.

  Now, however, the question was not did Florius come here after the fight—we both thought it almost certain—but was he still on the premises?

  “I think he would bolt to his associate, get his breath, then move on fast,” Petronius said. I agreed. But we still needed to approach the joint with care. If Florius and Norbanus were both there, this operation really needed more than two of us. Even Norbanus must be far more dangerous than he had always seemed.

  We had already made plans to cover the worst contingency. Helena Justina was to ask the governor to send troops. But would they ever come? I had requested support earlier, when I first left to join Chloris at the amphitheater: the riot was all over before a few desultory soldiers turned up. Petro and I could be sitting here all day waiting for reinforcements.

  We chose to investigate by ourselves. We would certainly do that without thinking if we were back home on the Aventine.

  We did wait for some time. It gave us a feel for the place. We stood against the wall of the next-door house and dutifully watched the Norbanus residence. Nobody went in or out. Most houses are like that except at certain times of day. This was not one of the busy times. There was no activity.

  In the end, I was sent in. Petronius lay in wait outside, watching to see if anybody legged it out the back way. He told me reassuringly that if anyone jumped me he would see who did it. I made a rather short reply.

  The door was answered, fairly swiftly, by a perfectly innocuous household slave.

  “Greetings. I am Didius Falco. Is my sister here?”

  Why did I still feel like a schoolboy? Perhaps because I had asked that question numerous times in the distant past, when my mother sent me out on vain errands to round up my horrid siblings. At least now the rest of my story had changed: “My sister is Maia Favonia. She and your master are on friendly terms.” I really did feel quite anxious that Maia might be with the crook.

  “She is not here.”

  “You know her?”

  “Never seen her.”

  “Is Norbanus at home?”

  “He’s out.”

  “When are you expecting him back?”

  “Later.”

  “Well look—I don’t know if you would like to do this, but he very kindly promised to show me around his house. I am thinking of renting a similar place and I wanted to see what they are like. To save me a wasted journey, is there any chance . . .”

  Of course there was. The slave, a Briton who came with the rented property, I guessed, was perfectly willing to show me everything. But then his master would not object, would he? Everyone said Norbanus Murena was such a pleasant man.

  “Can I ask my friend to come in too?” Petronius Longus was just as welcome as me. I winked at him triumphantly. He kicked my ankle.

  We searched the whole place. We even looked in the outbuildings. Well, you need to know what stabling and workshop facilities are available when you take on a lease. We were feeling pretty proud of ourselves. The slave had no idea we were fishy specimens.

  The house was small by Mediterranean standards, set around a tiny courtyard that could never see much sun. Wattle-and-daub in some parts; elsewhere brick-built, with a decent pantiled roof. The best rooms actually had sheets of translucent talc on the windows and were frescoed in a basic way. Painted panels were divided by finely traced candelabra and urns; long-beaked birds of only slightly uncertain parentage bowed to each other in pairs on mottled ocher friezework. The furnishings were spare but adequate, less masculine and more fussy in style than I expected. Everywhere was clean and well-kept.

  As a gangster’s palace this lacked ostentation. That was wise. Londinium had not grown much since its days as a traders’ camp among the marshes. To install grandiose marble and exquisite artwork, when even the governor so far had only a few building-trenches in place for his headquarters, would be indiscreet.

  “Norbanus has a villa downstream too, hasn’t he? Do you know if he rents or owns?”

  “The villa is being built just for him.” So that was where some of his profits were invested.

  “Is it across on the south bank?” asked Petro.

  “Yes, sir. Close to the religious sanctuary on a hill just outside town.”

  Petronius knew it; his expression was sardonic. “That’s the new complex for the temples of the Imperial Cult, Falco. Our friend Norbanus has pitched his tent to be all cozy with the Emperor!”

  “No, he’s down by the river,” the slave corrected him snootily. “The imperial estate owns all the high ground.”

  Instead, Norbanus would have access to the water and its amenities. I bet that suited him. He could make a quick getaway, in case of trouble.

  “So where is he today?” I asked innocently. “His villa?”

  “I’m afraid I cannot say, but we keep the house in readiness; he sleeps here most nights.”

  By now we had been led back to the exit and were poised to leave. “What about his friend?” asked Petronius. I saw he intended to take a chance. “Do you see much of Florius?”

  The slave did pause, though it was imperceptible. Perhaps his gaze sharpened, but he replied smoothly. “Yes, he has been known to visit, but I’ve not seen him for some days.”

  Well, that confirmed the gangsters’ partnership. But it would also tell them we were onto both of them. The slave was bound to report back what we had said.

  Petronius was keen f
or results now. He had taken a bloody-minded risk; this was his field of expertise, but I felt uneasy. Abandoning secrecy might get him more than he bargained for.

  The door was open. We were being shunted out.

  As we walked outside, we both stepped wide to allow entry to newcomers. This pair was familiar: the blind harpist and his boy. The boy scowled at me, then gave Petronius an even filthier look.

  Petro and I walked around them, nodded coolly, then strode on. After a few steps I looked back and saw that the boy with the unpleasant stare was now watching us; Petronius in particular seemed to excite his interest. That did bother me. “Our presence will be reported. Norbanus may feel we have encroached too closely.”

  “Good!” snarled Petro.

  I did not admit that I’d seen the harpist spying on Maia last night as she went to his room. My own role in that incident would be difficult to explain. But I did say, “I’m worried about Maia. Need to warn her about Norbanus.”

  “Good thinking.”

  After a while I asked him straight out: “Is something going on between my sister and you?”

  Petronius looked at me sideways. Then he shrugged. His voice was hard. “You had better ask her. And if she does happen to tell you her intentions, you could pass on her answer to me!”

  “Oh, so she’s being herself,” I remarked bluntly. Then I risked it: “Are you in love with Maia?”

  Petronius Longus slapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry about it,” was his strained response. “Whatever I feel has been there for a long time. It never mattered to anyone before. There seems no reason why it has to matter now.”

  But I found that on behalf of both of them, it did matter to me.

  We walked on in silence through the rain-sodden streets of this unformed, unfilled, vulnerable town. Evening had fallen. More rain was lowering in the dark skies. The immigrant wild people, entrepreneurs and crazy freaks who wanted to make their fortunes, were cowering at home. The pudding-faced Britons who originated here were sitting at their smoky firesides, trying to work out how to buckle a sandal strap. I hoped the judicial legate had taught these new citizens that very wet leather needs to be dried slowly, while stuffed with rags to preserve its shape . . .

  When Petronius and I were almost at the procurator’s house, we finally heard marching boots. Legionaries were coming toward us. They had failed to help us when we needed them. We glanced at each other, then with one accord stepped under an awning outside an olive oil shop, where we remained unseen until the soldiers passed.

  XLIX

  The day seemed long enough to me. Hours before, I had been roused at early light on Pyro’s death, and since then I had been constantly active. We had made progress. Both chief villains had been identified. All we had to do was painstakingly track them down. Petro might convince himself we were at the world’s end where they had nowhere to hide, but I felt less confident. The brief conflict with Splice had ended with his death in the amphitheater. But Florius and Norbanus could command enormous resources. Our task from now on could be demanding. So when I returned to the residence, I was determined to rest. I found Helena in our room. She sent for food trays, and we stayed private together with our children all that evening. No one bothered us. I did think of tackling Maia over Norbanus, but I was too tired. It would lead to a row. Tomorrow, I decided, I might manage to be more tactful.

  Petronius had volunteered to report on the situation to the governor. Since Petro had his own clandestine position in Britain to discuss with Frontinus, I let him go alone. He would describe the gangsters’ identities and our abortive reconnaissance, and if he wrangled with Frontinus about further action—which was quite likely, knowing the vigiles—that was their own grief.

  The only gripe I wanted to tackle with the high-ups was their failure to provide military support. As with Maia, I was too angry to broach the subject now—well, too spent physically to be polite. Helena said she had mentioned the problem to her uncle, who had been surprised. According to him, prompt orders had been given for troops to attend the arena, and then later, when Helena returned home with Albia, more cover was supposed to have been sent to the Norbanus house. When I told her nobody had turned up, Helena was furious. After I fell asleep, I am sure she slipped out and berated Hilaris about me being left in danger.

  It may have helped Petronius Longus. His discussion with the governor must have been fairly forceful, and he obtained a decent escort for a plan he still had. I learned next morning that at nearly nightfall Petro had crossed the river and ridden out to the Norbanus villa. He was convinced it must be searched that night, so he chinked off on horseback in the eerie light of torches. I knew why: he had decided that Florius—not Norbanus—had been secretly staying there.

  Much later, Petronius returned to Londinium, disappointed. His search party had failed to find any evidence. The villa seemed to have been stripped. A guard was left, with orders to conduct a meticulous search the following morning in the light and then to wait in case either gangster should return. Petronius rode most of the way back to town, but it was too dark to cross the river so he stopped off at the mansio on the south bank where he had been lodging, and slept there. That was good, because if he had been given next morning’s message in person, I know he would have sneaked off and dealt with it alone. I mean the message that Popillius brought for Petro from the two gang leaders.

  Popillius arrived at breakfast time. He looked embarrassed. Since Petronius was absent, the governor ordered the lawyer to speak up. Anxiously Popillius repeated the message from Norbanus and Florius. When we heard it, we accepted that he had acted as a go-between from decent motives. Popillius had realized the situation was desperate. So did we.

  The text was brutal. It was a ransom demand, though not for money. The gang said they had Maia. They were offering to return her—in exchange for Petronius.

  L

  There was panic. A swift search revealed that my sister was nowhere at the residence. Nobody had seen her for at least a day. The residence was large and people came and went at will. Then in the excitement over identifying the gangsters, she had not been missed. Her room looked the same as when Helena and I went in there yesterday morning; Maia had not slept there last night. Worse, although the gangsters had not mentioned them, none of her children could be found.

  All anyone could remember was that Maia had considered accepting the invitation to visit the Norbanus villa. I now wondered if Petronius had been anxious last night over more than the hunt for Florius. Had he gone chasing off there in the dark because he was afraid Maia might have been lured to the gang’s hideout? Of course, she did not know Norbanus was a villain. Maia had shared the general opinion that her admirer was “a nice man.”

  Aelia Camilla anxiously admitted she had given Maia permission to use the procurator’s boat. This vessel, which I knew to be a substantial flat-bottomed barge capable of plying up the coast, was now missing from its mooring. Its crew were gone too.

  Petronius was found. His immediate response was to rage at me for “allowing” my sister so much freedom.

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” Terrified for her, I flared up myself. “Maia does what she wants. She never answers to me, or anyone. If I tried to stop her, on the pathetic grounds of being her male guardian, she would behave even more defiantly—and probably sock me in the eye first.”

  “She’s unwittingly put herself in the wrong place,” murmured Helena. “She doesn’t know who she is dealing with.”

  “I’m afraid of her reaction,” Petro growled. “Maia will speak out, and feisty confrontations with violent criminals are damned dangerous. If they knock her about . . .” He checked.

  “Norbanus may still be charming,” Helena tried to reassure him. The thought of Maia enjoying a lovers’ tryst with Norbanus produced no happy reactions in Petro and me. “Anyway, Lucius, you didn’t find them at the villa. Tell yourself she’s safe. Maybe Norbanus really does like her.”

  “He set it up.”
Petro’s reaction was darker. “Right from the start he was using her as bait.”

  “Florius.” I was ahead of him. Well, it was obvious. “Norbanus approached her, because he was a stranger. Florius had to keep away; he might have been recognized. But Florius is behind this scam. Norbanus could visit the governor in safety. At first it was to find out what Frontinus knew about the Jupiter protection gang, but once you were identified as one of the vigiles, Petro—”

  “Bloody governor should have kept quiet! Florius would have known at once that if their British operation was to flourish they had to get me out of the way.”

  I agreed. “Florius carefully planned this as a means to get to you. From the moment they knew you were affectionate with Maia, she was a marked woman.”

  “The harpist,” said Helena. “He was put here to spy—and it won’t have taken him long to know Petronius was very close to Maia and her family. The children were always talking about you, Lucius.”

  “One of the children’s most vocal worries was why you had vanished, when you went under cover,” I groaned. “The gang would have seen immediately why. They may have bought off the half-baked Londinium troops, but you were a different proposition.”

  “And they could get to you through Maia,” Helena said.

  Petronius shook his head. “I don’t see why they would think that.”

  “Don’t fool yourself,” I said tersely.

  “She treats me like—”

  “Oh, stop being dense! We all know what’s up. Anyway, the harpist saw her go to your room that night.”

  “What?” Helena riveted me with accusing eyes. Petronius himself, normally so relaxed, bit back any comment, but his annoyance was plain. Now they both knew that I had been a witness. My discretion over the incident won me no laurel crowns.

  Restraining his anger, Petronius still tried to gloss it over: “Just a fling . . .”

  It was Helena’s turn to lose her temper. “Juno! Lucius Petronius, how can you be so hopeless? It’s plain to everyone what Maia feels.”