The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

  They were waiting until she was off the scene before they dealt with us. I watched her leaving. Tall, haughty, and apparently self-possessed. No one would know how much anxiety she felt. The soldiers had now brought up torches, so light gleamed on her fine dark hair as she stormed past them, with a toss of her head, flinging one end of a light stole back over her shoulder. An earring glinted, her garnet-and-gold drop. It had caught in the delicate fabric; impatiently she freed it with those long, sensitive fingers that our daughters had inherited.

  My own stomach was in a brutal knot until she left safely. If this was the last time I ever saw her, our life together had been good. But my heart ached for the grief she would feel if she lost me now. If I were taken from Helena, my ghost would come raging back from the Underworld. We had too much living left to do.

  It was never going to happen. Petro and I were finished. The mood had turned even more ugly. Young faces, dark with fright and false bravado, stared at us. These troops knew they were in the wrong. They could not meet our eyes. Crixus, the mad bastard in charge, must realize that if Petro and I survived and told the governor what went down here tonight, the game was up. He came and stood in front of us, baring his ugly teeth. “You’re dead!”

  “If you’re going to kill us, Crixus,” Petronius said quietly, “at least tell us why. You’re doing this for the Jupiter gang?”

  “You’re sharp!”

  “Paid or pressured by Florius? So did he tell you to kill us? I thought that he wanted to finish me himself.”

  “He won’t object.” I reckoned Crixus was making up his mind as he went along. That meant rash decisions. Decisions that could only be bad for us.

  It was no use consoling ourselves that if he killed us, he could never get away with it. Helena had gone to fetch assistance. In a moment even Crixus would work out that letting her go was a fatal error.

  The centurion was crazy, and his youthful, inexperienced men were becoming hysterical. The Second Adiutrix were a new legion, cobbled together from scratch using naval ratings; they were a Flavian creation rushed into service to fill urgent gaps in the army after other, older legions had been massacred or corrupted to the point where they were past saving. These raw, mad boys were now jostling one another in what they mistook for camaraderie; then they barged forward and started pushing us around. We tried not to retaliate. They laughed at us. Disarmed, we stood no chance. They were taunting us to make a move so they could tear us to pieces.

  We knew better than to hope for escape now. Sure enough, the situation grew a great deal worse. We heard the measured approach of yet more soldiers, and lest it raise our spirits, the Second Adiutrix greeted these newcomers cheerily. Crixus swore affectionately at that other lag of a centurion, Silvanus. Silvanus and his men scowled at Petronius and me.

  And then the unexpected happened. I never heard an order given, but the new boys all whipped out their swords and fell on the careless bastards who were holding us. Next moment, we were being grabbed once again, but this time to be thrown from hand to hand up the alley, until we were clear of the conflict.

  The fight was disciplined and dirty. The Crixus century gathered their wits and fought back. It all took longer than it should have done. Slowly, however, the Crixus men were rounded up and stripped of their weapons. Crixus himself, fighting like a beer-crazed barbarian, was overcome, grounded, and placed under arrest. Silvanus read him the order, which came straight from the governor. Crixus was the defaulter who had “lost” Splice. He had been on the loose ever since, carefully avoiding barracks, but his good times were over. There are centurions who survive for years, famous for corruption and bribe-taking, but he had overstepped the mark by a mile.

  Whether Silvanus himself had ever been on the take was unclear. He had made a choice today. We could only see it as a good one.

  There seemed to be a reason for it. He came up and spoke to us. “I hear you were in the Second, Falco.”

  I took a breath. This was the big question, the embarrassment I had avoided when I first met him. Owning up to service in the Second Augusta, during the Rebellion, could lead to bitter accusations. “Yes,” I said levelly.

  But Silvanus gave me a rueful grin, full of shared grief. Wearily he put out an arm to grasp wrists in the soldiers’ salute, first with me, then with Petronius. This was something I had not allowed for: Silvanus was in the Second Augusta too.

  It was one of those moments when all you want to do is collapse with relief. Petronius and I could not even consider it. We still had to find and rescue Maia.

  Petronius marched up to the prostrate Crixus. “Do yourself a favor. Tell me what you were told to do. I am supposed to be a hostage exchange for Falco’s sister. The whole point was for Florius to capture me and make me suffer—so why did he send you to do the job?”

  “He knows I’m more competent!” sneered the centurion.

  I elbowed Petro aside. He was too angry; he was losing control. “You’re so competent you’re now in chains, Crixus,” I pointed out. “So what was the intention here tonight?”

  “I don’t know.” I stared him out. He lowered his voice. “I don’t know,” he repeated.

  I believed him.

  LIV

  We paused to reconsider. “So where now?”

  “Caesar’s Bar, after all?” Petro suggested.

  “They are not at Caesar’s,” Silvanus broke in. “I just got dispatched from there by the governor after Falco’s wife rushed up.”

  Petronius grinned. “Falco knows how to pick a woman with character.”

  Silvanus pulled a face that told me the high style of speech my girl had addressed to Frontinus. “What’s she like if you fart in the bedroom or leave muddy boots on the table, Falco?”

  “I’ve no idea. I don’t try it. So where to?” I reiterated to Petronius.

  The choice was decided for us. A soldier rushed up to tell Silvanus of urgent developments at the wharf. The customs men had spotted activity by the warehouse they were watching, the one where the baker was beaten to death. It had looked as if loot had been hastily assembled, ready to be shipped out, and they reckoned the gang were planning to flit. When they investigated, the gang had panicked and rushed them, seriously wounding Firmus. Then the gang had invaded the customs house, which was now under siege.

  We went the way I knew, so we never did find out if that alley by the Shower of Gold really was a dead end. I wasn’t going back there. Places where I have so nearly been killed repel me.

  It was a short step. I wished we had come here first.

  Down on the river, soldiers quickly took over from the embattled customs force. A long stretch of dockside was made off-limits to the public. They started moving ships out from their berths. Stores were searched. The ferries were beached. The bridge was cleared. Little boats in daily use for nipping about were taken upstream and moored. In streets all around the wharves, more troops arrived and waited patiently for orders.

  Petronius and I stood on the heavily piled and banked wooden quay. We had our backs to the dark rippling water of the great river, facing the long row of packed stores. Soon there was no shipping moored; it had all been moved off, both from the deep-water docking points where cargoes were unloaded, and even from out in the channel. We were staring at the customs house, a handsome stone building. Nothing there moved.

  Silvanus was deploying men, some along the warehouse frontages, some on the forum road, some shinning up and clambering all over the roofs. They were silent and quick. Once in position they froze. The Second had always deserved better than their recent reputation. They were the Emperor’s old legion, and it showed.

  Now we had the place surrounded, every exit covered.

  “Something bothering you?” I nudged Petro as he stood in a reverie.

  “We were set up at the Shower of Gold,” he answered warily. “I’m still wondering why.”

  “You think there was more to it than Florius paying the Adiutrix to do for us?”

  �
��Not their style, Falco. Florius knows I’m after him, and he wants me. But it’s personal. He needs to see me suffer. Then he wants to finish me himself. He had Maia; he could have taken me. This doesn’t make sense.”

  Petro was too good an officer to brush aside his qualms. I trusted his instincts.

  “Another thing,” I warned him. “If he did lean on Crixus to finish us off, Florius won’t now be expecting to go through with the handover. He thinks we’re dead . . .” I tailed off. If he thought Petronius was dead, holding Maia served no purpose.

  Unable to face the thought of what they might do to her, Petro found himself some action. Firmus was lying on the walkway being tended by a doctor. He had a deep gash in the side, from which he had lost too much blood. We did not ask whether he would make it; he was conscious, so we tried to seem optimistic.

  Petro knelt beside him. “Don’t talk much. Just tell me who went into the building, if you can.”

  “About fifteen or twenty,” Firmus croaked. Someone passed Petro a water flask, which he held to the injured man’s lips. “Thanks . . . Heavy weapons . . .”

  “Were there women with them, did you see?”

  Firmus was passing out. From the look of him, that might be the last he knew of anything. “Firmus!”

  “Couple of camp followers,” croaked Firmus, fading fast.

  Petronius stood up.

  Silvanus came to report. “We’ve staked out the whole locale. We can pin them down for weeks. There’s a bivvy set up, two blocks along, if you need a hot drink.” He glanced down at the customs officer, then swore under his breath.

  Petronius seemed remote. Silvanus—wide, slow, and now oddly respectful—was watching him. Petro started walking up toward the customs house. I quickly informed Silvanus that the hostage situation had to be resolved. He knew about it from the governor. All the men must be aware that Petronius Longus had volunteered to hand himself over to Florius. They had worked this patch. They knew what the Jupiter gang was like. They knew what fate Florius must be planning for Petronius.

  Darkness had set in. The troops assembled torches, flooding the wharf with mellow light for a long stretch in either direction. It flickered out across the near side of the river. A crane sent a long distended shadow straight across the boards. We were aware sometimes of faces in the pools of darkness beyond our ground. A crowd must have gathered.

  Petronius was now standing in shadow on the opposite side of the road from the customs house, across from the entrance. No point in delay. Silvanus signaled his men to the alert, then himself marched openly to the heavy paneled door. He beat on it with his dagger pommel.

  “You inside! This is the centurion Silvanus. We have the building surrounded. If Florius is in there, he can parley with Petronius.”

  After a silence, someone inside spoke.

  Silvanus turned to us. “They are telling me to get back.”

  “Do it!” Slight impatience colored Petro’s order.

  Silvanus moved back out of range. “All right!”

  For what seemed an age, nothing happened. Then people inside opened the great door a crack. A head, attached to the man who was holding the door, checked the exterior. Various muscular types ran out into the road, covering the space outside. They had an armory none of us expected: two full-size ballistae that they pushed quickly over the threshold and set up to guard the entrance, plus several rare, handheld crossbows. I heard soldiers gasp. This was staggering firepower. Most legionary footsloggers had seldom been so close to artillery, and never when it was in opposition hands.

  “Nobody move!” Their centurion’s warning was hardly needed.

  A quick-thinking soldier passed Petronius a shield. I doubted that even triple laminate would protect him from ballista bolts at short range. But it reassured the rest of us. In theory.

  There was a balcony at second-story height above the customs house entrance. A figure had appeared there. Petronius walked straight out to a central point, about twelve strides in front of the door, looking up. The two fixed ballistae continued to sweep the whole area; they had the usual heavy iron frames, maneuvered on wheels, and were easily aimed by swinging their sliders around on universal joints. That was bad enough. Meanwhile, the men with the tension-sprung manual crossbows threatened Petro. If they let fire, he would be killed instantly.

  “Florius!” His voice was strong, virile, and seemed fearless. “I’m still here, you see. Crixus let you down and he’s in custody.”

  “You’re hard to kill!” jeered Florius, his voice unmistakable. The balcony was in darkness, but our men were bringing torches closer, so his figure and shaven head became eerily outlined against an open doorway.

  “I’m not ready to go,” answered Petro. “Not while you’re alive. We had an agreement about an exchange.”

  Florius half turned and muttered something to an invisible companion behind him.

  “Stop messing me about!” yelled Petro. “Hand her over!”

  “Wait there.” Florius went back inside.

  We waited.

  Florius reappeared. “We’ll go ahead.”

  “I’ll come in,” Petro volunteered, “but I want to see Maia Favonia first.”

  Florius was curt. “The centurion can come up.”

  “He doesn’t know her. Her brother will identify her.”

  “The centurion!”

  Silvanus courageously marched forward to do it. They let him approach almost as far as the entrance, where he was told to halt. Something went on inside the building. We heard Silvanus speak to someone out of sight indoors. There was no audible answer. Immediately he was motioned away. He came back to Petronius, and I joined them.

  “They’ve got a woman there, all right.” The centurion spoke rapidly, in a low voice. “She’s bound, and had a cloak or something over her head. They took it off for a moment. Dark hair, her face is bruised—” He looked at us anxiously. “I’d say they’ve beaten her, but don’t fret; I’ve seen worse when the lads lose their tempers with their girlfriends after a party night . . . I asked her if she’s Maia and she nodded. Red dress. She looks all in; you’d better get her out as soon as possible.”

  “How many?” I muttered.

  “Enough,” Silvanus growled.

  I wanted to move closer, but they had thought of that. Those two ballistae were angled so they covered a wide arc. No one could approach.

  Up on the balcony, safe from a sudden assault, of course, Florius was brandishing one of their crossbows. Clearly it made him feel good. He waved it at Petronius, showing off, then pointed it straight at him and slowly wound the ratchet. Now the bolt would fire anytime he pulled the pin. Set-faced, Petronius did not move.

  “I’m ready. So send her out.”

  “You have to come in.”

  “Send out Maia and I’ll come in past her.”

  Florius spoke to somebody below him. In the doorway at ground level two figures appeared. One—slick dark hair and handsome bearing—was Norbanus Murena. He was leading a woman, who half collapsed against him. A short, neat figure, wearing a crimson dress, she had her head and shoulders wrapped in material as a blindfold. I could see that her arms were tightly bound behind her.

  “Where are the children?” Petronius rasped hoarsely.

  There was a very slight pause. “We sent them back,” Norbanus claimed silkily. It seemed a long time since I had heard that urbane voice. “We sent them to the residence.”

  “Maia!” Petronius insisted. “Are they telling me the truth?”

  Norbanus tugged at her arm, at the same time hauling her more upright. She nodded. With her head covered that way, she must feel disoriented. It was a slow movement; I could deduce little from it except that, as Silvanus said, she needed our help urgently.

  It was now two days since I had last seen my sister. Anything could have happened to her. From her state now—and remembering how Florius treated Albia—it probably had.

  “We’ll let her go now,” Florius announced. �
�Falco, move to the crane. She’ll come over to you. Longus! You move the other way, then come in.”

  “I touched Petro slightly on the shoulder, then we moved quickly apart. I could see what they were aiming at. Maia and Petronius would now cross paths at an angle, some distance apart. He had no chance to grab at her. If he tried anything, both Maia and he could be shot.

  I reached a position away from Petronius. Norbanus muttered something, then pushed the red-clad figure toward me. He seemed to instruct her to walk forward. She did so, with faltering footsteps, unable to tell where she was going or what was underfoot. Instinctively, I started toward her, but Florius swung his weapon so it covered me. I stopped. He laughed. Maybe he was jumpy, but certainly he enjoyed the power.

  “Come on, now!” Florius yelled at Petro. “Don’t try anything, Longus. Get in here.”

  Petronius advanced, watching the hostage. The woman kept coming across the roadway, small feet testing the ground ahead of her uncertainly. Petronius matched his advance to her pace. Eventually they were level, equidistant from the building, a few strides apart. Petronius stopped and said something.

  “Don’t speak!” bawled Florius frantically. “Mind it—or I’ll do you both!”

  The hostage walked on. I began to step toward her. Florius had the bolt-shooter aimed at Petro, who remained halted: he seemed to be thinking. Florius urged him on with wild movements of the weapon, finally swinging around to train it on the hostage. Petronius walked forward again. The men at ground level began backing toward the doorway, some ahead of him but others closing in behind.

  They were drawing into a tight predatory group. Florius ordered Petronius to put down the shield. He did so, stooping to lay it on the road. As he straightened, Florius barked out another instruction; Petro, using both hands simultaneously, unslung and dropped both his sword and his dagger. Head up and in silence, he had turned to stare back after Maia while Florius angrily motioned him into the customs house.