The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

  A draft caused the torches to flicker. I felt cold air momentarily. I did not look around.

  “I have nothing to say,” smiled Norbanus, still the handsome, urbane man of affairs. “Your accusations won’t hold up in court once my lawyers get involved. You don’t have any evidence against me—”

  “I will,” said Petronius. I had seen him in action on plenty of occasions, but never so impressive as this. “Tell me about Maia Favonia.”

  “What for? You know her well enough.”

  “Enough to care if she falls into the hands of men like you.” Petronius was utterly controlled. “But let’s hear about your interest, Norbanus. Or was it all a ploy to help Florius get at me? You were simpering at Maia’s feet, regaling her with music and offering trips to your country bower—but did you really give a damn for her?”

  The man shrugged and smiled. Then he stopped smiling.

  “He’s a bachelor, a loner who reveres his mother,” I jeered. “No other woman interests him. The pressing seduction attempt was all false.”

  I had heard someone come into the room behind me. Light increased, as Helena Justina rejoined us, holding high a tar-soaked brand. At her side, when I turned to see who it was, stood my sister Maia.

  She looked fine. A little tired, but vibrant. With her spirits up, she was glorious. Her crimson gown was bedraggled, as if she had worn it for days, yet it glowed with a richness the red rag on the prostitute decoy had lacked. Her dark curls tumbled freely. Her eyes blazed.

  Her eyes went straight to Petronius. “What happened to you?”

  “A small adventure. Where,” asked Petro, enunciating carefully, “have you been, Maia?”

  Maia glanced at Norbanus briefly. “I took my children sailing on the river. We borrowed the procurator’s boat. We went downstream and that terrible storm struck; lightning hit the mast. The children thought it was wonderful. We spent a day patching up the damage, then when we struggled back, we were not allowed to land here for ages because of some secret exercise. That’s you and Marcus playing about, I gather?”

  “Where are the children?”

  “Gone home with the governor.” Maia, with unaccustomed delicacy, paused. “I seem to have missed something.”

  Some of us were dumbstruck.

  Helena took charge. “Listen, Maia! Norbanus is a leader of the criminals Petronius is pursuing. The other is called Florius, and he lived at the villa to which they were trying to lure you. The point was to use you, Maia darling, as a hostage, to get to Petro. They claimed they had you—and Lucius thought it was true. So he surrendered himself in your place and was nearly killed horribly—”

  Maia gasped. “You gave yourself up?”

  “It’s an old army trick,” Petronius said defensively. “The maneuver that is so stupid, you hope you’ll get away with it.”

  “You were nearly killed?”

  “Ah, Maia, you think me a hero!”

  “You are an idiot,” said Maia.

  “She means that fondly,” Helena mediated, wincing.

  “No, she means it,” returned Petronius. He sounded cheerful. It was as if my fractious sister’s presence had lifted his spirits.

  Norbanus made the mistake of laughing to himself.

  “You!” Maia stabbed her finger in his direction furiously. “You can answer to me!” She pushed past Helena to get to him. “Is it true, then? What I heard my brother say? You lied to them? You threatened them? You tried to kill Petronius? All the time you were hanging around, you were just using me?”

  I tried to hold her back: no use. Petro just stood aside with his admiring look.

  “I am sick of men like you!” Maia beat Norbanus on his chest with her fists. They were real blows, swinging from the shoulder with both fists locked together, as if she was chopping at a dusty carpet hung on a line. She was a sturdy woman, used to physical toil around the house. If she had had a stick, she would have broken his ribs.

  Norbanus was taken completely by surprise. Well, nice men who put their old mothers on mental pedestals don’t know about real women. The closest they get are dolled-up glamour-hungry floozies who pretend such men are wonderful. “I am sick of being used—” A beat from left to right. “Sick of being played with—” A beat from right to left. “Sick of evil, manipulating swine ruining my life—”

  “Leave it, Maia,” I protested uselessly.

  Norbanus was taking the punishment now for all the men in her previous life—for her husband even, and certainly for Anacrites, whose harassment had driven her here to Britain. As he staggered under the rain of blows, I stepped in, pulling my sister backwards away from him. Petronius made no attempt to calm her down. I think he was laughing.

  “He’s getting away!” shrieked Helena, as Norbanus seized his moment.

  Petro and I let go of Maia. Norbanus made a lunge at Helena. She brandished the torch at him. He sent the fiery brand flying. In trying to save it, Helena cursed uncharacteristically, then wailed again, “He’ll get away!”

  “Not from me!” Maia had found and raised the ready-primed crossbow. Then she lifted the safety claw, snapped up the trigger pin, and shot Norbanus in the back.

  LVII

  The recoil sent her spinning, but somehow she stayed upright. Open-mouthed, she gasped with horror. She was still holding the weapon, keeping it away from her, as if terrified it would fire another bolt. For a moment no one else could move.

  Norbanus was on the floor. Hundreds of defeated tribesmen in this province could testify that it only takes one direct hit from a Roman artillery bolt. We didn’t even check for signs of life.

  “Oh!” whispered Maia.

  “Put it down,” Helena murmured. “It won’t go off again.”

  Maia hesitantly lowered the weapon. Petronius walked to her side. He looked more shocked than anyone. Well, if we were right about his feelings, the light of his life had just demonstrated a frightening personality. He took the weapon from her limp grasp, passing on the deadly thing to me.

  “It’s all right,” he said gently. He knew she was in shock. “Everything is all right.”

  Maia was trembling. For once her voice was barely audible. “Is it?”

  Petronius smiled a little, gazing down at her ruefully. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  That was when Maia let out a choking sob and collapsed into his arms. I think it was the first time, at least since she reached womanhood, that I had ever seen my sister allow someone else to comfort her. He wrapped her in her own cloak with tender hands, then held her.

  Helena met my eyes and wiped away a tear. Then she pointed at the corpse and mouthed, “What are we going to do?”

  “Tell the governor a gangster’s body needs to be cleared away.”

  She took a deep breath. Helena always tackled a crisis with logistical thought. “We must tell nobody, ever, who killed him.”

  “Wey-hey, why not? I’m proud of her!”

  “No, no,” Petronius joined in. “The children already have to cope with their father’s death. They don’t want to know their darling mama makes stiffs of professional mobsters on her evenings out.”

  The darling mama struggled to free herself from his enfolding grasp. “Give up,” he said. “I’m not letting go.” Maia stilled. Their eyes locked on to each other. Petro’s voice dropped. “I thought I had lost you, Maia.”

  “Would it have mattered?” she asked him.

  “Hardly at all,” remarked Petronius Longus, who was not normally given to poetic conceits. “Well—maybe just enough to break my heart.”

  LVIII

  He stared at her. She said nothing. That was Maia. “And what about you?” Petronius dared to ask. “Suppose I had been lost—”

  “Shut up,” said Maia. Then she buried her face against his chest and held him tight, sobbing. Petronius bent his head over her so they were close when she looked up again.

  Maia had clearly prepared this speech sometime before: “I took the children out on the river to have time
with them and talk about going home,” she said. “And now I need to talk to you.”

  “I am ready to listen,” replied Petronius. This was not strictly true. Instead, that rascal’s way of listening was to demonstrate to Maia that he was keen on kissing.

  Helena thumped me in the ribs, as if she thought that I was laughing. No chance. I had just seen my best friend throw himself into a life fraught with risk, and my sister agreeing to it. On both counts I was too shaken to mock.

  We went outside eventually. The legionaries were clearing up. The prisoners had left. I muttered to Silvanus that Norbanus Murena was dead. We discussed what to do with the body. “Which way is the tide flowing?”

  “Going out,” he said.

  “The ebb? That will do fine.”

  Silvanus took the point. He lent a couple of lads for the business. Petronius and I went back in the warehouse with them, and we carried out Norbanus, one man to each arm and leg. We brought the corpse to the edge of the wharf, just below what Hilaris had once called the temporary permanent bridge. We swung together a few times to get up a rhythm, then we let fly. Norbanus Murena sailed out a short distance over the Thamesis, then splashed in. We had not weighed him down. Nobody wanted him to hang about in the port area then one day come bobbing up again. Let him be washed well down the estuary and beached in the mud or the marshes.

  If this town ever became a great metropolis, plenty of corpses would wind up in the river. Londinium would be a draw for drownings, through grisly foul play or tragedy. Some would even end up as floaters by accident. Over the coming centuries this great river would see many—the newly dead, the long dead, and the living sometimes, drunk or distraught or maybe merely careless, all pulled to oblivion by the strong dark currents. Norbanus could set a precedent.

  As we watched him lurch and vanish, the procurator Hilaris arrived, anxious to inspect his damaged boat. He had had it for years (I had borrowed it myself); he used it for trawling along the south coast to his houses at Noviomagus and Durnovaria. Maia rushed up, to explain what had happened in the storm. Petronius glued himself to her. I saw her hand wind into his. They could hardly bear to be apart.

  We brought Hilaris up to date on the gangsters. He made no comment on what had happened to Norbanus, though he must have seen our disposal measures.

  “Well, you’ve cleaned up the town for us, Marcus! I knew I could rely on you.” The words sounded flippant, but anyone who thought it would underestimate him. “And thanks, Petronius.”

  “We lost Florius,” said Petro glumly. “He slipped the net somehow.”

  “We can search for him. Any ideas?”

  “He may change his plans now we have been so close to him, but he spoke of going back to Italy. We had the river sealed tonight. Nothing was allowed to move on the water. He cannot have sailed yet.”

  Maia looked surprised. “Oh, a ship did go downstream, Lucius, just before ours landed here. It was carrying no lights, but showed up in the flares we had. The captain cursed because he nearly ran into it.”

  Petronius swore and Flavius Hilaris growled. “These gangsters have both cheek and incredible influence—”

  “Money,” stated Petro, explaining how they managed it.

  Hilaris considered whether to order a pursuit, but it was too late and too dark. Every creek, beach, and landing stage from here to the great northern ocean would be scoured tomorrow.

  “One ship?” Petro checked with Maia. She nodded. “Can you describe it?”

  “Just a ship. Quite big. Loads of cargo lashed on its deck, as far as I could see in the dark. It had oars and a mast, but just came gliding silently.”

  “No chance you know what the vessel was called?”

  My sister smiled at her heartthrob teasingly. “No. But you should talk to Marius. My elder son,” she explained blithely to the procurator, “so loved the experience of sailing. I am very grateful that you made it possible. Marius has been collecting ships’ names in a special note tablet . . .”

  Petronius biffed her for stringing him along, then he and the procurator smiled hopefully. Flavius Hilaris chuckled. “I’ll signal across to Gaul. He may berth there and go overland, or he may go around Iberia by sea. But by the time that ship hits Italy, every port on the coast will be on notice.”

  “Good luck, then.” Petronius was sanguine. “But I’m afraid you need to alert every harbor in the Mediterranean. Florius has to maintain his links with Italy; his real fortune is tied up in his wife. But he’ll have made enough here to survive as a renegade for a long time . . . He could go anywhere.” Petro was taking it fairly well. “One day he will come back to us, and I’ll be there waiting.”

  “I have every faith in that,” Hilaris assured him quietly.

  Petronius Longus gazed downriver. “He is out there. I’ll get him in the end.”

  As a courtesy we had to wait while Flavius Hilaris checked the condition of his damaged boat, then spoke to the soldiers. Petro and Maia sat together on a bollard, intertwined.

  I grumbled to Helena, “I’m not sure I can face a thousand-mile journey home, with those two acting like star-struck teenagers.”

  “Be glad for them. Anyway, they’ll have to be discreet with four nosy children watching.”

  I was none too sure. They were lost in each other; they didn’t care.

  The soldiers had now removed the barriers, so members of the public could come and go at will. Numbers had been attracted here by the military activity. A vagrant, one of the wide-eyed hopefuls who congregated in this frontier province, wandered up and decided I was a suitable friend for a man of his mad status. “Where are you from, Legate?”

  “Rome.”

  He gazed at me, from some vague world of his own.

  “Italy,” I said. The need for explanation grated, even though I knew he was a derelict. He was filthy and showed signs of disease, but acted as if he recognized a like soul in me.

  “That Rome!” murmured the vagrant wistfully. “I could go to Rome.” He would never go to Rome. He had never wanted to.

  “The best,” I agreed.

  He had made me think of Italy. I went across to Helena and hugged her. I wanted to go back to the residence and see my two daughters. Then, as soon as possible, I wanted to go home.

  LIX

  Any good informer learns: never relax. You fight to create a workable case. It has flaws; they always do. In ours there was a gaping hole: we had one target dead in the Thamesis, but the other chief suspect had escaped.

  Petronius Longus was anxious to leave Britain on the next available boat from Rutupiae. He had personal reasons to call him back to Ostia, but naturally intended to put himself where Florius might reappear. In view of the Florius angle, the governor allowed him a pass for the imperial post service. In recognition of the demands of love, he extended that to Maia and the children, and then he felt obliged to include Helena and me. Fine. A quick journey suited all of us.

  Just as we prepared to leave for Rome, however, a key witness let us down. We were doing well in some respects. The very public success of the attack on the gang at the customs house had impressed the locals. As a result, Frontinus was able to draw depositions about the extortion from some tavern-keepers, and these were with Petro to take back and use in any trial. A formal statement from Julius Frontinus himself might also be read out in court, if ever Florius was brought to justice. That would sound good. But we had already lost Chloris. Her companions could testify only that Florius had pressured them, which—apart from their dubious status as gladiators—a good lawyer would demolish by calling it “legitimate business practice.” Any Roman jury would envy the ability to make money. As the jurors struggled to stay afloat amid their mortgages and creditors, Florius would seem to them an ideal citizen. He would walk.

  Our one damning piece of evidence against him was the waitress’s claim that at the Shower of Gold Florius had deliberately ordered Pyro and Splice to shove Verovolcus down the well. I could say I saw him kill Chloris—but
accuse him of murdering a gladiatrix, in the arena? Excuse me. Case dismissed!

  I wanted to persuade Frontinus that the waitress’s evidence was so important he should order her transportation to Rome. With her smart new name and newly refined accent, Flavia Fronta could be tricked out as a nearly honest woman, even though the profession of waitress ranked very close to gladiating socially and legally. I was ready to prime a barrister to blacken Florius by suggesting that the low venue for the killing had been his choice, symptomatic of a despicable man who frequented filthy dives. Verovolcus was in effect British aristocracy, so with the King’s closeness to the Emperor there was a scandal factor in killing him.

  I first became uneasy while discussing whether Frontinus would agree to a Rome trip for the waitress. King Togidubnus had returned to his tribal capital; I assumed he was still saddened by the fate of his renegade retainer, yet comforted by the fact that the issue had been resolved. But instead of being taken to Noviomagus with the King, to be installed in the promised new wine bar, Flavia Fronta was still in Londinium.

  “So where is she?” I demanded of the governor. “There is a security angle.”

  “She is safe,” Frontinus assured me. “Her evidence is being reassessed by Amicus.”

  Reassessed? By the torturer?

  I went to see Amicus.

  “What’s going on? The waitress said Florius ordered the well-drowning. That alone will send him to the lions if he ever stands trial. Giving the statement makes her our one strong witness—but, with due respect to your art, it has to be seen that she made this statement voluntarily!”

  “There is doubt,” replied Amicus dourly.

  “Well, we cannot have doubt! So what is the problem?” I tried not to rage too fiercely. I was irritated, but concerned to ring-fence our case.

  Amicus then told me one of the arrested men he had been allowed to work on was the owner of the Shower of Gold. I remembered him from the night I took Helena there for a drink: he had been an unwelcoming, stubborn piece of truculence.