Poseidon's Gold

  POSEIDON’S GOLD

  A Novel of Marcus Didius Falco

  Lindsey Davis

  ALSO BY LINDSEY DAVIS

  The Silver Pigs

  Shadows in Bronze

  Venus in Copper

  The Iron Hand of Mars

  POSEIDON’S GOLD

  A Falco Novel

  Lindsey Davis

  Century London

  Copyright (c) 1992 by Lindsey Davis All rights reserved

  The right of Lindsey Davis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  First published in Great Britain in 1993 by Century, Random House UK Limited 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA Random House South Africa (Pty) Ltd PO Box 337, Bergvlei 2012, South Africa Random House Australia Pty Ltd 20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, NSW 2061 Australia Random House New Zealand Ltd 18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  The catalogue data record for this book is available from the British Library Typeset by Deltatype Ltd, Ellesmere Port Printed in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc ISBN 0-7126-58319

  In memory of Rosemary Sutcliff who died while this was being written: on behalf of all the children who know how far it is from Venta to the mountains.

  Other Characters in the Story:

  Censorinus Macer -a soldier who once believed a hot tip

  Laurentius -a centurion who knows that fortunes are there to be lost

  L Petronius Longus -a watch captain who does his best in trying circumstances

  Marponius -an encyclopaedia salesman: the trial judge to avoid

  D Camillus Verus & Julia Justa -nice parents with normal problems (their children)

  Lenia -a laundress with terrible taste in men

  Epimandos -a waiter who tries to please (on a hiding to nothing)

  Stringy -the cat at Flora’s Caupona

  Flora -who probably does not exist

  Manlius & Varga -two painters with short memories

  Orontes Mediolanus -a much sought-after sculptor

  Rubinia -a model whose measurements are worth taking

  Apollonius -a geometry teacher who fails to get the measure of the real world

  A Cassius Carus & Ummidia Servia -discerning patrons of the (lost) arts

  The Aristedon Bros -shippers to the discerning (sailing in tricky waters)

  Cocceius -an ‘honest’ auctioneer

  Domitian Caesar -a ruler who claims he has to follow the rules

  Anacrites -a spy who maintains that it’s not his fault

  Ajax -a dog with a criminal record

  Group of Jewish prisoners building the Colosseum

  ROME; CAPUA; ROME

  March-April, AD-72

  I

  A dark and stormy night on the Via Aurelia: the omens were bad for our home-coming even before we entered Rome.

  By that time we had covered a thousand miles, making our journey from Germany in February and March. The five or six hours on the last stint from Veii were the worst. Long after other travellers had tucked themselves up in wayside inns, we found ourselves alone on the road. Electing to press on and reach the city tonight had been a ridiculous option. Everyone in my party knew it, and everyone knew who was responsible: me, Marcus Didius Falco, the man in charge. The rest were probably expressing their views fractiously, but I couldn’t hear. They were in the carriage, thoroughly damp and uncomfortable, but able to see that there were colder and wetter alternatives: I was on horseback, completely exposed to the driving wind and rain.

  Without warning, the first dwellings appeared-the tall, crowded apartments that would line our way through the unsavoury slums of the Transtiberina district. Run-down buildings without balconies or pergolas stood pressed together, their grim ranks broken only by black alleys where robbers normally lay in wait for new arrivals to Rome. Maybe tonight they would prefer lurking safe and cosy in their beds. Or maybe they would be hoping the weather would put travellers off guard; I knew the last half-hour of a long journey can be the most dangerous. In the apparently deserted streets our hoofbeats and rattling carriage wheels announced our presence resonantly. Sensing threats all around us, I gripped my sword pommel and checked the knife hidden in my boot. Sodden thongs were trapping the blade against the swollen flesh of my calf, making it difficult to extricate.

  I wound myself deeper into my waterlogged cloak, regretting it as the heavy folds constricted me clammily. A gutter collapsed overhead; an icy sluice doused me, frightened my horse and knocked my hat askew. Cursing, I fought to control the horse. I realised I had missed the turn that would have taken us to the Probus Bridge, our quickest route home. My hat fell off. I abandoned it.

  A single gleam of light down a side-street to my right marked what I knew to be the guard-post of a cohort of the Vigiles. There were no other signs of life.

  We crossed the Tiber on the Pons Aurelia. In the darkness below I could hear the river at full surge. Its rushing water had an unpleasant energy. Upstream it had almost certainly overflowed its banks on to all the low ground around the foot of the Capitol, yet again turning the Campus Martius-which could be spongy at the best of times-into an unhealthy lake. Yet again turgid mud the colour and texture of sewage would be oozing into the basements of the expensive mansions whose middle-class owners jostled for the best waterfront views.

  My own father was one of them. At least thinking of him having to bale filthy floodwater out of his entrance hall cheered me up.

  A huge gust of wind stopped my horse dead in its tracks as we tried to turn into the Cattle Market Forum. Above, both the Citadel and Palatine Hill were invisible. The lamplit Palaces of the Caesars were drowned out of sight too, but I was now on familiar ground. I urged my horse past the Circus Maximus, the Temples of Ceres and Luna, the arches, fountains, baths and covered markets that were the glory of Rome. They could wait; all I wanted was my own bed. Rain cascaded down a statue of some ancient consul, using the bronze folds of his toga as gullies. Sheets of water swept off pantiled roofs whose gutters were quite unable to cope with this volume. Cataracts tumbled from porticoes. My horse struggled to press under the sheltered walkways against the shopfronts, while I pulled his head round to keep him on the road.

  We forced a passage down the Street of the Armilustrium. Some of the undrained side-lanes at this lower level looked knee-deep in water and quite impassable, but as we turned off the high road we were going steeply uphill-not flooded, but treacherous underfoot. There had been so much rain sluicing the Aventine lanes today that not even the normal stinks rose to welcome me home; no doubt the customary reek of human waste and unneighbourly trades would be back tomorrow, steamier than ever after so much water had swilled around the half-composted depths of middens and rubbish tips.

  A gloomy throb of the familiar told me that I had found Fountain Court.

  My street. This sour dead end looked bleaker than ever to a stranger returning. Unlit, with shutters barred and awnings furled, the alley had no saving grace. Unpeopled even by its normal throng of degenerates, it still ached with human grief. The wind whooped into the cul-de-sac, then came straight back in our faces. On one side my apartment block reared like some faceless republican rampart built to withstand marauding barbarians. As I drew up, a heavy flowerpot crashed down, missing me by no more than a digit’s width.

  I dragged open the carriage door to shepherd out the exhausted souls for whom I was responsible. Swathed like mummies against the weather they stiffly descended, then discovered their legs as the gale hit them and fled into the quieter haven of the stairwell: my girlfriend Helena Justina, her waiting woman, my sister’s young daughter, and our carriage-driver, a sturdy Celt who had been supposed to help guard u
s. Hand-picked by me, he had trembled with terror for most of the way. It turned out that he was as timid as a rabbit off his home ground. He had never been out of Bingium before; I wished I had left him there.

  At least I had had Helena. She was a senator’s daughter, with all that entails, naturally, and more spirited than most of them. She had outwitted any mansio-keepers who tried to withhold their most decent rooms from us and made short work of villains claiming illegal bridge tolls. Now her expressive dark eyes were informing me that after the last hours of today’s journey she intended to deal with me. Meeting those eyes, I did not waste effort on a cajoling smile.

  We were not home yet. My rooms were six floors up.

  We tackled the stairs in silence and in the dark. After half a year in Germany where even two storeys were a rarity, my thigh muscles were protesting. Only the fit lived here. If invalids in financial straits ever hired an apartment over Fountain Court, they were either cured rapidly by the exercise or the stairs killed them. We had lost quite a few that way. Smaractus the landlord ran a profitable racket selling off his dead tenants’ effects.

  At the top, Helena pulled a tinder-box from under her cloak. Desperation gave me a firm hand, so I soon struck a spark and even managed to light a taper before the spark died. On my doorpost the faded tile still announced that M. Didius Falco practised his trade here as a private informer. After a short, hot quarrel while I tried to remember where I had stowed my latch-lifter and failed to find it, I borrowed a dress pin from Helena, tied it to a piece of braid ripped from my own tunic, dropped the pin down the hole and waggled.

  For once the trick worked. (Normally you just break the pin, earn a swipe from the girl and still have to borrow a ladder to climb in.) This time there was a reason for my success: the latch was broken. Dreading the outcome, I pushed open the door, held up my taper and surveyed my home.

  Places always look smaller and scruffier than you remember them. Not normally this bad, though.

  Leaving home had carried some risks. But the Fates, who love picking on a loser, had thrown every lousy trick at me. The first invaders had probably been insects and mice, but they had been followed by a particularly filthy set of nesting doves who must have pecked their way in through the roof. Their excrement spattered the floorboards, but it was nothing to the filth of the vile human scavengers who must have replaced the doves. Blatant clues, some several months old, told me none of the people to whom I had been giving houseroom had been nicely brought up citizens.

  ‘Oh my poor Marcus!’ Helena exclaimed in shock. She might be tired and annoyed, but faced with a man in complete despair she was a charitable girl.

  I handed back her pin with a formal gesture. I gave her the taper to hold. Then I strode in and kicked the nearest bucket right across the room.

  The bucket was empty. Whoever had broken in here had sometimes made an effort to throw their rubbish into the container I had provided, but they had had no aim; besides, sometimes they hadn’t even tried. The rubbish that missed had stayed on the floor until decay welded it to the boards.

  ‘Marcus, darling-‘

  ‘Hush, lass. Just don’t speak to me until I’ve got used to it!’

  I passed through the outer room, which had once served as my office. Beyond, in what was left of my bedroom, I found more evidence of the human trespassers. They must have fled only today when the old hole in the roof broke open anew to let in a spectacular deluge of pantiles and rainwater, most of which was still soaking my bed. A further inflow of dirty drips was joining the party. My poor old bed was beyond all help.

  Helena came up behind me. ‘Well!’ I made a grim attempt to sound bright. ‘I can sue the landlord if I want to give myself a really bad headache!’

  I felt Helena’s hand entwine in mine. ‘Is anything stolen?’

  I never leave pickings for thieves. ‘All my movables were stowed with my relatives, so if anything’s missing I know it’s gone to family.’

  ‘Such a comfort!’ she agreed.

  I loved that girl. She was inspecting the wreckage with her most refined distaste, yet her gravity was meant to make me burst into desperate laughter. She had a dry sense of humour that I found irresistible. I threw my arms around her and clung on to her for sanity.

  She kissed me. She was looking rueful, but her kiss was full of tenderness. ‘Welcome home, Marcus.’ The first time I ever kissed Helena she had had a cold face and wet eyelashes, and then, too, it had been like waking from a deeply troubled sleep to find somebody feeding you honey cakes.

  I sighed. Alone, I might just have cleared a space and curled up exhausted in the filth. But I knew I had to find a better roost. We would have to impose ourselves on relatives. Helena’s parents’ comfortable house lay on the other side of the Aventine-too far and much too risky. After dark Rome is a heartless, unethical city. That left either divine aid from Olympus-or my own family. Jupiter and all his associates were steadfastly chomping ambrosia in some other fellow’s apartment; they ignored my pleas for help. We were stuck with my lot.

  Somehow I chivvied everyone downstairs again. At least the night was so terrible the usual thieves had missed their chance; our horse and carriage still stood forlornly in Fountain Court.

  We passed the shadow of the Emporium, which was bolted up but even on a night like this exuded a faint whiff of exotic imported timbers, hides, cured meats and spices. We reached another apartment block with fewer stairs and a less bleak exterior, but still one I could call home. Already encouraged by the expectation of hot food and dry beds, we scrambled up to the familiar brick-red door. It was never locked; no Aventine burglar was brave enough to invade this dwelling.

  The rest were keen to be first inside, but I pushed ahead of them. I had territorial rights. I was a boy coming home to the place where he grew up. I was coming home-with an inevitable feeling of guilt-to the house where my little old mother lived.

  The door opened straight into her kitchen. To my surprise an oil-lamp stood lit; Ma’s habits were normally more frugal. Perhaps she had sensed we were coming. It was quite likely. I braced myself for her greeting, but she wasn’t there.

  I stepped inside, then stopped dead in astonishment.

  A complete stranger was taking his ease with his boots up on the table. No one was allowed that luxury if my mother was in the vicinity. He eyed me blearily for a moment, then let out a deep and purposely offensive belch.

  II

  Like any self-respecting mother, mine had made her kitchen the command post from which she aimed to supervise her children’s lives. We had other ideas. That turned Ma’s kitchen into a lively arena for people to eat themselves sick while complaining about one another loudly in the vain hope of sidetracking Ma.

  Some things here were fairly normal. There was a stone cooking bench partly set into the outside wall with a view to spreading the weight; in front of it the floor bowed disastrously. Ma lived three floors up and her apartment had an attic, but my sisters used to sleep up there as children, so by tradition the cooking smoke was fanned out of a window downstairs by anybody who was hanging about; the fan hung on a shutter catch.

  Above the bench gleamed a row of copper pans, paterae and frying skillets, some second-hand and bearing several lifetimes’ knocks. On one shelf stood bowls, beakers, pitchers, pestles, and a motley batch of spoons in a cracked vase. Nails that would hang half an ox carcass held ladles, graters, strainers and meat mallets. A cranky row of hooks supported a set of giant cooking knives; they had evil iron blades bound on to cracked bone hafts and each was scratched with Ma’s initials: JT for Junilla Tacita.

  The highest shelf held four of those special pots for cooking dormice. Don’t misunderstand that: Ma says dormice are nasty things with no meat on them, only fit for snobs with poor taste and silly habits. But when it’s Saturnalia, you are already half an hour late for the family party and are desperately buying your mother a present to excuse the last twelve months of neglecting her, those dormice coddlers always lo
ok exactly what she needs. Ma accepted each graciously from whichever offspring had fallen for the sales pitch this time, then let her unused collection grow reproachfully.

  Bunches of dried herbs scented the room. Baskets of eggs and flat platters heaped with pulses filled any empty space. An abundance of besoms and buckets announced what kind of spotless, scandal-free kitchen-and family-my mother wished spectators to believe she ran.

  The effect was being spoiled tonight by the ill-mannered lout who had belched at me. I stared at him. Bushes of wiry grey hair sprang out either side of his head. Like his uncompromising face, the bald dome above was tanned to a deep mahogany gleam. He had the look of a man who had been in the Eastern desert; I had a nasty feeling I knew which bit of boiling desert it must have been. His bare arms and legs had the permanent leathery musculature that comes from long years of hard physical activity rather than the fake results of a training programme at the gymnasium.

  ‘Who in Hades are you?’ he had the nerve to demand.

  Wild thoughts that my mother had taken a lover to brighten her old age flashed into my mind, then scuttled away sheepishly. ‘Why don’t you tell me first?’ I answered, giving him an intimidating glare.

  ‘Get lost!’

  ‘Not yet, soldier.’ I had guessed his profession. Though his tunic was faded to a thin pink, I was closely inspecting the two-inch-thick studded soles of military boots. I knew the type. I knew the garlic breath, the scars from barracks squabbles, the cocksure attitude.

  His mean eyes narrowed warily but he made no attempt to remove those boots from my mother’s hallowed work surface. I dropped the bundle I was carrying and pushed back the cloak from around my head. He must have recognised the wet tangle of the Didius family curls.

  ‘You’re the brother!’ he accused me. So he had known Festus. That was bad news. And apparently he had heard of me.

  Acting like a man visitors certainly ought to have heard about, I sought the upper hand. ‘Things seem to have grown slack around here, soldier! You’d better clear the table and straighten up, before I kick the bench from under you.’ This subtle psychology worked. He swung his boots to the ground. ‘Slowly!’ I added, in case he planned on jumping me. He eased himself upright. One good thing about my brother had been that people respected him. For at least five minutes (I knew from experience) associated respect would attach to me.