A dying light in Corduba mdf-8 Read online

  'I'm taking the equipage to Corduba.'

  'As you wish. I'll be giving you Marmarides as your driver -'

  'Is that optional?' I was facing enough unknowns. The last thing I wanted was to be saddled with someone else's employee.

  'It's voluntary,' grinned the hireman. In the legionary sense!' It was compulsory. 'You'll get on with him fine. He's one of my freedmen. I've trained him well, he's a natural with horseflesh and he has a good temperament.' In my experience that meant he would be a maniacal driver who let the mules get the staggers and tried to knife his customers. 'Marmarides will bring the carriage home when you've finished. He'll tell you the mileage price at the end.'

  'He'll just tell us? Excuse me!' Baetican commercial practice seemed to have its extraordinary side. 'I'm sure the amiable Marmarides has your absolute trust, but I like the right to query costs.'

  I was not the first suspicious Roman to land in Malaca. Stertius had a well-worked-out routine for technical quibbles: he crooked one finger knowingly, then led me to the rear of the sturdy two-wheeled, two-mule carriage which I was attempting to lease. Its iron-bound wheels would bounce painfully on the track to Corduba, but the passenger compartment had a leather cover which would protect Helena from rough weather, including hot sun. Nux would enjoy trying to bite the wheels.

  Stertius bent over one axle hub. 'I bet you've never seen one of these before,' he claimed proudly. 'Look, centurion: this commodious vehicle that I'm letting you have at negligible rates is fitted with an Archimedes hodometer!'

  Dear gods, he was a mechanical enthusiast. A flywheeland-twisted-rope man. The kind of helpful character who asks for a drink of water then insists on mending your well- tackle that has been out of use for three generations. He was almost certainly building himself a complete siege warfare catapulta in the garden of his house.

  The wheel hub over which we were crouched in the dust had been fitted with a single-tooth gear. Every rotation of the carriage wheel caused this gear to engage with a flat disc set vertically at right angles above it, which was cut into numerous triangular teeth. Each wheel rotation moved the disc on by a notch, eventually operating a second gear which in turn moved on a second disc. That one, which was horizontal, had been drilled with small holes, upon each of which was balanced a smooth pebble. Every operation of the top disc moved up a new hole, allowing a pebble to drop through into a box below, which Stertius had secured with a fierce padlock.

  The top disc rotates one hole for every four hundred revolutions of the carriage wheel – which takes one Roman mile!'

  'Amazing!' I managed to utter. 'What beautiful workmanship! Did you construct this yourself?'

  'I do a bit of metalwork,' Stertius admitted shyly. 'I can't think why these are not fitted as standard on all hired vehicles.'

  I could. 'Wherever did you get the idea, Stertius?'

  'A toad-building with the Third Augusta in bloody Numidia and Mauretania. We used something like it for measuring accurate positions for the mileposts.'

  'Amazing!' I repeated feebly. 'Helena Justina, come and look at this; it's an Archimedes hodometer!'

  I wondered how many more colourful eccentrics I was doomed to meet in Baetica.

  'There's just one thing that has to be understood,' Stertius warned me as Helena dutifully dragged herself over to inspect his mileage measurer. 'You'll find Marmarides can turn his hand to most things, but he won't deliver babies!'

  'That's all right,' Helena assured him, as if we were a couple who had plans for all contingencies. Didius Falco is a Roman of the traditional, hardy type. He can plough his fields with his left hand, while his right delivers twins. At the same time he can spout a finely phrased republican oration to a group of senatorial delegates, and invent an ode in praise of the simple country life.'

  Stertius gave me an approving look. 'Handy, eh?'

  'Oh, I do my best,' I answered, with traditional Roman modesty.

  XVIII

  It took nearly a week's driving to Corduba. Stertius had charged us a deposit based on a main journey of a hundred and twenty-five Roman miles. I reckon he was accurate. He must have checked it already with his miraculous hodometer. I guessed that crazy man had measured every road in Baetica, and he owned marked-up itineraries to prove it.

  Nobody of status ever went the way we did. I had not planned it myself. Once we had chosen the sea trip there were further options available. One sailing route went north of Corsica then came south hugging the coast of Gaul and Tarraconensis; it was famous for shipwrecks. The alternative nipped between Corsica and Sardinia; provided we didn't run aground on either island and fall into bandits' eager hands it had appeared a better bet. It probably was for most people, though not those prone to emptying their stomach at the first ripple of a wave.

  What most folk did then was to sail right past Malaca to Lades, and take a boat up the grand River Baetis. I had decided against that for excellent reasons: I wanted to disembark as soon as possible. I also planned to arrive in Corduba in an unexpected manner that would bamboozle my Baetican suspects. So I had pored over route-charts and picked out my landfall on the eastern coast at Carthago Nova, proposing then to drive along the Via Augusta, the main inland highway through southern Hispania. This formed the final link of the great Via Herculana; it was supposedly the immortal hero's route across Europe to the Gardens of the Hesperides, imbued with romantic associations as the pathway to the ends of the earth. Better than that, it would be a fast paved road with well-equipped mans ios.

  Another reason for my choice was Carthago Nova itself -the centre of esparto grass production. My mother, to whom I owed a belated bribe for nursing Anacrites, had supplied me with a more than usually detailed list of presents to bring home, including baskets, mats and even sandals for her numerous grandchildren. A decent Roman lad respects his ma.

  Mine would be unsurprised to discover that I had failed her. She would have to make do with a few jars of garum from Malaca, for the captain of our vessel had unexpectedly decided the winds were wrong for the landing he had previously promised.

  'He's an idiot! I should have found out earlier -' 'How could you?' asked Helena. 'He would never have admitted "Yes, your honour; I'm an idiot."'

  By the time I realised, he had sailed right past Carthago Nova and was halfway to Gades. He seemed pretty pleased with himself. I forced him to put in at Malaca. From here a road to Corduba did exist, though not a good one. It would be shorter than coming all the way west from Carthago, but the grim quality of the road would probably use up the extra time. Time was just what I could not afford.

  Once in the carriage we started well enough, but the level plain with a few dry, pointy little hills quickly gave way to barren grey slopes speckled with sparse vegetation and creased by dry watercourses. Soon we met a range of hills with almost vertical crags; although we traversed them without incident, I had some bad moments riding on top with Marmarides as we passed slowly through the landscape of deep ravines and precipitous rocks. Further inland, the unpopulated countryside changed again to gently rolling ground. We came to the first olive trees, their gnarled trunks rising from low sprigs of greenery, set out with good spaces between them in the stony soil. In the richer, redder ground that came later the olives were interspersed with blocks of fruit trees, grain, or vegetable fields.

  Settlements, or even farms, were few. There were mansios, of a meagre kind, where the innkeepers all looked astonished to have their bare little rooms inspected by a senator's daughter in an advanced state of pregnancy. Most expected Romans to be travelling with an entourage. Most Romans would indeed ensure they took a bustle of friends, freedmen and slaves. We found it easiest to pretend we had lost our escort temporarily.

  There was no point trying to bluff Marmarides, of course. He knew we were without companions, and it afforded him much amusement. 'You come to Baetica for a nice summer holiday, lord?'

  'That's right. I'm hoping for a sun-drenched spell in an esparto rope hammock. As soon as I
can, I'll be stretched out under an olive tree with the dog at my feet and a jug of wine.'

  Stertius must have picked him up in North Africa; he was as black as the Baetican olives. I tried to forget I was distrusting everyone I met and accept him as a welcome addition, though I wished he had been as broad as his master (Stertius was built like a bacon pig). Marmarides had a neat slim build, whereas I wanted a type who went into a fight smiling, and came out of it five minutes later having wrung the oppositions' necks.

  Our driver's face creased into satirical wrinkles and he laughed at us breathily. 'Stertius reckons you're a government agent, and your lady's been sent abroad to have her baby in disgrace!'

  'I see you're frank talkers in Baetica.'

  'You want any help with your agenting?' he offered hopefully.

  'Forget it. I'm just a loafer on holiday.'

  Marmarides burst out laughing again. Well, I like a man who is happy in his work. That's more than I was.

  Some of the mansio landlords seemed to believe we were carrying out a trick accommodation survey on behalf of the provincial quaestor. I let them think it, hoping to improve the quality of supper. Hoping in vain.

  The landlords' fears derived from their resentment of bureaucracy. Maybe this meant they thought the quaestor made an efficient job of checking their returns. I could not tell whether it implied that Roman financial management worked well here generally, or whether it was a specific comment on Cornelius, the young friend of Aelianus who had just left his post. Presumably Quinctius Quadratus, the new boy, had yet to make his mark.

  'Helena, tell me about your father's estate.' I had seized the advantage of a smooth patch of road on one of the occasions when I was riding inside the carriage with her.

  'It's quite small, just a farm he bought when he thought of sending Aelianus to Baetica.' Camillus senior owned the statutory million's worth of land in Italy which was his qualification for the Senate, but with two sons to equip for the high life he was trying to create a bigger investment portfolio. Like most wealthy men he aimed to distribute his spare holdings among the provinces in order to avoid suffering too much in times of drought or tribal revolt.

  'Aelianus lived on the estate?'

  'Yes, though I expect he enjoyed the high life in Corduba whenever possible. There's a villa rustica where he was supposed to spend his spare time quietly – if you believe that.' Helena had of course been brought up to respect her male relatives – a fine Roman tradition which all Roman women ignored. 'Aelianus found a tenant who now occupies part of the house, but there will be room for us. The farm is a little way inland of the river, in olive-growing country, though I'm afraid it's typical of my dear papa, that he bought through an agent who palmed him off with very few olive trees.'

  'It's a dud?'

  'Well, there are almonds and grain.' Nuts and feed were not going to turn the Camilli into tycoons.

  I tried not to let any insult to her noble father's acumen show; Helena was deeply fond of him. 'Well, Spanish grain is the best in the Empire apart from African or Italian. And what else is wrong with this agricultural gem your father acquired? He said you would tell me about some problems he wants me to look into.'

  'Papa was being cheated over the olive oil pressing. That was why Aelianus took on a tenant. Using an overseer of our own wasn't working. This way Papa receives a fixed rent, while the man with the lease is responsible for whether he makes a profit or not.'

  'I hope we're not having to share accommodation with one of your brother's friends!'

  'No, no. The man had fallen on hard times somehow and needed a new farm. Aelianus decided he was honest. I don't suppose he knew him personally; can you imagine my brother sharing a drink with a farrner?'

  'He may have had to lower his snooty standards in the provinces.'

  Helena looked sceptical about that. 'Well, what I do know is that this man – whose name is Marius Optatus – volunteered to point out that Papa was being cheated in some way. It sounds as if Aelianus brushed his advice aside – but then had the sense to check, and found it was right. Remember my father had entrusted him with seeing that the estate was running properly. It was the first time Aelianus had such a responsibility, and whatever you think of him he did want to do well.'

  'I'm still surprised he listened.'

  'Maybe he surprised himself.'

  An honest tenant sounded unlikely, but I wanted to believe it. If I could report back to Camillus Verus that his son had at least put in a good man to work the estate, that suited me. Whereas if the tenant proved a bad one, I had agreed to sort things out – one more claim on my hard- pressed time.

  I'm no expert on big villa economy, though I had been partly brought up on a market garden so I should be able to spot gross bad practice. That was all Helena's father required. Absentee landlords don't expect to make vast profits from remote holdings. It is their estates on the Italian mainland, which they can tour in person every year, that keep the rich in luxury.

  Something was on Helena's mind. 'Marcus, do you trust what Aelianus told you?'

  'About the farm?'

  'No. About the letter he brought home.'

  'It looked as though he was coming clean. When I told him what had happened to the Chief Spy and his agent your brother seemed to realise he was in deep trouble.' Bad in Rome I had tried to find the letter, but Anacrites' papers were in too much disarray. Sight of it would have reassured me, and even if Aelianus had told me the truth I might have learned further details. Laeta had had his own staff search for it, without success. That could just mean Anacrites had devised a complicated filing system – though whenever I had visited his office his scheme seemed to consist of merely throwing scrolls all over the floor.

  The road had become rough again. Helena said nothing while the carriage lurched over the uneven pavings. The northward cross-country road to Corduba was not exactly a marvel of engineering, precision-built by the legions in some mighty politician's name, and intended to last for millennia. The regional council must have charge of this one. Public slaves occasionally patched it up well enough to last through the current season. We seemed to be travelling when the work gang were overdue.

  'Aelianus must also have realised,' I added when the carriage stopped jolting, 'the first thing I would do – whether I had to correspond from Rome or whether I came here myself – was to ask the proconsul's office for their side of the correspondence. In fact I'm hoping to discuss the whole business with the proconsul himself.'

  'I had a go at him,' Helena said. She still meant Aelianus. I felt sorry for her brother. Helena Justina could have been a cracking investigator had it not been impossible for respectable women to converse freely with people outside their family, or to knock on strangers' doors with nosy requests. But I always felt a mild pang of resentment when she took the initiative. She knew that, of course. 'Don't fret. I was careful. He's my brother; he wasn't surprised I cornered him.'

  If he had told her anything worthwhile I would have heard about it before now. So I just grinned at her; Helena grabbed at the carriage frame as we were flung forward by a violent bounce. I braced my arm across in front of her for protection.

  Just because Aelianus was her brother did not mean I intended to trust him.

  Helena squeezed my hand. 'Justinus is going to keep prodding him.'

  That cheered me up. I had shared time abroad with her younger brother. Justinus looked immature, but when he stopped mooning after unsuitable women he was shrewd and tenacious. I had great faith in his judgement too (except of women). In fact there was only one problem: if Justinus discovered anything, sending correspondence to Spain was highly unreliable. Helena and I would probably be home again before any letter could arrive. I was out here on my own. Not even Laeta would be able to contact me.

  Changing the subject Helena Justina joked, 'I hope this won't be like our trip to the East. It's bad enough finding corpses face down in water cisterns; I don't care for the idea of plucking a preserved one from
a vat of olive oil.'

  'Messy!' I grinned.

  'And slippery too.'

  'Don't worry; it won't happen.'

  'You were always over-confident!'

  'I know what I'm talking about. It's the wrong time of year. Harvest starts in September with the green olives, and is over in January with the black. In April and May the presses stand still and everyone is chipping away at weeds with hoes, spreading manure made from last year's squelched olive pulp, and pruning. All we'll see will be pretty trees with jolly spring flowers hiding tiny fruit buds.'

  'Oh, you've been reading up!' Helena scoffed. Her teasing eyes were bright. 'Trust us to come at the wrong time of year.'

  I laughed too – though it was exactly the right time for some things: in spring the labour-intensive work of tending the olive trees was at its least demanding. That could be when the olive-owners found the time to scheme and plot.

  The closer we got to the great oil-producing estates south of the River Baetis, the more my unease grew.

  XIX

  There is a fine tradition that when landowners arrive unexpectedly on their lush estates they find the floors unswept for the past six months, the goats roaming free in the vineyard eating the new young fruits, and grooms asleep with unwashed women in the master's bed. Some senators stop in the next village for a week, sending messages of their imminent arrival so the cobwebs can be sponged down, the floosies persuaded to go home to their aunties, and the livestock rounded up. Others are less polite. On the premise that having their names on a five per cent mortgage from the Syrian lender in the Forum gives them right of possession, they turn up at dinnertime expecting hot baths, a full banquet and clean apartments with the coverlets already folded down for their accompanying forty friends. They at least get to publish fine literary letters full of satirical complaints about country life.