JUPITER MYTH Read online

  Walking down a painted corridor, vaguely heading for an office, we held a short, efficient discussion. Hilaris now acknowledged that Londinium had been targeted by extortionists. He said it happened everywhere, and that the provincial staff would address it as a normal law-and-order issue. I would continue to work on the Verovolcus death.

  He was a brilliant bureaucrat. It felt as if we had just devised a communique on major issues. Nothing substantial had changed, however.

  "I'm glad we are of one mind," said Flavius Hilaris, in his diplomatic mode.

  "I'm glad you think so," I replied, an informer still.

  "We shall beat this menace," he maintained.

  He smiled and I did not. As I say, nothing had changed.

  The establishment might convince itself that social corruption was a force it could combat in practical ways, denouncing it with edicts. That baker, Epaphroditus, who made a stand but then fled in the face of certain retribution, knew the truth.

  "There's another thing, Gaius-you've put the military onto the streets at night, but don't get too complacent. I won't say anyone at that shambles you pass off as a fort has been coerced-but you need to monitor them carefully."

  Hilaris looked startled. "The commander is an excellent officer-"

  "Really." I gave him a glance that said Frontinus needed to pep up the commander.

  "I'll make a note: Falco recommends acquiring a decent fort-with a disciplinarian in charge! How is it, my dear Marcus, that when you are around, we always start with a small problem-or even no problem-then end up facing major chaos?"

  "You had the chaos all along," I said. "I only exposed it."

  "Thank you!" replied Hilaris with a rueful grin.

  Then we turned a corner and met a different kind of riot.

  Albia, Helena's wild girl, had just hurled a vase and smashed it.

  Hilaris and I popped up like stage ghosts through a trapdoor; it caused an abrupt silence. Children, some my host's, some Maia's, one mine, froze and waited for the worst. Hilaris and I only paused, because we were each hoping the other father would weigh in like a good Roman disciplinarian.

  He cleared his throat and asked what was going on. Gingerly, I picked up a broken shard of fine turquoise-colored glass. The smashed vase had come from a new display in a room whose door stood open; the manufacturer we met at dinner last night had given samples as presents to Aelia Camilla. I plucked at the tunics of Julia and the Hilaris girl, Gaia, who were standing nearest to the breakage, shaking out the little girls' garments to clear off any sprayed glass needles. I motioned all the children to step back from the broken fragments on the black-and-white mosaic.

  Flavia told her father quietly that Albia had wanted to go to the kitchen for food. Aelia Camilla had given orders against this. Yesterday there had been a row over missing raisins; Albia had devoured a full platter intended for the official evening dinner. It had messed up the dessert menu, annoyed the cook, and then Albia had of course been sick. Today the children had tried to explain that she must wait until lunch, but she took it badly.

  "Albia doesn't understand," Flavia said.

  I looked at the scavenger. "Oh, I think she does."

  Albia and Flavia must be about the same age. Albia was smaller, skin-

  nier of course, and stubbornly expressionless. I saw no reason to think her any less intelligent than the fine-featured Flavia.

  Albia had glanced at me once, then looked away, deliberately staring at the ground. Just before the vase broke there had been screaming- willful, unrestrained fury and noise, hysteria that even my little Julia would be ashamed of. I gripped Albia by the shoulders. Through the blue dress, I could feel the bones as I turned her to face me. Her pale face and thin bare arms were still badly grazed from when she rescued the dogs. Cleaned up, she had a washed-out look, with bloodless skin. Her hair was light brown, her eyes bright blue-that dark blue color most prevalent here in the north. But her unformed young features seemed familiar in style. I guessed she might be half British and half Roman.

  "She doesn't understand!" squealed little Rhea defensively. Albia's mouth was pressed in a tight line, as if to emphasize that.

  "Even a dumb bunny could understand!" I growled. "We took her in: she lives by our rules. Aelia Camilla will be very hurt that her beautiful glass has been broken. And on purpose, Albia!"

  The girl stayed mute.

  I was losing ground. With every second I seemed more like a cruel master threatening a troubled victim.

  "Are you going to make her be a slave?" demanded Gaia breathlessly. What had brought that on? It might be what the wild girl feared, but if she wouldn't speak, how had she told the children? I sensed conspiracy.

  "Certainly not. And don't tell her that I will. She's not a prisoner of war, and nobody sold her to me. But listen to me, Albia-and the rest of you mark what I'm saying too! I will not tolerate willful damage. One more piece of destruction-and it's back on the streets."

  Well, that told them. M. Didius Falco, tough bastard and Roman father. My own tiny daughter's eyes were wide with amazement.

  Hilaris and I walked on together. By the time we reached the end of the corridor, we heard another crash. Albia had defiantly smashed a second piece of ornamental glass. She did not even make a run for it but waited, chin up, while we walked back.

  I had given my ultimatum: there was no escape. So Flavius Hilaris, procurator of Britain, found himself with the task of quieting seven weeping children. I had been going out into town anyway, so I went at once-and I took Albia. With my hand heavy on her shoulder, I marched her back to the alleys she came from. I did not pause to let myself think what a typical middle-rank swine I had become.

  Nor did I dare tell Helena.

  XIX

  The scavenger accepted her fate in silence. I took her to a foodshop, one I didn't recognize. It must be a daytime-only place. I sat her in a corner outside, in a short row of small square tables on the pavement, delineated by dry old troughs of laurel in Mediterranean style. I bought some food, since she was perpetually hungry, and told the owner to let her stay there if she caused no trouble. It was coming up to lunchtime but the caupona was quiet. I noted the name: the Swan. It was opposite a knife-seller. Two shops along was a more louche-looking wine bar, with a flying phallus sign between two enormous painted cups, called the Ganymede.

  "Wait for me here, Albia. I'll be back again later. You can eat and look around. This is what you came from. It's what you will go back to, if that's your choice." The girl stood beside the table to which I had propelled her, a thin, beaten figure in her borrowed blue dress. She looked up at me. Perhaps by now she was more miserable than morose. "Don't fool around," I told her. "Let's get it straight. I know you can talk. You haven't lived on the streets of Londinium all your life without learning Latin."

  I left without awaiting a response.

  ???

  It was a hot day. The sun baked down almost as warmly as in Rome. People staggered through the narrow streets, huffing. In some places a pan-tiled portico created shade, but the habit of Londinium traders was to fill the porticos with impedimenta: barrels, baskets, planks, and oil amphorae found handy storage on what should be the pavement. You walked in the road. As they had no wheeled vehicle curfew here, you kept an ear out for approaching carts; some natural law made most creep up behind unexpectedly. Londinium drivers took the line that the road was theirs and pedestrians would soon jump if bashed into. Calling out an early warning did not occur to them. Calling out abuse if they narrowly missed you was different. They all knew Latin for "Trying to commit suicide?" And some other words.

  I was walking to the docks.

  In the heat the wooden decks that formed the wharves stank of resin. There was a lazy midday siesta feel. Some of the long warehouses were secured with chains and mighty locks. Others stood with their huge doors open; whistling or wood-sawing sounded from the bowels, though often nobody was visible. Shipping had been packed along the moorings, sturdy mercha
ntmen that could brave these violent northern waters. Occasional long-haired, bare-chested men fiddled about in bumboats, looking at me suspiciously as I passed. I tried polite greetings, but they seemed to be foreigners. Like all harbors, this long strip of water bobbed with apparently deserted vessels. Even in daylight the ships were left to creak and lightly bump one another in isolation. Where does everyone go? Are captains, passengers, and matelots all asleep on shore, waiting to disrupt the night with knife fights and carousing? If so, where in Londinium were the crammed lodging houses in which all the merry sailors snored away until the evening bats came out?

  Waterfronts have a special seediness. I buffed one shin against the other, trying to deter small, unbelievably persistent flies. A haze hung over the distant marshes. Here everything was desiccated by the heat wave, but the river had patches of rainbow oiliness, in which ancient rubbish floated among greasy bubbles. In what seemed to be dead water, a log end thumped against the piles. A slow tidal current was carrying debris upriver. If a bloated corpse had suddenly broken the surface, I would not have been surprised.

  No such thoughts troubled the customs officer. In his time he had probably fished out floaters-drowned bodies-but he remained as perky as they come. He operated out of a customs house near one of the ferry landings, a porticoed stone building that would stand at the bridgehead once the bridge was built. His office was crammed with dockets and note tablets. Despite the chaotic appearances, whenever someone came to register a cargo and pay their import tax, they were dealt with calmly and speedily. The clutter was under control. A young cashier presided over boxes of different currencies, working out the tax percentage and taking the money with panache.

  Lulled by unaccustomed sunshine, the officer had basked too much without his tunic. He was a big fellow, running to fat. His rolling flesh had originally been pallid, as though he was a northerner by birth; now it was striped with raw pink sunburn. He winced and moved stiffly, but took his punishment philosophically.

  "You need to organize some shade," I warned.

  "Oh, I like to enjoy the sun while I can." He eyed me up. He could tell I was not nautical. Well, I hoped he could. I do have standards.

  "Name's Falco. I'm looking for my good friend Petronius Longus. Somebody said he was seen down here yesterday, talking to you." There was no reaction, so I carefully described Petro. Still nothing. "I'm disappointed then." The customs officer steadily blanked me. Nothing for it: "He's an elusive character. I bet he told you, 'If anyone comes asking for me, say nowt.'" I winked. The customs officer winked back, but this jolly fellow with the red shiny face may have reacted automatically.

  I slipped him the proverbial coin that loosens tongues. Though a public official, he took it. They always do. "Well, if you do see the man who wasn't here, please tell him Falco needs to speak to him urgently."

  He gave me a cheerful tilt of the head. I was not encouraged.

  "What's your name?"

  "Firmus." We were on moneyed terms. I thought it fair to ask. "Handy to know. I may want to list your sweetener in my accounts."

  He opened his palm and looked at the coins. "This is business, then? Thought you said he was a friend."

  "He is. The best. He can still go on expenses." I grinned. Conniving always makes new pals.

  "So what business are you in, Falco?"

  "Government food regulations," I lied, with yet another friendly wink. "In fact, I'll ask you, Firmus: some of the hotpot hawkers up back of the stores seem to be having trouble. Have you seen any evidence of the local bars being threatened?"

  "Oh no, not me," Firmus assured me. "I never go to bars. It's home straight after work for Chicken Frontinian and an early night."

  If his habits were so abstemious, I was surprised he had put on so much flab. "Frontinian has too much aniseed for me," I confided. "I like a good Vardarnus. Now Petro, he has disgusting taste. He's happy as a sandflea sitting down to braised beets or beans in the pod… What's the word on the docks about that Briton dead in the well?"

  "He must have upset someone."

  "Anybody suggesting who he upset?"

  "Nobody's saying."

  "But everybody knows, I bet!"

  Firmus gave me a knowing head tilt, indicating assent. "Lot of questions about this stuff lately."

  "Who's asking? Long-haired Britons from the south?"

  "What?" Firmus looked surprised. The team King Togidubnus had sent out could not yet have worked this part of the wharves.

  "Who, then?" I drew up short. "Surely not that old friend of mine, the one you haven't seen?" Firmus made no reply. Petronius must have given him a bigger sweetener than I did. "So what would you have told this invisible person, Firmus?"

  "It's supposed to be out-of-towners," said Firmus, almost matter-of-factly, as if I should know it already. "I mean a long way out of town. There's some group taking an interest in the Londinium social scene."

  "Where do they hail from? And who's the big meatball?"

  "What?"

  "The man in charge." But Firmus clammed up. Even though he had been enjoying the attention as he held forth as the expert on the local situation, something now proved too much for him.

  He might know the answer to my question about who ran the rackets, but he wasn't going to tell me. I recognized the look in his previously friendly eyes. It was fear.

  XX

  I walked back past the warehouses and into the unpromising interior streets where the racketeers seemed to operate. I had agreed with Hilaris: this happened everywhere. Yet that big-time frighteners would try taking over the commercial outlets in Britain still seemed unlikely.

  There was so little here. Retail outlets selling staples: carrots, spoons, and firewood bundles, mostly in rather small quantities. Oil, wine, and fish-pickle sauce, all looking as if their crack-necked amphorae, with dusty bellies and half the labels missing, had been unloaded from the boat several seasons before. Dim eating houses, offering amateur snacks and piss-poor wine to people who hardly knew what to ask for. One obvious brothel that I saw yesterday; well, there must be more of those. A respectable husband and father-well, a husband with a scathing wife who missed nothing-had to be careful how he looked for them. What else? Oh, look! Between a sandal-seller and a shop full of herbal seeds (buy our exciting borage and caress away care with curative coriander!), here was a placard scrawled up on a house wall that advertised a gladiatorial show: Pex the Atlantic Thrasher (really?); the nineteen-times-unbeaten Argorus (clearly some old frowsty fox whose fights were fixed); a clash of bears; and Hidax the Hideous-apparently the retiarius with the niftiest trident this side of Epirus. There was even a furious female with a cliche name:

  Amazonia (advertised in much smaller letters than her male counterparts, naturally).

  I was too grown-up to be lured by nasty girls with swords, though they might be sensational for some. Instead, I was trying to remember the last time I had had any borage that was more than mildly interesting. Suddenly I became aware of excruciating pain. Somebody had jumped me.

  I never saw him coming. He had slammed my face against a wall, pinioning me with such brutal force that he nearly broke the arm he had twisted up my back. I would have cursed, but it was impossible.

  "Falco!" Hades, I knew that voice.

  My fine Etruscan nose was squashed tightly against a wall that was so deeply rough-cast it would imprint me for a week with its hard pattern; the daub was bonded with cow dung, I could tell.

  "Petro-"I gurgled.

  "Stop drawing attention!" He might have been bullying some thief he had caught fingering women's bustbands off a laundry drying line. "You sapheaded blunderer! You interfering, imbecilic rat's bane-" There were more hissed insults, all meticulously spittable, some obscene, and one I had never heard before. (I worked out what it meant.) "Get this, you flakewit-leave it, or I'm a dead man!"

  He released me abruptly. I nearly fell over. When I staggered around to tell the swine he had made himself quite clear enough, he
had already gone.

  XXI

  I was having a frustrating time: when I retraced my steps to the Swan, Albia had disappeared too.

  "Went off with a man," the proprietor enjoyed telling me.

  "You should be ashamed if people are using your bar as a pickup point. Suppose she was my darling little daughter and you had let her be dragged off by a pervert!"

  "But she's not your darling, is she?" he sneered. "She's a street child. I've seen her around for years."

  "And was she always with men?" I asked, nervous now about what type of bad influence Helena had imposed on the children at the residence.

  "No idea. Still, they all grow up."

  Albia was fourteen, if she really was an orphan of the Rebellion. Old enough to be married off, or at least politely betrothed to a poxy tribune, if she were a senatorial brood mare. Old enough to get pregnant by some layabout her father hated, if she were a plebeian needed in the family business. Old enough to be wise in ways I could not think about. Yet she was childishly slight, and if her life had been hard as I suspected, she was young enough to deserve a chance, young enough to be capable of being saved-if she had stayed with us.

  "She'll be at it all over the forum soon, even if she's a virgin now."

  "Sad," I commented. He thought I had cracked. And I did not like the way he watched me walk away down the street.

  I had no plan when I set off walking, just a need to get out of there. I felt there were too many eyes watching me, from people in doorways or even people unseen.

  I had gone about three streets. I was starting to be aware that there was more activity in Londinium than most Romans would expect. All the regular commodities were sold. The dark little shops were open in the day; life in them just had a duller pace than I was used to. Buyers and sellers lurked inside, just as they always did; even when the sun was so hot that I was sweating after fifty strides, people here forgot they were allowed to sit in the open air. Otherwise I felt at home. In the daily markets, selling fresh veg and sad-eyed dead game, the traders' shouts were vibrant and their wives' jokes were coarse. The men could have been tricky barrow boys around The Temple of Hope back home in the Tiber-side Vegetable Market. The stench of old fish scales is the same anywhere. Walk your boots around a newly sluiced butchers' street, and the faint odor of animal blood will haunt you all day afterward. Then pass a cheese stall and the warm, wholesome waft will draw you back to buy a piece-until you are sidetracked by those remarkably cheap belts on the stall next door that will fall apart when you get them home…