Shadows in Bronze Page 16

  ‘Oh, I hated having him round the house; he seemed to despise me, and I thought that affected my husband’s attitude. He had a dreary effect on my marriage. Even at home we never had a meal in private; Barnabas was always there. So he and my husband talked about their horses and pretty well ignored me. They went everywhere together - have you discovered why they were so close?’

  ‘Because they grew up together?’

  ‘It was more than that.’

  ‘Then I don’t know.’

  She was looking at me so gravely I smiled at her. Once a girl strikes you as attractive, it’s difficult to forget. She looked away. I felt the smile fade.

  ‘Barnabas had been born to a female slave on the Pertinax estate; my husband was the legitimate son of the house. They shared one father,’ Helena informed me levelly.

  Well, it was common enough. A man keeps slaves to serve his physical needs: all of them. Perhaps, unlike Larius, Pertinax senior had lacked an elder relative to educate his habits. More likely, when sleeping with a slave why should he care? A birth only meant one more entry in the plus column of his accounts.

  ‘Is it important?’ Helena asked me.

  ‘Well, the facts don’t alter - but they certainly make more sense.’

  ‘Yes. There were no other children; these two were tumbled together from infancy. My husband’s mother died when he was five; I suspect no one gave him much attention after that.’

  ‘Was there rivalry?’

  ‘Not much. Barnabas, who was older, became very protective and Gnaeus was always ferociously loyal to him -‘ She poured her story out; she would go on puzzling over it for hours by herself, but she wanted to share it with me.

  She stopped. I didn’t speak.

  She started again. ‘They were as close as twins. Castor and Pollux. Little room for anybody else.’

  Her mood darkened with an old sadness, regretting her wasted years. Four of them; not so much in the human span. But Helena Justina had gone into that marriage as a dutiful young girl; she had wanted to make it work. Though she finally opted for divorce, I knew her sense of failure had left permanent scars.

  ‘Pertinax was capable of affection, Falco; Barnabas and the Consul were the two people he loved.’

  ‘He was a fool then,’ I grated before I could help it. ‘There should have been three!’

  XXXIV

  A ladybird landed on Helena’s dress, which gave her an excuse to catch it on her finger and watch it instead of me. The ladybird was prettier anyway.

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ she said; I could see that there was.

  After a short silence she asked me what to do if she found any trace of Barnabas, so I explained how I was staying in Oplontis, and the best time to catch me was in the evenings when we ate. ‘It’s not far; you could send a slave with a message-‘

  ‘Are you staying in Oplontis on your own?’

  ‘Oh, no! Larius and I have a lively female entourage -‘ She looked up. ‘Petronius Longus is here. He has a bevy of little girls.’ She had met Petro; she probably thought him respectable (which, in the presence of his wife and children, he generally was).

  ‘Ah, you’re with a family! So you’re not lonely?’ ‘It’s not my family,’ I snapped.

  She frowned over that one then started again. ‘Are you not enjoying your beach party?’

  Defeated by her persistence, I finally sighed. ‘You know me and the sea. Sailing on it makes me sick; even staying alongside makes me nervous in case any of my jolly companions suggests a joy ride on the waves… I’m here working.’

  ‘Aufidius Crispus? How far have you got?’

  ‘I’ve sold a lot of good people new sets of water pipes; hence the dreadful garb.’ She made no comment. ‘Look, when do you expect I’ll hear from you about Barnabas?’

  ‘Today I shall have to let this commotion you’ve caused settle; tomorrow I had planned going to Nola with my father-in-law.’ Helena seemed to hesitate, then she continued. ‘Perhaps I can help you with Crispus. I may know people he visits when he comes ashore.’

  ‘Your father-in-law for instance?’

  ‘No, Falco!’ she replied sternly, rejecting my suspicion of political skulduggesy up at the villa.

  ‘Oh pardon me!’ I wriggled against my olive tree and gave her a twisted grin. ‘I’ll find him eventually,’ I assured her.

  Helena was looking thoughtful. ‘Listen, try the magistrate in Herculaneum. His name is Aemilius Rufus; I’ve known him for years. His sister was engaged to marry Crispus once. Nothing came of it. She was keen, but he lost interest-‘

  ‘Trust a man,’ I contributed helpfully.

  ‘Quite!’ she said.

  I sighed slightly. I was feeling melancholy. It seems a long time .

  ‘It is!’ she retorted crossly. ‘What’s the matter? ‘Thinking.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You… Someone I thought I knew so well, yet will never know at all.’

  Now there was a silence that said if I intended to be objectionable, the whole conversation was closed.

  ‘You were going to come and see me, Falco.’

  ‘I know when I’m not wanted.’

  A tired expression crossed her face. ‘Were you surprised to find me here?’

  ‘Nothing women do surprises me!’

  ‘Oh don’t be so conventional!’

  ‘Excuse me!’ I grinned. ‘Princess, if had had the slightest inkling you featured on today’s job list, I would have spruced up my togs before I came barging in. I do prefer to look like a man whose departure a woman might regret!’

  ‘Yes, I realized you wanted to leave me,’ Helena stated suddenly.

  The ladybird flew off, but she soon found some other six-legged friend to study on the back of her hand. She was sitting extremely still, not to disturb the bug.

  I thought of all the things I ought to say; none of them came out. I managed to ask, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Oh… it does seem best.’

  I stretched my chin and studied the space ahead of my nose. Somehow the fact she was making no difficulties only created more. ‘People were going to get hurt,’ I insisted. ‘Two of them were people I particularly cared about: me and you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Falco… just a passing fling.’

  ‘A special one,’ I told her gallantly, having problems with my throat.

  ‘Was it?’ she queried, in that thin, light voice.

  ‘I thought so… Are we still friends?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I smiled miserably. ‘Ah that’s what I like about senators’ daughters - always so civilized!’

  Helena Justina rapidly shook the wildlife off her hand. There was a scuffle behind us and my nephew tumbled into the grove.

  ‘Sorry, Uncle Marcus!’ His diffidence was pointless since there was nothing going on. ‘I think that pest with the sunshade is coming down!’

  I rocked to my feet fast. ‘Your new bodyguard seems a persistent type!’ I offered my hand as Helena scrambled up too but she ignored it.

  ‘He’s not mine,’ she said shortly. I felt an uneasy twinge, as if a drunk in a bar had lurched to his feet, staring straight at me.

  We all headed back to the track. At the ox cart, Helena urged us, ‘Drive under the trees and stay out of sight-‘

  I nodded to Larius to drive under cover. Still no sign of her minder. Abruptly I grasped her shoulders, confronting her. ‘Listen lady, when I was your bodyguard, there were no conflicts of interest. I took my orders from you - and when you wanted your privacy I stepped back!’

  A splash of colour moved among the cypresses above. I shot a warning glance then dropped my fists as I let her go. Her left hand brushed through mine - but made no attempt to answer my pressure as she slipped free.

  Something had been bothering me; I realized what:

  On the finger where people display their wedding rings a twist of metal had run beneath my
thumb like an old friend. It was a ring made of British silver which I had given to Helena myself.

  She must have forgotten it. I said nothing, in case she became embarrassed and felt obliged to take it off now our affair was supposed to be at an end.

  I started to turn away under the trees, then came back. ‘If you’re going to Nola - no; it’s nothing.’

  ‘Don’t be so irritating! What?’

  Nola was famous for its bronze. My mother expected a present from Campania so had tactfully suggested what to get. I told Helena. The Senator’s elegant daughter gave me a cool look.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Goodbye, Falco!’

  Larius and I sat under the olive trees while I counted off the time for a tall girl, striding furiously, to storm up past the terrace and the riding range, then back into the house. ‘Are you seeing her again?’ my nephew quizzed.

  ‘Sort of’

  ‘Assignation?’

  ‘I’ve sent her out to buy something.’

  ‘What?’ Suspicion was already darkening his romantic soul as he guessed I had done something outrageous.

  ‘A bronze bucket,’ I confessed.

  XXXV

  Just before we reached the road we passed an aristocratic litter borne by half a dozen slaves, progressing at a stately pace towards the house. Tall windows hid the occupant but his slaves’ gold-braided livery and the spanking crimson carriagework said it all. Luckily the Marcellus approach road was wide enough for both of us, since my nephew made it a point of honour never to give way to anyone of a higher rank.

  All the way back to Oplontis Larius was so annoyed at my treatment of Helena that he refused to speak to me. Damned romantic!

  Still in silence we bedded Nero down.

  We went in to change our grimy clothes. Our landlady had been dyeing her wardrobe a deeper shade of black so the filthy stink of oak gall extract pervaded the whole inn.

  ‘You’ll never see her again!’ Larius exploded, as his disgust finally broke.

  ‘Yes I will.’

  She would buy me my bucket; then he would probably be right.

  The Petronius offspring were all in the inn courtyard, crouched in the dust with their heads together, playing elaborate games with myrtle twigs and mud. They turned their backs as a sign we should not interrupt the intensity of their play Their kittens lolloped round them. No one appeared to be in charge.

  We strolled outside. The nursemaid Ollia was lying on the beach while her fisherboy displayed his glossy pectorals alongside. He was talking, as they like to; Ollia stared out to sea, stuck with listening. She had a wistful look on her face.

  I gave the girl a grim nod ‘Petronius?’

  ‘Gone for a walk.’

  Her fisherboy was no older than my nephew; he had the kind of moustache I really hate - a skinny black lugworm stitched on above his feeble mouth.

  Larius skulked along with me. ‘We ought to rescue Ollia.’ ‘Let her have her fun!’

  My nephew scowled, then to my surprise abandoned me. Feeling my age, I watched him lope over to the pair then squat down too. The two lads glared at each other while young Ollia continued to stare at the horizon, an overweight, overemotional monody paralysed by her first social success.

  I left this awkward tableau and kicked my heels along the shore. I was thinking about Pertinax and Barnabas. I was thinking about Crispus. I was wondering why I had started to feel that Crispus and Barnabas had me constantly struggling at some tangent to the truth…

  After that, I was thinking about other things, irrelevant to work.

  I hunched irritably on the tideline, playing with a desiccated dogfish eggcase, until I gradually began to feel like Odysseus in Polyphemus’ cave: a huge single eye was watching me balefully.

  It was painted on a ship. Scarlet and black, with the shameless elongation of a painted Egyptian god; there was presumably a matching one around the vessel’s haughty prow but she lay sideways to shore, so without a tame dolphin to tow me out behind there was no way I could check. She was riding at anchor, safely beyond the reach of holiday-makers’ curiosity. Apart from reeking of the kind of happy affluence that loves to be viewed by wide sectors of the public while supposedly enjoying its privacy, she was not the kind of precious toy to be brought in and belted against the ratty bales of straw which formed a rough-and-ready bump rail on the Oplontis mooring stage.

  Whoever designed this nautical beauty had a statement to make. There was along written all over his ship. She was forty feet of blatant artistry. She had a short, single bank of red ochre oars which were perfectly aligned at rest, dark sails, a mainmast for her square rig plus a second for a foresail, and lines so suave they hurt. Somehow the shipwright had managed to combine a slim keel like a warship with enough cabin and deck space to make life aboard a pleasure for the financier who possessed the stupendous capital that had created her.

  At a slight shift of the incoming evening breeze, the gilding on her duck tail stern and her masthead goddess flashed restlessly. There was a nippy little bumboat trailing behind in a perfectly matching rig - identical steering paddles, identical toy sail, and the same painted eye. While I gawked, the bumboat was pulled closer and after some distant activity I watched it set off shorewards, sculled at a fast and elegant pace.

  Cheered by this happy accident, I walked onto the landing stage and waited my chance to introduce myself to what I was convinced would be the Crispus’ rig.

  There were two tykes aboard: a lean, wide-awake sailor standing astern to row, plus a substantial chunk of bellypork taking his ease in the prow. I hung about, ready to make myself useful catching their mooring rope. The oarsman touched; I gripped the bumboat’s prow; the passenger stepped out; then the deckhand pushed off at once. I tried not to feel superfluous.

  The man who landed wore soft doeskin boots with copper half-moons jingling on their thongs. I had heard the sailor call him Bassus. Bassus clearly thought a lot of himself. He was the type of mighty transit barrel who rolls through life clearing a wide swath. And why not? Far too many feeble whingers with all the dye bled out of their characters skulk on the sidelines of existence hoping no one will notice them.

  We walked towards the beach. I weighed him up. He probably kept a bankbox in all the great ports from Alexandria to Carthage and Manila to Antioch, but like a wary seaman he always carried sufficient good gold on his person to bribe his way out of seizure by pirates or tangling with small-town officials when he went ashore. He had earrings, and a nose stud, and enough amulets to ward off the Great Plague of Athens. His Sun God medallion would have caved in the chest of a lesser man.

  He was not even the captain. The whip through his belt told me this was merely the bosun - the overseer who striped the hide of any oarsman on the ship who upset her tranquil motion by catching a crab. He had the silent confidence of a man whose bulk can dominate a tavern from the moment he enters it, but who knows the first officer on a sleek lugger like his never needs to cause a fins. If this was just the bosun, Aufidius Crispus the owner probably thought himself foster brother to the gods.

  ‘You’ve come from this!’ I commented, giving the ship an admiring eye but not bothering to annoy hint with the obvious statement that she was a superb rig. Bassus condescended to flick me a glance. ‘I need to see Crispus. Chance of a word?’

  ‘He’s not aboard.’ Short and sweet.

  ‘I know better than to believe that!’

  ‘Believe what you like,’ he returned indifferently.

  We walked up the beach, as far as the road. I broached him again, ‘I’ve a letter to deliver to Crispus-‘

  Bassus shrugged. He held out his hand. ‘Give it to me if you like.’

  ‘That’s too easy to be true!’ (Besides, I had left the Emperor’s letter upstairs at the inn, when I changed my clothes.)

  The bosun, who had been fairly passive so far, finally formed an opinion of me. It was unfavourable. He did not bother to say so. He simply suggested that I should get out of his wa
y, which, being an accommodating type, was what I did.

  While Bassus was disappearing over the horizon, I strode up to Larius and instructed him to find Petronius as quickly as he could. Without waiting, I retraced my steps to the edge of the sea where I stared out again at the tantalizing prospect of Aufidius Crispus’ ship.

  I have to admit, this was one occasion when being a non-swimmer became slightly inconvenient.

  XXXVI

  The beach at Oplonna was the usual litter of dank seaweed, broken amphorae, snaggles of stiffened fishing net and scarves left behind by girls who were intent on other things. Wasps homed in on half-gnawed melon rind. Walkers risked deadly hazards from rusty daggers and dress brooches. There was the usual left boot which always looks just your size and perfect, but when you trudge across to have a look has half its sole missing. If people managed to fend off the cynical urchins touting overpriced fishing trips, a jellyfish that was not as dead as it was pretending would sting them instead.

  Now it was early evening. A subtle diminution in the brash daytime light, an imperceptible cooling of that glorious heat, and shadows which suddenly ran out to ridiculous lengths were giving the atmosphere a magical tinge; it almost made being at the seaside acceptable. People who were tired of working stopped. Families who were tired of quarrelling left. Tiny dogs stopped terrorizing mastiffs and settled for raping any bitches they could manage to climb onto, afterwards running round in glorious circles to celebrate their productivity.

  I looked back towards our inn. Larius had loped off to find Petronius, and Ollia was gone too, along with her brainy swain. The beach lay unusually empty. Apart from the dogs and me, a party of off-duty shop boys were making a lot of noise with a shuttlecock while their girlfriends dragged together driftwood for a barbecue fire. The fishermen who were normally cluttering the place had either sailed off with their lanterns to raid tuna shoals after dark, or had not yet returned from their more lucrative trade running tourists out to look at the rock on Capreae from which Emperor Tiberius had thrown people who offended him. All they left for me was a single skiff, upended above the tideline, growing silvery in the sun.