The Jupiter Myth mdf-14 Page 17

  Forget Chloris. (I was now seriously trying to.)

  'Message.' The slave chucked the tablet at me and fled.

  It was from the customs officer, Firmus. He wanted me to come down to the ferry urgently. Somebody, the message said obliquely, had suggested that I would want to know they had found another corpse.

  XXXI

  The body was still lying on the deck. They were waiting for me before moving it: Firmus, a couple of his juniors, and a man who rowed the ferryboat to and fro on call. A silence fell, as I absorbed the sight. The others, having seen it once, stared at me rather than at the dreadful corpse.

  They had fished it out of the river this morning, Firmus said. None of us thought the man had drowned, however. That surprised me. Somehow after Verovolcus I had expected a pattern. But there was no parallel with the well-killing: this man had been battered to death. Someone had set about him with professional cruelty. To judge from the massive injuries he suffered, it would have taken a long time. The beating may even have continued after he had died. There was no foam around the lips, though being in the river would have washed it off. I looked in his mouth and still found no evidence to suggest he had been alive when he was tipped in the water. Firmus, and the ferryman, seemed to find that comforting.

  The body had tangled in the ferry; I thought this had happened very soon after its being put into the Thamesis. Death, too, must have taken place quite recently. Only this morning, by the freshness of the corpse. He had had no time to sink properly and had not reached the bloated stage, full of gas. Though less hideous this way, the thought that he had so narrowly missed seeing the killers dispose of the body upset the ferryman more.

  The last time I saw anyone murdered with such savagery, it was in Rome. Gangsters had inflicted the battering on one of their own.

  This dead man was fifty or sixty, thereabouts. I cannot tell you about his features; the face had been too badly damaged. Of modest build in most respects, he had quite strong arms and shoulders. His skin was ruddy, with no dirt on his hands, which had noticeably clean cuticles and fingernails. Along the inner side of both his arms were old healed marks, which looked like minor burns, the sort you obtain from a brush against a trivet or an oven edge. He was dressed in British clothing, with the neck flap that is common to the northern provinces. Under the blood lay a faint trace of something, a fine grey sludge that had thickened in the seams and braids of his brown tunic. He wore no belt. I guessed his tormentors had removed it and used it as one of the weapons to thrash him, its buckle causing some of those short cuts among his heavy bruising.

  'Know him, Falco?'

  'Never seen him before -' I had to clear my throat. 'I can suggest who he may be, though. If this mucky deposit all over him was once flour-dust, that's a clue. A baker called Epaphroditus vanished and his shop burned down the other night. It's clear he had upset someone. Someone who must think that depriving him of his livelihood was not enough to punish him – or not enough to scare other people.'

  I straightened up and walked over to the still-shocked ferryman. 'What did you see?'

  'Nothing. I just felt something binding on the boat. I guessed we had a floater; I rowed in gently and Firmus helped me free it. I've seen plenty, but I've never seen… He tailed off in distress.

  'Were you rowing over with a fare?'

  His eyes grew wide.

  I said quietly, 'If it was the big man who is staying at the mansio, you can speak up.' I knew Petronius Longus must have seen the corpse at some time; the message from Firmus had hinted it was he who had advised fetching me. 'It's all right. He and I are a duo.'

  Firmus had been listening. 'He's gone back over there,' he intervened.

  I told the ferryman he would do better if he kept working, and persuaded him to take me across to the far side of the Thamesis. As we looped over slowly, first veering upstream and then drifting back, I looked down the wide grey river and thought black thoughts.

  The great river marked a geographic boundary. Even the weather seemed different; when we landed on the southern bank, the heat we had felt in the town was less oppressive. Mind you, it was now early evening.

  The mansio lay a short walk from the islands with their reeded banks, along the left fork of the big Roman highway. This was a decent full-width military road which went, I knew, far eastwards beyond the chalky downs to the entry port at Rutupiae. It had been the first route prepared by the invasion force and still carried arriving armed forces and most goods that came into Londinium overland. The mansio was a brand new establishment; it only looked about a year old. A sign warned people LAST GOOD DRINK BEFORE THE COLONIA. I found Petro glumly sampling this beverage.

  The landlord had been cagey, but must have been warned that I would be coming. I was led to a discreet table in a back garden where a second cup was standing ready. Petro quickly filled it for me.

  'Thanks! I need a drink.'

  'I warn you, Falco, it won't help.'

  I drained the cup and started on a second one, this time adding water. 'That was a mess.' The baker's pulped flesh kept revisiting my memory. I set my beaker on the table, as nausea threatened.

  'Familiar?'

  'Took me right back to the Balbinus mob.'

  Petronius let out a grunt. He had a bread roll alongside him. He had managed two bites, automatically. Now it just sat there. He would throw it away.

  'Those were the days!' He sounded bitter. 'You took your time getting here.'

  'Busy day. I had to go out and see a bastard lawyer, for one thing. Anyway, I'm staying at the residence. You can send a message which reaches there in a few minutes. Then the slaves spend all morning and afternoon passing it between themselves. Saying it is urgent slows them down.'

  Petro lost interest in that. 'This is grim, Falco.' He must have been thinking for some hours. Now he plunged right in: 'With your man, the drowned Briton, his fight could have been spur of the moment. There was a flare-up and he copped it. End of story.'

  'No, it was planned,' I spoke in. 'Tell you in a minute. Go on.'

  'This death was deliberate slow torture. Its aim was systematic terrorising of the whole community.'

  'And the body was meant to be found?'

  'Who knows? If they want secrecy they should have weighed it down. They should have dumped it further downriver, away from habitation. No, they intend it to look as though they discarded him like rubbish. They want the next victims they lean on to have heard all about this… Did you talk to the ferryman?'

  'He's gone into shock.'

  'Well, he told me the tide was on the turn. It looked as if the body had been chucked overboard to go downstream a bit, but it washed back unexpectedly.' 'Chucked overboard – from what?' I queried.

  'A boat went down. The ferry had had to wait for it while he was coming to get me.'

  'Why didn't you use the bridge?' I asked.

  'Same reason as you, Falco. Hilaris warned me they don't maintain it.'

  I grinned, then became serious again. 'When I asked him, the ferryman denied seeing anything.'

  'Do you blame him? Suppose this was the Balbinus mob, would you pipe up, "Oh officer! I saw the boat they threw this person off"? You'd have your eyes very tightly closed.'

  'So where were you at the crucial moment, Petro? Did you see this boat dumping him?'

  'I was aware of the boat,' Petronius admitted angrily. 'Classic witness failure, Falco – I was paying no attention. I didn't think it was important at the time.'

  'Big craft or small?' We had to drag it out of his memory while we could.

  Petronius co-operated gloomily. He was disgruntled that he, the professional, had failed to take note of a vital scene. 'Smallish. Smart, a private river craft – pleasure not trade.'

  'Sailed or rowed?'

  He placed a wide palm on his forehead. 'Rowed.' He paused. 'There was a small sail too.'

  'Nameboard? Flags? Interesting prow?'

  He tried hard. 'Nothing that stuck.'

  '
Anyone visible?'

  'Couldn't say.'

  'Hear a suspicious splash?'

  He grimaced. 'Don't be stupid. If I had, I'd have paid attention, wouldn't I?' Something struck him. 'There was somebody standing in the prow!'

  'Good – what about him?'

  It had gone. 'Don't know… nothing.'

  I frowned. 'Why were you aware of the boat? Also, why did the ferry have to wait? The river's wide enough.'

  Petronius thought. 'The boat was stationary for a while. Drifting.' He pulled a face. 'While they dropped him in, perhaps. They could have slid him over the side, the side away from me.'

  'Hades… That was stupid – right by the bridge and the ferry crossing!'

  'It was at the crack of dawn, but you're on the dot: it was stupid. Anybody could have seen them. These villains don't care.'

  'Anyone else about?'

  'Just me. I start early. I was here, squatting on the jetty.'

  'Would they have seen you signalling to call the ferry?'

  'No. I don't bother. I was just sitting still, listening to the marsh birds and thinking about -' He stopped. His lost daughters. I dropped a hand over his forearm, but he shook me off. 'I have a routine arrangement to be fetched at first light. The ferry was still moored opposite. If the people in the drop-boat were preoccupied, they may not have realised I was watching.'

  'They were damned careless, all the same.' I thought about things. Life stank. 'I still say, this is a wide enough river. Why did the ferryman wait?'

  Petro saw my point. 'Wonder if he knows who owns that boat?'

  'And wanted to avoid them? Was he scared then?… All right – so what about the corpse?'

  'Bumped up against us as we crossed. The ferryman would have pushed it away and hoped it sank. I made him hook it.'

  'Did he know beforehand that it was death by violence?'

  'I thought he just wanted to avoid trouble. He was horrified when he saw we had landed a corpse in that condition.'

  'And Firmus? Firmus happened to be there?'

  'Yes. He threw up in the drink.'

  We sat quiet for a time. Dusk was falling; if I wanted to make it back across the river I would have to move. I would have liked to stay and give Petronius solace.

  'I feel bad about leaving. I don't like you being alone over here.'

  'I'm all right. Things to do, lad. Wrongs to right – villains to catch,' he assured me, his tone drab. Petronius had never been a pious hero. He was far too decent.

  Before I set off, I told him what I had learned today about the circumstances of the Verovolcus death.

  'It's clear Splice and Pyro did it – but I wish I knew what Verovolcus was talking to them about at the bar.'

  'And who was the man giving them orders? What are you going to do?' asked Petro.

  'Report it all to the governor, I reckon.'

  'What will he do?' He managed to avoid sounding sceptical.

  'What I tell him, I hope. Now I have to decide what that should be.'

  'What do you think?' I knew he was dying to make suggestions. When we were lads out here in Britain he would have barged in, taking over if he could. But we were grown up now. If no wiser, we were both more sad and tired. He held back, leaving me to take the initiative in my aspect of the case.

  'I think it's time we arrested Splice and Pyro. Are you happy? Will it cut across you?'

  Petro thought quickly, then shook his head. 'No. Time to shake things up. So long as I know what's coming. But take care,' he warned. 'You may be pulling out a support that brings the whole damn edifice crashing down on us.'

  'I see that.'

  Petro was trying to prophesy: 'If you take out their main collectors, the group then has to reorganise. They'll need to do it fast, or the locals will start enjoying their freedom. Way out here, the gangsters are very far from their normal resources. If they lose a crucial operative, I doubt if they have back-up. They may make mistakes, become too visible. Then too, they have the worry of what Splice and Pyro may tell you.'

  'Nothing, trust me on it.' I was a realist.

  'Everyone has a weak spot. Everyone can be bought.' Bereavement, or something, was making Petronius sentimental. Gangsters' enforcers must be the hardest men in the criminal underworld and if Splice and Pyro had come from Rome, they were the worst of their type.

  'This is the end of the world. It's frontier rules,' Petro insisted. 'Frontinus could sink them in a bog and no questions asked. If their masters place bail for them, we'll know exactly who their masters are. So they could be abandoned. They know they can be replaced; there is always some creep offering to become the gang's new bagman. Pyro and Splice know it, Falco: this is dead meat town for them if things start going wrong.'

  'Oh yes! I'm taking notes,' I scoffed, 'for when we interrogate these babes! Cradle stories should frighten them witless. Whoever mashed Epaphroditus is obviously a nervous type -' Petronius sighed. 'You suggest something then.'

  'What can I say? Arrest Splice and Pyro – then watch what happens. That's as far as I can go, like you.'

  'It's pathetic,' he said bleakly.

  'Yes.'

  We both knew it was all we had.

  Before I left to go and see the governor, I said, 'Ask me who told me about the Verovolcus death.'

  'Who told you?' Petronius demanded obediently.

  'One of those gladiator girls.'

  'Oh them!' Petronius gate a short mocking laugh. He had temporarily forgotten that he saw me being led off by the fighters in frocks. 'So they captured you outside the brothel. Now you're here, unscathed. How did you escape their clutches, lucky one?'

  'Helena Justina came and fetched me safely home.'

  He laughed again, though he could read the trouble in my face. 'So which one coughed?'

  'She's calling herself Amazonia, but we know better. Remember Chloris?'

  He looked blank, though not for long. He let out a shout. 'You are joking! That Chloris? Chloris?' He shuddered slightly. 'Does Helena know?'

  I nodded. Then, like the two boys we had been years ago in Britain, we both sucked our teeth and winced.

  XXXII

  A sunlit street. Not much of a street by Roman standards, but feebly shaping up. It is morning, though not early. Whatever is happening has had to be approved, planned out, and put in hand.

  A back alley bar has a portrait of a short-legged, punk-faced Ganymede offering his lop-sided ambrosia cup to some invisible sex-mad Jupiter. Waiters from the Ganymede stand halfway down the street, in conversation with a waiter from another place, the Swan. Its painted sign shows a huge randy duck pinning down a naked girl. All the waiters are talking about a dead baker. Everyone in the streets today is talking about him. By tomorrow he will be old news, but today on this fine morning, his grim fate is the main talking point.

  Even so, the morning glows. There is little feeling of menace, just a faint lowing from a stable somewhere, the scent of eggs frying, a smooth-haired dog with a long snout, scratching herself. Between the pantiled roofs of the ramshackle properties is a narrow glimpse of clear blue sky, subtly more mellow than blue skies in Italy.

  On the opposite side of the street from the two bars, a locksmith comes to his doorway to speak to a neighbour. They too are probably discussing the dead baker. They glance across at the group of gossiping waiters, but do not join them. After subdued words, the locksmith shakes his head. His neighbour does not linger.

  The locksmith returns to his booth, and a man walks towards the Ganymede. He is confident and worldly, his pace jaunty. As he approaches the bar, a small group of soldiers appear out of nowhere. Swiftly they back the man against a wall, hands up. He submits to a search, laughing. He has done this before. He knows they cannot touch him. Even when they march him away, he is jaunty. The waiters, having watched what happened, return at once to their individual bars.

  At the Ganymede, soldiers step out and arrest them. A man – tall, broad-shouldered, calm, brown-haired – goes in to search the
joint. Another – sturdy, efficient, curly dark hair, handsome – identifies himself to the soldiers and follows the first inside the bar. Later they emerge, with nothing. Disappointed, they hold a short discussion, apparently about tactics. The bar is sealed. A soldier stays on guard.

  The street is peaceful.

  Elsewhere, at a barber's, a customer is in the chair half-shaved. Two men in plain clothes, though with military bearing, come up quietly and speak to him. He listens courteously. He removes the napkin from under his chin, apologising to the barber who steps back, looking anxious. The customer shrugs. He places coins in his barber's hand, waving away objections, then he goes with the two officers who have sought him out. He has the air of an influential person who has found himself the victim of a serious mistake. His pained demeanour shows that he is too sophisticated, and perhaps too important, to create a public fuss about this error. It will be sorted. Once his explanation has been accepted by people in authority, there will be trouble. There is a faint implication that some high-handed fool will pay dearly.

  The disconcerted barber returns to his business. The next customer stands up quietly but does not take the shaving seat. He says a few words. The barber looks surprised, then scared; he goes away with the man, who has dark curly hair and a firm step. That shop too is closed up and sealed.

  Another street lies peaceful now. The operation has gone well so far: Pyro and Splice, and some of their associates, have been lifted on the orders of the governor.

  XXXIII

  I had watched the two men being picked up. Petronius and I had searched the Ganymede: no luck.

  If there had ever been money or anything else kept there, it had recently been removed. In the room where Splice and Pro lodged we found only personal possessions of a meagre kind.

  Cursing, we made plans. Petronius Longus would lean on the ferryman for information about the boat that had dropped the baker in the Thamesis. He would also enlist the help of Firmus to try to discover where the attack on the baker had occurred. We felt it must be near the river – in a warehouse, probably. There would be bloodstains.