The Silver Pigs mdf-1 Page 19

  I gazed from one to the other of them, too tired and too shaken to speak, then turned upstairs by myself.

  Love! That took me by surprise.

  However, I was ready for it. I knew what to expect too. Some heartless little button of a girl, pretty as glass. No one who would want me (I intended to suffer; I was a spare-time poet). I could cope with that (I could scribble whole rivers of verse). Some bright enamelled button, or a whole string, until I found one whose hard-nosed father I could wear down to a wedding, then sink like any dutiful citizen into convenience and boredom…

  Knowing Helena Justina would never be convenient. She was a person I could study for half a lifetime with no danger of becoming bored. Had my status been different, I might have regretted not having half a lifetime to spare.

  I could not afford it. Not even the button. A man bowed down by my negative bank balance had to brace himself for chasing rich widows of the elderly grateful kind…

  I walked upstairs feeling certain of all that. I marched up four flights before I changed my mind.

  Love was final. Absolute. A horrendous relief. I walked all the way back down again, and went out to a perfume shop.

  "How much is Malabathron?"

  The per fumier must have been born wearing an insulting sneer. He told me the price. I could just about afford to let her sniff the stopper from the jar. I informed him with a proud stare that I would think about it, then walked home again.

  Lenia saw me come back. I smiled in an aloof way that said I would not answer questions, then set off up the stairs.

  When I got to my apartment I stood until inspiration struck. I went into my bedroom and dug around in my baggage roll until I found my little silver nugget from the Vebiodunum mine, then walked back down all six flights to the street. This time I went to a silversmiths. The pride of his collection was a twisted filigree strap, hung with tiny acorns all along its meticulous length, which perfectly matched the restrained taste of what I had seen her wear. I admired it profusely, heard the price, and pretended to decide on earrings instead. But I turned up my nose at all his current stock, then produced my piece of treasure and explained what I wanted him to make.

  "I suppose," the smith remarked, "it would cause you some embarrassment if I asked where you got hold of this?"

  "Not at all," I told him blithely. "I obtained it working as a slave in a British silver mine."

  "Very funny!" scoffed the smith.

  I walked home.

  Lenia saw me again. She did not bother to ask any questions, and I did not bother to smile.

  My problems were not yet over. I had evicted the hot-wine waiter; my mother was coming to scrub out my balcony. She aimed an unfriendly blow at me with her mop.

  I smiled at my mother, a serious mistake.

  "You've been with one of your rope dancers!"

  "I have not." I captured the mop. "Sit down, share a cup of wine, and I'll tell you what the famous Titus Caesar says about your glorious son."

  She did sit, though she rejected wine. I told her how Titus had praised Festus, laying on the compliments fairly thick. She listened, with no change that I could see, then sombrely requested wine after all. I poured; we tilted cups in his memory. She sipped in her usual way, sitting very upright, as if she merely drank to be sociable.

  My mother's face would never age. Only her skin had grown tired in recent years, so it no longer fitted properly on her bones. After I came back from Britain she seemed smaller than before. Her black-rimmed eyes would stay bright and sharp-witted to the day she died. One day that would happen, and though I now spent so much effort fending off her encroachments, when she was gone I would be desolate.

  I sat quiet, letting her absorb all I had said.

  No one, not even his girlfriend, ever criticized what Festus had done. My mother had received the news, heard his self sacrifice hailed, ensured decent arrangements were made (by me) for Marina and the child. People talked about him; she never said a word. We all understood that losing that great, gaudy, generous character had swept away the underpinnings of her life.

  Now, alone with me, quite suddenly she told me what she thought. When I made the mistake of calling him a hero, her face set even more. She drained off her cup and fiercely banged it down.

  "No, Marcus," my mother said harshly. "Your brother was a fool!"

  And at last she could cry, for Festus and his folly, in my arms, knowing I had always thought so too.

  From that day it became accepted that in the presumably permanent absence of my father I came into my full authority as head of our family. To cope with that, ageing a generation seemed a good idea.

  Lindsey Davis

  The Silver Pigs

  L

  In the early afternoon I revisited Nap Lane.

  Nothing had changed: the rubbish in the alley, the desolate air of neglect, even the sewer men doggedly lowering hods down the same manhole as before. Round the warehouse itself there were men of a military disposition stationed everywhere. Their scratchy-featured captain refused to let me in, though he did so with good manners, which suggested someone whose rank he took seriously had warned him I might call.

  That left two courses of action: I could make a fool of myself handing in pots of pink carnations at a certain woman's door, or exercise my body at the gym. Rather than embarrass her, I went to the gym.

  The one I used was run by an intelligent Cilician called Glaucus. It was attached to some private baths two streets from the Temple of Castor and had the unusual distinction of being respectable. Glaucus barred professional gladiators and the kind of hollow-cheeked aristocratic youths who yearn with dry throats after little boys. He kept a casual exercise ground where likeable citizens brought their bodies up to scratch with their minds (which were on the whole quite good), then enjoyed pleasant conversation in his bathhouse afterwards. There were clean towels, a small library in the colonnade, and an excellent pastry shop beside the portico steps.

  The first man I saw when I ambled into the ball court was Decimus Camillus Verus, Helena's noble papa. He had taken up my jesting offer to introduce him with startling alacrity. Most of Glaucus' patrons were younger men, before they developed paunches and no sense of proportion about how much thwacking of sand-filled punch bags an elderly body can endure; Glaucus believed having fifty-year-old gentry expiring redfaced outside on his steps would discourage other clients. I had spoken to him already and advised him that the honourable Decimus would pay well, in view of which, drilling a tame senator in occasional light sword fencing might be, if not a sensible idea, at least remunerative.

  So here my senator was. I gave him a bout with practice swords; I could already see him sharpening up, though Camillus Verus would never have much of an eye. Still, he would pay not promptly, but who does? and Glaucus would give him his money's worth in simple exercise, while making sure no casual blade ever nicked his noble hide.

  We threw a handball around the yard rather than admit we were too tired, then relaxed in the baths. We could meet here easily, and whatever became of the case, our habit of friendship seemed likely to endure. The gymnasium would provide one place where we could be cronies despite the gulf of rank. His family could pretend not to know about it; mine already believed I had no sense of social tact.

  But now we were exchanging news. After we sweated off our grime in the hot-rooms and plunged through the tepid pools, we lay on slabs, enjoying the attentions of the manicure girls while we waited our turn with the huge arm-wrenching masseur Glaucus had filched from the city baths in Tarsus. He was good, which is to say he was horrible. We would come out afterwards like boys from their first brothel, pretending we felt wonderful but really not at all sure.

  "You go first, sir," I grinned. "Your time's more valuable."

  We both gave way graciously and let someone else go first.

  I noticed the senator was looking tired. I asked, and rather to my surprise he said without any hesitation, "I had a terrible interview this morni
ng with Sosia Camillina's mother she had just returned from abroad and received the news. Falco, how are you getting on with your investigation? Is there any chance I will be able to tell her soon that we have at least identified who struck the blow? Will the man who killed Sosia ever be brought to book? The woman was very agitated; she even wanted to employ someone herself to take over the case."

  "With respect to me, my rates are the cheapest she will get!"

  "And with respect to us," the senator said rather stiffly, "my family are not wealthy, but we shall do all that can be done!"

  "I thought Sosia did not know her mother?" I probed.

  "No." He was silent for a moment, then finally explained. "It was all somewhat unfortunate, and I make no excuses for the way my brother behaved. Sosia's mother was a woman of some status, married as you may have realized, and there was never any suggestion that she wished to alter that. Her husband is an ex-consul now, with all that entails; even at the time he was a prominent man. The lady and my brother became friendly while her man was away on a three-year diplomatic tour; his absence from the scene meant that when she became pregnant it would have been impossible for her to pretend the child was their own."

  "Yet she carried it?"

  "Refused to have an abortion. Took a moral stand."

  "Bit late!" I scoffed. The senator looked uncomfortable. "So you brought the child up for them, among your own family?"

  "Yes. My brother agreed to adopt her I wondered how much pressure Decimus had had to exert to persuade Publius to do that. "From time to time I let the woman know how Sosia was, and she insisted on giving me money to buy her daughter presents, but it seemed best for them not to meet. That does not make it at all easy now!"

  "What happened today?"

  "Oh… the poor woman said a lot of things I could not blame her for. The worst was, she accused my wife and I of negligence."

  "Oh that's unfair, surely sir?"

  "I hope so," he muttered anxiously, evidently much exercised by the possibility. "Julia Justa and I certainly tried to do our best for Sosia. All my family were deeply fond of her. After that attempt to kidnap her, my wife forbade Sosia to leave the house; we thought that was enough. What else could we do? Were we wrong? But Sosia's mother accuses me of letting her run round the streets like a Transdberina match girl…"

  He was distressed. I was finding the conversation pretty painful myself, so I did my best to calm him down and changed the subject as soon as I could.

  I asked if he had heard any more from the Palace about apprehending the conspirators. Glancing around in case we were being overheard (the surest way to ensure we were), the senator lowered his voice.

  "Titus Caesar whispers that certain gentlemen have dispersed!"

  This furtive stuff was fun for him but not much practical help.

  "Sir, I need to know who, and where to."

  He sucked his lip, but told me. Faustus Ferentinus had sailed for Lycia; he had gone without permission which is forbidden to senators, who have to reside in Rome. Cornelius Gracilis asked for an interview with the Emperor, though his servants found him stretched out stiff with a sword in his right hand (he was left-handed) before he could attend; suicide apparently.

  Curtius Gordianus and his brother Longinus had inherited sudden priest hoods at a minor temple beside the Ionian Sea, which was probably more punishing than any exile our kindly old tyrant Vespasian would devise for them himself. Aufidius Crispus had been spotted among the seaside crowds in Oplontis. It seemed to me no one who could lay his hands on a private mint of silver would let himself suffer high summer among the smart set in the fashionable villas along the Naples shore.

  "What do you think?" Decimus asked.

  Titus ought to have Aufidius watched. Oplontis is only a few days from Rome. If nothing else turns up I'll go down there myself, but I'm reluctant to leave while there's any chance of locating the silver pigs. Has Titus found anything in Nap Lane?"

  He shook his head. "My daughter will have access very soon."

  From the swimming pool to our left came the awkward flub as an overweight hearty with no real diving style launched himself off the side.

  "I assume you won't let Helena go there," I warned him quietly. I ought to have used her full name, but it was too late now.

  "No, no. My brother can inspect the place; he'll be advising her on selling off the spice."

  "The building itself still belongs to the old man Marcellus?"

  "Mmm. We shall empty it quickly as a courtesy to him, though Helena and old Marcellus are on good terms. He still regards her as his daughter-in-law. She has a knack of charming elderly men."

  I lay on my back, trying to appear like a man who might have failed to notice his Helena's charm.

  Helena's father gazed thoughtfully upwards too.

  "I worry about my daughter," he revealed. With a wild pang of hysteria I thought, the horse has talked! "I made a mistake over Pertinax; I expect you know. She never blamed me, but I shall always blame myself."

  "She has very high standards," I said, closing my eyes as if I was simply sleepy after my bathe. Hearing Decimus turn onto his elbow, I looked up.

  Now I had studied Helena so closely, I could see in her father's face physical similarities another man would miss. That stiff bush of hair was all his own, but the direct expression, the tilt of the cheekbones, the slight crease at the corners of the mouth in response to irony, were hers; sometimes, too, she shared inflexions from his voice. He was watching me with the glint of sharp amusement that I had always liked. I felt glad that I liked her father, grateful to remember I had liked him from the start.

  "High standards," repeated Decimus Camillus Verus, apparently inspecting me. He sighed, almost imperceptibly. "Well, Helena always seems to know what she wants!"

  He was worried about his daughter; I suppose he was worried about me.

  There are some things a common citizen cannot say to the parents of a highborn, respectable lady. If I declared to a senator that any ground his daughter stood upon became for me a consecrated place, he would not (I could see) feel reassured.

  Luckily then the Man from Tarsus approached us with a towel on his arm. I made Decimus have the first massage, hoping his large tip would leave the Tarsan giant kinder towards me. It didn't work; it only fuelled him with a greater energy.

  LI

  My mother came back that afternoon to tell me I was expected to preside over the huge family party which was going to hog a scaffold at Vespasian's Triumph next day. This promised a real feast of sunstroke, sisters backbiting, and tired children screaming with illogical rage; my favourite sort of day. Ma herself was decamping to share a quiet balcony with three ancient crones she knew. Still, she had brought me a great golden-headed Imperial bream to soften the blow.

  "You tidied your room!" she sniffed. "Growing up at last?"

  "Might get a visitor I want to impress."

  The visitor I wanted never came.

  As she passed the bench behind me, my mother ruffled up the hair on the back of my head, then smoothed it down. I couldn't help it if she despaired of me; I was in a state of high old despair myself.

  Sitting out on the balcony pretending to philosophize, I recognized a light step outside the door. Someone knocked, then came in without waiting. Rigid with anticipation, I was on my feet. In this way, through the folding door, I observed my wonderful mother apprehending a young woman in my room.

  It was not the confrontation ma was accustomed to have. She expected mock coral anklets and girlish confusion, not soft drapes in muted clours and those serious eyes.

  "Good afternoon. My name is Helena Justina," declared Helena, who knew how to behave with tranquillity even when facing my parent wielding a bowl of almond stuffing and a twelve-inch boning knife. "My father is the senator Camillus Verus. My maid is, of course, waiting for me outside. I was hoping for an interview with Didius Falco; I am a client."

  "I am his mother!" stated my mother, like Venus of the
Foamy Feet wading in on behalf of Aeneas. (Mind you, I don't suppose pious Aeneas, that insufferable prig, flourished on fish his lovely goddess mother boned and stuffed for him herself.)

  "I thought you must be," replied Helena in her quiet, pleasant way, eyeing my uncooked dinner as if she longed to be asked to stay. "You once took care of my cousin Sosia; I'm so glad of this opportunity to thank you." After which, adjusting her veil, she fell modestly silent as a younger woman addressing an older lady does if she has good sense. (It was the first time any woman who knew me had deferred to mama with any show of sense.)

  "Marcus!" screeched ma, rather put out at being so politely outfaced. "Business for you!"

  Trying to look nonchalant, I strolled into the room.

  My mother whipped away the fish plate, then bustled out onto the balcony, diligently respecting a client's privacy. This was no real sacrifice; she could still listen from outdoors. I offered Helena the client's chair while I sat the other side of the table acting businesslike.

  Our eyes met. My acting collapsed. She was trying to decide whether I was glad to see her; I was just as cautiously scanning her. At exactly the same moment our eyes lit with self-ridicule then we just sat, in the silence that says everything, and smiled at each other happily.

  "Didius Falco, I want to discuss your bill."

  With one eye on the balcony door, I stretched across the table and just touched her fingertips. A shiver of electricity raised goosebumps on my arms.

  "Anything wrong with it, ladyship?"

  She pulled away her hands, genuinely indignant. "What on earth are Debatable Items?" she demanded. "Five hundred sesterces for something you don't even explain?"

  "It's just a loose heading some accountants use. My advice is, debate madly and don't pay!" I grinned; she realized it was an excuse to make her call.

  "Hmm! I'll think it over. Should I speak to your accountant?"

  "I never use an accountant. Half of them can only calculate a percentage when it's their fee, and I have enough hangers-on sharing my stockpot without some bald Phoenician tallyman and his scrofulous clerk expecting to join in too. When you're ready, you'd better talk directly to me."