Shadows in Bronze Read online

  ‘Falco! Smaractus wants your rent!’

  ‘What a surprise! Tell him we can’t all get what we want in life…’

  I found her in the corner she used as an accounting room, sitting in her greasy slippers while she supped mint tea. Until this pitiful ninny decided to invest in real estate (and real misery) by planning to marry our landlord Smaractus, she had been one of my shabby friends; once I could persuade her to ditch the brute she would be again. Lenia was a sagging drab about five times stronger than she looked, with startling snaggles of henna-red hair which constantly worked free of a limp scarf round her head; she had to poke the strands back in to peer ahead safely when she wanted to go anywhere.

  ‘He means it, Falco!’ She had sickly eyes and a voice like forty dried peas rattling in a pannikin.

  ‘Good. I like a man whose ambitions are serious…’

  By this time my attention was wandering, as Lenia undoubtedly knew. There was another woman with her whom she introduced as Secunda, a friend. We had long passed the time when I saw any advantage in flirting with Lenia, so I spent a few moments giving the glad eye to her friend.

  ‘Hallo! I’m Didius Falco; I don’t believe I’ve seen you before? The lady jingled her arm bangles and smiled knowingly.

  ‘Watch him!’ Lenia commented.

  Secunda was mature without being over ripe; she was old enough to pose an interesting challenge, yet young enough to suggest overcoming the challenge could be very worthwhile. She had a thorough inspection of me, while I gazed back frankly.

  I was offered mint tea, but its unappealing grey colour led me to decline on grounds of health. Secunda received my impending departure with fragrant regret; I assumed the expression of a man who might be detained.

  ‘Some ferret-faced scavenger came in for you, Falco,’ Lenia scowled.

  ‘A client?

  ‘How should I know? He had no manners, so he seemed your type. He barged in and asked your name.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘He left. I wasn’t sorry.’

  ‘But,’ Secunda added sweetly, ‘he’s waiting for you outside, I think.’ She missed nothing - if there was a man involved.

  Lenia’s cubbyhole was open on the street side, except for the clutter of her trade. I tweaked at the laundry until I could look out without being seen. A green cloak with its hood well up was loitering against the open doorflap on Cassius’ bread shop two doors down.

  ‘Him in the green?’ They nodded. I frowned. ‘Some tailor’s found himself a gold mine there! Evidently green cloaks with pointed hoods are all the rage this month…’ I would soon know; it was my eldest nephew’s birthday next Thursday, and if that was the latest fashion Larius was bound to ask for one. ‘Has he been there long?’

  ‘He arrived just after you did and has been waiting ever since.’

  I felt distinctly apprehensive. I had been hoping that the citizen in green was just an opportunist thief who had noticed something going on at the warehouse and gone in to explore as soon as he thought Frontinus and I had left.

  Following me home put his presence in a different light. That degree of curiosity could not be innocent. It meant his interest in the warehouse was no coincidence. He must be some character who badly needed to know what had happened there, and to put a name to any stranger connected with the place. This spelt trouble for those of us at the Palace who were thinking we had put the conspiracy against the Emperor to bed.

  While I watched, he lost his zest for spying and took himself off strolling towards the Ostia Road. I had to find out more about him. I raised an arm to Lenia, left Secunda with a smile that ought to keep her simmering, then slipped out in pursuit.

  Cassius the baker, who must have been keeping an eye on the stranger, tossed me a thoughtful look and a stale bread roll as I went by.

  IV

  I nearly lost him on the main road. I glimpsed my mother inspecting onions by a greengrocer’s stall. Judging by her grim face, the onions, like most of my lady friends, fell short of her standards. My mother had convinced herself my new job working for the Palace involved good money, simple clerical work, and keeping my tunics clean. I was reluctant to let her discover so soon that it was the same old round of trudging after villains who chose to slouch through the streets when I wanted my lunch.

  It took deft footwork to avoid her without losing him. Luckily the green cloak was an unpleasant shade of viridian, easy to pick up again.

  I trailed him to the river, which he crossed on the Sublician Bridge; a ten-minute hike away from civilization to the Transtiberina hovels where the street hawkers crowd when they are kicked out of the Forum after dark. The Fourteenth District had been part of Rome since my grandparents’ day, but there were enough swarthy immigrants over there to make it feel alien. After my task that morning I did not care if one of them knifed me in the back.

  When you don’t care, they never try.

  We were walking in deep shadow now, through streets overhung by perilous balconies. Thin dogs ran in the gutters. Ragged, lug-eared gypsy children yelled at the terrified dogs. If I let myself think about it, the whole district terrified me.

  The green cloak was travelling at a steady pace like a citizen going home for lunch. His build was ordinary, with thin shoulders and a youngish walk. I still had not seen his face; that hood stayed up despite the heat. He was too shy to be honest, that was sure.

  Although I kept water carriers and piemen between us out of professional etiquette, there was no need. He did none of the ducking and dodging that would have been sensible in this seedy neighbourhood. He never once glanced behind.

  I did. Regularly. No one appeared to be shadowing me.

  Above our heads limp blankets aired on ropes, and below that other ropes carried baskets, brassware, cheap clothing and rag rugs. The Africans and Arabs selling them seemed to accept him, but exclaimed to each other harshly as I passed; still, they may have been just admiring me for a handsome lad. I caught the scent of new flat bread and sickly foreign cakes. Behind half-open shutters worn women with ugly voices were shouting their exasperation at idle men; occasionally the men lashed out in temper, so I listened with fellow feeling while I quickened my step. In this area they sold intricate little copper knives with spells traced on the blade, addictive drugs distilled from oriental flowers, or boys and girls with limbs like cherubs whose trade in vice was already rotting them with hidden disease. You could purchase the promise of a heart’s desire, or a shabby death - for someone else, or for yourself. If you stood on one spot too long, death or some worse crisis might find you without the bother of praying for it.

  I lost him south of the Via Aurelia, in an ominously silent street, about five minutes into the Fourteenth.

  He had turned up a narrow alley, still marching at that regular pace, and by the time I made the corner there was simply no sign. The place had unhappy doorways let into sheer grey walls, though it was probably not so sinister as it seemed.

  I wondered what to do. There were no colonnades to lurk in, and my green friend’s siesta might last all afternoon. I had no idea who he was or why we were tailing each other. I was not sure I cared. It was the hottest part of the day, and I was losing interest. If anyone in the Transtiberina suspected I was an informer, I would be found on the pavement tomorrow with some criminal’s monogram carved on my chest.

  I noticed a sign for a drinking shop, entered its cool gloom, and when the squat-necked, big-bosomed woman who ran it dragged her hulk into view I ordered spiced wine. No one else was there. The shop was tiny. There was one table. The counter was almost hidden in the dark. I felt the bench for splinters then sat down cautiously. It was a place where a drink took ages to come, because even for a foreigner the madam simmered it hot and fresh. This natural hospitality left me churlish, and caught off guard; both feelings were all too familiar.

  The woman disappeared again so I sat over my beaker alone.

  I laced my fingers together and thought about life. I was too t
ired to manage life in general, so I concentrated on my own. I rapidly reached the conclusion it was not worth the denarius it had cost me to sit here pondering with my wine.

  I felt deeply depressed. My work was dreadful and the pay worse. In addition to that, I was just facing up to ending an affair with a young woman I hardly knew yet and did not want to lose. Her name was Helena Justina. She was a senator’s daughter, so seeing me was not quite illegal, though scandalous enough if her friends found out. It was one of those disasters you start knowing it must be hopeless, then end almost immediately because continuing becomes even more painful than breaking off.

  I had no idea what to say to her now. She was a wonderful girl. The faith she had in me filled me with despair. Yet she probably saw that I was sliding away from her. And knowing she already understood the situation was not helping me compose my leaving speech…

  Trying to forget, I swallowed blankly. But the catch of hot cinnamon on the roof of my mouth recalled that warehouse earlier. Suddenly my tongue felt like gravel. I abandoned my wine cup, clinked some coins onto a plate and called goodbye. I was on my way out when a voice behind cried ‘Thanks?’ After I glanced behind me. I lingered after all.

  ‘Don’t mention it, sweetheart! Has the woman I saw first been practising witchcraft, or are you someone else?’

  ‘I’m her daughter!’ she laughed.

  You could see (just about) that she was. In twenty years’ time this gorgeous little body might look just as unappealing as her mama - but she would be passing through some fascinating stages on the way. She was about nineteen now, and this was a stage I liked. The wineshop woman’s daughter was taller than her mother, which made her movements more graceful; she had huge dark eyes and tiny white teeth, clear skin, tinsel earrings, and an air of perfect innocence that was flagrantly false.

  ‘I’m Tullis,’ this vivid vision said.

  ‘Hallo Tullis!’ I exclaimed.

  Tullia smiled at me. She was a cuddlesome armful with nothing much to do that day, while I was a man whose low spirits needed consoling. I smiled back at her gently. If I had to lose the sweet lady I wanted, unprincipled women were welcome to do their worst with me.

  A private informer who knows what he is doing can soon make a barmaid his friend. I engaged her in harmless banter then eventually broached, ‘I’m looking for someone; you may have seen him - he often wears a cloak in a rather evil shade of green.’

  I was not surprised when the beauteous Tullis recognized my man; on noticing Tullis, most males in this locality must rapidly join her mother’s clientele. ‘He lives across the alley -‘ She came to the doorway and pointed out the small square window of the room where he lodged. I started to like him. His surroundings looked pretty insalubrious. The indications were that the lad in green lived as miserably as me.

  ‘Wonder if he’s there now…’

  ‘I can look,’ offered Tullia.

  ‘How’s that?’ She signalled upwards with her eyes. They had the usual arrangements claps up the inside wall which led to a boarded attic where the proprietors lived and slept. There would be one king window over the shop entrance, to provide all their light and air. A lively young lady with an interest in people would naturally spend her idle moments looking out at men.

  Tullis prepared to skip up the steps obligingly. I might have scrambled aloft with her but I guessed her mother was lurking above, which spoiled the fact.

  ‘Thanks! I won’t bother him at the moment.’ Whoever he was and whatever he wanted, no one was going to pay me for disturbing his lunch. ‘You know anything about him?’

  She looked at me warily, but I had easy-going manners and all my curls were natural; besides, I had left her mother a decent tip. ‘His name’s Barnabas. He came here about a week ago-‘ As she spoke I was thinking; the name Barnabas had cropped up somewhere else quite recently. ‘He paid in advance for a three-month lease - without arguing!’ she marvelled. ‘When I told him that he was stupid, he just laughed and said he’ll be rich one day-‘

  I grinned. ‘I wonder why he told you that?’ No doubt for the usual reason men make women wild promises of wealth. ‘So what does this hopeful entrepreneur do in life, Tullia?

  ‘He said he was a corn handler. But-‘

  ‘But what?’

  ‘He laughed at that too.’

  ‘Seems quite a comedian!’ Calling himself a grain merchant no longer squared with the Barnabas I was thinking about, who was the freed townhouse slave of a senator, and wouldn’t know wheat from wood shavings.

  ‘You ask a lot of questions!’ Tullia tackled me slyly. ‘So what’s your line of business?’ I ducked it with a knowing look, which she returned. ‘Oh, secrets! Want to leave the back way?’

  I always like to reconnoitre a place I may want to come back to, so soon I was flitting through a courtyard at the back of the wineshop, hopping round it fairly smartly since it was part of a private house. Tullia seemed at home there; no doubt the lucky householder had realized her possibilities. She let me out through an unlocked gate.

  ‘Tullia, if Barnabas drops in for a drink, you could mention I’m looking for him -‘ Might as well make him feel nervous if I could. In my job you never won a laurel wreath being diffident with strangers who followed you home. ‘Tell him if he comes to the house on the Quirinal - I think he’ll know where I mean - I have a legacy to give him. I need him to identify himself in front of witnesses.’

  ‘Will he know who you are?’

  Just describe my fine-featured classical nose! Call me Falco. Will you do it for me?’

  ‘Ask nicely then!’

  That smile had promised favours to a hundred men before. A hundred and one of us must have decided we could overlook the others. Ignoring a pang of guilt about a certain senator’s daughter, I asked Tullia in the nicest way I knew; it seemed to work.

  ‘You’ve done that before!’ she giggled when I let her go.

  ‘Being kissed by beautiful women is a hazard of having a classical nose. You’ve done it too - what’s your excuse?’ Barmaids rarely need an excuse. She giggled again. ‘Come back soon; I’ll be waiting, Falco!’

  ‘Rely on it, princess!’ I assured her as I left.

  Lies, probably. On both sides. But in the Transtiberina, which is even more grim than the Aventine, people have to live in hope.

  The sun was still shining when I crossed by way of Tiber Island into Rome. On the first bridge, the Pons Cestius, where the current races fastest, I stopped for a moment and emptied my tunic pocket of the warehouse corpse’s finger rings.

  His emerald cameo was missing; I must have dropped it in the street.

  The thought crossed my mind that the barmaid might have stolen it, but I decided she was far too pretty for that.

  V

  I trudged North, I bought a pancake stuffed with hot minced pork which I ate as I walked. A watchdog wagged his tail at me but I told him to take his smiling fangs elsewhere.

  Life is unfair. Too unfair, too often, to ignore a friendly grin; went back and shared my pancake with the dog.

  I was off to a house in the High Lanes Sector, on the Quirinal Mount. Its owner had been a young Senator who was involved in the same plot as the man Frontinus and I had dumped down the sewer. This one was dead too. He had been arrested for questioning, then found choked at the Mamertine prison - murdered by his fellow conspirators to ensure he would not talk.

  Now his house was being emptied. Clearing property was a Didius family business, so when the subject came up at the Palace, I volunteered. Besides, the illustrious owner was once married to my special friend Helena Justina, so I wanted to see how they had lived.

  The answer was, in lavish style. Seeing it had been a bad mistake. I approached their house in a melancholy mood.

  Most Romans are driven demented by their neighbours: rubbish on the stairs and unemptied slop tanks; the rude salesmen with their slapdash shops at ground level and the crashing whores upstairs. Not his honour here; his fine spread
occupied its own freehold block. The mansion sprawled on two levels against the Quirinal Jiffs. A discreet but heavily armoured door let me in from the street to a still corridor with two porters’ cubicles. The main atrium stood open to the sky, so its tasteful wainscot of glazed tiles was sparkling in long shafts of brilliant light. A magnificent fountain in a second courtyard added to the cool and bright effect as it shimmered above exotic palms in shoulder-high bronze urns. Ornate, marble-lined corridors stretched in two directions. If the owner grew tired of his formal reception rooms, various little masculine snugs were hidden away behind heavy damask door curtains on an upper floor.

  Before I could settle to my official work in the house, I needed to clear up my worry that the character who had been dogging me that morning had some link with this elegant Quirinal residence.

  I turned back to the doorman.

  ‘Remind me -which was that freed slave your master was so fond of?’

  ‘Barnabas, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Did Barnabas ever own a repulsive green cloak?’

  ‘Oh, that thing!’ winced the porter fastidiously.

  Barnabas the freedman had completely disappeared. To put him in perspective, if he had been a missing slave it would hardly be worthwhile posting up his name as a fugitive. Not even if he could read and write three alphabets, play the double-stemmed flute, and was a sixteen-year-old virgin built like a discus thrower, with a willing nature and liquid dark-brown eyes. His master had left behind so much saleable plunder that losing one piece of fine art - human or otherwise - was neither here nor there.

  I had been finding it convenient to overlook this Barnabas. The Emperor, in the interests of his own reputation for good nature (a reputation he had never possessed, but wanted to acquire), had decided to honour the dead man’s minor personal bequests; I was arranging it. The Senator’s little leaving present to his favourite freedman was a cool half-million sesterces. I was protecting it in my bankbox in the Forum, where the interest had already provided a rose-bush in a black ceramic pot for my balcony. So until now I had reckoned that when Barnabas needed his legacy he could come to see me of his own accord.