Shadows in Bronze Page 20

  I assumed the ladies wanted to gossip so I waited long enough to show it was my own decision, then I left. I returned to my menial’s cubicle and did some desultory reading for Fausta’s lesson the next day. I could not settle, knowing Helena was in the house.

  Feeling peckish, I set off in search of sustenance. The food here was poor and pedestrian. On the other hand, the food was free, and if your stomach could take it they let you eat what you liked. (The magistrate kept a personal physician, in the event of really serious after-effects.)

  I came into the hall, whistling breezily since I was employed to bring music to the home. An old crone with a mop fled to complain about me to Fausta looking appalled. The ladies were in the inner garden; I could hear the chink of spoons in pretty custard bowls. No place for me. I decided to go out.

  Life is never all black. As I went past the porter’s corridor, Aemilia Fausta’s maid pushed her hand out through the curtain and slipped me a note.

  XLV

  I stood in the street, reading my message with a faint smile. ‘You look shifty!’ Camillus Verus’ stately daughter, at my back.

  ‘Trick of the light… I lifted my shoulder to stop her looking over it, then managed to screw up and drop the note as if that was what I had intended all along. I grinned at her. ‘Aemilia Fausta’s waiting maid has just made me an offer I shall have to refuse.’

  ‘Oh shams! ‘ mouthed Helena gently.

  I hooked my thumbs in my belt and slowly swaggered off, letting her come if she chose. She did.

  ‘Thought we were strangers; can’t you leave me alone?’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Falco. I wanted to see Rufus-‘

  ‘Bad luck. He’s deploying the fabulous Apollonian profile in court. Two sheep rustlers and a slander case. We reckon the sheep stealers did it, but the slander’s a put-up; plaintiff’s nephew is a barrister who needs to show off-‘

  ‘You’re well at home! I would not have thought Aemilia Fausta was your type,’ she found it necessary to add.

  I walked on, replying peacefully, ‘She has a scrawny appeal. I like blondes… And there’s always the maid.’

  ‘Oh, you won’t see her again!’ chortled Helena. ‘If Fausta spots her girl making overtures, she’ll be sold before you get back from our stroll.’ I gave her my hand into a colonnade as a handcart laden with marble creaked past. ‘Don’t waste your time, Falco. Aemilia Fausta never notices rugged types with wicked grins.’ She jumped off a pavement with an impatient twirl. ‘Fausta only likes pomaded aristocrats with mattress stuffing between the ears.’

  ‘Thanks; I’ll load on more attar -‘ I hopped after her, brightening up as we bandied words. ‘I feel sorry for the lady-‘

  ‘Leave her alone then! She’s vulnerable; the last thing she needs is to find you with that soft look in your lying eyes, pretending you can’t keep your hands off her-‘

  We were standing on a corner glaring at each other now. I tweaked at a strand of Helena’s new hair. ‘Been through a sheep dip, or are you starting to rust?’

  ‘It’s called Egyptiau Russet. Don’t you like it?’

  ‘If you’re happy.’ I loathed it; I hoped she could tell. ‘Trying to impress someone?’

  ‘No; it’s part of my new life.’

  What was wrong with your old life?’

  ‘You, mostly.’

  ‘I like a girl to be frank - but not that frank! Here’s the court,’ I growled. ‘I’ll nip in and tell the judge an Egyptian carrot wants him, then I’m off to flatter his sister with my Lydian arpeggios!’

  Helena Justina sighed. She put her hand on my arm to stop me turning away.

  ‘Don’t disturb Aemilius Rufus; it was you I came to see.’

  I waited until she let my arm go before I turned back. ‘Well? What about?

  ‘It’s hard to define.’ The look of trouble in those fine, bright, wide-spaced eyes sobered me abruptly. ‘I believe someone I am not supposed to know about is lurking round the villa Rustica-‘

  ‘What makes you sure? ‘

  ‘Male voices talking after Marcellus is supposed to be in bed, glances among the servants-‘

  ‘Is it worrying you?’ She shrugged. Knowing her, she was more annoyed at being misled. But it worried me. I had the afternoon free, so I offered immediately: ‘Are you going back?

  ‘I came with a steward who has errands for Marcellus-‘ ‘Forget it. I’ll take you.’

  Just what she intended; I knew perfectly well.

  We took the steward’s mule, leaving a message that I would return it. I prefer my ladies to ride in front; young fruit insisted on sitting behind. The mule joggled, a situation I allowed because Helena had to cling on round my waist. Just after we turned into the Marcellus estate this scheme went awry. I could sense her growing restless so I was already reining in, but before I could lift her she skidded down the mule’s flank in a swift rumple of white skirts around the longest legs in Campania - then she was sick, miserably, over a rail. -

  Stricken with conscience I fell off the mule too. Among all his bells and leather fringes I hastily found a water gourd.

  ‘Oh I hate you, Falco! You did that deliberately. ‘

  I had never seen her look so ill. It frightened me. I sat the lass on a boulder and gave her the gourd to sip. ‘You’ll feel better quicker if you just stop arguing-‘

  ‘No I won’t!’ she managed to flash up at me, with an honest grin.

  Cursing myself, I wet my neckerchief and wiped her hot face and throat. She had that drained, dry-mouthed, white-gilled expression I recognized from being a poor traveller myself. I crouched over her anxiously, while she sat with her head in her hands.

  When her breathing grew more level and she looked up ruefully, I paid a boy from the vineyard a copper to lead the mule on ahead to the house.

  ‘We can amble on foot when you feel more yourself? ‘I’ll try-‘

  ‘No; just sit quiet!’ She smiled wanly, and gave in.

  She was still poorly. If I had been a softer man I would have wrapped my arms around her. I tried not to let myself imagine that I was, or that she wanted it.

  ‘Falco, stop looking like a little lost eider duck! Talk to me; tell me how you like living in Herculaneum?’

  I sat back and obediently straightened my beak. ‘I don’t. It feels an unhappy house.’

  ‘Rufus goes out too much; Fausta stays at home and mopes. Why did you go there anyway?’

  ‘To earn some cash. And Aemilia Fausta seems a possible key to finding Crispus.’

  ‘By seducing and spying - that’s immoral!’ she burst out.

  ‘Seducing is a tiring way to do business, even for the safety of the state!’

  ‘When you seduced me,’ Helena demanded waspishly, ‘was that for the safety of the state?’

  Like true friends we had the knack of hurting one another down to a fine art.

  I answered her in a black tone. ‘No.’ Then I left her to think about it. She flushed uneasily. I changed the subject: ‘Aemilia Fausta knows about my work.’

  ‘Oh, admitting your status is part of your seedy charm!’ Helena insulted me, rallying again. ‘Are you friends with her handsome brother too?’

  I gave her a rascally glint. ‘Would Rufus be more susceptible to my soft lying eyes?’

  She looked at me oddly then went on, ‘Can’t you see that Aemilius Rufus took you into his house to keep an eye on you?’

  ‘What’s his interest?’

  ‘To participate in reconciling the Emperor and Crispus himself-to help his career.’

  ‘I thought he seemed evasive; yet his future looks bright enough-‘

  ‘He has lived too long away from Rome; he is very ambitious, but not well enough known.’

  ‘Why was he away?’

  ‘Nero. Anyone so good-looking posed a threat to the Caesarly ego; it was either self-exile or-‘

  ‘A trip to see the arena lions at state e
xpense? Why does he look like that?’ I scoffed. ‘Did his mother meet a Macedonian vase peddler behind a bush?’

  ‘If it was his sister you’d be happy enough!’

  I laughed briefly. ‘If it was his sister she might be happier herself.’

  Helena was still perched on her boulder but looked brighter. I rolled out on the ground, full length on my belly at her feet. I felt happy. Lying here in the sunshine, on good Vesuvius ploughland, with clear air in the lungs, someone pleasant to talk to, the Bay of Neapolis stretched away in a blue mist…

  At Helena’ silence I glanced up.

  She had been overtaken by some mood of her own. She sat gazing out across the Bay, then she closed her eyes briefly, with an expression which was both pained and pleased at the same time.

  It had nothing to do with my mission. She would have told me that.

  Perhaps she was thinking about her handsome friend.

  ‘It’s growing hotter.’ I hooked myself upright. ‘I should get you indoors. Let’s go.’

  I started off too fast, because Helena had to slip her hand into mine to slow me down. I kept hold of her, whether she liked it or not, to cheer myself up.

  It was hot, though pleasant walking. I was keen to march ahead and explore the villa, but in the country a man should always make time for a stroll with a lass. You never know when the demands of city life will provide another chance. You never know when the lass will agree.

  We came through the vineyards where the half-ripe green bunches were already bending boughs. Our road doubled back. As we turned into the next slow climb upwards we caught sight of the villa. In the riding range on the terrace, a man was exercising two horses, turn and turn about.

  ‘Are those racers? Is there a trainer?’

  ‘Bryon - that’s him.’ She paused. The stables here might be worth exploring…’

  I hopped up on a boundary rail, dinging to a fig tree in the corner of a field. The Senator’s daughter, who had no sense of propriety, put one sandal on the rail then pulled herself up too, hanging on to me. We watched the trainer press the horse he was riding fast down the course, then slow, turn, spurt ahead and pelt hard along another length. I had no interest in racehorses, but it gave me an excuse to hold Helena steady…

  We turned to each other at exactly the same time. At that range it was impossible to ignore how intensely we both remembered what had happened in the past. I released her, before staying so close became far too difficult. Then I leapt to the ground and helped Helena down too.

  She lifted her chin defiantly. ‘I suppose you threw the spoons in the sea?’

  ‘Certainly not! My father was an auctioneer; I know the price of spoons…’ We were friends. Nothing could change it. Friends, allied by the love of intrigue; constantly arguing yet never quite as irritated with each other as we both professed. And the tension between us, both emotional and sexual, still felt decidedly permanent to me. ‘Just now, what were you thinking of?’ I ventured to ask.

  Helena moved away from me quietly, shaking her head. ‘Something I’m not sure about. Don’t ask me,’ was all she said.

  XLVI

  By the time we reached the house, Helena was looking dreadful again. She normally enjoyed such sturdy good health that this troubled me as much as it plainly embarrassed her. I insisted on staying beside her until she was installed on a couch in a long colonnade, with a tray of hot borage tea.

  While the small flurry which our arrival caused was settling down I acted the visitor. Helena sent away the slaves. I sat with her, supping from a little bowl which I held between a thumb and two fingers like anyone respectable. (If it’s not too strong I quite like borage tea.)

  When my mouth was thoroughly scalded I put my bowl down then stretched, looking round. No sign of Marcellus, and few staff. The usual gardeners were raking out a big bank of mimosa. Their heads were well lowered over it. Somewhere indoors I could hear a woman scrubbing, accompanying herself with rasping song. I poured more tea through a pointed strainer for her ladyship, standing idly beside her afterwards as if I was merely watching the slow curl of the steam…

  The great house seemed relaxed and quiet. Normal people going about their normal tasks. I touched Helena’s shoulder quietly, then strolled off on my own like a shy man going to answer a natural call.

  Seeing the racehorse trainer had aroused my interest. I walked round the outbuilding in the hope of finding him. The stables lay on the left as you faced out to sea. There was an old livery block, used for pack mules and carriages. And a large new section, built about five years ago, with signs of recent activity. With the discretion of half a lifetime I managed to infiltrate myself indoors unseen.

  There was no doubt, this was where Pertinax and Barnabas had once kept their bloodstock. The tack room contained one of the silver equine statuettes I had seen in the Pertinax house in Rome. Most of the stabling was empty now, presumably since his death. But two horses I was confident I recognized from that morning were sweating contentedly in adjacent stalls. They had just been rubbed down by a burly hostler who was now swabbing out the walkway between the rows.

  ‘Hello!’ I cried, as if I had permission to be there. The man leaned on his besom and gave me a shrewd look.

  I strolled down to the two hones and pretended to take an interest. ‘These the two Atius Pertinax had in Rome?’

  I hate horses. They can tread on you, or lean on you, or roll heavily on top of you to break your legs and crush your ribs. If you offer them titbits they will gobble off your fingers. I treat them as cautiously as lobsters, wasps, and women who regard themselves as lively sexual athletes; horses, like any of those, can give you a nasty nip.

  One was all right. He was really something special; even I could tell that. A proud-necked, sweet-spirited stallion with mulberry colouring. ‘Hallo, boy…’ While I was petting this beauty, I glanced at his stablemate. The hostler jerked his head with shared disgust.

  ‘Little Sweetheart.’ Someone had a sense of humour. Little Sweetheart was rubbish. He stretched his neck at me, jealous of his neighbour receiving attention, though he knew in this heady company a rapscallion who looked like an overworked bottle brush stood no chance.

  ‘Bit of a character? What’s this one called?’

  ‘Ferox. He gets twitchy. Little Sweetheart calms him.’ ‘Ferox your champion?’

  ‘Could be.’ The stableman looked canny in a professional horsey way. ‘He’s five now, and pretty well furnished… You a racing man?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m an Army man! When the legions want to go anywhere, they march on their own feet. If horseflesh is a real strategic necessity they hire in hairy short-legged foreigners, who can ride like hell in battle, know how to doctor the staggers, and will discreetly deal with dung. Works superbly. In my view, any system that works for the legions is good enough for a citizen in ordinary life!’

  He laughed. ‘Bryon,’ he introduced himself.

  ‘Name’s Falco.’ I went on fondling Ferox to sustain the conversation. ‘You’re the trainer! What are you doing mucking out? No stable lads?’

  ‘No anything. All sold up.’

  ‘When Pertinax took the ferry into Hades?

  He nodded. ‘The horses were his passion. First thing the old man did: all the stock, all the staff-gone overnight. He couldn’t bear them here.’

  ‘Yes I heard he was cut up. What about these two? ‘

  ‘Maybe he regretted it later. Ferox and the Sweetheart were sent to him from Rome.’ I knew about that. When we cleared out the house on the Quirinal we found bills of sale for these two in Marcellus’ name. I never saw the animals but I had signed the chitty for their transfer home myself. ‘So what’s your interest, Falco?’ Bryon eontinued. He seemed friendly, but I could tell he was sceptical.

  ‘You know Barnabas?’

  ‘I used to,’ he answered, without committing himself.

  ‘I’ve got some cash that belongs to him. Has he put in an appearance he
re lately?’ Bryon looked at me, then shrugged. ‘I reckon,’ I pressed on with a warning note, ‘you would certainly have seen him - in view of the horses.’

  ‘Perhaps… In view of the horses!’ He agreed the hypothesis without giving an inch. ‘If I do see him, I’ll tell him that you came.’

  I fended off Little Sweetheart, who was nuzzling insistently, and pretended to change the subject. ‘Things seem quiet round here for a villa on Vesuvius in summer. Is no one staying at the house?’

  ‘Only the family,’ Bryon informed me in his straight-faced, stony way.

  ‘And the young lady?’

  ‘Oh she’s one of them!’

  This trainer had a shrewd idea I was someone without authority; he drew me firmly out of doors and began to walk me to the house. As we went by the livery stables I made sure I scanned every stall. Bryon finally lost patience with our good-mannered pretence. ‘If you tell me what you’re looking for, Falco, I’ll tell you if we have it here!’

  I grinned, unabashed. I was looking for the two horses that had followed me from Rome to Croton - not to mention their mystery rider, whom I deduced had been Barnabas.

  ‘Try this then: two top-quality riding nags - a big roan that looks as if he was bred for the racetrack but just missed, and a squatter skewbald packhorse-‘

  ‘No,’ Bryon said tersely.

  He was right; they were not here. Yet the abruptness of his answer convinced me that at some time he had seen the two I meant.

  He marched me back to the colonnade then backed off seeming both disappointed and relieved as Helena Justina, the young lady who was one of the family, greeted me with her sleepy, unperturbed smile.

  XLVII

  When I strode back to Helena with my happy harpist’s whistle, she had just been joined by her father-in-law. Making no reference to the retreating horse trainer, I apologized for my presence as I gave Caprenius Marcellus a vague explanation of events: ‘I ran across Helena Justina, with a touch of the sun… ‘

  The arrival of Marcellus put an end to my exploring. There was no help for it; I took my departure formally, with a calm nod to her ladyship-all I could do to answer the question in her dark, deeply inquisitive brown eyes.