Shadows in Bronze Page 22

  I ducked out and started searching through the reception rooms, asking flushed waiters to point out Crispus if he was in sight. A perfume-sprinkler sent me to look for him in an inner peristyle garden, but no luck.

  No one was there - except a quiet, solitary woman on a stone seat, looking as if she was waiting for someone. A young woman, in a stint dress and not much jewellery, with fine, dark hair fastened under a round gold net…

  It was her own business if she had managed to fix up a treat for herself. I was not about to interfere and spoil her assignation. They only reason I hung around was that a man appeared. He clearly thought she was waiting there for him, and I thought the same. So I stopped, to see who he was.

  I didn’t know him. But after I had decided that, I stayed there anyway because Helena Justina was giving the impression that neither did she.

  L

  He emerged from a group of hibiscus bushes as if he had been up to something a well-brought-up young woman would rather not know. He was drunk enough to greet Helena as a marvellous discovery, yet not enough to be deflected by her frosty attitude. I assumed she could handle it; this swaying lecher was no worse a social menace than M. Didius Falco, droolingly affectionate - and a few brisk insults usually handled me.

  This garden was decorated in a simple rustic style. I stood tight against a pillar which was painted with dark diagonal stripes; it was dusk now, so neither of them noticed I was there. He said something which I could not catch, but I gathered her reply: ‘No; I’m sitting alone because that’s how I want to be!’

  The man swung nearer, puffing himself up tipsily. Helena ought to have slipped off straight into the crowd but she was obstinate, and perhaps the fellow she really had planned to meet in the garden seemed worth a few risks. He spoke again, and she insisted, ‘No. I’d like you to go!’

  He laughed. I knew he would.

  Then she did get up. The pale, supple cloth of her gown swung from her shoulder brooches, trying to drape itself straight - emphasizing where the lady beneath it was not.

  ‘For heavens’ sake!’ Her bitter exasperation struck me at once - but he was far too fluthered with drink. ‘My head aches,’ Helena raged, ‘my heart aches; the noise is making me dizzy and the food is making me queasy! I was sitting by myself because there is nobody I want to be with - especially not you!’

  She tried to sweep by, but misjudged it. I was already moving when he caught her arm. Drunk or not, he was quick; his other hand was grappling brutally under her gown as I leapt the low wall which connected the rustic columns and covered the ground between us with a roar. Then I seized him by both shoulders and dragged him off.

  There was a crack of heads, one of them mine. He was fairly athletic, and his energy surged unexpectedly, so he landed some punches. Root ginger repeated on me faintly, though I was far too angry to feel much else. Once his accuracy started fading I squared him up and demonstrated my disapproval with a series of unrelenting blows in the parts of his body which my trainer had always advised me never to hit. After that I screwed his head under one elbow and hauled him to a sturdy well when I let a torrent from its fountain spew straight into his lungs.

  While he was still on the healthy side of drowning, Helena’s low voice warned, ‘Stop it, Falco; you’re killing the man!’ So I plunged him under a couple more times then stopped.

  I propelled him through the colonnade to a corridor, where I sped him on his way with my party sandal in the small of his back. He sprawled headlong. I waited until I saw him starting to struggle upright, then strode back to Helena.

  ‘Why were you skulking?’ she accused by way of thanks. ‘Coincidence.’

  ‘Don’t spy on me!’

  ‘And don’t expect me to let you be attacked!’

  She was sitting on the rim of the well, hugging herself defensively. I put out my hand to her cheek but she drew back from another male assault; I flinched myself. After a moment she stopped shaking.

  ‘If you still want to sit in the garden I’ll stand guard.’ ‘Did he hurt you?’ she asked, ignoring that.

  ‘Not as much as I hurt him.’ She frowned. ‘He’s upset you; you ought to have company.’ She exclaimed; I bit my lip. ‘Sorry; that was crass. I heard what you said-‘

  Then Helena Justina let out a whisper which sounded like my private name, snatched the hand she had recoiled from, and buried her face in my palm. ‘Marcus, Marcus, I just wanted to be somewhere quiet so I could think.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Everything I ever do seems to turn out wrong. Everything I ever want becomes impossible…

  As I struggled to react to this, she suddenly looked up at me. ‘I beg your pardon -‘ Still gripping my hand so I could not escape, she demanded in her normal purposeful voice as if nothing else had happened, ‘How are you getting on with Crispus? Have you talked to him yet?

  I confessed I had still not found him. So the noble young lady jumped from her wellhead and decided she had best come and help. I did mention about being sharp, and tough, and good at my job (etcetera). Before I got to the part about how I loathed being supervised, she had hurried me out of the garden and was coming with me whether I wanted her or not.

  LI

  I should never have allowed this. Her father would disapprove of his flower rushing about, and my sort of work is best done alone.

  On the other hand, Helena Justina always did seem to find a plausible reason to ignore social conventions, and as we combed through the great reception rooms I certainly saved time having somebody who could identify the man I was looking for. Or not, in fact; because Crispus was never there.

  ‘Is he a family friend? ‘

  ‘No; my father hardly knows him. But Pertinax did. When I was married he came to dinner several times…’ Turbot in Caraway, no doubt.

  As we went out into the spacious formal gardens which extended beyond the central features of the house, she slipped her hand through my arm. I had seen her like this before. Helena hated crowds. The bigger they were, the more her own sense of isolation grew. That was why she was clinging to me; I was still a menace, but I had a friendly face.

  ‘Hmm!’ I mused, as we stood at the far end of the garden among fine-scented roses, looking back towards the stupendous fluted pillars of the grand saloon. ‘This would be nice work if we had time to enjoy it -‘ I tilted my wreath to a more debonair angle, but Helena answered severely: ‘We don’t have time!’

  She hauled me back indoors and we started to explore the smaller rooms. As we crossed the lofty atrium we passed one of the senators who had dined in the triclinium, already leaving the party with his wife. He nodded goodbye to Helena, with a grim glance at me as if I was just the sort of low-down plebeian rake he would expect to find with a senator’s daughter twined around him at a party like this.

  ‘That’s Fabius Nepos,’ Helena told me in an undertone, not bothering to untwine her arm just to save an old gent’s blood pressure. ‘Very influential in the Senate. He’s elderly and traditional; not inclined to speculate-‘

  ‘Looks like we can assume he’s one prospective collaborator who is going home early, unimpressed!’

  Encouraged, we pressed on into a smaller hall which was decorated with illusionary perspectives of Corinthian columns, theatrical masks, a peacock to please the popular taste, and an elevated Delphian tripod to add a touch of culture for the rut. An extremely serious man with a beard was talking about philosophy. He looked as if he believed himself. The people who were privileged to hear his visionary dissertation looked as if they all thought they would probably believe him too - only nature had denied them the wherewithal to catch his drift.

  I did. I thought it was tosh.

  When we peeped back into the triclinium, Aemilia Fausta was sitting morosely by herself, plucking at her cithara. We ducked out before she spotted us, giggling together uncharitably. Later we discovered a long corridor set with stone benches for waiting clients, where Fausta’s brother and a gr
oup of similar well-barbered aristos were standing round with wine cups, watching some of the younger male waiters playing dice on their knees on the floor. Rufus looked surprised to see us, but made no attempt to reclaim Helena so I waved and we sped on.

  She seemed in no mood to go sedately back to him. Her spirit was up now. She pushed ahead of me eagerly, sweeping open double doors and rapidly scanning the occupants as if she hardly noticed the ribaldry from the drinkers or the startling combinations of people who had wrapped themselves together for the purposes of pleasure. It was not, as I remarked at the time, the kind of party you would take your Great-aunt Phoebe to.

  ‘I expect an aunt could cope with it,’ Helena disagreed. (Thinking about my own Auntie Phoebe, she was probably right.) ‘But let’s pray your mother never finds out you came!’

  ‘I’ll say you brought me -‘ I grinned suddenly. I had noticed a welcome alteration in her appearance. ‘You’ve washed your hair!’

  ‘A lot of times!’ Helena admitted. Then she blushed.

  In one colonnade the musicians who had come with the Spanish dancers were now strumming and fluting for their own amusement - about six times as well as they had played for the girls.

  Not a good night for fountains. By one in a small tetrastyle atrium we saw the other senator from the triclinium, spread-eagled between two slaves while he was gloriously, obliviously sick.

  ‘I don’t know his name,’ Helena told me. ‘He had a lot to drink. He’s the commander of the Misenum fleet -‘ As he sagged between the slaves we watched for a moment, admiring the fleet commander’s total abandonment.

  After half an hour of fruitless search we both stopped, frowning with disgust.

  ‘Oh, this is hopeless!’

  ‘Don’t give up; I’ll find him for you -‘ The part of me that wanted to snort that I would find him for myself backed down happily before the part that was smitten with honest lust. When Helena Justina was bright-eyed with determination she looked adorable…

  ‘Stop it, Falco!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stop looking at me,’ she growled through her teeth, ‘in that way that makes my toes curl!’

  ‘When I look at you, lady, that’s how I have to look!’ ‘I feel as if you were going to back me into a bush-‘ ‘I can think of better places,’ I said. And backed her towards an empty couch.

  The annoying bundle wriggled out from under me just as for once I had her in a satisfactory clinch. I landed on the couch in the graceful position the Fates liked to see me in: flat on my face.

  ‘Of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’ll have a room! I should have thought of that!’

  ‘What? Have I missed something?’

  ‘Oh, hurry, Falco! Get up and straighten your wreath!’

  Two minutes later she had me back in the atrium, where she crisply extracted from the chamberlain directions to his master’s dressing room. Three minutes after that we were standing in a bedroom with a dark-red painted ceiling, just off the seafront side of the house.

  In the five seconds since we had stepped inside his borrowed boudoir, I had learned two things. Aufidius Crispus was wearing an ensemble which made his ambitions perfectly clear: his dinner robe was deeply dyed with the juice of a thousand Tyrian sea-shells to the luxuriant crushed purple which emperors reckon suits their complexions best. Also, his luck was better than mine: when we came in he had the prettiest after-dinner dancer pinioned on a bed with her rose behind his ear and half her breast in his mouth, while he was banging away at her Spanish tambourine with breathtaking virility.

  I turned Helena Justina against my shoulder to shield her from embarrassment.

  Then I waited until he had finished. In my business it always pays to be polite.

  LII

  The dancer slipped out past us, bearing her rose for re-use elsewhere. Evidently the incident had been rapid and routine.

  ‘Beg your pardon, sir; did I put you off your stroke?’

  ‘Frankly, no!’

  Helena Justina sat quickly on a stool, more straightbacked than usual. She could have waited outside, though I was glad that she stayed to see me through this.

  Crispus glanced at her without much interest, then he settled in an armed chair, shuffled his purple folds back into order, plugged his head back through a laurel wreath, and offered audience to me.

  ‘Sir! I’d thank you for inviting me to your highly select symposium, but I came with Aemilia Fausta, so ‘invitation’ is hardly the word!’ He smiled faintly.

  He was in his middle fifties, with a tireless, boyish look. He had a swarthy complexion with slightly heavy though good-looking features (a fact he was rather too aware of), plus a great array of regular teeth which looked as though he whitened them with powdered horn; he showed them at every opportunity, to emphasize what superb teeth they were and how many he still owned. Beneath the wreath, which he wore as if he was born with it, I admired the careful way his barber had layered off his hair. (Probably that same afternoon, judging by the fatty whiff of Gallic pomade which hung around the dressing room.)

  ‘What can I do for you, young man? Who are you, first?’ ‘Marcus Didius Falco.’

  He leaned on his thin thoughtfully. ‘Are you the Falco who sent home my friend Maenius Celer with some colourful bruising and stomach cramps?’

  ‘Could be. Or maybe your Celer just ate a bad oyster and bumped into a wall . I’m a private informer. I’m one of the dispatch boys who have been trying to deliver a letter to you from Vespasian.’

  The atmosphere crackled as he sat more alert in his chair.

  “I don’t like you, Falco!” Isn’t that what I am supposed to say? Then you answer something like, “That’s all sight, sir; I don’t much care for you!” I could see at once that this would be nothing like convincing the chief priest Gordianus; Crispus was really expecting to enjoy our interview.

  ‘I suppose you’ll throw me out now, sir?’

  ‘Why should I?’ He was scanning me with some interest. ‘I’ve heard you are an informer! What qualities does that need?’

  ‘Oh judgement, foresight, constructive ideas, acceptance of responsibility, reliability under pressure-plus the ability to shovel dung down a sewer before it attracts public notice.’

  ‘Much the same as an administrator!’ he sighed. ‘Well, Falco, what’s your mission here?’

  ‘Finding out what you’re up to - which is more or less self-evident!’

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘There are plenty of public positions you could want. For all of them you need the Emperor’s support - all except one.’

  ‘What a shocking suggestion!’ he told me pleasantly.

  ‘Sorry; what I do is a shocking job.’

  ‘Perhaps I should offer you a better one?’ he tried, though with a latent humour in his tone, as if mocking his own attempt.

  ‘Always open to suggestions,’ I said, not looking at Helena. He smiled at me again, though I noticed no grand offers of employment rushing forth.

  ‘Well, Falco! I know what Flavius Vespasianus has palmed off on Gordianus; what’s he offering me?’ The way he named the Emperor as if he were still a private citizen gave a clear indication of his disrespect.

  ‘How do you know about Gordianus, sir?’

  ‘For one thing, if the garland you are wearing was provided by me tonight, it came in a consignment I had shipped round the coast from Paestum.’

  ‘Paestum, eh! Apart from a talkative garlandseller, who else is spreading rumours that Gordianus is going to Paestum?’

  At my insistent return to the question I saw a glint in his eyes (which were brown enough to entice the women, though too close together to be classically correct). ‘He told me himself. He wrote to me about his brother’s death -‘ Crispus stopped.

  ‘Warning you!’ Barnabas.

  ‘Warning me,’ he agreed gently. ‘Have you come to do the same?’

  ‘Partly sir; also to negotiate.’

  ‘What with?�
� he exploded, on a contemptuous note. (I remembered Crispus owned half Latium, in addition to his expensive dinner outfit and his natty sailing boat.) ‘Vespasian has no money. He never had any money; it’s what the man is famous for! All though his public career he was notoriously mortgaged to the hilt. As Governor of Africa - the most gracious post in the Empire - he ran out of credit so disastrously he had to trade in Alexandrian wet fish… What does he pay you, Falco?

  ‘Too little!’ I grinned.

  ‘So why do you support him? The man purred. I found him easy to talk to, perhaps because I reckoned he would be difficult to offend.

  ‘I don’t, sir, particularly. Though it’s true I would rather see Rome ruled by a man who once had to ask his accountant tricky questions before his steward could pay the butcher’s bill than by some mad limb like Nero, who was brought up believing himself the son and the grandson of gods, and who thought wearing the purple gave him free rein to indulge his personal vanities, execute real talent, bankrupt the Treasury, burn half of Rome - and bore the living daylights out of paying customers in theatres!’

  Crispus was laughing. I had never expected to like him. I was beginning to see what made everyone tell me he was dangerous; popular men who laugh at your jokes pose a threat which blatant villains can never command.

  ‘I never sing in public!’ Crispus assured me affably. ‘A dignified Roman hires in professionals… You see, from my point of view,’ he explained, taking time to convince me, ‘after Nero died we saw Galba, Otho, Vitellius, Vespasian - not to mention various other pretenders who never even managed to edge their buttocks onto the throne - and the only thing which made any of them better than anybody else - for instance better than me! - was that they had the simple luck at the time to be holding public positions which provided armed support. Otho won over the Praetorian Guard, while the rest were all stationed in provinces where the legions they commanded were bound to hail their own governor to the skies. So if I had been in Palestine in the Year of the Four Emperors…’