A dying light in Corduba mdf-8 Read online

  Anybody who has lived in Rome has learned to ignore even the most vigorously orchestrated pleas from beggars. I had already set myself with my back to the wall, to avoid having my purse lifted from behind. I became resolutely deaf. Eventually someone who lived in a house next door threw open a shutter and screamed at the minstrels to lose themselves. They moved a few doorways up and stood there muttering. The shutter slammed. I kept chewing on rather tough lettuce.

  This was supposed to be the third town in Baetica, after Corduba and Gades. My route had brought me in from the east, along with the aqueduct. Staggering under the town gate on the Corduba road last night, exhausted, I had ridden straight down the main street and discovered a modern civic forum complete with meeting-house, courts and baths: all people needed to dabble in the mire of local politics and justice, then wash off the stench afterwards. This morning I crawled out from the mansio, bleary-eyed and bilious, and soon found the original republican forum, with elderly temples and a more serene atmosphere, now too small for this thriving town. Further on towards the river was a third, extremely large piazza, the most busy of all, where commercial life hummed. Here the baths were bigger than in the forum, since there was more cash to build them, and the porticos were more packed. Moneychangers had their stalls set out soon after dawn.

  Not long after that the throngs of distributors, merchants, shippers and other speculators started to appear. I had soaked in the atmosphere until I felt at home. Then I found this backstreet bar. I had been over-confident in my choice.

  When more street musicians hove in sight, I paid the bill (pleasingly cheap). I took the last of my bread and smoked ham, and ate as I walked. I headed out of town to the river. Here the Baetis was broad and tidal. Its banks were crowded with jetties made from hewn stone blocks, and noisy with boatmen and porters. Everywhere were negotiators' offices. Everywhere cargoes were being transferred from barges to deep-sea vessels, or vice versa. Substantial fortunes were being made from commodities which nobody here would be using and nobody here had produced. Oil, wine, cloth, minerals from the interior mines, and cinnabar were being shipped in quantities. It was a middleman's dream.

  Returning from the waterside hubbub, I discovered the clubhouse of the guild of bargees near the commercial square. A few permanent fixtures were already there; they probably lived in the clubroom – and they were certainly the bargees who did least work. I learned that the elder Cyzacus was not there today. They spoke with a note of jealousy, and said he lived out at Italica.

  'He's in demand a lot lately! What's making him so popular?'

  'I can't answer that. I have never really met the man – who else wants him?'

  'Someone we'd prefer to you! Someone a lot prettier.'

  'A woman?' It came as no surprise. And it irritated me intensely. Trust Anacrites to lumber me. Trust one of his minions to spoil the show before I had the chance to survey the ground. But I was working for Laeta (much as I distrusted him) and I felt determined not to stand back and give Anacrites a free run. The only time Anacrites had employed me direct, he dumped me and tried to kill me. I would never forget that. 'So does Cyzacus come into Hispalis for meetings with lissom girls?'

  'Not him. The old bastard comes into Hispalis to tell the rest of us what's what!' I gathered they viewed him as a leisured degenerate who thought himself above them.

  I knew what that meant. Cyzacus really was the best. He had worked hard all his life. He had sons who still ran his business for him successfully. He won all the contracts because people could rely on him. He devoted effort to the affairs of the guild. Meanwhile these grumpy layabouts who liked to start lunching immediately after they finished breakfast sat about here playing Soldiers and drinking posca, and steadfastly complained.

  'Was his girlfriend lissom – or long in the tooth?' They cackled with grainy laughter, and I could get no sense out of them.

  I had a good idea why Cyzacus might prefer the quiet life in Italica. I found out how to get there, then moved on to my next task.

  Norbanus, the Gallic negotiator who arranged shipping space, occupied a majestic office right on the commercial square. People from whom I asked directions told me where it was, sneering openly. Nobody likes foreigners who demonstrate how successful they are. It was clear from his wide portals, carpeting of polychrome mosaic, statuettes on marble tripods, and neatly dressed office staff that Norbanus knew all there was to know about making money from other people's goods.

  The staff were neat, but just as sleepy as subordinates anywhere once the master goes out. Because he was a Gaul, many of his menials were family. Their response was pretty Gallic. They excitedly discussed my question concerning his whereabouts amongst themselves for a long time, then one admitted with extremely formal wording that he wasn't here. They could have told me in a few words right at the start, but Gauls like the embroidery of debate. Urbanity for them means an impression of superior breeding – coupled with a barbarian yearning to swipe off your head with a very long sword.

  I asked when Norbanus might be returning. They gave me a time that I felt was just a put-off. We all shook hands. They were smooth; I stayed polite. I ground my teeth in private. Then, having no option, I left.

  It was death to my blisters, but I walked back to the mansio, claimed a new horse, and set off across the river to ride the five miles to Italica.

  XLII

  Founded by Scipio as a colony of veterans, Italica boasted itself the oldest Roman town in Hispania. fore that the happy Phoenicians had known it, and the ancient tribes of Tartessos had made it a playground when the shepherds, who had already exploited wool as far as possible, learned that their land possessed great mineral wealth and eagerly took to mining. Set on slightly hilly ground, with an open aspect, it was a very hot, dusty cluster – relieved by the presence of a grandiose complex of baths. Those who lived to be old men would know this dot in the provinces as the birthplace of an emperor. Even when I was there the rich used it as a hideaway, separated from Hispalis by just sufficient distance to make Italicans feel snooty.

  There was a theatre, and a good amphitheatre too. Everywhere was spattered with plinths, fountains, pediments and statuary. If there was a bare space on a wall, someone erected an inscription. The wording was lofty. Italica was not the kind of place where you find a poster from the guild of prostitutes pledging their votes to some deadbeat in the local elections.

  In the strict grid of well-swept streets near the forum I found mansions that would not disgrace the finest areas of Rome. One of them belonged to Cyzacus. I was not allowed in, but I could see from the doorstep with its matched pair of standard bay trees that the entrance corridor was painted richly in black, red and gold, and that it led to a sumptuous atrium with a pool and gorgeous fresco-panelled walls. This was elegant public space for the patron's reception of his clients – but informers did not qualify.

  Cyzacus was out. His steward told me quite agreeably. Cyzacus had been driven into Hispalis to meet a friend at the bargees' guild.

  I was running around to no purpose here. The day was slipping away. This was the kind of work every informer dreads. The gods know it was appallingly familiar to me.

  I went to the baths, felt too fretful to enjoy them, spurned the gymnasium, had a bowl of almond soup with enough garlic to ensure nobody spoke to me again for a week, then I returned to Hispalis myself

  XLIII

  The bargees' clubhouse was a large bare room, with tables where the layabouts I had seen that morning were still dicing. With midday more members had come from the wharves to eat. Food was brought in from a thermopolium next door. It was probably bought at special rates, and looked good value; I reckon they got their wine for free. The atmosphere of comradeship was of the quiet kind. Men entering nodded to those present, and some sat down together; others preferred to eat alone. Nobody challenged me when I started looking around.

  This time I found them: Cyzacus and Norbanus, two familiar faces from a month ago at the Baetican dinner on
the Palatine. Sitting at a table in a corner, looking as deep in gossip as the last time I saw both of them. It seemed like their regular venue, and they looked like customary daytime debauchers. They had already finished their lunch. From the piles of empty bowls and platters it had been substantial and I guessed the wine jug would have been replenished several times.

  My arrival was timely. They had reached the point of slowing down in their heavy meal. Where diners at a formal feast might now welcome a Spanish dancer to whistle at while they toyed with the fresh fruit, these two pillars of Hispalis commerce had their own diversion: me.

  Cyzacus was a dapper, slightly shrunken old featherweight, in a slimline grey tunic over a long-sleeved black one. He was the quiet, better-mannered partner in what seemed an unlikely pair. He had a hollow, lined face with an unhealthy pallor, and closely clipped white hair. His bosom pal Norbanus was much heavier and more untidy, pressing folds of belly up against the table edge. His fat fingers were forced apart by immense jewelled rings. He too was a mature vintage, his hair still dark, though with wings of grey. Several layers of chin sported dark stubble. He had all the physical attributes that pass for a jolly companion – including a painfully raucous personality.

  I slumped on a bench and came to the point: 'The last time we met, gentlemen, I was at home and you were the visitors. We were dining, though.' I cast my eyes over the empties, with their debris of fish skeletons, chewed olive stones, stripped chicken wings, oyster shells, bay leaves and rosemary twigs. 'You know how to produce an impressive discard dish!'

  'You have the advantage,' Norbanus said. He sounded completely sober. Feasting was a way of life for these men. He had already buried his snout in his cup again, making no attempt to offer a drink to me.

  'The name's Falco.'

  They did not bother to make eye contact, either with one another or with me: they had known who I was. Either they really remembered being introduced on the Palatine, or they had worked out that I was the none-too-secret agent investigating the cartel.

  'So! You're the respected master bargeman Cyzacus, and you're the notable negotiator Norbanus. Both men with sufficient standing to be entertained in Rome by the eminent Quinctius Attractus?'

  'The eminent crawler!' Norbanus scoffed, not bothering to keep his voice down. Cyzacus gave him an indulgent glance. The negotiator's contempt was intended not just for the senator; it embraced all things Roman – mcluding me.

  'The eminent manipulator,' I agreed frankly. 'Myself, I'm a republican – and one of the plebs. I'd like to hope the senator and his son might have overstretched themselves.' This time they both stilled. I had to look closely to spot it, though.

  'I've been talking with your sons,' I told the bargee. There was no way young Cyzacus and Gorax could have communicated with their papa in the three days since I saw them; I was hoping to make him worry what they might have said.

  'Nice for you.' He did not disconcert so easily. 'How are my boys?'

  'Working well.'

  'That makes a change!' I was in a world of rough opinions and plain speaking, apparently. Even so I felt this wary old man would not leave his boys in charge of business upstream at Corduba unless he really trusted them. He had taught them the job, and despite the ruck they must have had when the natural son went off to dabble with poetry, nowadays the three of them worked closely together. The two sons had struck me as loyal both to each other and to their father.

  'Cyzacus junior was telling me about his literary career; and Gorax had his mind on some chickens. They explained to me how when I saw you in Rome you were there to talk tough about exports.'

  'I was there as a guest!' Cyzacus had the manner of a meek old chap whose mind was wandering. But he was defying me. He knew I could prove nothing. 'Attractus invited me and paid for it.'

  'Generous!'

  'Bottomless purse,' cackled Norbanus, indicating that he thought the man a fool. I gained the welcome impression that these two had cynically accepted the free trip without ever intending to be coerced. After all, they were both in transport; they could certainly go to Rome whenever they wanted, for virtually nothing.

  'It strikes me that much as Attractus may admire your wit and conversation, to pay out fares and offer hospitality in his own fine home – all of which I gather he has done on more than one occasion for different groups of Baeticans – might suggest that the illustrious codger wants something?'

  'Excellent business sense,' Norbanus grinned.

  'And a sharp eye for a deal?'

  'He thinks so!' Another insult tripped lightly off the Gallic tongue.

  'Maybe he wants to be the uncrowned king of Baetica.'

  Norbanus was still sneering: 'Isn't he that already? Patron of Corduba, Castulo and Hispalis, representative of the oil producers in the Senate, linchpin of the copper mines -'

  Talking about mines depressed me. 'What part of Gaul are you from?'

  'Narbo.' This was close to Tarraconensis though outside Hispania. It was a major entrepot in southern Gaul.

  'You specialise in shipping olive oil? Is that just to Rome?'

  He snorted. 'You can't have much idea about the market! A lot of my contracts are bound for Rome, yes; but we're shipping thousands of amphorae. We cover the whole of Italy – and everywhere else. The stuff goes in all directions – up the Rhodanus in Gallia Narbonensis, to Gaul, Britain and Germany; I've done shipments straight across the Pillars of Hercules to Africa; I've sent it as far as Egypt; I've supplied Dalmatia, Pannonia, Crete, mainland Greece and Syria -'

  'Greece? I thought the Greeks grew their own olives? Weren't they doing it for centuries before you had them here in Baetica?'

  'Not got the taste. Not so mellow.'

  I whistled quietly. Turning again to Cyzacus I said, 'Expensive business, exporting oil. I gather the price starts going up as soon as they funnel it into the amphorae?'

  He shrugged. 'The on-costs are terrible. It's not our fault. For instance, on the journey down from Corduba we have to pay port taxes every single time we stop. It all gets added to the bill.'

  'That's after your own profits have been taken out. Then Norbanus here wants his percentage, and the shipper too. All long before the retailer in Rome even has a smell of it.'

  'It's a luxury item,' Cyzacus replied defensively.

  'Luckily for all of you in Baetica it's an item in universal use.'

  'It's a very wonderful product,' Norbanus put in drily, in a holy voice.

  'Wonderfully profitable!' I said. I had to change the subject. 'You're a Gaul. How do you get on with the producers?'

  'They hate my guts,' Norbanus admitted proudly. 'And it's mutual! At least they know I'm not some bloody interloper from Italy.'

  'Speculators!' I sympathised. 'Coming out to the provinces from Rome solely because they can get away with low cash inputs, then drain off huge profits. Bringing their alien work practices. If they ever come out here in person, clinging together in tight little cliques – always planning to go home again once their fortunes are made… Attractus is a prime example, though he seems to want more from it than most. I know about his olive estate and his mineral mine – what interests does he have in Hispalis?'

  'None,' Cyzacus said, disapprovingly.

  'He built the baths near the wool market,' Norbanus reminded him. Cyzacus sniffed.

  'Didn't it go down well?' I asked.

  'The people of Baetica,' Cyzacus informed me, sucking in his thin cheeks, 'prefer to be honoured with benefactions from men who were born here. Not outsiders who want to impress for their personal glory.'

  'Where does that leave you as a Gaul?' I demanded of Norbanus.

  'Stowing my money in a bankchest!' he grinned.

  I looked at them both: 'But you two are friends?'

  'We dine together,' Cyzacus told me. I knew what he meant. These were two dedicated men of commerce. They could exchange public hospitality on a regular basis for years on end, yet I doubted if they had ever been to each other's houses,
and once they retired from business they might never meet again. They were on the same side – cheating the oil producers and forcing up prices for the eventual customers. But they were not friends.

  This was good news. On the face of it the men Quinctius

  Attractus had invited to Rome last month shared a common interest. Yet several kinds of prejudice divided them – and they all loathed Attractus himself. The bargees and negotiators tolerated each other, but they hated the olive producers – and those snobs on their grand estates shared no common feeling with the transport side.

  Was this antagonism strong enough to prevent them all forming a price ring? Would their shared distrust of a Roman mterloper dissuade them from joining him? Had Attractus miscalculated the lure of money? Might these hard-nosed operaters reject him as a leader? Might they reckon there was sufficient profit to be made from oil, and that they were perfectly capable of squeezing out the maximum gain without any help from him – and without any obligation to him afterwards?

  'You know why I'm here,' I suggested. Both men laughed. After the size of meal they had eaten all this hilarity could not be good for them. 'There are two reasons. Attractus has drawn attention to himself; he is thought to be a dangerous fixer – and I'm looking into ways of fixing him.' The two men glanced at each other, openly pleased he was in trouble. 'Of course,' I said gravely, 'neither of you has been approached to take part in anything so crooked as a cartel?'

  'Certainly not,' they agreed solemnly.