JUPITER MYTH Read online

  "Oh, these people know exactly what they're doing," he burbled.

  "These are the ones to watch, are they?"

  "You get it, Falco."

  "And who are they, Silvanus?" I asked patiently.

  "The ones who come to prey on the rest," he said. Then he lay down, closed his bleary eyes, and started snoring.

  I had made him drunk. Now I had to sober him up again. That's because the theory is wrong. When you bring a witness to the point of passing out, he does not know he is supposed to tell you all before he quits-he just goes ahead and drifts into oblivion.

  This drinking hole was a colorless, chilly, hygienic establishment, provided for the soldiers. Britons, Germans, Gauls don't naturally have a street life with open-air foodshops and wine bars. So this bar was Rome's big gift to a new province. We were teaching the barbarians to eat out. When the soldiers arrived in new territory, the army would at once send someone to arrange recuperation areas. "I want a good clean room, with benches that don't tip over, and a working dunny in the yard…" No doubt the local commander still came along every month to taste the drink and check the waitresses for disease.

  It had the usual bleak facilities. Bare boards, scrubbed whitewood tables from which vomit could be easily cleaned, and a three-seat latrine out the back, where constipated inebriates could sit for hours, being maudlin about home. It stood near enough to their barracks for them to scuttle home easily once they were rat-arsed. It was years since I had glugged poison in a bar like this, and I had not missed the experience.

  The landlord was polite. I hate that.

  When I asked him for a bucket of water, I was led to the well. We were on much higher ground than at the Shower of Gold, and must have been some way above the water table. The landlord confirmed that there were no springs in this part of town. This time the wellhead was an evil pile of stones, green with decades-old algae. Wriggly things dimpled the surface of the water and mosquitoes flitted among the stones. If Verovolcus had been upended here, he would have suffered nothing more than a sinister hairwash. We trailed a bucket sideways and managed to get it half full.

  "This is the best you can do?" I had had a bad experience with a well last year in Rome. I was sweating slightly.

  "We don't get much call for water in the bar. I fetch it from the baths when I have to." He did not offer to do so now.

  "So where do the baths obtain their supply?"

  "They invested in a deep shaft."

  "I see that wouldn't be economical for you-how are your lats swilled out?"

  "Oh, washing water trickles along there eventually. It's fine except when they have a big celebration for a centurion's birthday…"

  I refrained from imagining the effects on his latrine of thirty big legionaries who had eaten bowls of hot pork stew, all with extra fish-pickle sauce, after eighteen beakers of Celtic beer apiece and a fig-eating contest…

  I threw the water over Silvanus.

  Several buckets more and we reached a cursing stage. I was cursing. He was just lolling weakly, still in truculent silence. Some informers will boast about their efficient use of the "getting-them-drunk-so-they-tell-you-stuff" technique. It's a lie. As I said, witnesses pass out too soon. Often it's not even the witness who becomes incapable, it's the informer.

  "Silvanus!" Shouting was the only way to get through. "Wake up, you bundle of jelly. I want to know, have you had regular trouble around the Shower of Gold?"

  "Stuff you, Falco."

  "Offer appreciated. Answer the question."

  "Give me a drink. I want a drink."

  "You've had a drink. I'll give you another when you answer me. What's going on behind the wharves, Silvanus?"

  "Stuff you, Falco…" This routine continued for some time.

  I paid the bill.

  "Leaving?" inquired the landlord. "But he hasn't told you anything." He was never going to. "It will keep," I answered breezily.

  "What's this about then?" He was nosy. It was worth giving him a moment.

  I eyed him up. He was a bald smarmer in a very blue tunic with an unnecessarily wide belt. I tried to maintain a steady stare. By that time I was so bleary myself I could not have intimidated a shy scroll-mite. "Trouble at another bar." I hiccuped.

  "Serious?"

  "A visitor from out of town was killed."

  "That's nasty! Who copped it?"

  "Oh-a businessman."

  "Trying to muscle in on a racket," suggested the landlord knowingly.

  "In Britain?" At first I thought he was joking. The landlord looked offended at the insult to his chosen locale. I modified my disbelief by whistling. "Whew! That's a turnup. What are you suggesting? Protection? Gambling? Vice?"

  "Oh, I don't really know anything about it." He clammed up and began wiping tables. He moved around Silvanus fastidiously, not touching him.

  "Do you get problems up here?" I asked.

  "Not us!" Well, they wouldn't. Not at a semi-military bar.

  "I see." I pretend to drop it. "You from these parts?"

  He winced. "Do I look like it?" He looked like a pain in the posterior. I had thought so even before I was drunk. "No, I came across to run this bar."

  "Across? From Gaul?" So he was part of the great swarm of hangers-on that moves in the shadow of the army. It worked to mutual advantage, when it worked well. The lads were entertained and provided for; native people found livelihoods in supply and catering, livelihoods that would have been impossible without Rome. Once, this man would have lived all his years in a clump of round huts; now he was able to travel, and to assume an air of sophistication. He was earning cash too. "Thanks anyway."

  I could have provided a larger tip for him, but he annoyed me so I didn't. Anyway, I hoped I would not have to come back.

  I propped Silvanus up against a wall and this time I did leave.

  VIII

  So now I knew there were rackets.

  It had taken most of the afternoon to extract information I would rather not have stumbled on. To achieve that, I had drunk myself into a condition where it was best not to follow up that kind of clue.

  I was just sober enough to realize this. One swig more, and it could have been fatal.

  It was a good idea not to transport myself straight home like this. Not to the fluted halls of a procurator's riverview residence. I did not care what the highly placed personnel thought, but my wife and my dear sister were a different prospect. Both Helena and Maia had seen me drunk before, and both could deliver ripe speeches on the subject. I felt rather tired, and unwilling to hear a reprise. I needed a bolt-hole for sobering up. Rome was stuffed with nooks where I could spend an hour chatting with amiable companions while my head cleared. Londinium offered nothing suitable.

  So what kind of entrepreneur would seriously move in on a town like this? Only a stupid one.

  I was a city boy. I did what we do. I went to the forum. The first part of the walk was downhill. That helped. After crossing the stream where Boudicca's hordes had cast the severed heads of murdered settlers, it was back uphill. A mistake, I felt.

  Romulus had more idea of where to place a forum. In Rome, after quaffing away a lunchtime, you can stumble off the Palatine or Esquiline, riotously unstable, and have to go no farther. Down in the valley of the Sacred Way you can he on ancient pavements, gazing up at stupendous temples and statue-decked civic buildings, knowing you are at the heart of things. Collapse neatly and you will be left alone, drooping in a long shady portico steadying your back against some mighty Carrara column that may have propped up that noble boozer Mark Antony. Basilicas and sanctuaries line a mile-long stretch of glory, where centuries of thoughtful generals and princes have thrown up triumphal arches; the dense shade protects the somnolent from the unyielding sun's blaze. Nearby fountains and basins offer cool water to the badly parched. In extreme situations, there is the ultimate rescue: at the Temple of Isis, loose women will offer to take you home for a lie-down.

  So far, Londinium offered only a
four-sided enclosure with a silent basilica. Stores, shops, and offices stood empty on the other three sides. A colonnade was deserted. Outside the perimeter stood the spanking shell of a solitary temple. That's all. At least there was no sun.

  I sat on the bollard, breathing hard. It was early August. While I was drinking with Silvanus there must have been a prolonged heavy rain shower. It was over now, and the day was warm enough to be comfortable in open shoes and a short-sleeved tunic, but the shine of water had been shrinking off the cambered roads as I walked there. Of the few people I passed, some thoroughly depressed folk were still standing in doorways as if sheltering. Fine drizzle drifted in the air. Agitated gusts of wind blustered around the buildings. The sky was a uniform gray and even in the late afternoon the light seemed to be failing gloomily. It was typically Britain, and it made my heart ache for the endless, bright, scented summer days of home.

  Julius Frontinus had tried to impress me with talk of long-term expansion in the civic area. According to him there was a master plan that allowed for tacking on new forum facilities piecemeal as the town grew in size and expectations. I did not believe it. From where I sat in this deserted hilltop amenity, damp and low in spirits, there seemed no point in any of us being here. We Romans had come in the hopes of mining precious metals; as soon as our belief in Britain's riches died, we should have given up The worst legacy of the tribes' rebellion was that we now felt chained by blood and grief to this pitiful, uninteresting, miserable territory.

  I was still tipsy, but I went home anyway. My sister took one look at me then held her peace. How sensible.

  Helena was closeted in our private suite, playing with the children. Julia, our two-year-old, spotted my demeanor with those great dark eyes that missed nothing and simply decided to observe proceedings. The baby, now five months, was lying in Helena's lap throwing her limbs in all directions; she continued, gurgling, lost in her own gymnastic world while her elegant mother dodged the worst kicks and tickled body parts that asked for it. This was, in effect, how Helena Justina had always dealt with me.

  "Say nothing about my state."

  "I shall not comment," Helena replied calmly.

  "Thanks."

  "Been working?"

  "Right."

  "Got nowhere?"

  "Right."

  "Want a nice kiss and a bowl of food to take the nasty wine away?"

  "No."

  She stood up and came to kiss me anyway.

  Somehow the baby, Favonia, ended up being passed into my arms, then when I sat in Helena's half-round wicker chair, little Julia scrambled in there with me too and lay smiling up at me. This left Helena free to stroke my hair smoothly, knowing I could not shake her off without harming the children. I growled. The baby may not have understood quite what she was at, but all three of my supposedly subservient females giggled at me. So much for being the top god in the household shrine.

  As in most families, patriarchal power held no meaning. Eventually I gave in to the onslaught of comfort and just slumped glumly.

  Helena left me long enough to settle, then said quietly, "You do not like Britain."

  "You know that, love."

  "Marcus, is this situation dangerous to you personally?"

  "Someone killed a man. That's always bad."

  "Sorry!" When Helena was so reasonable, it cut like a reproof.

  "I'm upset."

  "I know."

  We left it there. Later, after the children had been collected by staff from the nursery, when she thought I was up to the pressure, Helena told me how things had progressed that day here. We were supposed to be dressing for dinner, though neither of us had made a start.

  "The governor has sent a dispatch rider to King Togidubnus. Frontinus decided it is best to admit what has happened. The hope is, this will be the first the King hears of it. The murder will be explained the way it sounds best-well, sounds least bad-and the messenger can try to judge whether the King knows something he should not."

  "The King is not involved. I won't have that!"

  "No, Marcus. So what do you think Togidubnus will do?"

  "Turn up here, in an angry mood. Noviomagus is sixty Roman miles, plus. One day's journey for an imperial post rider-if he chases. But he won't; this is not war or the death of an emperor. So the King will know about the murder by tomorrow evening, say-"

  "He won't set out in the dark," Helena said.

  "So at first light in two days' time he'll be on his way. He may be an old man, but he's fit. I need to supply answers, not by tomorrow but soon after."

  "Oh, Marcus, that's not long enough."

  "It will have to be."

  I had no appetite for passing dainties on silver platters tonight. I did start to change my clothing, but I had more on my mind than a cultural soiree. Helena watched, not moving. She commented that there was little investigation I could carry out at this time of the evening. I answered that I needed movement. I needed results. I could do what I should probably have done this afternoon. I could revisit the Shower of Gold. I had no plan of how to tackle this, except that if they had changed the barmaid from the one I met, I would go in incognito.

  "You will stand out as a Roman," Helena remarked.

  "I am a master of disguise." Well, I had a scruffy tunic and a worn cloak.

  "Your skin is olive and your haircut screams Rome." My mad tangle of curls only said I had forgotten to comb them, but she was right in principle. My nose was Etruscan. I had the bearing of a man who had been given legionary training, and the attitude of the city-born. I liked to think that even in other parts of the Mediterranean my sophistication stood out. Among fair-skinned, blue-eyed lackadaisical Celtic types there was no hiding me.

  Helena by now was rootling in her own clothes chest. "They will be expecting more officials-" Her voice was muffled, though not enough to hide a note of excitement. "Any Roman male alone will stand out as far too obvious."

  "This is where I need Petro."

  "Forget him." Garments were being thrown in all directions. "With Petronius you just look like an official who has brought backup. Trust me," Helena cried, popping back upright and immediately dragging her patrician white dress up and over her head. I thought briefly of hauling her straight into bed. "You need a girlfriend, Marcus!"

  And I had one. No further explanation was required. Luckily there were staff to look after our children. Fired up with excitement, their noble mother was coming with me.

  IX

  Fresh off the boat!"

  "Exactly the look." I was unperturbed by Helena's hilarity. "And smell!" I added, dipping my head to sniff: laundry damp-and whatever of me the Noviomagus washerwoman had failed to remove.

  My tunic was a heavy, coarse-weave, dirty rust-colored thing-gear I had packed to use on a building site. Over it I had a traveling cloak with a pointy hood that gave me the look of a woodland deity. One who was not very bright. As well as a hidden dagger down my boot, I wore another openly; its scabbard hung on my belt alongside a money pouch. Add a trusting look, tempered by crotchety tiredness, and I could be any tourist. Ripe to be conned by the locals.

  Helena stripped off all her normal jewelry, leaving only a silver ring I once gave her. She then put on a pair of large, surprisingly trashy earrings. If these were some old lover's gift, she did right to ditch the swine. More likely, they were a present from one of her mother's attendants. Her muted clothes were her own, and might have revealed her status, but she had hitched them up awkwardly and trussed them under her bosom with a complete lack of grace. She looked as if she possessed neither closet slaves nor hand mirror, nor even taste. She was no longer herself. Well, that was fun for me.

  Don't get me wrong. This was foolish and dangerous. I knew it. Two excuses, Legate: one, Helena Justina, daughter of the senator Camillus, was a free woman. If she wanted to do something I could not stop her, any more than her noble father ever had. Two, she was right. As part of a couple, I would be much less conspicuous.

&n
bsp; Add to that, we were both bored silly with being well-mannered visitors. We yearned for stimulus. We both enjoyed shared adventures-especially when we sneaked off without telling anyone, and when we knew if we had told them, they would all disapprove hysterically.

  We slipped out of the residence. Our departure was spotted, but when staff gave us a second look we just kept going. There was no point borrowing Aelia Camilla's carrying chair. It would draw attention to us. We could manage on foot. Wherever we were going in this town would be close enough to walk.

  I was getting my bearings. Londinium had not been developed by addicts of Hippodamus of Miletus and his structured gridiron street plans. It never grew from a major military base, so it lacked form and it lacked town walls. Instead of a four-square pleasing pattern, the T-shaped development followed one line across the river, then sprawled untidily in two directions, with houses and businesses ribboning along important roads. There were very few developed plots behind the few main streets.

  On the north bank, two low hills were divided by several free-flowing freshwater streams. Industrial premises had been sited along the banks of the main stream. The forum stood on the eastern hill, and most of the new wharves lay at the foot of that particular high ground. Beyond, on the western hill, there must be houses amid perhaps further commercial premises, and I had seen what looked like smoke from bathhouse furnaces. Apart from major imports and modest exports operating from the wharves, this was a town of potters and tanners. Even among the houses, empty spaces were farmed. I had heard livestock as often as the marsh birds or the gulls following traders' ships.

  A straight arterial road led downhill from the forum, direct to the river. There it passed a landing stage for ferries and what would one day be the bridgehead. Crossing at forum level was what passed for the main road, the Decumanus Maximus, with a secondary east-west highway halfway down to the river. Helena and I took that road for a short while and crossed the forum approach.

  The patchy development continued. Residential plots had sometimes been rebuilt with new brick houses or otherwise left as blackened patches of burned ground. It was almost fifteen years since the Rebellion, but recovery was still slow. After the tribes' massacre, a few escapees must have returned to claim their land, but many had died without descendants- or with descendants who could no longer bear the scene. The authorities were reluctant to release land that appeared to have no owner. A land registry had existed, which prevented a free-for-all. There was plenty of space here anyway. Making the decision to sell off plots where whole families had died would be sorry work. So it might be decades before all the gaps in these stricken streets were filled.