Shadows in Bronze Page 4

  I gestured in the direction Macias had taken, implying urgent business elsewhere. Camillus asked me to remain with Helena while he organized their transport. He rushed away.

  We two stood there, in one of those Palace corridors that was so wide it was almost a room in itself, while occasional officials passed to and fro. I had no intention of ending our tender relationship beneath the tawdry glitter of a Neronian reception hall, so I looked tough and said nothing.

  ‘You know!’ Helena accused levelly, while she was still watching her father out of earshot.

  ‘If I do, I’m not allowed to say.’

  She glanced at me with a look that would wither the spines on a porcupine.

  While the subject died quietly between us I enjoyed myself surveying her. The cumbersome folds of her matronly stole only emphasized the warm curves they were meant to disguise, and which I had found myself possessing so unexpectedly two weeks before. Her presence tonight had enveloped me with the familiar same that we both knew each other better than we would ever know anyone else (and yet neither of us had discovered the half of it…).

  ‘This is how I like you,’ I teased. ‘All big brown eyes and blazing indignation!’

  ‘Spare me the disreputable dialogue! I imagined,’ her ladyship informed me in a taut voice, ‘I might have seen you before this.’

  She had on her sweet look of wariness in public places, which always made me step closer protectively. With one finger I stroked very gently from the soft hollow of her temple to the fine contour of her jaw. She allowed it with a stubbornness that implied complete indifference, but her cheek whitened beneath my touch. ‘I was thinking of you, Helena.’

  ‘Thinking of dropping me?’ It had taken me ten days to make up my mind not to see her again - and ten seconds to decide not to leave. ‘Oh I know!’ she continued angrily. ‘This is May. That was April. I was the girl in last month’s adventure! All you wanted-‘

  ‘You know damn well what I wanted!’ I cut in. ‘It’s another thing I am not supposed to tell you,’ I said more quietly. ‘But believe me, lady, I thought the world of you.’

  ‘And now you’ve forgotten,’ Helena argued bitterly. ‘Or at least, you want me to forget-‘

  Just as I was about to demonstrate how much I remembered and how little I intended either of us to forget, the brisk figure of her illustrious father hovered into view again.

  ‘I’ll come and see you,’ I promised Helena in an undertone. ‘There are things I need to talk about-‘

  ‘Oh there are some things you can say to us?’ She deliberately let her father overhear. Camillus must have seen we were quarrelling, a fact he treated with a nervous diffidence which belied his true character. When occasion demanded he was forceful enough.

  Before Helena could forestall me I told him, ‘Your brother’s soul was taken care of with the necessary reverence. If the underworld really exists, he is lounging on the grass in Hades, throwing sticks for Cerberus. Don’t ask how I know.’

  He accepted it more readily than Helena did. I parted from them tersely, making it plain I had to work.

  I rejoined Anacrites, to wait outside the Emperor’s room with that tension no one quite loses when visiting a highly important man; being the bugs in favour can easily change. Anacrites groomed a fingernail between his teeth. I felt dismal. Vespasian liked me. He usually showed it by confronting me with impossible tasks for which I earned hardly any cash.

  We were called in. Court chamberlains avoided us as if we carried the sores of an Eastern disease.

  Vespasian was not one of your spindly, stringy-necked aristocrats, but a burly General. His lavish purple tunic sat on him as casually as brown country frieze. He had a reputation for struggling to power on mortgages and credit, but he loved showing off as Emperor, throwing himself into the work with a grasp no Caesar since Augustus had shown.

  ‘Camillus Verus has been here!’ he exclaimed at me. And that daughter of his!’ The Emperor sounded snappy; he knew my involvement with the lady, and disapproved. ‘I said I had nothing to tell them.’

  ‘So did I, I assured him, ruefully.

  He glared at me, as if our predicament was my fault, then settled down. ‘What’s to report?’

  I left Anacrites the subtle pleasure of fibbing to the lord of the world. ‘Making progress, sir!’ He sounded so efficient my stomach rebelled.

  ‘Found any evidence yet?’ crackled Vespasian.

  ‘A denunciation of Pertinax Marcellus by his ex-wife-‘

  I was furious to see my private information about Helena being paraded, but the Emperor leapt in first ‘Leave the Camillus girl out of it!’ (I had not told Anacrites Vespasian and Helena’s father were on such friendly terms; he had not asked.)

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The spy adjusted his tone. ‘After Nero, new Emperors rattled out like barroom dice; I imagine these misguided souls underestimated your staying power–’

  ‘They want a snob with fancy ancestors!’ Vespasian scoffed caustically. He was famous for his down-to-earth attitude.

  ‘And a few touches of madness,’ I murmured, ‘to increase the Senate’s confidence!’ Vespasian pressed his mouth together. Like most people, he thought my republican passions indicated a cracked brain. A difficult moment prickled us all.

  Eventually the Emperor remarked, ‘What I will not excuse, is the fact that these triton tried to seduce my younger son!’ It was hard to credit serious contenders with trying to make young Domitian Caesar a puppet emperor; to Domitian, however, who had a popular and virile elder brother, usurping the natural order always seemed a brilliant idea. He was twenty; there were decades of disruption in him yet.

  Anacrites and I stared down at the floor. Superior workmanship and oozing with good taste: Alexandrian mosaic - a big, bold, serpentine pattern in black and cream.

  ‘You cannot blame me for defending my own!’ the fond father insisted. We shook our heads sombrely. He knew we both thought Domitian Caesar was a toad. The old man restrained himself. Neither Vespasian nor his first son Titus ever criticized Domitian in public with so much as a sour look (though it’s, my belief they roughed him up fairly frankly behind closed doors).

  The fact that Atius Pertinax had been in league with the Emperor’s precious son was why Anacrites was tweaking over his papers with silver tongs. For one thing, if we found any evidence against his boy, Vespasian wanted it destroyed.

  ‘So!’ he exclaimed, growing bored with speculating. ‘The plot’s dead: forget it.’ The tone of the briefing changed. ‘Rome is stuck with me! My predecessor resigned with good grace-‘

  That was one view of it. The last Emperor Vitellius had been murdered by the Forum mob, his legions surrendered, his son was a babe in arms, and his daughter was swiftly married off by Vespasian with an enormous dowry that would tie her husband up for years, gratefully counting it.

  Vespasian sucked his teeth in an angry mood. ‘This fiasco has left me with four empty seats in the Senate. The rules are clear: senators must reside in Rome! Faustus Ferentinus has sailed away to drink julep with some ancient aunt in Lycia. I’ve sent him permission, in deference to the aunt -‘ Never imagine that his respect for elderly ladies meant Vespasian was soft; beneath that approachable exterior, a powerful will grumbled dangerously.

  ‘Three other clowns are absenting themselves in the country; Gordianus and his brother Longinus have jumped into distant seaside priesthood! And Aufidius Crispus is sunning himself in the Bay of Neapolis on a yacht. If anyone wishes to greet my accession by retiring into private life,’ Vespasian announced, ‘I shall not object. But senators must account for themselves! Curtius Longinus has been recalled to Rome to give me an explanation, then I suppose I’ll be obliged to grant him a favour he can’t forget-‘ This seemed to be a secret Palace code word that had never been explained to me. ‘He’s lodging with the priests of the Little Temple of Hercules Gaditanus overnight and being interviewed tomorrow. Anacrites, I want you there-‘

/>   What I hated most about working here was finding myself excluded from whatever was really going on. Scowling, I scuffed my boot heel on the fine Alexandrian floor; then I decided to make my presence felt. ‘We may have a problem, sir.’

  I mentioned to the Emperor how I had been attacked in the warehouse, how I tailed Barnabas, and that I thought this link with the Pertinax household could be significant.

  The Chief Spy shifted. ‘You never mentioned this, Falco!’

  ‘Sorry; slipped my mind.’

  I enjoyed watching Anacrites torn between his irritation at me taking the initiative, and wanting to appear the kind of spy who was bound to have found out anyway. ‘Just some crack-brained freedman thinking he owes his dead patron a gesture,’ was his opinion, dismissing it.

  ‘Could be,’ I agreed. ‘Bit I’d like to know whether anything in the Pertinax documentation has pointed to a gambit involving corn chandlery.’

  ‘No,’ Anacrites said crisply. ‘And I won’t commit expensive Palace resources on the word of a Transtiberina barmaid!’

  ‘You have your methods, I’ll have mine.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Knowing that riverbank watering holes and Transtiberina wineshops can be the first places to catch the news!’

  ‘Both of your methods are valid,’ Vespasian broke in. ‘That’s why I’m employing you both!’

  During our quarrel, the Emperor’s brown eyes had grown very still. Anacrites looked embarrassed, but I was angry. Here we stood, discussing treason like trade figures from Cilicia or the price of Celtic beer, but Vespasian knew what I thought. He knew why. Six hours after I fumbled with that sagging corpse, I still had the stench of the dead man’s body fat curdling my lungs. My hands seemed to reek still from handling his finger rings. His cadaverous face swam into my memory whenever I let myself relax. Today I had done the Empire no small favour, yet apparently I was only fit for disposals - work that was too sticky for manicured hands.

  ‘If you’re spending your time in wineshops, watch your liver!’ warned Vespasian with his sardonic grin.

  ‘No point,’ I snapped. ‘I mean, sir, there’s no point me risking my health and innocence in cutthroat bars, collecting information no one will ever act upon!’

  ‘What innocence? Patience, Falco. I’m reconciling the senate as my priority - and you’re no diplomat!’ I glared, but held my peace. Vespasian relaxed slightly. ‘Can we lay hands on this fellow Barnabas?’

  ‘I’ve arranged for him to see me at the Pertinax house, but I’m beginning to suspect he may not come. He’s holed up near a tavern called the Setting Sun south of the Via Aurelia-‘

  A chamberlain broke into the room like a man who has had a good breakfast trotting out to the penny latrines.

  ‘Caesar! The Temple of Hercules Gaditanus is on fire!’

  Anacrites began to move; Vespasian stopped him. ‘No. You get yourself down to the Transtiberina and apprehend this freedman. Put it to him plainly that the conspiracy has been broken up. Find out whether he knew anything, then let him go if you can - but make sure he grasps that stirring up any more sludge in the duckpond will not be well received.’ I was suppressing a satirical vision of Vespasian as a great frog on a lily pad when he turned to me. ‘Falco can go fire watching.’

  Arson’s a dirty business; it does not require diplomacy.

  VIII

  I reached the Temple alone. Activity and solitude came like a breath of fresh air.

  Whatever the crisis, I had to go alone-and on foot. I wore out my boots, but I was keeping my professional integrity intact.

  Every time I paid my shoemender, integrity bothered me less.

  The Little Temple of Hercules stood in the Aventine Sector, which was where I lived, so I was able to turn up like any local gawker who had spotted the flames on his way home from a bawdy-house and greeted this spectacle as his second treat of the night. It was a pitiful shrine. It had been poked in between a Syrian bakery and a knife-grinder’s lockup booth. There were two worn steps where pigeons stopped to gossip, four front pillars, a warped wooden pediment, and a cranky red roof which bore abundant evidence that it was where the pigeons reassembled when they flew up off the steps.

  Temples always seem to be burning down. Their building regulations must omit safety buckets and fire-fighting platforms, as if dedication to the gods brings its own insurance. But evidently the gods get bored guarding altars with unattended perpetual flames.

  The fire was well away. There was a lively crowd. I pushed through to the front.

  The Aventine vigilantes were leaning in neighbouring porticos while the blaze lit their faces with lurid red. They were a scarred-looking crew, though most had affectionate mothers and one or two could even tell you who their fathers were. Among them my old friend Petronius Longus, a broad, calm, square-browed officer with a baton through his belt, stood thoughtfully cradling his chin. He looked like a man you could drag into a corner for a chatter about women, life, and where to buy a hock of Spanish ham. He was captain of the watch, but we never let that interfere with being friends.

  I squeezed in alongside. The heat felt strong enough to melt the marrow in our bones. We scanned the crowd in case there was a mad-eyed arsonist still lurking at the scene.

  ‘Didius Falco,’ Petronius murmured, ‘always first back into barracks, hogging the fire?’ We had both done army service in the bitter north: five years in the Second Augustan Legion in Britain. We had spent half our time on the frontier, and the rest on forced marches or camped out in the field. When we came home we had both sworn we would never feel warm again. Petronius married; he decided it helped. Various eager young ladies had tried to assist me the same way, but I had fended them off.

  ‘Been visiting your girlfriend?’

  ‘Which?’ I grinned. I knew which. For at least the past fortnight there had only been one. I set aside my vivid recollection of offending her this evening. ‘What highly avoidable accident happened here, Petro?

  ‘Usual fiasco. Temple acolytes off playing dice in a bar down the street; an incense burner left smouldering.’

  ‘Casualties?’

  ‘Doubt it; the doors are locked -‘ Petronius Longus glanced at me, saw from my face there was a reason for the question, then turned back to the temple with a heavy groan.

  We were helpless. Even if his men butt those studded double doors with a battering ram, the interior would explode into a fireball. Flames were already flickering high on the roof. Black smoke with a worrying smell was gusting halfway to the river. Out here in the alley the heat was making our faces shine like glass. No one could survive inside.

  The doors were still standing, and still locked, when the roof-timbers caved in.

  Someone finally rooted out the fire brigade from a chophouse to douse the shell of the building with buckets. They had to find a working fountain first, and it was the usual ham-fisted effort when they did. Petronius had dispersed most of the crowd, though a few characters with fierce wives waiting at home hung on here for the peace. We hooked grappling irons onto one of the doors and dragged its scorched timbers outwards with an ear-splitting screech; a solidified torso, presumably human, lay huddled just inside. A professional priest who had just arrived told us the molten amulet stuck to the breastbone looked not unlike one Curtius Longinus, the conspirator recalled by Vespasian, always wore.

  Longinus had been his house guest. The priest had dined with the man that evening; he turned away looking sick.

  Petronius Longus yanked a leather curtain over the charred nugget of flesh. I let him start the questioning while I went on looking round. ‘Do you normally lock the doors at night?’ he challenged, coughing in the smoke.

  ‘Why should we lock up?’ The priest of Hercules had a healthy black beard; he was probably ten years older than us but looked hard as the Citadel Wall. You would only play handball with this stalwart cove if he picked you to play in his own team. ‘We’re not the Temple of Jupiter, cramm
ed with captured treasure, or the Temple of Saturn Treasury. Some shrines have to be shut up at dusk to stop vagrants creeping in, but, watch captain, not ours!’

  I could see why. Apart from the fact gruff old Hercules Gaditanus probably liked vagrants, there was nowhere to squat in comfort and nothing to steal. It was just a brick-built closet no bigger than a storeroom on a farm.

  The terracotta statue of the god which had been laid low by a ton of falling roof tiles had a half-finished air that went with the rough-and-ready place. Even his priest had the famished look of a man who worked in a poor district, dealing all day with brain-battered boxers. Beneath the beard, his oriental face was handsome; he had great sad eyes, as if he knew his god was popular but not taken seriously.

  ‘Who was in charge?’ Petronius continued wearily, still upset by the death. ‘Did you know this man was here?

  ‘I was in charge,’ stated the priest. ‘Curtius Longinus had an interview tomorrow with the Emperor. He was praying in the Temple to compose himself-‘

  ‘Interview? What about?

  ‘Ask the Emperor!’ snorted the priest.

  ‘Who keeps the Temple key?’ I interrupted, inspecting what was left of the sanctuary.

  ‘We leave it on a wall hook just inside.’

  ‘Not any more!’ Petronius corrected angrily.

  The hook was there: empty. I stepped over to see.

  The priest gazed helplessly at the smoking shards of Hercules’ stricken house. Sparks on the inner walls still raced up cracks in the lining cement. He did not want to distress himself surveying the damage while Petro and I were watching him.

  ‘I must write to his brother…’

  ‘Don’t do that!’ I ordered him coldly. ‘The Emperor will inform Curtius Gordianus himself.’

  The priest began moving off so I prepared to follow. I nodded to Petro, who jerked his head back, annoyed at me for rushing away. I thumped his arm, then clambered out after the black-bearded fellow.