Shadows in Bronze Read online

  Emerging, we passed an excitable figure who worked for Anacrites; he was so busy making his own presence felt he missed us going by. When I glanced behind he was harassing Petro. Petronius Longus planted his large feet apart and just listened with the faraway look of a tired man who badly needs a drink, planning in advance whether to have half an amphora of his usual crimson rot-gut and a terrible night’s sleep, or to broach the delightful Setinum he has been nursing along at the back of a shelf…

  The spy was getting nowhere. Peaceful insolence is a speciality of the Aventine watch.

  As the priest set off homewards I skipped along too.

  ‘Did Curtius Longinus arrive back in Rome tonight?’ He nodded in silence. Shock had settled on him now; he did not want to talk. His mind was preoccupied but his legs walked automatically with long muscular strides; it took energy to keep up without losing my dignity. ‘So he had no chance to meet anyone?’ He shook his head.

  I waited. He had second thoughts. ‘He was called out from dinner to speak to somebody he knew.’

  “See who it was?’

  ‘No. He was only away for a moment. I suppose,’ decided the priest, who was so pleased with his powers of deduction that he managed to slow down, ‘Longinus put off their meeting until later tonight!’

  ‘Here-at your Temple! Seems likely. How do you know the mystery person was a man?’

  ‘My servant told Curtius Longinus his visitor’s name.’

  I breathed a gentle prayer of thanks to Hercules. ‘Help yourself and your Temple; tell me…’

  We stopped on a corner by a fountain that glugged from the private orifices of a melancholy river god.

  ‘How would it help?’ fretted the priest.

  ‘When our gracious new Emperor plans his civic rebuilding programme. Rededicating temples gives an Emperor a good name!’

  ‘I understood that the Treasury was struggling for cash-‘

  ‘Not for long. Vespasian’s father was a tax collector, he has extortion in the blood.’

  He had taken out his doorkey. ‘You seem fairly free with the Emperor’s unearned income!’ he commented. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘The name’s Didius Falco; I act for the Palace-‘

  ‘Ho!’ He perked up to insult me. ‘Why’s an intelligent, good-natured son of Rome involved in such shady work?’

  ‘That’s what I ask myself! So tell me,’ I nudged him again, ‘who was this man Longinus knew?’

  ‘Someone called Barnabas,’ said the priest.

  IX

  It was dark now, but since I knew he worked late I wore out more boot leather traipsing back to see Vespasian again.

  I waited while he shooed out the flyswatters and wine-fixers who never expect to remain in an audience while anything interesting occurs. Then I waited again, while the high-handed secretarial types got their marching orders too.

  Once alone, we both relaxed. I stretched out on an imperial reading couch and gazed at the vaulted ceiling twenty feet above. This room was faced with dark green Brescia panels, divided by pilasters in creamy travertine. The wall sconces were gilt; all shaped like dames; all lit. I was brought up in dark houses where the rafters grazed my curls; looming spaces in elegant colour schemes have made me feel uneasy ever since. I lay on the couch as if I was nervous my body would leave an unpleasant mark on its silk.

  The Emperor leaned on one great elbow, scrunching apples. His square, tanned face had that crag of a nose and jolly uptilted chin you see on the coins, with the laughter lines around his eyes. What the average denarius fails to reveal is that Vespasian Augustus had discovered one good source of light relief in me.

  ‘Well, Falco?’ He frowned at his fruit. It looked a four-cornered, floury job probably from his own Sabine estate; he never paid for anything he could grow himself.

  ‘Caesar, I’d hate the bog savages to get a good name, but for a really sweet apple Britain beats the world!’

  Vespasian had a military career in Britain, which had taken a distinctly glorious turn. My British career was twenty years later, and not glorious at all. Someone like Anacrites was bound to have told him that.

  For a moment the old man paused, as if my mentioning the small, crisp russets of Britain that explode on the tongue with such unexpected sweetness had struck old chords. If I had not hated Britain so badly, I might have felt a homesick pang myself.

  ‘What happened at the Temple?’

  ‘Bad news I’m afraid, sir. Curtius Longinus is dead. Luckily for him, cremation is the fashion for Roman funerals nowadays.’ The Emperor groaned and pounded his reading couch with a great fist. ‘Sir, there’s a contract bonus for naming your opponents. Does that include finding the maniac who’s flittering them?’

  ‘No,’ he said. He knew that was a serious blow to me.

  ‘All the Empire admires Caesar’s graciousness!’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic,’ he growled menacingly.

  In some ways we two were ill-assorted. Vespasian Caesar was an up-country senator from a down-market family, but a traditional aristocrat. I was an outspoken, introverted rough-neck with an Aventine accent and no sense of respect. The fact we could work together successfully was a typical Roman paradox.

  While he absorbed my news with an angry frown I took advantage of the lull to report the full story.

  ‘Sir, the missing freedman I told you about had heard Longinus was in Rome. I’m certain they met. It looks as if the freedman caused the fire. Did Anacrites managed to track him down in the Transtiberina?’

  ‘No. The freedman had packed his bags and broken camp. When he lit this fire he must have already been prepared to do a flit. That’s clear premeditation. What’s he playing at, Falco?’

  ‘Either a crazy campaign of vengeance for his patron’s death in jail - or some more dangerous development.’

  ‘You mean, either Barnabas blamed Longinus for having Pertinax killed - or Longinus had to be silenced before he saw me tomorrow because of something he might say? Did Curtius Longinus cause the death of Pertinax?’

  ‘No, sir. The man I dropped in the Great Sewer for you this morning probably arranged that.’

  ‘So what could Longinus have had to tell me?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps his brother can enlighten us.’

  The big man brooded glumly. ‘Falco, why do I gain the impression that the moment we bury one conspiracy, a new one crawls to light?’

  ‘I suspect because one has.’

  ‘I’m not the type to waste my time running in fear of assassins.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  He grunted. ‘I need you for something, Falco,’ he offered. ‘This reflects very badly on my administration - I want people to know I send for them in good faith! It’s unsafe to invite the other Curtius brother to Rome, but someone had better get down there fast to warn him. There’s not much involved. Carry him my condolences. Remember he is a Senator, they are an old family, of good standing. Just tell him what happened, put him on his guard, then ask him to write to me-‘

  ‘A messenger boy! Caesar, you asked me to work here! Yet I have to squeeze out commissions like drips from a dry cow -‘ The look on his face stopped me. ‘What about warning the yachtsman Crispus in Neapolis?’

  ‘Fancy bearding him on his boat?’

  ‘Not much; I get seasick, and I can’t swim. But I want real work to wrestle with.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he shrugged, crabbily offhand. ‘Anacrites is looking forward to the seaside breezes serving that writ.’

  ‘So Anacrites gets to gambol in the playgrounds of the rich, while I do three hundred miles on the back of a frisky mule then take a sock on the jaw when I tell Gordianus how he was bereaved? Caesar, am I at least empowered to negotiate for his return? What you call offering ‘a favour he cannot forget’? What if he asks me about it? What if he tells me what he wants?’

  ‘He won’t, Falco - well if he does, use your initiative.’

  I laughed. ‘What you m
ean, sir, is that I have no meaningful authority; if I do win him over some snooty court chamberlain may thank me, but if anything goes wrong I am all on my own!’

  Vespasian nodded drily. ‘That is called diplomacy!’

  ‘I charge extra for diplomacy.’

  ‘We can discuss that if your attempt works! The challenge,’ he explained more quietly, ‘is to find out from Curtius Gordianus why his brother Longinus has got himself killed.’

  Into his last apple now, he queried, ‘Are you free to leave Rome at once? How are you coping with the Pertinax estate?’

  ‘Quite a good house clearance! The luxury stuff has all been dispersed; we’re doing table sales in flea markets now: lots of jugs with loose handles and dented custard pans. Even the best homes turn up basketfuls of blunt old knives with none that match -‘ I stopped, because from what I had heard this sounded like the kitchen sideboards in Vespasian’s family house before he became Emperor.

  ‘Getting good prices?’ he asked eagerly; I grinned at him. The Imperial skinflint’s idea of a good price was pretty steep.

  ‘You won’t be disappointed, sir. I’m using an auctioneer called Geminus. He treats me like a son.’

  ‘Anacrites thinks you are!’ Vespasian tossed across. It startled me that Anacrites was so sly. My father left home with a red-headed scarfmaker when I was seven years old. I had never forgiven him and my mother would be mortally insulted if she thought I dealt with him nowadays. If Geminus was my father, I didn’t want to know.

  ‘Anacrites,’ I told Vespasian shortly, ‘lives in his own romantic world!’

  ‘Hazard of his job. What do you think of Momus?’ ‘Not much.’

  Vespasian grumbled that I never liked anyone; I agreed. ‘Pity about Longinus,’ he mused on the verge of concluding our interview. I knew what he meant; any Emperor can execute people who don’t agree with him, but leaving them free to attack him again takes style.

  ‘You do realize,’ I complained, ‘the brother Gordianus will think you ordered today’s inferno? When I turn up with my happy smile he’ll suppose I’m your private exterminator - or am I?’ I demanded suspiciously.

  ‘If I wanted a tame assassin,’ Vespasian answered, letting me insult him as if he was pleased by the novelty, ‘I’d use someone who makes fewer moral judgements-‘

  I thanked him for the compliment, though he had not intended it, then I left the Palace cursing the chance of a contract bonus which I had lost through the priest Longinus finding himself a fiery end. To qualify for the middle rank, I needed four hundred thousand sesterces invested in Italian land. Vespasian paid my out-of-pocket expenses, plus a meagre daily rate. Unless I could earn some extra, this would bring in a bare nine hundred a year. It cost me at least a thousand just to live.

  Despite the dangers of the streets at night, I hoofed it back to the Pertinax house. I managed to reach the Quirinal with nothing worse than a bruised arm after a drunk with no sense of direction crashed straight into me. His sense of direction was better than it looked; as we pirouetted madly he relieved me of my purse: the one I carry full of pebbles for footpads like him.

  I quickened my step for several streets, in case he rushed after me to complain.

  I arrived at the house without further mishap.

  X

  Because of the curfew restrictions in Rome we could only bring wheeled vehicles onto the Quirinal after dark; being an executor was ghostly work. Four carts were standing outside now while the auctioneer’s men loaded them with satinwood couches and enamelled Egyptian sideboards, wedging in lamps to stabilize the loads. Indoors I helped the porters by putting my shoulder to a screwdown clothes press they were manhandling through the hall.

  ‘Falco!’

  The foreman Gonda wanted me to see something. Our footsteps echoed as we turned down an empty red corridor to a ground-floor bedroom I had not been in before. We stepped through a panelled door, set between two basalt portrait busts.

  ‘Oh any nice!’

  A lady’s room: sumptuously quiet. Five times as big as any room I had ever lived in, and half as high again. The dado was painted to imitate dove-grey marble, with upper wall panels in celestial blue, outlined with fine pastel ribboning and finished with central medallions. The floor mosaic had intricate patterns in shades of grey, planned for the room of course, with a designated space for the bed; the ceiling had been lowered there, creating a cosy niche for sleeping in.

  The bed had gone. Only one item remained. Gornia pointed to a small chest carved in oriental wood, which stood off the ground on four round painted feet.

  ‘Indian import? Is there a key?’ Gornia handed me a hunk of cold brass, with an uneasy look as if he feared we were about to find a mummified baby. I blew at the dust and opened up.

  Nothing valuable. Old letters, and some casual strings of amber beads, all uneven shapes and mismatched colours, like something a girl full of hope might keep in case she ever had a child to play with them. The top document looked tasty: Turbot with Caraway Sauce.

  ‘Nothing for Anacrites. Keep the box; I’ll see to it.’ Gornia thanked me, and two porters removed the chest.

  I stayed behind alone, sucking my lower lip. I had realized who lived here once. Helena Justina: the conspirator’s ex-wife.

  I liked this room. Well; I liked her. I liked her so much I had been trying to convince myself I had better not see her again.

  Now some old box that once belonged to her had set my heart thumping like a lovelorn twelve-year-old’s.

  All that remained here was a massive chandelier on a great gilt boss. A draught among its expensive tapers created leaping shadows which led me through a folding door into a private courtyard garden -a fig tree and rosemary. Helena would have enjoyed sitting there, drinking her warm tisane in the morning or writing letters in the afternoon.

  I came back and just stood, imagining how this beautiful room must once have been, littered with the paraphernalia of her life: a high bed and the inevitable wicker chairs and footstools; display cabins and shelves; perfume jars and oil flasks; silver cosmetic casques; sandalwood boxes for jewellery and scarves; mirrors and combs; coffers for clothes. Waiting maids moving to and fro. A harpist to entertain her when she felt sad. (Plenty of time for that -four miserable years of it.)

  Pertinax had had his bedroom in a separate wing. That is how the rich live. When Pertinax had wanted his noble young wife to grant his matrimonial privileges, a slave summoned her down two chilly corridors. Perhaps sometimes she had gone to him of her own accord, but I doubted that. Nor would he ever have bothered to surprise her here. Helena Justina had divorced Pertinax for neglecting her. I hated him for it. He wallowed in luxury, yet his sense of values was grotesque.

  I strolled back to the atrium with a pain in my gullet, and happened upon Geminus.

  ‘You look seedy!’

  ‘Picking up tips on decor.’

  ‘Get yourself a proper job and earn some decent cash!’

  We had cleared out the statues, but while we were gossiping a new one turned up. Geminus valued the artwork privately then openly leered at the wench. She was superbly carved, then cast in bronze, a joy to inspect: Helena Justina herself.

  I whistled softly. It was a clever work of art. I wondered how it was possible to capture in metal that sense of angry outrage always waiting to break out, and the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth… I flicked off a huddle of woodlice from the angle of her elbow, then patted her neat bronze behind.

  Geminus was the auctioneer Anacrites had libelled as the parent who inflicted me on the world. I could see why people might think so. (As, looking at my family, I could see why my father had chosen to escape.) He was a stocky, secretive, moody man, about sixty years old, with rampant grey hair, all curls. He was good-looking (though less good-looking than he thought). His profile swooped in one strong line without a ledge between the eyes - a real Etruscan nose. He had a nose for a scandal and an eye for a woman that had made him a legend even in the Saept
a Julia where the antique dealers congregate. If one of my clients had an heirloom to sell, I pushed it his way (if the client was a woman, and I happened to be busy, I pushed her too).

  We stood playing at art critics. Helena’s statue was unsigned but had been made by a good Greek sculptor, from life. It was magnificent, with gilding on the headdress and tinted eyes. It showed Helena at about eighteen years old, with her hair folded up in the old-fashioned style. She was formally robed - in a way which cleverly hinted how she looked underneath.

  ‘Very nice,’ commented Geminus. ‘A very nice piece!’

  ‘Where had they hidden this beauty?’ I asked the porters.

  ‘Shoved in a cubbyhole, next to the kitchen latrine.’

  I could cope with that. I did not fancy Pertinax brooding over her in his private suite. (All the fool had kept in his bedroom and study were silver statuettes of his racehorses and paintings of his ships.)

  Geminus and I admired her stately workmanship. He must have noticed my face.

  ‘Castor and Pollux! You chasing her, Marcus?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Liar!’ he retorted.

  ‘True.’

  In fact, when her ladyship had wanted a closer acquaintance she chased me. But that was no business of his.

  Women change a lot between eighteen and twenty-three. It was painful to see her untouched by her trials with Pertinax, and to wish I had known her first. Something in her expression, even at that age, made me uneasily aware I had been flirting too busily elsewhere today - and all my life.

  ‘Too submissive. He’s missed her,’ I murmured. ‘In real life the lady glares out as though she’d bite your nose off if you stepped too close-‘

  Inspecting my snout for damage, Geminus reached to give it a possessive tweak; my arm jerked up to fend him off. ‘So how close do you generally step?’

  ‘Met her. Last year in Britain. She hired me as her bodyguard back to Rome - all perfectly straight and free from scandal, see-‘

  ‘You losing your touch?’ he mocked. ‘Not many noble young ladies could ride fourteen hundred miles with a likely lad and not allow themselves some consolation for the rigours of the road!’ He peered at her. I felt a moment of uncertainty, as if two people I cared about had just been introduced.