Shadows in Bronze Read online

  I was led to the Forum by the babble and a strong smell of fish.

  I wandered through the market. Everyone else had a good stare. Their eyes followed me from stall to stall, while knives hesitated over swordfish far too long before crunching them into steaks. As I paused in the colonnade, I glimpsed a youth flitting round a pillar with a distinct air of having no real reason to be there; squinted directly at him, so if he was a pickpocket he would know I had spotted him. He disappeared.

  The racket was appalling. They had some healthy produce though. There were sardines, sprats and anchovies all shimmering as brilliantly as new pewter candlesticks, and fresh vegetables that looked plump enough even for my mother, who grew up on a Campagna small-holding. The usual disasters too: piles of ever-so-shiny copperware that would stop looking special as soon as you got it home, and streamers of cheap tunic braid in unattractive colours that would bleed in the wash. After that came more mounds of watermelons; squids and sea snakes; fresh garlands for tonight’s banquets and laurel crowns left over from yesterday at glossy knockdown prices. Crocks of honey; plus bundles of the herbs that had fed the bees.

  All I did was ask the price of liquorice. Well, so I thought.

  In Magna Graecia, everyone spoke Greek. Thanks to an exiled Melitan money changer who once lodged with my mother and paid my quarterly school fees (one of life’s little bonuses), I had received the scratchings of a Roman education. Greek was my second language; I could strike up a pose then recite seven lines from Thucydicles, and I knew Homer was not just the name of my Uncle Scaro’s dog. But my thin-bearded Thracian schoolmaster had left out the practical vocabulary a man needs for discussing razors with a barber in Buxentum, requesting a spoon with a snail-pick from a half-asleep waiter in Vella - or avoiding offence in Croton when bartering for aromatic herbs. I felt confident I knew the word for liquorice root; otherwise even for my mother (who expected a present from the south and had thoughtfully recommended what to buy), I would never have made the attempt. In fact, I must have inadvertently used some ripe old Greek obscenity.

  The stallholder was a dwarf broad bean who had been left on life’s vine until he turned leathery in the pod. He let out a yowl that attracted attention from three streets away. A tight crowd assembled, penning me against the stall. Elbowing forwards came some local layabouts whose idea of a good market day was beating up an unarmed priest. Under my tunic I had a safe-conduct signed by Vespasian, but down here they probably had not even heard yet that Nero had stabbed himself. Besides, my passport was in Latin which seemed unlikely to fill these shanty town bullies with respect.

  I could not move because of the crowd. I assumed a haughty expression and pulled my religious veiling more securely over my head. I apologized to the herbseller in my best formal Greek. He jabbered more wildly. Stumpy Crotonese joined in. This was clearly the sort of friendly southern marketplace where peasants with shiny expressions and two left ears were just looking for a chance to set upon a stranger and accuse him of stealing his own cloak.

  The rumpus was growing uglier. If I jumped over the stall they would grab me from behind, a cheap thrill I preferred to avoid. I kicked up one heel behind me to investigate the stall; it was just a trestle covered with cloth, so I dropped to the ground, gathered up my priestly garments, and scuttled under like a reclusive rat.

  I came out between two piles of conical baskets, with my nose against the stallholder’s knees. He seemed deaf to reason, so I bit him on the shin. He hopped back, shrieking; I scrambled out.

  I now had one rickety table between me and a premature funeral. One glance at the multitude convinced me I really needed my little phallus amulet against the evil eye. (A gift from my sister Maia; so embarrassing I had left it at home.) The crowd swayed; the table lurched, then I crashed my hip so it toppled over towards the Crotonese. As they all jumped back I held up both hands in prayer.

  ‘O Hermes Trismegistos -‘ (I’ll pause here to mention that since I had been bound to tell my mother I was leaving Rome, the only divinity who might be watching my progress was Hermes the Thrice Great in his role as the patron of travellers, who must have been having his ear bent painfully by my ma.) ‘Aid me, wing-footed one!’ (If things were quiet on Mount Olympus he might be pleased to have an errand here.) ‘Offer the protection of your sacred caduceus to a fellow messenger?’

  I stopped. I hoped curiosity might encourage the bystanders to leave me alive. If not, it would take more than a loan of a winged sandal to hop free of this predicament.

  No sign of young Hermes and his snaky staff. But there was a puzzled lull, another surge, then out of the surge leapt a bronzed, barefooted man in a curly-brimmed hat who vaulted the trestle straight at me. I was unarmed of course; I was a priest. He was flourishing a monstrous knife.

  Yet I was safe. In a trice this apparition had his weapon at the liquorice merchant’s throat. The blade was twinkling sharp - the sort sailors keep for slicing through dangerous tangles of rope on shipboard or murdering each other while they enjoy a drink ashore. He was more or less sober, but gave the impression that cutting out the lives of people who looked at him too closely was the way he relaxed.

  He bawled at the crowd, ‘One step closer, and I stick the herbalist!’

  Then to me: ‘Stranger - run for your life!’

  XIV

  Clutching swathes of my religious get-up, I hared past the courthouse without stopping to enquire if the magistrate would hear my case. Before the third dark alley I heard my rescuer’s bare feet pattering behind.

  ‘Thanks!’ I gasped out. ‘Well met. You seem a handy type!’

  ‘What had you done?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Usual story!’ he exclaimed.

  We took the road out of town and soon afterwards were sitting in an eating house on the shore. He recommended the shellfish pottage with saffron sauce.

  ‘A melange of shellfish,’ I commented cautiously, ‘at a tavern with no nameboard, in a strange port, is a risk my mother taught me to avoid! What else do they do?’

  ‘Shellfish pottage - without the saffron!’

  He grinned. He had a perfectly straight nose which was attached to his face at an unfortunate angle of thirty degrees. His left side had the uptwitched eyebrow of a bright, comical fellow, and his right the down-jerked mouth of a moody clown. Both halves of his face were fairly presentable; he just lost ground on the composite effect. His two profiles were so different I felt compelled to stare at him, as though he were deformed.

  We both ordered pottage, with. Life’s short enough anyway. May as well drink deep and die in style.

  I paid for a flagon while my new friend called up side dishes; a trug of bread, a saucer of olives, hard-boiled eggs, lettuce salad, whitebait, sunflower seeds, gherkins, slices of cold sausage, and so on. Having fixed a few nibbles, we introduced ourselves.

  ‘Laesus.’

  ‘Falco.’

  ‘Captain of the Sea Scorpion, out of Tarentum. I used to do the Alexandria run, but I gave it up for shorter hops with fewer storms. I’m in Croton to meet someone.’

  ‘I’ve ridden down from Rome. Arrived today.’

  ‘What brings you to Bruttium?’

  ‘Whatever it was, it now looks like a bad mistake!’

  We raised our cups and tackled the hors-d’oeuvres. ‘You never mentioned what you do, Falco.’

  ‘Quite right.’ I broke off some bread from a circular loaf, then concentrated on cleaning an olive stone between my front teeth. ‘I never mentioned it!’

  I spat out the stone. I was not so discourteous as to keep secrets from a fellow who had saved my life; Laesus knew I was teasing. We pretended to let it drop.

  The place we had come to was surprisingly busy for midafternoon. Seafront canteens are often like that, catering for sailors who have no idea of time. Some customers were drinking at the counter indoors but most were packed onto benches in the open air, like us patiently waiting for their food.

  I told
Laesus that in my experience quayside tavernas are like that too; you sit for hours imagining they are filleting a fresh-caught red mullet just for you. The real truth is: the cook is a lackadaisical noddy who has disappeared on some errand for his brother-in-law; on his way back he quarrels with a girl he owes money to, then stops to see a dogfight before helping along a game of soldiers at a rival restaurant. He arrives in a filthy temper halfway through the afternoon, warms up a sickly bumper-fish in yesterday’s rascasse broth and hurls in some mussels which he can’t be bothered to clean, then an hour later you heave up your dinner into the harbour because you drank far too much while you were waiting for the cook.

  ‘Console yourself, Laesus: a meal on a quayside never stays around long enough to poison you!’

  He just smiled. Sailors get used to listening to strangers fantasies.

  Our pottage came. It was good, in a hearty, harboury way. I had just mastered filtering it across my tongue to field the chunks of crab claw, when Laesus niggled slyly, ‘Since you seem shy of telling me, I’ll guess… You look like a spy.’

  I was hurt. ‘I thought I looked like a priest!’

  ‘Falco, you look like a spy who’s disguised as a priest!’ I sighed, and we drank some more wine.

  My new friend Laesus was a queer phenomenon. In a place where I had no reason to feel confidence in anyone, he seemed utterly trustworthy. Both his eyes were black and beady like a robin’s. He always kept his sailor’s hat on. It had a round, felted crown surrounded by a twirling brim so that it looked like an upturned field mushroom.

  The company thinned out. We were left with two old seamen and a few travellers who, like me, had fled for the sleepy port. Plus a trio of young ladies called Gaia, Ipsyphille and Merioe, with faded personalities and low-slung frocks, who went to and fro a lot. In the absence of fresh grapes or roasted chestnuts, these squeezy fruits were available upstairs as dessert.

  Gaia was surprisingly attractive.

  ‘Want to try your luck?’ Laesus asked, intercepting my gaze.

  He had a generous attitude; he seemed eager to keep my place at table if I went off with one of the girls. I shook my head slightly, with a lazy smile, as if it was simply too much effort to shift. Then I closed my eyes, stilt smiling, as I remembered another handsome girl I knew - and her scathing look if she was to catch me considering a cheap thrash with a harbour whore. The elegant and dignified Helena Justina had eyes the rich, dark browny-gold of palm dates from the desert - plus a snort like a bad-tempered camel when her highness was annoyed .

  When I looked up, the girl called Gaia had gone upstairs with someone else.

  ‘Tell me,’ I suddenly asked Laesus. ‘If you come from Tarentum, did you ever encounter a senator called Atius Pertinax?’

  He finished a mouthful. ‘I’m not on boozing terms with senators!’

  ‘He was a ship owner, that was why I asked. While I was riding through the Sila forests, it struck me that since Pertinax was born a southerner he might have had his ships built here-‘

  ‘I’m with you!’ Laesus said. ‘Is he in trouble?’

  ‘Oh, the worst kind; he’s dead.’ Laesus looked startled. I gulped my wine callously.

  ‘So,’ he ventured, recovering. ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Couple of years short of thirty. Lean build, thin face, nervous temper - he had a freedman called Barnabas.’

  ‘Oh I know Barnabas!’ Laesus flung down his spoon. ‘Everyone in Tarentum knows Barnabas!’ I wondered if they knew he was a murderer now.

  Laesus remembered that four or five years earlier Barnabas had been busy at Tarentum on his master’s behalf having two new merchant vessels built. ‘Calypso and Circe, if I recollect.’

  ‘Circe is right. She’s impounded at Ostia.’

  ‘Impounded?

  ‘Ownership inquest. Know any more about these two?’

  ‘Not in my line. Did this Pert owe you money, Falco?’

  ‘No; I’ve got some cash for Barnabas. It’s his master’s legacy.

  ‘I can make enquiries in Tarentum if you like.’

  ‘Thanks, Laesus!’ I did not mention the freedman’s recent habit of roasting senators alive, since Vespasian wanted the political aspects hushed up. ‘Listen, friend; I’m curious about these two for my own reasons. Were they popular locally?’

  ‘Barnabas was an uppity ex-slave. People he cadged drinks from hoped Rome would give him his come-uppance.’

  ‘Rome may yet! What about Pertinax?’

  ‘Anyone who owns ships and racehorses can convince himself he’s popular! Plenty of flatterers wanted to treat him like a great man.’

  ‘Hum! I wonder if he found Rome different? He was involved in a piece of stupidity; that could explain why - he wouldn’t be the first small-town boy who went to show Rome how big he was, but his reception disappointed him.’

  The people who had been sharing our table were leaving, so we both stretched our feet across to the opposite bench, spreading ourselves more comfortably.

  ‘So who are you meeting here in Croton, Laesus?’

  ‘Oh… just an old client.’ Like all sailors he was highly secretive. ‘What about you? Laesus asked with a sidelong look. ‘In the marketplace you called yourself a messenger - you mean to Barnabas?’

  ‘No, airiest. Curtius Gordianus.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve just brought him some family news.’

  ‘Spying,’ he commented, ‘seems a complicated trade!’

  ‘Really, Laesus; I’m not a spy.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he answered, being very polite.

  I grinned. ‘I wish I was! I know one; all he does is office work and field trips to popular seaside resorts. Laesus, my good friend, if this was an adventure tale by some scurrilous court poet, you’d now exclaim, Curtius Gordianus - what a coincidence! The very male I shall be at talk tonight!’

  He opened his mouth as if he was about to say it, paused long enough to milk every ounce of suspense - then collapsed.

  ‘Never heard of the damned fellow!’ Laesus declared agreeably.

  XV

  The sea captain Laesus was a wonderful find; though it has to be said that having rescued me, he took me to an eating house that made me horrendously ill.

  I found my way back to the mansio, awash with saffron pottage, though not for long. There must have been a bad oyster in my soup. Luckily I have a finicky stomach; as my family often joke, when they decide they have waited long enough for their legacies, poisoning me is the last solution they will try.

  While my fellow travellers were gnawing at the landlord’s unspeakable boiled belly pork, I lay on my bed groaning privately; later I had a slow scrape in the bathhouse, then sat out in the garden with something to read.

  About the time the meal ended, other guests straggled out to enjoy jugs of wine in the last light of day. I just had a beaker of cold water to aid my recovery.

  There were plenty of tables in the recreation area; it saved the landlord, who was the usual idle scamp, from filling the spaces with flowerbeds that would require his attention. Most of these tables were empty. No one needed to invade my privacy, so when people did head towards me I froze into the character of a man who would rather give himself eyestrain over his holiday reading than look up and let strangers insist on making friends.

  This had little success.

  There were two of them. One was a bad dream on legs - the legs were like elm trunks, below a mass of well-organized muscle with no visible neck; his sidekick was a whiskery shrimp with a mean look and rickety build. Everyone else in the garden hid their noses in their wine beakers; I nuzzled my scroll shortsightedly, though without much hope. The new arrivals glanced around, then fixed on me.

  The two of them sat at my table. They both had that bowing, expectant air which means the worst. An informer needs to be gregarious, but I tread warily with locals who seem so sure of themselves. The other customers studied thei
r drinks; no one offered to help.

  It is quite common in the south for tricksters to smile their way into a mansio, settle round some quiet group, then bully them out for an evening in the town. The travellers get off lightly if they escape with just a headache, a beating, the loss of their money, a night in a jail cell, and a sordid disease they pass on to their wives. A man on his own feels safer; but not much. I looked scholarly; I looked reserved; I tried hard to project the impression that the pouch on my belt was too empty to cope with a long night drinking sour red wine while a swarthy maiden with a tambourine danced at me.

  Thanks to the market pickpocket, the empty pouch was true. Fortunately it was my decoy purse again; I kept my serious funds with my passport, round my neck. So far I still had them. But Vespasian’s retainer was too puny to tantalize a tambourinist with grand ideas.

  I stuck things out long enough to make a feeble point, then laid a piece of dried grass in my scroll to keep my place and tucked its baton under my chin while I rerolled what I had read.

  Both my new cronies wore white tunics with green binding; it looked like household livery, and from their confident expressions must have been the livery of some minor town councillor who thought himself big in the neighbourhood. The large one was surveying me like a farmer who had turned up something slimy on his spade.

  ‘I’d better warn you,’ I tried frankly, ‘I know when a stranger comes to town men of enterprise plunder his file savings in the high spots while sinful women tickle his chastity in low dives –

  There was more hope of extracting a flicker of expression from a pair of archaic statues in a deserted tomb.