Time to Depart mdf-7 Page 8

  She did look good. She looked healthy, calm and sure of herself. As she gripped the child – who was trying to fling herself to the floor to see if landing hard on boards would hurt – Helena's big brown beautiful eyes sent me another dare.

  I stayed calm. I never let Silvia see how much she annoyed me. And I tried not to let Helena discover how her challenges made me feel jittery. 'The first time I ever saw Helena she was holding a child.'

  'I don't remember that.'

  'The British procurator's daughter.'

  'Oh, Aunt Camilla's eldest!' She did remember now; her blush told me. 'Flavia.'

  'Flavia!' I agreed, grinning at her. I could see she had recalled the scene: a polite family group, educated after-dinner people discussing whether it might rain the next day, then I prowled in, newly landed in the province, flexing my class prejudice and intending to break bones if anyone offered me any pleasantries.

  'What was he doing?' giggled Silvia.

  'Scowling,' replied Helena patiently. 'He looked as if a Titan had just stepped on his foot and crushed his big toe. I was staying with nice people who had been very kind to me, then this hero turned up, like Milo of Croton looking for a tree to split with his fist. He was exhausted, miserable and exasperated by his work -'

  'Sounds normal!'

  'But he still managed to be rude to me.'

  'The lout!'

  'In a way that made me want to – '

  'Go to bed with me?' I offered.

  'Prove you wrong!' Helena roared, still hot-headed at the thought.

  When I met her in Britain she had thoroughly overturned me: I had started out believing her stuck-up, strict, ill-humoured, uncharitable and untouchable; then I fell for her so hard I was barely able to believe my luck when she did go to bed with me.

  'And what were you after, Falco?' Silvia was half hoping for a salacious answer.

  I wanted Helena as my partner for life. That was too shocking to mention to a prim link piece like Silvia. I reached for the fruit bowl and savagely bit a pear.

  'We're still waiting to hear about this task you two have for the Emperor!' Making Silvia change the subject was simplicity itself. If you ignored one remark she came out with something different. That did not mean you liked it better.

  I saw Petro frown slightly. We both wanted to let things ride. We still had to manoeuvre for position, and we didn't need women helping us.

  'Which of you is taking the lead in this venture?' Helena asked curiously. She could always find really awkward questions.

  'I am,' said Petro.

  'Excuse me!' I had wanted to sort this out privately with him, but we were now trapped. 'I work independently. I don't take orders from anyone.'

  'I'm head of the special enquiry,' said Petro. 'You'll have to work with me.'

  'My commission comes direct from Vespasian. He always gives me a free hand.'

  'Not in my district.'

  'I hadn't foreseen any conflict.'

  'You hadn't been thinking then!' muttered Helena.

  'There's no conflict,' Petronius said calmly.

  'Oh no. It's all pretty clear. You intend to be planning the work, giving the orders and leading the team. That leaves me sweeping the office.'

  Suddenly he grinned. 'Sounds fair – and I suppose you're competent!'

  'I can wield a broom,' I agreed, though I was conceding nothing.

  'We can work something out,' Petronius murmured airily. 'Oh we can operate in tandem. We've been friends for a long time.' That was why it was impossible for either of us to be in sole charge, of course. Helena had seen that immediately.

  'Of course,' confirmed Petro, with the briefest of smiles. Nothing was settled, but we left it at that to avoid a furious argument

  XIII

  Fountain Court on a quiet October evening had its usual soiled and sultry charm. A faint pall of black smoke from the lampblack ovens drifted languidly five feet above the lane looking for passers-by with clean togas or tunics to smudge. Amidst its acrid tang lingered scents of sulphur from the laundry and rancid fat frying. Cassius the baker had been making veal pies earlier-with too much juniper by the smell. Above us people had hung bedding over their balconies, or sat there airing their fat backsides over a parapet while they shouted abuse at members of their family hidden indoors. Some idiot was hammering madly. A weary young girl staggered past us, almost unable to walk under the weight of the long garlands of flowers she had spent all day weaving for dinner parties in louche, wealthy homes.

  A thin scruffy dog sat outside Lenia's, waiting for someone soft-hearted it could follow home.

  'Don't look,' I commanded Helena. I took her hand as we crossed the dusty street to ask Cassius to give us the key to the empty apartment.

  Cassius was a genial fellow, though be had never deigned to notice that Helena Justina was attached to me. He sold her loaves, at more or less reasonable prices; he chucked me the occasional stale roll while we swapped gossip. But even when Helena appeared in his shop with her noble fist grasped in mine, Cassius gave no acknowledgement that he was addressing a couple. He must regard us as unsuitable; well, he was not alone. I thought we were unsuitable myself – not that that would stop me.

  'Ho, Falco!'

  'Got the key for upstairs?'

  'What idiot wants that?'

  'Well, I'll have a look-'

  'Hah!' chipped Cassius, as if had dared to suggest one of his whole grain crescent baps had a spot of mould.

  Refusing to be put off, we made him go for the key, which had been abandoned for so long he had lost it somewhere behind a mountain of sacks in his flour store. While we waited for him to track down the nail he had hung it on, I hunted for interesting crumbs in the bread roll display baskets, and grinned at Helena.

  'It's right, you know. You looked quite at home that time I saw you with Aelia Camilla's little girl. A natural!'

  'Flavia was not my child,' said Helena, in a cold voice.

  Cassius came back, armed with an iron key the size of a ratchet on some dockyard winding gear. Being nosy, he made sure he kept hold of it and came with us up the dilapidated stone steps beside his shop. Not many of the treads were completely broken away; if you kept near the wall it was almost safe. Using both hands, Cassius struggled to turn the key in a rusted lock. Failing, we discovered the easiest way in was to push open the back edge of the door and squeeze through the matted spiderwebs that had been acting as hinges.

  It was very dark. Cassius boldly crossed to a window and threw back a shutter; it dropped off in his hand. He cursed as the heavy wood crashed to the floor, leaving splinters in his fingers and grazing his leg on the way.

  'Frankly,' Helena decided at once, 'this seems a bit too elegant for us!'

  It was out of the question. Deeply depressed, I insisted on seeing everything.

  'Who lives upstairs, Cassius?'

  'No one. The other apartments are even worse than this. Mind you, I saw some old bag woman poking round this afternoon.'

  Disaster. The last thing we needed was vagrants for close neighbours. I was trying to become more respectable.

  Huge sheets of plaster hung away from the wall slats, which themselves bowed inwards alarmingly. The floors dipped several inches every time we trod the boards, which we did very delicately. The joists must have gone. Since the floor joists should have been tying the whole building together, this was serious. All the internal doors were missing. So, as Lenia had warned me, was the floor in the back rooms.

  'What's that down there?'

  'My log store,' said Cassius. True. We could see the logs through his ceiling. Presumably when Cassius was loading his oven, sometime before dawn, anyone upstairs would hear him rolling the logs about.

  The place was derelict. We would not be asking for a lease from Smaractus. Cassius lost interest and left to tend his leg, which was now bleeding badly. 'Is this your dog down here, Falco?'

  'Certainly not. Chuck a rock at him.'

  'It's a girl.'


  'She's still not mine – and she's not going to be!'

  XIV

  Helena and I stayed, too dispirited to shift. She gazed at me. She knew exactly why I was looking at property, but unless she acknowledged being pregnant, she could not discuss my project. For once, I had the upper hand.

  'Sorry,' I said.

  'Why? Nothing's lost.'

  'I was convinced this dump had been on the market so long I could walk in and pay Smaractus in old nuts!

  'Oh, he'd be delighted to find a tenant!' Helena laughed. 'Can we mend it? You're very practical, Marcus -'

  'Jupiter! This needs major building work – it's far beyond my scope.'

  'I thought you liked a challenge?'

  'Thanks for the faith! This whole block should be torn down. I don't know why Cassius sticks it. He's risking his life every day.' Like much of Rome.

  'At least we could get fresh bread,' Helena pretended to muse. 'We could reach down through the floor for it without getting out of bed. .

  'No, we can't live above a bakery. Apart from the fire risk-'

  The oven is separate, in the street.'

  'So are the mills, with a damned donkey braying and the endless rumble of grinding querns! Don't fool about, lady. Think of the cooking smells. Bread's fine, but when Cassius has baked his loaves he uses the ovens to heat offal pies in nasty gravy for the entire street. I should have thought of that'

  Helena had wandered to the window. She stood on tiptoe, leaning out for the view, while she changed the subject. 'I don't like this trouble between you and Petronius.'

  'There's no trouble.'

  'There's going to be.'

  I've known Petro a long time.'

  'And it's a long time since you worked together. When you did, it was back in the army and you were both taking orders from somebody else.'

  'I can take orders. I take them from you all the time.'

  She chortled seditiously. I joined her at the window and caused a diversion, trying to nudge her off balance. She slipped an arm-around me to save herself; then kept it there in a friendly fashion while we both looked out.

  This side of Fountain Court was lower down the hillside than where we lived, so we were almost opposite the familiar streetside row of lockups: the stationery supplier, the barber, the funeral parlour, small pavement businesses in a gloomy colonnade below five storeys of identical apartments, some overpaid architect's notion of thoughtful design. Few architects permit themselves to live in their own tenements.

  'Is that our Mock?'

  'No, the one next door.'

  'There's a letting notice, Marcus.'

  'I think it's for one of the shops on the ground floor.'

  Helena's sharp eyes had spotted the kind of street graffiti you usually ignore. I walked her downstairs and across the road to check up. The chalked advertisement was for a workshop. It called itself 'well-set-out artisan premises with advantageous living accommodation', but it was a damp booth with an impossible stairway to a disgusting loft. It's true there was a small domestic apartment attached, but the two-room tenancy was for five years. Who could say how many offspring I might have accidentally fathered by that time, and how much space I should be needing to house them all?

  Shivering, I let Helena lead me out to Fountain Court. The scruffy dog had found us again, and was stating at me hopefully. She must have worked out who was the soft one.

  Since the barber had no customers we dumped ourselves pessimistically on two of his stools. He grumbled briefly, then went indoors for a lie-down, his favounte occupation anyway.

  'You know we can live anywhere,' Helena said quietly. 'I have money -'

  'No. I'll pay the rent.'

  As a senator's daughter she owned far less than her two brothers, but if she allied herself with anyone respectable there was a large dowry still kicking around from her previous failed marriage, plus various legacies from female relations who had spotted her special character. I had never let myself discover the exact extent of Helena's wealth. I didn't want to upset myself. And I never wanted to find myself a kept man.

  'So what are we looking for?' She was being tactful now. Refraining from comment on my proud self-respect. Naturally I found it maddening.

  'That's obvious. Somewhere we don't risk scum breaking in. Where perverts who come to see me about business won't make trouble for you. And more space.'

  'Space for a cradle, and seats for all your sisters when they come cooing over the item in it?' Helena's voice was dry. She knew how to soften me up.

  'More seats would be useful.' I smiled. 'I like to entertain.'

  'You like to get me annoyed!'

  'I like you in any mood.' I ran one finger down her neck, just tickling the skin beneath the braid on her gown. She lowered her chin suddenly, trapping my finger. I thought about pulling her closer and kissing her, but I was too depressed. To provide a public spectacle you need to be feeling confident.

  From her position with her head tucked down, Helena was looking across Fountain Court. I felt her interest shift. Gazing at the sky, I warned the gods: 'Watch out, you loafers on Olympus. Somebody's just had a bright idea!'

  Then Helena asked in the curious tone that had so often led to trouble, 'Who lives above the basket shop?'

  The basket-weaver occupied a lockup two along from Cassius the baker. He shared his frontage with a cereal-seller – another quiet trade, and fairly free of smelly nuisances. Above them rose a typical tenement, similar to ours and with the same kind of underpaid, overworked occupants. There was no letting sign, but the shutters on the first-floor apartment were closed, as they always had been to my knowledge. I had never seen anybody going in.

  'Well spotted!' I murmured thoughtfully.

  Right there, opposite Lenia's laundry, we could have found our next home.

  The basket-weaver, a wiry gent in a tawny tunic whom I knew by sight, told us the apartment above him belonged to his shop. He had never occupied the upstairs because he only bunked temporarily in Fountain Court. He lived on the Campagna, kept his family there, and intended to retire to the country when he remembered to stop coming to town every week. The rooms above were in fact impossible to live in, being filled up with rubble and junk. Smaractus was too mean to clear them out. Instead, the idle bastard had negotiated a reduced rent. It suited the basket-weaver. Now it suited me.

  Helena and I peered in warily. It was very dark. After living on the sixth floor, anywhere near ground level was bound to be. No balcony; no view; no garden, of course; no cooking facilities. Water from a fountain a street away. A public latrine at the end of our own street. Baths and temples on the Aventine. Street markets in any direction. My existing office within shouting range across the lane. It had three rooms -a gain of one on what we were used to – and a whole array of little cubbyholes.

  'Pot stores!' cried Helena. 'I love it!'

  'Cradle space!' I grinned.

  Smaractus, my landlord, was a person I avoided. I lost my temper just thinking about that fungus. I had intended to discuss matters peacefully with Lenia, but I foolishly chose a time when her insalubrious betrothed had dropped in with a wine flagon.

  I refused to drink with him. I'll take a free tipple from most people, but I'm a civilised man; I do discriminate. Below the line I drew in those days lay unrepentant murderers, corrupt tax-gathers, rapists, and Smaractus.

  Luckily I knew I made him nervous. There had been a time he always brought two gladiators from the gym he ran whenever he risked his neck in Fountain Court; with Lenia to defend him from aggrieved tenants he had taken to dispensing with the muscle. A good idea; poor Asiacus and Rodan were so badly nourished they needed to conserve their strength. The big daft darlings would never stagger into the arena after a day fighting me. For Smaractus I was a difficult proposition. I was lean and hard, and I hated his guts. As I crossed the threshold I heard his voice, so I had time to apply what Helena called my Milo of Croton look.

  'Falco is going to read the she
ep's liver at the wedding for us!' Lenia simpered, incongruously playing the eager young bride. He couldn't have been there for more than a few minutes but she was well into the wine. Who could blame her?

  'Better watch out!' I warned him. He realised that if I took the augury this might be a double-edged favour. A bad omen could ruin his happiness. A really bad omen, and Lenia might back out before he got the ring on her, depriving him of her well-filled strong-boxes. Being sick on his mother as Lenia had asked me was nothing to the fun I could have with a cooperative ewe.

  'He's nice and cheap,' said Lenia to him, as if explaining why I seemed a good idea. I was on her side too, though we refrained from mentioning that. 'I see the little dog's found you, Falco. We call it Nux.'

  'I'm not taking in a stray.'

  'Oh no? So when did you change your attitude?'

  Smaractus muttered that I lacked experience as a priest, and I retorted that I knew quite enough to pontificate on his marriage. Lenia shoved a winecup into my hand. I shoved it back.

  With the business formalities over, we could get down to cheating each other.

  I knew Smaractus would try to swing some fiddle if he heard we were the basket-weaver's subtenants. One way out was to avoid telling him. Unfortunately, now he was betrothed to Lenia he was always littering up the neighbourhood; he was bound to spot us going in and out. This needed care – or blatant blackmail. To start with I ranted at him about the dilapidated rooms above Cassius. 'Somebody's going to tell the aediles that place is a danger to passers-by, and you'll be ordered to demolish the lot before it falls in the street!' Smaractus would do anything to avoid pulling down a property because by law he would have to replace it with something equal or better. (The idea of making more money from higher rents afterwards was too sophisticated for his mouldy old sponge of a brain.)

  'Who would stir up trouble like that?' he sneered. I smiled courteously, while Lenia kicked his foot to explain what I was getting at. He would be limping for a week.