Shadows in Bronze (5 page)

'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 half-way 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, crammed 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.

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 mean, 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.