Lindsey Davis - Falco 01 - Silver Pigs Read online

  “You read it: Didius Falco,” I said, watching her. “I’m a private informer.”

  She considered this. For a moment she was uncertain, then she became quite excited: “You work for the Emperor!”

  “Vespasian hates informers. I operate for sad middle-aged men who think their wicked wives are sleeping with charioteers, and even sadder ones who know their wives are sleeping with their nephews. Sometimes for women.”

  “What do you do for the women or is it indiscreet to ask?”

  I laughed. “Whatever they pay for!”

  I left it at that.

  I went inside and tidied away various items I preferred her not to see, then I set about preparing my evening meal. After a time she followed me in and inspected the bleak hole Smaractus rented me. For the price it was an insult but I rarely paid his price.

  There was an outer room in which a dog might just turn round, if he was a thin dog with his tail between his legs. A wonky table, a slanty bench, a shelf of pots, a bank of bricks I used as a cooking stove, a gridiron, wine jars (empty), rubbish basket (full). One way out to the balcony for when you got tired of stamping on the cockroaches indoors, plus a second opening behind a curtain in bright, welcoming stripes this led to the bedroom. Sensing it perhaps, she did not ask.

  “In case you’re used to all-night banquets that run through seven courses from eggs in fish pickle sauce to frozen sorbets dug out of snow pits, I warn you on Tuesdays my cook goes to see his granny.” I had no cook, no slaves at all. My new client was beginning to look unhappy.

  “Please don’t trouble. I can eat when you take me home ‘

  “You’re going nowhere yet,” I said. “Not until I know what I’m taking you back to. Now eat!”

  We had fresh sardines. I would have liked to provide something more exciting, but sardines were what the woman who

  took it upon herself to leave my meals had left. I made a cold sweet sauce to liven up the fish: honey, with a dash of this, a sprinkle of that, the normal sort of thing. The girl watched me do it as if she had never seen anybody grinding lovage and rosemary in a mortar in her life. Perhaps she never had.

  I finished first, then leaned my elbows on the edge of the table while I gazed at the young lady with a frank and trustworthy face.

  “Now, tell your Uncle Didius all about it. What’s your name?”

  “Helena.” I was so busy looking frank, I missed the flush on her own face that ought to have told me the seed pearl in this oyster was a fake.

  “Know those barbarians, Helena?”

  “No.”

  “So they grabbed you where?”

  “In our house.”

  I whistled slowly. That was a surprise.

  Remembering made her indignant, which made her more talkative. They had snatched her in broad daylight.

  “They clanged the bell as bold as brass, barged past the porter, burs!” through the house, pulled me out to a carrying chair and raced down the street! When we got to the Forum the crowds slowed them, so I jumped out and ran away.”

  They had threatened her enough to keep her quiet, though clearly not enough to quash her spirit.

  “Any idea where they were taking you?”

  She said not.

  “Now don’t be worried!” I reassured her. “Tell me, how old are you?”

  She was sixteen. O Jupiter!

  “Married?”

  “Do I look like a person who is married?” She looked like a person who soon should be!

  “Papa any plans? Perhaps he has his eye on some well-bred army officer, home from Syria or Spain?”

  She seemed interested in the concept, but shook her head. I could see one good reason for kidnapping this beauty. I improved on my trustworthy look. “Any of papa’s friends been ogling you too keenly? Has your mother introduced you to any spruce young sons of her childhood friends?”

  “I haven’t a mother,” she interrupted calmly.

  There was a pause while I wondered at her odd way of putting it. Most people would say “My mother’s dead’, or whatever. I worked out that her noble mama was in excellent

  health, probably found in bed with a footman and divorced in disgrace.

  “Excuse me professional question any special admirer your family knows nothing about?”

  Suddenly she burst into giggles. “Oh do stop being so silly! There’s nobody like that!”

  “You’re a very attractive young lady!” I insisted, adding quickly, “Though of course you’re safe with me.”

  “I see!” she remarked. This time those huge brown eyes suddenly danced in high spirits. I realized with astonishment that I was being teased.

  Some of it was bluff. She had been badly frightened and now she was trying to be brave. The braver she was, the sweeter she looked. Her beautiful eyes were gazing into mine, brimming with mischief and causing serious troubles of my own…

  Just in time, footfalls dragged to a halt outside, then my door was battered with that casual arrogance that could only mean a visit from the law.

  IV

  The law settled his breathing-rate after the stairs.

  “Do come in,” I said mildly. “It’s not locked.”

  He was in. He collapsed at the other end of my bench. “Have a seat,” I offered.

  “Falco, you villain! This is an improvement!” He gave me a slow grin. Petronius Longus, patrol captain of the Aventine watch. A big, placid, sleepy-looking man with a face people trusted probably because it gave so little away.

  Petronius and I went back a long time. We joined the army on the same day, finding each other in the queue to take the oath to the Emperor, and finding too that we had been brought up only five streets apart. We were tent mates for seven years and when we came home we had another thing in common: we were veterans of the Second Augustan Legion in Britain. Not only that, we were veterans of the Second at the time of Queen Boudicca’s Revolt against Rome. So because of the Second’s abysmal performance, we both left the army eighteen years early and we both had something we never wanted to talk about.

  “Poke your eyes back in,” I told him. “Her name’s Helena.”

  “Hello, Helena. What a pretty name! Falco, where did you find that?”

  “Running a foot race round the Temple of Saturn.” I had chosen to answer with such simple honesty because there was a slim chance Petronius already knew. Besides, I wanted the girl to believe she was dealing with a man who told the truth.

  I introduced the watch captain to my dazzling client: “Petronius Longus, district patrolman; the best.”

  “Good evening, sir,” she said.

  I guffawed bitterly. Take a job in local government, women will call you “sir”I Sweetheart, there’s no need to overdo it.”

  Take no notice of this tricky character,” Petronius scoffed in

  his easy way, smiling at her with an interest I did not altogether like.

  She smiled back at him, so I clipped tersely, “We men want to gossip with a wine jug; go into the bedroom and wait for me.”

  She shot me a look, but she went. That’s the benefit of a liberal education, this little girl knew she lived in a man’s world. Besides, she had pretty manners and it was my house.

  “Nice!” approved Petronius, in a low voice.

  He has a wife, who for some reason adores him. He never refers to her, but must care about her; he’s the type who would. They have three daughters, and like a good Roman father he is utterly sentimental about his girls. I could see a day coming when the Tullianum jail would be crammed with frightful young sprogs who had cast their beady eyes at Petro’s girls.

  I produced two wine cups which looked clean, though I polished up Petro’s on the hem of my tunic before I clonked them on the table. In the hole under a floorboard that passed for my wine cellar I had some smoked Spanish poison that was a gift from a grateful client, some new dusky red that tasted as if it had been robbed from an Etruscan tomb, and a well-aged amphora of decent white Setinum. Since Petro’s
visit was so awkwardly timed, I wavered over acting casual and just serving the Etruscan, but in the end I settled for the Setinum because we were old friends and anyway I fancied some myself.

  As soon as he tasted it, he knew he was being bribed.

  He said nothing. We drained several cups. The time came when a chat seemed unavoidable.

  “Listen,” he broached. “There’s a hue and cry for a little gold-hemmed skirt who was lifted from a senator’s house this morning, don’t ask me why ‘

  “Want me to keep an eye out?” I suggested, perking up cheerily, though I could see he was not deceived. “Heiress, is she?”

  “Shut up, Falco. She was spotted later in the clutch of some slavering ghoul whose description uncannily fits yours. Her name is Sosia Camillina, she’s strictly off limits, and I want her put back where she came from before we have some praetor’s pet helpers crawling all over my patch passing rude remarks on the way I run the markets… That her in there?” He nodded at the bedroom doorway.

  I owned up meekly. “Imagine it must be.”

  I liked him; he was good at his job. We both knew he had found his lost kitten.

  I explained about her in a way that laid a great deal of emphasis on my gallant role as rescuer of frantic nobility, and (in view of Petro’s earlier remark) less on me wrecking market stalls. It seemed best not to place him in any awkward dilemmas.

  I’ll have to take her back,” Petro said. He was nicely drunk.

  I’ll take her,” I promised. “Do me a favour. If you go it’s Thanks for doing your duty, officer; for me they may stretch to a small reward. Split?”

  Lubricated by a good wine, my crony Petronius becomes a gentleman. Not many men are so considerate of the profit and loss columns of M Didius Falco’s personal accounts.

  “Oh…” He tipped his cup wryly. This will do me. Give me your word.”

  I gave him my word and the rest of the Setinum, then he went away happy.

  I had no real intention of giving her back.

  Well… not yet.

  V

  I whipped into the bedroom, dangerous with annoyance. The curtain zinged along its rod. The little lost person jumped up guiltily, spilling my private notebooks onto the floor.

  “Give me those!” I roared. Now I was really furious.

  “You’re a poet!” She was stalling for time. “Is “Aglaia the White Dove” about a woman? I suppose they are all about women, they’re rather rude… I’m sorry. I was interested…”

  Aglaia was a girl I knew, neither white nor the least bit like a dove. Come to that, Aglaia was not her name.

  Bright eyes was still giving me that vulnerable look, but to rather worse effect. The loveliest women lose their gloss once you notice they are lying through their teeth.

  “You’re about to hear something considerably ruder!” I snapped. “Sosia Camillina? So why the false travel pass?”

  “I was frightened!” she protested. “I didn’t want to say my name, I didn’t know what you wanted I let it pass; neither did I. “Who’s Helena?”

  “My cousin. She went to Britain. She got divorced ‘

  “Extravagance, or mere adultery?”

  “She said it was too complicated to explain.”

  “Ah!” I cried bitterly. I had never been married but I was an expert in divorce. “Adultery! I’ve heard of women being exiled to islands for immoral behaviour, but exile to Britain seems a bit bleak!”

  Sosia Camillina looked curious. “How can you tell?”

  “I’ve been there.”

  Because of the rebellion I sounded terse. She would have been six years old at the time. She did not remember the great British Revolt and I was not starting history lessons now.

  Suddenly she demanded: “Why did your friend call you a tricky character?”

  “I’m a republican. Petronius Longus thinks that’s dangerous.”

  “Why are you a republican?”

  “Because every free man should have a voice in the government of the city where he has to live. Because the senate should not hand control of the Empire for life to one mortal, who may turn out insane or corrupt or immoral and probably will. Because I hate to see Rome degenerate into a madhouse controlled by a handful of aristocrats manipulated by their cynical ex-slaves, while the mass of its citizens cannot earn a decent living…” Impossible to tell what she made of all that. Her next inquiry was stubbornly practical.

  “Do private informers earn a decent living?”

  Taking every legal opportunity, they grab enough to keep alive. On good days,” I said, ‘there may be tucker on the table to give us the energy to rave at the injustice of the world I was well away now. I had matched Petronius levelly with the wine.

  “Do you think the world is unjust?”

  “I know it, lady!”

  Sosia stared at me gravely, as if she were saddened that the world had treated me so hard. I stared back. I was none too overjoyed myself.

  I felt tired. I went out into the living room and after a moment the girl came too.

  “I need to go to the lavatory again.”

  I was seized by the wild anxiety of a man who brings home a puppy because it looks so sweet, then realizes that on the sixth floor he has problems. No need to panic. My apartment was spartan, but my way of life hygienic.

  “Well,” I teased. “There are several alternatives. You can pop downstairs and try to persuade Lenia to open up the laundry after hours. Or you can run along the street to the big public convenience but don’t forget to take your copper to get in because six flights is a long way to come back for it ‘

  “I suppose,” snapped Sosia haughtily, ‘you and your men friends pee off the balcony?”

  I looked shocked. I was, mildly. “Don’t you know there are laws against that?”

  “I had not imagined,” sneered Sosia, ‘you would worry about the public nuisance laws!” She was getting the measure of the establishment I ran. She had already got the measure of me.

  I crooked my finger. She followed me back into the bedroom where I introduced her to the arrangements which I modestly used myself.

  Thank you,” she said.

  “Don’t mention it,” I returned.

  I peed off the balcony just to prove my independence.

  This time when she came back I was brooding. I seemed to be struggling more than usual with the background to this kidnap. I could not decide whether I had missed the point, or whether in fact I knew all there was to know. I wondered if the senator she belonged to was politically active. Sosia might have been snatched to influence his vote. Oh gods, surely not! She was far too beautiful. There must be more involved than that.

  “Are you taking me home?”

  Too late. Too risky. I’m too drunk.” I turned away, wandered across the bedroom and collapsed onto my bed. She stood in the doorway like a leftover fish bone

  “Where am I going to sleep?”

  I was almost as drunk as Petronius. I was lying flat on my back, nursing my notebooks. I was incapable of anything more than feeble gestures and silliness.

  “Against my heart, little goddess!” I exclaimed, then flung my arms wide, very carefully, one at a time.

  She was frightened.

  “All right!” she retorted. She was a stalwart little piece.

  I grinned at her weakly, then flopped back into my previous position. I was pretty frightened myself.

  I was right though. It was too great a risk to step out of doors with anyone so precious. Not after nightfall. Not in Rome. Not through those pitch-black streets full of burglars and buggery. She was safer with me.

  Was she safe? somebody asked me afterwards. I avoided answering. To this day I don’t know, really, whether Sosia Camillina was safe with me that night or not.

  To Sosia I said gruffly, “Guests take the reading couch. Blankets in the wooden box.”

  I watched her construct an elaborate cocoon. She made a terrible job of it. Like a tentful of legionary recruits, eight la
ckadaisical lads wearing scratchy new tunics who had never made up a camp bed before. She fidgeted round the couch for ages, tucking in far too many covers far too tight.

  “I need a pillow,” she complained finally in a small, serious voice, like a child who could only sleep if she followed a fixed nightly routine. I was blissful with wine and excitement; I did

  not care whether I had a pillow or not. I hooked one hand behind my head then flung her mine, wide, but she caught it.

  Sosia Camillina inspected my pillow as though it might harbour fleas. Another charge of resentment against the nobility. Possibly it did, but any wildlife was tightly sewn inside a cheerful red and purple cover inflicted on me by my mama. I did not care to have snooty chits of girls casting aspersions on my household goods.

  “It’s perfectly clean! Use it and be grateful.”

  She laid the pillow very neatly at the end of her bed. I blew out the light. Private informers can be gentlemen when they are too drunk for anything else.

  I slept like a babe. I have no idea whether my visitor did the same. Probably not.

  VI

  The senator Decimus Camillas Verus lived in the Capena Gate Sector. The Capena Gate was the district next but one to mine, so I walked. On the way I passed my youngest sister Maia and at least two little roughnecks off our family tree.

  Some informers give the impression we are solitary men. Perhaps that was where I went wrong. Every time I was surreptitiously trailing some adulterous clerk in a shiny tunic, I looked up to find one of these midgets wiping his nose on his arm and bawling my name across the street. I was a hobbled donkey in Rome. I must have been related to most people between the Tiber and the Ardeatine Gate. I had five sisters, the poor girl my brother Festus never found the time to marry, thirteen nephews and four nieces, with several more visibly on the way. That excludes what lawyers call my heirs of the fourth and fifth degree: my mother’s brothers, and my father’s sisters, and all the second cousins of the first marriage children of the stepfathers of my grandfather’s aunts.