Lindsey Davis - A dying light in Corduba

When I calmed the scribe down I said quietly, 'The answers I want are known by your previous quaestor, Cornelius. Can I contact him? Has he left Baetica?'

'His term ended; he's going back to Rome – but first he's travelling. He's gone east on a tour. A benefactor offered him a chance to see the world before he settles down.'

'That could take some time! Well, if the junketer's unavailable, what can you remember from the scrolls that are lost?'

'The enquiry from Anacrites said hardly anything. The messenger who brought it probably talked to the proconsul and the quaestor.' He was a scribe. He disapproved. He liked things safely written down.

'Tell me about Cornelius.'

The scribe looked prim. 'The proconsul had every confidence in him.'

'Lots of hunting leave, eh?'

Now he looked puzzled. 'He was a hardworking young man.'

'Cornelius was very worried,' the scribe continued doggedly. 'He discussed things with the proconsul, though not with me.'

'Was that usual?'

'It was all so sensitive.'

'He dictated the report to you though. What did it say?' 'Cornelius had concluded that people might want to inflate the price of olive oil.'

'More than general overcharging?'

'Much more.'

'Systematic fixing?'

'Yes.'

Did he name names?'

'No.'

'Still, he thought that if action was taken quickly the cartel could be nipped in the bud?'

'Did he?' asked the scribe.

'It is a customary phrase. I was told that was his verdict.'

'People are always repeating wrong statements that are supposed to be in reports,' said the scribe, as if the very untidiness of the habit upset him. Something else was annoying me: Camillus Aelianus had apparently lied to me about this point.

'So Cornelius felt the situation was serious? Who was supposed to act on it?'

'Rome. Or Rome would order action by us – but they preferred to send their own investigator. Isn't that why you are here?'

I smiled – though the fact was, with Anacrites out of it and Laeta so untrustworthy, I had no idea.

There was no hope of further help: today was a public holiday. Informers work loose hours and try to ignore such things, but everyone else in the Empire realised that this was eleven days before the Kalends of May – the big spring festival. The governor's palace had been working for a couple of hours, following the fine tradition of pretending that state business is too important to stop. But uow even the palace was closing down, and I had to leave.

After walking uphill again, I found Marmarides in a tavern; I left him there. Helena was moping in the basilica entrance in the forum, looking at plans for a spanking new Temple of the Imperial Cult; she was clearly bored and it was time to remove her before she tried chalking faces on the Corinthian columns in the elegant design elevations. Ceremonies were about to start in any case.

I slipped my hand around hers and we walked slowly down the flight of steps among increasing crowds, Helena being careful to keep her balance. Reaching street level we dodged acolytes with incense-sprinklers as they gathered for a sacrifice.

'That looked a zippy new hexastyle portico they're going to build for the Imperial Cult!'

'When you start spouting architecture, I know you're in trouble,' she said.

'I'm not in trouble – but somebody soon will be.'

She gave me a sceptical look, then made some dry comment about the crisp modelling of the proposed temple's capitals. I said I wondered who would pay for this fine community monument. The citizens of Rome, perhaps, through exorbitantly priced olive oil.

I told Helena today's events as we found a space in the piazza, to view whatever was about to happen. Corduba is set on rising ground, the older part with a maze of narrow streets which come up from the river, its houses close set to keep out the hot sun. These byways lead uphill to the public buildings where we now were. Helena must have surveyed the small forum pretty well while she was waiting for me, but the festival pageantry revived her. 'So the proconsul has given you permission to operate in his territory. You're looking, without much hope, for a dancing girl who kills people -'

'Yes, but I imagine somebody hired her to do it.'

Tor which your group of suspects are the Baeticans you saw at the dinner: Aimaeus, Licinius, Cyzacus and Norbanus. Optatus told us Quinctius Attractus has been making overtures to other people too-'

'He would have to. Price-rigging only works if all the producers band together.'

'But the ones who were in Rome when Valentinus was killed have made themselves suspects you have to concentrate on.'

'It could be just their hard luck that they got themselves tangled up in a killing. But yes; it's those I'm after.'

Helena always considered every possibility: 'I suppose you don't think the dancing girl and her accomplices could be ordinary thieves whose method is to size up guests at parties then rob the rich ones as they stagger home drunk?'

'They didn't pick the rich ones, sweetheart; they jumped the Chief Spy and his agent.'

'So you definitely think the attacks are linked to what's going on in Baetica?'

'Yes, and showing that the Baetican visitors were involved in the attacks will not only do right by Valentinus, but ought to discredit the whole conspiracy.'

Helena grinned. 'It's a pity you can't talk to the muchadmired Cornelius. Who do you think has paid for his "chance to see the world before he settles down"?'

'A gold-laden grandpa I expect. Types in those posts always have them.'

'The proconsul sounds very suspicious of the new incumbent. Surely that's unusual? The lad hasn't even started yet.'

'It confirms that his father is regarded as a bad influence in Baetica.'

'The proconsul would be too tactful to libel Attractus of course…'

'He was! I could tell he dislikes the man, though – or at least he dislikes the kind of pushiness Attractus represents.'

'Marcus, since Attractus himself isn't here you may be forced to have a look at his son. Have you brought your hunting spears?'

'Jupiter, no!' I had brought a sword for protection, though. 'Given the chance to pursue wolves around a wild peninsula with my old friend Petronius I'd jump – but the quaestor will have gone on a rich idiots' trip. If there's one thing I can't stand it's a week of camping in a forest with a group of braying bastards whose idea of fun is sticking javelins into beasts that thirty slaves and a pack of vicious hounds have conveniently driven into nets.'

'And no women,' Helena nodded, apparently sympathetically.

I ignored the jibe. 'Too much drink; too much noise; half-cooked, half-warm greasy meat; and listening to boasts and filthy jokes.'

'Oh dear! And you the refined, sensitive type who just wants to sit under a thorn bush all day in a clean tunic with a scroll of epic poetry!'

'That's me. An olive tree on your father's farm will do.' 'just Virgil and a sliver of goat's cheese?'

'Seeing we're here, I'd better say Lucan; he's a Corduban poet. Plus your sweet head upon my knee, of course.'

Helena smiled. I was pleased to see it. She had been looking tense when I found her at the basilica but a mixture of banter and flattery had softened her.

We watched a pontifex or flamen, one of the priests of the imperial cult, make a sacrifice at an altar set up in the open forum. A middle-aged, portly Baeticau with a jolly expression, he wore a purple robe and a pointed, conical hat. He was attended by assistants who were probably freed slaves, but he himself flashed the equestrian ring and was a citizen of social solidity. He had probably held a senior military post in the legions, and maybe a local magistracy, but he looked a decent jolly soul as he rapidly cut a few animals' throats, then led out a fitful procession to celebrate the Feast of the Parilia, the lustration of the flocks.