Lindsey Davis - Shadows in Bronze

'No, Falco.' The jailor was a man who spoke, then slowly thought about it. 'Not Aufidius Crispus? He had a house in Herculaneum; sold it to buy that boat-'

'Seen him lately?'

‘No, Falco.' He thought; then opted for caution this time.

Larius felt things were unproductive. 'Show Roscius your pass!' I fetched it out; Roscius read it and handed it back.

Larius closed his eyes in desperation. I returned the pass to Roscius. 'Aha!' he said, not getting the point, but noticing that there might be one.

'Roscius, my friend, could you float that the way of a magistrate? If there's one named Aemilius Kuhn, better choose him.' It still went against the gram, but whoever provided the jailor's lunch had used cold meat which turned up at the edges with a sinister dark rim. Our own relations were too far away to send provisions in. I reckoned I had about three hours before my nephew's hungry stomach gained the side effect of a very nasty attitude.

Roscius sent the pass to Helena's friend. We took turns with his flagon and all got slightly drunk.

Towards the end of a peaceful afternoon two slaves turned up to say that one of us lads had to stay locked up, but the other could come with them. I explained to Larius that he would have to be the hostage, since Rufus was the friend of a friend of mine.

'Just hurry up, will you?' Galla's treasure snarled. 'I could murder a bowl of Baian beans!'

The house of Aemilius Rufus was a modest affair, though he probably owned a stack of gracious architecture elsewhere. This one had the atmosphere of an unvisited museum. It was furnished in a heavy style with wall friezes of battle scenes and grand spiky furniture, formally arranged, which I would never dare sit down on in case I nudged a leg out of line. It was a house without the grace of children, pets, the trickle of a fountain, or growing plants. If there was a gecko on the gloomily lacquered ceilings, he kept his head well down.

His honour was on a sun terrace, which at least had the sprawling untidiness most sun terraces achieve. Its occupants had been murmuring politely, though when I shuffled out into the sunshine they seized on the excuse and stopped. After a hard day trying to stay awake in the courthouse, Rufus was relaxing at full stretch with a large goblet clasped to his chest: a hopeful sign.

He had with him a thin noblewoman who must be his sister, and another lass. They were positioned at a wicker table which held the inevitable pastry plate. The magistrate's sister picked at the sweetmeats spasmodically, while her visitor cheerfully tucked in. It was Helena Justina. She did me the supreme honour of letting my arrival put her off her food.

Unavoidable: as soon as you say goodbye forever, you trip over the lady wherever you go. So now mine was on a Herculaneum sun terrace, licking ground almonds off her fingers, with a tantalizing smear of honey on her chin which I would have enjoyed licking off for her myself.

She was wearing white, which was how I liked her, and she stayed very quiet, which was not. She ignored me, though I refused to be demoralized by that.

The illustrious Sextus Aemilius Rufus Clemens, son of Sextus, grandson of Gaius, of the Falerna voting tribe; tribune, aedile, honorary priest of the Augustales, and currently ranking praetor, leaned around the back of his day bed; I stiffened. I was being greeted by a good-quality copy of a Praxiteles Apollo. If I stood him on a plinth with his clothes off and a thoughtful expression, Geminus would buy him like a shot. A classic face; assertive intelligence; painfully fair colouring in a rare, superb combination with extremely dark brown eyes. Helena Justina's friend was so good-looking I wanted to spit on him and see if any of the artistry washed off.

He had taken a fast run at public life. I put him not far beyond thirty. In five years he would be commanding a legion in one of the better provinces, and make consul easily in ten. Since he lived with his sister I guessed he was a bachelor, though it had not held him back in collecting votes. The reason he stayed single was probably being spoiled for choice.

He picked up my pass from a small silver table, read it, then surveyed me with limpidly dark eyes as I approached. 'Didius Falco? Welcome to Herculaneum!' He gave me a frank, open smile like a man who dealt honestly, though I supposed he was no better than all the rest. 'I gather someone has a shocked little donkey who will never be the same again… So what exactly is the name of your ox?'

'Spot!' I declared stoutly. He smiled. I smiled. The friendliness would never last. 'My nephew and I,' I insisted, sticking up for us, 'have spent a humiliating morning and we intend filing a claim for wrongful arrest. Nero was one of the few Emperors who managed to avoid the honour of being decreed divine.'

'He's sacred in Campania, Falco; he wed a local girl!' 'Pigswill! Didn't Poppaea Sabina come to grief when he kicked her in the stomach during a pregnancy?

'A domestic tiff which good Campanian prefer to forget!' Herculaneum's golden magistrate grinned at me, with an attractive flash of teeth. 'I agree. Blasphemy seems a trumped-up charge. Suppose I ask instead about your unorthodox deliveries of lead?' His apologetic tone was upsetting. I prefer blunter questions, accompanied by a soldier's knee in my soft extremities.

'Problem, sir? How can I help?'

'There have been,' Rufus offered, with a gentleness that made my liver curl, 'complaints.'

'Oh I don't understand that, sir!' I protested in outrage. 'It's top-quality stock from Britain, and we make every effort to ensure all our installations have good workmanship to match!'

'It's not your customers who complain,' Rufus stated. 'It's those with official franchises who are being undercut.'

'Tough,' I said. I was losing a battle I could not control; tiring work.

The magistrate shrugged. 'Any more of this lead?' 'No sir; that's the last.'

'Good. You can pick up your ox from the livery stables, but unless you show me proof of ownership, I have to confiscate the lead.'

For a man with a handsome profile, his business acumen was admirably sharp.

Now that he had pinched my samples, we became best friends. He waved me to a stool and made free with the wine he was drinking himself: a clean-flowing vintage my expert friend Petronius would admire.

'Very generous of you, sir – are the ladies joining us?'

His two refined companions had kept aloof, though we knew they were listening. Rufus veiled his eyes, entrusting me with a hint of male conspiracy, as they deigned to squirm sideways towards us, chinking their bangles to indicate the inconvenience.

'My sister Aemilia Fausta -' I gave her a solemn bow; her friend looked wise to it. 'Helena Justina you know, I believe. She has been telling us what she thinks of you-'

'Oh he's a typical man!' scoffed Helena wittily, unable to miss this chance. 'He has dreadful friends, silly habits, and his antics make me laugh!'

Rufus shot me a bright, curious glance; I gravely asserted, 'The daughter of Camillus Verus is someone I hold in the highest esteem!' It sounded unreliable; the truth so often does.

Helena grumbled something under her breath, so Rufus laughed. He rolled up his napkin and threw it at her; she biffed it back with the easy informality of old family friends. I could imagine their adolescence shared in long summer holidays here, swimming and boating and picnicking. Sailing to Surrentum. Trips to Capreae. Baiae. Lake Avernus.

Stolen kisses in the Sybil's Cave at Cumae. I pictured the effect such a glorious hunk of glowing masculinity must have had on Helena Justina while she was a growing girl.

Perhaps he still did.

The rough wine at the jailhouse plus the smooth wine on the sun terrace were filling me with a pleasant sense of irresponsibility. I beamed at the ladies, then sat back in the sunshine enjoying my drink.