Lindsey Davis - JUPITER MYTH

"Only I don't think he can be the right man, sir. When we asked, he denied that his name was Petronius."

I was furious and let the centurion see it. "You asked, when the sheet said don't approach'?"

"Only way we could attempt to discover if he was the subject, sir." This idiot was so self-righteous I barely refrained from hitting him.

"It's the right man," I growled. "Petronius Longus loathes nosy questions from stiffs in red tunics. He generally claims to be a feather-fan seller called Ninius Basilius."

"That's rather peculiar, sir. He told us he was a bean-importer called Ixymithius."

Thanks, Petro! I sighed. I had plucked a known alias of his from my memory-the wrong one. Any minute now, Crixus would decide it was a fact of note that the subject worked under cover using several false identities. Then the centurion would be even more nosy. If I knew Petro, he was just being rebellious; he had instinctively stiffened up when a strutting patrol apprehended him. On principle, he would lie to them. At least it was better than questioning their parentage, telling them to go to Hades in a dung cart, then being thrown in a cell.

"You're going the long way round to admitting that he gave you the slip," I warned. "The governor will not be pleased. I don't know why you're playing silly beggars over this. The poor man has to be told some bad news from home, that's all. Frontinus has a past acquaintance with him; he wants to do it personally."

"Oh well, next time we'll know he's the one. We'll pass the message to him, never fear."

Not now. Not if Petro saw them coming again.

King Togidubnus' long-term friendship with Vespasian went right back to when Rome first invaded Britain; Togi had played host to the legion that the young Vespasian had spectacularly led. That was over forty years ago. I had seen the King much more recently, and when we had our meeting the next morning we were comfortable together.

To look at, he was clearly an elderly northerner, his mottled skin now papery and pale, his hair faded from a reddish tribal shade into a dusty gray. On any formal occasion he dressed like Roman nobility. I had not deduced whether any rank conferred on him actually entitled him to the broad purple stripe on his toga, but he called himself a "legate of Augustus" and he wore that stripe with all the confidence of a senatorial bore who could list several centuries of florid ancestors. Most likely, Togidubnus had been selected young, brought to Rome, educated among the various hopeful hostages and promising princelings, then replaced on a throne to be a bulwark in his home province. After thirty years the Atrebates seemed only a little less backward than any other British tribe in the Romanized area, while they and their king were unquestionably loyal.

All except the dead Verovolcus. He had killed a Roman architect. Mind you, hating architects is legitimate. And the one Verovolcus took against had held opinions on spatial integrity that would make anybody spew.

???

"We meet again, in sorry circumstances, Falco."

I adjusted my pace to fit the King's sober grandeur. "My pleasure at renewing our acquaintance, sir, is only marred by the grim cause."

He sat. I stood. He was playing the high-ranked Roman; he could have been Caesar enthroned in his tent, receiving rebellious Celts. I was entirely subordinate. Anyone who works for clients expects to be treated like a tradesman. Even a slave who employed me as an informer would take a high-handed attitude. The King was not even hiring me; nobody thought that necessary. I was doing this job as a duty, for the good of the Empire and as a favor to family. Those are the worst terms ever. They don't pay. And they don't give you any rights.

I ran through what I knew and what I had done about it. "To sum up, the most likely scenario is this: Verovolcus came to Londinium, perhaps intending to hide up here. He went into a bad location by chance and paid a tragic penalty."

The King considered it for a moment. "That explanation would suffice."

I had expected furious demands for retribution. Instead the Togidubnus response could have come straight from one of the deviously slick offices on the Palatine. He was trying to contain the damage.

"It would suffice for the Daily Gazette!" I said harshly. Rome's official Forum publication loves scandal in the lowbrow columns that follow its routine lists of Senate decrees and calendars of games, but the Acta Diuma is produced by official clerks. The Gazette rarely exposes uncomfortable truths in politics. Its wildest revelations involve lurid sex in the aristocracy- and then only if they are known to be shy of suing.

One bushy gray eyebrow flicked upward. "But you have doubts, Falco?"

"I would certainly like to investigate further…"

"Before you commit yourself? That's good."

"Let's say, whoever dunked Verovolcus in the well, we don't want a repeat."

"And we do want justice!" insisted the King. In fact, "justice" would have put Verovolcus in the amphitheater here, as lunch for starved wild beasts.

"We want the truth," I said piously.

"My retainers are making more inquiries."

The King was glaring defiantly but I merely replied, "The more that district is shaken up, the more we show that violence won't be tolerated."

"What do you know about the district, Falco?"

"It's a grim area at the back of the unloading and storage wharves. It's full of small enterprises, mainly run by migrants, for the benefit of sailors on shore leave and transient import/export men. It has all the disadvantages of such districts in any port."

"A colorful enclave?"

"If that means a hangout for tricksters and thieves."

The King was silent for a while. "Frontinus and Hilaris are telling me that what happened to Verovolcus was probably provoked by him, Falco. They say that the perpetrators would otherwise have only robbed him."

"His torque is missing," I agreed, letting caution sound in my voice.

"Try and find the torque, Falco."

"You want it back?"

"I gave it to him." The King's expression showed nostalgia and regret at the loss of his long-term friend. "Will you recognize it?"

"I remember." It was unusual: fine strands of twisted gold, almost like knitted skeins, and heavy end pieces.

"Do your best. I know the killers will have vanished."

"You are right to feel cautious, but it's not entirely hopeless, sir. They may one day be exposed, even perhaps when arrested for some other crime. Or some small-time criminal may turn them in, hoping for a reward."

"They tell me it is a bad area, yet murders are infrequent." I felt the King was working up to something. "Frontinus and Hilaris know the town," I commented.

"And I knew Verovolcus," said the King.

A slave entered, bringing us refreshments. The interruption was annoying, even though I for one had not had breakfast. Togidubnus and I waited patiently in silence. Maybe we both knew Flavius Hilaris might have sent the slave to observe our meeting for him.

The King made sure of privacy and dismissed the slave. The boy looked nervous, but left the offerings on a carved granite side table.

After he went out, I myself sawed off slices of cold meat and gave us each a dish of olives. While the King stayed on his silver-backed couch, I went to a stool. We munched the soft white breakfast rolls and sipped water, no longer speaking. I pasted my ham to my roll with chickpea dip. He wrapped a slice of meat around a hard-boiled hen's egg.

"So what did Frontinus and Hilaris tell you I would want?" asked the King eventually.

"I've had no opportunity to receive instructions, sir."

"What-no briefing?" He looked amused.

"I was out walking this morning." This was true. I had gone to the forum early, where I chalked up graffiti on a wall saying "LPL, contact MDF: urgent." I had no great hopes. Petronius was unlikely to hang around that dreary spot. I risked murmuring frankly, "I expect our two great men are sweating shit!" The King chuckled even more. "But you and I, sir, don't need a briefing before we communicate."