Poseidon s Gold

Pa poured himself more wine. 'Drink on it?'

'I'll keep sober if I'm working.'

'You sound like a prig.'

'I sound like a man who stays alive.' I reached out and grasped his wrist, preventing him from lifting the cup. 'Now tell me what the job is.'

'You aren't going to care for it!' he assured me contentedly.

'I'll deal with my emotions. Now feel free to elaborate!'

'I should never have got you into this.'

'Agreed. You should have shown restraint when those bastards were applying their boots to the apples of your Hesperides-' I was losing my temper (yet again). ' What's the wrinkle, Pa?'

Finally he told me, though even then extracting the details was like squeezing olives through a jammed press.

'This is how it is. Things take time in the fine-art world. When people are commissioning creative works, they don't expect quick deliveries, so the fashion is to let problems ride.'

'How long ago did this marathon start?'

'Couple of years. I received an enquiry; I put the people off. I said it wasn't my problem; they didn't believe me. This year they must have remembered to do something about it, and they came back. More insistent.'

I was grinding my teeth. 'More aware, you mean, that they were losing cash? On whatever it is,' I added, though I knew.

'Exactly. They became aggressive, so I threw my javelin.'

'In a manner of speaking?'

'Well I told them to push off.'

'With spicy phraseology?'

'They might have thought so.'

'Jove! Then what?'

'It went quiet for a bit. Next the auctions were invaded. Last night it was the warehouse-and me, of course.'

'You may have been lucky last night. Read the dead sheep's liver, Pa. If these people are not soon satisfied, somebody may end up damaged even more severely. From what you mentioned earlier, these bruisers may bash me?'

'You're tough.'

'I'm not a demigod! And actually, I don't enjoy spending my life looking over one shoulder for large types with nails in their cudgels who want to practise hunt-the-decoy through the streets.'

'They don't want bloodshed.'

'Thanks for the reassurance, and tell that to your kicked ribs! I'm not convinced. There was a dead soldier at Flora's Caupona who may have inadvertently stepped in these people's way. That worries me-'

'It worries me,' cried my father. 'If you're right, there was no need for that!'

'I'd rather not have people standing round a pyre next week saying the same thing over me! In a minute I'm going to start demanding names from you-but first I have a crucial question, Father.' He looked pained at my tone, as if I were being insensitive. I forced myself to keep my voice level. 'Just tell me: does this problem of yours have anything to do with big brother Festus and his missing Phidias?'

Our father found an expression of amazement from his skilled repertoire. 'However did you realise that?'

I closed my eyes. 'Let's stop acting the farce, shall we? Just come clean!'

'It's quite simple,' Pa acquiesced. 'The people who want to talk to you are called Cassius Carus and Ummidia Servia. A couple. They don't socialise in a vulgar way, but in the trade they regard themselves as persons of influence. They have a big house with a private art gallery, nice place off the Via Flaminia. They collect statues. They had been lined up by Festus to acquire his Poseidon.'

I was already groaning. 'How closely lined up?'

'As tight as they could be.'

'And persons of influence don't like to be diddled?'

'No. Especially if they intend to go on collecting-which carries some risks, as you know. People want a reputation. They don't like their mistakes to be publicly known.'

I asked, ' Were they diddled?'

'I reckon they think so. Carus and Servia were certainly expecting to receive the property. But then Festus lost his ship, so he failed to deliver it.'

'Had they actually paid for the goods?'

'Afraid so.'

I pulled a face. 'Then they were definitely diddled-and we are rightly being chased. How much-if it's not a saucy question-are we two honest brokers being asked to find?'

'Oh: call it half a million,' muttered Pa.

XXXVII

When I left the Saepta Julia, the air was thin and cold. I nearly went into the Agrippan Baths, but could not face a long walk home on a winter evening after I had let myself be made happy and warm. Better to do the heavy work, then relax.

Pa had offered me a lift in his ornamental litter back to the Thirteenth Sector, but I elected to walk. I had had enough. I needed to be alone. I needed to think.

Helena was waiting. 'Just a quick kiss, my darling, then we're going out.'

'What's happened?'

'I'm really getting grown-up work! First my mother employs me to prove Festus is not a criminal; now my father has hired me because Festus probably is.'

'At least your brother brings in jobs,' said my beloved, ever the optimist. 'Am I coming to help?'

'No. The irrepressible Geminus has fingered me for the Phidias. Some quick-tempered creditors may be coming here to look for me. You'll have to be stowed somewhere safer until the heat's off. I'll take you to the relation of your choice.'

She chose going back to Ma again. I took her; ducked the maternal enquiries; promised to see them both when I could; then trudged off through the gathering darkness towards the Caelian.

I was now determined to track down my brother's friends, the loathsome wall painters.

I tried the Virgin, without luck.

I tried all the other places where Varga and Manlius were supposed to hang out, but they were not there either. This was tiresome, but par for the course in my work. Investigating consists mainly of failure. You need thick boots and a strong heart, plus an infinite capacity for staying awake while parked in a draughty pergola, hoping that that strange scuttling sound is only a rat, not a man with a knife, though all the time you know that if the person you are watching for ever does turn up, they will be a dead loss.

Helena had asked, 'Why don't you go straight to the art collectors and explain?'

'I will go. I hope to have something to offer them first.'

As I stood watching an extremely nasty doss-house in the worst area of a bad district in this heartless city, it did seem unlikely that a rare old Greek statue would be standing around here with its toes as cold as mine, waiting for a lift in a waggon to a more refined environment.

I must have been there on surveillance for four hours. On a cold March Thursday, that's a long time.

The street was pitch-dark. It was short, narrow, and stinking; an easy touch for comparisons with life. The night-life was plentifuclass="underline" drunks, fornicators, more drunks, cats who had learned from the fornicators, even drunker drunks. Drunken cats, probably. Everyone round here had been at an amphora, and I could understand it. Everyone was lost. The dogs; the cats; the humans. Even the fire brigade, wandering up with half-empty buckets, asked me the way to Oyster Street. I gave them correct instructions, then watched their smoky flare disappear in the wrong direction anyway. They were going to a tavern for a quick one; the fire could just blaze.

A whore offered me a quick one of the other sort, but I managed to plead poor plumbing. She cackled and launched into medical theories that made me blush. I told her I was one of the vigiles, so with a vicious curse she staggered off. Beyond the corner, where the streets were wider, even the normal night-time rumble of delivery carts seemed slack tonight. Beyond that, sharp on the frosty air, I heard the call of a Praetorian trumpet sounding the watch over their great camp. Above my head, where the stars should be, only blackness loomed.

Eventually the passers-by thinned out. My feet were frozen. My legs were too exhausted to stamp. I was wearing two cloaks and three tunics, but the chill had slid right under them. This was some way from the river, but even here the Tiber fog seeped into my lungs. There was no breeze; just that still, deceptive coldness like an animal that eats your heart while you stand.