A dying light in Corduba

LI

I rode back to Corduba even faster than I had come. I was glad I was not journeying in July or August, but even so the weather was uncomfortable enough to remind me this was the hottest part of Spain. Around me, covering the alluvial plain to the south of the River Baetis, lay the finest olive groves in Baetica. For oil rather than fruit, maybe the best olives in the world. Beyond the river even in the baking sun all the hills were green. Trees and shrubs flourished. I was crossing a bowl of abundant fertility, yet my mood remained grim.

For one thing, I was worried about Helena. There was nothing I could do about that. At least I was on my way back to her.

And I now had a new problem. I had not told poor Placidus, who was in enough misery with his wound, but what I had learned from the dancer filled me with dread If Selia really had been working for Laeta, the attacks in Rome made one kind of sense: I was involved in a power struggle – as I had all along suspected – between two arms of palace offrcialdom. It looked darker and more bloody than I would have expected, but it was internal.

Whatever was going on here in Baetica might not matter to anybody back in Rome. The oil cartel could merely be the excuse Laeta and Anacrites used to perpetuate their rivalry. Or Laeta had used it on his own. Much as I loathed Anacrites, he was beginning to look like an innocent victim. He might have been just doing his job, decently attempting to protect a valuable commodity. Perhaps he was unaware of the threat from Laeta. When I saw them together at the dinner they had sparred verbally, but there was no sense that the spy suspected Laeta might actually be preparing to pick him off. Him and his best agent – a man I reckoned I would have liked.

I could walk away from the palace intrigue – but the dead Valentinus would continue to haunt me.

The scenario stank. I was furious that I had ever become involved. Helena's father had warned me that whatever was happening among the Palatine magnates would be something to avoid. I should have known all along how I was being used. Well, of course I did know, but I let it happen anyway. My mission was a bluff – if Laeta hired Selia to attack Anacrites, he must have brought me in merely to cover his own tracks. He could pretend publicly that he was searching for culprits, though all he wanted was power. He must have believed I would fail to find Selia. Maybe he even supposed I would be so entranced with the importance of investigating a provincial cartel, I would forget to look for her at all. Did he hope I would be killed off in the attempt? Well, thanks, Laeta! Anacrites at least would have shown greater faith in my tenacity.

Perhaps instead Laeta wanted me to kill Selia, because she would know how he came to power.

As for the quaestor and his bumptious senator father, they looked like mere adjuncts to this story. I could only warn the Emperor that Quinctius Attractus was assuming too much power in Baetica. The proconsul would have to deal with Quadratus. I was treading on sliding scree, and I could risk nothing more. No informer accuses a senator of anything unless he is sure of support. I was sure of nothing.

I decided I did not want Claudius Laeta to acquire more power. If Anacrites died, Laeta could take over his empire; once in charge, whether he was bothered about the price of olive oil looked doubtful to me. I had heard for myself how Laeta was obsessed with the trappings of success with which Anacrites had surrounded himself: the suite in the Palace of the Caesars, the villa at Baiae. Laeta's personal ambition looked clear enough. And it relied on undetected manoeuvring. He certainly would not want me popping up in Rome to say he had paid Selia to eliminate Anacrites. Vespasian would never stand for it.

Maybe I would have to use this knowledge to protect myself. I was perfectly prepared to do so, to secure my own position – yet dear gods, the last thing I really wanted at this point in my life was a powerful politician nervous about what I might know.

I would have to fight him ruthlessly. It was his own fault. He was leaving me no choice.

I spent two days riding hard with muscles that had already ached and a brain that swam. I was so tired when I reached the mansio at Corduba I nearly fell on to a pallet and stayed there overnight. But I needed to see Helena. That kept me on my feet. I recovered the horse Optatus had lent me to come into town, and forced myself to stay upright on it all the way home to the Camillus estate.

Everything looked normal. It was dark, so the watchdogs set up a hectic yammering at my approach. When I led the horse to the stable a slave appeared to look after him, so I was spared that. The slave looked at me shiftily, as most villa rustica staff do. Without a word, I left my baggage roll and limped slowly to the house.

Nobody was about. A few dim lamps lit the corridor. I was too weary to call out. I went to the kitchen, which was where I expected to find everyone. Only the cook and other house-slaves were there. They all froze when I appeared. Then Marius Optatus broke in through another door opposite.

He was holding a leash; he must have been to investigate what had disturbed the dogs. His face was grey, his manner agitated even before he saw me.

'Falco, you're back!'

'What's wrong?'

He made a vague, helpless gesture with the hand that held the dog-leash. 'There has been a tragic accident -'

I was already on my way, running like a madman to the room I shared with Helena.