A dying light in Corduba

XXII

Corduba sits on the north bank of the River Baetis, overlooking a fertile agricultural plain. Marmarides drove Helena and me there the next day. Where the navigable water petered out into spongy pools and channels we crossed a bridge, made of stone, which everyone claimed replaced one that Julius Caesar had built. Even in April the river was virtually fordable at this point.

Corduba has an old local history, but had been founded as a Roman city by Marcellus, the first Roman governor of Spain. Then both Caesar and Augustus had made it a colony for veteran soldiers, so Latin was the language everyone now spoke, and from that staged beginning must have come some of the social snobberies Optatus had described for me. There were people with all sorts of pedigrees.

Even while it was being colonised the district had a turbulent history. The Iberian landmass had been invaded by Rome three hundred years ago – yet it had taken us two hundred and fifty to make it convincingly ours. The numerous conflicting tribes created trouble enough, but Spain had also been the entry route for the Carthaginians. Later it made a fine feuding ground for rivals every time prominent men in Rome plunged us into civil war. Corduba had repeatedly featured in sieges. Still, unlike most large provincial centres I had visited, mainly on the frontiers of the Empire, there was no permanent military fort.

Baetica, which possessed the most natural resources, had yearned for peace – and the chance to exploit its riches – long before the wild interior. At home in the Forum of the Romans was a golden statue of Augustus set up by wealthy

Baeticans in gratitude for his bringing them a quiet life at last. How quiet it really was, I would have to test.

We passed a small guardhouse and crossed the bridge. Beyond lay stout town walls, a monumental gate and houses built in the distinctive local style of mud walls topped with wood; I discovered later the town had a prominent fire brigade to cope with the accidents that endanger timber buildings in close-packed urban centres where! amp oil is very cheap. They also boasted an amphitheatre, doing well according to a rash of advertising placards; various bloodthirsty-sounding gladiators were popular. Aqueducts brought water from the hills to the north.

Corduba had a mixed, cosmopolitan population, though as we forced a passage through the twisting streets to the civic centre we found the mixture was kept strictly separate – Roman and Hispanic areas were neatly divided by a wall running west to east. Notices carved on wall plaques emphasised the divide. I stood in the forum, labelled as Roman, and thought how odd this strict local schism would seem in Rome itself, where people of every class and background are thrust up against each other. The rich may try to keep apart in their mansions, but if they want to go anywhere – and to be anyone in Rome you must be a public man – they have to accept being buffeted by the garlic- eating hordes.

I had a good idea that in Corduba both the elegant Roman administrators and the aloof, inward-looking Baeticans would soon find themselves in a close pact on one subject: disapproval of me.

Like all decent tourists we had made our way first to the forum. It was in the northern sector. As soon as we enquired for directions I learned that the governor's palace was back down by the river; distracted by talking to Helena, I had let myself be driven past it. Helena and Marmarides, who were keen to see the sights, went off to explore. Helena had brought a town plan left behind by her brother. She would show me any decent landmarks later.

I was obliged to register my presence with the proconsul of Baetica. There were four judicial regions in this sun- drenched province – Corduba, Hispalis, Astigi and Gades. I knew therefore that there was only a one in four chance of finding the governor at home. Since the Fates regard showering me with disappointment as a good game of dice, I expected the worst. But when I presented myself at the proconsular palace, he was there. Things were looking up. That didn't mean I could get the mighty man to meet me.

I set myself a pleasant wager: seeing how soon I could wangle an official interview. I tried to make my approach subtle, since there was an obvious need for secrecy. A simple request fell flat. Producing a tablet with the dignified seal of Claudius Laeta, Chief of Correspondence to the Emperor, obtained mild interest among the flunkies, who must have written Laeta's name on a few thousand dreary communiques. One neatly cropped fellow said he would see what he could do then ducked out into a corridor to discuss his last night's wine consumption with a friend. I put on the bleak expression auditors wear when tasked to eliminate excessive staff numbers. Two other relaxed lads put their heads together and worked out their order for lunch.

There was only one thing for it. Dirty tactics.

I leaned against a side table and whittled my nails with my knife. 'Don't hurry,' I smiled. 'It's not going to be easy informing the proconsul his great-grandfather has finally died. I wouldn't have minded the job, but I'm supposed to explain about the old blighter changing his will, and I just don't see how I can do that without mentioning a certain little Illyrian manicurist. If I'm not careful we'll be getting into the business of why his honour's wife didn't go to the country as instructed, and then the ding-dong with the charioteer will slip out. Jove knows they should have kept it quiet but of course her doctor talked, and who can blame him when you hear where the proconsul's spare epaulettes were sewn -' Both the flunkey in the corridor and his friend stuck their heads slowly round the door to join the others staring at me goggle-eyed. I beamed at them. 'Better not say any more, even though it is all over the Senate. But you heard it from me first! Remember that when the drinks are being got in…'

I was lying of course. I never socialise with clerks.

The first young person dashed off, zipped back rather breathless, then shunted me into the presence. The proconsul was looking surprised, but he didn't know he had become a celebrity. His loyal scroll-pushers would be clustered outside the door, applying winecups to the lacquered panels in the hope of overhearing more. Since the personage in charge sat on his dais under some purple curtains at the far end of a room which seemed the length of a running stadium, our mundane discussion of trade issues would be out of earshot of the gossips with their ears on fire. There were still a few scribes and cup-bearers attending the mighty man, though; I wondered how to get rid of them.

The proconsul of Baetica was a typical Vespasian appointee: he looked like a pig-farmer. His tanned face and ugly legs would not have counted against him when he was chosen to sit here on an ivory seat between the dusty set of ceremonial rods and axes, below the rather tarnished and tired gold eagle. Instead Vespasian would have noted his illustrious career – bound to include commanding a legion and a stint in a consulship – and would also have marked the shrewdness behind the man's intent hooded eyes. Those eyes watched me approach down the lengthy -audience chamber, while a brain as sharp as a Pict's hatchet was summing me up just as fast as I was evaluating him.

His was a post that needed a strong grip. It was only three years since two Hispanic provinces played their part in the legendary Year of the Four Emperors: Tarraconensis in backing Galba, then Lusitania in supporting Otto. Galba had actually stood for emperor while still a provincial governor, using the legions of his official command to uphold his claim. This caught on, as bad ideas do: Vespasian eventually used the same ploy from Judaea.

Afterwards he had to take firm action in Hispania. He reduced the Spanish legions from four to one – a fresh one – and even before I met this man I was sure the proconsul had been chosen for his allegiance to Vespasian and all that the new Flavian emperors stood for. (Those of you in the provinces may have heard that your new Roman governors are selected by a lottery. Well, that just shows how magically lotteries work. They always seem to pick out the men the Emperor wants.)

Hispania had lost its chance of glory when Galba slipped off the throne after only seven months and Otto barely lasted three; they were past history in Rome. But the rich estate- and mine-owners of Corduba had been among Galba's allies. Here there could still be dangerous tingles of resentment. Needless to say, outside the massive walls of the administrative palace, the town had appeared to be going about its business on this bright southern morning, as if setting up emperors carried no more world importance than a small scandal to do with amphitheatre ticket sales. Yet maybe among the olive groves ambitions still seethed.

'What's the news on the Palatine?' The proconsul was blunt. He had been working in informal dress – a bonus of life in the provinces – but seeing me in my toga he slid into his surreptitiously.

'I bring you cordial greetings from the Emperor, Titus Caesar, and the Chief of Correspondence.' I handed over a scroll from Laeta, introducing me.

He didn't bother to unseal it. He was not a man for etiquette. 'You work for Laeta?' He managed to restrain a humph. Secretariat employees would be rare visitors – and unwelcome ones.

'I was sent here by Laeta – well, he signed a docket for my fare. There's an interesting situation at home, sir. The Chief Spy has been nastily knocked on the head, and Laeta has assumed some of his responsibilities. I was chosen to come out because I have what we'll call diplomatic experience.' Calling myself an informer tended to explode ex-generals and ex-consuls into unsavoury bouts of flatulence.

The proconsul absorbed my story and sat up slightly. 'Why send you?'

'Expediency.'

'Good word, Falco. Covers a wealth of donkey dung.' I started to like the man.

'More like pulped olive manure,' I said.

He got rid of his staff.

Achieving an interview was one thing. In the lustrous halls of power I often ended up dissatisfied. Like eating a meal in a bad mansio in Gaul.

We quickly established that I had an official mission, for which the proconsul did not wish to be responsible. He had an official mission too. Since he represented the Senate and I represented the Emperor, our interests did not necessarily collide. It was his province; his role took precedence. That was preserving good relations with the local community.

I described the attacks on Anacrites and Valentinus. The proconsul looked politely regretful about the Chief Spy and merely dismissive of the fate of an unknown underling. He denied knowing any dancers from Hispalis too, and looked annoyed that I had asked. However, he did suggest that the local aediles in her home town might have the murderous Diana on their lists of licensed entertainers; to find out I would have to go to Hispalis.

He told me I could count on him for full support – although due to the Emperor's wish to reduce provincial expenditure, no resources could be allocated to assist me. That was not unexpected. Luckily I pay for my own boot- leather, and I could charge Laeta for necessary bribes.

I requested comments on the local personnel. The proconsul said I was the expert: he would leave judgements to me. I deduced that he was a frequent dinner guest in at least the more upper-class suspects' homes.

'Obviously the export of olive oil is a major trade which Rome intends to safeguard.' And obviously it was the proconsul's place to sum up. I was only the expert; I bit my tongue. 'If there were to be an attempt to influence prices unfavourably, Falco, we would have to stamp on it severely. The consequences for the home market, the army, and the provincial outlets would be appalling. However, I don't want to upset sensitivities here. You must do what you have to, but any complaints and you'll be bumped out of my province faster than you can breathe.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Is that all?'

'Just a minor point, sir.' I usually manage to call them 'sir' a few times. The shrewd ones are never fooled. 'You had some correspondence with Anacrites recently, but it's lost in his coded filing library. I'd like permission to see the documents at your end.'

'Financial subject. My quaestor was the official point of contact.'

'That would be Cornelius? I gather it was time for him to move on – had he discussed the issue with you?'

'In general terms.' I gained the subtle impression this was only one of a myriad of topics on meeting agendas, and that the proconsul could not bring to mind the salient facts. But then he seemed to change his mind. 'Are you the agent Anacrites warned us he was sending?' That was a development I had not known about.

'No; Laeta took me on, after Anacrites was put out of action. Valentinus, the man who was killed in Rome, looks the likeliest person to have been sent by the Chief Spy. I assume no one else has turned up?'

'No one has made contact.'

'Then we can assume I'm doing the job now.'

The proconsul decided to be frank with me. 'Well, to clear your passage: Anacrites wrote to query whether the olive oil market was stable. I've been in the business long enough to assume that meant he suspected it was not; he would not have expressed an interest otherwise. I had Cornelius review the situation urgently.'

'He could be trusted?'

'Cornelius was reliable.' He seemed about to add something on that topic, but instead went on, 'There did appear to be restiveness, the kind of mood in the business community that is hard to define and harder still to tackle. I was unhappy, certainly. We sent a report. The response was that an agent would be coming out at once.' I wondered if the reason Anacrites had left the Palace after the dinner I attended was to meet Valentinus and order him to make a trip to Corduba.

'Thank you; that's clear, sir. From all I've heard, you'll be missing Cornelius. He sounds a useful deputy. And now you've had an unknown quantity wished on you, I hear – Will the new quaestor now be taking over the oil cartel issue, sir?'

I had kept my expression neutral, but I let the proconsul see me watching him. Since the new lad in charge of financial matters was the son of a man who appeared to be piping the tune for the oil producers, this could become delicate.

'My new officer is unfamiliar with the subject,' stated the proconsul. It sounded as if he was warning me not to alert young Quinctius. I felt reassured.

'I believe he's in Corduba already?'

'He came in and had a look around the office.' Something sounded peculiar. The proconsul looked me straight in the eye. 'He's not here at the moment. I gave him some hunting leave. Best to let them get it out of their system,' he told me drily, like a man who had had to train a long procession of administrative illiterates.

I thought his real meaning was different. The proconsul would have had little choice about his new officer. The appointment of Quinctius Quadratus would have been lobbied by his influential father and fixed up by the Senate. The Emperor had the right of veto but to use it would be a mark of disfavour, one which the Quinctius family had not openly deserved. 'I met his father in Rome,' I said.

'Then you will know Quinctius Quadratus comes to us with fine recommendations.' There was not a flicker of irony.

'Certainly his father carries weight, sir.'

I was hardly expecting a proconsul to damn a fellow senator. It didn't happen either. 'Tipped for a consulship,' he commented gravely. 'Would probably have got it by now if there hadn't been a long queue for rewards.' After coming to power Vespasian had been obliged to offer honours to his own friends who had supported him; he had also two sons to be ritually made magistrates every few years. That meant men who had thought they were certainties for honours were now having to wait.

If Attractus does get his consulship he'll be in line for a province afterwards,' I griimed. 'He could yet take over from you, sir!' The great man did not find it a joke. 'Meanwhile the son is expected to go far?'

'At least as far as hunting leave,' the proconsul agreed more jovially. I felt he quite enjoyed having kicked out the young Quinctius, even though it could only be temporary. 'Luckily, the office runs itself.'

I had seen offices that allegedly ran themselves. Usually that meant they were kept steady by one wizened Thracian slave who knew everything that had happened for the past fifty years. Fine – until the day he had his fatal heart attack.

Hunting leave is an ambiguous concept. Young officers in the provinces expect a certain amount of free time for slaying wild animals. This is normally granted as a reward for hard work. But it is also a well-known method for a pernickety governor to rid himself of a dud until such time as Rome sends out some other dewy-eyed hopeful – or until he himself is recalled.

'Where can we contact you?' asked the great man. He was already shedding his toga again.

'I'm staying on the Camillus Verus estate. I expect you remember his son Aelianus?' The proconsul signalled assent, while avoiding comment. 'The senator's daughter is here at present too.'

'With her husband?'

'Helena Justina is divorced – widowed too.' I could see him noting that he would have to meet her socially, so to avoid the agony I added, 'The noble Helena is expecting a child shortly.'

He gave me a sharp look; I made no response. Sometimes I tell them the situation and stare them out. Sometimes I say nothing and let someone else gossip.

I knew, since I had picked it open and read it, that my letter of introduction from Laeta – as yet unopened on the proconsul's side table – gave a succinct description of our relationship. He described the senator's daughter as a quiet, unassuming girl (a lie which diplomatically acknowledged that her papa was a friend of the Emperor). I won't say what he called me, but had I not been an informer it would have been libellous.