Shadows in Bronze

LXXVI

Rome: the mere hum of the city convinced me Pertinax was here.

Even in August, with half its citizens absent and the air so hot that taking a breath braised your liver and lungs, my return to Rome brought the thump of real life to my veins after Campania's debilitating glare.

I soaked in its vivid atmosphere: the temples and fountains, the astonishing height of the gimcrack apartments, the arrogance of the sophisticated slaves who barged along the high-road, the drips on my head where my road dived under the gloom of an aqueduct – stale garments and fresh tempers, a sweet tang of myrrh among the sour reek of brothels, a fresh hint of oregano above the old and indelible reek of the fish market.

I throbbed with childish delight to be back in these streets I had known all my life; then I grew more subdued as I recognized the sneer of a city which had forgotten me. Rome had lived through a thousand rumours since I left, none of them concerning me. It greeted my reappearance with the indifference of a slighted dog.

My first problem was disposing of the horse.

My brother-in-law Famia was a horse doctor with the Greens. I won't call it lucky, because nothing that sodden sponge Famia ever did was good news. The last thing I wanted was being forced to beg a favour from one of my relations, but not even I could keep a racehorse in a sixth- floor apartment without arousing adverse comment from other people in the block. Famia was the least obnoxious of the husbands my five sisters had inflicted on our family, and he was married to Maia, who might have been my favourite if she had refrained from marrying him. Maia, who in other respects was as sharp as the copper nails priests bang into temple doors at the new year, never seemed to notice her own husband's disadvantages. Perhaps there were so many she lost count.

I found Famia at his faction's stables, which like all of them were in the Ninth district, the Circus Flaminius. He had high cheekbones with slits where his eyes should be, and was as broad as he was tall, as if he had been squashed from above by a bushel weight. He could tell I was after something when I let him rant for ten minutes about the poor performance of the Blues, whom he knew I supported.

After Famia had enjoyed himself slandering my favourites, I explained my little problem and he inspected my horse.

'He a Spaniard?'

I laughed. 'Famia, even I know Spaniards are the best! He's as Spanish as my left boot.'

Famia brought out an apple which Little Sweetheart guzzled eagerly. 'How does he ride?'

'Terrible. All the way from Campania he's been chaffing and chomping, even though I tried to give him a gentle time. I hate this horse, Famia; and the more I hate him, the more affectionate the clod-hoofed fool pretends to be-'

While my horse was eating his apple and belching after it, I took a good look at him. He was a dark-brownish beast, with a black mane, ears and tail. Across his nose, which was always poking in where it wasn't wanted, ran a distinctive mustard band. Some horses have their ears up spry and straight; mine constantly flickered his lugs back and forth. A kind man might have said he looked intelligent; I had more sense.

'You rode him from Campania?' Famia asked. 'That should harden his shins.'

'For what?'

'Running, for instance. Why-what will you do with him?'

'Sell him when I can. But not before Thursday. These is a beauty called Ferox running – worth a flutter, if you ask me- my fool was his stablemate. I've promised their trainer mine can go to the racecourse; they reckon he calms Ferox down.'

'Oh! that old story!' Famia responded in his dour way. ‘So yours has been declared too?'

'What a joke! I suppose he'll soothe Ferox as far as the starting gates, then be pulled out.'

‘Give him an outing,' Famia encouraged. 'What can you lose?'

I decided to do it. There was a good chance Atius Pertinax would turn up to see Ferox perform. Attending the Circus as an owner myself was one way to ensure I could gain access wherever I needed it behind the scenes.

I shouldered my luggage and set off for home. I hauled my stuff round the back of the Capitol, mentally saluting the Temple of Juno Moneta, patron of my much-needed cash. This brought me into the Aventine at the starting-gate end of the Circus Maximus; I paused, thinking briefly of my pathetic nag, and more seriously of Pertinax. By then my bags were dragging on my neck, so I stopped at my sister Galla's house for a rest and a word with Larius.

I had forgotten Galla would be furious about my nephew's future plans.

‘You promised to look after him,' she greeted me ferociously. Fending off her younger children, four dedicated scavengers who could instantly spot an uncle who might have presents in his backpack, I kissed Galla. 'What's that for?' she growled at me. ‘If you're looking for dinner there's only tripe!'

'Oh thanks! I love tripe!' Untrue, as all my family knew, but I was ravenous. Tripe was all there ever was at Galla's house. Her street possessed a tripe-and-trotter stall, and she was a lazy cook. 'What's the problem with Larius? I sent him home fit, sane and happy, in possession of a fat little girlfriend who knows what she wants from him – plus a famous reputation for saving drowning men.'

'A fresco painter!' Galla jibed in disgust.

'Why not? He's good at it, it fetches in the money, and he'll always be in work.'

'I might have known if there was a chance of him being pushed into something stupid, I could rely on you! His father,' complained my sister pointedly, 'is extremely upset!'

I gave my sister my opinion of the father of her children, and she mentioned that if I felt like that I was not obliged to loaf on her sun terrace eating her food.

Home again! Nothing like it. Spooning in the unctuous oral, I smiled quietly to myself.

Larius turned up, not before I was ready for him, and helped me with my luggage the rest of the way: a chance to talk. 'How was the journey, Larius?'

'We managed.'

'Petronius find it hard going? Is he all right?'

'You know him; he never makes a fuss.'

My nephew seemed rather tight-lipped. 'What about you?' I persisted.

'Nothing worries me either. Are you going to ask about your lady-love?'

'As soon as I have a rest and a trip to the bathhouse I intend to see my lady-love for myself. Why? If there is something I should know first, come out with it!'

Larius shrugged.

We had reached the Ostia Road. I was nearly back on my own midden. I halted in the loggia of a cold- meat shop; it was closed but the smell of smoked hams and preservative herbs lingered tauntingly. I screwed the neckbraid of my nephew's tunic angrily round one hand. 'The word is, Pertinax may have come to Rome. Is it something about him that you don't want to say to me?'

'Uncle Marcus, nothing happened.' He shook me off. 'Helena Justina was unwell some of the time, but Silvia looked after her. Anyone can be a poor traveller-'

I had once journeyed fourteen hundred miles in Helena's calm, uncomplaining company; I knew exactly how good a traveller she was. I felt my mouth twist. I wondered what I had come home to. Then, before I let myself start guessing, I swung up my baggage and started down the narrow alley that led to the old familiar odours of Fountain Court.

After Larius left me, I stood out on my balcony. Our tenement stood half-way up the Aventine Hill, and its one great advantage was a fabulous view. Even when I closed my dry, tired eyes there was plenty to absorb: creaking carts and barking watchdogs; distant cries from river boatmen; leery wineshop choruses and wavering temple flutes; screams from young girls, from either terror or hysterical amusement, it was impossible to tell.

Down there, Rome must be harbouring plenty of fugitives. Men running from their mothers; their debts; their business partners; their own inadequacy. Or like Gnaeus Atius Pertinax Caprenius Marcellus: running from Fate.