Antony. Basilicas and sanctuaries line a mile-long stretch of glory, where centuries of thoughtful generals and princes have thrown up triumphal arches; the dense shade protects the somnolent from the unyielding sun's blaze. Nearby fountains and basins offer cool water to the badly parched. In extreme situations, there is the ultimate rescue: at the Temple of Isis, loose women will offer to take you home for a lie-down.
So far, Londinium offered only a four-sided enclosure with a silent basilica. Stores, shops, and offices stood empty on the other three sides. A colonnade was deserted. Outside the perimeter stood the spanking shell of a solitary temple. That's all. At least there was no sun.
I sat on the bollard, breathing hard. It was early August. While I was drinking with Silvanus there must have been a prolonged heavy rain shower. It was over now, and the day was warm enough to be comfortable in open shoes and a short-sleeved tunic, but the shine of water had been shrinking off the cambered roads as I walked there. Of the few people I passed, some thoroughly depressed folk were still standing in doorways as if sheltering. Fine drizzle drifted in the air. Agitated gusts of wind blustered around the buildings. The sky was a uniform gray and even in the late afternoon the light seemed to be failing gloomily. It was typically Britain, and it made my heart ache for the endless, bright, scented summer days of home.
Julius Frontinus had tried to impress me with talk of long-term expansion in the civic area. According to him there was a master plan that allowed for tacking on new forum facilities piecemeal as the town grew in size and expectations. I did not believe it. From where I sat in this deserted hilltop amenity, damp and low in spirits, there seemed no point in any of us being here. We Romans had come in the hopes of mining precious metals; as soon as our belief in Britain's riches died, we should have given up The worst legacy of the tribes' rebellion was that we now felt chained by blood and grief to this pitiful, uninteresting, miserable territory.
I was still tipsy, but I went home anyway. My sister took one look at me then held her peace. How sensible.
Helena was closeted in our private suite, playing with the children. Julia, our two-year-old, spotted my demeanor with those great dark eyes that missed nothing and simply decided to observe proceedings. The baby, now five months, was lying in Helena's lap throwing her limbs in all directions; she continued, gurgling, lost in her own gymnastic world while her elegant mother dodged the worst kicks and tickled body parts that asked for it. This was, in effect, how Helena Justina had always dealt with me.
'Say nothing about my state.'
'I shall not comment,' Helena replied calmly.
'Thanks.'
'Been working?'
'Right.'
'Got nowhere?'
'Right.'
'Want a nice kiss and a bowl of food to take the nasty wine away?'
'No.'
She stood up and came to kiss me anyway.
Somehow the baby, Favonia, ended up being passed into my arms, then when I sat in Helena's half-round wicker chair, little Julia scrambled in there with me too and lay smiling up at me. This left Helena free to stroke my hair smoothly, knowing I could not shake her off without harming the children. I growled. The baby may not have understood quite what she was at, but all three of my supposedly subservient females giggled at me. So much for being the top god in the household shrine.
As in most families, patriarchal power held no meaning. Eventually I gave in to the onslaught of comfort and just slumped glumly.
Helena left me long enough to settle, then said quietly, 'You do not like Britain.'
'You know that, love.'
'Marcus, is this situation dangerous to you personally?'
'Someone killed a man. That's always bad.'
'Sorry!' When Helena was so reasonable, it cut like a reproof.
'I'm upset.'
'I know.'
We left it there. Later, after the children had been collected by staff from the nursery, when she thought I was up to the pressure, Helena told me how things had progressed that day here. We were supposed to be dressing for dinner, though neither of us had made a start.
'The governor has sent a dispatch rider to King Togidubnus. Frontinus decided it is best to admit what has happened. The hope is, this will be the first the King hears of it. The murder will be explained the way it sounds best-well, sounds least bad-and the messenger can try to judge whether the King knows something he should not.'
'The King is not involved. I won't have that!'
'No, Marcus. So what do you think Togidubnus will do?'
'Turn up here, in an angry mood. Noviomagus is sixty Roman miles, plus. One day's journey for an imperial post rider-if he chases. But he won't; this is not war or the death of an emperor. So the King will know about the murder by tomorrow evening, say-'
'He won't set out in the dark,' Helena said.
'So at first light in two days' time he'll be on his way. He may be an old man, but he's fit. I need to supply answers, not by tomorrow but soon after.'
'Oh, Marcus, that's not long enough.'
'It will have to be.'
I had no appetite for passing dainties on silver platters tonight. I did start to change my clothing, but I had more on my mind than a cultural soiree. Helena watched, not moving. She commented that there was little investigation I could carry out at this time of the evening. I answered that I needed movement. I needed results. I could do what I should probably have done this afternoon. I could revisit the Shower of Gold. I had no plan of how to tackle this, except that if they had changed the barmaid from the one I met, I would go in incognito.
'You will stand out as a Roman,' Helena remarked.
'I am a master of disguise.' Well, I had a scruffy tunic and a worn cloak.
'Your skin is olive and your haircut screams Rome.' My mad tangle of curls only said I had forgotten to comb them, but she was right in principle. My nose was Etruscan. I had the bearing of a man who had been given legionary training, and the attitude of the city-born. I liked to think that even in other parts of the Mediterranean my sophistication stood out. Among fair-skinned, blue-eyed lackadaisical Celtic types there was no hiding me.
Helena by now was rootling in her own clothes chest. 'They will be expecting more officials-' Her voice was muffled, though not enough to hide a note of excitement. 'Any Roman male alone will stand out as far too obvious.'
'This is where I need Petro.'
'Forget him.' Garments were being thrown in all directions. 'With Petronius you just look like an official who has brought backup. Trust me,' Helena cried, popping back upright and immediately dragging her patrician white dress up and over her head. I thought briefly of hauling her straight into bed. 'You need a girlfriend, Marcus!'
And I had one. No further explanation was required. Luckily there were staff to look after our children. Fired up with excitement, their noble mother was coming with me.
IX
Fresh off the boat!'
'Exactly the look.' I was unperturbed by Helena's hilarity. 'And smell!' I added, dipping my head to sniff: laundry damp-and whatever of me the Noviomagus washerwoman had failed to remove.
My tunic was a heavy, coarse-weave, dirty rust-colored thing-gear I had packed to use on a building site. Over it I had a traveling cloak with a pointy hood that gave me the look of a woodland deity. One who was not very bright. As well as a hidden dagger down my boot, I wore another openly; its scabbard hung on my belt alongside a
