XXX

OUTSIDE THE apartment where I had failed to find the playwright last time, a woman was on her knees, washing the common areas. She had her back to us, and since she was being thorough, she had tucked her skirts through her legs and into her girdle – thus giving me a startling view of rump and bare legs.

Helena coughed. I looked away. Helena asked the woman if Urbanus was in, so she stood up, freeing her garments unashamedly, and took us indoors. Apparently, she lived with him.

`Anna,' she said when I asked her name.

`Like Queen Dido's sister!' I suggested, trying to interject a literary note. She gave me a level stare that I did not quite like.

Urbanus was an improvement on his colleagues. I could see that he was reasonable, sociable, not too colourful, but unlike most of the others, vividly alive. He looked like a man you could have a drink with, though not one who would annoy you by returning for a party every day.

He was writing – or at least revising a manuscript. Well, that was a new development in the unproductive Chrysippus group. When we came in, he looked up, not annoyed but intensely curious. Anna went across and cleared the scroll away protectively.

He could have been any age in the prime of life. He had an oval face with a balding forehead, and deeply intelligent eyes. The eyes watched everyone and everything.

`I'm Falco, checking witnesses in the Aurelius Chrysippus death. This is Helena Justina.'

`What do you do?' he asked her instantly.

`I check on Falco.' Her easy answer intrigued him. `Married?'

`We call it that.'

She sat down with us. Anna, the wife, might have done the same but she had to vanish into another room whence came the cries of squalling children. It sounded like very young twins, at least, and probably another one.

`You manage to work like this?' I grinned at Urbanus. `I thought poets ran away from domesticity to the city.'

`A dramatist needs a family life. The big plots always feature interesting families.' Fighting and breaking up, I thought, but refrained from saying it.

`Maybe you should have married a girl at home and left her there,' suggested Helena, with the merest hint of criticising males. He smiled, wide-eyed, like a man who had just been given the idea.

`And home is where?' I put to him, though Euschemon had told me.

`Britain, originally.' I raised my eyebrows, as he would expect, and he snapped in, `Not all the good provincial writers come here from Spain.'

`I know Britain somewhat,' I answered, avoiding the natural urge to shudder. `I can see why you left! Where are you from?'

`The centre. Nowhere any Roman has heard of’ He was right. Most Romans only know the Britons are painted blue and that they harvest good oysters on the southern coast (oysters which can be not quite so good after a long trip to Rome in a brine barrel).

`I might know it.'

`A forested place, with no Roman name.'

`So what's the local tribe? The Catuvellauni? I was being stupid. I should not have asked.

`Further west. A nook between the Dobunni, the Cornovii, and the Corieltauvi.'

I fell silent. I knew where that was.

That central area of Britain had no desirable mineral mines to attract us, or none that we had yet discovered. But in the Great Rebellion it was somewhere not far north of Urbanus' home forest that Queen Boudicca and her burning, killing hordes were finally stopped.

`That's where the frontier runs,' I commented, trying not to sound as if I regarded it as a wild area. Trying, too, not to mention the great cross-country highway up which the rebels had streamed on their savage spree.

`Good pasture,' said Urbanus briefly. `How do you know Britain, Falco?'

`The army.'

`There in the troubles?'

`Yes.'

`What legion?' It was the polite thing to ask. I could hardly object.

`A sensitive subject.'

`Oh the Second!' he responded instantly. I wondered if he had been hoping to get in a dig.

The Second Augusta had disgraced themselves by not taking the field in the Rebellion; it was old news, but still rankled with those of us who had suffered the ignominy imposed on us by inept officers.

Helena broke in, taking the heat off me. `You follow politics, Urbanus?'

`Vital to my craft,' he said; he had the air of a jobbing professional who would roll up his sleeves and tackle any dirt, with the same gusto as his wife cleaned their hallway.

I took back the initiative: `Urbanus Trypho is the name of the hour. I hardly expected such a successful playwright to let his wife scrub floors.'

`Our landlord is not lavish with services,' said Urbanus. `We live frugally.'

`Some of your scriptorium comrades are really struggling to keep alive. I was talking yesterday to Constrictus…' I watched for a reaction, but he seemed indifferent to his colleagues' affairs. `He reckons a poet needs to save up his cash so one day he can give it all up, return to his home province and enjoy his fame in retirement.'

`Sounds good.'

`Oh really! So after the excitement of Rome, you are aiming to go back to some valley among the Cornovii and live in a round hut with a few cows?'

`It will be a very large hut, and I shall own a great many cows.' The man was serious.

Admiring his candour, Helena said, `Excuse me for asking but I too know Britain; I have relatives in diplomatic posts and I have been there. It is a relatively new province. Every governor aims to introduce Roman society and education but I was told that the tribes view all things Roman with suspicion. So how did you manage to reach Rome and become a well-known dramatist?'

Urbanus smiled. `The wild warriors on the fringes probably believe they will lose their souls if they wash in a bathhouse. Others accept the gifts of the Empire. Since becoming Roman was inevitable, I grabbed it; my family had means, luckily. The poor are poor wherever they are born; the well-to-do, whoever they are, can choose their stamping ground. I was a lad who could have turned awkward in adolescence; instead, I saw where the good life lay. I went hotfoot for civilisation, all the way south through Gaul. I learned Latin – though Greek might have been more useful as my leaning was to drama; I joined a theatre

group, came to Rome, and when I understood how plays work, I wrote them myself.'

`Self-taught?'

`I had a good acting apprenticeship.'

`But your gift for words is natural?'

`Probably,' he agreed, though modestly.

`The trick in life is to see what your gifts are,' Helena commented. `I hope it is not rude to say this, but your background was very different. You had to learn a completely new culture. Even now you would, say, find it difficult to write a play about your homeland.'

`Intriguing thought! But it could be done,' Urbanus told her genially. `What a joke, to dress up a set of pastoral Greeks, modernise an old theme, and say they are prancing in a British forest!'

Helena laughed, flattering him for his daring. He took it like a spoonful of Attic honey from a dripping cone. He liked women. Well, that always gives an author twice the audience. `So you write plays of all types?' she asked.

`Tragical, comical, romantic adventure, mystical, historical.'

`Versatile! And you must really have studied the world.'

He laughed. `Few writers bother.' Then he laughed again. `They will never own as many cows as me.'

`Do you write for the money or the fame?' I enquired.

`Is either worth having alone?' He paused, and did not answer the question. He must have the money already, yet we knew there was public muttering about his reputation.

`So,' I put in slyly, `what did Chrysippus have to say to you the day he died?'

Urbanus stilled. `Nothing I wanted to hear.'