The wine came — Setinian, and good as mine — and the slave left me alone. I looked up at the house. It was big, but not showy. A balcony ran the length of the first floor, and I was calculating the number of rooms that led off it when a girl walked out of one of them holding a birdcage. She saw me watching and went back inside.
She was a stunner: glossy black hair, ivory skin, big eyes. I remembered what Priscus had said about a daughter. Yeah, well, I doubted if we'd be introduced. Spaniards, even Romanised ones, keep their female relations on a tight lead. A pity. Those eyes were something.
I was half way down the second cup when Marius got back. Knowing Priscus, and despite what he'd said about the man not being his type, I'd expected a dried-up academic prune. Marius was a fit forty, built like a wrestler, with a Spanish nose you could've used to fell trees bisecting a face that wouldn't've been out of place on the First Spear of a crack legion. Heavily-muscled, too. Not a man to cross, I suspected, and a long way from Vibius Celsus.
'No, don't get up, Valerius Corvinus,' he said. His accent had the Hispanic twang, but the vowels were good. He gripped my hand and almost crushed the fingers. 'I'm sorry to keep you waiting. It was such a pleasant morning that I made the most of it. You like riding?'
'It’s okay,' I said. ‘But it’s not really my bag.’
He turned away and signalled to the slave. I had the feeling I'd lost a point, and I suspected I knew where: when you're talking to a Spaniard, to be less than wildly enthusiastic about horses is almost as bad as telling a Greek you don't like arguing. The slave came over with a fresh wine cup — the set was silver, like Celsus's, but beautifully decorated — and poured for both of us.
Marius put his cup down on the summerhouse table and reclined on the other couch. 'You don't mind if we stay out here?' he said.
'No. Not at all.' He'd surprised me again. Obviously Marius was that rarity in Rome, a fresh-air freak. Still, if you lived on the Janiculan it made sense to get your money's worth. Besides, from my point of view there was always the chance that the girl with the eyes would come back out.
He had manners, too. We'd chatted about this and that for a good ten minutes before he finally asked politely what the hell I wanted.
'Just some information, sir,' I said. 'My wife and I were round at my stepfather Helvius Priscus's for dinner last night and he happened to mention you were an expert on Carthaginian curios.'
'Hardly an expert, certainly not in Priscus's terms.' Marius smiled. 'But I do have an interest. My family are from Cartagena. We have Carthaginian blood.'
Uh huh. That would explain the money. Cartagena's silver mines supply a pretty sizeable chunk of Rome's coinage, and although they're owned by the state the old local families still get their cut one way or another. It explained how Marius fitted into the scheme of things, too. If he had traditional connections with the Cartagenan mines then he was Rich with a capital R. Silius and company would've welcomed him with open arms. They wouldn't've asked too many questions, either.
'Priscus would disagree,' I said. 'He was pretty impressed with your qualifications.' No harm in buttering him up a little. 'Anyway, I was wondering if maybe you could tell me something about this.' I brought out Perilla's pendant and handed it over. 'It belonged to my wife's mother.'
He took the thing from me like it was made of cobwebs and examined it carefully. Then he looked up.
'It's a cylinder-seal. Phoenician, not Carthaginian. Although Carthage was a Phoenician colony the art was quite different.'
'Yeah. My wife said it came from Sidon.'
'Not originally, I think.' He held it out to me. 'You see the central figure?' It was a seated woman in a wig, her head surmounted by a disc between two tall horns. 'Ba'alat. The Lady Goddess. There were other Ba'alats but this one ruled Byblos. And she's very old, Corvinus. Very old indeed.'
'Yeah? How old exactly?'
'Much older than Carthage. Older even than Sidon.' He shrugged. 'Perhaps three thousand years.'
I whistled. I was genuinely impressed. 'Is that so?'
'That's so. If the Egyptians have their dates right. It's a beautiful piece, in excellent condition, perhaps unique. Were you considering selling?'
'No. Perilla — my wife — was just curious about it.' I held out my hand and he passed the pendant back reluctantly. 'Three thousand years, right?'
'At least.'
The skin on my palm prickled where the stone touched it; when that thing was carved Homer hadn't been born; in fact, Troy hadn't been built, let alone taken. And Rome wasn't even a twinkle in Jupiter's eye. For the first time I had an inkling of the feeling that drove Priscus. It was eerie.
Marius leaned over and filled our cups from the jug the slave had left on the table.
'You're sure you won't sell?' he said. 'I'd give you a good price.' Casually, he named a figure that had me staring. Forget Phlebas. I didn't know that numbers as big as that existed outside property registers. Rich was right.
'Uh, no,' I said eventually. 'No thanks. Like I say, it has sentimental value.'
'A pity. If you change your mind just let me know.' He stood up suddenly. 'Perhaps you'd like to see my own collection? I have nothing nearly so old, nor so fine, but it would put your piece in context. And perhaps you would…appreciate it more.'
'Yeah. Yeah, that would be great.' I meant it: I needed the time and the excuse to stay. Marius was no Celsus, I'd known that as soon as I saw him, and there was no way I was going to mention the Julian scam straight out, let alone ask him what part he'd played in it; no way at all. However, maybe I could pick something up indirectly.
'We'll go in, then,' he said. 'More wine?'
'Sure.' I emptied my cup.
'Good. I like a guest who appreciates wine. And riding always gives me a thirst. Simo!' he called to the slave hovering in the portico. 'Another jug, please. We'll be in the Carthage room.’
'Collection' wasn't the word; maybe 'hoard' comes nearer. The room was stacked thick as a magpie's nest. Jupiter knew where all the stuff had come from, or how much it had cost to put together. I wouldn't've thought there were that many bits of Old Carthage in existence.
'Impressive,' I said. It was. Not just the amount or the cost, but the single-mindedness of it.
'Rome tends to dismiss Carthage.' Marius was frowning. 'Jealousy, of course. And fear. Naturally there's the arch-bugbear Hannibal, who almost destroyed your empire before it was properly started. I understand your mothers still use the name to frighten recalcitrant children, even after two hundred years.'
'Yeah.' I remembered once after I'd raided the pantry three nights in a row my old nurse had scared me half to death by saying that next time old Hannibal would jump out from behind the door and cut my little wollocks off. The name still made me shudder. It would any Roman, whatever their age. 'Yeah, they do.'
'The culture was alien, you see. You Romans have never been able to tolerate alien cultures. Not on equal terms, and not when they pose a threat to your own interests.'
You Romans. Well, fair enough, I suppose the guy was Spanish, but there was an edge to the words that I didn't quite like. We moved along a row of fragmented slabs and stopped in front of the carving of a horned god flanked by two rams.
'Ba'al Hammon,' Marius said. His hand went out briefly, palm first.
'Uh-huh. That the one they burned children to?'