I was looking at him keenly now. Still an unimpressive experience. I would like to complain that he behaved officiously, but he was just perfectly straight. Nobody likes a government official they cannot moan about.
We walked nearer to the water, deliberately looking casual. As a procurator he would have an office, but it would be stuffed with staff from the cache of public slaves. They would probably look honest-until the day when it counted. What he and I had to discuss could be the big secret they were all waiting to sell.
"What's your history?" I asked. "You're not from Baetica? You sound Roman to me; you have the Palatine twang."
He was not offended at the question. He was proud of his life, with reason. "I am an imperial freedman. From Nero's time," he felt obliged to add. He knew I would have asked. Palace freedmen are always judged by the regime when their career took off. "But that does not affect my loyalty."
"Anyone who struggled to serve the state under Nero will welcome Vespasian with a huge sigh of relief. Vespasian knows that."
"I do my job." It was a statement I believed.
"So how did you reach this position?"
"I bought my freedom, worked in commerce, earned enough to be granted equestrian rank, and offered myself for useful posts. They sent me here." He had the kind of record I ought to pursue myself; maybe if I had been born a slave I might have managed it. Instead pride and obstinacy got firmly in my way.
"And now you've stirred up quite a controversy. What's the smell that you don't like?"
He did not answer immediately. "Hard to say. I nearly did not make a report at all."
"Did you discuss it with anyone?"
"The quaestor."
"Cornelius?"
He looked shocked. "Who else?" Clearly the new quaestor was not an alternative. "Decent?"
"I liked him. No side. Did the job-you can't often say that!"
"How did Cornelius get along with the proconsul?"
"He was the chosen deputy, in the old-fashioned way. They had worked together before. He was the senior tribune when the old man had a legion. They came out as a pair. But now Cornelius needs a career move. He wants to show his face in the Senate. The old man agreed to release him."
"After which he had to take whatever he was sent as a replacement! But I heard Cornelius hasn't gone back to Rome? He's traveling."
An angry expression passed over Placidus' face. "Cornelius going on his travels is all part of the nasty smell!" That was intriguing. "Rome would have been too convenient, wouldn't it? He could have made the report on our problem himself."
"What are you telling me, Placidus?"
"Cornelius was going back. He wanted to go back."
"Keen?"
"Highly excited." One of those. A careerist. I kept my face neutral. On the lower rung of the public service ladder, Placidus was a careerist himself. "He was ready for politics. He wanted to get married too."
"A fatalist! So where exactly is he?" I demanded, with a sinking feeling. For some reason I felt he was about to say the young man was dead.
"In Athens."
Once I recovered from the unexpected answer I asked, "What's the attraction in Athens?"
"You mean apart from art, history, language and philosophy?" asked Placidus rather dryly. I had an idea he was the type of cultural dreamer who would adore a trip to Greece. "Well Cornelius didn't care much for those, in fact; he wasn't the type. Someone in Rome just happened to have an unused ticket on a ship from Gades to Piraeus; he spoke to Cornelius' father and offered free use of it."
"Generous! Cornelius senior was delighted?"
"What father would turn down the chance of getting his son to the University like that?"
Well, mine, for one. But mine had long ago realized the more I learned-about anything-the less control he had over me. He never lavished art, history, language or philosophy upon me. That way he never had to face me faking gratitude.
But I could sympathize with Cornelius; he would have been trapped. No senatorial career comes cheap. Nor does marriage. To preserve good relations at home he had to go along with whatever embarrassment his parent well-meaningly bestowed on him-just because some acquaintance at the Curia had smiled and offered it. My own father was an auctioneer. He could recognize a bribe coming five miles away. Not all men are so adept.
So poor Cornelius only wanted to rush home to govern people, but he's stuck with a present that he would far rather dump- and he has his papa happily telling him it's a chance in a lifetime and he should be a grateful boy? Placidus, can I guess the name
of his benefactor? Someone Cornelius did not want to write a nice thank-you letter to? Can the name of Quinctius Attractus be dropped into this conversation without causing a misfit?"
"You've thrown a six, Falco."
"I've thrown a double, I think."
"You know how to play this game."
"I've played before."
We stared at the river gloomily. "Cornelius is a very sharp young man," said Placidus. "He knows that a free trip always costs something."
"And what do you think this one will cost?"
"A great deal to consumers of olive oil!"
"Through Cornelius not mentioning his disquiet about the upcoming situation in Baetica? I suppose he couldn't argue with his father who was far away in Rome. He couldn't risk writing a letter explaining, because the subject was too sensitive. So he's forced to take the ticket-and once he goes, he's obligated to the Quinctii."
"I can see you have done your research," said Placidus, thoroughly miserable.
"Can I get the timing straight? You and Cornelius became anxious about the influence of the Quinctii when?"
"Last year when his son came out to Baetica. We knew there must be a reason and Cornelius guessed Quadratus was aiming to replace him in the quaestorship. At the same time Attractus was first starting to invite groups to Rome."
"So Quadratus may have warned his father that Cornelius might make adverse comments when he was debriefed by the Palace at the end of his tour? The Quinctii decided to delay him, while they consolidated their position. And when the unwanted cultural holiday arose, Cornelius gave in but you decided to take action?"
"I wrote a note."
"Anonymously?"
"Official channels were too dangerous. Besides, I did not want to land Cornelius with an enemy in Rome. He had always supported me."
"Was this why you approached Anacrites and not Laeta?"
"It seemed appropriate to involve the intelligence group."
Involving Anacrites was never appropriate, but one had to work with him to see it. "What happened next? Anacrites wrote back formally and asked the proconsul to investigate-so he handed the job straight to Cornelius? Won't that turn out awkward for him anyway?"
"He could say he had no choice. Once there was an instruction from Rome, Cornelius was bound to follow up. Still, we made sure his answering report was conveyed discreetly."
I laughed briefly. "I know! Whoever decided to send that report with Camillus Aelianus?"
"He was friendly with Cornelius."
I shook my head. "And with another young man too! Aelianus read the report and I have a nasty feeling he passed on the contents to exactly the wrong person."
Placidus paled. "Quinctius Quadratus?"
I nodded. Placidus hit his palm against his head. "I never thought!"
"It's not your fault. Young Quadratus is everywhere. Clearly it runs in the family."
We considered the situation like men of affairs. We looked grave; our talk was measured; we stared hard at the water, pretending to count fish.
"Being involved in many spheres of provincial life is not a crime, of course," Placidus commented.
"No, but at some point being over-busy speaks for itself. A good Roman only flaunts himself if he's trying to get the populace to support him in a ballot-and even then he tries to look as if he hates putting himself forward."
"You picture a man I could vote for, Falco!" he cried admiringly. He was being ironic. So was I, come to that.
"And I'm not picturing Attractus. Everything he does has the smack of personal ambition and family gain."
"But the situation is not being ignored," Placidus tried to console himself.
"That's no guarantee of action. You learned your job on the Palatine. You know how things work. It's a difficult one."
"You are asking me to provide evidence?"
"And you're going to tell me there is none?"
He shrugged wearily. "How do you prove these things, Falco? Businessmen talk among themselves. If they are plotting to force up prices, only they know. They are hardly likely to tell me or you. Half of the small talk will be innuendo anyway. And if challenged, they will deny it all, and look outraged at the suggestion."
"You sound as if you had done ten years as an informer," I told him sadly.
His tone became more embittered. "Obtaining information is easy, Falco! A bit of cheap charm and a few bribes will do the trick for you. You want to try a job where you're taking money from people. That's the hard life!"
I grinned. I was starting to like him. Well, I had the same rule for state officials as I had always had with women: once the situation started getting friendly it was time to leave.
"Just one more thing, Placidus-I had no luck when I tried to see the original correspondence. There seem to be two versions. Am I right that in his report Cornelius told Anacrites you suspected a cartel was being set up, but it was at an early stage and could be contained?"
Placidus frowned slightly. "I didn't see the actual letter."
"But?"
"But that's not quite what he and I agreed."
"Which was?"
"Plans for price-rigging seemed to be at an early stage, certainly-but we were extremely concerned that because of the key personnel and their influence in Baetica, containment would be
very difficult!"
The procurator was seriously upset. "You just can't tell, can you? Cornelius and I had agreed the exact opposite of what you say was reported in! I would have sworn Cornelius was absolutely straight. And I would have banked on the proconsul to back him-"
"Calm down-"
"No, I won't! It's too bad, Falco. Some of us really try to do a decent job, but we're thwarted at every turn!"
"You're jumping to conclusions, friend. The wrong ones, I think."
"How can that be?"
"Two reasons, Placidus. First, I never saw any of the letters, so this is just hearsay. And second, while the report from Cornelius was in the custody of Camillus Aelianus, maybe he let it be tampered with."
"Tampered with? You mean, forgery?"
"I realize such words are odious to a conscientious man."
"And Aelianus, you say?"
"Don't be misled by his sweet smile."
"He's just a lad."
"He's twenty-four. A careless age."
"I heard he was some relative of yours?"
"He'll be my first child's uncle in a matter of weeks. That does not mean I shall trust him to rock the cradle unsupervised. He may have been a friend of the upright Cornelius, but he was also thick with the young Annaei-a disreputable crowd. Until they quarreled over a situation on their fathers' estates, he rode with Quinctius Quadratus too. You know this group?"
"Young fellows, some away from home, loose in a provincial capital and looking for a riot. Too much drinking; a lot of athletics and hunting. They're just wanting thrills-particularly if they think their elders won't approve. Quadratus had them dabbling with the cult of Cybele-"
"That's an Eastern religion!"
"Brought here by the Carthaginians. There is a temple in Corduba. At one stage they were all going there, then Annaeus Maximus stopped his sons, the proconsul made some sour remarks to Cornelius, and it tailed off"
"I expect they had second thoughts," I said gravely, "when they heard about the castration rites!"
Placidus laughed.
"Tell me more about Quadratus-he was out here last year?"
"His father sent him, allegedly to supervise their estate."
"Including the eviction of tenants whose faces didn't fit!"
At my sharp retort, Placidus looked purse-lipped. "There was some trouble, I gather." He was being cautious. I signaled that I had heard the full story. He then said, with a bluntness that seemed uncharacteristic, "Quinctius Quadratus is the worst kind, Falco. We've had them all. We've had them rude and overconfident. We've had debauched young tyrants who live in the brothels. We've had fools who can't count, or spell, or compose a sentence in any language, let alone in correspondence-Greek. But when we heard that Quadratus had been wished on us as quaestor, those of us in the know nearly packed up and left."
"What makes him so bad?"
"You can't pin him down. He looks as if he knows what he is doing. He has success written all over him, so it's pointless to complain. He is the sort the world loves-until he comes unstuck."
"Which he may never do!"
"You understand the problem."
"I've worked with a few golden boys." "High-flyers. Most have broken wings."
"I like your style, Placidus. It's good to find a man who doesn't mind sticking his head over the rampart when everyone else is cowering. Or should I say, everyone except the proconsul? Despite everything, Quadratus is on hunting leave, you know."
"I didn't! Well that's one bright spot. His father's influence made the appointment look staged: the proconsul hates anything that looks off-color."
"Quadratus may have a black smudge against his name," I hinted, remembering what the proconsul's clerks had told me about the dead soldiers in Dalmatia. "Then a query about the family's role from Anacrites does not exactly help him maintain a glowing aura-somebody worked a flanker to be proud of," I commented.
Placidus beamed. "Terrible, isn't it?"
"Tragic! But you're stuck with him unless he or his father, or both if possible, can be discredited. That's my job. I'm partway there. I can finger them as ringleaders when the cartel was being mooted last month in Rome-though I can't put up witnesses. Of course they were both on the spot. Even young Quadratus had finished his agricultural clearances and gone home again to triumph in the Senate elections and the jobs lottery."
"Yes. He must have known Cornelius wanted to give up his post; he and his father somehow maneuvered the quaestorship
into their own hands. From here, it looks difficult to see why Rome fell for it."
"The graybeards in the Curia would approve. The family had interests here. The Emperor may have assumed the proconsul would be delighted by his catch."
"The proconsul soon told him otherwise. He was livid!" Placidus muttered. "I heard about it from Cornelius."
It sounded as though this proconsul liked breaking rules: he could spot a wrong move coming-and he was not afraid to dodge it. Not afraid of telling Vespasian he was annoyed, either. He was exceptional among men of his rank. No doubt he would live down to my expectations eventually, but at the moment it looked as though he was doing his job.
I returned to the main problem: "I'll be fair to Aelianus. Assume he meant no harm. He arrived in Rome with the report for Anacrites, all full of the importance of his mission. He was bursting with it, and could simply have boasted to the wrong friend in Rome. He may not have realized the Quinctii were involved."
"Did Cornelius tell him what the sealed letter said?" Placidus scowled.
"Apparently Cornelius used some discretion. Of course that only excited the lad's curiosity; Aelianus confessed to me he read the report."
Placidus was raging again: "Oh I despair of these young men!"
I smiled, though it took an effort. Pedants irritate me. "At risk of sounding like a ghastly old republican grandfather, discipline and ethics are not requirements for the cursus honorem nowadays… With or without the connivance of Aelianus, someone altered the report. Even with that done, they knew Anacrites would be taking it further. They decided to stop him. The results were disastrous. Somebody killed the agent who was on surveillance when the oil producers came to Rome-and they made a brutal attack on Anacrites too."
"Dear gods! Is Anacrites dead?"
"I don't know. But it was a serious misjudgment. It drew attention to the plot, rather than burying it. The investigation wasn't stopped, and won't be now."
"If they had kept their heads," Placidus philosophized, "nobody could have proved anything. Inertia would set in. Cornelius has left; Quadratus is installed. He can't be left on hunting leave forever. The financial affairs of this province are under his sole control. For myself, I expect every hour to be recalled to Rome, due to some quiet manipulation by the tireless Quinctius Attractus. Even if I stay on, anything I say can easily be dismissed as the ravings of an obsessive clerk with cracked ideas about fraud."
"You know how the system operates," I complimented him.
"I should do. It stinks-but gods alive, it rarely involves the murder of state servants!"
"No. That was arranged by somebody who doesn't know." Somebody inexperienced. Someone who lacked the patience and confidence to wait and let the inertia Placidus mentioned creep insidiously through the state machine.
Placidus was frowning. "Why are you so vague about the report, Falco? There ought to be copies of everything filed by the quaestor's clerk."
"He tried to find it for me. Gone missing."
"Why did you think that was?"
"Stolen to hide the evidence? Quinctius Quadratus is the obvious suspect. I'm only surprised he knew his way around the office."
"I bet he doesn't," Placidus retorted sourly. "But he will one day. Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe the documents have been removed by someone else to stop him seeing them!"
"Who do you suggest?"
"The proconsul."
If that was true, the bastard could have told me he had done it.
Placidus took a deep breath. When governors of provinces have to start prowling offices, censoring records in order to deceive their own deputies, order has broken down. Governors of provinces are not supposed to know how the filing system works (though of course they have all held lowly posts in their youth). Allowing them to fiddle with scrolls opened up frightening avenues. This was all filthier and more complex than Placidus had thought. "So what now, Falco?"
"A tricky piece of reconnaissance."
I explained about finding the dancer. The procurator did not know her, or was not aware of it if he did. He expressed a theory that men may watch, but do not learn the names of girls who entertain. Obviously his past life had been more innocent than mine.
"And where does she fit in, Falco?"
"I found evidence that she and her African musicians carried out the attacks in Rome on Anacrites and his man."
"What did she have against them?"
"Nothing personal, probably. I imagine that somebody paid her. If I find her I'll try to make her tell me who it was. And if his name happens to be one of those we have been discussing, you and the proconsul will be happy men."
I told him the address the two shipping tycoons had given me. Placidus said he believed it was a dangerous area of town- though inspired by the excitement of our conversation, he decided he would come along with me.
I let him. I believed he was straight, but I do have my standards; he was still a man who held a salaried government post. If I got into trouble with Selia and needed a decoy, I would cheerfully throw him to her as bait.
Every town and city has its unhappy quarter. Hispalis might be a thriving hub of commerce, a producer of sculptors and poets, and a regional capital, but it too had potholed lanes where thin, dark-eyed women dragged screaming toddlers to market while very few men were in evidence. I could guess that the missing masculine element were all loafers or thieves, or had died of a wasting disease. Maybe I was prejudiced. Maybe I was just nervous. And maybe I was right to be.
Where the girl lived proved hard to find. There was no point asking directions. Even if anyone knew her, they would conceal it from us. We were too smart and too well-spoken-at least I was. Placidus looked pretty down-at-heel.
"This is a bad place, Falco!"
"Surprise me. At least with two of us, we can watch our backs in two directions."
"Are we watching for anything in particular?"
"Everything."
It was now late afternoon. The people of Hispalis were taking a lengthy siesta, much needed in the terrific heat of midsummer.
The narrow lanes were quiet. We walked in the shade and trod softly.
Eventually we identified a lodging house, slightly larger and less grim than its surroundings, which appeared to match the directions Cyzacus and Norbanus had given me. A fat, unhelpful woman on a wonky stool peeling a cabbage into a chipped bowl agreed grumpily that Selia lived there. We were allowed up to knock on her door. She was out.
We went down and sat in what passed for a foodshop opposite. There appeared to be little to eat or drink, but a waiter was gambling furiously with a friend. He managed to break off long enough to ask us to wait until they finished the next round, after which he scribbled hasty sums on a piece of board, collected the dice again ready, then dashed together two beakers of something lukewarm and cut us two chunks from a loaf, before he and his pal reabsorbed themselves in their game.
Placidus carefully wiped the rim of his cup with the hem of his sleeve. I had learned to toss down a draught without touching the container. There would not be much point in hygienic precautions if the liquor itself was contaminated.
"This is a fine way to do work, Falco!" my companion sighed, settling in.
"If you want it, the job's yours."
"I don't know if I'm qualified."
"Can you sit in a bar doing nothing half the day, while you wait for a girl who wants to beat your brains out?"
"I can sit and wait-but I don't know what I'm supposed to do once she arrives."
"Keep well out of the way," I advised.
I was beginning to regret bringing him. The neighborhood was too dangerous. We were getting into serious trouble, and Placidus did not deserve it. Neither did I perhaps, but at least I had some idea what to expect and it was my job.
These tiny streets with cramped dwellings had neither piped water nor sewerage. Ill-defined gutters in the stony tracks between hovels served to take away waste. In bad weather they must be atrocious; even in sunlight they stank. Depression was all around. A pitifully thin goat was tethered to a stick in the foodshop yard. Flies zoomed at us in angry circles. Somewhere a baby cried mournfully.
"You're not by any chance armed, Placidus?"
"You're joking; I'm a procurator, Falco!-Are you?"
"I brought a sword to Hispalis; I didn't expect to get this close to the girl, so I left it at the mansio."
We were badly positioned. We had come to the only place where we could stop and wait, but the alley outside was so narrow and winding we could see little of it. The few people who passed all stared at us hard. We sat tight, trying not to look as if our chins were barbered, and trying not to speak when anyone could overhear our Roman accents.
There were several battered lock-ups facing the path. One contained a man whittling at crude pieces of furniture; the rest were closed up, their doors leaning at odd angles. They looked deserted, but could just as well be in fitful use; any artisans who worked in this area were sad men with no hope.
After a while the waiter's friend left and two giggling girls arrived. They sat on a bench and did not order anything, but ogled the waiter who now had time to enjoy the attention. He had extremely long eyelashes; Helena would have said it was from batting them at women. After a short time the girls suddenly scuttled off, then a wide-bodied, bandy-legged man who could have been their father turned up and looked the waiter over. He left too, with nothing said. The waiter cleaned his fingernails with the knife he had used to cut our pieces of bread.
A redhead was walking past outside; she gave the waiter a faint smile. I have a strong aversion to redheads, but this one was worth looking at. We were seated below her line of sight, so we could peruse the goods unobtrusively. She was a girl who made the best of herself: a well-fitted soft green tunic above thongy shoes, earrings of cascading crescents, a chalk-white face highlighted with purplish coloring, eyes lengthened and widened with charcoal, and elaborate plaits of copper-colored hair. Her eyes were particularly fine. She walked with a confident swagger, kicking the hem of her skirt so her jingling anklets showed. She looked as though for the right reward she might show off the ankles they decorated, plus the knees and all the rest.
She also looked unlike anyone I had ever seen-though her best feature was that set of rolling brown eyes which did seem familiar. I never forget a shape either, however differently it may be trussed and decorated when I see it a second time. When the girl vanished somewhere opposite I found myself quietly finishing my drink. I said unexcitedly to Placidus, "I'm going across to check on Selia again. You stay here and keep my seat warm."
Then I hooked my thumbs casually in my belt and strolled over to the lodging house.
The fat woman had gone. Nobody was about.
The building occupied a long, narrow plot running away from the street. It was arranged on two floors either side of an open-roofed passageway, then widening into a small terminal courtyard with a well in it. This was sufficiently confined to keep out the sun at hot times of year. At intervals pots were hung on the walls, but the plants in them had died from neglect.
The girl lived on the upper level over the yard, where there was a rickety wooden balcony which I reached by an uneven flight of steps at the far end. Outside her door was a pulley arrangement to facilitate drawing up water. There were wet drip marks on the balcony rail. A shutter now stood open, one which I remembered had been firmly closed before.
I walked around the balcony the long way, that is on the opposite side from Selia's room. I trod easily, trying not to let the planking creak. When I came back to the part above the entrance passageway a bridge crossed the gap; I guessed nobody used it much for the whole thing sagged worryingly beneath my weight. I moved on gently to her room. She had killed, or tried to kill, two men, so she had thrown away her right to modesty: I went straight in and didn't knock.
The red wig lay on a table, the green tunic hung on a hook. The dancer was naked apart from a loincloth. As she turned to stare at me angrily, she made an appealing sight.
She had one foot on a stool and was anointing her body with what I took to be olive oil. When I stepped through the doorway she deliberately carried on doing it. The body that received the attention was well worth pampering. The spectacle nearly made me forget what I was there for.
"Well don't be formal! Treat my place as your own!" She threw back her head. Her neck was long. Her own hair, which was an ordinary brown, had been pinned in a flat coil, close against her head. Her body was hard to ignore.
I cast a rapid glance around the place: one room, with a narrow bed. Most of the clutter was on the table, and it was predominantly female stuff. Occasional eating implements were jumbled in among the hairpin pots, cream jars, combs and perfume vials.
"Don't be shy; I've seen nudity before. Besides, we're old friends."
"You're no friend of mine!"
"Oh come," I remonstrated sadly. "Don't you remember me?"
She did pause, with one palm held flat to the oil flask. "No."
"You should do. I'm the man who went home from the Society of Olive Oil Producers of Baetica safely in one piece- because I had acquired a large amphora of fish-pickle, with two slaves to carry it."
She put her foot down on the floor. Her hand still moved slowly upon her gleaming skin, and as she massaged in the oil it was extremely difficult not to stare. She appeared not to notice that she was transfixing me. But the care with which she oiled her breasts told me she knew all right.
I waited calmly. When she jumped for the meat knife that lay among the cosmetic pots I grabbed at her wrist. It would have been perfectly effective, had she not been so slippery.
Luckily for me the wrist I had seized was much smaller than my own; somehow I had encircled it. I felt her bones twisting in my grip and the knife flashed wickedly, but her weapon hand stayed held fast. It wouldn't last. Her all-over lubrication made her impossible to restrain for long.
I kept her at arm's length as she kicked out. Dancers have legs to reckon with. She was strong, but I had the advantage. Barging her shin with mine, I forced her to move back against the wall, making sure the corner of the table bruised her thigh. I banged her arm on the wall to shake the knife free. Spitting, she kept her grip on it. I thought of heaving her off, to spin her round and thrash her back into the wall, but she was so well oiled I would lose my hold. I smashed her elbow on the wall again. She gasped, and struggled to break free.
Her free hand cast behind me, grabbing at a soapstone pot to brain me with. There was no choice. I try hard to avoid naked women who are not my own property, but I had to protect myself. I went in close, throwing my body hard against hers then turning in my shoulder so I could break her hold on the knife
two-handedly. This time I did it. The blade clanged to the floor. Instantly she went limp, then flexed herself violently. Her arm escaped from my grip.
I still had her pinned against the wall, but her writhing body was so slippery it was like trying to catch a live fish. I brought up one knee and stopped her reaching the knife again. She squirmed away from me, dropped to the floor, scuttled under the table, then stood up and tilted it. Vases and boxes crashed to the ground, in a hail of broken glass, colored powders, and thick scents. It didn't stop me, and dropping the heavy table lost her the second it took me to leap forwards and grab her by the only part I could circle with both hands: her throat.
"Keep still or I'll throttle you until your eyes pop out!" She thought about fighting. "Believe me!" I warned again, kicking out with one foot to free it from a tangle of cheap jewelry. To reinforce the message I was squeezing hard. She was choking. I was out of breath. She saw her situation was desperate. She stood still. I felt her jaw clench as she gritted her teeth, no doubt vowing to say nothing and bite me if she could.
"Well this is intimate!" Her eyes told me what I could do with myself. I was aware of her hands twitching, ready to go for me. I tightened my grip. She saw sense. "Now why is it that when I end up in the arms of beautiful girls with no clothes on they are always trying to kill me?" Her response was a look full of hatred; well, the question had been rhetorical. While she glared, I suddenly wrenched her around so her back was against me and I felt less vulnerable to frontal attack. I kept one arm tight across her throat; with the other hand I was reaching for the knife that I kept down my boot. That improved the situation. I let her see what it was. Then I tucked the tip under one of her ribs so she could feel how sharp the blade was.
"Now we're going to talk."
She made some sort of angry gurgle. I increased my pressure on her windpipe and she fell quiet again. I edged her over to the table that she had conveniently cleared, then I pushed her face down. I was lying on top of her. This possessed some attractions, though I was too preoccupied to enjoy it. Holding down women is nearly impossible; they're too supple. The gods know how rapists manage it-well they use terror, which on Selia had no effect. I tweaked my knife against her well-oiled side. "I can scar you for life, or just kill you. Remember that."
"Damn you."
"Is Selia your real name?"
"Get lost."
"Tell me who you work for."
"Anyone who pays."
"You're an agent."
"I'm a dancer."
"No, Spanish dancers come from Gades. Who sent you to Rome?"
I can't remember. "This knife advises you to try."
"All right; kill me with it then."
"Very professional! Believe me, real dancers give in much more easily. Who asked you to perform at the dinner that night?"
"I was the official entertainment."
"That was Perella. Stop lying. Who paid you for what you and your two cronies did afterwards?"
"The same person."
"Oh you admit you committed murder then?"
"I admit nothing."
"I want his name."
"You want your balls hacked off with a disemboweling knife!" I sighed. "I'm sorry you're taking this uncooperative attitude."
"You'll be more than sorry, Falco." She was probably right there.
"Now listen! You may have killed Valentinus, but you underestimated what a thick skull Anacrites had. Simply cracking the Chief Spy's head will have worse consequences than killing him outright."
"You're never working for Anacrites?" She sounded surprised.
"You did leave him with a slight headache; he was allowed sick leave for a day or two. So you're right. Anacrites is not commissioning. I'm working for a man called Laeta-" I thought I felt her start. "Keep still, I said."
"Why?" jeered Selia. "What are you worried about?"
"Not a lot. I'm a professional too. Crushing a beautiful naked female on a table has its lighter side-but on the whole I like my women right side up, and I certainly like them affectionate."
"Oh you're all heart!"
"A complete softie. That's why you're face down against a plank of wood covered in bruises, and my knife's in your ribs."
"You're an idiot," she told me. "You don't know anything about the mess you're in. Hasn't it struck you that I'm working for Claudius Laeta-just like you!"
That sounded all too plausible. I preferred not to consider it. There was no immediate need to do so: we both abandoned comparing notes on our devious employer. Two things happened. I was unaware of lessening my grip on the dancer, yet somehow she wriggled suddenly and slithered sideways away from me. Then somebody else seized hold of my hair from behind and pulled me backwards in excruciating pain.
I thought you would never get here!" the girl snarled angrily.
Whoever had hauled me upright had me bowed over backwards with a torsion as tight as the throwing sling on a rock-hurling artillery mule. Once I realized, I began to react. Hair grows again. I wrenched my head free. I must have left behind a good handful of my bouncing curls, but now I could move. My eyes streamed, but I was bucking and thrashing. Of course he snatched at my wrist in the same way that I had previously grabbed Selia to make her drop her own knife; he was behind me so I closed my elbow against my side, resisting him.
Blows rained on my spine and kidneys, then I heard somebody else entering the room. The girl meanwhile was rubbing her bruises and finding a tunic as carelessly as if the rest of us were just flies buzzing around the window frame. Her bodyguards could do the work now.
I had managed to twist free. I jerked around so I could see my assailants: the two dark-skinned musicians from the dinner on the Palatine. It was the elder who had attacked me; he was wiry enough, and full of malice and energy. The other, more youthful, was burly, well-muscled and mean-eyed. I was in deep trouble. These were the men who had smashed in the head of Valentinus and left Anacrites for dead. I was fighting for my life.
"Sort him out!" Selia ordered. She had pulled some clothing over her head, but left it around her neck. She had paid these toughs sufficient to be sure they would kill for her. They looked as if they would enjoy it too. So much for the refining effect of music. Apollo was a thug, according to these two.
It was too small a room to contain four of us. We were close enough to smell each other's breath. Impetuously Selia herself went for my knife arm, grabbing hold and biting me. The others plunged at me too and with three to contend with in such a confined space, I was soon overpowered. Selia took possession of my knife. Her assistants each had me brutally by an arm; they were turning to rush me forwards against the farther wall when the girl complained, "Oh not in here!" A person of taste: she shrank from having my brains spread over her living space.
As they manhandled me towards the door I grunted in annoyance, "Just tell me this, Selia-if we're both working for Laeta why in Hades does he want you to remove me?" I ignored the two brutes, who for a moment stopped bundling me out.
"You're in my way," Selia responded offhandedly.
"Only because I don't know what's going on!" I was stalling. This group had killed. In no circumstances were they on the same side as me. "Anyway you take too many risks!"
"If you say so."
"The Parilia!" I reminded her. "You should have been lying low, not showing your face."
"Oh yes?"
"And I went to a daft lads' party afterwards where everyone knew you had gone home to Hispalis. You leave too many tracks. I found you-and so can anyone."
The heavies again started dragging me out, but Selia halted them with a raised hand. "Who's looking?" she demanded.
At least I was collecting my strength. The longer I could hold off any final battering, the more hope of escape. I ignored Selia's question. "If you really are a home-loving Hispalis girl, however did Laeta discover you?"
"I went to Rome, for someone else. I'm a dancer. I went to Rome to dance."
"So it wasn't Laeta who sent you to that dinner in your little Diana costume, then?"
"Find out, Falco!"
"Did Laeta order you to attack Anacrites and his man?"
"Laeta gives me a free hand." I noticed it wasn't an answer.
"You're in trouble," I warned her. "Don't trust Laeta to support you if the water heats up too much in his own pot."
"I trust no one, Falco." She had pulled down her dress and was calmly applying new paint to her face. She stroked it on with a spatula, swiftly and thickly. Before my eyes she was turning back into the archetypal Spanish Castanet girl (the one who only exists in men's dreams); the blue-black hair she wore for dancing for Romans had been combed out on a stand. When she bent forwards and pulled it on the effect was as dramatic as when I saw her on the Palatine.
"I hope Laeta paid you. You won't see a sestertius if you're living out here."
"I've been paid," she said, perhaps glancing at the heavies to reassure them she would look after them too.
"So what in the name of Olympus is Laeta trying to do?"
"You tell me."
"Discredit Anacrites? Take over the spy's work?"
"Looks like it."
"Why does he need two of us?"
"One wasn't good enough."
"Or wasn't ever meant to be! You mean Laeta's used me as a noodle-and he's using you to hamper me!"
"An easy game, Falco!"
"Easier than playing around with palace politics. But you're lying anyway. Laeta knows Anacrites is a cheap buffoon who could be put out of action with a bit of simple intrigue. Cracking heads wasn't necessary. Laeta's not vicious. He's not crude. He's quite clever enough to outwit Anacrites, and depraved enough as a bureaucrat to enjoy finessing him. Laeta wants a classic power struggle. He wants Anacrites alive, so he knows he has lost the game. Where's the art, otherwise?"
"You're just delaying," Selia said. "Get him out of here!"
I shrugged and made no attempt to cause trouble. The two musicians walked me onto the balcony. Just outside I glanced behind and said calmly to the older one on my left, "She's calling you."
He turned back. I threw myself forwards and spun my shoulder hard. The man on my right was pitched straight over the balcony.
The other yelled. I kneed him impolitely. He folded up; I chopped down on his neck with a double fist. He crumpled to the ground and I kicked him in the ribs until he lay still.
Below in the courtyard I had heard the crash and a cry as the first man landed. It was only one floor down, so he might still be mobile. There were confused sounds which I could not interpret, but by then Selia had rushed out.
First she flung a tambourine, edge on. I parried with my arm, but it cut my wrist. I hauled up the man at my feet and held him as a human shield while she then threw a knife-mine. He flung himself aside, dragging me. The blade clattered on the boarding, then with me cursing it tumbled over the edge.
The girl came at us; I barged the man into her. She dropped another weapon, then suddenly muttered something and ran towards the stairs. Her groaning bodyguard came back to life enough to grab the new weapon. It was the kind of cleaver girls who live alone keep in their rooms to shorten flower stems, hack up pig carcasses and discourage lovers from leaving early. I'd be afraid to have one in the house.
He set about me again, keeping himself between me and the girl. It was her I wanted; we all knew that.
I managed to dodge the swooping blade. Then I let off a high kick, flummoxed him, and shoved him backwards. I set off around the balcony, sprinting lightly on my toes. I was going the long way, the way I had first come to Selia's room.
The elderly fellow was tougher than he looked. I could hear him chasing after me. At the passageway bridge I slowed my steps. He was gaining, which made him pound harder to catch me. Once across, I turned back just in time to see the bridge give way. With a crack of splitting timber, the musician fell through. The wood was not rotten, just too flimsy for its intended purpose. He was left dangling, trapped between the broken planking. Blood dripped from his wounds where he was impaled on huge splinters of wood. When he tried to move he screamed.
To save time, I flipped over the balcony, clung to the rail, lowered myself as far as possible then dropped. I had just missed the well. (I had forgotten about that.) Neat work, Falco.
In the courtyard to my astonishment I found Placidus, fighting the other bodyguard, who was limping and nursing a broken arm from his fall. Placidus was keeping him under control, though only just. The procurator himself had a long gash in his side. My dagger, which had fallen from the balcony, lay near them, still bloody.
"The girl-" Placidus gasped, as I took over and stopped his opponent with a well-aimed kick. I got one arm around Placidus and leaned him on the well. "I could have handled this one-" If he was a freedman now, he had been a slave once. Even in the imperial palace that meant a sordid early life. He knew how to take care of himself. "I just didn't expect her. The girl slashed me before I could square up to her-"
"She got away?" I asked, retrieving my knife. He nodded disconsolately. I was peeling back his tunic gently to reveal the wound. "Save your strength. Don't talk. We've caught these two gruesome characters anyway." I was annoyed about losing Selia, but I did not let it show.
Placidus had put himself out for me. He looked pleased with his success, but he had paid a dangerous penalty. His wound was deep and nasty. "What's the damage, Falco?"
"You'll live-though once the pain sets in you're going to know all about this."
"Ah well, the scar should be interesting."
"I can think of easier ways to excite rumors!"
"I'll be all right. You go after the girl."
If we had been anywhere respectable I would have done. I could not abandon Placidus in this seedy area where the dancer might have friends. A crowd was gathering. They were silent and still; I would not trust them. No one offered assistance but at least nobody tried to interfere.
I made the man with the limp stand up and walk ahead of me with my knife against his back. Supporting the procurator with my free arm, I slowly set off on a difficult trip to find the nearest guardpost of the local watch.
Fortunately it was not too far. Rather than have Placidus faint at their feet, folk did give us directions. The glare I gave them persuaded them to tell us right.
We limped there safely. My prisoner was locked in the cell. Officers went off to bring in his companion. Placidus was carefully stretched out, bathed and bandaged; at first he protested volubly, then he suddenly passed out and made no more fuss. I led a search that lasted the rest of the day, but Selia had slipped away somewhere. I am a realist. She could have gone in any direction, and would be miles from Hispalis by now.
At least I knew something about her. She had lied about most of it, but sinister patterns were emerging. Events had moved on.
Suspects had laughed at me and beaten me up, but I had sized up the opposition-including the man who had commissioned me.
If her claim to be working for Laeta was right, Selia and I took our wages from the same soiled hands. I had no real job; I could not rely on being paid. On these terms I was not even sure I wanted to be.
It was time to return to Corduba. I badly needed to discuss all this with Helena. And if she agreed, I could ditch the whole filthy business and go home to Rome.
I rode back to Corduba even faster than I had come. I was glad I was not journeying in July or August, but even so the weather was uncomfortable enough to remind me this was the hottest part of Spain. Around me, covering the alluvial plain to the south of the River Baetis, lay the finest olive groves in Baetica. For oil rather than fruit, maybe the best olives in the world. Beyond the river even in the baking sun all the hills were green. Trees and shrubs flourished. I was crossing a bowl of abundant fertility, yet my mood remained grim.
For one thing, I was worried about Helena. There was nothing I could do about that. At least I was on my way back to her.
And I now had a new problem. I had not told poor Placidus, who was in enough misery with his wound, but what I had learned from the dancer filled me with dread. If Selia really had been working for Laeta, the attacks in Rome made one kind of sense: I was involved in a power struggle-as I had all along suspected-between two arms of palace officialdom. It looked darker and more bloody than I would have expected, but it was internal.
Whatever was going on here in Baetica might not matter to anybody back in Rome. The oil cartel could merely be the excuse Laeta and Anacrites used to perpetuate their rivalry. Or Laeta had used it on his own. Much as I loathed Anacrites, he was beginning to look like an innocent victim. He might have been just doing his job, decently attempting to protect a valuable commodity. Perhaps he was unaware of the threat from Laeta. When I saw them together at the dinner they had sparred verbally, but there was no sense that the spy suspected Laeta might actually be preparing to pick him off. Him and his best agent-a man I reckoned I would have liked.
I could walk away from the palace intrigue-but the dead Valentinus would continue to haunt me.
The scenario stank. I was furious that I had ever become involved. Helena's father had warned me that whatever was happening among the Palatine magnates would be something to avoid. I should have known all along how I was being used. Well of course I did know, but I let it happen anyway. My mission was a bluff-if Laeta hired Selia to attack Anacrites, he must have brought me in merely to cover his own tracks. He could pretend publicly that he was searching for culprits, though all he wanted was power. He must have believed I would fail to find Selia. Maybe he even supposed I would be so entranced with the importance of investigating a provincial cartel, I would forget to look for her at all. Did he hope I would be killed off in the attempt? Well, thanks, Laeta! Anacrites at least would have shown greater faith in my tenacity.
Perhaps instead Laeta wanted me to kill Selia, because she would know how he came to power.
As for the quaestor and his bumptious senator father, they looked like mere adjuncts to this story. I could only warn the Emperor that Quinctius Attractus was assuming too much power in Baetica. The proconsul would have to deal with Quadratus. I was treading on sliding scree, and I could risk nothing more. No informer accuses a senator of anything unless he is sure of support. I was sure of nothing.
I decided I did not want Claudius Laeta to acquire more power. If Anacrites died, Laeta could take over his empire; once in charge, whether he was bothered about the price of olive oil looked doubtful to me. I had heard for myself how Laeta was obsessed with the trappings of success with which Anacrites had surrounded himself: the suite in the palace of the Caesars, the villa at Baiae. Laeta's personal ambition looked clear enough. And it relied on undetected maneuvering. He certainly would not want me popping up in Rome to say be had paid Selia to eliminate Anacrites. Vespasian would never stand for it.
Maybe I would have to use this knowledge to protect myself. I was perfectly prepared to do so, to secure my own position-yet dear gods, the last thing I really wanted at this point in my life was a powerful politician nervous about what I might know.
I would have to fight him ruthlessly. It was his own fault. He was leaving me no choice.
I spent two days riding hard with muscles that had already ached and a brain that swam. I was so tired when I reached the mansio at Corduba I nearly fell onto a pallet and stayed there overnight. But I needed to see Helena. That kept me on my feet. I recovered the horse Optatus had lent me to come into town, and forced myself to stay upright on it all the way home to the Camillus estate.
Everything looked normal. It was dark, so the watchdogs set up a hectic yammering at my approach. When I led the horse to the stable a slave appeared to look after him, so I was spared that. The slave looked at me shiftily, as most villa rustica staff do. Without a word, I left my baggage roll and limped slowly to the house.
Nobody was about. A few dim lamps lit the corridor. I was too weary to call out. I went to the kitchen, which was where I expected to find everyone. Only the cook and other house-slaves were there. They all froze when I appeared. Then Marius Optatus broke in through another door opposite.
He was holding a leash; he must have been to investigate what had disturbed the dogs. His face was gray, his manner agitated even before he saw me.
"Falco, you're back!"
"What's wrong?"
He made a vague, helpless gesture with the hand that held the dog leash. "There has been a tragic accident-"
I was already on my way, running like a madman to the room I shared with Helena.
Marcus!"
She was there. Alive. Larger than ever; still pregnant. Whole. Sound.
I fell to my knees beside the chair as she struggled to rise and took her in my arms. "Oh dear gods…" My breath rasped in huge painful gulps.
Helena was crying. She had been crying before I crashed into the room. Now instead she was calming me, holding my face between her hands, her light rapid kisses on my eyes both soothing and greeting me.
"Optatus said there had been an accident-"
"Oh my darling! It's neither of us." She laid my hand upon the unborn child, either to comfort me or herself, or to give the baby notice that I was home again. It seemed a formal, archaic gesture. I tickled the child and then kissed her, both with deliberate informality.
"I should bathe. I stink and I'm filthy-"
"And half dead on your feet. I had a feeling-I've ordered hot water to be kept for you. Shall I come and scrape you down?"
"That's more pleasure than I can cope with…" I rose from my kneeling position beside her wicker chair. "Stay and rest. But you'd better tell me about this accident."
"Later."
I drew a finger across her tear-stained cheek. "No, now."
Helena said nothing. I knew why she was being stubborn. I had left her. Something terrible had happened, which she had had to cope with on her own, so now I had lost my rights.
We gazed at one another quietly. Helena looked pale, and she had her hair completely loose, which was rare for her. Whatever had happened, part of her unhappiness was because she had been alone here without me. Well, I was home now.
In the dim light of a single oil lamp, Helena's eyes were nearly black. They searched my face for my own news, and for whatever I was feeling towards her. Whenever we had been apart there was this moment of readjustment; the old challenge was reissued, the new peace had to be reaffirmed.
"You can tell me I shouldn't have gone away-but do it after you explain what's been happening."
She sighed. "You being here wouldn't have changed anything. There has just been a terrible accident. It's young Rufius," she told me. "Rufius Constans. He was working on an oil press on his grandfather's estate when one of the quernstones slipped and crushed him. He was alone when it must have happened. By the time somebody found him he was dead."
"Yes, that's a dreadful thing to have happened…" Constans had been young and full of promise; I felt bitterly depressed. Helena was expecting my next reaction. I tipped my head on one side. "He was alone? Nobody else was with him?"
"No, Marcus," she replied softly. I knew that, trained by me to be skeptical in every situation, she had already spent time wondering, just as I was doing now. "No; I can see what you are thinking. But there is no possibility of mischief."
"No special crony lending Constans a hand with the oil press?"
"No. Quinctius Quadratus was out of action; I can vouch for that myself."
I took her word. I was too tired to concern myself with how she knew.
I held out my hand and now she let herself take it. "Have you been fighting?" Helena could always spot the damage. "Just a few knocks. Did you miss me?"
"Badly. Was your trip useful?"
"Yes."
"That makes it all right then."
"Does it? I don't think so, love!" Suddenly unable to bear being apart from her, I tightened my grip to pull her up from the chair. "Come and wield a strigil for me, sweetheart. I'll never reach my own back tonight."
We had edged around my guilt and her withdrawal. Helena Justina held herself against me for a moment, her soft cheek pressed to my stubbled one, then she took my arm, ready to walk with me to the bathhouse. "Welcome home," she whispered, and I knew she meant it now.
The bathhouse at the villa was designed for hardy old republicans. I won't say it was crude, but if anyone hankered for the un-luxurious days of dark, narrow bathing places with mere slits for windows, this was ideal. You undressed in the cold room. Unguents were stored on a shelf in the warm room, which was certainly not very warm at night; you got up a sweat by vigorously shaking an oil jar to try to dislodge the congealed contents.
A single stoker kept the fire alight and brought water in buckets. He had gone for his supper but was summoned back. Since the bath was reserved for Optatus, Helena and myself, plus any visitors, he seemed glad of a rare chance to show off his skills. We needed him this evening. The promised hot water had been used up by someone else.
"That's just typical!" Helena stormed moodily. "I've had three days of this, Marcus, and I'm ready to scream."
I was stripping, very slowly. I hung my foul togs on my favorite hook, tossing aside a blue tunic that had been left by some previous bather. Nobody was in evidence now, which was just as well.
Helena insisted on kneeling to unstrap my boots for me. I helped her upright, then kept hold of her. "What's the matter, fruit?"
She took a deep breath. "I have about four different events to relate; I've been trying to keep them neatly arranged in my mind-"
"You're so organized!" I threw back my head, smiling at the anticipated luxury of listening to Helena. "A lot has been happening? You mean Constans?"
"Oh…" Helena closed her eyes. The young man's death had affected her profoundly. "Oh Marcus, I was with his sister and Aelia Annaea when the news was brought; I feel I'm part of it."
"But you said it was an accident. Truly?"
"It had to be. I told you; he was alone. It was such a shock. Everyone is very distressed. His sister is so young. I have not seen his grandparents, but we've all been imagining how distraught they must be-" She stopped, and suddenly became weepy again. Helena rarely gave way like that.
"Start from the beginning," I said, stroking her neck.
Taking a lamp, we walked through a heavy door into the so-called warm room. This part of the bathhouse was deadened to sound by the thickness of its walls, though somewhere at the far end of the hotter room I could hear vague shoveling sounds as the slave began replenishing the fire; the rattling and bumping noises traveled through the floor. Helena Justina rested on the low ledge against one wall as I worried a flask to extract a few dribbles of oil. She had presumably bathed once today, so she retained her undertunic modestly and forwent the full cleansing procedure.
She linked her hands and began rather formally: "The first thing, Marcus, was that I had a letter from home-from my brother Justinus."
"The lad! How is he?"
"Still in love with his actress."
"It's just a crush."
"So it's dangerous! Well, he's been working hard on Aelianus anyway, which he complains cost him a lot of drinks. Aelianus is feeling terribly guilty; his friend Cornelius, the one who wrote the famous secret dispatch, has written from Athens telling Aelianus not to talk about it to anyone called Quinctius."
"But Aelianus had already done that?"
"Apparently."
"He told me he fell out with Quadratus when your father was being cheated over the oil pressing."
"Well, quarrels don't last among lads. But Aelianus now says he and Quadratus did meet in Rome, though it wasn't a success. Their row in Baetica had soured the friendship so by the time of that dinner it had cooled permanently."
"Too late!"
"I'm afraid so. Justinus has found out that Aelianus has been bottling up a disaster. Before he went to the Palace, he had had the report with him at the Quinctius house. He left it with his cloak, and when he collected it the seal looked different. He picked it open again-as he confessed to you, he had actually read it once-the second time the letter had been altered to give a quite different assessment of how serious the cartel was."
I nodded. "So either Quadratus or his father Attractus deliberately tried to underplay the situation. Did Aelianus challenge his pal?"
"Yes, and that was when they quarreled again. Then Aelianus was frightened that he couldn't alter the scroll anymore without making a thorough mess of it, so he just handed it in to Anacrites and hoped everything would be all right." Helena sucked her lip. "I have strong views on Quadratus-which I'll come to next!"
"How has he been annoying you?"
"He'll annoy you too, because we've been landed here with the dreadful bull-necked, spoiled-brat, insensitive rich girls' delight 'Tiberius' himself."
"Here?"
"It's your fault."
"Naturally!" I know my place. Helena was clearly furious; I kept hold of the oil flask in case she let fly with it. "Even though I was a hundred miles away?"
"Afraid so." She had the grace to grin at me. I put down the oil flask. Helena Justina had a smile that could freeze all my capillaries. Our eyes met, a glance that was rich with feeling and memory. Only friends can exchange so much, so rapidly. "It was because of your horse, Prancer."
"Prancer belongs to Annaeus Maximus."
"And you lent him to Quadratus and Constans. Quadratus brought him back."
"I told him not to."
"Well, isn't that just like him?" Her voice grated. "And now the irritating creature has come to stay here, where everyone loathes him, and he's using all the bathwater!- If I challenge him about it he will apologize so politely I'll want to hit him with an oven hook. I can't prove that he does it deliberately, but he makes life a trial from morning to night for everyone around him."
I tutted. "He has to be a villain. I'll prove it yet!- But Helena, my heart, you still haven't told me: Why has this social wood-louse become our guest?"
"Your horse threw him. He has hurt his back."
"I won't hear another word against Prancer: the horse has taste!" I cried.
Growing too cold, we both stepped into wooden-soled clogs and braved the steam of the hot room. Helena took a bronze strigil and started scraping me down while I braced my aching limbs against her steady strokes. I could take as much of that as she was prepared to indulge me with, especially now that her mood had softened up.
"So Quadratus is bedridden?"
"No such luck. He can shuffle about. Everywhere Optatus and I try to go, he appears, making himself agreeable."
"That's disgusting!"
"He decided it was courteous to take an interest in my pregnancy. He keeps asking questions I don't want to think about. He's worse than my mother."
"The man's a complete lout. Worse than a girl's mother? That's as low as he can get! By the way, how is your pregnancy?"
"Don't bother, Falco. When you try to take an interest, I know it's all fake."
"You know I'm a fake you can trust."
"You're the fake I'm stuck with, anyway…"
She looked tired. I pried the curved strigil from her hand and took over ridding myself of sweat, oil and filth. Then we both sank onto the wooden bench to endure what else we could of the heat. Helena collected the damp strands of her hair and wound them into a clump, holding the weight off the back of her neck.
"Marius Optatus could go out in the fields and olive groves, but I've been stuck with our unwanted guest. I had to talk to him. I had to listen too-unendingly. He is a man. He expects to hold the floor. What he has to say is banal, humorless and predictable. He expects admiration in inverse proportion to content, of course." I was chortling. I loved to hear Helena condemning somebody else.
"Has he made advances to you?" I demanded suspiciously. I knew how I would react if I had Helena Justina to myself for days.
"Of course not."
"He's an idiot then!"
"He regards me as a mother-goddess, I believe. He pours out his heart to me. His heart is about as interesting as a burned cinnamon bun."
"Has he admitted he's a bad boy?"
"He doesn't know," said Helena, summing him up with furious clarity. "Whatever he does, he never even thinks about whether it's right or wrong."
I sucked my lower lip. "No fascinating hopes and joys? No undetected talents?"
"He likes hunting, drinking, wrestling-with opponents who are not too professional-and telling people about the future he has planned."
"He told me how good he was going to be as quaestor."
"He told me the same," she sneered. "I expect he tells everyone."
"I expect some are impressed."
"Oh lots would be," she agreed readily. "People think mere self-confidence equates to nobility."
She fell silent for a moment. "I'm confident," I mentioned, since she was obviously thinking it.
"You're confident for good reason. And when that's inappropriate you're filled with doubt. What Quinctius Quadratus lacks is judgment."
We were again silent. The slave had done his duty with a will, and the room quivered with steam now. Wetness streamed over my forehead from the hair flattened on my head. I scooped water from a basin and threw it over my face and chest. Helena was looking very flushed. "You've had enough," I warned her.
"I don't care. I'm just so pleased to be with you, to be talking to you."
It was too hot to touch another person, but I took her hand and we exchanged a slippery embrace.
"Why do we hate him?" I mused after more reflection. "What has he really done? Other people think he's wonderful."
"Other people always will." Helena had clearly had plenty of time to evaluate the hero.
"He's likable."
"That's what makes it so bad; he could be worthwhile, but he's chosen to waste his potential. We hate him because he is bound for success, which he doesn't deserve. He is an empty shell, but that will not prevent him rising."
"His underlings will buoy him up."
"And his superiors will avoid the effort of reporting his inadequacy."
"He'll introduce stupid procedures and make terrible decisions, but by the time the results show he'll have moved on up the ladder and be wreaking havoc somewhere else."
"And he will never be called back to answer for his mistakes."
"It's the system. The system is rotten."
"Then the system must be changed," said Helena.
Left to myself I would have sunk into a heavy sleep, but I managed to rouse us both enough to wash in the warm pool. "So what's the story of poor young Constans?"
"I told you most of it."
"You were with Aelia Annaea?"
"Tolerating Quadratus was becoming too much. Optatus took to finding excuses to ride into Corduba. Aelia and Claudia came to rescue me; we sneaked off in the Annaeus carriage, and then we spent the day at Aelia's house."
"This was today?"
"Yes. Then this afternoon a desperate message came for Claudia Rufina to rush home because of the tragedy. Her brother had been working on the estate; I think maybe there had been some trouble about the life he had been leading-that party you went to with Aelia's brothers has had its repercussions throughout the neighborhood. Anyway, Rufius Constans had promised to reform himself. Hard work was his way of showing it."
"What caused the accident?"
"New stones had been delivered for an oil press, and he went to inspect them. Nobody thought he would attempt to move them on his own. When he failed to return for lunch with his grandmother a servant was sent out, and he was found dead."
"An accident," I repeated.
"Nobody else had been there. As for Quinctius Quadratus, he was here; we all know it. Without question he is unable to ride. He could never have got to the Rufius estate. Besides, why would he harm his young friend?"
I shook my head, unable to suggest an answer. Then I did say, "I saw Rufius Constans before I left. He and his grandfather were at the proconsul's palace, trying to gain an interview."
Helena looked at me. "Intriguing! But you cannot ask Licinius Rufius what they were doing there. He and his wife will be heartbroken over their loss. So much was invested in Constans."
"And so much wasted," I agreed, in my most republican mood.
"They had probably gone to ask the proconsul for support in advancing the young man's career!"
That was not how it had looked to me. The old man had been too urgent in his manner, and the boy too sullen-faced.
Because of the cramped layout of the bathhouse, we had to return through the warm room to reach what passed for a cold plunge. It was in a kind of cupboard to one side, built off the cold room with the cloak-hooks. Even before we pulled back the curtain which concealed the pool, I had an inkling of something suspicious. Then Helena Justina exploded. "Oh really! I don't believe this thoughtlessness!"
I did. Somebody had bathed in the small pool so vigorously they had swooshed almost all of the water out onto the floor. Before I squashed down on the sitting ledge and splashed myself as best I could to cool down in the remnants, I glanced back into the outer room. There were wet footprints everywhere, and the blue tunic I threw on the bench had now disappeared. Whoever had used the cold water must have been lurking in the pool when Helena and I first entered. Whoever it was could have overhead all we said. Luckily the thick doors to the warm rooms would prevent sound emerging once we had passed through them.
Frankly, if it had been Quadratus eavesdropping, I found it hard to care.
I was pretty well incapable of movement now. When I struggled from the pool, dripping sporadically, Helena had to find a towel and dry me down herself.
"So are you going to tell me your own adventures, Marcus?"
"Oh mine are just horses, wine, men's talk, and women in their boudoirs getting undressed." Helena raised her eyebrows and I thought it best to produce a rapid, lightly censored version of my time in Hispalis. She was not best pleased with the part about Selia, I could tell. Being an informer had taught me to recognize growling and grinding of teeth.
"Bad news, Falco."
"I won't have that! I protest I'm innocent."
"I think you made up the whole story." She had guessed that I had pruned it. "What a puzzle your dancer is! Is she the killer? Is she seeking the killer for Laeta? Will her ravishing figure distract you from your family loyalties? Will she beat you up again? Or will she just beat you at your own game?"
I tried not to wince as Helena moved to buff up certain lower regions that preferred softer treatment. "Spare me the exotic massage… A procurator called Placidus had a dagger gash that proves what she wanted. Selia was not after my body, unless it was dead. I beat up her guards and captured them; they will stand trial before the proconsul on the basis of a report I've left with the vigiles about that night in Rome. I was supposed to stay-material witness-but I waved my pass from Laeta and pleaded urgent secret work."
"Dry your own feet please," said Helena. "I'm too large to reach-"
"You're adorable. Better than a Syrian bodyslave-"
"When have you been cosseted by a bodyslave?"
"They fling themselves on me all the time. Beautiful girls with terrific hands, and slinky boys with very long eyelashes…" Helena's chin came up. "There's one more thing I haven't told you yet. The cook told me that while I was resting one day a woman came here looking for you."
"Selia?" Was she pursuing me?
"It can't be," Helena informed me coolly, drying her own hair. "This one was here three days ago, Falco-when according to you, you were pinning the unclad Selia to a cosmetics table in Hispalis. I had not realized you were so sought after."
"Oh gods! You know what this means: I'm not just being beaten up by one female agent-Anacrites' special charmer wants her turn as well!"
I was so depressed that Helena relented. She kissed me, fairly gently. Then she took me by the hand again, and led me away on stumbling feet to bed.