Nobody was poisoned at the dinner for the Society of Olive Oil Producers of Baetica-though in retrospect, that was quite a surprise.
Had I realized Anacrites the Chief Spy would be present, I would myself have taken a small vial of toad's blood concealed in my napkin and ready for use. Of course he must have made so many enemies, he probably swallowed antidotes daily in case some poor soul he had tried to get killed found a chance to slip essence of aconite into his wine. Me first, if possible. Rome owed me that.
The wine may not have been as smoothly resonant as Falernian, but it was the Guild of Hispania Wine Importers' finest and was too good to defile with deadly drops unless you held a very serious grudge indeed. Plenty of people present seethed with murderous intentions, but I was the new boy so I had yet to identify them or discover their pet gripes. Maybe I should have been suspicious, though. Half the diners worked in government and the rest were in commerce. Unpleasant odors were everywhere.
I braced myself for the evening. The first shock, an entirely welcome one, was that the greeting-slave had handed me a cup of fine Barcino red. Tonight was for Baetica: the rich hot treasure-house of southern Spain. I find its wines oddly disappointing: white and thin. But apparently the Baeticans were decent chaps; the minute they left home they drank Tarraconensian-the famous Laeitana from northwest of Barcino, up against the Pyrenees where long summers bake the vines but the winters bring a plentiful rainfall.
I had never been to Barcino. I had no idea what Barcino was storing up for me. Nor was I trying to find out. Who needs fortunetellers' warnings? Life held enough worries.
I supped the mellow wine gratefully. I was here as the guest of a ministerial bureaucrat called Claudius Laeta. I had followed him in, and was lurking politely in his train while trying to decide what I thought of him. He could be any age between forty and sixty. He had all his hair (dry-looking brown stuff cut in a short, straight, unexciting style). His body was trim; his eyes were sharp; his manner was alert. He wore an ample tunic with narrow gold braid, beneath a plain white toga to meet Palace formality. On one hand he wore the wide gold ring of the middle class; it showed some emperor had thought well of him. Better than anyone yet had thought of me.
I had met him while I was involved in an official inquiry for Vespasian, our tough new Emperor. Laeta had struck me as the kind of ultra-smooth secretary who had mastered all the arts of looking good while letting handymen like me do his dirty work. Now he had taken me up-not due to any self-seeking of mine though I did see him as a possible ally against others at the Palace who opposed promoting me. I wouldn't trust him to hold my horse while I leaned down to tie my boot thong, but that went for any clerk. He wanted something; I was waiting for him to tell me what.
Laeta was top of the heap: an imperial ex-slave, born and trained in the Palace of the Caesars amongst the cultivated, educated, unscrupulous orientals who had long administered Rome's Empire. Nowadays they formed a discreet cadre, well behind the scenes, but I did not suppose their methods had changed from when they were more visible. Laeta himself must have somehow survived Nero, keeping his head down far enough to avoid being seen as Nero's man after Vespasian assumed power. Now his title was Chief Secretary, but I could tell he was planning to be more than the fellow who handed the Emperor scrolls. He was ambitious, and looking for a sphere of influence where he could really enjoy himself. Whether he took backhanders in the grand manner I had yet to find out. He seemed a man who enjoyed his post, and its possibilities, too much to bother. An organizer. A long-term planner. The Empire lay bankrupt and in tatters, but under Vespasian there was a new mood of reconstruction. Palace servants were coming into their own.
I wished I could say the same for me.
"Tonight should be really useful for you, Falco," Laeta urged me, as we entered a suite of antique rooms in the old Palace. My hosts had an odd choice of venue. Perhaps they obtained the cob-webbed imperial basement at cheap rates. The Emperor would appreciate hiring out his official quarters to make a bit on the side.
We were deep under Palatine Hill, in dusty halls with murky histories where Tiberius and Caligula once tortured men who spoke out of turn, and held legendary orgies. I found myself wondering if secretive groups still relived such events. Then I started musing about my own hosts. There were no pornographic frescoes in our suite, but the faded decor and cowed, ingratiating retainers who lurked in shadowed archways belonged to an older, darker social era. Anyone who believed it an honor to dine here must have a shabby view of public life.
All I cared about was whether coming tonight with Laeta would help me. I was about to become a father for the first time, and badly needed respectability. To play the citizen in appropriate style, I also required much more cash.
As the clerk drew me in I smiled and pretended to believe his promises. Privately I thought I had only a slim hope of winning advancement through contacts made here, but I felt obliged to go through with the farce. We lived in a city of patronage. As an informer and imperial agent I was more aware of it than most. Every morning the streets were packed with pathetic hopefuls in moth-eaten togas rushing about to pay attendance on supposedly great men. And according to Laeta, dining with the Society of Baetican Olive Oil Producers would allow me to mingle with the powerful imperial freedmen who really ran the government (or who thought they did).
Laeta had said I was a perfect addition to his team-doing what, remained unclear. He had somehow convinced me that the mighty lions of bureaucracy would look up from their feeding bowls and immediately recognize in me a loyal state servant who deserved a push upwards. I wanted to believe it. However, ringing in my ears were some derisive words from my girlfriend; Helena Justina reckoned my trust in Laeta would come unstuck. Luckily, serious eating in Rome is men's work so Helena had been left at home tonight with a cup of well-watered wine and a cheesy bread roll. I had to spot any frauds for myself.
One thing was completely genuine at the Baetican Society: adorning their borrowed Augustan serving platters and nestling amongst sumptuous garnishes in ex-Neronian gilt comports, the food was superb. Peppery cold collations were already smiling up at us from low tables; hot meats in double sauces were being kept warm on complex charcoal heaters. It was a large gathering. Groups of dining couches stood in several rooms, arranged around the low tables where this luxurious fare was to be served.
"Rather more than a classic set of nine dinner guests!" boasted Laeta proudly. This was clearly his pet club.
"Tell me about the Society."
"Well it was founded by one of the Pompeys-" He had bagged us two places where the selection of sliced Baetican ham looked particularly tempting. He nodded to the diners whose couches we had joined: other senior clerks. (They mass together like woodlice.) Like him they were impatiently signaling to the slaves to start serving, even though people had still to find places around other tables. Laeta introduced me. "Marcus Didius Falco-an interesting young man. Falco has been to various trouble spots abroad on behalf of our friends in intelligence." I sensed an atmosphere-not hostile, but significant. Internal jealousy, without doubt. There was no love lost between the correspondence secretariat and the spies' network. I felt myself being scrutinized with interest-an uneasy sensation.
Laeta mentioned his friends' names, which I did not bother to memorize. These were just scroll-shufflers. I wanted to meet men with the kind of status owned by the great imperial ministers of olden days-Narcissus or Pallas: holding the kind of position Laeta obviously craved himself.
Small talk resumed. Thanks to my ill-placed curiosity I had to endure a rambling discussion of whether the Society had been founded by Pompey the Great (whom the Senate had honored with control of both Spanish provinces) or Pompey the rival of Caesar (who had made Baetica his personal base).
"So who are your members?" I murmured, trying to rush this along. "You can't be supporting the Pompeys now?" Not since the Pompeys fell from grace with a resounding thud. "I gather then that we're here to promote trade with Spain?"
"Jove forbid!" shuddered one of the high-flown policy-formers. "We're here to enjoy ourselves amongst friends!"
"Ah!" Sorry I blundered. (Well, not very sorry; I enjoy prodding sore spots.)
"Disregard the name of the Society," smiled Laeta, at his most urbane. "That's a historical accident. Old contacts do enable us to draw on the best resources of the province for our menu-but the original aim was simply to provide a legitimate meeting ground in Rome for like-minded men."
I smiled too. I knew the scenario. He meant men with like-minded politics.
A frisson of danger attended this group. Dining in large numbers-or congregating in private for any purpose at all-was outlawed; Rome had always discouraged organized factions. Only guilds of particular merchants or craftsmen were permitted to escape their wives for regular feasting together. Even they had to make themselves sound serious by stressing that their main business was collecting contributions for their funeral club.
"So I need not really expect to meet any substantial exporters of Spanish olive oil?"
"Oh no!" Laeta pretended to look shocked. Someone muttered to him in an undertone; he winced, then said to me, "Well, sometimes a determined group of Baeticans manages to squeeze in; we do have some here tonight."
"So thoughtless!" another of the scroll-pushers sympathized dryly. "Somebody needs to explain to the social elite of Corduba and Gades that the Society of Baetican Olive Oil Producers can manage quite well without any members who actually hail from southern Spain!"
My query had been sheer wickedness. I knew that among the snobs of Rome-and freed slaves were of course the most snobbish people around-there was strong feeling about pushy provincials. In the Celtic faction, the Spanish had been at it far longer than the Gauls or British so they had honed their act. Since their first admission to Roman society sixty or seventy years ago, they had packed the Senate, plucked the plum salaried jobs in the equestrian ranks, conquered literary life with a galaxy of poets and rhetoricians, and now apparently their commercial tycoons were swarming everywhere too.
"Bloody Quinctius parading his retinue of clients again!" mut-
tered one of the scribes, and lips were pursed in unison sympathetically.
I'm a polite lad. To lighten the atmosphere I commented, "Their oil does seem to be high quality." I collected a smear on one finger to lick, taking it from the watercress salad. The taste was full of warmth and sunshine.
"Liquid gold!" Laeta spoke with greater respect than I anticipated from a freedman discussing commerce. Perhaps this was a pointer to the new realism under Vespasian. (The Emperor came from a middle-class family, and he at least knew exactly why commodities were important to Rome.)
"Very fine-both on the food and in the lamps." Our evening was being lit with a wide variety of hanging and standard lights, all burning with steady clarity and of course, no smell. "Nice olives, too." I took one from a garnish dish, then went back for more.
"Didius Falco is famous for political analysis," commented Laeta to the others. News to me. If I was famous for anything it was cornering confidence tricksters and kicking the feet from under criminals. That, and stealing a senators daughter from her lovely home and her caring relatives: an act which some would say had made me a criminal myself.
Wondering if I had stumbled on something to do with Laeta's motive for inviting me, I carried on being reverent about the liquid gold: "I do know your estimable society is not named after any old table condiment, but a staple of cultured life. Olive oil is any cook's master ingredient. It lights the best homes and public buildings. The military consume vast quantities. It's a base for perfumes and medicines. There's not a bathhouse or athletic gymnasium that could exist without oily body preparations-"
"And it makes a fail-safe contraceptive!" concluded one of the more jolly stylus-shovers.
I laughed and said I wished I had known that seven months ago.
Feeling thoughtful, I returned my attention to the food. Plainly this suited the others; they wanted outsiders to keep quiet while they showed off. The conversation became encoded with oblique references to their work.
The last speaker's remark had me grinning. I could not help thinking that if I passed on the stylus-shover's suggestion Helena would scoff that it sounded like making love to a well-marinaded radish. Still, olive oil would certainly be easier to obtain than the illegal alum ointment which we had intended to use to avoid starting a family. (Illegal because if you took a fancy to a young lady who was of the wrong status you were not supposed to speak to her, let alone bed her-while if your fancy was legal you had to marry and produce soldiers.) Olive oil was not cheap, though there was plenty available in Rome.
There was a suitably Hispanic theme throughout the meal. This made for a tasty selection, yet all with a similar presentation: cold artichokes smothered in fish-pickle sauce from the Baetican coast; hot eggs in fish-pickle sauce with capers; fowl forcemeats cooked with fish-pickle and rosemary. The endives came naked but for a chopped onion garnish-though there was a silver relish dish of you-guessed-it placed handily alongside. I made the mistake of commenting that my pregnant girlfriend had a craving for this all-pervasive garum; the gracious bureaucrats immediately ordered some slaves to present me with an unopened amphora. Those who keep frugal kitchens may not have noticed that fish-pickle is imported in huge pear-shaped vessels-one of which became my personal luggage for the rest of the night. Luckily my extravagant hosts lent me two slaves to carry the dead weight.
As well as the deliciously cured hams for which Baetica is famous, the main dishes tended to be seafood: few of the sardines we all joke about, but oysters and huge mussels, and all the fish harvested from the Adantic and Mediterranean coasts-dory, mackerel, tuna, conger eel, and sturgeon. If there was room to throw a handful of prawns into the cooking pot as well, the chef did so. There was meat, which I suspected might be dashing Spanish horse, and a wide range of vegetables. I soon felt crammed and exhausted-though I had not so far advanced my career an inch.
As it was a club, people were moving from table to table informally between courses. I waited until Laeta had turned away, then I too slipped off (ordering the slaves to bring my pickle jar), as if I wanted to circulate independently. Laeta glanced over with approval; he thought I was off to infiltrate some policy-molders' network.
I was really intending to sneak for an exit and go home. Then, when I dodged through a doorway ahead of my bearers and the garum, I crashed into someone coming in. The new arrival was female: the only one in sight. Naturally I stopped in my tracks, told the slaves to put down my pickle jar on its elongated point, then I straightened my festive garland and smiled at her.
She had been swathed in a full-length cloak. I like a woman well wrapped up. It's good to ponder what she's hiding and why she wants to keep the goodies to herself.
This one lost her mystery when she bumped into me. Her long cloak slithered floorwards, to reveal that she was dressed as Diana the Huntress. As definitions go, "dressed" was only just applicable. She wore an off-one-shoulder little gold pleated costume; one hand carried a large bag from which emerged a chink of tambourine clackers while under her spare armpit were a quiver and a silly toy hunting bow.
"A virgin huntress!" I greeted her happily. "You must be the entertainment."
"And you're just a big joke!" she sneered. I bent and retrieved her cloak for her, which allowed me to peruse a shapely pair of legs. "You're in the right place to get kicked somewhere painful!" she added pointedly; I straightened up fast.
There was still plenty to look at. She would have come up to my shoulder but was wearing cork heels on her natty hide hunting boots. Even her toenails were polished like alabaster. Her
smooth, extremely dark skin was a marvel of depilatory care; she must have been plucked and pumiced all over-just thinking about it made me wince. Equal attention had been lavished on her paintwork: cheeks heightened with the purple bloom of powdered wine lees; eyebrows given super-definition as perfect semicircles half a digit thick; lids glowing with saffron; lashes smothered in lampblack. She wore an ivory bangle on one forearm and a silver snake on the other. The effect was purely professional. She was nobody's expensive mistress (no gemstones or filigree) and since women were not invited tonight, she was nobody's guest.
She had to be a dancer. Her physique looked well fleshed but muscular. A shining swatch of hair, so black it had a deep blue sheen, was being held back from her brow in a simple twist which could be rapidly loosened for dramatic effect. She had both hands posed with a delicacy that spoke of practice with castanets.
"My mistake," I pretended to apologize. "I had been promised a Spanish dancer. I was hoping you were a bad girl from Gades."
"Well I'm a good girl from Hispalis," she countered, trying to sweep past me. Her accent was crisp and her Latin abrasive. But for the Baetican theme of the evening it might have been hard to place her origins.
Thanks to my trusty amphora I was keeping the doorway well blocked. If she squeezed through, we were going to be pleasantly intimate. I noted the look in her eye, suggesting that one wrong move in confined conditions and she was liable to bite my nose off.
"I'm Falco."
"Well get out of my way, Falco."
Either I had lost my charm, or she had sworn a vow to avoid handsome men with winsome smiles. Or could it be she was worried by my big jar of fermented fish entrails?
An oldish man with a cithara stepped from a room across the corridor. His hair was grizzled and his handsome features had dark, Mauretanian coloring. He took no interest in me. The woman acknowledged his nod and turned after him. I decided to stop and watch their performance.
"Sorry; private room!" she smirked, and closed the door smack in my face.
"Absolute nonsense! The Baetican Society has never encouraged plotting in smoky corners. We don't allow private parties here-"
It was Laeta. I had dallied too long and he had followed me. Overhearing the girl turned him into the worst kind of clerk who knows it all. I had stepped back to avoid getting my elegant Etruscan nose broken, but he pushed right past me intent on barging after her. His overbearing attitude almost made me decide against going in, but he had drawn me back into his orbit once more. The patient slaves wedged my amphora on its point against the doorframe and we sailed into the salon where the rude girl was to do her dance.
As soon as my eyes wandered over the couches I realized that Laeta had lied to me. Instead of the high-class world governors he had led me to expect, this so-called select dining club admitted people I already knew-including two I would have crossed Rome on foot to avoid.
They were reclining on adjacent couches-which was worrying in itself. The first was my girlfriend's brother Camillus Aelianus, a bad-mannered, bad-tempered youth who hated me. The other was Anacrites, the Chief Spy. Anacrites loathed me too-mainly because he knew I was better than him at the work we both did. His jealousy had nearly had lethal results, and now if I ever had the chance I would take great delight in tying him to a spit on the top of a lighthouse, then building a very large signal fire under him and setting light to it.
Maybe I should have left. Out of sheer stubbornness I marched straight in after Laeta.
Anacrites looked sick. Since we were supposed to be colleagues in state service he must have felt obliged to appear polite, so beckoned me to an empty place beside him. Instead of reclining myself I signaled the slaves to put my amphora to bed there with its neck on the elbow-bolster. Anacrites hated eccentricity. So did Helena's brother. On the next couch, the illustrious Camillus Aelianus was now simmering with fury.
This was more like it. I grabbed a cup of wine from a helpful server, and cheered up dramatically. Then ignoring them both I crossed the room after Laeta who was calling me to be introduced to someone else.
As I caught up with Laeta, I had to make my way through an odd roomful. I had hoped I would have no reason to take a professional interest tonight, but my suspicions of the Chief Secretary's motives in inviting me had kept me on the alert. Besides, it was automatic to size up the company. Whereas Laeta had first led me among a hardcore group of regular eaters and drinkers, these men seemed almost like strangers who had reclined together just because they spotted empty couches and were now stuck with making a night of it. I sensed some awkwardness.
I could be wrong. Mistakes, in the world of informing, are a daily hazard.
This salon had always been designed as a dining room-the black and white mosaic was plain beneath nine formal, matching, heavyweight couches, but boasted a more complex geometric design in the center of the floor. Laeta and I were now crossing that square, where the low serving tables were currently set but the dancer would be performing in due course. We were approaching a man who occupied the pivotal position like some grand host. He looked as if he thought he was in charge of the whole room.
"Falco, meet one of our keenest members-Quinctius Attractus!"
I remembered the name. This was the man the others had complained about for bringing in a troupe of real Baeticans.
He grunted, looking annoyed with Laeta for bothering him. He was a solid senator in his sixties, with heavy arms and fat fingers-just the right side of debauchery, but he obviously lived well. What was left of his hair was black and curly and his skin was weathered, as if he clung to old-fashioned habits: prowling his thousand-acre vineyards in person when he wanted to convince himself he stayed close to the land.
Maybe his collateral lay in olive groves.
I was clearly not obliged to make conversation, for the senator showed no interest in who I was; Laeta himself took the lead: "Brought another of your little groups tonight?"
"Seems an appropriate venue for entertaining my visitors!" sneered Quinctius. I agreed with the man in principle, but his manner was off-putting.
"Let's hope they will benefit!" Laeta smiled, with the serene insolence of a bureaucrat making a nasty point.
Not understanding the sniping, I managed to find amusement of my own. When I first came in Anacrites had been enjoying himself. Now when I looked back in his direction I could see he was lying straight and very still on his couch. His strange light gray eyes were veiled; his expression unreadable. From being a cheerful party guest with slicked-back hair and a meticulous tunic, he had become as tense as a virgin sneaking out to meet her first shepherd in a grove. My presence had really tightened his screw. And from the way he was staring-while pretending not to notice-I didn't think he liked Laeta talking to Quinctius Attractus like this.
I quickly glanced around the three-sided group of couches. It was easy to spot the Baetican interlopers whose invasion had annoyed Laeta's colleagues. Several men here had a distinct Hispanic build, wide in the body and short in the leg. There were two each side of Quinctius, forming the central row in the most honored position, and two more on the side row to his right. They all wore similar braid on their tunics, and dinner sandals with tough esparto rope soles. It was unclear how well they knew one another. They were speaking in Latin, which fitted the prosperous weave of their garments, but if they had come to Rome to sell oil they seemed rather restrained, not displaying the relaxed confidence that might charm retailers.
"Why don't you introduce us to your Baetican friends?" Laeta was asking Quinctius. He looked as if he wanted to tell Laeta to take a one-way trip to the Underworld, but we were all supposed to be blood-brothers at this dinner, so he had to comply.
The two visitors on the right-hand row, introduced rapidly and rather dismissively as Cyzacus and Norbanus, had had their heads together in close conversation. Although they nodded to us, they were too far from us to start chatting. The nearer pair, those on the best-positioned couches beside Quinctius, had been silent while Laeta spoke to him; they overheard Laeta and the senator trying to outdo one another in urbane unpleasantness, although they hid their curiosity. An introduction to the Emperor's Chief Secretary seemed to impress them more than it had done the first two. Perhaps they thought Vespasian himself might now drop in to see if Laeta had tomorrow's public engagement list to hand.
"Annaeus Maximus and Licinius Rufius." Quinctius Attractus named them brusquely. He might be patron to this group, but his interest in them hardly took a paternal tone. However he did add more graciously, "Two of the most important oil producers from Corduba."
"Annaeus!" Laeta was in there at once. He was addressing the younger of the two, a wide-shouldered, competent-looking man of around fifty. "-Would that make you a relative of Seneca?"
The Baetican assented with a head movement, but did not agree to the connection with enthusiasm. That could be because Seneca, Nero's influential tutor, had ended his famous career with an enforced suicide after Nero grew tired of being influenced. Adolescent ingratitude at its most extreme.
Laeta was too tactful to press the issue. Instead he turned to the other man. "And what brings you to Rome, sir?"
Not oil, apparently. "I am introducing my young grandson to public life," answered Licinius Rufius. He was a generation older than his companion, though still looked sharp as a military nail.
"A tour of the Golden City!" Laeta was at his most insincere now, feigning admiration for this cosmopolitan initiative. I wanted to crawl under a side table and guffaw. "What better start could he have? And is the lucky young man with us this evening?"
"No; he's out on the town with a friend." The Roman senator Quinctius interrupted with ill-concealed impatience. "You'd best find a perch, Laeta; the musicians are tuning up. Some of us have paid for them, and we want our money's worth!"
Laeta seemed satisfied that he had made his mark. He had certainly annoyed the senator. As we picked our way back across the room through the slaves who were lifting the food tables in order to clear a central space, Laeta muttered to me, "Unbearable man! He throws his weight about to a degree that has become quite unacceptable. I may ask you, Falco, to help me with my endeavors to deal with him…"
He could ask as much as he liked. Keeping members of dining societies in order was not my work.
My host had not yet finished bopping upstarts on the nob. "Anacrites! And who amongst our refined membership has deserved your attentions?"
"Yes, it's a working supper for me-" Anacrites had a light, cultured voice, about as unreliable as a dish of overripe figs. I felt bilious as soon as he spoke. "I'm here to watch you, Laeta!" To do him justice, he had no fear of upsetting the secretariats. He also knew when to thrust his knife in quickly.
Their warfare was pretty open: the legitimate administrator, who dealt in manipulation and guile, and the tyrant of the security forces, who used blackmail, bullying and secrecy. The same force drove them; both wanted to be the dunghill king. So far there was not much difference between the power of a well-honed damning report on first-quality papyrus from Laeta, and a snide denunciation whispered by the spy in the ear of the Emperor. But one day this conflict was bound to reach a head.
"I'm quaking!" Laeta insulted Anacrites by using nothing worse than sarcasm. "-Do you know Didius Falco?"
"Of course."
"He should do," I growled. Now it was my turn to attack the spy: "Anacrites may be disorganized, but even he rarely forgets occasions when he sends agents into hostile territory, then deliberately writes to let the local ruler know to look out for them. I owe this man a great deal, Laeta. But for my own ingenuity he might have had me tied out on a rock in the Nabataean desert for all the crows of Petra to pick clean my bones. And in the case of unwelcome visitors I don't believe the cruel Nabataeans bother to kill you first."
"Falco exaggerates," Anacrites smirked. "It was a regrettable accident."
"Or a tactical ploy," I returned coolly. "If I was at fault, I apologize."
"Don't bother," I told him. "For one thing you're lying, and for another, it's a pleasure to continue hating your guts."
"Falco is a wonderful agent," Anacrites said to Laeta. "He knows almost everything there is to know about tricky foreign missions-and he learned it all from me."
"That's right," I agreed mildly. "Campania, two years ago. You taught me all the mistakes and bungles. All the ways to upset local sensitivities, trample the evidence and fail to come home with the goods. You showed me that-then I went out and did the job properly. The Emperor still thanks me for learning to avoid your mistakes that summer!"
Laeta took a turn: "I'm sure we all profit from your mutual past relationship!" He was letting Anacrites know I was working for him now. "The entertainment is starting," Laeta smiled in my direction. The general noise in the room had dropped in response to signs of impending action from the dancer. Laeta patted me on the shoulder-a gesture I found highly annoying, though I made sure Anacrites did not see me react. "Stay and enjoy yourself, Falco; I'd like to hear your opinion in due course…" It was obvious he was not talking about the musicians. He wanted Anacrites to think something was going on. Well, that suited me.
Only two vacant couches remained, at each end of the side rows on opposite sides of the room. I had decided my preference, but just at that moment someone beat me to it. It was a man I found hard to place-a fellow in a subdued oatmeal tunic, about my age. He dropped onto the couch as if it had been his place previously and was soon leaning on his elbows to watch the dancer, with his muscular legs sprawled behind him. He had an old scar down one forearm and bunioned feet that had done their share of tramping pavements. He spoke to no one but appeared sociable enough as he tossed grapes into his mouth and grinned at the girl who was about to perform.
I grabbed a wine refill to brace myself, then took the final couch-the one which was already partially occupied by my amphora of fish-pickle, alongside Anacrites.
There were two musicians, both with that deep black North African skin. One played the cithara, fairly badly. The other was younger and with more menacing, slanted eyes; he had a hand drum. He pattered on it in a colorful manner while the girl from Hispalis prepared to thrill us with the traditional gypsy display. I gave Anacrites a pleasant smile that was bound to annoy him as we waited to marvel at the suppleness of her hips. "Diana looks hot stuff. Have you seen her before?"
"I don't believe so… What's our Falco been up to then?" I hated people who addressed me in that whimsical way.
"State secret." I had just spent a winter delivering subpoenas for the lowest class of barrister and helping out as an unpaid porter at my father's auction house. Still, it was fun pretending that the Palace harbored a rival spy network, one run by Claudius Laeta over which Anacrites had no control.
"Falco, if you're working for Laeta, my advice is watch your back!"
I let him see me chuckle then I turned back to the dancer. She was giving us a few teasing poses with her golden bow and arrow: standing tiptoe on one foot with the other kicked up behind her while she pretended to shoot at diners, so she could lean back and show off her half-bared chest. Since this was Rome, it was nothing to cause a riot. Well, not unless any respectable equestrian went home and described her little Greek costume too graphically to his suspicious wife.
"I've been talking to young Camillus." Anacrites had leaned across to whisper in my ear. I made a violent scratching movement as if I thought a beetle had landed on me. I just missed blinding him. He popped back onto his couch.
"Aelianus? That must have tried your patience," I said. Just the other side of Anacrites Helena's angry brother was making sure he avoided my eye.
"He seems a promising young character. It's clear that he doesn't care for you, Falco."
"He'll grow up." The spy should have learned by now there was no future in baiting me.
"Isn't he your brother-in-law or something?" It was casually offensive.
"Or something," I agreed calmly. "What's he doing here? Don't tell me he heard there would be top men from the bureaucracy, and he's trying to worm his way into a sinecure?"
"Well, he's just back from Baetica!" Anacrites loved being obscure.
I loathed the thought of Helena's hostile brat of a brother hobnobbing here with the spy. Maybe I was getting overexcited, but the scenario had a whiff of plots being hatched against me.
The girl from Hispalis was now well into her routine, so conversation ceased. She was showy, but not outstanding. Dancing girls are a thriving export from southern Spain; they all seem to train in the same terpsichoreal school, one where the movement-coach needs retiring. This wench could roll her eyes, and various other parts of her anatomy. She threw herself about the floor as
if she wanted to polish the whole mosaic with her wildly swinging hair. Once you've seen one snappy lass bent over backwards with her clackers in a frazzle, the attention may start wandering.
I was looking around. The room contained a disparate group. The world-weary, middle-class-looking pair of Baeticans on the other row of couches were as unreceptive as me to the girl's efforts; they still muttered among themselves. Quinctius Attractus, who had claimed to be paying for this, leaned on his elbow looking full of himself for the benefit of the more patrician pair of visitors either side of him. They watched politely, though the elder in particular looked as if he would normally be too aesthetic to indulge in this kind of show. All the Baeticans looked so polite it had to be forced, and I wondered why they thought they had been favored here. Anacrites, the professional state meddler, appeared perfectly at home, though I could not believe Quinctius Attractus had intended him to join the group. Then there was Aelianus, too young to be a member of the dining club in his own right. Who had brought him? And who was the man in the oatmeal tunic at the end of the opposite row from me, who enjoyed himself in that seemingly sociable manner-yet actually spoke to nobody?
I nudged Anacrites. "Who's that fellow?" He shrugged. "Probably a gate-crasher."
The dancer ended a set, twanging away an arrow for real. It hit young Aelianus, who squeaked as if it packed more force than her toy bow suggested. She then let off a shower, most of which found a mark, causing me to make a note that if anybody died later of a slow poison, I would know who to pull in for questioning. As she retired for a breather she indicated, with eyes full of sluttish promise, that Camillus Aelianus could keep his pretty arrow as a souvenir.
I slid upright, walked around Anacrites, and deliberately seated myself on Aelianus' couch, forcing the brat to salute me. "Oh you're here, Falco!" he said rudely. He was a thickset though physically undisciplined lad, with straight floppy hair and a permanent sneer. He had a younger brother who was both better looking and more likable. I wished it were Justinus here tonight.
I fingered the arrow as if Aelianus were a schoolboy with some illegal toy. "This is a dangerous memento. Better not let your parents find it in your bedroom; favors from performing artistes can be misconstrued." I liked to worry him with threats that I might blacken his name in the way he always tried to blacken mine. My reputation had never existed, but he would be standing for election to the Senate soon, and had something to lose.
He snapped the arrow in two: an impolite gesture, since the girl from Hispalis was still in the room, talking to her musicians. "She's nothing special." He sounded sober as well as bored. "She's relying on saucy eyes and a scanty outfit; her technique's very basic."
"That so?" I know a snake dancer who says people only watch for the dress-or lack of it. "So you're a connoisseur of Spanish choreography?"
"Anyone is, who has done a tour in the province." He shrugged offhandedly.
I smiled. He must have known his youthful experience in peaceful Baetica would not impress an imperial agent who had specialized in working at the Empire's trickiest boundaries. I had crossed them too, when a risk was needed. "So how did you enjoy Hispania?"
"Well enough." He did not want to have to talk to me.
"And now you're placing your expert knowledge at the disposal of the Society of Baetican Olive Oil Producers! Do you know the ones over there with Quinctius Attractus?"
"Slightly. I was friendly with the Annaeus lads in Corduba."
"What about the grandson of Licinius Rufius? He's here in Rome at the moment."
"I believe so." Aelianus was certainly not intending to discuss his friends. He could hardly wait to be rid of me.
"I gather he's out on the town tonight-I would have thought you would have been there."
"I'm here instead! Do you mind, Falco; I want to see the dancer."
"Nice girl," I lied. "I had a pleasant chat with her."
It misfired; "Of course; you must be going short," Aelianus suggested unpleasantly. "With my sister in her condition." How Helena and I lived was our own affair. I could have told him that sharing our bed with several months of unborn offspring had not impeded a healthy love life, but merely set greater challenges. "So now you're upsetting Helena by scurrying after entertainers. If anyone tells her maybe she will miscarry."
"She won't!" I snapped.
I had just spent six months trying to reassure Helena (who had in fact lost one child in pregnancy, though her brother may never have been told of it). Now it was hard work convincing her that she would give birth safely and survive the ordeal. She was terrified, and I was not much happier myself.
"Maybe she'll leave you!" he speculated eagerly. That had always been a possibility.
"I see you really have her interests at heart."
"Oh I'm happy to see her with you. I think when I stand for the Senate I'll make my election platform denouncing your relationship-I'll be a man of such traditional rectitude I even criticize my own sister-"
"You won't succeed," I told him. He might. Rome loves a pompous bastard.
Aelianus laughed. "No; you're probably right. My father would refuse to finance the election." Camillus Verus, father of my beloved and of this poisonous young ferret, always looked like an uncomplicated old buffer, but evidently Aelianus was sharp enough to realize that their parent loved Helena and understood that I did too; however much he regretted our relationship, the
senator knew he was stuck with it. I had a sneaky idea he was quite looking forward to having a grandchild too.
"Jupiter, you must be really gloating, Falco!" Helena's brother's bitterness was even worse than I had realized. "You've jumped up from nowhere and seized the only daughter of a patrician house-"
"Cobnuts. Your sister was glad to fly off her perch. She needed rescuing. Helena Justina did her duty and married a senator, but what happened? Pertinax was a disaster, a traitor to the state, who neglected and mistreated her. She was so miserable she divorced him. Is that what you want? Now she's with me, and she's happy."
"It's illegal!"
"A technicality."
"You could both be accused of adultery." "We regard ourselves as married." "Try that in the Censor's court."
"I would. No one will take us there. Your father knows Helena made her own choice, and she's with a man who adores her. There is no moral objection the senator can make."
Across the room the dancing girl with the limited technique shook out her waist-length hair. She seemed to know how to do that. I realized she had been watching us quarreling. It gave me an uneasy qualm.
To end the fight I stood up, preparing to return to my own couch. "So, Camillus Aelianus, what does bring you among the revered Society of Baetican Olive Oil Producers?"
The angry young man calmed down enough to boast: "Friends in high places. How did you get in, Falco?"
"Much better friends, in even more select positions," I told him crushingly.
Settling back the other side of Anacrites came almost as a relief. Before he tried to have me killed we had been able to work together. He was devious, but like me he had lived. He enjoyed a good wine, he was in control of his barber, and he had been known to crack the occasional joke against the Establishment. With an emperor who liked cost-cutting and hated too much security, Anacrites must be feeling beleaguered. He wanted me, for one, well out of his way. He had tried to discredit me, and he had planned to get me executed by a tricky foreign potentate. But even now, I knew where I was with him. Well, I knew it as much as you ever could with a spy.
"What's this, Falco? Is my young friend from the noble family pursuing vindictive claims against you?"
I said his young friend was about to get his nose pulled off. Anacrites and I resumed our usual hostility.
Gazing up, I fixed my eyes on a lamp. Burning with the clear, odorless flame of fine Baetican oil, it was in gleaming bronze and the shape of a flying phallus. Either this rude vessel was swinging more than it should, or the whole room had begun to maneuver in some swooning routine… I decided I had reached my full capacity for Barcino red wine. At the same moment, as so often happens, a slave poured more into my cup. I sighed and settled down for a long night.
I must have had yet more drink later, though I cannot provide a catalogue. As a result, nothing of interest happened-not to me, anyway. Others no doubt threw themselves into risk and intrigue. Someone presumably made an assignation with the dancer from Hispalis. It seemed the kind of party where traditional customs would be observed.
I left when the atmosphere was still humming. Nobody had noticeably fallen out, and certainly at that stage there was nobody dead. All I recall of my final hour are some tricky moments trying to shoulder my amphora; it was half as high as me and immovable to a man in my condition. The young fellow in the oatmeal tunic from the other row of couches was also collecting his cloak; he seemed relatively sober, and helpfully suggested I roust out some more slaves to lug the cumbersome container home for me on a carrying pole. I suddenly saw the logic of this. We exchanged a laugh.
I was too far gone to ask his name, but he seemed pleasant and intelligent. I was surprised he had been at the dinner all on his own.
Somehow my legs must have found their way from the Palatine to the Aventine. The apartment where I had lived for some years was six floors up in a dismal tenement; the slaves refused to come up. I left the amphora downstairs, tucked out of sight under a pile of dirty togas in Lenia's laundry on the ground floor. It was the kind of night where my left foot set off in one direction and met my right one coming back. I have no recollection of how I persuaded them to cooperate and find their way upstairs.
Eventually I awoke from troubled blackness to hear the distant cries of market stallholders and the occasional clonk of a harness bell. I realized the activity in the streets below had been disturbing me for some time. It was the first day of April and the outdoor street life was hectic. Watchdogs were barking at chickens. Cockerels were crowing for the fun of it. Day had dawned-quite a few hours ago. On the roof tiles outside a pigeon cooed annoyingly. Light, with a painful midday intensity, streamed in from the balcony.
The thought of breakfast marched into my brain automatically-then receded fast.
I felt terrible. When I squirmed upright on the saggy reading couch where I had flung myself last night, one look around the apartment made everything worse. There was no point calling out to Helena, not even to apologize. She was not here.
I was in the wrong place.
I could not believe I had done this-yet as my head throbbed it seemed all too plausible. This was our old apartment. We did not live here anymore.
Helena Justina would be in our new home, where she would have waited for me all last night. That's assuming she had not already left me on the grounds that I had stayed out partying. A fact which any reasonable woman would interpret as meaning I had stayed out with another girl.
There was a dark first-floor apartment on the shady side of Fountain Court. At first glance the shady side looked superior, but that was only because the sun failed to light the decay that encased all these buildings like a moldy crust. Shutters peeled. Doors sagged. People frequently lost heart and stopped paying their rent; before the landlords muscle-bound assistants beat them up as a penalty, they quite often died in misery of their own accord.
Everyone who lived here was trying to leave: the basket weaver with the street-level lock-up wanted to retire to the Campagna, the upstairs tenants came and went with a rapidity that said much about the facilities (that is, that there were none), while Helena and I, the weavers sub-tenants, dreamed of escaping to a plush villa with piped water, a boundary of pine trees, and airy colonnades where people could hold refined conversations on philosophical subjects… Anything, in fact, would be better than a three-room, small-dimensioned let, where the spitting and swearing totters who lived in the upper stories all had a right of way past our front door.
The front door had been stripped and planed down, ready for new paint. Inside, I squeezed down a corridor full of stored items. The first room off it had bare walls and no furniture. The second was the same, apart from an unbelievably obscene fresco painted straight opposite the entrance. Helena was spending much time doggedly scratching off the lewd copulating couples and the coarse satyrs in garish hyacinth wreaths and panpipes who lurked behind laurel bushes while they ogled the scene. Obliterating them was slow work and today all the wet sponges and scrapers lay abandoned in a corner. I could guess why.
I walked further down the corridor. Here its newly nailed floorboards were firm beneath my feet. I had spent hours getting them level. On the walls hung a series of small Greek plaques with Olympic scenes, Helena's choice. A niche seemed to be awaiting a pair of household gods. Outside the final room lay a red and white striped rug which I didn't recognize; on it slept a scruffy dog who got up and stalked off in disgust when I approached.
"Hello Nux."
Nux farted quietly, then turned round to survey her rear with mild surprise.
I tapped the lintel gently, and opened the door. Part of me hoped the usual occupant had gone out for a stroll.
There was no reprieve. She was there. I should have known. If she went out without me I had ordered her to take the guard dog. She was not in the habit of obeying my instructions, but she had become fond of the hound.
"Hello, brown eyes. Is this where Falco lives?"
"Apparently not."
"Don't tell me he's run off to become a gladiator? What a swine."
"The man is grown up. He can do as he likes." Not if he had any sense.
Routinely, Falco's new office had been furnished as a bedroom.
Informing is a sordid job and clients expect to be shocked by their surroundings. Besides, everyone knows that an informer spends half his time giving his accountant instructions how to cheat his clients, and any spare moments seducing his secretary.
Falco's secretary was lying against the pleasant scallopshell bedhead reading a Greek novel. She doubled as Falco's accountant, which might explain her disillusioned manner. I did not attempt to seduce her. A tall, talented young woman, her expression hit me like a sudden gulp of snow-chilled wine. She was draped in white, with fine dark hair, loosely pinned up with ivory side combs. On a small table beside her lay a manicure set, a bowl of figs, and a shorthand copy of yesterday's Daily Gazette. With these she occupied her time while awaiting the master's return. This had left her copious spare capacity for inventing whiplash retorts.
"How are you?" I inquired, tenderly checking up on her condition.
"Angry." She enjoyed being frank. "That's bad for the baby."
"Leave the baby out of this. I hope to shield the baby from knowing it has a father who is a degenerate stop-out whose respect for his home life is as minimal as his courtesy to me."
"Nice talking, Demosthenes!-Helena, my heart, you are angry!"
"Yes, and it's bad for you."
"I do have an explanation."
"Don't make me tired, Falco."
"I've tried to produce something lucid and witty. Want to hear?"
"No. I'll be happy with your shrieks of grief as a posse of soldiers marches you away."
"I made a stupid mistake, fruit. I had too much to drink and went home to the wrong house."
"Lucid," she smiled weakly. "Though only witty in the sense that it's ludicrous… Whose house?" Suspicion dies slowly.
"Ours. Over the road. Whose did you think?" I jerked my head in the direction of my old apartment.
Helena had always taken the line that she hated half the things I did-yet chose to believe that I told her the truth. In fact I did. She was too shrewd for deceit. In sudden relief she dropped her face in her hands and burst into tears. It was involuntary, but the worst punishment she could have chosen to whack me with.
I reflected sadly on the fact I was still half drunk and bound to have the ghastly breath to prove it. Rubbing one hand over my chin, I met relentless stubble. Then I crossed the room and gathered my poor cumbersome darling into my arms, taking the opportunity to slide my own body alongside her on the bed.
I had reached the point of comforting Helena just in time. I needed to get horizontal. The ravages of the night before would have had me keeling over otherwise.
We were still there, collapsed in a comfortable mound, about an hour later. Helena had been holding me and staring at the ceiling. I was not asleep, just slowly recovering.
"I love you," I gurgled eventually, to take her mind off whatever dark thoughts held her transfixed.
"You do know when to splash out on a romantic phrase!" She gripped me by the bristled chin and stared into my bleary eyes. A girl of great courage, even she went slightly pale. "Falco, your raffish good looks are the worse for wear."
"You're a charitable woman."
"I'm a fool!" She frowned. Helena Justina knew she had let herself be lured into caring for an unsatisfactory lowlife who would only bring her sorrow. She had convinced herself she enjoyed the challenge. Her influence had already refined me, though I managed to conceal the evidence. "Damn you, Marcus, I thought you had been carried away by the excitement of your orgy and were lying in the lap of a dancing girl."
I grinned. If Helena cared enough for me to be upset there was always hope. "There was a dancing girl at the party but I had nothing to do with her. She was got up as Diana in a fraction of a costume. Spent her time leaning backwards so you could look right down-"
"At your food bowl, if you were sensible!"
"Exactly," I assured my beloved.
She gave me a fierce hug; by accident I let out a revolting belch. "Then I thought you had been set upon and were bleeding in a gutter somewhere."
"Just as well it didn't happen. I was carrying a valuable quantity of top-quality liquamen, which I managed to pinch from the party as a gift for my lady love, whose pregnancy has given her insatiable cravings for the most expensive kind of sauce."
"My unerring good taste! As a bribe, it's virtually enough," she conceded. Always fair.
"It's a whole amphora."
"That's the way to show your remorse!"
"I had to borrow two slaves to drag it home."
"My hero. So is it from Baetica?"
"The label on the shoulder says Gades."
"Sure it's not just cheap old Muria?"
"Do I look like a second-class tunnyfish salesman? Entrails of prime mackerel, I promise you." I had not tested the garum but the boast seemed safe. Given the high standard of food at the dinner, the condiments were bound to be excellent. "Am I forgiven, then?"
"For not knowing where you live?" she jibed pointedly.
"Yes, I'm suitably embarrassed."
Helena Justina smiled. "I'm afraid you will have to face quite a lot more embarrassment. You see, Marcus my darling-I was so worried by your nonappearance that I rushed out at first light to see Petronius Longus." Petronius, my best friend, was not above sarcasm when it came to my escapades. He worked as an inquiry officer in the local watch. Helena gurgled prettily. "I was distraught, Marcus. I insisted he get the vigiles to look everywhere for you…"
Helena assumed the demure expression of a girl who intended to enjoy herself, knowing I was condemned to suffer in a very public manner. She did not need to continue. Everyone on the Aventine would have heard that I disappeared last night. And whatever lies about my drunken return I tried telling, the true story was bound to come out.
Luckily Petronius must have had enough to do chasing real villains. He had no time to come looking for me.
I spent my morning in modest domestic pursuits. Sleeping. Asking for headache remedies. Giving attention to the selfless woman who had chosen to spend her life with me.
Then a distraction turned up. We heard a man who was hot and fractious arriving on the outer stairs. We ignored the noise until he burst in on us. It was Claudius Laeta: he seemed to expect rather more ceremony than the quiet stare he received from both of us.
I had got myself bathed, shaved, massaged, combed, dressed in a clean tunic, revitalized with several pints of cold water, then further nourished with a simple meal of lightly cooked cucumber in eggs. I was sitting like a decent householder at my own table, talking to my own woman and politely allowing her to select whatever subject she liked. The chat was undemanding because Helena had her mouth full of mustcake. She had bought it for herself that morning, half suspecting I would turn up eventually with some disgraceful tale. There had been no suggestion of offering me any.
So we sat, decorous and peaceful after lunch, when a man with a commission I didn't want or care for burst into our home: for an informer, this was a normal event. I greeted him resignedly. Luckily we had our temporary table in the room without the obscene plasterwork. I took my time fetching another seat from a cubbyhole. I knew whatever Laeta had come to say would be burdensome.
Laeta sat down. Here, in a low street on the turbulent Aventine, the great man was well out of his fishpond. Like a grounded carp he was gasping, too. I never told anyone my new address, preferring to let trouble go to the old one. He must have stomped up the six flights to my room across the road, then stumbled down them all again before Lenia at the laundry (who had callously watched him going up) drawled out that I also leased an apartment over the basket shop opposite. He had vented his curses on the ox-wagon driver who had knocked him down as he was crossing Fountain Court.
"Perhaps Marcus Didius can advise you on suing the driver?" murmured Helena, with the refined patrician mockery which was the last thing he could cope with in his present indignant state.
I introduced her formally: "Helena Justina, daughter of Camillus Verus, the senator; he's a friend of Vespasian, as I expect you know."
"Your wife?" quavered Laeta, alarmed by the incongruity and trying not to sound surprised. We smiled at him.
"What's the problem?" I asked gently. There had to be a problem, or a high-class official would not have dragged himself here, especially without an escort.
He cast a wild glance towards Helena, meaning I should get rid of her. Not easy. Not easy, even if I had wanted to. Quite impossible while she was two months away from giving birth and shamelessly exploiting it: groaning with restrained discomfort as she settled into her wicker armchair with her tired feet on her personal footstool. She folded her stole around herself and smiled at Laeta again-then continued with the remains of her cake. He was not worldly enough to suggest he and I go out to a wine bar, so Helena prepared to listen.
As she licked her long fingers I watched her wicked brown eyes survey the top clerk. He was sweating badly, partly from his hike up to my old aerie and partly from agonies of awkwardness here. I wondered what Helena made of him. In fact, I wondered what I really made of him myself.
"Did you enjoy the dinner, Falco?"
"Excellent." Years of encouraging difficult clients had taught me to lie smoothly. I seemed to have a prospective client here. Well I had already turned down people who were more important than him.
"Good; good… I need your help," he confessed.
I raised an eyebrow as if that sordid idea had never crossed my mind. "What can I do for you?"
This time Laeta turned to Helena directly. "Perhaps you have some weaving you want to attend to?" He was persistent, yet had the sense to make it sound like a joke in case she still refused to budge.
"Afraid not." She waved her arm around the empty room. "We're still waiting for the loom to be delivered."
I grinned. Helena Justina had never promised me the traditional attributes of a good Roman wife: reclusive social habits, a submissive demeanor, obedience to her male relatives, a big fat dowry-let alone home-woven tunics. All I got was bed and banter. Somehow I still ended up convinced that I had it better than the old republicans.
Laeta stopped fidgeting. He fixed his gaze on me as if to make my eccentric companion invisible. "I need assistance from someone who is totally reliable."
I had heard that before. "You're saying the job is dangerous!"
"This could bring you large rewards, Falco."
"That old song! This is work of an official nature?"
"Yes."
"And is it official as in 'just between friends,' official as in 'a highly placed person whose name I won't mention needs this, or official as in 'the highly placed person must never know about it and if you get in trouble I'll deny I've ever heard of you'?"
"Are you always so cynical?"
"I've worked for the Palace before."
Helena cut in, "Marcus Didius has risked his life on public service. His reward has been slow payment, followed by a refusal of social promotion even though it had previously been promised him."
"Well I know nothing of your last employment terms, Marcus Didius." Laeta knew how to blame other departments. A natural. "My own secretariat has an unblemished record."
"Oh good!" I jeered. "Yet my enthusiasm for your bureau's clean habits doesn't mean I accept the job."
"I have not told you what it is," he twinkled.
"By Jove; no you haven't! My curiosity is bursting."
"You're being satirical."
"I'm being rude, Laeta."
"Well, I'm sorry you take this attitude, Falco-" There was an unspoken hint of regret that he had honored me with his invitation to the oil producers' party. I ignored it. "I had been told you were a good agent."
"Good means selective."
"But you refuse my work?"
"I'm waiting to hear about it."
"Ah!" He assumed an expression of huge relief. "I can promise I shall take personal responsibility for the payment of your fees. How much are we talking about, by the way?"
"I'll fix the terms when I accept the work-and I'll only accept if I know what it is."
There was no escape. He looked uncomfortable, then he came out with it: "Someone from our dinner last night has been found badly beaten in the street."
"Then you must call for a surgeon and inform the local cohort of the watch!"
I avoided looking at Helena, aware she was newly anxious on my own behalf. If I had known we had to talk about people being beaten up, I would have whipped Laeta out of doors as soon as he arrived.
He pinched his mouth. "This is not for the watch." "What makes a late-night street mugging peculiar? Home-going revelers are always being attacked."
"He lives at the Palace. So he wasn't going home." "Is that significant? Who is this man?"
I should have worked out the answer, if only from the high status of my visitor and his unhealthy excitement. Yet it was quite unexpected when Laeta informed me with an air of panache: "Anacrites, the Chief of Intelligence!"
Anacrites?" I laughed briefly, though not at the spy's misfortune. "Then the first question you should be asking is whether I did it!"
"I did consider that," Laeta shot back.
"Next, the attack may be connected to his work. Maybe, unknown to you, I'm already involved."
"I understood that after he landed you in trouble on your Eastern trip, the last thing you would ever do is work with him."
I let that pass. "How did he get himself beaten up?"
"He must have gone out for some reason."
"He wasn't going home? He actually lives at the Palace?"
"It's understandable, Falco. He's a free man, but he holds a sensitive senior position. There must be considerations of security." Laeta had clearly given much thought to the luxury Anacrites had fixed up for himself: interservice jealousies were seething again. "I believe he has invested in a large villa at Baiae, but it's for holidays-which he rarely takes-and no doubt his retirement eventually-"
Laeta's obsession with his rival's private life intrigued me-as did the amazing thought that Anacrites could somehow afford a villa at ultrafashionable Baiae. "How badly is he hurt?" I butted in.
"The message said he might not live."
"Message?"
"Apparently he was discovered and rescued by a householder who sent a slave to the Palatine this morning."
"This man identified Anacrites how?"
"That I don't know."
"Who has checked Anacrites' condition? You have not seen him?"
"No!" Laeta seemed surprised.
I restrained myself. This was looking like a mess. "Is he still with the charitable private citizen?" Silence confirmed it. "So! You believe Anacrites has been knocked about, and possibly murdered, by somebody or some group he was investigating. Official panic ensues. You, as Chief of Correspondence-a quite separate bureau-become involved." Or he involved himself, more likely. "Yet the Chief Spy himself has been left all day, perhaps without medical attention, and in a place where either he or the helpful citizen may be attacked again. Meanwhile nobody from the official side has bothered to find out how badly Anacrites is hurt, or whether he can speak about what happened?"
Laeta made no attempt to excuse the stupidity. He linked the fingertips of both hands. "Put like that," he said, with all the reasonableness of an important official who had been caught on the hop, "it sounds as if you and I should go straight there now, Falco."
I glanced across at Helena. She shrugged, resigned to it. She knew I hated Anacrites; she also knew that any wounded man needs help from someone sensible. One day the body bleeding in the gutter might be mine.
I had a further question: "Anacrites runs a full complement of
agents; why are they not being asked to see to this?" Laeta looked shifty; I dropped in the real point: "Does the Emperor know what has occurred?"
"He knows." I could not decide whether to believe the clerk or not.
At least Laeta had brought an address. It took us to a medium apartment on the south end of the Esquiline-a once notorious distinct, now prettied up. A famous graveyard which had once possessed a filthy reputation had been developed into five or six public gardens. These still provided a venue for fornication and robbery, so the streets were littered with broken wine jugs and the locals walked about with their heads down, avoiding eye contact. Near the aqueducts some pleasant private homes braved it out. On the first level of living quarters in a four-story block, up a cleanly swept stair which was guarded by standard bay trees, lived a fusspot bachelor architect called Calisthenus. He had been trapped at home all day, unwilling to leave a mugging victim who might suddenly revive and make off with his rescuer's collection of Campania cameos.
Laeta, with unnecessary caution, refused to identify himself. I did the talking: "I'm Didius Falco." I knew how to imbue that with authority; there was no need to specify what post I held. "We've come to carry off the mugging victim you so kindly took in-assuming he is still alive."
"Just about, but unconscious still." Calisthenus looked as if he thought he deserved our official attention. I contained my distaste. He was a thin, pale weeping willow who spoke in a tired drawl. He implied he had great ideas preoccupying him, as if he were a grand temple designer; in reality he probably built rows of little cobblers' shops.
"How did you come across him?"
"Impossible to avoid: he was blocking my exit."
"Had you heard any disturbance last night?"
"Not specially. We get a lot of noise around here. You learn to sleep through it." And to ignore trouble until they could not step over it.
We reached a small closet where a slave normally dossed down. Anacrites was lying on the meager pallet, while the slave watched him from a stool, looking annoyed that his blanket was being bled on. The spy was indeed unconscious. He was so ill that for a second I found him unrecognizable.
I spoke his name: no response.
There was a cloth in a bowl of cold water; I wiped his face. His skin was completely drained of color and felt icily moist. The pulse in his neck took careful finding. He had gone somewhere very far away, probably on a journey that would have no return.
I lifted the cloak covering him, his own garment presumably. He still wore last nights reddish tunic held together along all its seams with padded braid in dark berry colors. Anacrites always swanked in good stuff, though he avoided garish shades; he knew how to mix comfort with unobtrusiveness.
There were no bloodstains on the tunic. I found no stabbing wounds nor general signs of beating, though he did have identical bad bruises on both his upper arms as if he had been fiercely grabbed. The side of one shin had a small cut, new and about a digit long, from which ran a dried trickle of blood, thin and straight as a dead worm. No serious wounds accounted for his desperate condition until I drew back another cloth. It had been placed at the top of his head, where it formed a wad pressed against his skull.
I peeled it off gently. This explained everything. Someone with unpleasant manners had used Anacrites as a pestle in a very rough mortar, half scalping him. Through the mess of blood and hair I could see to the bone. The spy's cranium had been crushed in a way that had probably damaged his brain.
Calisthenus, the droopy architect, had reappeared in the doorway. He was holding Anacrites' belt; I recognized it from last night. "He was not robbed. There is a purse here." I heard it clink. Laeta grabbed the belt and searched the purse, finding just small change in normal quantities. I didn't bother. If he hoped to discover clues there, Laeta had never dealt with spies. I knew Anacrites would carry no documents, not even a picture of his girlfriend if he had one. If he ever carried a note-tablet he would have been too close even to scratch out a shopping list.
"How did you know he belonged in the Palace, Calisthenus?"
Calisthenus handed me a bone tablet, the kind many officials wear to impress innkeepers when they want a free drink. It gave Anacrites a false name which I had heard him use, and claimed he was a palace secretary; I knew that disguise too, and presumably so did whoever at the Palace received the architect's message.
"Was anything else with him?"
"No."
I lifted the Chief Spy's lifeless left wrist, splaying the cold fingers on mine. "What about his seal ring?" I knew he wore one; he used it to stamp passes and other documents. It was a large chalcedony oval engraved with two elephants entwining trunks. Calisthenus again shook his head. "Sure?" He was growing indignant as only an architect can (all that practice bluffing out overspent estimates and expressing disbelief that clients expect a house that looks like what they asked for…). "No disrespect, Calisthenus, but you might have thought the ring would cover any costs you incurred in tending the victim?"
"I can assure you-"
"All right. Settle down. You have rescued an important state servant; if it does impose any financial burden, send your invoice to the Palace. If the ring turns up it should be returned straightaway. Now if your boy can run out for a litter, my colleague here will take this poor fellow away."
Laeta looked put out that I assigned him to babyminding, but as we watched Anacrites being loaded into a hired chair for what could be his last journey anywhere, I explained that if I was being asked to work on the problem I had best nip off and start. "So what is required, Laeta? You want me to arrest whoever bopped him?"
"Well, that would be interesting, Falco." In fact Laeta sounded as if apprehending the villain was his least concern. I began to wonder if it was wise to let him escort the wounded spy back to the Palatine. "But what investigation do you think Anacrites was working on?"
"Ask the Emperor," I instructed.
"Vespasian is unaware of any major exercise that could be relevant." Did that mean the Emperor was being kept in ignorance- or simply that the intelligence network had no work? No wonder Anacrites always gave the impression he feared compulsory retirement was lurking just around the corner.
"Have you tried Titus?" The Emperor's elder son shared the business of government. He happily involved himself in secrets.
"Titus Caesar had nothing to add. However, it was he who suggested bringing in your good self."
"Titus knows I won't want to tangle with this!" I growled. "I told you: interview Anacrites' staff. If he was on to something, he will have had agents out in the field."
Laeta was frowning. "I have been trying, Falco. I cannot identify any agent he was using. He was very secretive. His recordkeeping was eccentric to say the least. All the named employees on his bureau's roll seem very low-grade runners and messengers."
I laughed. "No operative who worked for Anacrites would be high class!"
"You mean he couldn't choose good people?" Laeta seemed pleased to hear it.
Suddenly I felt angry on the damned spy's behalf. "No, I mean that he was never given any money to pay for quality!" It did raise the question of how his own villa at Baiae had been acquired, but Laeta failed to spot the discrepancy. I calmed down. "Look, he was bound to be secretive; it comes with the job. Olympus! We're talking about him as if he were dead, but that's not so, not yet-"
"Well no indeed!" Laeta muttered. The litter-bearers were maintaining their normal impassive stare straight ahead. We both knew they were listening in. "Titus Caesar suggests we ensure no news of this attack leaks out." Good old Titus. Famous for flair-especially, in my experience, when organizing cover-ups. I had helped him fix a few of those.
I looked Laeta firmly in the eye. "This could have something to do with the dinner last night."
Reluctantly he admitted, "I was wondering about that."
"Why was it you invited me? I had the feeling there was something you wanted to discuss?" He pursed his lips. "Why were you keen to have me meet that senator?"
"Only my own general impression that Quinctius Attractus is getting above himself."
"Might Anacrites have been investigating Attractus?"
"What reason could he have?" Laeta would not even admit that Anacrites might have noticed the man's behavior just as he did.
"Spies don't have to have legitimate reasons; that's why they are dangerous."
"Well somebody has made this one quite a lot less dangerous, Falco."
"Perhaps," I suggested nastily, "I should be asking whether you got on with him badly." Since I knew better than to expect a sensible answer, I turned my attention back to the spy himself.
I wondered whether it would have been better to leave Anacrites discreetly at the house of Calisthenus, paying the architect to have the sick man nursed and to keep quiet about it. But if someone really dangerous was about, the Palace would be safer. Well, it ought to be. Anacrites could be the victim of a straightforward palace plot. I was sending him home to be looked after- that nasty ambiguous phrase. Maybe I was sending him home to be finished off.
Suddenly I felt a surge of defiance. I could see when I was being set up as the booby. Laeta loathed the spy and his motives towards me were ambiguous. I didn't trust Laeta any more than Anacrites, but whatever was going on, Anacrites was in deep trouble. I had never liked him, or what he represented, but I understood how he worked: knee deep in the same middenheap as me.
"Laeta, Titus is right. This needs to be kept quiet until we know what it's about. And you know how rumors fly at the Palace. The best solution is to put Anacrites somewhere else where he can die in peace when he decides to go; then we can choose whether or not to announce it in the Daily Gazette. Leave everything to me. I'll carry him to the Temple of Aesculapius on Tiber Island, swear them to secrecy, but give them your name to inform you of developments."
Laeta thought hard, but submitted himself to my plan. Telling him that I had a few ideas of my own to pursue, I waved him off.
I then examined the doorway where Anacrites had been found. It was easy to see where and how he had been hurt; I discovered an ugly clump of blood and hair on the house wall. It was below chest height; the spy must have been bent over for some reason, though he carried no marks of any blow that would have doubled him up. I looked around, covering some distance, but found nothing significant.
The wounded man had been propped in a chair long enough; I told the bearers to come along with him. I did walk them to Tiber Island where I unloaded Anacrites and dismissed the chair. Then, instead of depositing the sick man amongst the clapped-out abandoned slaves who were being cared for at the hospital, I hired another chair. I led this one further west along the riverbank in the shadow of the Aventine. Then I took the unconscious spy to a private apartment where I could be sure of his good treatment.
He might yet die of last night's wound, but no one would be allowed to help him into Hades by other means.
Though I was a man on a charitable mission, my greeting was not promising. I had dragged Anacrites up three flights of stairs. Even unconscious he made trouble, buckling me under his weight and tangling his lifeless hands in the handrail just when I had got a good rhythm going. By the time I arrived upstairs I had no breath to curse him. I used my shoulder to knock open the door, a worn item that had once been red, now a faded pink.
A furious old biddy accosted us. "Who's that? Don't drag him in here. This is a peaceful neighborhood!"
"Hello, Mother."
Her companion was less blunt and more witty. "Jove, it's Falco! The little lost boy who needs a tablet round his neck to tell people where he lives! A tablet he can consult himself too, when he's sober enough to read it-"
"Shut up, Petro. I'm giving myself a hernia. Help me lie him down somewhere."
"Don't tell me!" raged my mother. "One of your friends has got himself in trouble and you expect me to look after him. It's time you grew up, Marcus. I'm an old woman. I deserve a rest."
"You're an old woman who needs an interest in life. This is just the thing. He's not a drunk who fell under a cart, Ma. He's an official who has been cruelly attacked and until we discover the reason he has to be kept out of sight. I'd take him home but people may look for him there."
"Take him home? That poor girl you live with doesn't want to be bothered with this!" I winked at the unconscious Anacrites; he had just found himself a refuge. The best in Rome.
Petronius Longus, my big grinning friend, had been lounging in my mother's kitchen with a handful of almonds while he regaled Ma with the now famous finish of my big night out. Seeing my burden his mood quietened, then when he helped me shove Anacrites on a bed and he glimpsed the damage to the spy's head, Petro's face set. I thought he was going to say something but he buttoned his lip.
Ma stood in the doorway, arms folded; a small, still energetic woman who had spent her life nurturing people who didn't deserve it. Olive black eyes flicked over the spy with flashes like signal torches announcing an international disaster. "Well, this one won't be a lot of trouble. He's not going to be here long!"
"Do your best for the poor fellow, Ma."
"Don't I know him?" Petronius mumbled in a low voice to me.
"Speak up!" snapped Ma. "I'm not deaf and I'm not an idiot."
Petronius was frightened of my mother. He replied meekly, "It's Anacrites, the Chief Spy."
"Well he looks like a nasty dumpling that should have been eaten up yesterday," she sneered.
I shook my head. "He's a spy; that's his natural attitude."
"Well, I hope I'm not expected to work some miracle and save him."
"Ma, spare us the quaint plebeian cheerfulness!"
"Who's going to pay for the funeral?"
"The Palace will. Just take him in while he's dying. Give him some peace from whoever is trying to get him."
"Well; I can do that," she conceded grumpily.
I come from a large feckless family, who rarely permit themselves to perform deeds of kindness. When they do, any sensible conscious man wants to run a fast marathon in the other direction. It gave me a grim pleasure to leave Anacrites there. I hoped he came round and got thoroughly lectured-and I hoped that when it happened I would be present to watch.
I had known Petronius Longus since we were both eighteen. I could tell he was holding back like a nervous bride. As soon as we could, we edged to the door, then bidding Ma a fast farewell we were out of the apartment like the naughty schoolboys she reckoned we both still were. Her derogatory cries followed us downstairs.
Petronius knew I realized there was something he was bursting to say. In his usual aggravating way he kept it to himself as long as possible. I clamped my teeth and pretended not to be wanting to knock him into the copper shop opposite for keeping me on tenterhooks.
"Falco, everyone's talking about a body the Second Cohort found this morning." Petro was in the Fourth Cohort of vigiles, lording it over the Aventine. The Second were his counterparts who covered the Esquiline district.
"Whose body's that?"
"Looked like a street attack; happened last night. Man had his head stove in, in a remarkably violent manner."
"Rammed against a wall, perhaps?"
Petro appraised my suggestion. "Sounds as if it could have been."
"Know anybody friendly in the Second?"
"I thought you'd ask that," Petro replied. We were already making headway on the long route back to the Esquiline.
The Second Cohort's guardhouse lies on the way out to the Tiburtina Gate, close to the old Embankment which carries the Julian Aqueduct. It is situated between the Gardens of Pallentian and the Gardens of Lamia and Maia. A bosky spot-much frequented by elderly grubby prostitutes and persons trying to sell love potions and fake spells. We burrowed in our cloaks, walked quickly, and discussed the races loudly to reassure ourselves.
The Second Cohort were in charge of the Third and Fifth regions: some routine squalor, but also several large mansions with tricky owners who thought that the vigiles existed solely to protect them while they annoyed everyone else. The Second patrolled steep hills, run-down gardens, a big chunk of palace (Nero's Golden House) and a prestigious public building site (Vespasian's huge new amphitheatre). They faced some headaches, but were bearing up like Stoics. Their inquiry team were a group of relaxed layabouts whom we found sitting on a bench working out their night-shift bonus pay. They had plenty of time to tell us about their interesting murder case, though perhaps less energy for actually solving it.
"Io! He took a knock all right!"
"Bang on the knob?" Petro was doing the talking.
"Cracked open like a nut."
"Know who he is?"
"Bit of a mystery man. Want a look at him?"
"Maybe." Petronius preferred not to be that kind of sightseer, until it was unavoidable. "Can you show us the scene of the mugging?"
"Sure! Come and see the happy fellow first…" Neither of us wanted to. Blood is bad enough. Spilt brains we avoid.
Luckily the Second Cohort turned out to be an outfit with caring methods. While they waited for someone to come forward and claim the victim, they had slung his body in a sheet between two laundry poles, in the shed where they normally kept their fire engine. The pumping machine had been dragged out to the street where it was being admired by a large group of elderly men and small boys. Indoors, the corpse lay in a dim light. He had been neatly arranged and had his head in a bucket to contain leakage. The scene was one of respectful privacy.
I did not enjoy looking at the body. I hate becoming introspective. Life's bad enough without upsetting yourself drawing filthy parallels.
I had seen him before. I had met him briefly. I had talked to him-too briefly, perhaps. He was the cheerful lad at the dinner last night, the one in the oatmeal tunic who kept his own council in a diffident manner while watching the dancer Attractus had hired. He and I had later shared a joke, one I could not even now remember, as he helped me round up some slaves to shoulder my amphora of fish-pickle.
The victim was about my own age, build and bodyweight. Before some thug split his skull apart he had been intelligent and pleasant; I had had the impression he lived in the same world as me. Although Anacrites had pretended not to know who he was, I wondered if that had been a lie. An uneasy feeling warned me the dead man's presence at the dinner would turn out to be relevant. He left the Palatine at the same time as me. He must have been killed very soon afterwards. Whoever attacked him may well have followed us both from the Palace. He went off alone; I had been escorted by two hefty slaves with my amphora.
A nagging premonition suggested that had I also been unaccompanied, the body in the firefighters' shed could well have been mine.
Petronius and I made a cursory survey of the corpse, trying to ignore the head damage. Once again we found no other significant wounds. But a stain on the sheet which was cradling the body made me lift his right leg. Behind the knee I discovered a torn flap of skin-little more than a scratch, though it had bled freely because of its location, and it must have stung when he acquired it.
"Petro, what do you make of that?"
"Snagged himself on something?"
"I don't know… Anacrites also had a cut leg for some reason.
"You're scavenging, Falco. It's nothing."
"You're the expert!" That always worried him.
The Second Cohort had ascertained that the dead man's name was Valentinus. It had only taken a few moments of asking around locally. He had rented lodgings on the Esquiline, just ten strides from where somebody had battered him to death.
The neighbor who identified the body had told the Second that Valentinus had lived alone. His occupation was unknown. He had gone out and about at different hours and quite often received callers of various kinds. He went to the baths, but avoided temples. He had never been any trouble to his neighbors. He gave no signs of enjoying himself much, nor had he ever been arrested by the vigiles. Until the night he died, he had always taken care of himself.
The Second led us to his apartment, which they had previously searched. It was a two-room fourth-floor lease in a dark tenement. Its furnishings were sparse but neat. The inner room held his bed, a couple of tunics dumped on a bench, his spare boots, and a few unrevealing personal items. The outer room contained a table, his smart red gloss food bowl, his winecup with a jocular message, his stylus and string-bound note tablet (clean of useful information), and a hook with his cloak and hat. Each room was lit by one high window, too far away to see out.
Petronius and I took a somber look around while the Second Cohort members tried not to show that they resented us checking their work. We found nothing remarkable, nothing to identify the man or his occupation. Even so, to me the style of his living quarters was depressingly familiar.
Then, as we were all trooping out again, I stopped. Light from our lantern happened to fall on the doorpost outside the apartment. There, somebody some years ago had drawn a neat pic-togram of a single human eye. I knew the faded symbol. It's a sign informers use.
Petro and I stared at each other. Looking more keenly for clues, I noticed that although the doorlock appeared innocuous its fine bronze lion-headed key, which the Second had taken from the body, showed that instead of the common pin-tumbler fastener that most people use, Valentinus had invested in a devious iron rotary lock, which would be difficult to pick or force without the proper key. Then, crouching near ground level, Petro spotted two tiny metal tacks, one knocked into the door itself, one in the frame.
A classic tell-tale: tied between the tacks had been a human hair. It had been broken, presumably when the Second first entered.
"No offense, lads, but we'd better think about this again," said Petro, looking virtuous.
He and I went back inside. Quietly and carefully we searched the room afresh, as if Valentinus had been a pal of ours. This time the Second watched us in fascination while we took the place apart.
Under the bed, lashed to its frame, we found a sword capable of quick release by pulling one end of a knot. Although the windows looked out of reach, if you dragged the table to one, or climbed on the upended bench below the other, you could reach outside and discover that somebody had banged in a couple of useful hooks. One had an amphora of good Setinum red wine hung up to warm in the sunlight; the other, through which a lithe man might just wriggle, had a stout rope neatly rolled up but long enough to reach a balcony roof on the story below. Under most of the floorboards lurked nothing of interest, though we did find some letters from his family (parents and a cousin, who lived a few miles from Rome). We discovered no money. Like me, Valentinus probably kept a bankbox in the Forum, with its access number stored securely in his head.
One floorboard in the bedroom actually had nails with false heads. It came up quite smoothly when you pulled it up by way of a knot, waggled your fingers underneath the wood and released a specially constructed bar that pivoted aside. Built under the board was a small, locked wooden compartment. Eventually I located the key, concealed in a hollow carved under the seat of the stool in the outer room. In his secret box the dead man had kept spare, succinct notes about his work. He was a neat, regular record-keeper. We already knew that: Valentinus' hat had been double lined; inside it Petronius had found expense sheets of a type I knew all too well.
Some work that the dead man did, probably from necessity, was just the kind of dreary intrigue I often had to carry out myself for private clients. The rest was different. Valentinus had been more than an informer, he was a spy. He was claiming for many hours spent on surveillance. And although there were no names for the people he had been recently watching, the latest entries on his claim sheet were all code-named "Corduba." Corduba is the capital of Romanized Baetica.
We reckoned we knew who had commissioned this work. One of the expense claims from his hat had already been stamped and approved for payment. The stamp was a large oval, featuring two elephants with entwined trunks: Anacrites' chalcedony seal.
Petronius left me in the Forum. The task was mine now. Facing up to it with my usual compulsion and stamina, I went home to bed.
Next day, striking while some impetus was with me, I walked back to the Forum, up through the Cryptoporticus where the scoffing Praetorians knew me well enough to admit me after a few threats and jeers, then into the old Palace. I had no need of Claudius Laeta to advise me who to interview or to smooth the way. I possessed other contacts. Mine were probably no more reliable than the devious correspondence chief, but I was attached to them on the usual perverse grounds that make you trust men you have known for some time even when you suspect that they lie, cheat and steal.
Momus was a slave overseer. He looked as healthy as a side of condemned beef and as dangerous as an escaped gladiator on the run. His eyes were moist with some infection, his body was scarred, his face was a fascinating gray shade as if he had not been outside for the past decade. Being an overseer was something he no longer worked at very hard; he left the rituals of slave market, placement, whipping and bribe-taking to others.
Momus now held some nebulous position at the Palace; in effect, he was another spy. He did not work for Anacrites. He did not care for Anacrites either. But in a bureaucracy every employee has to have another officer who reports on him to his superiors. Anacrites was attached to the Praetorian Guard but worked directly for the Emperor, so he was judged by Vespasian himself when it came to matters of reprimand or reward. Both Anacrites and I believed Momus to be the nark who told the Emperor what he should think of the Chief Spy's work. That meant Anacrites despised and loathed him, but it made Momus a friend of mine.
I told him the Chief Spy had been seriously hurt. It was supposed to be a secret but Momus already knew. I guessed he had also heard that Anacrites was supposed to be hidden away at the Temple of Aesculapius on Tiber Island-but maybe he had not yet found out that the victim was really laid up on the Aventine with Ma.
"Something funny's going on, Momus."
"What's new, Falco?"
"This attack is supposed to relate to intelligence work. Nobody even knows what Anacrites was investigating. I'm trying to track down his agents, or records of what he's been involved with-"
"You'll have a job." Momus enjoyed disheartening me. "Anacrites is like an Athenian vote machine."
"That's a bit subtle for me."
"You know; it's a gadget to prevent nobbling. When they used open jars fistfuls of votes used to go astray. So now the voters put balls in the top of a closed box; they wiggle down inside and then the election results pop out at the bottom. No fraud-and no fun, either. Trust the bloody Greeks."
"What's this to do with Anacrites?"
"People pile information into his brain and if he's in the right mood he farts out a report. In between, everything is locked up."
"Well it looks as if the next person he blows a report at could be Charon the ferryman."
"Oh dear, poor Charon!" sneered Momus, with the cheery expression of a man who was just thinking that if Anacrites had sailed away on the decrepit punt to Hades, he might immediately apply for Anacrites' job. Some state employees love to hear about a colleague's premature demise.
"Charon's going to be busy," I commented. "Villains have been cracking spies' heads all over the Esquiline. There was also a pleasant lad who used to do surveillance work."
"Do I know him, Falco?"
"Valentinus."
Momus let out a snarl of disgust. "Oh Jupiter! Dead? That's terrible. Valentinus who lived on the Esquiline? Oh no; he was class, Falco. He must have been the best snuffler Anacrites used."
"Well, he's not on the staff roll."
"Better sense. He stayed freelance. Self-employed. I used him myself sometimes."
"What for?"
"Oh… tracking down runaways." The alleged overseer looked vague. I reckoned whatever Momus used Valentinus for would give me a queasy stomach. I decided not to know.
"Was he good?"
"The best. Straight, fast, decent to deal with, and accurate."
I sighed. More and more this sounded like a man I would have liked to share a drink with. I could have made friends with Valentinus last night at the dinner, if I had only realized. Then maybe if we had rolled out of the Palace together like cronies, events might have turned out differently for the freelance. Together we might have fought off his attackers. It could have saved his life.
Momus was eyeing me up. He knew I had an interest. "You going to sort this out, Falco?"
"It looks like a murky fishpond. Reckon I stand a chance?"
"No. You're a clown."
"Thanks, Momus."
"My pleasure."
"Don't enjoy yourself too much with the hard-hitting insults; I may prove you wrong."
"Virgins might stay chaste!"
I sighed. "Heard anything about any dirty goings-on in Baetica?"
"No. Baetica's all sunshine and fish-sauce."
"Know anything about the Society of Olive Oil Producers, then?"
"Load of old belchers who meet in the basement and plot how they can straighten out the world?"
"They didn't seem to be plotting last evening, just stuffing their faces. Oh, and most were trying to ignore a group of genuine Baetican visitors."
"That's them!" grinned Momus. "They pretend to love anything Hispanic-but only if it can be served on a dish." I gathered that the Society was officially deemed innocuous. As usual, Momus knew more about it than a slave overseer should. "Anacrites got himself voted into the club so he could keep an eye on them."
"Was political scheming likely?"
"Piddle! He just liked feeding at their well-filled manger."
"Well as anarchists they didn't look very adventurous."
"Of course not," scoffed Momus. "I haven't noticed the world being straightened out, have you?"
There was not much else Momus could tell me about Anacrites or Valentinus-or at least nothing he was prepared to reveal. But with his knowledge of the unfree workforce he did know which usher had been running the dinner for the Society. While I was at the Palace I looked out this man and talked to him.
He was a lugubrious slave called Helva. Like most palace types he looked oriental in origin and gave the impression he misunderstood whatever was being said to him, probably on purpose. He had an official job, but was trying to improve himself by sucking up to men of status; the Baetican Society members obviously saw him as a soft touch to be sneered at and put upon.
"Helva, who did the organizing for this exclusive club?"
"An informal committee." Unhelpful: clearly he could see my status did not call for an ingratiating style.
"Who was on it?"
"Whoever bothered to turn up when I insisted someone tell me what was wanted."
"Some names would help," I suggested pleasantly.
"Oh, Laeta and his deputies, then Quinctius Attractus-"
"Is he an overweight senator who likes holding court?"
"He has interests in Baetica and he's the big mover in the So-ciety.
"Is he Spanish by origin?"
"Not the slightest. Old patrician family."
"I should have known. I understood the Society's real links with Hispania are defunct and that members try to deter provincials from attending?"
"Most do. Attractus is more enlightened."
"You mean, he sees the Society as his personal platform for glory and he likes to suggest he can work wonders in Rome for any visitors from Spain? Is that why he hogs a private room?"
"Well unofficially. Other members annoy him by barging in."
"They think he's someone to annoy, do they?"
It looked to me as if Attractus, and possibly his Baetican friends, had been under observation-probably by both Anacrites and his agent. Was Anacrites suspicious of something they were up to? Did Attractus or the Baetican group want to wipe him out as a result? It looked all too obvious if they were the attackers. They surely must realize questions would be asked. Or was Attractus so arrogant he thought the attacks could be got away with?
Needing to think about that, I went back to my original question. "Who else organizes events?"
"Anacrites-"
"Anacrites? He never struck me as a dinner party planner! What was his role?"
"Be reasonable, Falco! He's a spy. What do you think his role is? On rare occasions when he exerts himself, he causes upsets. He really enjoys carping about the guests other members bring. 'If you knew what I know, you wouldn't mix with so-and-so…' All hints, of course; he never says why."
"Master of the nonspecific insult!"
"Then if ever I upset him he'll query the accounts for the previous party and accuse me of diddling them. The rest of the time he does nothing, or as little as possible."
"Did he have anything special to say about yesterday?"
"No. Only that he wanted space for himself and his guest in the private room."
"Why?"
"Usual reason: it was bound to offend Attractus."
"And the spy's guest was Valentinus?"
"No, it was the senator's son," said Helva. "The one who just came back from Corduba."
"Aelianus?" Helena's brother! Well that explained how Aelianus had wheedled his way in-on the tunic tail of the Chief Spy. Unhealthy news.
"I know the family-I didn't realize Anacrites and Aelianus were on such good terms."
"I don't suppose they are," Helva remarked cynically. "I expect one of them thought the other would do him some good-and
if you know Anacrites you can bet which way the benefit was supposed to flow!"
It left an unanswered question. "You knew who I meant when I mentioned Valentinus. Who brought him last night?"
"No one." Helva gave me a narrow look. He was trying to work out how much I knew. All I had to do now was work out what dubious situation I was reckoned to know about, and I could press him hard. Until then I was likely to miss something important.
"Look, was Valentinus an official member of the Society?" Helva must have known I could check up; he reluctantly shook his head. "So how much money did he slip you to let him in?"
"That's a disgusting suggestion; I'm a reputable state servant-"
I named the sum that I would have offered and Helva in his gloomy-faced way told me I was a mean bastard who gave bribery a bad name.
I decided to appeal to his better nature, if he had one. "I don't suppose you've heard-Anacrites has been badly hurt."
"Yes. I heard it's a big secret."
Then I told him that Valentinus was actually dead. This time his face fell. All slaves can spot serious trouble. "So this is bad, Helva. Time to cough, or it will be the Guards you have to talk to. Had Valentinus paid you to admit him to any previous dinners?"
"Once or twice. He knew how to behave himself. He could fit in. Besides, I had seen Anacrites wink at him so I assumed it was something I was supposed to allow."
"How did he wangle himself a place in the private room?"
"Pure skill," said Helva, frowning with admiration. "He picked up one of the Baeticans as they arrived in the lobby and sauntered in chattering to him." I knew the trick. A few minutes discussing the weather can admit you to many private parties. "Quinctius Attractus was not officially supposed to reserve that room for himself. If there were free places anyone could take them."
"So he didn't object to Valentinus?"
"He couldn't. Any more than he could complain about being landed with Anacrites. They took their couches among his party as if it were a coincidence, and he had to put up with it. Anyway, Attractus is not observant. He was probably so busy getting hot under the tunic about Anacrites, he never noticed Valentinus was there too."
I wondered if the blinkered senator had noticed me.
I asked Helva about the entertainment. "Who booked the musicians?"
"I did."
"Is that routine? Do you pick the performers yourself?"
"Quite often. The members are only really interested in food and wine."
"Is there always a Spanish dancer?"
"It seems appropriate. She's not really Spanish, incidentally." Just like most "Thracian" gladiators, "Egyptian" fortune-tellers, and "Syrian" flute players. Come to that, most of the "Spanish hams" bought at food markets were previously seen skipping around pig farms in Latium.
"She? Is it always the same one?" -
"She's not bad, Falco. The members feel reassured if they recognize the entertainment. They don't watch her much anyway; they only care about their food and drink."
"Attractus was boasting he paid for her. Is that usual?"
"He always does. It's supposed to be a generous gesture-well, it shows he's rich, and of course he gets to have the dancing performed first wherever he's dining himself. The other members are happy to let him contribute, and his guests are impressed."
He told me the girl's name was Perella. Half an hour later I was bracing myself to square up to the immaculate body that I had last seen in hunting gear.
I had a slight surprise. I was expecting to meet the dashing Diana with the blue-black hair who had elected to be so rude to me. To my surprise Perella, who was supposed to be the dancer who performed regularly at the Society of Olive Oil Producers of Baetica, was a short, stout, surly blonde.
Blonde" was putting it kindly. She had hair the texture of mule fodder and about the same shade. It looked as if she styled it once a month then just poked in more bone pins when ends worked loose. You could see why independent-minded pieces of the fantastic coiffure might want to make a break for freedom. The high-piled construction looked as if she was keeping three white mice and her dowry in it.
Lower down, the scenario improved somewhat. I won't say she was tasty, but her person was clean and tidy. As a chaste, ethereal moon goddess she would be a disaster, though as a companion in a wine bar she might be cracking good fun. She was of an age where you could rely on her having had a fair old amount of experience-in almost anything.
"Oh! Am I in the right place? I'm looking for Perella. Are you her friend?"
"I'm her!" So Perella was definitely the wrong dancer. She was putting out a smile that she meant to be winsome: wrong assumption, but I could cope with that. "What might you be looking for, centurion?"
"Chaste conversation, sweetheart." She knew better than to believe it. Her outlook on society was mature. "The names Falco." It meant nothing to her, apparently. Well, sometimes it was best if my reputation had not gone before me. Critics can be uncouth. "I expect you'd like my credentials. Do you know Thalia, the snake dancer at Nero's Circus?"
"Never heard of her." So much for my guaranteed entree to the world of Terpsichore.
"Well if you knew her, she'd vouch for me."
"As what?" asked the dancer, pointedly.
"As an honest man on an important quest with a few simple queries to put to you."
"Such as?"
"Why wasn't a luscious piece like you dancing at the dinner for the Society of Baetican Oil Producers two nights ago?"
"Why do you ask?" leered Perella. "Were you there hoping to watch me-or were they only letting in the rich, handsome ones?"
"I was there."
"I always told them they had a slack door policy."
"Don't be cruel! Anyway, you're a regular. What happened to you that night?"
Getting tough actually softened her up. "Don't ask me," she confided in a cheerful tone. "The message just came that I was not wanted so I stayed in and put my feet up."
"Who sent you the message?"
"Helva presumably."
"No. Helva still thinks you did the act. He told me to ask you about it."
Perella squared up, looking angry. "Then somebody's messed me about!"
The thought crossed my mind that Helva himself might have decided to employ a higher-class dancer and that he had been scared of telling Perella-but then he would hardly have sent me along here to give him away. "Who was it came to warn you off, Perella? Can you give a description?"
"No idea. I never took any notice of him." I waited while she scanned her memory, a slow process apparently-though I did wonder if she was considering whether she wanted to tell me the truth. She looked older than a dancer should, with coarser skin and bonier limbs. Close to, these performers are never as refined as they appear when in costume. "Dark fellow," she said eventually. "Had a few years on him." Sounded like one of Diana's tame musicians.
"Seen him before?"
"Not to remember."
"And what exactly did he say?"
"That Helva apologized, but the bloody Baetican trough-nuzzlers had decided not to have music."
"Any reason?"
"None. I thought either the new Emperor had put his foot down about them using the rooms for enjoying themselves, or they had run out of money and couldn't find my fee."
"They looked a well-packed lot."
"Mean, though!" replied Perella, with feeling. "Most of them spend the whole time moaning how much the dinners cost them; they wouldn't have entertainers at all. There's a swank who pays-"
"Quinctius Attractus?"
"That's him. He usually pays up, but it takes several tries to get it and there's never a sniff of a tip!"
"So he could decide to hire his own girl, if he wanted to?"
"The bastard could," Perella agreed sourly. "Would he bother to tell Helva?"
"No. He's a nob. He doesn't understand about organization. He wouldn't think of it."
"And would the girl be able to get in without Helva noticing that she wasn't you?"
"Helva's so shortsighted you have to get an inch from his nose before he can see who you are. Anyone who rattled a tambourine would sail straight in."
So there had been a set-up. It came as no surprise that the so-called "good girl from Hispalis" was not as good as she pretended. In my experience good girls never are.
Perella had nothing more to tell me. I was left with a loose end: unknown entertainers had deliberately muscled in and taken the usual dancer's place. They knew enough to use Helva's name in a convincing fake message. Knew it, or had been told what to say. Were they specifically booked by Attractus, or did he just accept that Helva had acquired them? And why? I would be asking the senator, but somehow I guessed in advance that tracing the lovely Diana and her two dark-skinned musicians would be next to impossible.
They could have been sent to the dinner by Anacrites. They could have been infiltrated by someone outside (a jealous would-be member of the dining club, perhaps?). Or they could have come of their own accord. They might have nothing at all to do with the attacks on Anacrites and Valentinus. Even though circumstances had made them look suspicious, they might simply be struggling performers who had failed to persuade Helva to give them an audition, and who then used their initiative.
But I told Perella she had been trounced by a very slick rival, and probably one who had had more than Spanish dancing in mind. Perella shoved a couple of new hairpins into her tumbling scarecrow coiffure, and gave me an unfathomable look. She threatened to "sort" the girl from Hispalis. She sounded as if she meant it too. I left her my address in case she had any success.
"By the way, Perella, if you do meet this girl be careful how you tangle with her. It looks as if she was involved in a killing that night-and in a nasty attack on the Chief Spy."
Perella went white. "Anacrites?"
As she stood staring I added, "You'd do best to avoid her. Finding this one is a job for an agent-and a good one at that."
"And you reckon you're up to it, Falco?" Perella asked dryly. I gave her my best smile.
I was not yet ready for another conversation with Laeta, so I escaped from the Palace, ran some domestic errands, then went home to Helena for lunch. Fried anchovies in a plain wine sauce. Unassuming but tasty.
Helena told me I had received a message of my own that morning. It was from Petronius. He had found out something useful: I went straight out after eating, taking Helena with me for the exercise, and also Nux in the vain hope that while the scruffy hound was careering around in circles we might lose her somewhere. Petro was at home, off duty. Helena went off with his wife while Nux and I found my old crony in the yard at the back, doing woodwork.
"This is for you, Falco. I hope you're grateful."
"What is it-a small coffin or a large brooch box?"
"Stop playing the fool. It's going to be a cradle." Nux jumped in to try it. Petro turfed her out again.
"It's going to be a good one then," I smiled. That was true. Petro enjoyed carpentry and was skilled at it. Always methodical and practical, he had a decent respect for wood. He was making a bed where eventually the sturdy unborn one who was already kicking me in the ribs every night would be safe; it had half-moon rockers, a knob to hang a rattle on, and a canopy over the pillow end. I felt touched.
"Yes, well; it's for the baby, so if your lousy behavior makes Helena Justina leave you, this cradle will have to go with her."
"I doubt it," I scoffed. "If she flits she'll leave the baby behind." Petronius looked horrified, so I carried on appalling him: "Helena only likes children when they are old enough to hold adult conversations. The bargain is, she'll carry my offspring and give it birth but only on condition I'm there to defend her from the midwife and that afterwards I bring it up myself until it's old enough to pay its own tavern bills."
Petronius gave me a piercing stare; then he laughed weakly. "You maniac! I thought you were serious…" He lost interest, which saved me having to disillusion him with the news that I meant what I said-and so did Helena. "Listen, Falco, I've come up with some evidence for you: the Second must want to redeem their reputation after missing all that stuff in Valentinus' apartment. They went back to the crime scene this morning and did a hands and knees creep."
I joined him in chuckling at the thought of his luckless colleagues enduring stones in the kneecap and backache. "Anything turn up?"
"Could be. They want to know if we think this is relevant-"
Petronius Longus placed a small item on his sawing bench. I blew the road dust off it, then sighed quietly. This was relevant enough to identify the attackers: it was a small golden arrow, as neat as a toy but dangerously sharp. On its tip was a rusty stain that was probably blood. Remembering the small leg wounds carried by both Anacrites and Valentinus, I guessed that both victims had been surprised by being shot in the calf from behind. The toy arrow would sting enough to bother them, then when they stooped to investigate they were rushed, grabbed, and run hard against a nearby wall.
Helena Justina had come out behind us, unnoticed. "Oh dear!" she exclaimed, ever one with the unwelcome insight. "I suppose that belonged to your mysterious Spanish dancer. Don't tell me it's just been found in a compromising position at the scene of a crime?"
Gloomily we confirmed it.
"Ah never mind, Marcus," Helena then chivvied me kindly. Cheer up, my love! You ought to have lots of fun with this-it
There was no chance of interviewing the girl from Hispalis. I didn't even know her name-or her alias. If she was sharp she would have left Rome. Smirking, Petronius Longus promised to place her description on his list of wanted suspects. He offered to subject her to a personal interrogation. I knew what that meant.
I told him not to exert himself; I would probe her secrets myself. Petronius, who believed that men with pregnant wives were bound to be looking for extra-domestic exercise, twinkled wisely and promised to inform me the minute the beauteous Diana came his way. At this point Helena said coldly that she would take herself home.
I went to see Quinctius Attractus.
When a case involves a senator, I always start at the top. I don't mean this was a step towards clearing up uncertainties. Not at all. Interviewing a member of Rome's revered patrician order was likely to introduce pure chaos of the kind that is believed by some philosophers to comprise the outermost limits of the eternally whirling universe: a vortex of limitless and fathomless darkness. In short, political ignorance, commercial deceit, and blatant lies.
looks as though somebody is setting you up against a beautiful female spy!"
Naturally I retorted that I was not in the mood for cliches- though I have to admit my heart took an uneasy lurch.
Even provincials among you will deduce that M. Didius Falco, the intrepid informer, had posed questions to senators before.
You'll spot this too: I went to see Quinctius Attractus to get any whirling vortex straight out of the way.
Once I had managed to impress the doorkeeper with my rank- well, once I had slipped him half a denarius-I was allowed to step inside away from a sharp April wind that was darting through the city streets. Attractus lived in an imposing house, groaning with art torn from more ancient and more refined civilizations than our own. Egyptian turquoise and enamel vied for space with Thracian gold and Etruscan bronze. Pentellic marble crowded his corridors. Forests of plinths bore up porphyries and alabasters. Racks bowed beneath uncatalogued rows of vases and craters, against which lolled unmounted wall plaques and fabulous old armor which must have been plundered from many famous battlefields.
Quinctius Attractus condescended to come to his public rooms to meet me. I remembered the heavy build and weathered country countenance from two nights ago; today I was being given the full urban look-the statesman putting an invisible peg on his nose so he could follow the old Roman tradition and be nobly at home to the unwashed.
Our interview was hardly private. In every archway lurked a toga-twitcher just itching to dart out and pluck straight a pleat. They kept him perfect. His boot-thongs were aligned. His sparse curls gleamed, rigid with pomade. If a finger-ring slipped sideways a lithe slave nipped forwards to straighten it. Every time he walked three paces his purple-striped garments all had to be realigned on his wide shoulders and fat arms.
If I hated this parade when he first came to receive me, I felt utter frustration once he started to talk. It was all condescension and empty guff. He was the type who liked to lean back slightly, gazing above his companion's head, while intoning nonsense. He reminded me of a barrister who had just lost a case, coming out into the Forum knowing he will have to face a tricky interview. I said I had come to discuss the Oil Producers' dinner-and he seemed to be expecting it.
"The Society-oh, it's just a meeting place for friends-"
"Some of the friends met very nasty accidents afterwards, senator.
"Really? Well, Anacrites will vouch for us all-"
"Afraid not, sir. Anacrites has been badly hurt."
"That so?" One of his flapping footmen found it necessary to rush up and straighten a thread of fringe on a heavily decorated tunic sleeve.
"He was attacked the night of the dinner. He may not survive."
"I'm shocked." Checking the fall of his toga, he looked as if he had just heard about a minor skirmish between locals in some remote area. Then he noticed me watching and his fleshy jowls set for a ritual senatorial platitude: "Terrible. A sound man."
I swallowed it whole, then tried to fix the slithery senator to a firm base: "Were you aware that Anacrites was the Chief Spy?"
"Oh certainly. Bound to. You can't have a man like that attending private functions unless everybody knows what his position is. Men would wonder. Men wouldn't know when it was safe to speak freely. Be a shambles."
"Oh? Does the Society of Baetican Olive Oil Producers often discuss sensitive issues, then?" He stared at my effrontery. I hadn't finished yet: "You're telling me the Chief of Intelligence was openly invited to join your group, in order to suborn him? I'm willing to bet you allowed Anacrites membership without the indignity of subscription fees!" A nice life, for a spy who was gregarious.
"How formal is this?" Attractus demanded suddenly. I knew the type. He had assumed that his rank gave him immunity from questioning. Now I was being nasty, and he couldn't believe it was happening. "You say you're from the Palace-do you have some kind of docket?"
"I don't need one. My commission is from the highest quarters. Responsible people will cooperate."
Just as suddenly he changed attitude again: "Ask away then!" he boomed-still not seriously expecting I would dare.
"Thank you." I controlled my temper. "Senator, at the last assembly of the Society for the Olive Oil Producers of Baetica you dined in a private room with a mixed group, including several Baeticans. I need to identify your visitors, sir." Our eyes met. "For elimination purposes."
The old lie proved sufficient, as it usually does. "Business acquaintances," he guffed with an offhand air. "See my secretary if you must have names."
"Thanks. I have the names; we were introduced," I reminded him. "I need to know more about them."
"I can vouch for them." More vouching! I was used to the fine notion that the slightest trade connection made for complete blood-brotherhood. I knew how much faith to place in it too.
"They were your guests that evening. Was there any special reason for entertaining those particular men that particular night?"
"Routine hospitality. It is appropriate," mouthed Quinctius sarcastically, "that when senior men from Baetica visit Rome they should be made welcome."
"You have strong personal connections with that province?"
"I own land there. I have a wide range of interests, in fact. My son has just been appointed quaestor to the province too."
"That's a fine honor, sir. You must be proud of him." I didn't mean the compliment, and he didn't bother acknowledging it. "So you take the lead in encouraging local business interests in Rome? You're a proxenos." The handy Greek term might impress some people, but not Attractus. I was referring to the useful arrangements all overseas traders make to have their interests represented on foreign soil by some local with influence-a local who, in the good old Greek tradition, expects them to grease his palm.
"I do what I can." I wondered what form that took. I also won-
dered what the Baeticans were expected to provide in return. Simple gifts like the rich produce of their country-or something more complex? Cash in hand, perhaps?
"That's commendable, sir. Going back to the dinner, Anacrites was also present. And a couple of others, including myself."
"That may be so. There were spare couches. I had intended to take my son and a friend of his, but that kind of occasion can be too stiff for the young so they were excused."
"One guest was Camillus Aelianus, the son of Vespasian's friend Verus."
"Oh yes. Back from Corduba. Straightforward lad; knows what he's doing." Quinctius was just the sort to approve of that pompous young bigot.
"Perhaps you remember one other man. I need to identify what he was doing there-reclining on the right-hand end couch, opposite Anacrites-quiet fellow; hardly spoke. Did you know him?"
"Never even noticed him." Thirty years in politics made it impossible for me to tell whether Quinctius Attractus was honest. (After thirty years in politics, almost certainly he was not.) "What's his significance?"
"Nothing anymore: the man is dead." If he had anything to do with killing Valentinus, he was good; he showed complete indifference. "And finally, may I ask if you knew the entertainers, sir? There was a girl who danced, with a pair of Libyan-style accompanists-I believe you paid their fee. Did you know them personally?"
"Certainly not! I don't mingle with tarts and lyre-players." I smiled. "I meant, did you book them for the dinner specially, sir?"
"No," he said, still contemptuous. "There are people to do that. I pay for the musicians; I don't need to know where they come from."
"Or know their names?"
He growled. I thanked him for his patience. Still playing the big man in Baetica, he asked me to report any developments. I promised to keep him informed, though I had no intention of it. Then, since he had mentioned that I might, I went to see his secretary.
Correspondence and record-keeping at the house of Quinctius Attractus was conducted by a typical Greek scribe in a tunic almost as neat as his master's. In a clean little office, he catalogued the senator's life in curious detail. A cynic might wonder whether this implied that the senator feared he might one day be called to account. If so, he must be very worried indeed. Any tribunal investigating Quinctius was going to expire under the weight of written evidence.
"The name's Falco." The scribe made no move to note me down but he looked as if he would later list me under "Visitors: Uninvited, Category: Dubious." I'm inquiring about the senator's guests at the last dinner for the oily Baeticans?"
"You mean the Society of Olive Oil Producers?" he corrected humorlessly. "I have details, certainly."
"His honor says you will tell me."
"I shall have to confirm that."
"You do so then."
I sat on a stool among racks of locked scroll boxes while the slave disappeared to check. Don't ask me how I know that the boxes were locked.
When he came back his manner was even more pedantic, as if he had been told I was trouble. He unlocked a silver box and removed a document. I was not allowed to crane over his shoulder, but I could see the script. It was a perfect, neutral cursive hand that could not have changed since he first learned to copy by rote.
He read out five names: "Annaeus Maximus, Licinius Rufius, Rufius Constans, Norbanus, Cyzacus." Then he corrected himself: "No; Rufius Constans was not at the dinner. He is the grandson of Licinius. He had gone to the theater, I understand, with my master's son." That almost sounded as if he were reciting something somebody had drummed into him. "How old are these two lads?"
"Quinctius Quadratus is twenty-five. The Baetican boy looks younger." Hardly adolescents then. The younger Quinctius would have just been elected to the Senate if he was to be a provincial quaestor as his father had boasted.
"Is the senator a stern father? Was he annoyed by them bunking off to a play?"
"Not at all. He encourages their friendship, and their independence. They are both promising young men."
I grinned. "That fine phrase can mean they are promising to cause trouble!" The secretary gazed at me coldly. He had never been trained to gossip. I felt like a slug spotted taking a stroll across a particularly elegant dish of dressed salad. "The Baetican visitors make an interesting list. We have an Annaeus-presumably from the same Corduban family as the famous Seneca's?" I had picked that up from Laeta at the dinner. "And who else? A couple of men from the provincial merchant class? What can you tell me?"
"I cannot give personal information!" he cried.
"I don't need to know who slept with a flute girl or the state of their impetigo! Why were they welcome guests of a Roman senator?"
Looking distasteful the slave squeezed out: "My master is a very important figure in Baetica. The first of those I mentioned, Annaeus and Licinius, are large landholders in Corduba." Those would be the favored pair who had been dining either side of Attractus at the dinner. "The last two are businessmen from further south, involved with transportation, I believe."
"Norbanus and Cyzacus?" The two who kept their heads down, conversing among themselves. Lower-class-perhaps even ex-slaves. "They are shippers?"
"So I understand," agreed the secretary, as if I was making him swear an oath to undertake physical torments and huge financial expense on behalf of an extremely bad-tempered god.
"Thank you," I answered heavily.
"Is that all?"
"I need to interview these men. Are they staying here?"
"No."
"Can you give me the address of their lodging in Rome?"
"They were staying here," admitted the cautious Greek reluctantly. "All of them left Rome very early today."
I raised an eyebrow gently. "Really? How long had they been with you?"
"Just a few days." The secretary made an effort not to look uncomfortable.
"How many is a few?"
"About a week."
"Only a week? Wasn't their decision rather sudden?"
"I could not say." I would have to ask the house steward if I wanted precise details of the Baeticans' original booking-but private informers are not given access to the domestic staff in a senator's house.
"Is it possible to interview the senator's son?"
"Quinctius Quadratus left for Corduba as well."
"Was that planned?"
"Of course. He is taking up his new provincial post."
I could not fault the newly fledged quaestor-but how many provincials, especially men of status, would make a long sea trip to Rome then skip for home almost immediately, without fully enjoying the sights, exploring the possibilities for social advancement, and making sure they stayed away long enough to make those at home believe they had conquered Roman society?
As tourists their behavior was highly suspicious. They might as well have left behind a wall plaque telling me these gadfly Corduban businessmen were up to no good.
That night I took Helena to the refined Capena Gate district to dine at the large, slightly faded villa which had been her family home. It was time her mother had another chance to rage at her about the poor arrangements we were making for the baby's birth and upbringing. (Julia Justa had a well-rehearsed script on this subject.) And I wanted to see her father. I like to keep my senators in sets.
As usual, before my official meeting I made sure that Helena's papa and I had conspired so our stories would match. I found Decimus Camillus Verus at the baths we both frequented. He was a tall, stooping figure with thinning, spiked hair, who already looked hunted even before I invited myself to dinner and explained that I now required him to play the heavy father to one of his rebellious sons.
"This is imperial business. I need to interview Aelianus. I'm telling you in advance so you can make sure he'll be there!"
"You overestimate my paternal authority, Marcus."
"You're a Stoic!" I grinned and explained the situation. Then I gave Camillus a stiff bout of swordplay to make him feel even more despondent, and we parted friends.
His attitude to me, whom many in his place would have loathed, was open and amiable: "I have no objection to you providing me with grandchildren, Marcus. A new generation is my one hope of getting someone on my side!"
"Oh I'm with you, senator!" In fact we both knew his relationship with me (like mine with his daughter) was the main reason the illustrious Camillus had a hard time at home.
Neither of the young Camillus brothers, Aelianus and Justinus, were at dinner. They were bright fellows in their early twenties brought up to have moderate habits-so naturally they were out on the town. As a sober citizen of thirty-three, approaching the grave honor of Roman fatherhood, I tried not to look as if I wished I were out there with them.
"Is Justinus still keen on the theater?" Their youngest rascal had taken up leering after actresses.
"They both like to keep me worried!" Camillus senior reported dryly. He kept his troubles close to his chest. "Aelianus has promised to return in an hour." Immediately I noticed his wife working out that he and I must have discussed this subject previously.
"At least he knows where his home is!" Julia Justa had a tart version of Helena's sarcasm. She was a handsome, hard-done-by woman, like her daughter, with fierce intelligence and liquid brown eyes. Maybe Helena would end up like this. Helena herself stabbed at her bowl of shrimp dumplings, looking morose. She knew what was coming.
Her mother took a deep breath, in a way that was familiar to me. I had a mother too. The views of these two women from distinctly different backgrounds were tragically similar, especially in regard to me. "You look as if you are about to rush away with acute diarrhea, Marcus Didius," smiled the noble Julia through thin lips. She understood men. Well, she was married to one, and had produced two more.
"I wouldn't dream of insulting the wonderful banquet before us!" It was a workaday spread, in fact, for the Camilli were struggling against the dire financial troubles that afflict hereditary millionaires. Still, flattery seemed wise.
"Someone has to ensure that my daughter is fed." A certain kind of woman always goes for the self-righteous in insults.
"Cobnuts!" Helena contributed. It was perhaps injudicious to use a phrase she had clearly picked up from me. "With donkey bells on them!" she added-an embellishment of her own. "I don't believe I know that expression, Helena."
"The nuts are mine," I admitted. "I take no credit for the bells." To Helena I said, "If word's going around that I starve you, I'll have to buy you a pork rissole on the way home and insist that you eat it in public."
"Cobnuts again. You never let me do anything scandalous."
"Please be serious!" her mother retorted. After a day hard at work, I felt too tired to respond politely and Julia Justa seemed to sense my weakness. On first hearing the news of our forthcoming child her reaction had been muted, but since then she had had six months to brood. Tonight she had opted for the full lecture. "I simply feel there are things we all ought to face up to, since it does look as if Helena will be carrying her child to term. This time," she added unnecessarily, as if to have had one miscarriage was somehow Helena's fault. "I had hoped to see you married before this, Helena."
"We are married," said Helena stubbornly. "Be sensible."
"Marriage is an agreement between two people to live together. Marcus and I have clasped hands and agreed."
"It's plain you have done more than that-" Julia Justa tried appealing to me, pretending she thought I was more reasonable: "Marcus, help me out!"
"It is true," I mused, "that if I went before the Censor and was asked To the best of your knowledge and belief, and by your own intention, Didius Falco, are you living in a valid state of marriage?' I should bravely answer 'Yes, sir!'"
The senator smiled and engaged in a bit of private commentary. "I love that 'to the best of your knowledge and belief'!" His own wife received this very coolly, as if she suspected some hidden jibe.
"Formalities are not required," growled Helena. "We don't need an augury because we know we are going to be happy-" It sounded more of a threat than a promise. "And we don't need a written contract to tell us how our affairs will be unwound if we part, because we won't ever separate." Actually we didn't need a contract because there was nothing financial to unwind. Helena possessed money but I refused to touch it. I had none, which saved a lot of fuss. "Just be grateful we are sparing Papa the expense of a ceremony and the burden of a dowry. Times will be hard if he is to put both of my brothers into the Senate-"
"I doubt that will occur," her mother replied bitterly. She decided not to specify why, though it was obviously our fault: bringing the family into disrepute.
"Let's be friends," I said quietly. "I'll do my best to acquire greater status, and when I'm a suave equestrian counting beans on my farm in Latium and fiddling my taxes like respectable people do, we'll all wonder what the fuss was about."
Helena's father was keeping quiet. He knew his daughter was not the problem nowadays. It was his sons he needed to watch. Without extremely careful treatment Justinus was likely to end up entangled with an actress (specifically illegal for the son of a senator) while my current inquiries were beginning to suggest that Aelianus was involved in an intrigue that could be both dangerous and politically disastrous. He had told his father nothing about it-a bad omen in itself.
Luckily at that point a slave brought a message that Aelianus had come home. His father and I were able to escape to the study to interview him. By the rules of convention Helena Justina would remain with her mama.
Well, she would do until she lost her temper. That might happen fairly soon. I overheard her mother asking, "How are your bowels, Helena?" I winced, and fled after her papa. He had already skipped out of it. For a senator, he was a wise man.
Three of us were seated together, like an intellectual symposium. Lack of space in the small, scroll-filled room made civilized reclining impossible. Letters, accounts and intriguing works of literature were piled all around us in teetering stacks. If challenged about his untidiness (as he regularly was by his wife) Decimus Camillus Verus would say that he knew exactly where everything was. One of his likable characteristics: in truth he could have had no idea.
The senator and I were both upright on his reading couch. Aelianus had squeezed onto a stool which his father's secretary occupied in the daytime. While he fiddled with a pot of pens, a bust of Vespasian stared down from a shelf above him, as if our eminent Emperor were checking that the young man's neck was clean.
This son and his father looked fairly alike. They had matching strong eyebrows, though the boy was more thickset. He was also surly where his father was mild-mannered. It was a phase of youth-unfortunately a phase which could lose him the chance of making useful friends. There was no point telling him that. Being
critical of his social skills was the certain way to rush him into making life's fatal mistakes.
"I don't have to talk to you, Falco!"
"It's advisable," his father chastised him briefly.
I kept my voice quiet. "You can talk to me informally here- or you can be sent for a full grilling on the Palatine."
"Is that a threat?"
"Senators' sons don't get beaten up by the Praetorian Guard." I made it sound as if they could be, when someone with my clout requested it.
Aelianus glared. Maybe he thought that if he had been anybody else's son I would have taken him to a wine bar and enjoyed a much more easygoing chat without involving his family. Maybe he was right.
"What's this about?" he demanded.
"One man dead and another close to Hades. A strong Baetican connection, and an unhealthy whiff of conspiracy. Your presence at the last Olive Oil Producers' dinner in close company with one of the victims now needs accounting for."
He went pale. "If I have to explain myself I want to see someone more senior."
"Of course," I agreed. "I'll just point out that asking for special treatment makes you sound like a man in trouble. People with nothing to hide give their evidence to the regular official."
And that's you?" He was being careful now.
"It's me. Orders from the top."
"You re trying to implicate me in something." Dear gods, he was truculent. And I hadn't even started yet. "Actually I want to clear you."
Just answer the questions," his father instructed patiently. Hoping for filial obedience, I tried greater formality: "Camillus Aelianus, how did you come to know Anacrites, and why did he take you to that dinner as his guest?"
Why don't you ask him?" Useless. Well, I was somebody's son.
I should have known the odds on obtaining filial obedience were short.
"Anacrites has been attacked-and by thugs who killed one of his agents the same night. He's been taken to a place of safety, but he's likely to die. I need to find out very quickly what is going on." I remembered how long it had been since I dumped the spy on my mother. It was time to make dutiful inquiries-or to relieve her of the corpse.
The senator leaned towards me anxiously. "Are you saying Aulus may have been in danger that night?" Aulus must be his elder son's personal name. One which the young chap was unlikely to invite me to use.
Unless Aelianus had been dabbling in something far bigger than I gave him credit for, I could not believe professional killers would bother with him. "Don't worry, senator. Presumably your son is an innocent bystander." I thought the bystanding innocent looked leery, in fact. "Aelianus, did you realize your dinner host was the Emperor's Chief Spy?"
The young man seemed chastened. "I understood something of the sort."
"What was your connection with him?"
"Nothing really."
"Then how did you come to meet him?"
He did not want to tell me, but admitted, "I had been sent to him with a letter when I returned from Corduba."
His father looked surprised. Forestalling his interruption, I asked, "Who wrote the letter?"
"It's confidential, Falco."
"Not anymore!" his father snapped briskly. He wanted to know about this as much as I did. Though he appeared so easygoing, Camillus had old-fashioned views on a father's rights. The fact that none of his children agreed with him was just a father's usual hard luck.
"It was from the quaestor," Aelianus replied irritably.
"Quinctius Quadratus?"
He looked surprised at my knowledge. "No, his outgoing predecessor. Cornelius had just heard that his father is sending him on a trip to Greece before he has to come back to Rome. Since I was coming back, he gave the thing to me."
We were talking about the young finance officer in charge of collecting taxes for Rome. "A provincial quaestor would normally correspond with the Chief Secretary, Claudius Laeta." His letters would travel via the cursus publicus, the imperial post service. It was quick, secure, and reliable. "So why send something to Anacrites, and why entrust it to you? You were friendly with this Cornelius?"
"Yes."
"If he wanted it entrusted to safe hands, was this letter very sensitive?"
"Presumably. Don't ask me what was in it," Aelianus continued triumphantly, "because it was heavily sealed and I had strict instructions to deliver it unopened straight to the Palatine." Very convenient.
"Were you present when Anacrites read it?"
"He asked me to wait in another office."
"And then what was his reaction?"
"He came in and invited me to the Baetican dinner as if to thank me for its safe delivery."
I changed the subject: "If you knew the outgoing quaestor, do you know Quinctius Quadratus too?"
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"He had been meant to attend the dinner as well. His father had booked him a place-but he went to the theater instead."
"I leave the theater to my brother!" Aelianus sneered self-righteously.
"Do you know Quadratus?" I repeated.
Slightly," he then admitted. "He was in Corduba last autumn-preparing himself to bid for the Baetican quaestorship I imagine, though he never came clean at the time. I had a disagreement with him about some work his people did on my father's estate. Now we don't particularly get on."
"And besides, you had cornered yourself an invitation from a mighty official? Being noticed by Anacrites would be something to brag about!"
Aelianus gave me a nasty look. "Have you finished, Falco?
"No," I snapped back. "We need to discuss your time in Corduba. Your father sent you out there to gain experience, and you were working informally in the proconsul's office-"
"I was never privy to policy meetings," Aelianus took pleasure in telling me.
"No. It would be an unusual office if the governor's young staff actually noticed what was going on." While he was here, and under parental supervision, I determined to pick his brains. "There were some top Baeticans dining with Quinctius Attractus at the dinner. I presume you knew most of them?"
"Provincials?" Aelianus sounded hurt at being associated with foreigners.
"Given that men of Hispanic origin fill a third of the Senate that you yourself are trying to join, snobbery is shortsighted. I assume you know who they were! I'm interested in this group: Annaeus Maximus, Licinius Rufus, someone called Norbanus and another called Cyzacus."
"Annaeus and Rufus are leading citizens of Corduba."
"Big in olive oil production?"
"Annaeus has the largest estate. Licinius isn't far behind."
"Is there rivalry between the landowners?" his father put in.
"Only mild jostling." This was better. When he cooperated, Aelianus was a useful witness. The best kind: he liked showing off. He lacked the dry wit of other members of his family, but had grown up with their analytical attitude. He was, moreover, a great deal more intelligent than he wanted to allow himself to be. "The producers all compete to obtain the highest yield and quality, and to demand the best prices, but in general there is a good
community spirit. Their main obsessions are getting rich, then demonstrating their wealth by way of luxurious houses, benefactions in the community, and holding local magistracies and priesthoods. Long term, they all want to buy positions in Rome if possible. They take pride in anyone from Corduba being successful, because that increases the status of all."
"Thanks," I said, rather surprised at his sudden fluency.
"What about the other two names Falco mentioned?" inquired the senator, who was taking a keen interest.
"Cyzacus is from Hispalis. He runs a fleet of barges; upriver at Corduba the Baetis is too narrow for big vessels, so bargees take the amphorae downstream. I knew him by sight, but that's all."
"Not a producer himself?"
"No, he just collects. And Norbanus is a negotiator."
"Negotiating what?" I asked.
Aelianus gave me a pitying look. "Negotiating anything, but mostly space on the ocean-going ships that pick up the amphorae of oil once they are assembled at Hispalis. He's a Gaul." The young man was dismissive.
"So everybody hates him!"
"Well, even provincials need someone else to despise, Marcus." The senator joked, while his son merely looked superior.
"I'm getting a picture of a happy flock of middlemen," I commented. "The estate owners produce the oil, then the bargemen take it downstream to an entrepot-that's Hispalis-after which negotiators find it space in ships to take it abroad. So producers, bargemen, negotiators, and shipowners are all expecting their cut. This is before any retailers in the Emporium and the Roman markets get their sticky fingers on the amphorae. If all these chancers are creaming off profits, no wonder we pay nice prices."
Its no worse than any other commodity." Camillus Verus was a fair man.
Except that oil carries the highest premium. It's a commodity everybody needs, from the Emperor down." I turned back to Aelianus. "So what is your evaluation of the commercial situation?"
He shrugged. "Olive oil is increasingly important. Production in Baetica is rising steeply. It's rapidly overtaking the traditional sources in Greece or Italy. That's partly because from Spain it's easy to send it north to meet the huge demand in Gaul, Britain and Germany, as well as dispatching it direct to Rome. It's fine quality for emollient usages-and the taste is reckoned to be special too. The producers in Baetica are lucky men. There are fortunes to be made."
"A star product." I looked him in the eye. "And what's the scope for funny business?"
"I don't know what you mean, Falco."
"Price-fixing, for example," I specified crisply. Once I started considering how many amphorae of olive oil were being shipped around the Empire, I realized that millions of sesterces were involved. "Cornering the market and withholding supplies-the usual pretty tricks of commerce are what I mean!"
"I wouldn't know." Now he had shown us that his time in the governor's office had at least taught him to give a sensible briefing, I reckoned he was being disingenuous.
I had no more to ask. His father let Aelianus go. The young man said he was off out again; Decimus told him to stay indoors, though he did not make too much of giving the order, in case Aelianus disobeyed.
Just as he reached the doorway I called out, "One more thing!" He made the mistake of stopping. "You carried the mysterious letter to Anacrites with you. How did you travel to Rome? By sea or land?" by sea.
"That's a week's journey?" He nodded, and I gave him a pleasant grin. "So tell me, Aulus-" He finally noticed I was not being friendly. "What exactly did you read in the letter when your curiosity broke and you picked the seal?"
To his credit, Aulus Camillus Aelianus managed not to blush. He knew when he was rumbled. He sighed, thought about it, then slowly admitted the truth: "It was a reply to a request from Anacrites to the proconsul for a report on the stability of the oil market. The quaestor had assessed the situation, and answered on the lines of what I told you earlier: that olive oil is going to be very big business." Aelianus braced himself then added honestly, "He also confirmed what you suggested, Falco-that there might be some scheming locally in Corduba. A possible cartel to rig and control the price of oil. He felt it was at an early stage, and could be contained."
"Did he name names?"
"No," said the noble Aelianus, rather quietly. "But he said that the proconsul had asked him to mention that inquiries had not been welcome. He felt the situation could become dangerous for everyone involved."
Without speaking, the senator and I walked slowly through the house in search of our womenfolk. It was dusk, on one of the first fine nights of the year. Passing through a folding door that gave access to the garden we dabbled our fingers in a hiccuppy fountain then joined Julia Justa who was reclining under a portico, eating grapes. She regarded us in silence. She could certainly pluck fruit from its stem in a telling manner: she was a woman with burdens, and we two men were contributors to her grief.
The senator had learned how to live with reproach; he surveyed the roses on his sagging trelliswork, apparently oblivious. I stayed on my feet, close to a pillar, with my arms folded. On the other side of the colonnade, which was dimly lit by oil lamps, I could see Helena Justina. She had separated from her mother for some reason (one I could guess) and was picking dead leaves from a huge urn of neglected agapanthus. I watched, waiting for her to look across and notice me.
Lately she had become withdrawn, lost even to me in the concerns of her pregnancy. She moved carefully now, with her back slightly arched for balance. She spent a lot of time being busy on
her own, engaged in tasks I never really knew about. We were still close; I had, for instance, been favored with full details of all the physical problems which her mother kept mentioning. I had myself scoured apothecaries for cures, and had my head bitten off for bringing them home.
Helena still told me her private thoughts. I knew she wanted the baby to be a girl (and I knew why). I also knew that if one more person asked if she was hoping for a boy, she was likely to knock them down and jump on their heads. She was heartily sick of being nagged. And the main reason she was starting to lose her temper was that she was afraid. I had promised to stay near and share everything with her, but she reckoned when it came to it I would find an excuse to escape. Everyone we knew believed I would let her down.
The senator sighed, still in contemplation of our conversation with his son. "Marcus, I would be happier if neither you nor Aelianus were in contact with the palace spy network."
"So would I," I agreed somberly. "Anacrites has given me plenty of aggravation. But he has given me work too-and I need that. Don't worry. Anacrites is in no condition to trouble Aelianus again. Even if he makes a miraculous recovery I reckon I can handle him." The gods knew, I had had enough practice. The senator must have heard details of my long enmity with the Chief Spy-and we both thought it was Anacrites who had intervened with the Emperor's son Domitian to ensure I was refused promotion socially. That had been a personal blow to the Camilli. They wanted me to make equestrian rank, in order to protect Helena's good name.
In general, Marcus, how do you see the Chief Spy's role?" Interesting question. On a descending curve, I should say. Anacrites is devious, but he's not as efficient as he ought to be and he works with a historical disadvantage: his team has always been small, and his line of command is through the Praetorian Guard. So his theoretical task, like that of the Praetorians, is limited to acting as the Emperor's bodyguard." Of course that now included providing protection for Vespasian's two sons, Titus and Domi-tian.
"I think the whole show is due for a shakeout," the senator said.
"Be disbanded?"
"Maybe not. Both Vespasian and Titus hate the idea of being emperors who openly pay for trumped-up evidence to destroy their political enemies. Vespasian won't change, but Titus might want a tougher organization-and Titus is already commander of the Praetorians."
"Are you telling me you know something, sir?"
"No, but I can sense a mood among the palace staff that there will soon be scope for men who offer to help Titus achieve his ends. He's a dasher; he wants everything yesterday-"
I knew what that meant. "By the quickest means-legal or not! That's bad news. We don't want to go back to the old state-employed informers. The network that was so notorious under Tiberius and Nero-little more than torturers in basement prison cells."
Decimus was mulling this over gloomily. He was an old crony of Vespasian, and a shrewd judge of a situation. His advice mattered. "Marcus, it's your world. If there is a power struggle, I suppose you may want to involve yourself-
"Id prefer to run fast the other way!" I was thinking about the implications. "Rivalries already exist," I confirmed, thinking of the open antagonism between Anacrites and Laeta that I had witnessed at the dinner. "Anacrites has been tussling with just the kind of clever bureaucrat who might suggest to Titus that he should develop a new agency, one with a fuller remit, which could answer directly to Titus himself- In any case, Anacrites is seriously wounded. If he dies there will be a scuffle among people who want his old job."
"Who's the bureaucrat?"
"Laeta."
The senator, who naturally knew the correspondence chief, shuddered distastefully.
I felt I was myself already being used as a patball between Laeta and Anacrites. This was the kind of situation where the general good-for instance the smooth running of the Spanish olive oil trade-could be overturned in the pursuit of some disastrous administrators' feud. And it was a situation where Rome could, yet again, end up in the grip of sinister forces who ruled by torture and infamy.
It was at this point that Julia Justa, who had been sitting with us in silence as a respectable matron ought to when her male relatives debate world issues, decided she would exert her rights. She waved to Helena, signaling her to come over and join us.
"I would prefer to keep Aelianus right out of this," her father carried on. "I'm beginning to be sorry I ever sent him out to Spain. He seemed a bit raw; the governor was a friend; it looked like an ideal opportunity. My son could see administration working, and I had bought a new estate on the River Baetis which needed organizing." Helena Justina had condescended to notice her mother waving and was coming around the portico. Decimus continued, "Of course he's inexperienced-" I had realized what was coming. "I could still use a friend to look at the estate." Sensing that I preferred her not to overhear, Helena sped up and reached us. By that time her father was unstoppable: "The oil problem in that quaestor's letter sounds like something a man like you could clear up in a matter of weeks if you were out there on the spot, Marcus!"
Julia Justa removed a grape pip from her elegant lip fastidiously. Her voice was dry. "Well it's not as if he's needed here. Having babies is women's work!"
I didn't stop to look at Helenas expression: "Baetica is off-limits. I promised Helena I would be here when the child is born. It's more than a promise; it's what I want."
"I'm only surprised you don't suggest taking her with you!" her mother sniffed.
This was unfair when I had already taken the decent line. Helena Justina's smile was dangerously quiet. "Oh taking me away to Baetica is out of the question!" she said.
That was when I knew for sure that Baetica was where I would be when I let Helena down.
I kept him alive," snarled my mother. "You never said I was expected to make him sensible as well. If I know men, he never was." She glanced at Helena, whose eyes gleamed warmly in agreement.
Apparently Anacrites was now lurching in and out of consciousness. He could yet lurch the wrong way and die. Once I would have been glad. Now the bastard had made me feel responsible. Meanwhile, whenever he opened his eyes, Ma pulled his mouth open too and spooned in chicken broth.
"Does he know where he is?"
"Not even who he is. He doesn't know anything."
"Has he spoken?"
"Just mumbles like a hopeless drunk."
There could be a reason for that. "Are you giving him your brothers' wine?"
"Only a dribble." No wonder he wasn't lucid. Uncles Fabius and Junius, who shared a farm when they were not trying to tear each other's throats out, produced a harsh red Campagnan rot-gut with a kick that blew the wax out of your ears. A goatskin or two was enough to lay out a whole cohort of hard-living Praetorians.
"If he can survive that, you must have saved him!"
"I never knew what you've got against your uncles," grumbled Ma.
I loathed their awful wine, for one thing. I also thought the pair of them were illogical, moody clowns.
Helena and I inspected the invalid. Anacrites looked unpleasantly pale, and already much thinner. I could not tell whether this was one of his conscious phases or not. His eyes were nearly closed, but not quite. He made no attempt to speak or move. Calling his name caused no reaction.
"Ma, I've found out more about what's been going on and I've decided it's too dangerous keeping him. He's part of the Praetorian Guard; I reckon they can be trusted to look after one of their own. I've spoken to a centurion I know, and Anacrites is going to be taken into the safety of the Praetorian Camp. A man called Frontinus will turn up and whisk him away secretly. Then don't mention to anybody that you had him here."
"Oh I see!" complained Ma, highly affronted. "Now I'm not good enough!"
"You're wonderful," Helena soothed her. "But if his attackers find out where he is, you're not strong enough to fend them off." Actually, if I knew my mother she would have a damned good try.
Helena and I sat with Anacrites for a while, so Ma could have a rest. My mother's idea of having a rest was to gather five shopping baskets and rush out to the market, pausing only to shower Helena with rude comments on her appearance and dark advice on managing her pregnancy. I watched Helena bite her tongue. Ma scuttled off. If she met any of her witchy cronies, which was quite likely, she would be away for hours. This made a mockery of us coming to visit her, but was typical in my family. At least it prevented quarrels. I knew we had just narrowly avoided yet another one.
Anacrites, Helena and I now had the apartment to ourselves. Without Ma whirling to and fro it felt unnaturally quiet. She had stashed the invalid in a bed that had belonged at various times to my elder brother and me. Sometimes when we were boys we had shared it, so this had been the scene of much lewd talk and a multitude of ludicrous plans-plans that were now doomed to be forever unfulfilled. I left home, and ended up as an informer. My brother was dead. Before he was killed in Judaea Festus had dossed here on trips home from the army. The gods only know what scenes of surreptitious debauchery our little room had seen then.
It seemed odd to be here with Helena. Odder still that the familiar old bed, with its rickety pine frame and twisted webbing, now possessed a brown checkered cover that I did not recognize and a spanking new pillow. Before long my eyes were sending messages that had Anacrites not been inconveniently in possession I would have grabbed Helena and renewed my own acquaintance with the bed…
"Don't push your luck," murmured Helena, with what I hoped was shared regret.
Since there was no hope of persuading Anacrites to contribute usefully, the choice of conversation was ours. Its was the morning after our dinner at the Camillus house. I had reported the latest facts to Helena, but we were still chewing over the story.
"Someone's been stupid," I said. "There may be a commercial conspiracy in Corduba. Presumably Anacrites and his man were attacked in a feeble attempt to deter investigation. The way that group of Baeticans left Rome immediately afterwards certainly makes it look as if they knew something about it. But our officials are aware of whatever's going on; Claudius Laeta can take whatever steps he thinks necessary from this end. He's made himself acting Chief Spy, apparently. It's his decision. I'm certainly not going out there."
"I see," replied my beloved, ever queen of the unexpected. "There is nothing to discuss then." Her brown eyes were thoughtful; that tended to precede trouble. "Marcus, you do realize that you may have had a lucky escape the night of the dinner and the attacks?"
"How would that be?" I made an attempt to act the innocent.
"You're known as an imperial agent, and you had been talking to Anacrites. I expect you also found a reason to meet the beautiful dancing girl-" I pished. Helena carried on regardless. "And you spoke to Valentinus. You were probably seen doing that, then when you both left the dinner at the same time, it must have looked like more than coincidence. But unlike Anacrites and Valentinus you didn't leave the Palatine alone. You came home to Fountain Court with two palace slaves, carrying your garum jar. Perhaps if it hadn't been for them you would have been set upon too."
"I had thought of that," I admitted. "I didn't want to worry you."
"I was worried."
"Well don't brood on it. This must be the first recorded incidence of a man having his life saved by an amphora of fish-pickle."
Helena was not laughing. "Marcus, you're involved whether you want to be or not."
We were silent for a while. Anacrites seemed to be fading right before my eyes. I felt a surge of anger again. "I'd like to get whoever murdered Valentinus."
"Of course you would, Marcus."
"Fellow feeling."
I know.
Helena Justina always spoke her mind and let me know exactly where I stood. If there was any chance of an argument she set about it briskly. Sounding meek was worrying. It meant she might be planning some big surprise.
"Helena, I'm not going to let these killers get away with it. If they are still in Rome-"
"They won't be," said Helena.
She was right. I had to swallow it. "Then I'll be wasting my time as usual."
"Laeta will ask you to be the man who goes to Baetica."
"Laeta can go red in the face and burst a blood vessel."
"Laeta will make the Emperor or Titus order it."
"They'll be ordering trouble then."
She gazed at me somberly. "I think you ought to be prepared to go to Spain."
Helena's offer seemed out of the question-and yet straight away I began to wonder if it might be feasible.
We believed we had nearly two months before the baby would be born. I did a rapid calculation: a week lost on the journey out, plus several days to travel inland to Corduba. Ten more days for returning home. In between, another week should be ample to identify and assess the personnel involved and tackle a solution… Oh yes. Easy to go, do the job, and come home just in time to put down my luggage on the doormat and receive the newborn baby into my arms from a smiling midwife who had just finished tidying its proud and happy mama…
A fool could convince himself that it would work, provided nothing went wrong. But I knew better. Traveling always takes longer than you hope. And things always go wrong.
It was far too tight. And what if the baby came early anyway? Apart from outfacing the oil cartel conspirators-something which hardly interested me, though that was what would make the state provide my fare-where in this ludicrous timetable was there any allowance for tracing Diana and her murderous musicians? Helena, thanks for the offer, but be sensible. Just because everyone else assumes I'm planning to bunk off and abandon you, doesn't mean they are right!"
"I'm coming with you," she told me. I knew that tone of voice. This was no mere suggestion. Being bossed and bullied by relatives was irritating her too much. Helena had decided to abscond from Rome.
It was at that moment Anacrites opened his eyes and stared at me vaguely. By the looks of him his body was giving up and his black soul was on the ferryboat to Hades. His mind was just about still here, however.
I told him bitterly, "I've just been informed I have to sail to Baetica on this dead-end job of yours!"
"Falco…" he croaked. What a compliment. He might not have known who he was, but he recognized me. I still refused to spoon-feed the bastard with broth. "Dangerous woman!" he moaned. Maybe it was apropos of nothing, though it sounded like fair comment on my chosen partner in life.
He faded out again. Well, enigmas are what you expect from spies.
Helena Justina ignored him. "Don't mention to your mother that we're going," she instructed me.
"And don't you tell yours either!" I retorted nervously.