He had arms as thin as pea-sticks. A triangular face came down to a point at a dot of a chin. Above it ran a narrow black moustache, almost ear to ear. The moustache was what you noticed. It bisected a face that was too old for his adolescent body, as if he were a refugee from a province racked by twenty years of famine and tribal strife. The true cause was nothing so dramatic. He was just a slave.
'Who's asking?' I prompted. By then I had warmed up enough in the late-afternoon sunshine not to care.
'A runabout from the house of Hortensius Novus.'
He had a faintly foreign accent, but it lay a long way back behind the common lilt all prisoners of war seem to contract in the slave market. I guessed he had picked up his Latin as a small child; probably by now he could hardly remember his native tongue. His eyes were blue; he looked like a Celt to me.
'You have a name?'
'Hyacinthus!'
He said it with a level stare that dared me to scoff. If he was a slave he had enough problems without enduring ribaldry from every new acquaintance just because some overseer with a filthy hangover had stuck him with the name of a Greek flower.
'Pleased to meet you, Hyacinthus.' I refused to present a target for the aggressive retort he held ready. 'I've never heard of your master Hortensius. What's his problem?'
'If you asked him, he'd say nothing.'
People often talk in riddles when they commission an informer. Very few clients seem capable of asking straight out, What are your rates for proving that my wife sleeps with my driver?
'So why has he sent you?' I asked the runabout patiently.
'His relations have sent me,' Hyacinthus corrected me. 'Hortensius Novus has no idea I'm here.'
That convinced me the case involved denaru, so I waved Hyacinthus to my bench: a hint of cash worth being secretive about always perks me up.
'Thanks, Falco; you're a regular general!' Hyacinthus assumed my invitation to sit included my winejar too; to my annoyance he dodged back indoors and found a beaker for himself. As he made himself at home under my rose pergola he demanded, 'This your idea of a gracious setting for interviewing clients?'
'My clients are easily impressed.'
'It stinks! Or is this just one of the drop-ins you keep around Rome?'
'Something like that.'
'It was the only address we had.' It was the only address I had. He tried the wine, then spluttered. 'Parnassus!'
'Gift from a grateful client,' Not grateful enough.
I poured myself a refill, as an excuse to shift the winejar out of his reach. He was having a good squint at me. My informality made him doubtful. The world is full of straight-haired fools who think curly-tops who grin at them cannot possibly be good businessmen.
'This place has all I need,' I said, implying that to exist in such squalor I must be tougher than I looked. 'The people I want to meet know where to find me - while the ones I may be avoiding are put off by the stairs... All right Hyacinthus, I don't issue a prospectus of my services, but here's what I can offer: I do information-gathering of a mainly domestic type-'
'Divorce?' he translated, with a grin.
'Correct! Also investigating prospective sons-in-law on behalf of sensitive fathers, or advising recent legatees whether their bequests involve any hidden debt. I do leg-work for lawyers who need more evidence - with a court appearance if required. I have contacts in auctioneering and I specialise in recovery of precious artworks after theft. I don't tackle draftdodgers or debt collection. And I never fix gladiatorial fights.'
'Squeamish?'
'Better sense.'
'We shall want to take up references.'
'So will I! All my business is legitimate.'
'How much do you charge, Falco?'
'Depends on the complexity of the case. A solving fee, plus a daily expense rate. And I give no guarantees, other than a promise to do my best.'
'What is it you do for the Palace?' Hyacinthus threw in suddenly.
'I don't work for the Palace now.' It sounded like official secrecy: a pleasing effect. 'Is that why you're here?'
'My people felt a Palace man came ready recommended.'
'Their mistake! If they hire me I'll do a decent job, and be discreet. So, Hyacinthus, are we in business?'
'I have to invite you to the house. You'll be told about the case there.'
I had intended to go anyway. I like to inspect the people who will be paying me. 'So where am I heading?'
'The Via Lata sector. On the Pincian.'
I whistled. 'Highly desirable! Are Hortensius and his relations people of rank?'
'Freedmen.'
Ex-slaves! That was new for me. But it made a change from vindictive officials and the hypocrisies I had run up against with some of the senatorial class.
'You object?' Hyacinthus enquired curiously.
'Why should I, if their money's good?'
'Oh... no reason,' said the slave.
He finished his drink and waited for another, but I had no intention of offering. 'We're on the Via Flaminia side, Falco. Anyone in the district will point out the house.'
'If Hortensius is to know nothing about this, when shall I come?'
'Daytime. He's a businessman. He leaves home after breakfast usually.'
'What's his business?' My question was a routine one, but the way Hyacinthus shrugged and ignored it seemed oddly evasive. 'So who do I ask for?'
'Sabina Pollia-or if she's unavailable, there's another called Hortensia Atilia - but it's Pollia who is taking the initiative.'
'Wife?'
He gave me a sly grin. 'Novus is unmarried.'