‘Would you like us to speak Greek?’ Anacrites asked helpfully, in fluent administrative Greek.
‘Naturally I speak Latin,’ Hosidia answered - though she said it in Greek. That failed to solve anything; so we were headed for a bilingual evening - feasible, but distancing.
Two pale, flat-chested girls in long white uniforms arrived with snack trays. The snacks were small but tasty; there was no obvious sign that house-slaves had nibbled them. Young boys with their hair oiled into silly points brought the first drinks, in garish decorated cups that the caterers probably supplied. Minas, who needed no cheering up, cheered up loudly. The women guests then demanded that Anacrites give them a tour of his house. Looking worried, he let himself be swept off; he had the expression of a man who knew he had left a pile of dirty loincloths on his bedroom floor and failed to close the cupboard containing his winged phallus lamps.
This left Minas, the Camilli and me standing in a square, each holding a crayfish tail and asking one another what in Hades we were doing there.
Justinus reminded me that we knew from a previous visit Anacrites kept obscene statues in a secret room. Minas brightened, hoping for a private view. ‘This should be a good night, Falco!’ he boomed. I saw Aulus, who had a keen idea of Minas’ liquid capacity, smile fixedly. ‘I am so looking forward to it!’ Minas confided to me, leaning close in a hideous aura of lunchtime wine and garlic. ‘This man must have very great influence, I think? He knows important people? The Emperor, perhaps? Anacrites can do us favours?’
I nodded gravely. ‘Tiberius Claudius Anacrites would be proud to know you believe that, Minas.’
XXXII
We were called to dine. The old dining room was indoors and a touch cosy. The hired hands had decorated its three crushed-together stone couches with coverlets in some shiny fabric the colour of pomegranate juice. They must have misjudged what kind of bachelor Anacrites was. A single rose, suspended from the centre of the ceiling, made the traditional statement that anything we said would be in confidence.
‘Surely,’ Albia piped up, all wide-eyed innocence, ‘only an idiot would mention any secrets in a spy’s house?’
‘Now I remember your daughter!’ cried Minas, clapping me around the shoulders so hard I nearly lost my footing (he had only just remembered me, I reckoned). ‘This minx is too astute!’
‘Oh these days intrigue is the only game in town, Minas.’ Thanks to the bagginess of the russet tunic, a good wriggle helped me slide free of the Greek’s grip. ‘Anacrites loves people to come here and commit treason. He gets a thrill thinking they are his guests so he can’t arrest them.’
Anacrites looked disorientated.
We were nine at dinner, naturally. To break convention would be too daring for our host. He must have given much thought to his placements, but when the rest of us arrived in the triclinium, Helena was shifting people around to avert awkward situations: making sure I could grill Anacrites; putting Albia and Aelianus apart; not imposing the bombastic Minas on anyone shy …
Minas thought he should take precedence, but this was Rome and he was foreign; he stood no chance. ‘Both brothers Camilli are standing for the Senate -‘ Anacrites said, as he tried to guide them into his chosen places. They were talking about the races and failed to notice him.
‘They’ll be voted out,’ snapped their sister.
‘Oh thank you!’ they chorused halfheartedly. She just grabbed each one and shoved him where she wanted him. For would-be empire-governors, the duo submitted like wimps. Albia was chortling at this, until she was frogmarched to the end of the inferior couch. ‘Young girl’s prerogative,’ Helena soothed her. ‘You get the easy exit to the lavatory and you can reach the food trays for seconds.’
Minas still took too much interest in which was the seat of honour. ‘The one on the right-hand corner of the middle couch, I think …?’ Fired up by some tourist guide to Roman etiquette, he was aiming his big belly in that direction.
Helena shepherded me there. She pushed Minas to the other end. ‘With the best views of the garden and statuary if we were out of doors -‘ Due to the deficiencies of Anacrites’ house, we were facing a dowdy corridor. ‘Marcus is the only person who has held a significant public post, Minas; he was Procurator of Juno’s Sacred Geese.’ If I was top man, and by virtue of supervising a flock of birds, that showed this dinner’s low status.
Minas pouted. I grinned and to distract him I explained, ‘It’s a sad story, Minas. Government shortsightedness. I lost the job ignominiously, in a round of treasury cutbacks.’ I always wondered if Anacrites had had something to do with it. ‘Juno’s Geese and the Augurs’ Sacred Chickens were heartbroken to lose me. Their loyalty is touching, in fact. I go up on the Capitol regularly to see the clucks for old times’ sake; I shall never lose my sense of responsibility.’
‘You are fooling?’ Minas was only half right.
‘Forget convention. I think the best places are the centre of the couches - -‘ Still struggling to seat everyone, Helena steered Anacrites between Minas and me. Aelianus had to go at the top of the left-hand couch, talking across the corner to Minas, with Hosidia behind him; Justinus was opposite Hosidia with Claudia above him, adjacent to me across the other top corner. Albia was below Justinus. He was a good lad and would talk to her; she would probably hope to upset Aelianus by being friendly with his brother. At the far end of the left-hand couch, Helena was stuck with Hosidia. Good manners would have placed Helena next to me, but she had demoted herself in order to put the spy in my range. At least I could wink down the room at her.
During the appetisers, our host led the conversation - - as much as he could do, with Minas tipsily interrupting. We had seen him in action; as a symposium-crawler no one could touch him, even in Athens’ exhausting party whirl.
The wine was better than good; Anacrites discussed it fluently. Perhaps he had taken himself to wine-buffery classes. At any rate, he served palatable mulsum with the appetisers, not too sweet, then a very fine Caecubian. One of the best wines in the Empire, that must have cost a packet. He also introduced us to an unfamiliar variety he had just acquired, from Pucinum; he was dying for us to ask where Pucinum was so he could show off, but nobody bothered. ‘What do you think, Falco? The Empress Livia always drank Pucinum wines, ascribing her long life to their medicinal qualities.’
‘Very nice - - though the phrase “medicinal qualities” slightly puts me off!’
‘Well, it kept her going to eighty-three, outliving her contemporaries - -‘
‘I thought that was because she had poisoned them all …’
I asked for a separate water cup and drank the wine sparingly. Anacrites knew me well enough to have seen me do it before. I had a curious sense that tonight he wanted to relax for once - yet now he was torn, in case loosening up gave me some advantage.
While he continued to hold forth on vintages, I chatted to my other neighbour, Claudia Rufina. The three Camillus siblings were all lofty but Justinus had married a woman tall enough to look him in the eye; this Claudia now saw as necessary since he could be a rogue, an edgy character who needed constant watching. On a dining couch designed for our stumpy republican ancestors, she was having problems twisting herself to fit. But once she settled, Claudia gossiped with me on the current situation in the senator’s house. ‘Things are tense, Marcus.’
Minas had emptied the Camillus wine cellar in about five days. The amiable senator declined to restock, so Minas got huffy. Then Camillus senior hit on the idea that Aelianus and his bride should live next door; he owned the adjacent house, where his brother had once lived. It was decreed that Minas must stay with the couple. ‘Julia Justa said, So nice for him to see a lot of his daughter, before he goes back to Greece … I don’t think the professor intends going back, Marcus!’
‘No; he is determined to be a big rissole in Rome.’
‘I would have thought,’ said Claudia, who was a kind-hearted girl, ‘the newly-weds might be given some time to themselve
s - especially as they don’t seem to have had much opportunity yet to get to know each other.’ That was ironic. Claudia and Quintus would probably stick out their marriage (she had an excellent olive oil fortune which encouraged him mightily), but they were experts at communication failure.
‘You presuppose, my dear, that either of them wants familiarity.’
‘You cynic!’
‘I’ve lived. Still, we must be hopeful … How are the lovebirds getting on?’
Claudia lowered her voice. ‘They have separate bedrooms!’
‘How fashionable! Though not much fun.’
‘They will never have children.’ Claudia and Quintus had produced two small sons very quickly; she assumed everyone wanted the same. At home we joked that Quintus could get his wife pregnant just by kicking his boots, under the bed.
Babies were still a painful subject with Helena and me. To stop Claudia detailing the wonders of their newest son, I turned back to Anacrites. Forcing Aulus to endure a bout of Minas, I grabbed our host’s attention. ‘So! Tell us all about the big secret mission. Where did you go? How long did you stay? How many barbarians tried to garrotte you? Do tell me some at least tried. And what were you doing abroad in the first place, acting as the Emperor’s messenger-boy?’
‘You’re just jealous,’ Anacrites replied coyly.
‘Cobnuts! Now, I don’t mind you playfully pretending it’s a state secret - -just so long as you confess all.’
‘It was nothing.’ Everyone was now listening, so Anacrites had to answer. ‘It seems that when his mistress Antonia Caenis was alive, Vespasian managed to discover for her that her ancestors came from Istria.’ Minas looked puzzled yet again, so Anacrites explained that our affable old Emperor had lived much of his life with an influential freedwoman who filled a wife’s place. ‘Senators are forbidden to marry freedwomen. Apparently Caenis had not known her origins and I suppose it bothered her. Once Vespasian assumed power, he had access to the records. Someone finally looked up answers.’
‘That’s a romantic story,’ Claudia said.
‘It was true love.’ Helena supplied the fact that Caenis had managed to visit her homeland for nostalgic reasons before she died. ‘I met her; I liked her enormously. Did you know her, Anacrites?’
‘I knew who she was, of course,’ he said, in that careful way of his. From what I had seen, in a couple of meetings while she was alive, Antonia Caenis had more sense than to cosy up to the spy.
‘I wondered if your backgrounds were similar?’ Helena pressed. The spy, not deft with a spoon, concentrated on chasing a langoustine nibble around his foodbowl. I admired my sweetheart for many fine qualities, not least her ability to denude a silver comport of its most succulent seafood while seemingly engaged in chat. Helena served herself to three from the central table while he fumbled. If we had been seated together she might have passed one to me. ‘So what were your duties in Istria, Anacrites?’ Nobody else will have noticed, but Helena was aware of the way I was smiling down the room at her.
‘Merely ceremonial. Falco would have been impatient with it …‘I leaned on my elbow and glared at him sternly. Anacrites was just too good to show it made him uncomfortable. ‘Vespasian endowed various public buildings, in honour of Caenis. An amphitheatre at Pola, for instance, needed restoration - -‘
‘He paid for it?’
‘He loved her, Marcus,’ Helena called reprovingly. ‘Go on, Anacrites.’
‘I was sent to represent him at the inauguration. So, Falco, it was nothing sinister!’
I laughed off this weak attempt to make me appear paranoid. ‘My dear fellow, any time you have the chance to cut civic ribbons in a two-bit foreign town, you do it. I am surprised you could be spared for such matters.’
He flushed slightly. ‘Pola is a major city, Colonia Pietas Iulia Pola Pollentia Herculanea. I was owed leave. I was honoured to go. It suited me too,’ he let slip.
‘Oh?’ I was on it at once.
‘I have connections there.’
‘Connections?’ I patted his shoulder. ‘Can we be learning personal secrets?’
Anacrites shifted. ‘It is very beautiful along the coast.’
‘Full of pirates, lurking in the rocky creeks, according to my Uncle Fulvius. He watched their movements for the fleet,’ I told the spy, trying to make him think this undercover work had been for some mysterious higher agency. Fulvius was in Egypt now, or I would never have mentioned it. No rose suspended from a ceiling was protection enough; had Fulvius still been engaged as a ‘military corn factor’ (a ridiculous myth, because no corn factor is ever what he seems) he would not have thanked me for interesting Anacrites. ‘So what was the real draw, Anacrites?’
‘Oh … an opportunity to get my hands on some Pucinum wine!’ The man was indefatigably slippery.
To his obvious relief the servers cleared the starter tables and brought in the main course. While this was organised, the tumblers tumbled off for a break and a professional singer swanned up to delight us. He must be all the rage; I recognised this caroller from Laeta’s office. Immediately I wondered if he was Laeta’s plant, observing Anacrites at play. The thought kept me happy until the new foodbowls were laid.
Time for business. (Anything to avoid listening to this singer.) ‘So Anacrites, how are you getting on with the Modestus killing?’
‘Don’t ask, Falco!’
‘I just did. Now listen, happy host, I am your guest of honour. While I stretch out on my elbow here in the best place, the consul’s spot, my every whim is yours to fulfil - so come clean! What’s the situation?’
‘There has been another death.’ The spy had a wide-eyed honest look that made me want to screw bits off my bread roll and stuff him like a trigon ball. ‘It bears similarities to the Modestus killing …’
‘But?’
‘Either it’s some sad mimic - plenty of people knew what happened to Modestus; the vigiles may have said too much in public -‘ Oh yes, blame them, you bastard! ‘Or I think it is a ploy, Falco - falsely implying that the killer works from Rome. Of course, I am not fooled so easily. Modestus had been tailed on his journey; he was deliberately targeted. This was different.’
‘Interesting!’ I was shocked. Was Anacrites really so shrewd? I almost wondered if he had a nark in the vigiles’ patrol house who had eavesdropped on Petronius and me.
Aware of my surprise, he applied fake humility. ‘What do you say, Falco? I’d like to hear your professional evaluation.’
‘Oh you seem on top of things.’
‘Thanks. Did you know about the second killing? Have you discussed it with Petronius?’ He really wanted to know whether we were still monitoring his case.
‘Yes, we heard about it.’
‘And what was his verdict?’
‘We think a crazed copycat killer knifed the poor courier … So are you still looking for those Claudii?’
‘Of course.’ It was the right thing to say. He was smooth as a wet rat sliding down a drain. Still, I never expected Anacrites to be totally incompetent, let alone appear corrupt. He was too good to show what he was up to.
He turned away, readjusting a pomegranate silk cushion so he could converse again with Minas. ‘We don’t want to talk about a murder over dinner, Falco.’
You could tell he rarely entertained. He had no idea that far from being squeamish, guests would be eager to hear about gore.
When the main course arrived, he had overdone things. There was no need. His caterers were first class; we would have been flattered by anything they cooked. A couple of roasts, a simple platter with a fine fish, a vegetable melange with one or two unusual ingredients, would have sufficed. But he had to over-impress. Although he had complimented Helena and me on the warm atmosphere of our Saturnalia gathering last December, Anacrites had failed to analyse it: good food, fresh ingredients not overcooked, a few carefully chosen herbs and spices, all served in a relaxed style with everybody mucking in.
Instead we had tired old Luc
ullan oysters - - ‘I’m sorry, Falco; I know you were in Britain, but I could not get Rutupian!’ After flamingo tongues and lobster in double sauces came the ridiculous climax. Albia squeaked and sat up on her couch in happy expectation: a major-domo clinked an amphora to call for attention, spare servers stood back expectantly, the tumblers’ harpists (who must have finished their boozing break) rattled off dramatic arpeggios accompanying a drum roll. A pair of sweating waiters dragged in the Trojan hog. Though young, it was a big brute, presented on a trolley upright on its feet, wearing its hair and tusks. From the glaze on its cheeks and the delectable odours, it had slow-roasted most of the day. Fake grass, full of pastry rabbits, nestled around its trotters. A crown of gilded laurel topped it, wired on between the piggy’s shining ears.
A master carver approached, perhaps the chef himself, wielding a vicious meat sabre. I wouldn’t trust him on a dark night round the back of a seedy posca bar. His blade flashed in the lamplight. With one mighty sweep he cut open the boar’s belly. Glistening innards tumbled out towards us, like raw guts. As Helena had said, they were sausages. While we still believed they were hot viscera, he tossed a quick-fire barrage into all our foodbowls. There were screams. Someone clapped briefly. Minas took a moment to grasp what was happening, then exploded with delight. ‘Excellent, excellent!’ He was so thrilled, he had to beckon a server to fill up his wine goblet. A hum of appreciative voices congratulated Anacrites, while Helena and I looked on patiently.
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