Despite the way he tolerated his mangy cats, Petronius Longus had been my best mend since we were eighteen. We were both born on the Aventine, though we really met up when we knocked into each other in the recruiting queue and were jointly assigned to the Second Augustan legion. We survived our nightmare posting to Britain only by comforting each other with tall stories and drink. As we both threw up in the boat on the way over there, we already realised we had made a mistake; the subsequent horrors of the Boudiccan Rebellion only confirmed that. We got out of the army, no one needs to know how. Now he ran criminal investigations for the Fourth Cohort of vigiles, while I ran a private enquiry business. We were both damned good at what we did and we were on the same side in fighting life’s filthy surprises. Now he had finally settled with Maia, after yearning after her for years, and for both their sakes, I hoped it lasted.
‘Io, Marcus!’ Petro thumped me on the shoulder. He enjoyed festivals. He knew I hated them. I gave him the gloomy scowl he expected.
He was taller than me, though not enough for it to matter, and broader. As a vigiles officer, he had to be. When the arsonists and other villains weren’t attacking him with fists and knives, the ex-slaves he commanded were giving him almost as much trouble. He handled it. Petronius Longus could handle most things except the death of a child or an accident to a pet cat. In our time, I had seen him through both. He had stuck by me in bad situations too.
‘What are you working on, Marcus?’
‘I am not allowed to tell you,’ I complained solemnly. ‘Well, spit it out at once then, lad. I won’t pass it on.’
‘That a promise?’
‘Same as the one you must have given somebody…’
‘I gave my oath to Tiberius Claudius Laeta.’
Petronius grinned broadly. ‘The big poppy at the Palace? Well that’s all right; it doesn’t count.’
Trust a public servant to take a realistic view.
In a few taut sentences I summed up the mission for him.
There was a reason why I was bringing Petronius into my confidence. I explained—though to him it was perfectly obvious—that with the whole of Rome to search and no clues, I stood little chance of finding Veleda, let alone both Veleda and Justinus, aided by only a handful of lackadaisical legionaries from Germany.
‘This stinks.’ He sounded calm.
‘Surprised?’
‘It’s one of your jobs, you idiot. You’re going to need our help as usual.’
‘It’s a rat’s arse,’ I agreed quietly. ‘In which, as you so rightly notice, it differs from my usual commissions by not one digit of linear measurement. That Veleda is on the loose in Rome, and has been for over ten days, is a State Secret of some delicacy—’
‘Everyone’s heard about it,’ scoffed Petro. He let out another belch; he claimed this kept him fit. Maia just glowered. They were like an old married couple; although both had been previously hitched to other people, most of us thought these two should have been sharing a bed from the start.
I carried on: ‘Anacrites has been put in charge of an official hunt, using the Praetorians—’ This time Petronius really swore. ‘Right! If the Praetorian Guard, fired up with Saturnalia drink, find Veleda, she’ll become a new, and ghastly, festival game.’ The vigiles would not be delicate with her either, but I left that to his imagination. Petro was well aware that his cohort was composed of roughs and toughs; in truth he was proud of them. ‘And the common people are terrified of barbarians invading the citadel, so they will tear Veleda apart.’
Maia, who had been silent and apparently absorbed in her Saturnalia list, looked up and inserted in a caustic tone, ‘That is nothing to what Claudia Rufina will do if she catches her.’ Petronius and I both winced.
‘Give me a description to circulate,’ Petro offered.
‘I’d like this to be kept from your tribune, you know.’
‘Be realistic, Falco. Rubella needs to know—and what’s more, so do his oppos: you need this to be given to all the cohort tribunes because Veleda could be anywhere. She may know that you live on the Aventine and Justinus lives by the Capena Gate, but in what?—nearly two weeks—she hasn’t come looking for either you or him. So by now she could be hiding up in any of the districts—assuming she is hiding up, and not being held by some bastards against her will somewhere.’ I was protesting, but he stopped me. ‘I can put it forward as a game the tribunes will all like: “find the lost prisoner first, to annoy the Praetorians”. They will do it, and be discreet.’
I could see this would work. In theory the Praetorian Prefect looked after the Emperor, the Urban Prefect looked after the city by day, and the Prefect of Vigiles controlled the Night Watch; according to their rulebook, the three forces worked in harmony. In fact, there was serious rivalry. Bad feeling went back at least as far as when Emperor Tiberius found himself under threat from the usurper Sejanus, who had the loyalty of the Praetorians. Unable to trust his own imperial guards, Tiberius had cunningly used the vigiles to arrest Sejanus. The Praetorians now liked to pretend it had never happened—but the vigiles never forgot.
‘You could also whisper to the Urban Cohorts why their big brothers are stonking all over the city; the Urbans will defend their patch. ‘
‘Unfortunatelyour lot are not talking to the Urbans either. But I’d thought of that,’ said Petro.
Of course if it became known that I had brought in the vigiles on a confidential, entirely Praetorian matter, my position would be… difficult. I decided I would deal with that if the issue ever arose.
I could now trust Petronius to put in place a city-wide search for the priestess. He understood that it needed to be an observation and reporting back exercise, nothing too visible. For all we knew, Veleda might have assembled a support group; they could be armed and plotting trouble. We also had to avoid causing general alarm.
I asked Petro for advice on where to start looking myself
‘The obvious way to disappear,’ he said, ‘is for her to get a job in some backstreet bar.’
‘Not feasible. She’s never been in a city. She’s never lived as a free woman anywhere. We call her a barbarian, though she’s more sophisticated than you would expect—yet she’ll stick out as a stranger. She’s always held a position of respect among the tribes; she’s been tended and protected—she lived at the top of a signal tower, for heavens’ sake—so she won’t know anything about normal life. She probably couldn’t live alone unnoticed, even in her own country—’ ‘Does she have any money, Falco?’
‘Probably not. She should have been stripped of her valuables.
Perhaps some jewellery. I can ask Pa to put the word out in case she tries to sell anything.’ Ganna should be able to tell me what Veleda possessed. Anything worthwhile would find its way to the gem stalls at the Saepta Julia. ‘I am told she wants to get back to Free Germany. It’s the wrong time of year to travel and the alarm is raised. Unless she makes contact with sympathisers who are willing to help her, she can’t even pay for the journey.’
‘So she has to go underground.’ Petro was thinking. He ticked off people I should contact. ‘The German community in Rome.’
‘Is there one?’
He shrugged. ‘Traders. Must be. Your father should know, from colleagues at the Emporium.’
‘Aren’t traders by definition friends of Rome?’
‘When were traders friends of anyone but themselves?’ Petronius was cynical. ‘Traders come from all over the place, you know that. They have no qualms about making money from their nations’ enemies. Aliens can get here. There’s probably some tight little nest of Bructeran barterers right under our noses, if we knew where to look. But don’t ask me.’
‘No handy list of Free German interlopers?’ Petronius ignored my jibe about vigiles’ lists. They kept one for informers, and I knew my name was on it. ‘I can’t think what the Bructeri would have to sell in Rome.’
‘People come here to buy, Falco.’ He was right there. He thought of another u
npleasant group to search: ‘Then assuming your priestess is destitute, she might find a refuge among runaway slaves.’
‘And how,’ I asked sarcastically, ‘do I find them, given that their wronged masters have failed to do so? Aren’t they invisible on principle?’
‘Plentyout there. Doorways. Under the arches. A large colony sleeps rough among the tombs on the Via Appia.’
‘I thought the necropolis was haunted by ghosts?’
‘Be bloody careful if you go there!’ Petro warned. He did not offer to accompany me, I noticed. ‘There’s one more place. She is a priestess—you could try looking in temples.’
Oh thanks very much. It must have escaped his notice how many of those there were in Rome.
One of his cats crept into the room. The beast could tell I was a dog man, so it smugly came straight for me, purring. Petronius started grinning. I was already flea-bitten after Stringy at the caupona, so I made my excuses rapidly and went home.
XII
My house seemed suspiciously quiet. It spoke of recent ructions. I didn’t ask.
Helena and I sat in the kitchen and organised ourselves a quiet supper. We had the last of today’s bread, some cold fish, olives and soft cheese. I scrutinised her carefully, but she seemed at ease. Being landed with the soldiers, in the run up to Saturnalia, failed to faze her. The truth was, Helena Justina liked a challenge.
From a corner of the room, our new cook Jacinthus watched. If he had seemed upset by us invading his territory, we would have let him choose the food and serve us, but he was indifferent. So we took over the scrubbed table where he was supposed to prepare things, I fetched a jug of white wine which we two kept to ourselves, and we carried on discussing the day as we always had done, cook or no cook. I had worked on occasions with various partners, including both of Helena’s brothers. The person I most enjoyed working with was Helena Justina herself Non-judgmental, aware and intelligent, she had understood my approach and my routines pretty well PSTom the first time I met her. Ever since, she had been my confidante. She would help me chew over ideas, where possible she would accompany me to interviews, she researched backgrounds, worked out timescales, often came up with solutions. Importantly, she took charge of my finances. The best informer in the world is useless if he becomes insolvent.
‘Everything all right, sweetheart?’
‘We organised ourselves.’ Helena managed to combine reproof about the soldiers’ sudden arrival with acknowledgement of my good manners in asking. She knew what most husbands were like; she had been married before me, for one thing. So gratitude just took precedence over complaint. ‘The legionaries have taken over the ground floor rooms. They made a few complaints at first, but you will have noticed they are all in their quarters now, rather chastened.’ I raised my eyebrows but Helena did not bother to elaborate. ‘Clemens has complained about the damp; I told him the Tiber floods us every spring and suggested they might like to leave before then…At least we don’t have the sewers backing up in our home. I’ve heard there’s a terrible stink three doors down and everyone there has fallen ill.’
‘We don’t have backing-up shit,’ I explained, ‘because in all the time he lived here—’ which must have been twenty years—‘my skinflint father never paid for a connection to the Cloaca. It looks as though our privy empties into the city sewer system, but I suspect our waste just runs into a big cesspit out back.’
‘Well at least there is a cesspit,’ Helena replied brightly. ‘More cheese, Marcus?’
We ate in silence, thoughtfully. Any minute now we would start talking about my mission. I could see Jacinthus out of the corner of my eye, still staring at us. As he was a slave it was easy to ignore him, but perhaps I’d better not. He was lean and dark, about twenty-five. I had been told by the dealer when I bought him that his previous owner simply wanted a change of face around the house. I did not trust the story. I wondered where Jacinthus originated. Like the majority of slaves, he looked Eastern and not at all German. I supposed I should dig into his background a bit more, if we were to speak freely in front of him.
‘You had a visitor this evening, Marcus. A woman called Zosime.’
‘From the Temple of AEsculapius? I didn’t expect her to seek me out, or I would have briefed you, sweetheart.’
‘Naturally!’ Helena was wry. Once again, her right of complaint went unspoken: I was a thoughtless swine and she was supremely tolerant. In some homes, reaching this happy solution would require a large purchase of jewellery. I wiped away olive oil with my napkin then kissed her hand in a relaxed admission that I didn’t deserve her. I kept hold of the hand temporarily, holding her long fingers against my cheek and considering just how lucky I was. A quiet moment passed between us.
‘So tell me about it. What did Zosime want?’
Helena pulled back her hand so she could pick at the dish of olives.
They were small chewy black ones, marinated in garlic and chervil. ‘She’s a woman in her fifties, I’d say—once a nursing assistant, now calls herself a doctor, presumably experienced. She looks after female patients at the temple, ones who have gynaecological problems.’
‘So was she called to see Veleda because the priestess had a complaint of that sort?’
‘Well, Zosime says in her opinion Veleda had nothing like that at all and the Quadrumati sent for her because she was recommended by one of their other doctors. Veleda was suffering from some general illness, with bouts of fever and terrible headaches. In fact the pain was so bad, Veleda was begging for that terrifying surgery where people have a hole drilled in their skull—’
‘Trepanation. ‘
‘Someone had told her a Roman surgeon could carry it out. Veleda had convinced herself it would relieve the pressure in her head.’ Helena shuddered. ‘It seems drastic. She must have felt desperate even though by then she knew she was doomed to die anyway.’
‘There may be no escape from the public executioner, but patients have been known to survive trepanation,’ I said. ‘Many don’t naturally, surgeons keep that quiet. What was Zosime’s suggestion to help her?’
‘Zosime works on gentle principles, what she calls “softly, safely, sweetly”. It goes back to ancient Greek theories, the Hippocratic tradition, and involves treatments based on a combination of diet, exercise and rest. Zosime was not really given a chance to try this out, though. She prescribed a sensible regime, but was discouraged from visiting again.’
I was startled. ‘The Quadrumati locked her out?’
‘Nothing so crude. But she took the hint and stopped attending.’ ‘Was Veleda happy with her?’
‘Zosime thought so. But it was obvious to her that Veleda was not a tree agent.’
‘Had Zosime been told that her patient was a prisoner?’
‘Not directly.’
‘You think she knew?’
‘I think she’s very shrewd,’ Helena said.
‘And could she have seen Veleda again, after Veleda escaped from the house?’
‘Possibly. I didn’t ask. How could I, without revealing things that are supposed to be kept secret?’ This time, Helena’s tone did contain a slight suggestion that the awkwardness of the mission was my fault.
‘All right, go back a bit: why did Zosime think she had become unwelcome at the senator’s house?’
‘I had the impression there might have been conflict with one of the other doctors you told me are employed by the family. She muttered something about Mastarna, and used the phrase “damn fool dogmatist”. I pressed her on that—’ Helena could be stubborn in interrogations. She saw me smiling and threw an olive at me. I opened my mouth and it went straight in, for which I gloatingly took the credit. ‘Well, your mouth’s big enough, Falco!… It seems to have been Mastarna who was encouraging Veleda towards trepanation. Zosime was circumspect in talking to me—perhaps because she is a woman, venturing into what male doctors believe is their special territory—but it’s clear she felt Mastarna had not bothered to carryout a prop
er diagnosis, but was dead set on radical surgery.’
I pondered this theory. ‘Do you think that after Zosime left, this crazy knife-man persuaded Veleda to have the trepanation after all, that he drilled out a circle of her skull and managed to kill her with the procedure—so somebody has hidden her body to avoid political embarrassment?’
‘Zosime did not suggest it.’
‘If she stopped visiting the house, she wouldn’t know. She may never have dealt with the kind of devious people we meet.’ I was now thinking back to my interviews that morning with Quadrumatus Labeo and his wife, trying to decide whether they could have been hiding such a cover-up.
‘Was Mastarna one of the doctors you met today?’ Helena asked.
‘No, I just saw the senator’s dream therapist—Pylaemenes, a crackpot Chaldean—then I had a surly encounter with Cleander, who came to tickle up the wife with his cold Greek fingers.’
‘You’re being lewd, Marcus.’
‘Who, me? Cleander once taught Greek theory to Zosime, but that doesn’t make him enlightened; he’s an arrogant swine who looks down on mere mortals. Presumably he’s in medicine for the money, not from charitable feelings. I can’t imagine he was connected to the Temple of AEsculapius for long. Now what else did the witchy freedwoman say—dark, forbidding Phryne—the senator has a tame Egyptian, who I suppose feeds him ground crocodile bones, and yes: then there’s Mastarna—Mastarna, she told me, used to look after the dead man. So Gratianus Scaeva was in the hands of the keen surgeon Zosime quarrelled with.’
Helena slowly munched a slightly stale bread roll. I said she liked a challenge. I had seen her test her teeth on hard crusts before, in the same way that my mother always made out it was her maternal lot to endure leftovers and inedible scraps. ‘So,’ Helena asked me eventually, when her jaw tired of this punishment, ‘what is the significance of Scaeva’s doctor in this household of hypochondriacs?’
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