‘Not started yet. I like to pace myself’ Even so, as there was a slight lull (comparatively), he was accepting a drink from Apollonius, whom I now saw, for the first time in all the years I had known him, holding a wine cup himself
We three stood talking cheerily, interrupted only when Junia tried to make us hand out trays of food. We pretended to help, but passed on the goodies to other people; fortunately the vigiles all have the bucket chain mentality. Petro grabbed a pie as a platter went by at eye height. ‘These are not bad!’
‘Maybe your sister made them,’ Apollonius suggested to me; as he tried one, gravy squelched down his tunic when he misjudged the filling’s consistency.
‘No chance.’ I knew Junia’s capabilities, which were a legend in my family. ‘She cooks a mean gristle turnover and her stodge polenta will fill holes in wall plaster… these are wayout of Junia’s class.’ Nostalgia washed over me. ‘Cassius’ bakery, I’d say. Fountain Court.’
Cassius had been my neighbour and regular loaf-supplier in earlier, dreamier, more impoverished days. Petronius raised his eyes to heaven, and leaned in to refill my beaker fast. He knew I was about to hark back sentimentally. I had reached the stage of automatic swallowing, at about the level where I could reminisce without weeping. This would be a little before I began to expound theories that the Roman Empire was no longer what it used to be, nor would it ever be again thanks to the ignorance of the bovine populace and the lassitude of the governing aristocracy…
‘The barbarians are at the gates!’ Petro’s apt exclamation startled me. He and I had been friends for a long time but even so he rarely read my mind to that extent. However, he was merely reacting to a lad who had come up to whisper that there was a bit of a problem on the door with some gatecrashers. The lad could have informed Rubella, but in view of the tribune’s lurid Mercury get-up, he had wisely decided his chances of promotion were best preserved by reporting the debacle to Petronius. Marcus Rubella took himself extremely seriously. If he donned fancy dress to be one of the lads, he expected the lads to keep this honour to themselves and not lure him into an unscripted public appearance looking like a tipsy transvestite. For their part, the vigiles despised the public, but still thought the public had done nothing quite bad enough to warrant seeing Rubella’s hairy legs.
Leaving Apollonius to it, Petro and I set off through the mayhem. By now everyone was boasting and belching in established groups, but they let us push past if we shoved at their hot bodies hard enough. It took some time to force a passage, so when we finally arrived at the doorway, we found that Fusculus had the situation in hand. He had got rid of most of the troublemakers by telling them about ‘a bloody big get-together over in Lobster Street’. The last couple, who were too drunk to take in what he had said, were being dragged away backwards by determined troopers. You may think only idiots would try to invade a vigiles celebration without tickets. You would be right. They were idiots—and I had met them before.
‘Falco!’ It took me a moment to identify where the bleary salutation came from, and then to remember the man responsible. His greeting filled me with foreboding. ‘We want to party with you.’ Oh dear. The cohort supper was hardly the exotic function Ermanus had invited me to the other day, but my eager friends from the German community had probably been drinking and fornicating for the past two nights. They were way beyond exercising judgement when they spotted a party. Had they not stumbled upon the vigiles’ venue first, they were out of it enough to crash a grannies’ sewing circle if the lamplight attracted them.
Ermanus and one of his large pals had gone limp in the arms of their vigiles captors, but only as a preliminary to bursting free so they could try again to rush the door. Fusculus and Petro were ready for that trick and just leaned on them, attempting to avoid physical damage. Suddenly they gave a concerted heave and threw the two gatecrashers back at the vigiles bouncers. Since one of those was Sergius, the squad’s torture and beatings specialist, I shook my head sadly, warning the two Germans to give in and go away while they still had unbroken legs to take them and possessed the will to live.
Ermanus refused to take the hint. He was struggling like a bullock that had smelt blood on the altar, mainly fired up by his eagerness to discuss life and love with me. He and his friend were deeply and desperately drunk. They were now teetering on the brink of unconsciousness; if they did pass out, they would probably never come round again. It was better if they stayed on their feet and kept going until kindly Nature let their brains recover a little. ‘Falco!—Friend!’
I wanted to escape. Petronius glanced at me and winced. He knew the score. If I did try to converse with these bonny boys it would be as difficult as wading knee deep through wet quicksand, and as pointless. They could barely remember anything for longer than three seconds. I was ready to wave goodbye, knowing that my exit was bound to result in vile curses that I was an unfriendly bastard. Then Ermanus, who could see my lack of community spirit, came up with bleary words that he knew were bound to hold my interest, ‘The old fellows are going to get her, you know!’
I stopped. ‘How’s that, Ermanus?’
‘The old fellows…’ He wandered off into some befogged world of his own. ‘Did I mention the old fellows. Falco?’
‘You did, my friend.’
‘They know. They know he’s keeping bait… bait for the one we never mention. Old fellows. Going to get her. Going to get her with the bait. Clever old fellows… Going to get the bait.’
‘Oy, oy!’ muttered Petro, aware that this sounded like trouble and guessing what it could be about.
‘How’s that, Ermanus?’ I asked, as firmly as I could.
My drunken soul mate beamed at me admiringly. ‘Falco!… Can’t tell you.’
‘Oh go on,’ I cooed at him, like a bad lover trying to persuade some winsome girl to take her clothes off. I dared not look at Petronius Longus or Fusculus. ‘Give me a thrill, Ermanus. What are the old ones planning?’
‘Go to his house. Grab her fancyman… She’s one of ours. We should have her…’ He passed out. Sergius and the other vigiles laid him carefully on the pavement in a neat position. Seeing this, his intoxicated German companion took the easy option and subsided with a peaceful little groan. He was lined up next to Ermanus. I bent down to check they were breathing. A gassy miasma of three-day-old wine fumes confirmed it. I reeled back, shielding my face.
Straightening, I sought Petro’s gaze. This was a disaster. The last thing I wanted was those elderly social misfits carrying off a raid to capture Quintus, so they could use him to entice Veleda to them. The mere attempt was bad news for Rome. Bad news for them too, if they got on the wrong side of Anacrites.
I cursed. ‘Petro, Nero’s retired German guards have been unsettled since Galba disbanded them. Now they’re planning a revival we can do without. If they ever get to control Veleda it will be a nightmare. If they bring this off, we’re stuffed. I have to stop them.’
‘You’d better get to the Spy’s house before the Germans do,’ said Petro, with rather too much interest. I wondered how much he had drunk this evening. More than I had thought, apparently. He looked ready to rob temples of their treasure, if some bright maniac suggested a romp. He was up for anything.
All the same, I had no intention of stopping him, if he was prepared to help. We thought about the situation. That is, we both thought but only for the time it took to close our eyes and groan.
‘You could just warn Anacrites.’
‘And party on? How civic.’ I knew ‘civic’ would be an insult to Lucius Petronius.
‘Rats. Are you on, Falco?’ You might imagine I had to beg him for help, but Petronius, that madcap adventurer, had already decided to involve himself and was checking with me.
I buried my surprise. ‘Pity to miss the lads’ night out.’
‘Oh don’t worry.’ Petro appeared to do calculations. ‘The night is young. We should have time to manage it: gather some back-up, break into the Spy’s house, grab C
amillus, hide him somewhere private—and still get back to the party before the wine runs out.’
XXXIV
Anacrites’ house lay in darkness, apparently. A small group of us assembled silently in the street below the Palatine and surveyed the area. For once the Forum, behind us, seemed deserted. No lights showed at the house; the gates were barred. It looked the same as when I came here before in the dead of night, though that was no guarantee that the Spy was away from home. It was not essential that he should be out tonight, but it would be safer for us if he was.
As we walked here, I had suggested we devise a plan. No need: Petronius Longus already had one. My mend was a man of surprises. I could not even remember telling him that Anacrites was holding
Juscinus, and why, but Petro seemed to know all about it. When I had discussed this situation with the senator and with Helena, I had decided it was easiest to leave Justinus here, reading endless Greek plays. But since the German guards were trying to lift the prisoner, Petronius saw there was a need for radical action. His plan was: pretend the vigiles had smelt smoke at the house, cry ‘Fire!’, then use their legal authority to march in, conduct a search for human life, find Justinus, and haul him out.
‘Rescue him like a house fire victim. Simple, eh?’
‘You mean, thought up by a simpleton? It will never work.’ ‘Watch us,’ said Petro, giving the nod to Fusculus and whistling a signal to some of his lads.
The first stage went as I expected. A couple of vigiles were given a leg-up; they climbed over the high wall, taking a covered lantern they had conveniently brought with them. Deep-throated guard dogs started barking almost at once, then abruptly fell silent. The lads returned unscathed and said they had set fire to some piles of leaves. I was puzzled by what happened next: Petronius let out a loud whistle, of the kind the watch use to signal for reinforcements when they detect a fire during their night rounds. Instead of rushing straight to the front door, we just settled unobtrusively into the shadows and kept quiet. ‘Aren’t we going in?’
‘Shut up, Falco!’
After a while, when nothing happened, Petro muttered derisively then whistled again, louder. This time we heard swiftly marching feet. A regular bunch of vigiles came around a corner, heading for our location. Petronius stepped out into the light of their flares. ‘Oh officers, I am so glad to see you. I was just on my way to a party with a group of friends when we smelt smoke. It seems to be coming from that house over there…’
‘Have you roused the household, sir?’
‘Can’t get any answer. They probably think we are drunks causing trouble and don’t realise we are public-spirited citizens.’
‘Well, thank you. You can leave it to us now. Don’t worry, sir; we’ll soon have it sorted-‘
Petronius grinned to me. ‘Sixth Cohort. We’re in their jurisdiction. There are rules, you know, Falco.’ In fact I knew he was not fond of the Sixth and would cheerfully implicate them in what was to follow, rather than his own cohort—just in case things went wrong. The men he had spoken to knew exactly who he was. Somehow he had persuaded the gullible Sixth to do him a favour.
Loud bangs on the door produced household slaves, whose protests that there was nothing wrong were brushed aside in the usual kindly vigiles manner—that is, the slaves were knocked to the ground, kicked into submission, and pinned down on suspicion of being arsonists. The Sixth then rushed inside to search the building, as fire-fighters were entitled to do whenever the alarm was sounded. The household slaves were now going nuts, perhaps because they realised this would entail the customary ‘check on valuables’; they may have feared that afterwards there would not be quite so many valuables in their master’s possession as he had owned when the fire started. The slaves knew Anacrites would blame them for any losses and they knew how spiteful he could be.
By now there really was a fire. Apparently when Petro’s men kindled a damp pile of leaves for a false alarm, it led to shutters blazing and showers of sparks in roof spaces, all in a matter of minutes. Perhaps they had been overenthusiastic, Petronius commented gravely. At any rate, Anacrites’ house was now filled with thick smoke. Heavily equipped members of the Sixth Cohort were running around with the buckets, ropes and grapplers they always carried. With commendable speed, their siphon engine turned up in the street; any owner of property would be overjoyed to receive such a fast response to his emergency—a privilege few actually receive. But we were in the Palatine and Circus Maximus sector, where many buildings are state owned and even private houses tend to belong to men who know the Emperor personally. A cart laden with esparto mats also appeared—so laden it could hardly teeter along.
‘It’s almost as if the Sixth were expecting this fire!’ I muttered. Petronius shot me a reproving look.
Then—was there a signal?—he grabbed my arm and ran towards the house. I followed as he dashed into the building. The smoke was real, choking us as we plunged down corridors. Ahead of us the vigiles had thrown open doors to check rooms for occupants. Coughing slaves were still being hustled out past us by members of the Sixth, who were shouting at them loudly and pushing them around; it was a tactic to subdue and confuse them. We ran on. Nobody interfered with us.
We passed through formal areas with subdued black and gold paint, a tiny courtyard with a bubbling fountain, then suddenly we were among decadent rooms in the interior, with frescos depicting intertwined couples and threesomes that would not be out of place in a brothel. We reached a narrow passageway where a vigilis was battering at a locked door while being harassed by two large baying dogs; the man kicked at them in annoyance, then hurled a hatchet at the door panels hard enough to split the wood and gain a purchase. Petronius picked up a small marble-topped table and bashed a bigger hole with that. Splintered panels soon gave way to shouldering.
The room contained a collection of the kind of art men keep in private salons with the door locked ‘so as not to excite the slaves’. Thereby making secret pornography sessions more exciting for themselves.
There was less smoke in this part of the house. When we turned away in disgust from the art collection, we were able to see the young man who opened a door further down the corridor and looked out to investigate the commotion. It was Camillus Justinus.
At once, according to the vigiles’ rules of duty, he was taken hold of roughly, knocked semi-conscious when he protested, then passed from hand to hand in a businesslike fashion as far as the exterior of the building where—in circumstances that were later vague—he vanished.
Among many rumours that circulated later about the fire at the Chief Spy’s house, I did hear that when the Sixth Cohort came to pack up their esparto mats for return to their patrol house, they discovered someone had filched the mat-cart. And it was said, no doubt mischievously, that towards the end of the incident, Anacrites turned up and was outraged to receive a report on the damage to his house from a man dressed as a five-foot carrot. The Sixth Cohort indignantly denied all knowledge of this vegetable.
Anacrites became so angry he ordered the carrot’s arrest, but it made a quick getaway when everyone was busy confronting the arrival of a suspicious group of elderly men, thought to be of German nationality, who tried to break into the Spy’s house at the back, even though the Spy was standing right there at the front. The tribune of the Sixth (an officer who had been drawn to the scene by an urgent report that a VIP was apoplectic) soothed things down, and passed off the Germans’ assault as a stupid escapade carried out by overenthusiastic seasonal revellers. He ordered the be-whiskered Rhineland relics to be put in the lock-up until they sobered up. Unfortunately, when Anacrites went along next morning intending to interrogate them, someone had misunderstood the tribune’s orders and released them without charge into the care of younger relatives who just happened to turn up offering to keep the old fellows out of further trouble. Sad really, everyone agreed. Ancient citizens with previously unspotted reputations for imperial service, letting themselves down by having one flagon to
o many… When Anacrites tried to find them, it was said they had all gone home to Germany for a late winter holiday.
And where was his prisoner? No idea who you are talking about, insisted the Sixth Cohort. We handed back all the slaves we found and made sure we got a receipt.
Safe. Safe and hidden.
XXXV
Anacrites’ pathetic brain must be churning like a waterwheel after a thunderstorm. His first jump on the night of the fire was obvious: it did not take him long to work out that any scam involving the vigiles must relate to me and my friend Petronius. Faster than we expected, he tracked down the Fourth Cohort’s party, which by then was riotous. Marcus Rubella had somehow remained sober enough to curb his antagonistic instincts when Anacrites turned up, supported by some Praetorian Guards. After all, Rubella’s known ambition was to join the Guards himself Though by now unable to speak, Rubella gravely waved them in to search the place as best they could. This would not be easy. Many of the Fourth Cohort were lying on the ground for a rest; some were upright but flopping over in all directions like weeds in the sun, others were standing rigid in their boots and offering to fight their own shadows. The Praetorians were impressed by these wild scenes; they soon forgot their orders and joined in the conviviality. I tipped Junia the wink to give them whatever they wanted.
‘Anything but my body!’ she giggled. I shivered at this fantastical thought.
Anacrites marched around on his own, staring at faces. Among the intoxicated this is not best practice. Several vigiles offered to floor him, furious at his attitude. Everyone he asked swore that Petronius and I had been there all night. He soon stopped asking; he was not stupid.
The atmosphere had deteriorated, to the bemusement of my brother-in-law Gaius Baebius, who never had any sense and who had turned up with his three-year-old son, aiming to wait around eating free pies until Junia needed an escort home. She had other ideas, insofar as her thinking processes still worked. Although Junia always claimed she never drank, she had reached a happy point where she saw no reason ever to leave the party (a situation Gaius may have foreseen, if he knew her better than I thought). I wanted her to leave. She was showing signs of becoming more belligerent than any of the woozy men around her, and it took the form of shouting out remarks about Anacrites and our mother which the Spy would consider slanderous. Ma would not be too pleased either. She was the important one. I wondered if killing your forty-year-old daughter would still count as infanticide.
Saturnalia Page 19
