This time the distraction worked. With a glow of satisfaction Petronius threw back his great head and stretched his long legs under the table. Beaming proudly, he settled down to bring me up to date.
* * *
‘You realise,’ Petro began, with mock-heroic grandeur, ‘we’re talking about the most vicious, seditious operator in organised crime who ever fixed his claws on the Aventine?’
‘And now you’ve caught him!’ I grinned admiringly.
He ignored the jesting undertone. ‘Believe it, Falco!’
I was enjoying myself. Petronius Longus was a stolid, patient worker. I could not remember that I had ever heard him boasting; it was good to see him thrilled by his own success for once.
Inches taller than me to start with, he even seemed to have grown. His quiet manner tended to disguise how powerfully built he was. Slow of step and wry of speech, he could lean on wrongdoers before they even saw him coming, but once Petro applied weight, resistance caved in fast. He ran the watch enquiry team without seeming to exert himself, although as his best friend I happened to know that in private he worried deeply about standards. He achieved the highest. His was a lean, competent squad which gave the public what they paid for and kept the villains on the hop.
He had a calm grip on his domestic life as well. A good Roman: honorific father of three children. He had a small, scathing wife who knew how to make her presence felt, and a much-loved trio of lively little girls. At home he fielded Arria Silvia’s sparky temper pretty easily. The children adored him. Even the wife modulated her complaints, knowing she had one piece of fortune that was missing from most marriages: Petro was there because he wanted to be. Both as a family man and as a public officer, he looked easy-going but was utterly reliable.
‘Balbinus Pius…’ he said softly, savouring his triumph.
‘Ludicrous name,’ I commented. ‘Balbinus the Dutiful! As far as I know his only duty is serving himself. Isn’t he the mouldy cheese who owns that filthy brothel they call Plato’s Academy? And the thieves’ kitchens down on the waterside at the back of the Temple of Portunus?’
‘Don’t speak to me about Plato’s. I get a pain in the bladder just thinking about the place. Jupiter knows whose name is scratched on the crumbling title deeds, but you’re right, it was Balbinus who had it sewn up. He took a percentage of every transaction in bed, plus whatever the house made on robbing purses or selling “abandoned” boots and belts. Then, as well as his entertainment interests, he had a nice goldsmith’s workshop where stolen goblets could be melted down in minutes; several sweatshops that specialised in putting new braid on tunics that “fell off” washing lines; numerous tat stalls in the markets, constantly shifting just when I placed a man in the portico watching them; and a couple of counterfeiting factories. If it stank, he owned it,’ confirmed Petro. ‘Past tense, though, Falco. One of the bleak facts he has to face today is that a capital conviction means losing all his property.’
‘I’m sobbing into my napkin.’
‘Don’t upset yourself too much – I’m still not certain we’ll net his whole empire. Some of it must be in hidden hoards.’
‘I bet! Was he expecting to be put away?’
‘He wasn’t even expecting to be put on trial! This has taken me months of planning, Falco. There was only ever going to be one crack at him, or he’d be screaming “persecution of a citizen!” and I’d be out of a job. But he didn’t believe I’d ever find anybody prepared to prosecute.’
‘So, Lucius Petronius, how did you arrange it?’
‘Marcus Didius, there was only one way possible. I found somebody even greedier, and even more of a bastard, than him!’
III
Smiling, Petro passed one big hand over his brown hair. He seemed to have been having it styled more snappily. (Well, it was shorter; that was his barber’s creative limit.) His other great paw lay lightly at his waist, where the staff of his office was stuck behind a wide, creased leather belt that I remembered him buying from a shifty Celt in Londinium. Otherwise, apart from the flash haircut, he did not trouble to priss himself up like a man of fashion. On duty it was better to be protected by a leather jerkin that might deflect a knife blade and a thick wool cloak which would shrug off the mud if he hurled himself to the pavement when tackling a runaway. His boots had come up hard on quite a few doorframes too by the looks of them.
‘So who was the high-principled, public-minded citizen who squealed about Balbinus?’ I asked.
‘A donkey’s turd called Nonnius.’
‘Not Nonnius Albius? I thought he was a racketeer himself?’
‘He had been. He actually worked with Balbinus, was his chief rent collector. That was what appealed to me.’
‘Of course! You needed an insider.’
‘No one else could have done it. Nonnius was ideal.’
‘But he was a Balbinus boy. How did you sew him up?’
‘A sad story.’ Petro grinned. ‘He’s dying. His doctor had just put the frighteners on. Poor old Nonnius is suffering from terminal rot.’
‘Something nasty that people don’t talk about?’
‘Same as his profession!’ Petro snarled. Then he told me the story: ‘Back in the spring, I just happened to learn that Nonnius had been given notice to quit by his pet medicine man –’
‘Happened?’ This seemed a nice coincidence.
Petro was in full flow and not to be sidetracked by my scepticism. ‘Nonnius gets informed by some pet Aesculapius that he’s finished, but the doctor says he’ll last longer if he takes care of himself – no worries, lots of pampering –’
‘Expensive!’ I was beginning to see Petro’s reasoning.
‘A life of luxury prescribed! So I get to him when he’s just reeling from the bad news, I lend a sympathetic ear, then I put it to him he’s spent his life running around for Balbinus while that rat lay on a reading couch counting his winnings – and for what? Now seems the time for a spot of levelling … Since Nonnius has to give up the low life, he soon settles on snatching at the high life to compensate. This appeals to the bastard: taking a litter through the Forum, giving orders to slaves through the window and greeting fawning admirers who are hoping for free gifts. Even more than that, suddenly he loves the idea of robbing Balbinus.’
I laughed shortly. ‘The loyalty of thieves! So he was prepared to testify?’
‘In return for the traditional reward.’
‘You did a deal?’
‘All legal. He appeared before Marponius and twittered like a happy song finch. In return, as a successful prosecutor he can seize a proportion of Balbinus’ traceable assets. The only disincentive is that he has to help us trace them. But it’s well worth his while to hire accountants. Having been on the money-collecting side himself he knows the occasional fellow with a dodgy abacus, imaginative enough to guess where the loot may be hidden.’
‘I love it!’ I was laughing. We both grabbed more wine, which now tasted almost palatable. ‘But Petro, you must have needed to take great care framing the actual charge against Balbinus. What did you throw at him?’
‘Murder. The only count that would have worked.’
‘Of course. It had to be a capital offence.’
‘Right. Anything less and he would only end up with a fine – and however large, a fine wouldn’t choke him. He could shed thousands and hardly feel a tickle.’
I didn’t say it, but putting Balbinus in court on any charge that left him free in Rome afterwards would have placed Petro himself in a very dangerous position. There was no point dwelling on this feature. He knew all right.
‘So who had been topped – and how did you nail Balbinus for the murder?’ I didn’t suppose he had actually stuck a dagger in someone personally. ‘Getting blood spots on his own tunic was never his style.’
‘Happy accident,’ said Petro. ‘It happened at Plato’s Academy.’ The brothel we had already mentioned. ‘They specialise in fleecing foreign visitors. Some poor Lycian had been set u
p to lose his travelling pouch in the floor-creeping gag. While the girl was giving him the push-and-shove that he’d paid for, he made the mistake of noticing a rustle in the straw. Up he jumps, and discovers the whore’s accomplice just reaching for his money. Instead of making a discreet complaint to the madam, then leaving the brothel with an apology and a wiser attitude, this fool puts up his fists and makes a fight of it. The snatcher was so surprised at the Lycian’s unsporting behaviour that he knifed him on the spot.’
I whistled. ‘Someone should hand out warnings to innocent travellers! But how did you prove it? Surely the brothel’s mother hen was used to denying all knowledge of trouble?’
‘Oh yes. Lalage’s well up to it. I’d never have pinned her down, and I’m not sure I’d even have fancied tackling her … Thank Jupiter Plato’s is on the Sixth Cohort’s beat, and I don’t normally have the problem.’ I saw his point. The whores who crowded around the Circus Maximus were as fierce as lynxes, and Lalage, the madam at Plato’s, had a phenomenal reputation. ‘There was a witness,’ Petro told me grimly. ‘And for the first time in history it was a witness who managed not to yell at the scene of the crime. So instead of the usual turnup where the witness gets stabbed too, he hid up in the rafters until he had a chance to run away.’
‘Unbelievable.’
‘Better yet, one of my men then found him wandering in shock up on the Hill. He blurted out his tale, and we went straight to Plato’s. The Sixth were nowhere in sight – that’s normal – so we handled it ourselves. We were able to jump from an alley just as two bouncers were dragging the corpse out through the back door. That pegged the crime to the brothel. So for a start, when we went into court half the Thirteenth-sector Watch had seen Plato’s management towing the Lycian to a gutter by the boot-thongs, with Lalage herself holding a lamp. Next we had our witness to narrate the stabbing luridly. He was a second Lycian who had been smuggled in by the first one. The pair were hoping to slip the girl a copper and get a double spike half-price.’
I slapped the table. ‘Disgraceful! How can you police the city when even the victims are crooks?’
‘Falco, I’ll live with it! I locked our witness in protective custody, lost the address until he was needed, then produced him at the Basilica in his best tunic to tell how he had trembled in his hiding place and seen all. He identified the prostitute, the madam, and the creeping snatch.’
‘Do I know the snatch?’
‘A weasel called Castus.’
It meant nothing. I didn’t ask if I knew the prostitute, and Petro didn’t bother to embarrass anyone by naming her. ‘So what about your star witness? What about Nonnius?’
‘We were well set up by the time our barrister called him. All Nonnius Albius had to do was to confess his own role as a Balbinus collector, and state that he knew the killer Castus was on the Balbinus payroll. He played his part very prettily – he even produced tallies to show the percentage Balbinus regularly took from stolen purses at the brothel.’
‘Good value!’
‘A prime witness. Our Lycian had come up with some joyful clinchers, like Castus exclaiming as he stabbed the dead man, “Teach him to argue with Balbinus!” Nonnius then told the jury that all the Balbinus henchmen are routinely ordered to slash if trouble threatens. He had frequently heard Balbinus give those instructions. So we had him for organised crime, profiteering, and conspiracy, resulting in actual death.’
‘The jury bought it?’
‘Marponius had explained to them that he needed their co-operation if he was to be seen as the judge who cleaned up Rome…’
Marponius was the main judge in the murder court. He was keen on his work, and personally ambitious, though not necessarily as blatant as Petronius made out. For one thing, Marponius was not a clever man.
‘There were some juicy details,’ Petro said. ‘I was threatening Lalage with a range of offences against the prostitutes’ registration rules, so even she went into court to give evidence on our side.’
‘Couldn’t Balbinus buy her off?’
‘I reckon she’s keen to see him take a trip,’ opined Petronius. ‘Lalage would be quite capable of running Plato’s on her own. Maybe things were different once, but nowadays she really doesn’t need a king of crime creaming off the top of her income.’ He leant back and went on with his usual modesty: ‘Oh I had some luck in the timing. Balbinus believed himself untouchable, but there was a new mood in the underworld. People were ready to revolt. I noticed the change before he did, that’s all.’
The point was, Petronius Longus had noticed. Many an enquiry captain would have had his nose so close to the pavings he wouldn’t have spotted the flies on the balcony.
‘Take your credit for sniffing the air,’ I commanded. ‘And then for fixing it!’
He smiled quietly.
* * *
‘So your jury convicted, and Marponius did his own career some good by handing out a death penalty – I presume the Assembly ratified the sentence. Did Balbinus appeal any further?’
‘Straight to Vespasian – and it came straight back: negative.’
‘That’s something!’ I commented. We were both cynics about the Establishment. ‘Who signed the chitty?’
‘Titus.’
‘Vespasian must have approved.’
‘Oh yes.’ Only the Emperor has the final power of removing life from a Roman citizen, even if the citizen’s life smells like a pile of cat’s turds. ‘I was quite impressed by the quick response,’ Petro admitted. ‘I don’t really know whether Balbinus offered money to officials, but if he tried it he was wasting his time. Things at the Palace seem to be scented like Paestum violets nowadays.’ One good result of the new Flavian Caesars. Graft had gone over the balcony with Nero, apparently. Petro seemed confident anyway. ‘Well it was the result I wanted, so that’s that.’
‘Here we are!’ I congratulated him. ‘Ostia at dawn!’
‘Ostia,’ he agreed, perhaps more cautiously. ‘Marponius gets a free meal at the Palace; I get a scroll with a friendly message from Titus Caesar; the underworld gets a warning –’
‘And Balbinus?’
‘Balbinus,’ growled Petronius Longus bitterly, ‘gets time to depart.’
IV
I suppose it is a comfort to us all – we who carry the privilege of being full citizens of the Empire – to know that except in times of extreme political chaos when civilisation is dispensed with, we can do what we like yet remain untouchable.
It is, of course, a crime for any of us to profiteer while on foreign service; commit parricide; rape a vestal virgin; conspire to assassinate the Emperor; fornicate with another man’s slave; or let amphorae drop off our balconies so as to dent fellow citizens’ heads. For such evil deeds we can be prosecuted by any righteous free man who is prepared to pay a barrister. We can be invited before a praetor for an embarrassing discussion. If the praetor hates our face, or merely disbelieves our story, we can be sent to trial, and if the jury hates us too we can be convicted. For the worst crimes we can be sentenced to a short social meeting with the public strangler. But, freedom being an inalienable and perpetual state, we cannot be made to endure imprisonment. So while the public strangler is looking up a blank date in his calender, we can wave him goodbye.
In the days of Sulla so many criminals were skipping punishment, and it was obviously so cheap to operate, that finally the law enshrined this neat dictum: no Roman citizen who was sentenced to the death penalty might be arrested, even after the verdict, until he had been given time to depart. It was my right; it was Petro’s right; and it was the right of the murderous Balbinus Pius to pack a few bags, assume a smug grin, and flee.
The point is supposed to be that living outside the Empire is, for a citizen, a penalty as savage as death. Balbinus must be quaking. Whoever thought that one up was not a travelling man. I had been outside the Empire, so my verdict was not quite that of a jurist. Outside the Empire can be perfectly liveable. Like anywhere, all you need to survi
ve comfortably is slightly more cash than the natives. The sort of criminals who can afford the fare in the first place need have no qualms.
So here we were. Petronius Longus had convicted this mobster of heinous crimes and placed him under sentence of death – but he was not allowed to apply a manacle. Today had been set for the execution. So this morning, while the greybeards from the Senate were tutting away over the decay of public order, Balbinus Pius would stroll out of Rome like a lord and set off for some hideaway. Presumably he had already filled it with golden chalices, with rich Falernian to slosh into them, and with fancy women to smile at him as they poured the happy grape. Petro could do nothing – except make damn sure the bastard went.
Petronius Longus was doing that with the thoroughness his friends in Rome would expect.
* * *
Linus, the one dressed as a sailor, had been listening in more closely than the other members of the squad. As his chief started listing for me the measures he was taking, Linus slewed around on his bench and joined us. Linus was to be a key man in enforcing the big rissole’s exile.
‘Balbinus lives in the Circus Maximus district, unluckily –’ Petro began.
‘Disaster! The Sixth Cohort run that. Have we hit some boundary nonsense? Does that mean it’s out of your watch and you can’t cover his house?’
‘Discourteous to the local troopers…’ Petro grinned slightly. I gathered he was not deterred by a bit of discourtesy to the slouchers in the Sixth. ‘Obviously it’s had to be a joint operation. The Sixth are escorting him here –’
I grinned back. ‘Assisted by observers from your own cohort?’
‘Accompanied,’ said Petro pedantically. I looked forward to seeing what form this might take.
‘Of course you trust them to do the job decently?’
‘Does he heck!’ scoffed Linus, only half under his breath.
Linus was a young-looking thirty, dressed for his coming role in more layers of tunics than most sailors wear, crumpled boots, a floppy hat his mother had knitted, and a seaman’s knife. Below the short sleeves of the tunics his bare arms had a chubby appearance, though none of Petro’s men were overweight. Level eyes and a chin square as a spade. I had never met him before, but could see he was lively and keen. A typical Petro recruit.
Time to Depart Page 2
