I stood up, sighing openly. A mistake, because it allowed Anacrites to bound right up, grasping my hands in his. I wanted to snatch back my paws, apply them round his beautifully barbered neck and strangle him; but we were standing on an attractive rag rug, and I was reluctant to defile it with his corpse.
'Ah, Marcus, I am so sorry for your loss!' He let go of me and turned to Helena who had stayed on the couch out of his reach. 'How is this poor fellow doing?' His voice was doleful with sympathy.
Helena sighed glumly. 'He is managing. The money helps.'
Anacrites took a second to catch on. 'You two! You joke about absolutely everything.'
'Graveyard humour,' I assured him, resuming my place beside Helena. 'A grimace in the teeth of Fate, to hide our desolation. Though as my smart wife says – - Geminus left me a stupefying legacy.' I bet Anacrites had made sure he knew that before he came. 'Apart from the inconvenience of probate, rummaging through his coffers does assuage the grief.'
Anacrites took a seat opposite, though we had not invited him to do so. He leaned forwards, elbows on his knees. He was still addressing me with the unbearable earnestness people ladle like sweet sauce over the bereaved. 'I am afraid I never really knew your father.'
'He kept out of the way of people like you.' This was not always true. Once, Pa had thought Anacrites was sniffing too closely around my mother like a gigolo – - an idea so unbelievable we had all believed it at the time. My outraged father, taking it personally, rushed to the Palace and took a swipe at the spy. I was there and witnessed the crazy fist-swinging. Anacrites seemed to have forgotten. Perhaps the bad head wound a few years ago excused selective memory loss. It did not, however, excuse anything else he did.
'And how is your dear mother?' He had been Ma's lodger for a time. Though she was so shrewd in many things, she thought he was wonderful. He in turn spoke of her with veneration. He knew it made me sick.
'Junilla Tacita bears her loss with fortitude,' Helena interposed gravely. Anacrites looked at her, grateful to encounter a normal platitude. 'She only gloats in the afternoon; she says in the mornings she's too busy around the house to taunt his ghost.'
I smiled gently at the spy's discomfiture.
He wore an umber-coloured tunic, his idea of sophisticated camouflage. His skin looked strangely plump and smooth; he must have come from the baths. With that oiled hair and a straight bearing, he could be called personable; well, by a woman of the night, with time on her hands and bills to pay. I doubted that any decent woman ever looked at him, not that I had seen him seeking female company since Maia dumped him. I was convinced he had no friends.
He was a strange mixture of competence and ineptitude. Undoubtedly intelligent, he was an able public speaker; I had heard him spout excuses like any clerk covering up his failures. There was no need for him to endure a tiny office and low-grade agents; his was a high public position, attached to the Praetorians; he could have conjured up a decent budget if he had applied himself.
His next foray was to say to Helena, 'I hear your brother is back from Athens – and married! Wasn't that unexpected?'
This was typical. Laeta had said Anacrites only returned to Rome three days ago, yet he had already discovered private facts about my family and me. He pressed too close. If I complained it would sound paranoid, yet I knew Helena saw why I loathed him.
'Who told you that?' She sat up abruptly.
'Oh it's my job to know everything,' Anacrites boasted, giving her a significant smile.
'Surely you should only watch the Emperor's enemies?' Helena retaliated.
'Helena Justina, you were pregnant!' Anacrites exclaimed, wide-eyed, as if it had only just struck him. 'Has the happy event occurred?'
'Our baby died.' I bet the bastard knew that too.
'Oh my dears! Again, I am so sorry… Was it a boy?'
Helena bridled visibly. 'What does that matter? Any healthy child would have pleased us; any lost child is our tragedy.'
'Such a waste – -'
'Don't upset yourself over our private troubles,' Helena said coldly. He had pushed her too far. 'I suppose,' she jibed, 'a man in your position does not know what it is to have family? You must always have looked intelligent. When some unknown slave girl bore you, were you taken up as soon as that was spotted, to be regimented in a soulless stylus-school?'
Anacrites relied on pretending we were all best friends; otherwise, I fancied there might have been real venom in his expression. 'As you say, they could spot potential. I was indeed favoured with government training from a young age,' he replied in a quiet voice. Helena refused to show shame. 'I knew my alphabet at three, Helena – both in Latin and Greek.'
Though she did not remark on it, Helena had already taught our Julia both alphabets, plus how to write her name in rulered lines. Perhaps she relaxed slightly, however. For one thing, Helena always enjoyed sparring. 'And what else did they teach you?'
'Self-reliance and perseverance.'
'Is that enough for the work you do now?'
'It goes a long way.'
'Do you have a conscience, Anacrites?'
'Does Falco?' he countered.
'Oh yes,' replied Helena Justina sternly. 'He leaves home with it daily, along with his boots and his notebook. That is why,' she said, fixing him with a steady gaze, 'Marcus was so interested in working on the Julius Modestus case.'
'Modestus?' Anacrites' bafflement seemed genuine.
'Compulsory letter-writer,' I put in. 'Dealer from Antium. Found stone dead in a tomb – - hands cut off and hideous rites committed – - after a squabble with some marsh-waders known as the Claudii.'
I thought Anacrites twitched. 'Oh you were involved with that?' It was disingenuous; he knew it, and looked shifty. 'I pulled back the case from Laeta. He should never have been involved. In fact, I'm glad I've seen you tonight, Falco. I need a handover review. Shall we say mid-morning tomorrow at my office? Bring your vigiles friend.'
So not only was he pinching our case from Petro and me, the unmitigated bastard wanted to pick our brains to help him solve it.
'Petronius Longus works the night shift,' I said curtly. 'He needs his mornings for sleep. You can have us at the start of the evening, Anacrites, or go begging.'
That would give us two time to liaise first.
'As you wish,' responded the spy; he managed to make out I was surly and unreasonable, while he was all sweetness and toleration.
I was burning with frustration, but just then the door of the room crashed open and in flew Albia. 'I heard there was a visitor. Oh!' She must have been hoping for Aelianus.
'This is Tiberius Claudius Anacrites, the Emperor's chief of intelligence,' Helena told her, using over-formality to rile him. 'You met him at Saturnalia.'
'Oh yes.' A friend of her parents: Albia lost interest.
'Why Falco,' the spy then exclaimed. 'Your foster-daughter is growing into a fine young lady!' This was the kind of indefinable threat he had taken to throwing at me. If I ever caught him so much as saying good morning to Albia unsupervised, I would truss him with poultry string and pay to have him cooked in a baker's oven. By the slow-roast method.
'Flavia Albia has led a sheltered life and is extremely shy.' Helena always supported the girl, though sometimes gently teased her. 'But she will be a delicate ornament to womanhood any day now.'
'Well,' Anacrites answered silkily, 'you must bring Flavia Albia with you – - oh how silly; I didn't mention this – - we have so much catching up to do! I absolutely insist you come to my house for dinner. The formal invitation will be here the minute I can make arrangements.'
I did not bother to decline. But King Mithridates of Pontus had the right idea: the only way I would eat at the spy's house was if I had first spent three months taking antidotes against all known poisons.
'I thought I might lash out on a Trojan hog,' Anacrites confided in Albia, as if they had been close friends for years. He was a man with poor social skills trying to sound big in
front of a young girl he thought would be easily impressed; she of course stared at him as if he was crazy. Then she flounced off, slamming the door behind her so hard the pantiles on our roof must be in danger.
As soon as Anacrites had gone, Albia reappeared. 'What is a Trojan hog?'
Helena was dousing lamps as we made our way to bed. 'Exhibit cookery. Only a show-off would serve it. On the principle of the Trojan horse, it carries a secret cargo. A whole pig is cooked then slashed open suddenly at table, so the contents spew out everywhere; the guests think they are being bombarded with raw entrails. The innards are usually sausages.'
Albia considered. 'Sounds brilliant. We had better go to that!'
I groaned.
XXV
Petronius and I walked into the Palace next evening side by side. We were silent, our tread measured, both outwardly impassive. Anacrites had played this trick on us before. It didn't work then – trust him to repeat the same manoeuvre.
As we neared his office, one of the pair I called the Melitan Brothers came out. When the man drew level, we made space for him to pass us. Afterwards we both stopped, pivoted on our boot heels and stared after him. He managed to keep looking ahead all the way to the end of the corridor, but could not help glancing back from the corner. Petro and I just stood there, watching him. He nipped away out of sight, ducking his head anxiously.
We strode into Anacrites' room without knocking. As Petronius opened the door, he said loudly, 'Standards are slacker than ever. He looks too foreign to be scuttling about like a rat, so near the Emperor – - if I had a Palatine remit, I'd make him prove citizenship – or he'd find himself in a neck-collar.'
'Who's your runt?' I demanded of Anacrites. He had been lounging in his usual pose, with his boots – - a rather fine pair of russet calfskins – - on his desk. He swung rapidly upright, knocking over an inkwell, while his clerk sniggered.
'One of my men -' Petronius guffawed at that, while I winced, miming pity. Anacrites mopped ink, thoroughly flustered. 'Thank you, Phileros!' That was a hint for the clerk, a puffy, overweight Delian slave, to make himself scarce so the spy could talk to us confidentially.
I pretended to think it was an order to fetch refreshments. 'Mine's an almond tart, Petronius likes raisin cakes. No cinnamon.'
Petro smacked his chops. 'I'm ready for that! I'll just have mulsum with it, not warmed too much, double honey. Falco takes wine and water, served in two beakers if they run to it.'
'Hold the spice.' I steered Phileros on his way as if the rest of us needed to get on. The clerk left, and Petronius made a point of closing the door.
It was a small room, and now there were three of us filling it. Petro and I took over. He was a large character, with substantial thighs and shoulders; Anacrites began to feel cramped. If he looked directly at one of us, the other went out of eyeshot, probably making rude hand gestures. I seized the clerk's stool, shoving all his work aside, none too gently.
Then we sat still, with our hands clasped, like ten-year-old girls waiting for a story. 'You first!' ordered Petronius.
Anacrites was beaten. He abandoned any attempt to follow his own agenda. We were all supposed to be colleagues; he could not force us to play straight with him.
'I have read the scrolls -' he started. Petro and I glanced at each other, grimacing as if only a maniac ever read the case papers, let alone relied on them. 'Now I need you to sum up your findings.'
'Findings!' said Petronius to me. 'That's a sophisticated new concept.'
Anacrites was almost pleading with us to settle down.
Abruptly, we became fully professional. We had agreed in advance we would give him no excuse to say we had been uncooperative. I briskly set out that I had encountered Modestus' disappearance through his business deal with my father. I did not mention his nephew, Silanus. Why should I? He was neither a victim nor a suspect.
Petro described the discovery of the corpse and its identification from the letter Modestus was carrying. He spoke in a crisp voice, using vigiles vocabulary. He gave an account of our visit to the Claudii; how we had interviewed Probus; searched the area; found nothing.
'What were you planning next?' asked Anacrites.
'Since the next move is all yours, what do you think?' snapped Petro tetchily.
Anacrites ignored the question. 'Do you have any other leads?'
Petronius shrugged. 'No. We have to sit back and wait until another corpse turns up.'
Anacrites applied a sombre expression, which we dutifully mirrored.
'Look, you can leave this all to me now. I can handle it.' Time would show if that was right. He closed the meeting. 'I hope you two stalwarts don't feel I took your case away.' We refused to look sore.
'Oh, I have plenty to do chasing tunic-thieves at the baths,' sneered Petronius.
'Well, this isn't quite on that level…'
'Isn't it?'
Anacrites then brought in the ploy he'd tried on me last night: he mentioned his plans for a dinner party, inviting Petronius too. 'I had such a wonderful time when Falco and Helena entertained me at Saturnalia -' Saturnalia may be a time for patching up feuds, but believe me, I was pushed into that hideous arrangement. 'Such a glorious family atmosphere… Have you eaten with them at their house, Lucius Petronius?' Of course he had! He was my best friend, living with my best sister. 'I feel it's time I issued some invitations in return…'
Previously noncommittal, Petronius Longus straightened up. He looked the spy directly in his weird eyes, which were almost two-toned, one shifty grey, one browner – - and neither to be trusted. He stood up, placed both fists on the spy's table and leaned across, full of menace. 'I live with Maia Favonia,' my pal declared heavily. 'I know what you did to her. So no thanks!'
He strode out.
'Oh dear! I was hoping to smooth over any unpleasantness, Falco!' Anacrites was ghastly when he whined.
'Not possible,' I told him with a sneer, then I followed Petro from the room.
Outside, Phileros was hanging about nervously with such an enormous tray of confectionery his stretched arms could hardly hold it. Petronius cared about the poor, since he so often had cause to arrest them. He had ascertained it was all paid for out of the spy's petty cash, not the shabby clerk's own pocket. So we swept up as many cakes as we could carry, and took them away with us.
We gave them to a tramp, of course. Even if they were not dosed with aconite, to eat anything provided by Anacrites would have choked us.
There was no chance we would allow Anacrites to have our case. Earlier in the day Petronius and I had agreed on the same system as the last time he tried muscling in. We would proceed as normal. We would simply keep out of the spy's view. Once we solved the case, we would report to Laeta.
According to Petro, he had Rubella's support. I did not press for details.
Although we had implied to Anacrites we had reached a dead end, we had plenty of ideas. Petronius had issued an all-cohorts notice to look out for the runaway slave called Syrus, the one who had worked for Modestus and Primula then was passed on to the butcher by their nephew. Petro's men visited the other cohorts to inspect any slaves they had found roaming. There was another alert too: for the missing woman, Livia Primilla, or more likely her body.
It was too risky to have official warrants for Nobilis or any other Claudii; Anacrites was liable to hear about it. Nonetheless, efforts were being made to trace the couple who were supposed to work in Rome, using word of mouth among the vigiles. There was also a port watch for Nobilis, arranged through the Customs service and the vigiles out-station at Ostia. Meanwhile Petronius was having his clerk go through the official records of undesirables, looking for members of the family listed in Rome. If the two called Pius and Virtus had become astrologers or joined a weird religious cult, that could turn them up.
Rubella would not permit Petronius to leave Rome again, so I was going back to Antium: I would be looking for the estranged wife of Claudius Nobilis, hoping to hear about life on
the inside with the Pontine freedmen.
First, came an assignment close to home. When I returned, Helena met me at the door.
'Marcus, you have to do something and it must be now, while Petronius is at the station house. Your sister sent a message; she sounds upset -'
'What's up?'
'Maia needs to see you. She doesn't want Lucius told, because he will be too angry. Maia had an unwelcome visitor. Anacrites went to see her.'
Never mind Lucius Petronius. I was damned angry myself.
XXVI
My sister Maia Favonia had more locks on her door than most people. She had never recovered from coming home one day a couple of years ago to find everything in her home destroyed and a child's doll nailed up where the knocker had been. Anacrites left no calling card. But he had been haunting her neighbourhood after she split from him; she knew who had given her the warning.
I had moved her out the same night. I took her away with us on a trip to Britain and by the time she came back, she and Petronius Longus were lovers; her children, a bright bunch, had democratically elected that friendly vagabond as their stepfather. Maia took a new apartment, closer to Ma's building. Petro moved in. The children preened. Everything settled down. Even so, Maia installed a tumbler lock and a set of large bolts, and she never opened the door after dark unless she knew who was outside. She had been fearless, happy and sociable. Terror left its marks. Maia would never get over what the spy had done.
Petronius and I had sworn an oath together. One day we would exact retribution.
They lived, as most city people did, in a modest apartment. One floor up, a communal well in the courtyard, a small set of rooms to arrange as they liked. Petro, who was handy with a hammer, had fixed the place up in shipshape style. Maia had always had her own casual glamour and, given her work for Pa at the Saepta, she furnished it with dash. Our mother's house centred on its kitchen and a table where onions were always being chopped; Helena and I liked to relax in private in a room where we read together. Any house where Maia lived had a balcony as its heart. There she kept a trough of plants that could survive breezes and offhand treatment, plus battered lounging chairs with mounds of well-squashed cushions, between which was the bronze tripod where she served a constant supply of nuts and raisin cake.
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