Nemesis - Falco 20

by Lindsey Davis

  We had reached the crux of the meeting. Claudius Laeta half rose from his throne-like chair, so he could wriggle out of his toga. In palace code, this told us whatever was said next must be in confidence. Petronius Longus eagerly shrugged off his own formal robe. He and I moved closer to Laeta. We three were alone in the enormous room, but all of us dropped our voices.

  ‘What are we dealing with?’ The expert now, Petronius was terse, calm and impressive.

  ‘The misfit family are called the Claudii. Mean anything?’ I had heard the name only recently so I pricked up my ears, though Petronius shook his head, asking, ‘Are they in Rome?’

  ‘They may set their sights on moving to the city,’ Laeta answered. ‘So far we are spared.’

  ‘Did your writer name names?’

  ‘Often. He mainly railed against a brutish wastrel called Claudius Nobilis.’

  ‘Anybody talked to him?’

  ‘I believe he is frequently the subject of enquiries. However …’ Petronius glanced my way as we waited. ‘It is a little delicate.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked bluntly.

  ‘These people are freedmen,’ Laeta said. ‘Not just anybody’s freedmen - they originally came from the imperial family.’

  Petronius chewed it over for a moment then clarified: ‘The current Emperor’s family name is Flavius. So not Vespasian’s familia?’

  ‘Yes and no.’ Laeta’s backside must be purpose-made for fence-sitting.

  I saw the problem all right. ‘All the imperial possessions passed over when Vespasian took the throne. Not just official buildings and mansions, but all the Julio-Claudians’ vast portfolio of palaces, villas and farms - - together with, presumably, their battalions of slaves. Claudian freedmen might transfer their respect to the Flavians - if they thought there was anything in it for them. As there generally is, with imperial connections.’

  ‘The Flavians in turn must have been happy to accumulate powers of patronage - or not, in this case!’ joked Petro.

  Claudius Laeta had a chilly demeanour as we scoffed. ‘Most freedmen of the old imperial house transferred their allegiance to the new.’

  ‘And that’s why you are here!’ I told him, with a wicked smile.

  He cut me off. ‘We acknowledge an inherited problem. Someone tried to dump it in the past - unsuccessfully. Slaves should be freed as a reward for good service - -’ Just what my father’s band all kept reminding me. ‘It is clear this clan were disposed of because they were perennial pests.’ Laeta sniffed. Slaves and ex-slaves are riddled with snobbery. ‘None ever held a useful position or trained in a specialism. When they were freed, none took decent work or tried to set up businesses. Their imperial past makes them arrogant; it is thought - both by themselves and others - to give them protection from the law.’

  ‘Wrong of course?’ I asked.

  ‘They exploit the belief, and people are afraid of them.’

  Petronius and I shared another glance. ‘So it will look bad,’ he suggested, ‘if moves are made against them on your orders, Laeta - but you find no evidence and can make no charges stick?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘So what’s the plan? I assume you asked me here because there is one?’

  Laeta powered into a summary: ‘Local initiatives have failed. Time and time again, in fact. I want to send expert examiners from Rome. Look at it with fresh eyes. We need a sophisticated approach, backed up by energetic action.’

  The usual plan, apparently. The one that usually fails.

  ‘You want them evicted?’ A shift behind his eyes told me - and Laeta, if Laeta was observant - Petronius Longus thought this was asking for trouble.

  ‘Only,’ Laeta insisted, ‘if the accusations are true. If these people are causing a very serious nuisance.’

  ‘Murder would be defined as “very serious”?’

  ‘Yes, murder would justify intervention from Rome. More than one murder certainly.’

  ‘What action has been taken so far?’

  ‘Your dead man was reported missing, by relatives I understand. Regional forces did visit the Claudii, since they were implicated …’

  ‘And the regionals buggered it!’ Petronius was frank, but Laeta looked unfazed. Well, he started life as a slave. He had heard crudity in many languages. As an official in Rome, he shared Petro’s sneer at the regions too.

  ‘Perhaps they were under-experienced … They found nothing. It means any new investigation has to be conducted with extra sensitivity. It would be a bad day if imperial freedmen - which the Claudii are, and that must never be forgotten - came to accuse the Emperor of harassment.’

  I asked, ‘Have they lawyered up?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Laeta clearly assumed they would. Social menaces are well versed in finding legal teams to defend them, and an imperial connection was attractive; it guaranteed the brief would attract notice.

  ‘Can they afford it?’

  ‘There are always lawyers, Petronius, who find it a challenge to take on the government.’

  ‘Pro bono? That really would be a glory of democracy,’ I scoffed.

  ‘It would be a pile-bursting pain in the arse!’ Laeta’s turn to be crude.

  ‘So you want the vigiles involved?’ Petronius Longus was torn between his yearning to pursue an intriguing case and his distaste for taking orders.

  Laeta flexed his fingers. He summed up the position in a careful intellectual way: ‘The Praetorians would look heavy-handed. The army is never used against Roman citizens in Italy. Yes, it seems right to use the vigiles. And since you have prior knowledge, Petronius Longus, you should lead the mission.’

  ‘Going out of Rome?’

  ‘Going to Latium.’

  ‘My tribune will need a docket.’

  ‘Your tribune will be comforted with all the honeyed instructions he requires.’

  ‘This is Marcus Rubella,’ Petronius warned, on the verge of smiling.

  ‘Ah, the wondrous Rubella!’ Laeta had met him. ‘Then I shall use my most impressive seal when I write to him.’

  ‘Better bump up his budget,’ I advised. ‘To help him calm down.’

  Laeta tinkled with laughter. ‘Oh Falco, there are limits!’

  Foreseeing a long summer away from his family, Petronius became grumpy. He could not refuse when the Palace commanded. If this had been his own idea, he would have been gagging for it; orders from a scroll-beetle were much less welcome. He tapped the dead man’s tablet with a heavy index finger. ‘So does the petition-writer have a name, Laeta?’ Claudius Laeta made a show of ruffling through other documents to check.

  I leaned towards him and offered helpfully, ‘He is called Julius Modestus - am I right?’ When Laeta confirmed it, I was not surprised.

  XIII

  Petronius shot me a dark look. He thought I had known all along. In fact, I had only just decided for sure the coincidences added up.

  To Laeta I breezed, ‘Lucius Petronius and I are already on this. We have been working together; I am just back from reconnaissance.’ Now it was Laeta’s turn to look annoyed with me; he thought I was angling for payment. He was right too. ‘If you are sending in headquarters assessors it makes sense to include me. I’ll do it for my usual rates.’

  ‘You’re too expensive, Falco.’

  ‘You can’t afford to peel manpower off the Fourth Cohort. Petronius and I have history as a team; he can’t tackle this alone - - and if Vespasian wants to distance himself from these freedmen, he knows I’m his man.’

  To my surprise, Laeta reluctantly nodded. Probably he thought if this went wrong, he now had someone else to blame.

  ‘It’s more than neighbourhood annoyance,’ said Petronius, impatient with our negotiations. ‘The tomb death was not a singleton, an accident of tempers flaring; Modestus had been stalked, all the way to Rome. He was mutilated - the killer returned to the body for more of that after death.’

  I saw Laeta moisten dry lips. ‘I need to demonstrate we are dealing with more than one
random murder.’ He was still worrying over the bureaucracy.

  ‘Modestus’ wife is also missing, most certainly dead too. Not even a body,’ said Petro. ‘The killer may have kept her corpse for -’

  ‘I see!’ Laeta must be squeamish.

  ‘Treats in the larder,’ explained Petro relentlessly. Laeta closed his eyes. Petro scowled sombrely, mentally dwelling on the circumstances.

  ‘Other murders are likely, going back over many years, Laeta,’ I weighed in. ‘Petronius reckons this killer will strike again, until he is captured and stopped.’

  ‘Ah, one of those!’ Laeta pretended to be a crime expert. ‘No one has ever suggested the Claudii are that bad.’

  ‘When such murderers are exposed, people are always surprised,’ I pointed out. ‘He kept to himself, but he never seemed violent. None of us had any idea - that’s how repeat killers get away with it. Only with hindsight does it all seem bloody obvious.’

  I was supposed to have the reputation for mischief, but it was Petro who asked, ‘You came up through the imperial household yourself, Laeta. Did you ever encounter these backwoodsmen? Were you slaves together?’

  Claudius Laeta battled a shudder. ‘No; absolutely not. Though it’s a small world. I am sure you could find palace staff who have met them in the past… But during their time in the imperial familia, these were merely low-grade rural slaves. It is said they worked originally at a villa beloved of the Emperor Augustus at Antium. Nero tore it down - how typical of the man - - and rebuilt on a scale that he fancied was more glamorous. Probably at that time the Claudii were deemed superfluous. You know, there is a difference between rough country slaves, labouring anonymously in the fields as shepherds, mowers, tillers or harvesters, and those of us who are fortunate enough to be trained for duties close to emperors.’

  ‘Understood!’ Petronius could be a bastard. ‘So, they were batch field workers …’ He kept pushing. ‘Your paths never crossed?’

  ‘No.’ Laeta remained polite but cold. ‘You could ask Momus,’ he added offhandedly to me. He managed to imply I had no scruples in my choice of personal contacts.

  Momus started life as a gruesome slave-overseer. Since he lacked both intellect and morals, he had been assigned to a palace audit section; according to him, his job description was to audit the spies. Interpreting that as an order to cut staff numbers, Momus strove to make Anacrites fall down a very deep well or float off a high parapet. I got on well with Momus. Laeta, who was more fastidious, regarded him as a major disease - - but possibly useful.

  ‘He is foul - though he knows the slave rostas. I intend to have a chat!’ I assured Laeta happily. Now Laeta was wondering if Momus knew any secrets about him and would Momus tell me? ‘Careful intelligence will be needed on this case, Laeta. I suppose it’s a coup for you, grabbing the job from Anacrites?’

  ‘So sad for him.’ Claudius Laeta beamed, a disconcerting sight. ‘I hear the Emperor has posted dear Anacrites on a mission to Istria -insultingly straightforward and boringly diplomatic. Here, he could have been gaining praise by saving the Emperor from association with the menace of the Claudii - Anacrites will be livid!’

  Laeta was smiling. Petronius Longus and I were smiling too. The job stank. But we were all united in a bond of happiness that we had a chance to snatch credit away from the Chief Spy.

  Before we left, Laeta found it in himself to say to me, a little awkwardly, ‘I was so sorry to hear about your father and your child, Falco.’

  He had left it too late in the conversation. It failed to come over as genuine. I brushed his condolences aside.

  XIV

  As we left, Petronius and I took a detour past the smelly hutch Momus normally occupied; there was no sign of him. I did not make enquiries. Momus was grisly; I preferred not to know about his leisure time. His room must have been shabby to start with, but he had let it grow squalid; in a palace full of slaves with buckets and sponges he had no need to endure this. Even Petronius, who saw the world’s worst in his work for the vigiles, raised an eyebrow at the rancid accommodation.

  On the opposite side of a long corridor lay Anacrites’ office. Now we knew he was away, I opened the door and invited Petro inside. They had met a couple of times and Petro had a personal interest. Anacrites, who made a habit of hanging around my family, at one time took a shine to Maia. Maia saw through him; sensing he was dangerous, she backed out of whatever relationship they had. His response was to send men who trashed her home, terrifying Maia and her four young children. Even now, Anacrites could not see how that vicious action only proved she was right to drop him.

  I would pay him back. He thought he had got away with it. He still hung around my mother as if she had adopted him, and he greeted me like an old, affectionate colleague. He would learn.

  The good result had been Maia taking up with Petro soon afterwards. He knew her story. He, too, had not forgotten. Like me, he was determined to deal with Anacrites one day, one day at the right moment.

  The spy’s room was cramped but at least clean. It had an almost medical smell; I had always noticed that, though never pinpointed the source. One of his staff must have endemic veruccas, or enduring the spy day in and day out had given someone migraines.

  We strolled over and squinted sideways at the stuff on his table, deliberately shifting pens and styluses in subtle ways, to worry him when he came back. Everything had been laid out pedantically; he was bound to notice changes.

  There were no confidential tablets; Anacrites was tenaciously secretive. Petronius looked with longing at some secured cupboards, but we were not in a mood to force locks. Usually, however late it was, our bugbear had a dandruffy clerk or one of his dreadful agents moping in here with him. As soon as he was sent abroad, they must have all rushed off. The room was strangely still and quiet. The strife and duplicity that emanated from it had been placed on hold.

  We stared around, then Petronius shook his head slightly, bemused. I wriggled my shoulders as if to slough off the very air the spy had breathed. We left without a word.

  By the time we emerged from the rambling old buildings, the night had taken a shift onwards. Still simmering with remains of the day’s heat, Rome had become its darker self. Families and workers were back in their homes. The streets now carried streams of delivery carts, each alley ringing with the trundle of battered wooden wheels and the bloody-minded curses of crude drivers. Stray dogs ran for their lives from heavy-duty wagons that were so laden they could neither swerve nor stop in a hurry. Even the burglars and muggers who emerged at dusk kept their sandalled feet well back from the kerb. We sensed their presence, as they skulked through streets where they had conveniently blown out any lamps. None of them bothered us. We looked too capable.

  I saw Petronius savour the warm air, trying to tell whether various wafts of smoke from baths and cookshops meant fire duty for the vigiles. He was in full professional mode, alert for any kind of trouble.

  He and I made a few quick plans as we strolled, via the winding lane at the foot of the Capitol, back to our own haunts. He then returned to the patrol house, up on the Aventine. I watched him go, with that familiar fast, loping stride. Quietly I continued along the Marble Embankment to my house.

  XV

  ‘Marcus’ darling, you should be ashamed! Why ever didn’t you tell us about the funeral?’

  Let’s call Marina my sister-in-law, though it had always been a title of convenience. She and my legionary brother, Festus, had never lived together, though the ditsy dumpling claimed they would have done, but for his tactlessness in getting himself killed. She still made out our scamp would have settled down on his return - a concept he guffawed at, as I more accurately recollected. Suggestions of marriage always made Festus need a very large veal pie and so much drink to wash it down he would fall unconscious on the caupona counter.

  Still, he had loved children. Once Marina had a baby we all agreed to accept as fathered by Festus, she needed somebody to sponge off. The Didius family pi
tied her plight. We understood want. We admired efficient begging too. Little Marcia was a dear child (possibly a factor that should make us think she was not ours), so we subsidised Marina for her daughter’s sake. I say ‘we’. The others always left the fine details to me. By details, I mean actually handing out cash.

  Inevitably my father’s death had brought Marina, dragging Marcia, to pay respects (her words). She had her large beautiful eyes on the legacy.

  ‘Marcia will be no trouble. I brought her a lunch pack. I’ll pick her up when I’ve run a few errands …’

  Marina was a fabulous specimen, though common. She turned heads so frequently she had no idea it was possible for a woman to walk past a scaffold, a wine bar, a fish stall or a cohort of soldiers without whistles and loud invitations to share grimy fellows’ flagons. It looked as if the food she had so unnecessarily brought for her daughter was part of a workman’s sardine ration, in fact. Women loathed her. Helena, and even young Albia, greeted her arrival with embittered sighs. While they hoped she would leave quickly, I prayed she had not worked out how much money to ask me for. She had, of course.

  ‘You never even invited Marcia to your party at Saturnalia. Everyone ignores us nowadays. Whoever thought Festus would be so quickly forgotten? Marcia hadn’t seen her gramps for ages and now she’ll never have the chance again -’ (Wails from Marina’s well-primed daughter.) ‘Geminus was so fond of her; it’s such a tragedy! And I blame you, Marcus.’

  Since the child was listening, I refrained from spelling out that Geminus lost count of his grandchildren, and that my niece could have been brought to see Pa at the Saepta any day. Suitably prompted, he would have reminisced about Festus and handed out hot pancakes. Given his eye for a promising woman, Marina would probably have walked away with some piece of jewellery. The fact was, she had been too busy leading her life of play and pleasure - until she heard that Pa was gone and how much he had left behind.