We returned to the dining room, all in a jolly foursome, so Anacrites might think we had been together all the time. I had not yet decided whether to tell Albia about us eavesdropping. She was now staring at the tumblers’ pratfalls, as if planning to run away to join them.
Claudia looked weary after being left alone to cope with Hosidia. I thought Hosidia brightened, as she watched Justinus sprawl back on his couch opposite her. Could his easy manners and good looks be attracting yet another young woman who really belonged to his stodgier brother? Claudia had once been betrothed to Aulus, but she dumped him - - which her new sister-in-law had probably realised … But Hosidia would need some nerve to flirt with Quintus. If threatened, the once-shy Claudia Rufina fought for her rights with Hispanic bravura. In fact, being the senior bride in the Camillus family seemed to have fired up her confidence. Helena and I liked her; she was tougher than she looked.
Hey ho, I had convinced myself the Camillus family were about to enact a Greek tragedy …
Anacrites’ evening was starting to deteriorate. Dessert was the least impressive course he provided. It consisted of browned fruit and lacklustre pastries. I reckoned Anacrites had got this far in the caterer’s estimate then drew a line through any extras. He had a frugal streak. When I worked with him, it had always been me who went out for honeycakes to break the monotony.
While we toyed with grapes, Minas reappeared. He boomed that he had seen one of the chefs stealing a picture. Anacrites now seemed too deflated to deal with it. I jerked my head at the Camillus brothers. He was a host to avoid, but we were guests with manners. The lads needed no further telling. We three, tailed by the dispirited spy, marched to the kitchen to investigate.
We found the hired caterers packing up. Observed dully by Anacrites, Aulus, Quintus and I lined up the Lusitanian workers, pushed them about, searched them, insulted them, then went through their equipment. They had not been too greedy - just one or two small but good artworks that the spy might not have missed for weeks, a painted miniature pulled from a nail in a wall panel (that was what Minas had seen them taking), then a pitiful assortment of nick-nack bowls and cutlery. The two female servers were the worst offenders; they each had dainty reticules that doubled up as swag-bags.
One very suspicious item was a jewel, which Quintus found rolled up in a used napkin in the laundry hamper. ‘This yours?’ he asked Anacrites in some surprise. The spy shook his head initially; it was hardly his taste.
Suddenly he changed his mind. ‘Oh - a girlfriend must have left it. Give it me, will you -’
‘What girlfriend is this?’ Aelianus joshed him.
‘Oh you know …’
‘Ooh! Anacrites has had a home masseuse!’
‘Sent out for special services!’ Justinus joined in.
‘You dirty dog!’ I said. ‘I hope she’s registered with the vigiles and you had her credentials checked. This could be a serious breach of security -
Anacrites looked embarrassed. He was so close about his habits, assuming he had any, that being teased made him red-faced and uneasy. He was holding out his hand for the jewel but Quintus moved away, still inspecting it closely. Aulus stopped the spy, slapped him on the back, spun him around and clapped his cheeks as if he was a youth we had all taken to be ‘made a man’ by a sought-after courtesan in a luxury brothel. If that was the kind of woman he had summoned here, he would have paid through the nose for the house call.
We gave the caterers a stiff lecture. They were shameless, but we were drunk, so we kept at it with pedantic gusto. Minas loomed up and threatened to prosecute them, but it was not the kind of big law-work that would gain him notice; he wandered off again to search for more of the spy’s fine wine.
Minas should have stayed: once he sent the caterers on their way, Anacrites brought out a small flagon of exquisite Faustus Falernian to thank us. We four sipped it together in the kitchen, though socially it was a stiff moment. This had never been a party that would extend to the small hours so I tossed back my tot, followed by the two Camilli. We were accompanied by mothers of young children, a girl, a newly married bride - all good excuses to disperse. Most of us felt weary too. The dinner had been hard going. Minas would have dallied, but when we returned to the triclinium, he was persuaded to tag along home with the Camilli.
We all thanked Anacrites who, frankly, looked done in. He made weak protestations that it was far too early for us to leave - then thanked us rather too fervently for coming. As he led us to our transport, which had already materialised at his entrance porch, he said he had had a wonderful evening. Compared with his normal lonely nights, it probably had been.
‘I hope we have mended some fences, Falco.’
I kept my face neutral, watching Helena as she kissed Quintus Camillus goodbye, undeniably her favourite of the brothers, as he was mine.
Aulus came up to me. Briefly he clasped hands. It was an unlikely formality, especially as I was being chilly with him over Albia. I met his eyes properly, for the first time since the news of his sudden marriage; amazingly, he winked. Something small and cold passed into my hand from his.
I curled my fingers on it. In the darkness of the lurching litter going home I opened my grip but could not tell what I had been given.
At our own house, oil lamps in our familiar hallway greeted our late return. I looked again. Upon my open hand lay the special cameo we had retrieved from among the soiled linen. The Camillus brothers must have done a swift lift-and-pass, neat as Forum pickpockets.
‘Oh I like that!’ exclaimed Helena.
It was oval, and looked like a pendant from a necklace; it had a granulated gold loop on top, though the chain was absent. The workmanship was fine, the design aristocratic, the cutting of two-tone agate quite remarkable. While a really expensive whore might afford such a thing, it was serious quality. That must have alerted Quintus when he handled it. He was not renowned as a connoisseur - - or had not been before he married; Claudia came with her own overflowing necklace boxes, so why should he learn? Yet Quintus moved in society; he had seen plenty of custom gems, hanging from the crêpey necks and scrawny lobes of wealthy high-class women.
I understood exactly why Quintus and Aulus had palmed it. This bauble required investigation.
XXXV
Anacrites was a sad case. Nobody else would turn up before breakfast to ask if last night’s guests had enjoyed his dinner. That was his excuse anyway.
‘I have mislaid that jewellery.’ He had already trekked to the Capena Gate to enquire after the cameo. The two Camilli denied all knowledge, so he came to me. Anacrites still pretended this loss could make life awkward with the item’s owner, though he did not want to give more details about which floozy that was supposed to be.
‘What’s her name, your bird of expensive plumage?’
‘You don’t need to know …’
He was in a dilemma, drawing attention to the piece, when he clearly wished we knew nothing about it.
I was determined to investigate that cameo’s history. I lied, therefore, and said I did not have it. ‘I’d forgotten all about it. Maybe those light-fingered caterers of yours saw somebody drop it and picked it up a second time …’ No; he had been to ask them, he said. Jupiter! He must have been busy. ‘Who were they anyway?’ I asked. ‘You’d have to lock up the family silver if you hired them, but that chef was wonderful.’
Briefly, Anacrites glowed under my praise. ‘The organiser is called Heracleides, sign of the Dogstar by the Caelimontan Gate. Laeta put me on to them.’
‘Laeta?’ I smiled gently. ‘Taking a risk, weren’t you?’
‘I checked their credentials. They provide imperial banquets, Marcus.’ Anacrites sounded stiff. ‘Gladiators’ last meals before a fight. Buffets for seedy theatre impresarios who are trying to seduce young actresses. All very much in the public eye. The proprietor has too much good name to risk losing it - Besides, the thefts were carried out by minions, mere opportunism. And I was protected. I had my own
security -’
‘I saw your house guests!’
‘Who did you see?’ Anacrites demanded.
‘Your dilatory agents, playing board games in a back-corridor hole …’ Some flicker disturbed his carefully cultivated, steady gaze. If I understood that half-hidden reaction, the Melitans were in for a nasty half hour when he next saw them. He could be vindictive. If they didn’t know that already, they were about to find out. ‘I meant, was a suggestion from Laeta safe for you, dear boy?’ I gazed at him and shook my head slowly. ‘Given his well-known wish to winkle you out of office?’
The spy’s eyes widened.
‘No, he wouldn’t!’ I cried. ‘I’m being ridiculous. Laeta is a man of honour, he is above conspiracy. Forget I spoke.’ Although Anacrites had imposed iron control on his face muscles, I could see he now realised Laeta might have wrong-footed him.
He changed tack quickly. Gazing around the salon where I had been forced to entertain him, he noted the profusion of new bronze statuettes, polished expanding brazier tripods, fancy lamps suspended from branched candelabra. ‘Such lovely things, Falco! You’re very prosperous, since your father died. I wonder - - does it affect your future?’
‘Will I give up informing?’ I laughed gaily. ‘No chance. You’ll never be rid of me.’
Anacrites smirked. All last night’s affability had dissolved with his hangover and he went on to the attack: ‘I’d say your new wealth exceeds due proportion. When a man receives more from Fortune than he should, winged Nemesis will come along and right the balance.’
‘Nemesis is a sweetie. She and I are old friends … Why don’t you come out straight and say you think I don’t deserve it?’
‘Not for me to judge. You don’t bother me, Falco. Compared with you, I’m fireproof
He had to have the last word. I could have allowed it because it meant so much to him - - but we were in my house, so I patted back the ball. ‘Your confidence sounds dangerously close to hubris! You just said it, Anacrites: presumption offends the gods.’
He left. I went off to breakfast with a lighter step.
Helena and I amused ourselves over the bread rolls discussing reasons why Anacrites could be so worked up about the jewel. After all, he had money nowadays. If some night-moth complained she had lost part of her necklace during their frolics, he could afford to buy her a new one to shut her up.
Some wrangles are meaningless and soon forgotten. Anacrites and I often exchanged insults; we meant them to bite and we meant every word, though it never stuck for long. But the clash we had that morning insidiously stayed with me. I continued to believe that cameo was significant - and I wanted to know why Anacrites had panicked.
XXXVI
The Heracleides company was run by one man who lived over a stable block. It was a large stable. Up in his elegant apartment he certainly did not tread on hay. His personalised loft had been floored with highly polished boards; a team of slaves must skate around with dusters on their feet each morning. Instead of mangers, there were sumptuous cushioned couches with dramatic flared legs like whole elephant tusks. He went in for ivory - - always the snobbish side of flash. And the flared leg is much beloved by stagy folk (I was thinking like Pa.)
Heracleides ran his outfit from a line of stabled wagons that contained his staffs cooking and serving equipment. Where these staff lurked by day was not immediately obvious. Heracleides, I already knew, believed in distance supervision. He flattered clients with promises of individual attention, yet stayed away from their big night. According to him, his highly trained personnel had been with him for decades; they were safe to leave alone and his presence was unnecessary. At a venue, he would not so much as place a violet in a vase. I guessed his only interest was in counting the profits.
Younger than I expected, he was a pampered specimen - too much time at the baths, probably baths which offered stodgy saffron cakes and erotic massage. His tunic had a fringed hem; a narrow gold fillet bound his suntanned brow. You know the type: all high-stepping insincerity. Not safe to buy a rock oyster from, let alone a three-course dinner with entertainment and flowers.
Trying to impress me, he paraded his business ethic: love of fine detail, competitive rates and a long list of very famous customers. I wasn’t fooled. I understood him straight away. He was a chancer.
I took a flared-leg chair, which needless to say had its back at the -wrong angle for the average spine. One of the fancy legs was loose too.
I mentioned to Heracleides that sadly the staff he spoke of so highly had been involved in an incident last night. At once the operatives who had supposedly been with him for years became temporaries who must have come to him with false references, bad people whom he said he would never use again. I asked to see them. Hardly to my surprise, that was impossible. I stated calmly I would come back with the vigiles that evening and if the person I was looking for was not then present, Heracleides would be in trouble.
I spelled out the trouble: ‘Got a function tonight, have you? Lucky you don’t supervise in person or you’d be forced to cancel. Looks like you’ll be stuck here answering five hundred questions about the status of your boy and girl helpers until the moon comes out. Any of them got form? Past arrests for pinching clients’ pretty manicure boxes? Your women ever been on the vigiles’ prostitute lists?’ In the service industry that was inevitable. Waitresses were there to sleep with. ‘And what about you, Heracleides - - what’s your citizen status? Did you answer your summons for the Census? Got any imported artwork you never paid port duty on? Where did all this charming ivory come from - - would it be African?’
He tried to play tough. ‘What do you want, Falco?’
‘I want whichever of your staff picked up a fine cameo pendant at the spy’s house. If they talk to me today, I can promise no comeback.’
‘I wish I’d never taken that brief
‘Think of this as structured learning. Now, show me your managerial expertise: kindly produce my witness.’
He liked the jargon. He disappeared to ask the group which of them was guilty. He wasn’t long coming back. His minions must be curled up in the stable stalls downstairs.
‘It’s my chef. He’s not available. I sent him on a meat-carving course. Sorry - you’ve had a wasted journey.’
‘He slashed the Trojan hog with panache last night. He doesn’t need extra training. You’re lying. Let’s make a little trip downstairs, shall we?’
We made the trip. I walked at my favourite pace, steady but purposeful. Heracleides stumbled more jerkily. That was because I was holding him up by the back of his tunic, so he had to walk on tiptoe. Draught mules watched thoughtfully as we appeared together in the stable.
‘Call your chef
‘He’s not here, Falco.’
‘Call him!’
‘Nymphidias …’
‘Too quiet.’ I reinforced the request painfully. Heracleides yelled Nymphidias’ name with much more urgency and the chef crawled out from behind a barrel. He was the man who stole the miniature painting yesterday, I knew. In view of his expertise with knives, I kept my distance.
I let go of the party-planner, shaking my fingers fastidiously. Heracleides fell headlong into some dirty straw, though of course I had not pushed him. I squared up to the chef. Not having his big carver with him, his bravado crumbled.
I extracted the facts fast. Yes, Nymphidias stole the cameo. He had found it in one of the small rooms down the corridor where I got lost earlier in the evening. In the room had been a narrow bed, a man’s spare clothes, and a luggage pack. The jewel was in the pack, wrapped carefully in cloth. Everything else there had looked masculine.
I described the Melitans. The chef knew who I meant. They had both come into the kitchen at one point, asking for a meal. Nymphidias said it was a cheek - not in the party contract and they had demanded double portions too - - but he prepared some food in a slack moment, which he personally took to their quarters as an excuse to look around. They were in the room wher
e I saw them sitting, not the same as where he found the cameo.
It started to look as if all kinds of agents slept at the spy’s house, on occasions. He must be running a kind of runners’ dormitory.
‘You see anyone else apart from the two who were hungry?’
‘No.’
‘Nobody who stayed in the single room, where you found the jewel?’
‘No.’
I did not believe it. ‘There was someone else - I saw him myself.’
‘Party guests came to use the washroom. So did the musicians. That singer was hanging about like a spare part - we run into him at a lot of das.’
‘He’s called Scorpus,’ Heracleides put in, trying to seem helpful. ‘Always takes an interest in how much money the hosts have, who their wives are sleeping with, and so on. Very persistent. It’s all wrong; in our business you have to be discreet. These clients are high-status; they expect complete discretion.’
‘So unprofessional,’ I sympathised. ‘He sings appallingly too. Whose nark is he? Who pays him?’
‘You’ll have to ask him.’ Heracleides looked jealous, as though he thought Scorpus might receive more for information than he did.
‘And who do you spy for?’
‘No comment.’
‘Oh him! I’ve met that shy boy “no comment” before! There are ways to make him less bashful - and they are not pleasant.’
I returned my attention to the chef. He said the spy’s household staff had kept to themselves all evening, annoyed that outsiders had been hired. Apparently that was common. When Heracleides ran functions, he told his staff to make sure the house slaves did not spike drinks or spoil dishes. Anacrites dressed his slaves in green (how sickly; he would!); when they did wander about, they were easy to identify.
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