Perfiditas

by Alison Morton

  The docks were compact. Swinging cranes and forlorn industrial warehouses petered out, giving way first to open fields, copses and, two kilometres or so upstream, individual houses dotted along the bank, all with private landings. Ideal if you needed an alternative escape route. We marched in silence, staying under cover of the trees and diving for the ditch whenever we heard a vehicle. The familiar stone house came into sight. The high gate, metal but clad in innocent wood, was closed.

  Behind that graceful stone arch with the coded entry system lay a gravel area and another gateway with metal barred gates curved to fit the archway, finials a breath away from the stone. The Venetian scrollwork disguised how solid they were. I shivered at the flow of memories in the house on the other side.

  Flavius and I hid behind shrubs across from the house, a little to one side and settled down to watch the entrance gate. Two things worried me. Easy one first: Dania’s. There had to be a leak. Although I mailed and wrote her about business stuff, I only went there occasionally; with my job and family, there was too much else to do. Had Pollius spilled? Unlikely, but possible. Was the rest of the network penetrated? If we made it inside, I guessed we’d find out. I was turning to the difficult question when Flavius shifting his weight caught my attention.

  His fingers signalled he couldn’t see anybody watching. I confirmed the same. Ironic, in light of events. The only excuse was that we were tired and desperate, but a pretty poor one.

  A delivery truck drew up, and the gates opened to let it in. We leapt up, coming sideways at the gate. Flavius scrambled onto the rear fender and stretched his arm out. My hand was an inch from his, fingers flexing to grasp it when a shot rang out from behind. Flavius fell off into a crumpled, inert heap at my feet. I seized him, heaved with all my strength, and dragged him over the gravel through the gate while the truck driver stared, literally with an open mouth. The porter, much more alert, started to block me and my burden when another shot burst out. A kick to my head, searing heat, and I went out.

  XV

  The first thing I noticed was the smell – fresh linen, slightly antiseptic, vanilla even. Next, I heard tiny regular bleeps. I went back to sleep.

  ‘She’s progressing well.’ A quiet voice and warm breath, somebody bending over me and resting a hand on my forehead. Juno! My head. No way was I going to open my eyes with a headache like this. I heard his low, rich laugh. Absolutely no way, I thought as I drifted off.

  I must have known subconsciously I was safe, so I attempted eye-opening next time I woke. I looked around warily. Although it was painful, my head stayed on my shoulders. I was lying half-propped up in bed in a pale blue room, flowers on a table in the corner, bedroom furniture, window, blue drapes. So not a prison. No, of course not – I’d heard that laugh. We’d made it.

  ‘Ah! You’ve decided to wake up,’ came the first voice again. I turned my head very carefully and saw gold-rimmed glasses, greying hair and a sardonic smile above a white lab coat shining too brightly. He gave me a sip of some lemony drink, and I lay back exhausted.

  ‘I’m not going to ask how the head feels – that would be fatuous,’ he said. ‘But like Hades, I suspect?’

  ‘Yes.’ I swallowed. ‘Tell me,’ I whispered, ‘how’s my comrade?’ I feared the worst. He had been so still, lying there shot.

  ‘I operated on him personally and sewed him together. He’s up and pestering to see you.’

  Thank the gods. I tried to focus on the man’s face above me.

  ‘Something to eat?’ he said. ‘You’ve been out for nearly two days.’

  My stomach replied forcefully.

  He chuckled and disappeared.

  I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

  ‘Come on, lazy, you can’t lie there pretending to be asleep. Besides, your sandwiches are getting warm!’

  I smiled at him. ‘Hello, Flav.’

  Flavius found me some extra pillows and I eased myself up gingerly. I munched my sandwiches slowly, my jaw tight, and the muscles pulling the skin on my skull. Each bite hurt, but my hunger overrode the head pain. Flavius told me how he’d been badly winded when he fell and couldn’t move. The shot dug a trench through the flesh in his left shoulder but, apart from that, he only suffered some bruising. The porter had slammed the big gates shut and rung the alarm. Guards had run out the house, pushed through the service gate and scoured the approach road, firing off a few rounds. But they’d found no sign of our attackers.

  The second round from the unknown shooter had grazed my head, barely scraping my skull. I shuddered at the near miss. I had a hell of a headache but nothing more serious. A hanging basket had suffered an untimely death from the onward travelling bullet, Flavius said drily.

  I looked at him, my loyal comrade in arms. He was smart, aware and physically tough. He wasn’t a pretty boy like Livius: his light brown hair and mid-brown eyes together with the other standard features you got in a face made a pleasant, but not outstanding combination. This was a great asset for a spook as nobody remembered the average. But, when he smiled, his soul shone out through his eyes. I’d known him seven years; he gave me balance, sometimes quite starkly, other times humorously, always as a true friend. I would’ve been devastated if I’d lost him.

  I was dozing again when I heard the quiet laugh.

  ‘Hello, Pulcheria,’ he began.

  ‘Apollodorus.’

  He sat on my bed, holding my hand and completely still. It was an old trick of his. He could move as fast as a deadly panther if he wanted. His tall, slim figure was, as always, dressed in black; his black hair, brows and eyes a contrast to his lightly bronzed skin. His smile didn’t diminish any of his powerful and dynamic presence.

  ‘Why didn’t you come to me straightaway?’ he gently chided me. His black eyes were warm and inviting.

  ‘You know why,’ I said. ‘We split and went in opposite directions. Flav and I only came to you because we were in a desperate situation.’

  ‘So I gather,’ he replied in a voice straight off the Arctic Desert. He pressed my hand. ‘My dear, you know very well it would give me enormous pleasure to help you in any way I can. To be honest, I’m a little bored.’

  Even the half-smile I pulled was not a good idea for my head.

  I owed this man a great deal – he’d been my mentor, my faithful servant and my more-than-friend. He’d run my organisation with absolute efficiency, knowing it had been built on deceit. He’d organised the exit strategy, severance payments, retained the network, and built up a new role for himself after my departure. The Pulcheria Foundation was a business organisation these days, generally dealing in property and entertainment. That it was mostly legal, but not always, was irrelevant.

  He looked at me with polite curiosity, one eyebrow raised in his mock old-world way.

  ‘So tell,’ he commanded.

  I smiled wryly. Our positions were reversed, as if he were the patron and I the supplicant client. He caught my expression and smiled back in reassurance. He listened intently until I’d finished.

  ‘I will not have anybody indulging in a shooting match outside my front door, particularly when it is targeted at my colleagues, whether former or current.’ He spoke so gently that it made the words much more threatening. I remembered how effective that polite, but deadly voice could be.

  ‘So are you happy now, running around catching what you charmingly call “the bad guys”?’

  I’d known, of course, that he would be following my activities, from personal as well as professional interest.

  ‘Ecstatically,’ I replied. ‘No, really. I can’t think of anything I’m better suited to. But this current crisis is bizarre. I’m being caught on the wrong foot most of the time.’

  ‘Unusual,’ he remarked.

  ‘An understatement!’ I said. ‘I figure I’m usually at least one step ahead of the opposition, but here, everything keeps shifting. I never imagined I’d see the head of PGSF Internal Security letting a dangerous extremist like Caeco out
.’ I studied the far wall. ‘What in Hades has happened to the rest of them? Why didn’t they stop Petronax?’

  Flavius knocked on the open door. His eyes were shrunken; deep lines ran from the side of his nose to a mouth pulled down. Was he sick? He came over to the other side of my bed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The legate.’

  My heart contracted and flooded with pain.

  ‘No.’ His hand shot out and grasped mine. ‘He’s alive. As far as I know.’

  I closed my eyes for a second or two.

  ‘I used the secure comms room here. They’ve stripped Conradus Mitelus of his command, arrested him for treason and thrown him in the Transulium. My contact doesn’t know anything else.’ He shook his head and turned away.

  I felt sick to think of Conrad labelled as a traitor. It had to be because of my proscription. Tainted by association. What a bloody mess. He had to disown me, divorce me. That would clear him.

  Who was I kidding? I’d known somebody was targeting him when they’d forced Aidan to push for that information from Tacita, but I’d never dreamed it would go to this level. The only tiny comforting thought was that he would have given Petronax’s people a seriously hard time when they took him.

  ‘My dear?’

  Apollo’s voice pulled me out of my paralysis. I took some deep breaths to clear my head.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘This is the situation. The chief bad guy is a rat-faced traitor who has access to everything. The expert personal teams have been disbanded and reassigned. The central command structure is penetrated and effectively paralysed. And this is the unit supposed to be responsible for the safety of the imperatrix and the country.’ My voice rose despite my best efforts. ‘A total fuck-up.’

  ‘Not, I think, a very glorious state of affairs,’ Apollodorus conceded. He was kind to leave it at that.

  ‘The worst is that none of us saw it coming.’

  ‘Ah! Vanity. You really must overcome that tendency, Pulcheria. It’s so limiting, you know.’

  I glowered at him.

  His ironic glance landed on me. I knew he was provoking me to break the blister of my emotion. But I turned away and refused to look at him.

  ‘The doctor says you can get up tomorrow if you feel like it. Then we can assess everything and plan accordingly.’ In such bland words, he dismissed a world of chaos, terror and despair.

  A steaming drink materialised, brought in by one of Apollo’s silent house servants.

  ‘You are to drink this before going to sleep,’ Apollodorus said. I looked at him, thinking of refusing on principle, but my nerves were shredded, my head throbbed. I had no strength left to fight him.

  I woke the next day feeling groggy, but with no headache – a blessed relief. I stumbled into the shower off my room. Drying my hair, I looked around for my clothes. No sign of my jeans, but Pulcheria’s trademark red and black clothes were laid out for me, and the black boots. It took me several minutes to decide to put them on. They fitted perfectly.

  Nothing had changed in the house, absolutely nothing. I walked to the dining room as if it were only seven minutes ago I had left it, not seven years. Sitting eating breakfast, Apollo and Flavius were talking quietly. Both looked up as I entered the room. Flavius gasped at my appearance, Apollo showed no reaction. I didn’t look either in the eye. I had hardly taken my place when fruit, yoghurt and eggs were put in front of me with a cup of coffee, white, one sugar. I glanced up, searching for the clock, and there it was, exactly where it should be. Even the cutlery was the same fluted design. I ate in silence. I was slipping straight back into a shell waiting for me to inhabit it.

  ‘Shall we go through after you’ve finished?’ Apollodorus suggested, or was it a command? A meeting table was set out in the atrium. Nothing had changed: the large open area, not as big as at Domus Mitelarum, but more elegant, minimalist even, with white upholstered benches running around three sides and alcoves placed along their length to provide more intimate seating areas. I looked up at the bull’s eye glazed centre in the roof. Sunlight poured down making artificial lighting superfluous.

  Apollo insisted I take the head of the table. Others joined us, some familiar, but older, some I didn’t know. From under my eyelashes, I caught some speculative looks and one or two guarded ones.

  ‘If I may?’ Apollo looked at me. I nodded.

  ‘I am delighted to advise you that Pulcheria is once again part of our lives. Some of you will, of course, have fond memories of the previous work we achieved together. Others of you have that pleasure ahead of them.’

  I’d bet any money they were wondering what the Hades Apollo was springing on them.

  ‘Hermina, you know, she remains our administration manager.’

  She nodded at me, half-smiling. I did the same. I’d always liked Hermina, although she was a bit of a control freak.

  ‘Albinus is our technical genius – he was trained by Dolcius, now sadly equipping the next life.’

  I took in Albinus’s jet-black head, dark eyebrows, dark eyes. Somebody clearly had a sense of humour, or maybe irony, given his name meant white. He nodded, his face impassive, but eyes appraising.

  ‘Justus, our informer, you know. His network tends to cover, ah, economic opportunities rather than political ones, if you recall.’

  What I remembered was how incredibly tough Justus was. Likeable no, efficient yes. I nodded in his direction. A smooth, knowing half-smile glided across his lips leaving absolutely no trace on the rest of his unremarkable face.

  ‘Cassia runs the financial aspects of the foundation. She worked previously as Censor’s investigator in the tax service.’

  Her symmetrical features were spoiled by a sullen expression dulling her light brown eyes. The investigators were renowned for their tenacity, resourcefulness and utter ruthlessness. I think the expression “killer Rottweilers” came into Junia’s vocabulary if a visit from them was threatened at Domus Mitelarum. She and our legal team burnt the midnight oil to prepare. Cassia looked at me without a trace of emotion; she didn’t even muster a smile.

  ‘Hello, Pulcheria,’ came a cheery voice as a relief to the serious faces. I’d known Philippus as assistant to the old master at arms. ‘Just let me know if you want anything that goes bang,’ he said. I’d always loved his lively, almost boisterous manner, like an overgrown high schooler, but I saw he now had a few grey hairs peeking through at his temples.

  ‘Hi yourself, Phil,’ I threw back. ‘Well, you know what I like, just the usual service.’

  He grinned.

  ‘And of course, Flavius, our tactical expert, whom you know so well.’

  Flavius stared down at the table and rubbed the fingers of one hand across the back of the other. The irony was painful. I tapped my nail twice on the table surface, forcing him to meet my eyes.

  ‘Thank you, Apollodorus.’ I looked at each face, appraising them in turn. Most had settled into a wary look, Justus and Philippus neutral.

  I turned to Apollo. ‘Now, could you please update me on what you have?’

  ‘I’ll let Justus lead on this,’ he said.

  ‘We have confirmed Flavius’s information about the PGSF legate. He’s being held in maximum security, in solitary, in the Transulium military prison.’

  My heart thumped.

  ‘Command devolved temporarily upon the adjutant.’ He checked his el-pad. ‘No, for a day only. A replacement has been appointed: one Lucius Mitelus Superbus.’

  ‘What?’ I shrieked. ‘Please tell me that’s not true.’

  They all stared at me, startled by my outburst.

  ‘What?’ Justus said. He raised his eyebrows.

  I exchanged glances with Flavius. I swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry, please continue.’

  ‘Superbus doesn’t seem to be fond of his family. He had them all arrested and carted off, even the old lady, Aurelia Mitela, and her grandchildren. No,’ Justus looked at his notes, ‘they’re her great-grandchildren – the granddaughter, also
PGSF, has disappeared. She’s been proscribed. Maybe she’s in the Transulium as well – we don’t know.’

  The first I knew I had bitten through my lip was when blood dripped onto the table. Through the red fog of my anger, I tried to reassemble my scattered brains. What did Justus mean by “carted off”? Not to a prison. No, not the children. Gods, no! Even Superbus wouldn’t do that, would he?

  ‘Where are they now?’ I managed to ask.

  Justus looked unhappy, almost apologetic. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t been able to get at anybody inside the Mitelae. They’re as tight as a duck’s arse, so I can’t confirm anything.’

  My hands trembled, not only with fear, but rage that such a horrifying thing had been done to my family. I knew Nonna could tough it out. But the children, and Helena? I pictured the concrete cell walls, the solid metal door clanking shut, enclosing them, the terror of being wrenched out of their home by shouting, unknown and uncaring strangers. If any of them was hurt – in any way – Superbus was dead meat; and the butchery would be slow.

  ‘Petronax is really running everything. He’s quite strange,’ Justus mused. ‘He’s not married, has no mistress, girlfriend, boyfriend, companion. He visits a hetaera twice a month and that’s it.’

  ‘Same one?’ I asked, thinking of possibilities.

  ‘No, he rotates around three, but in a random pattern.’

  ‘We need to get a hold over each one and bleed them.’

  ‘Of course.’ He looked surprised at my callousness. ‘I’ll arrange it as a priority.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Well, these “patriarchialists”…Sextus Decius aka Cornelius has a couple of warnings: pilfering when twelve and public disorder at seventeen. He was at a demo for parental rights which turned violent.’ He smirked. ‘The scarabs were their usual understanding selves. Martinus Caeco – there’s a challenge. We can’t find him anywhere, but you say he’s definitely native-born.’ He looked at me, doubt all over his face.

  ‘He’s a heavy,’ I said. ‘Probably a bodyguard, enforcer, numbers runner, possibly procurer, something like that.’