Nemesis (2010)

by Davis, Lindsey - Falco 20

He sniffed. ‘I thought whoever had it must have no right to it. It was hidden away too carefully. The rest of his stuff didn’t look at all swank. The gem couldn’t be his. So I might as well take it off him, mightn’t I? Just the way,’ he whined, with a new aggression in his tone, ‘you’ve taken it off me.’

  ‘The difference being,’ I answered quietly, ‘I shall hand it in to the vigiles, so they can find out who really owns it.’

  Standing beside me, Heracleides laughed. ‘Anacrites won’t like that!’

  He was right. But Anacrites would never know, until there was a good reason for Petronius and me to tell him.

  Before I left, I took Heracleides out of hearing of his staff. ‘One last question. Who is so keen to know what goes on in Anacrites’ house?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Falco.’

  ‘Pig’s pizzle. Anacrites is supposed to be the Chief Spy - - but more observers sneaked in last night than deluded fathers and clever slaves in a Greek farce. What if I float the name Claudius Laeta past you?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘You’re tiring me out. Anacrites may be simple-minded, but I can spot infiltrators. Admit it; you do the same as Scorpus. You get paid to poke around houses, on likely nights… Indiscretions happen at parties. People drink too much, there is unfortunate groping, you overhear talk of an illegal betting syndicate, someone says Domitian Caesar needs a good spank, someone else knows about the Praetor’s nasty habit - ‘

  Heracleides looked wide-eyed. ‘What habit?’

  I had started a rumour. Well, it was probably true. ‘Educated guess … We can make a deal. You tell me about Laeta, and I’ll make sure you will hear no more about your staffs pilfering last night?’

  ‘Can’t help you, honestly. Oh leave it alone, Falco - - we’ve got a good racket, and it’s harmless. The hosts can all afford it. And we don’t keep the stuff ourselves.’

  ‘What racket’s this?’

  At once Heracleides regretted the slip. He soon drooped and confessed. ‘We lift a few pretty things that look as if they may have sentimental value. We pass them to our principal. He goes along to the house a few days later. He tells them he has heard on his special grapevine about some property that belongs to them. He thinks he can get it all back, and will retrieve it as a special favour. Of course there is a premium to pay … You know.’ I knew all right.

  ‘So who is this?’ It could not be Laeta. He had more class. Blackmail was his medium, not ransoming heirlooms.

  ‘Someone I’m not prepared to mess with, Falco.’ Well, the scam was almost irrelevant. I handled property-hostage hustles sometimes, but my present interest was in bigger things.

  Heracleides seemed genuinely afraid. Joking initially, I finished up, ‘That settles it. I shall have to assume that you work for Momus!’

  Then the party-planner shuddered. ‘Yes, but he scares me! For heaven’s sake don’t tell the filthy bastard that I told you, Falco.’

  Momus, as well as Laeta? - Now this was really getting complicated.

  XXXVII

  I managed to screw from the party-planner directions for finding the torch singer. It took me an hour to locate his block, and identify which attic he festered in. Scorpus was fast asleep on his bed. That’s the beauty of witnesses who work late nights. You can generally find them.

  I sized him up before I woke him. He was chunky, though not athletic. He had a red face, a grey moustache, fairish hair receding badly. He looked like a tax lawyer. He probably played for them.

  He slept in a disreputable loincloth; I threw a blanket over him. He woke up. He thought I wanted his money or his body, which he took in good part; then he saw that I was holding his lyre and he panicked. There was no need even to threaten him. It was such a good instrument it would have hurt even me if I had to smash it. He would talk. In great alarm he struggled to get up, but I pushed him back prone, using one foot. I did it gently. I didn’t want this aesthetic type to collapse with anxiety.

  ‘My name’s Falco. Didius Falco. I expect you know that. And you’re Scorpus, the disgusting highbrow singer of doleful dirges -‘

  ‘I play in the respected Dorian mode!’

  ‘What I said. Minor keys and melancholia. If your listeners aren’t sad when you start, by the time you stop, the poor idiots will be suicidal.’

  ‘That’s harsh.’

  ‘Like life … Just lie there and co-operate. It won’t hurt. Well, not as much as refusing, trust me … We can save time, because I know the score. Whenever there is a gathering at an expensive private house, with hired-in food and entertainment, half the specialist artistes are collecting and selling information. You certainly do it. I want to know your paymaster, and anything you saw of interest last night at the Chief Spy’s house.’

  He yawned insultingly. ‘Is that all!’

  ‘It’s enough. Let’s start with Claudius Laeta. Did he pay you to collect dirt on Anacrites - or have I got this the wrong way round: when you play for the great Laeta at the Palace is somebody else giving you kickbacks to observe him?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Ah Hades!’ I twanged a lyre-string vacantly, as if seeing how far I could make it stretch before it snapped. I can play a lyre. I use it for disguises. I know what happens when a string breaks and was really not keen to have whipping animal-gut flick at high speed into my eye. Scorpus could only see the threat to his precious instrument.

  ‘Please don’t do any damage!’

  ‘Who’s spying on Laeta? Momus? Anacrites?’

  ‘Both - - Everyone thinks I am working for them. Really I’m freelance.’

  ‘Freelance, as in you’ll take anybody’s money? And you’ll shit on anybody too?’ I sneered. It made no impact. He was shameless. Well, I knew that from what he twangled for helpless listeners. ‘You can do better than this, Scorpus.’

  ‘What are you after?’ He caved in. He had no interest in the fine practice of resistance. I was almost disappointed.

  ‘I want to know what you saw.’

  ‘Much the same as you did, I suppose,’ he retorted defiantly.

  ‘I was a guest. I couldn’t look around freely, and anyway I’ve been in that house before. I know he has a pornographic art collection, so don’t try to pass that off as news.’

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘He’s sold a lot of it. Somebody must have warned him he’s under observation.’

  ‘I can’t think who would warn that man of anything.’

  ‘Then you have more taste than I supposed! What have you told Laeta?’

  ‘I am bound to secrecy.’

  ‘Let me unbind you.’ I inspected the arms of his instrument, while prising apart the elegant yokes, forcing them against their cross-strut…

  ‘Oh leave off, Falco! I had nothing to tell Laeta, except a list of who attended. The Greek with the big beard was dire, I have to say.’

  ‘That Greek is a master of jurisprudence. He could sue you in three different courts for insulting him. He might even win.’

  ‘He’d have to be sober!’ The singer fought back with spirit. I had to stop this; I was starting to like him.

  ‘I know that the caterers were stealing, for a ransom scam. You must have seen them at it, at other parties. I know who’s paying them as well. Momus. You don’t want to tangle with that bastard.’

  ‘His money’s good, if you’re desperate.’

  ‘So you work for Momus too?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. Sometimes the landlord here is very demanding …’

  I looked around. The place was bare and unappealing. Not as squalid as rooms I myself had parked in, but unsuitable for a court musician. He wouldn’t want Laeta to spot fleabites. ‘Whatever the rent, he’s overcharging! You can afford better.’

  ‘Who cares? I’m never here.’

  ‘Have some self-respect, man!’ I was turning into his wise old nurse. ‘What do you spend your fees on?’

  ‘Saving for a once-in-a-lifetime cruise to Greece.’ That f
igured.

  ‘Did it last year - - not all it’s cracked up to be. Still, book it and go now. You could die of self-neglect and your efforts would all be wasted. So - - who were the tumblers and the band working for?’

  ‘No one special.’

  ‘What? We’re talking about Cretan shepherds in hairy coats!’

  ‘Cretan my rear end! The tumblers arrived last week from Bruttium and all the rest came straight over the Tiber from Nero’s Circus.’

  ‘You amaze me! And they have no moneymaking sidelines?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I believe,’ said Scorpus, with disgust, ‘the strummers have been known to sell stories about indiscretions for the dirty scandal page in the Daily Gazette.’

  I winced. ‘That’s low!’

  ‘I agree - though I believe there is cash to be made.’

  ‘Fortunately the Camilli - to whom I am related, by the way, so watch it - - are models of tedious morality. As for Anacrites, snitching on him would be madness: you could end up holding your next musical evening with Praetorian Guards, answering an arrest warrant signed by Titus Caesar, before they drag you on a very short walk to your death.’

  I plucked his lyre, reflecting that the musicians he sneered at as strummers had played seven-string lyres too - - their instruments probably costing much less than this fine pearl-inlaid walnut specimen. The singer gave me a sideways scrutiny. ‘So what were you doing there, Falco?’

  ‘Oh all I got was indigestion and a sore head.’

  Thinking this had made us friends, Scorpus tried again to get up. I shoved him back angrily. ‘Oh get this over with! What do you want, Falco?’

  ‘Who did you see? There were two agents lurking in a back room -was somebody else with them?’

  He had had enough time between playing his sets for a thorough reconnoitre. He knew about the Melitans. But Scorpus claimed, convincingly it seemed, that he saw no one else; he did not know who occupied that other room, where the pilfering chef found the cameo.

  I gave up and went home for lunch.

  The singer had lied to me. I did not know it at the time, but when I found out afterwards, I felt no real surprise.

  XXXVIII

  After lunch my secretary needed me to attend to business; in superior homes it might be the other way around, but not with Katutis. He told me what I had to tell him to do. I complied. Still, I was lucky to have my hour with him. Now I was known to have a secretary, other people continually borrowed him. Katutis was supposed to take down my case-notes and start collating my memoirs, but he spent whole afternoons writing out soup recipes, curses and laundry lists.

  Next, Helena wanted to discuss household matters, which meant more meek compliance. My daughters then had an urgent need to show me drawings and ask for new shoes like those their friend three doors down had been given by their spoiling parents. Even the dog stood at the front door with her leash in her mouth.

  Only Albia tried to avoid anything to do with me, but I took her out anyway. That would teach her to tell Anacrites she could do an informer’s job.

  I was taking the cameo to Petronius. By the time we reached Maia’s apartment, it was so near to evening we only just caught him before he left for duty.

  ‘Hold on. I want to show you this, off vigiles premises.’

  He got the message.

  With Albia watching, we inspected the jewel. It was carved from sardonyx, the redder form of onyx. ‘It’s like an agate, Albia - layered hard stone.’

  ‘More education!’

  ‘Listen and learn, girl.’

  Petronius held the gemstone in his mighty paw while he tried to work out what was going on in the picture. It was a two-layered cut, in low relief. The onyx banding was white and red-brown, beautifully executed. The lower half of the design showed a gloomy bunch of captured barbarians. On an upper frieze, gathered around twirly horns of plenty, minor deities were applying triumphal crowns to the noble brows of bare-chested noble personages. An eagle, probably representing Jove, was trying to muscle in. ‘Claudian imperial family,’ Petronius guessed. ‘They always have that clean-cut, very close-shaven look. They were all untrustworthy midgets really.’

  Albia giggled.

  ‘He’s exaggerating, Albia. Lucius Petronius, being a great hulk himself, likes to make out anyone dainty is deformed. However, this is so special it may even have belonged to Augustus or someone in that family, either commissioned by them or given as a gift by a sycophant.’

  Petro’s eyebrows shot up. ‘It’s that good?’

  ‘Trust me; I’m an antique dealer. Without provenance it’s hard to be sure, but I would say this could be the work of Dioscurides. If not his own piece, it certainly came from his workshop.’

  ‘Dio who?’

  ‘Augustus’ favourite cameo-cutter. Well, look at the workmanship! Whoever carved this was brilliant.’

  Petronius leaned towards Albia and growled, ‘Have you noticed how Falco keeps sounding like a bent auctioneer these days?’

  ‘Yes, at home we all feel we are living with a fake-winejug seller.’

  ‘Rag away!’ I grinned. ‘Whoever owned this - I don’t mean some mystery lodger at the spy’s house - knew its worth. The purchaser, who may have been a woman because it has been a necklace pendant, had the money and the knowledge to buy real quality.’

  ‘Someone in mind?’ asked Petro.

  ‘I hope we can tie it to Modestus’ wife, Livia Primilla. From the nephew’s vagueness when I asked about any distinguishing jewellery she wore, I don’t think he would recognise it, but he said she wore good stuff.’

  Petronius perked up. ‘If it was her, and if she was wearing this when she disappeared, there is a chance we can identify it.’

  He told us that the Fifth Cohort had picked up a runaway slave living rough near the Porta Metrovia, who was called Syrus. They were bringing him over to the Fourth that night, for quizzing about whether he was the Syrus given to the butcher by Sextus Silanus - - the one who had waved Primilla off when she went to see the Claudii.

  ‘Couldn’t the Fifth have asked him for themselves?’

  ‘They could have tried,’ said Petro. ‘But the slave’s scared to talk and everyone knows Sergius is the best in the business.’

  Sergius was the Fourth Cohort’s torturer.

  At this point I would have left Albia at Maia’s house; sensing a brush-off, she insisted on coming to the station house with us.

  Sergius was waiting for Petronius to arrive before he started. He had stashed Syrus in a small cell, like someone marinating a choice cut of meat for a few hours before grilling.

  ‘You could just ask the man,’ Albia suggested. It could have been Helena talking.

  ‘Not half the fun,’ said Sergius. ‘Besides, the slave’s evidence will only count if he screams it out while I’m thrashing him. The theory is, pain will make him honest.’

  ‘Does it work in practice, Sergius?’

  ‘Once in a while.’

  ‘How can you tell whether what he says is true or not?’

  ‘You can’t. But then you can’t tell when you’re questioning a free citizen either. Most of them lie. That applies whether they have something real to hide - - or are just being buggers on principle.’

  I thought Albia might have been upset by the whip man’s attitude, but young girls are tough. She listened quietly, filing away the details in that strange little head of hers. ‘If this is the right slave, what will happen to him?’

  ‘He will be whipped hard, for causing us trouble, then returned to whoever owns him.’

  ‘No choice?’

  ‘Certainly not. He is their property.’

  ‘A non-person?’

  ‘That’s the definition.’

  Albia accepted this as one more fact that showed Romans were cruel - assuming that idea was what caused her enquiry. Sometimes she was unreadable.

  Albia turned her pale little face to me. ‘Do you think coming from a rough, hard background, being treated ba
dly in their slave generation, explains why those Claudii turned out as they are?’

  ‘Maybe. But some groups, some families are feckless by nature. People carry their character defects from birth, whatever their origin. You find freedmen who are loyal, kind-hearted, hard-working and decent to live with. Then you find noblemen who are vicious, deceitful and intolerable to be around.’

  Albia smiled. ‘Helena would say, “I blame their mothers!” ‘

  Petronius clapped her on the shoulder. ‘There may be some truth in that.’

  ‘So how does this theory explain Anacrites the spy?’

  Petro and I both laughed. I said it: ‘He is just a poor sad boy who never had a mother!’

  Albia gave me a long look. She did not say, since she could see I had just remembered it, that until Helena picked her off the streets in Londinium, she herself had struggled with neither parent.

  Petronius, a father of girls, recognised her mood. ‘Falco is right. Most people do seem to be born with a character inbuilt. So you, Flavia Albia, are destined to be decent, sweet and true.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me!’ Of course, being Lucius Petronius, he had charmed her.

  We left it there. Sergius, with his long whip, was impatient to begin.

  He got as far as ascertaining that the terrified fellow the Fifth had brought us was indeed the slave Livia Primilla owned. When she went to see the Claudii, she had given him instructions to wait three days then if she failed to come home, to go to tell her nephew. Syrus, who looked as if he had come from the interior deserts of Africa, was able to describe the scene: Primilla mounted on a donkey, wearing a round-brimmed travel hat. The slave was poor on garments but thought her outfit was in shades of dark red, with a long fringed stole that was also red or damson coloured. Petronius showed him the sardonyx cameo; he failed to recognise it.

  One new piece of information emerged. Petronius demanded: how could her staff, despite their duty of care to their mistress, have let Primilla go off alone to see the Claudii - especially after Modestus had already gone missing? Syrus said Primilla had intended to meet up with someone: the overseer who looked after the property and who had first found the broken fences, a man called Macer. This was a development. This man had not previously figured in the disappearances. He must be one of the family slaves who had run away.