Nemesis (2010)

by Davis, Lindsey - Falco 20

  XLII

  Once, I thought he had been weeping while we left him alone. On my return, his eyes were dull, as if in the long interval of solitude, he had been remembering old pain. But his resistance stiffened. Someone had spent years conditioning this man. We could not touch him. He would endure all, without weakening and collapsing. He would ride it out, even curbing signs of hostility, until we gave up.

  We were tiring of the game. He had stopped refusing to tell us things. He stopped talking to us at all.

  ‘I’m going to throw a bucket of cold water at him.’

  ‘No don’t do that. This is my house, Petro. I don’t want water everywhere. You go and have a bite. There’s some really good goat’s cheese, just came from the market this morning, strong and salty. And I’ve put out a flask of Alban wine; believe me, you really need to try it. Leave me with our friend here.’

  Petronius left the room.

  ‘Now, here we are, cosy and private. How about you tell me who you are and what you do for Anacrites?’

  No answer.

  I threw a bucket of cold water at him.

  XLIII

  A development. Helena Justina had been brooding ever since we first brought the man into the house. Now she braced herself, waited until everyone else was preoccupied, then came down to see what was happening.

  We had the bench standing properly at that time. He was looking up at the ceiling, or he would have been, had he not appeared to be asleep. Petronius and I were standing back, arms folded, thinking up our next move. At that quiet moment, Helena must have been surprised by the ordinary atmosphere. She may have felt relieved by the lack of violence. Then she realised it was more sinister than it appeared.

  Petronius and I greeted her affably. Outwardly normal, we could have been two men in a workshop who had been preoccupied with a big carpentry project; she could be the woman of the house just making sure two simple lags were not drinking nettle beer brewed in a billycan or reading pornographic scrolls. Our sleeves were rolled up high. Our attitude was businesslike; though drained by days of concentrated, unsuccessful effort, we were feeling weary.

  The man on the bench seemed aware that Helena had entered the room. His eyelids flickered, though his eyes stayed closed. She stood there: more gaunt facially since she lost the baby, tall, positive though wary, dressed in drifting summer white, wafting a light silver-blue stole, as cool as refreshing sorbet chilled in a rich man’s snow-cellar. He might smell her citrus perfume. He must hear the quiver of her bangles and her clear voice.

  Observant and intelligent, she absorbed the scene. I watched her looking for signs of what we had been doing - while dreading what she might learn. There was nothing to see. Everything looked clean and neat. She focused on the man. She saw his exhaustion, how hunger, thirst, isolation and fear were bringing him close to hallucination, despite his ferocious will to resist. He had to fight now, to stop his mind wandering.

  Helena realised how our task had dispirited Petronius and me too, how our power over the helpless man would soon defile us. Most men would have been corrupted from the moment the prisoner was taken and tied up, his helplessness freeing them from moral restraint. Even we had to struggle to avoid being most men.

  ‘This is too brutal. I want you to stop.’ The words were firm, but Helena’s voice shook.

  ‘We can’t, love. It’s about long-term sanction of bad neighbours’ bullying. It’s about murder, and official cover-ups of murder. He seems to be involved. If his activities have an innocent explanation, he only has to tell us.’

  ‘You are being bullies too.’

  ‘Necessarily.’

  ‘He is close to collapse.’

  ‘He has endured worse, we can tell.’

  ‘Then you won’t break him,’ Helena said.

  We ourselves were starting to dread that. We had learned that he had been ready for the ordeal. He had put himself into a state of passivity. His background must be bad. His past experience hardly showed physically; there were no old marks or scars. We could not deduce what his previous life consisted of, though we could tell he knew humiliation and deprivation. When we made threats, he knew that situation too. He was in many ways quite ordinary, a face in any crowd. He was like us, and yet unlike us.

  Helena had come with a prepared speech. Petro and I stood at rest and heard her out.

  ‘I have only agreed to what you have been doing because Anacrites is so dangerous. I am horrified by what you have done to this man. You have toyed with him, teased him, tortured him. You have obliterated his personality. This is inhumane. It goes on for days, he never knows what will happen in the end - Marcus, Lucius, can you explain to me what difference there is between your mistreatment of this man, and the way that the killers of Julius Modestus abducted and abused him?’

  ‘We have not used knives on him,’ said Petro bleakly. The urge to keep up pressure on the agent got the better of him: ‘Well - not yet.’ He gestured to the hideous collection we had taken from our abductee. ‘Those are his. Assume he carried them to use.’

  It was an instinctive response, not the real answer. I knew Helena, loved her, respected her enough to find a better reply: ‘There is a difference. We have a legitimate purpose - the general good. Unlike the killers, we don’t relish this. And unlike their victims, this man can easily stop what is happening. All he has to do is answer us.’

  Helena still stood there rebelliously.

  ‘He has a choice,’ Petronius reinforced me.

  ‘He looks half dead, Lucius.’

  ‘That makes him half alive. He is better off than a corpse - by a long way.’

  Helena shook her head. ‘I don’t approve. I don’t want him to die here in my house. Besides, you are running a huge risk. Surely Anacrites could burst in to rescue him any minute?’

  The man on the bench had opened his eyes; he was now watching us. Had mention of Anacrites revived him? Or did Helena’s spirited speech awaken hopes he had not known he harboured?

  Helena saw the alteration. She moved closer, inspecting him. His light-skinned, now heavily stubbled face had a faint scatter of liver spots or freckles. His nose was upturned; his eyes were pale, a washed-out hazel colour. He could be, as he had told us, from Italy, though he looked different from true dark-eyed Mediterraneans.

  In a much lower voice, Helena spoke to him directly. ‘Anacrites will not be coming for you, will he? For some reason he has abandoned you.’

  The man closed his eyes again. He shook his head very slightly, in resignation.

  Helena breathed in. ‘Listen, then. All they really want to know is where that cameo jewel originated.’

  At last he spoke. He said something to her, speaking almost inaudibly.

  She moved away again and looked at us. ‘He says it was found in undergrowth, out on the marshes.’ Helena walked to the door. ‘Now you two, I want him out of here, please.’

  She refrained from saying, That was easy, wasn’t it?

  We refrained from pointing out he could be lying; he probably was.

  When she had gone, Petronius asked him, in a quiet, regretful tone of voice, ‘I don’t suppose if we took you to the marshes, you would point out the spot where you say this cameo was found? Or tell us more about the context?’

  The man on the bench smiled for once, as if he let himself enjoy our understanding; he shook his head sadly. He lay quite still. He seemed to believe that the end was coming. It looked as if he had decided there was no hope now, never had been any.

  He spoke to us, the first time in two days. He croaked, ‘Are you going to kill me?’

  ‘No.’

  We had our standards.

  XLIV

  The next time I emerged from the room, I was shocked to find the hallway full of luggage. Sheepish slaves carried on moving chests out through the front doors, clearly aware that I had not been told what was going on. I bit my lip and did not ask them.

  I found Helena. She was sitting motionless in the salon, as if
waiting for me to interrogate her as roughly as we were dealing with the agent. Instead, I merely gazed at her sadly.

  ‘I cannot stay here, Marcus. I cannot have my children in this house.’ Her voice was low. Her anger was only just under control.

  The usual thoughts passed through my head - that she was being unreasonable (though I knew she had tolerated what was going on longer than I could have expected) and that this was some overreaction in the grief she was still feeling after the baby’s death; I had the sense not to say that.

  I seated myself opposite, wearily. I held my head in my hands. ‘Tell me the worst.’

  ‘I have sent the girls away and now that I have spoken to you, I will be joining them.’

  ‘Where? How long for?’

  ‘What do you care?’

  Flaring up like that against me was so rare, it shocked me. A terrible moment passed between us as I held back the urge to retaliate with equal anger. Perhaps fortunately, I was too tired. Then perhaps because I was so exhausted, Helena was able to see me as vulnerable and to relent slightly.

  ‘I care,’ I said. After a moment I forced out the question: ‘Are you leaving me?’

  Her chin went up. ‘Are you still the same man?’

  The truth was, I no longer knew. ‘I hope so.’

  Helena let me suffer, but briefly. Staring at the floor, she said, ‘We will go to your father’s villa on the Janiculan.’

  She started to rise. I went across to her; taking her hands in mine I forced her to look at me. ‘When I have finished, I will come and fetch you all.’

  Helena tugged her hands free.

  ‘Helena, I love you.’

  ‘I loved you too, Marcus.’

  Then I laughed at her gently. ‘You still do, sweetheart.’

  ‘Cobnuts!’ she snapped, as she swept from the room. But the put-down she had used was a habitual one of mine, so I knew that I had not lost her.

  I had to bring this to a finish.

  Petronius and I had told the man we would not kill him. We could never give him back, however. Capturing one of the spy’s agents was irreversible. So what happened to him next would involve more terror, cruel treatment and - soon, probably, though not soon enough for him - his death, even if it was not at our hands.

  Petro and I had talked about a solution. We abandoned our efforts to extract information and made final arrangements. I had thought of a way to do this, so there would be no comeback.

  I left the house, the first time I had been out for days. I went to see Momus. For an eye-watering sum, Momus fixed it up for me. I did not say who we wanted to put away so discreetly, or why; with his sharp grasp of a filthy situation, Momus knew better than to request details. When he wrote out a docket he just asked, ‘Are you telling me his real name - - or shall I give him a new one?’

  We still did not know who he was. He was so hard, he consistently refused to tell us. ‘Anonymity would be ideal.’

  ‘I’ll make him a Marcus!’ Momus jeered, always one for a joke in bad taste.

  I was startled how easy it was to make somebody disappear. Anacrites’ man would be taken away from my house that night. The overseer who worked for the Urban Prefect was now expecting an extra body; when we delivered the Melitan, he would be infiltrated among a batch of convicts who were going for hard labour in the mines. This punishment was intended to be a death sentence, an alternative to crucifixion or mauling by the arena beasts. Protest would be pointless. Convicted criminals always claimed to be the victims of mistakes. Nobody would listen. No one in Rome would ever see him again. Chained with an iron neck-collar in a slave gang in a remote part of some overseas province, stripped and starved, he would be worked until it killed him.

  We told him. I had once worked as a slave in a lead mine, so I knew all the horrors.

  We gave him a last chance. And he still said nothing.

  LXV

  Soon after I returned home alone after removing the agent, Anacrites came to the house.

  I had bathed and eaten. I had devoted time to making sure all trace of recent events had been removed. I was in my study, reading a scroll of affable Horace to cleanse my sullied brain. It was late. I was missing my family.

  A slave announced the spy was downstairs. Would I see him? This was how things worked now; I would probably get used to it. Helena must have stiffened the staff, teaching them not to let visitors get past them. It gave a prosperous householder a few moments to prepare himself - much better than the days when any intruder walked right into my shabby apartment, saw exactly what I had been doing (and with whom), then forced me to listen to his story whether I cared or not.

  I paused to wonder at the spy’s timing - did he know we had shed our prisoner? Then I went in my house slippers to greet him.

  He had no Praetorians. The other ‘Melitan’ was not with him either. He had brought a couple of low-grade men, though when I invited him up he left them below in the entrance hall. Taking no chances, I put slaves to watch them. I had known him when he only had available a legman with enormous feet and a dwarf; later he hired a professional informer, though he was killed on duty. A woman worked with him sometimes. This pair today -were a grade up from basic, ex-soldiers I guessed, though pitiful; in a peaceful province they would have been relegated to rampart turf-cutting or in war they would have been expendable, mere spear fodder.

  ‘I called in to wish you good fortune, Falco, on the Feast of the Rustic Vinalia,’ Anacrites bluffed. I rarely honoured feast days, whether mystic or agricultural; nor did he, in my experience. I had sat with him in our Census office, yearning in vain for him to leave early to go sardine-munching at the Fishermen’s Games in the Transtiberina or to pay his respects to Invincible Hercules.

  ‘Thanks; how civil’ I refrained from bringing out a rock-crystal flagon of rotgut nouveau.

  Anacrites favoured guarded sobriety while he was working - so different from Petronius and me, abandoning care at every opportunity and living on the edge. He made no attempt to cadge a festival drink. Significantly, as was also his tendency, he straightway lost his nerve. Despite having probably spent hours perfecting an excuse, he came right out with it: ‘I have mislaid an agent.’

  ‘Careless. What’s it to me?’

  ‘He was last seen outside your house. You won’t object if I take a look around here, will you, Falco?’

  ‘This is hardly an amicable gesture - and after we all had such a rollicking time at your hog-roast too! Still, help yourself. I dare say there is no point objecting. If you find him squatting on my property, I’ll want compensation for his upkeep.’

  This terse banter was interrupted by new arrivals. For an instant I thought the spy had brought the Guards after all. Someone banged the front door knocker in a military manner, though then a key scratched in the lock angrily: Albia. She had been roaming on her own again. I knew Helena had been unable to find her when the others left for the Janiculan; I was supposed to send the girl on. She looked disgruntled and, curiously, was accompanied by Lentullus.

  ‘Thanks, jailor, you can go now!’ she ordered him crossly. She stalked across the vestibule. From choice I would have ordered Lentullus to wait, so he could explain out of the spy’s hearing. Albia turned back from the stairs and made furious signals for him to clear off.

  Lentullus stood to attention and announced, ‘Camillus Justinus asked me to return your young lady, Falco. He saw her outside our house, staring - it’s a habit she’s prone to recently.’

  ‘Oh Albia!’ I dreaded having to play the heavy-handed father.

  ‘Looking is not a crime,’ she snarled.

  ‘You have been harassing a senator,’ I disagreed, all too conscious of Anacrites listening in. ‘If I know you, girl, you do your best to make your glare upsetting. Lentullus, please apologise to the senator. Thank Justinus for his kindly intervention, and assure them all this will not be repeated.’

  ‘It’s just that the Greek lady was getting spooked,’ said Lentullus. ‘The tribu
ne said we’d better whip your girlie back home today and have a word with you about it.’ He beamed at Albia, showing his admiration. ‘She’s a bit of a one, isn’t she?’

  ‘One and a half,’ I grumbled. ‘Anacrites, would you just excuse me for a moment while I sort out a reward for Lentullus - -‘

  Anacrites waved me away, since he was then able to approach Albia. I heard the bastard offer that if she ever needed a refuge from family troubles, she knew where his house was … This evening had become a disaster.

  Behind the spy’s back I quickly passed to Lentullus the cameo jewel, pressing it against his palm the way Aulus had given it to me. Being Lentullus, he needed a really big wink to help him get the point. ‘Remember the time we hid the tribune in that old apartment of mine? Can you find it again - - above the Eagle Laundry in that little street? Could you possibly take a detour up there on your way back home?’ I muttered -where there was a hiding-place in my old doss, and Lentullus promised to conceal the jewel.

  Albia had broken away from Anacrites and barged up, thinking I was talking about her. She sensed me making arrangements with Lentullus. ‘I’ll take Nux for a walk - - if I’m allowed out?’

  ‘You’ve just been out - - but you are not a prisoner. Just stop stalking Camillus Aelianus - - and keep away from other men as -well.’ I meant the spy. Lentullus was too much of a clown to count.

  I returned to Anacrites and his planned search of my house. ‘Who are you looking for?’ Better to ask, rather than admit I knew. ‘Does your lost lamb have a name?’

  ‘State secret,’ Anacrites mumbled, pretending to make a joke of it.

  ‘Oh, one of your precious bodyguards, would that be?’ This was like trying to squeeze a dry sponge, one that had been desiccated in the sun on a harbour wall for three weeks. He nodded reluctantly, so I added, ‘Aren’t there two? Where’s the other one? Doesn’t he know what his brother’s been up to?’

  Anacrites shot me a suspicious glance. ‘How do you know they are brothers?’