Nemesis (2010)

by Davis, Lindsey - Falco 20

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said.

  Petro grinned. ‘We could ask him.’

  ‘You could. I wouldn’t. He would only lie. In fact, as long as he can, he has to. He cannot hold a high imperial post as a known relative of murderous criminals.’

  ‘So we’re getting to the heart of this, Falco. What happened to reunite them?’

  ‘Two years ago, or thereabouts,’ Helena reminded us, ‘the mother, Casta, died.’

  We were all silent for a while, wondering what that had been like, for the large sprawling family that Casta had ruled with her mixture of cruelty and indifference. Aristocles had gone before her. Casta’s death destroyed their equilibrium, Virtus told me.

  Aulus leaned forwards. ‘I bet there was a mighty big funeral. The full wailing, hypocritical orations. All sorts of sentimental grief. And presumably it was around then that somebody thought of contacting their long-lost brother Felix.’

  ‘Anacrites went to the funeral,’ stated Maia. She was looking down at her feet. Maia was sitting sideways, adjacent to Petronius. Her feet were small, pressed together tidily, wearing stylish shoes in ox-blood leather. Maia looked at them as if she was wondering where the decorative footgear came from.

  ‘It begs the question,’ mused Helena, ‘how did his siblings find him?’

  Again Maia unexpectedly had answers. ‘He told me once. He had a letter from his mother when she realised she was dying. After all, where he was taken as a child would not have been a secret. Casta must have followed his progress, either from affection or the possessiveness we mentioned. Anacrites answered her summons but when he got there it was too late. I never knew the funeral was in Latium; he kept quiet about his people living in the Pontine Marshes. It was just after I met him he told me, as a conversation gambit.’

  ‘Was he upset?’ asked Albia.

  ‘He seemed so.’

  ‘He could have been acting.’

  ‘There was no reason for that.’

  ‘That’s him, though. Defying logic’

  ‘His feelings need not concern us,’ I said. ‘The funeral was his downfall. Once they knew who he was, his brothers latched on like parasites. They saw Anacrites as their crock of gold. It looked innocent to start with. The twins asked for a job. How could he say no? He employed them; he may have welcomed them - agents he felt he could control, agents who would be loyal to him.’

  Petronius shook his head. ‘The twins arrive in Rome. Anacrites quickly grasps his error: he will never shake them off. They start whining about conditions on the marshes. Their background is a reproach, their presence in Rome an embarrassment. They threaten the spy’s ambitions.’

  ‘He wants out?’ asked Quintus. ‘But they refuse to go.’

  ‘Anacrites’ unpredictability increases due to his head wound,’ Helena said. ‘He becomes vulnerable at work, with his position threatened by Laeta and even by Momus. At some ghastly point he learns the kind of crimes Nobilis and the others have committed. By then he cannot escape.’

  ‘And so we come to the Modestus murder.’ I screwed my thumbs into my belt and took charge of the final argument. ‘Everything went wrong with the fence dispute. Up to that point, I’d say Nobilis probably carried out all his killings in the area around Antium - the bodies Silvius has found. Nobilis and various brothers abducted people for years, usually travellers, often couples. Those cases were concealed, but he lost it with Modestus. By tailing Modestus to Rome, for once Nobilis left a trail. Nobilis - - presumably with Pius or Virtus - - killed Modestus on the Via Appia. They spent several days at the crime site, desecrating the body, then Nobilis went home. Primilla came looking for her husband, so he killed her too, with her overseer, Macer. That meant her nephew alerted the authorities and a posse arrived to shake down the Claudii. From then on, we can assume pressure was put upon Anacrites to protect them. That may well have been when one of them told him about the murders. It made him more insecure and dangerous. Crucially, he inherited the same manipulative traits as the rest of them - - a situation which they may not have foreseen. He turned on them.’

  ‘He may have been appalled by their crimes,’ Helena said, always fair.

  ‘He was certainly furious about how it threatened him personally! Perella was sent after Nobilis, but Nobilis got away. Anacrites tried to remove Nobilis from the scene, taking him to Istria. Whose idea that was we can never know. Perhaps they really found their grandmother. One way or another, Nobilis refused to play; he would not stay in exile. Idiotically, he sailed back with Anacrites - - who then must have been as close to hysteria as he ever gets.’

  ‘Not him!’ Albia scoffed. ‘He thinks himself invincible. In his eyes, everything that happens is manipulated by him. He believes he is a genius. When I was in his house he said, “Falco can’t touch me; I run rings around him”. He had been drinking, but he meant it.’

  With a glance at Petronius, I said slowly, ‘He may in fact have been more clever than we think. What Anacrites achieved may not have been entirely crude. The way he grabbed the Modestus case and warned off Petronius and me seems plain stupid. Some of his actions - - house searches, annoying the Vestals - seem worse.’

  ‘Well, they were!’

  ‘Perhaps not, Petro.’

  ‘Oh Titan’s turds!’ Suddenly, Petronius saw where I was heading. He was tired after last night’s shift with the vigiles. Realisation drowned him in self-disgust and frustration. ‘He cannot be this clever!’

  ‘Lucius, my old friend, I’m afraid he is.’

  ‘He played us?’

  ‘Tickled us like dim trouts in a mountain stream.’

  While Petro cursed and tried to pretend this had not happened, Helena Justina took over from me, to explain the unpleasant truth. ‘Anacrites had a dilemma. The Claudii were threatening to expose his background unless he protected them. He had to make them think he was looking after them - - while all the time that busy brain of his, the intelligence even Laeta compliments, was desperately finding ways to eliminate them instead. He had to deal with each in turn - and without the others noticing. He found the perfect solution. Marcus and Lucius, he used you two.’

  With a deep sigh I acknowledged it. ‘He took away our case -knowing we would refuse to give up. A pattern existed. We had continued on cases secretly before. We hated him. He used our own doggedness against us.’

  Petro shared the confession: ‘He organised either the twins or Nobilis to kill that courier, so they would think he was cleverly diverting attention from them in the Modestus case - ‘

  ‘When I asked, he even admitted the diversion idea stank,’ I said. ‘He made sure we had seen through it. He wanted us to stick to the Claudii.’

  Petronius groaned. ‘Then he began picking them off- - using us. We did his dirty work; he looked innocent to his brothers. He sent Pius to us deliberately. He’d dispatched Virtus to the marshes, so he could not help his twin. We helpfully took Pius - ‘

  ‘We fell for it like automata.’

  ‘So whose idea was that, Falco?’

  ‘Be fair - both of us,’ I pointed out. Petronius shrugged acknowledgement. ‘The spy avoided looking for Pius until he thought we must have finished him off. Even Pius realised he was abandoned.

  He gave up. He saw Anacrites was never going to rescue him, because Anacrites had planned it.’

  ‘Pius could have told us,’ said Petro.

  ‘If he explained what was happening, it was as good as confessing his involvement in the murders. Afterwards, Anacrites probably told Virtus to stay “out of the way” in the marshes, so he never realised his twin had gone missing. We know he then instructed Nobilis to run for cover - just when Quintus and I were on our way to Latium, and might have run into him.’

  Petronius cursed. ‘I bet he knew all along we were working with Silvius and the Urbans. Jupiter, you don’t think Silvius is some crony of his?’

  ‘No. I think Silvius is straight. Concentrate on Anacrites,’ I instructed.

  ‘He jerked our stri
ng. We did everything he wanted. It is a compliment, really,’ Petronius decided, with grim mirth. ‘Marcus, a villain of unbelievable duplicity entrusted us with his schemes. We should feel proud he believes in us so much!’

  ‘I am proud of the work. We put four criminals out of action, after they had preyed on a community for decades. That is what we do with our lives, Lucius, and it is commendable.’

  Quintus and Aulus Camillus had been listening with tense expressions. I stood up. I paced the room a few times, before telling them. ‘For Petronius and me, the work is not yet finished. I wanted you two to hear all this. Now I want you to go away and leave us to it. Preserve your knowledge of these facts, as curators of the truth. I need you to know, in case the rest goes wrong.’

  ‘The rest?’ demanded Quintus quickly.

  ‘Don’t do it!’ muttered Aulus. ‘Going after him is far too dangerous. Leave it, Falco. My father tried, but Titus spoke up for the spy. At the Palace they believe he is good at his job. The official decision has been made: Anacrites is too valuable to remove.’

  ‘I expected that. Hence this council.’

  I looked around the room: Helena; her brothers; my sister; our adopted daughter; Petronius; me. A close, closed circle, all of us touched in some way by the spy’s past actions, all threatened by his future schemes.

  ‘Helena?’

  Helena glanced at Albia, then Maia. ‘What do we all think?’

  ‘Leave him - - and it will only grow worse,’ prophesied Maia darkly.

  ‘He claimed he can do anything he wants,’ added Albia. ‘I argued that he is accountable to the Emperor - but he told me emperors will come and go. He stays. He answers only to history.’

  ‘Hubris!’ Helena retorted, as if charging Anacrites in person. ‘Self-centred aggrandisement - an insult to the gods. What will the gods do about it?’ she then wondered. Her dark brown eyes inevitably sought mine.

  ‘Send Nemesis to deal with him,’ I answered.

  LXII

  There were two stages: the search and the action. I may have implied to my loved ones there would be one other element beforehand: mature consideration. But Petronius and I dispensed with that.

  Our division of labour was simple. We both reconnoitred the chosen location for the deed, convinced ourselves no one would bother us there, surveyed escape routes. We identified a dump site. We knew it would work; I had used it once before. Petro was bringing swords and a crowbar for the manhole. I had to find the spy.

  It was important that nobody noticed me looking. That ruled out knocking on the door at Anacrites’ house, pretending to sell hot sausages; his staff knew who I was. Even worse would have been showing my face on the Palatine, asking the clerk in the office, Phileros, for details of his whereabouts, allowing the rheumy-eyed Momus to spot me, contacting that snake Laeta. They might all guess my role later; I could live with suspicion. But I must leave no trace of the process. There was no point conducting this kind of operation if it left new witnesses who could apply new pressure. We wanted clean air and a quiet life, with no further harassment.

  I spent much of the day checking known haunts. That was depressing. Anacrites had pitiful taste in lunch bars. I watched Ma’s house for an hour or so, but she was entertaining Aristagoras, her ninety-year-old smooch. Anacrites must be in his office, working his ordinary day. Arrive, work, plot, gloat, leave for bath and dinner.

  At the eighth hour I made my way somewhere I had never been before, though I had heard of it, back in the days when Anacrites and I worked together on the Census. He had told me then it was his favourite and I had stored the information in an empty brain cell, for potential use one day. It was an expensive private bath house on the south end of the Circus, in a short sunny street near the Temple of Sol and Luna.

  Nobody knew me. The cloakroom boy confirmed Anacrites was there. I said I was an off-duty investment consultant and the spy had agreed to see me about buying a dog-collar factory in Bithynia. Madness always pays off. They let me in straight away.

  My quarry was at that moment not plying his strigil in a steam room; he had moved on and was secluded in a curtained room, experiencing - - though certainly not enjoying - - the attentions of a team of personal hygienists. I could have waited for him to emerge, but not waiting was so much more fun.

  They had a security system, designed to put off the inquisitive: they simply told anyone to push off, if they insensitively noticed screaming. The bouncer was a plump dwarf in a short tight white tunic, who doubled as manicurist. She offered me a half-price cuticle tidy up, but I declined without regret.

  ‘No time, precious. I am absolutely bursting to see my dear old friend in here - don’t worry, he always lets me come and watch. We have no secrets!’

  Well, until today he had had this one.

  I whipped aside a sagging length of moth-eaten purple cloth that gave clients imagined privacy. I would not have put myself in this position without an oak door, five-tumbler barrel locks, armed guards and an attack dog.

  There were a couple of couches, one occupied. I had found him, and he must be cursing me. Well, he would have been, if he had not had his teeth gritted in serious agony.

  Four or five practitioners were frowning with concentration as they applied themselves to the spy’s selected parts. He was splayed on his front at that moment, legs apart and feet towards me. I always realised he must depilate his arms and legs. Now I knew he boasted hideous fancy stuff under his tunic. When I burst in he was not wearing one. He was naked, apart from a light coating all over with very high quality almond oil.

  The hair-removers had scythed off his torso rug and defoliated his buttock fur. Now they were subjecting him to the most painful part of their expensive duties. Anacrites had bought the whole deal. The specialists were giving him what is known in louche circles as a back, sac and crack. Or so I am told. You would never catch me having it.

  He was probably dying for the agony to stop, but when I entered the room those attending to him did not pause. Their instructions were probably to keep going, just as long as the customer could stand it.

  ‘It’s Falco. No - don’t move an inch!’ I carolled cheerily. ‘This is too good to miss! I have spent many hours imagining resourceful ways to torture you - but, Tiberius Claudius Anacrites, I never thought of hot pitch poured on your exposed genitals!’

  Whoever did think of it, and persuaded him to have it done, deserved to be awarded a radiate diadem.

  Anacrites let out a faint mortified cry. I assured him he could take his time, make a thorough job of it with the hot pitch peel, ensure every naughty stray hair was yanked out with the tweezers. I said I could not bear to watch, but I would wait for him outside, enjoying a glazed honeycake from one of the bath house’s itinerant food tray men. ‘I need to see you urgently. If you are still on the Modestus case, this is about Nobilis.’

  He bounced out not long afterwards, pretending nothing had happened. Perhaps embarrassment clouded his judgement from that point.

  I was holding a packet of honeycakes, which I had decided would be reassuring. I announced that Nobilis had escaped capture in Latium (this was why I had asked Silvius to delay his report). According to me, Nobilis had trekked back to Rome, where he was spotted by the bright-eyed vigiles. Petronius Longus knew where he was and was guarding the location; since it was the spy’s case, I had come to fetch him. ‘He’s hiding up. The place looks grim, but Petronius and I are with you. There’s no time to wait for back-up; he has a hundred escape routes available.’

  Anacrites did ask, ‘How do I know you’re not lying, Falco?’

  ‘You don’t,’ I replied curtly - - that old double bluff, which never fails if your opponent is conceited. Taking it upon himself to believe me was a daring executive decision.

  He agreed to come. He had no bodyguards with him at the baths, so it was him and me. I said Petro had told us to hurry, because he was alone on guard. So we walked rapidly through Rome, just a short distance. As we strode side by si
de, with Anacrites trying to forget his privates were painful (but walking with great difficulty, I was glad to see), I let myself make comparisons.

  Although my own family were a ramshackle feckless bunch, to Anacrites the Didii must be a thousand times better and happier than his: warm, vibrant, cheerful and, under their craziness, caring about one another. I was starting to see why Helena had always thought Anacrites yearned to be me - yearned for it, yet felt so jealous he wanted to destroy what I had.

  This was crucial to understanding him: the contrast between my Aventine family and his swamp-dwelling relations. His set had ended up alienated and dire, all petty criminals, some venal. Mine might look hopeless and annoying but they mostly had good hearts. Clearly it was due to Ma. Her life was a struggle but she always took a determined interest in her offspring; too much, we thought, though it produced results. Anacrites, spawned in trouble and ripped from his roots, ended up amoral and friendless. I had been given tenacious ethics and could relate to most people. He might easily have gone the way of his murdering brothers - perhaps had done. I never could. One of us was unavoidably a villain, the other perhaps a hero.

  A tangle of streets close to the Forum was the place Petronius and I had chosen. It was ripe to be redeveloped by some free-spending emperor. Perhaps by the time we were very old men it would be.

  We met Petronius Longus at the end of a narrow alley called Nap Lane. He was carrying equipment, well wrapped up. It struck me that this alley was an urban version of that ravine near Antium. Previously known to both of us, it was a bare wagon’s width across; a laden cart could lose its cargo, bashing against the walls. Steep, boarded-up facades of abandoned buildings rose either side. They made the street, which was clogged with dried mud and littered with fly-tipped debris, almost too dark to see down. Absentee entrepreneurs owned or rented decayed warehouses here, either left empty or half filled with stolen goods. Shady runaways sometimes sheltered in these cordoned-off, rotting premises; most were too scared and preferred to starve and be mugged in the shade of bridges where someone might at least find their corpses.