‘Closing the market sounds crude,’ he admitted. ‘I was thinking ahead, sir. It was clear we were dealing with a highly organised gang. They had already made fools of everyone involved with security at the Emporium.’ He paused. Vespasian quietly indicated that he could go on. Petro got into his stride: ‘My immediate reaction was that the raid was so well done they wouldn’t stop there. We’ll see them again – either at the Emporium, or elsewhere. At this moment they have the advantage of me. I need all the facts – and I need them rapidly. Today I had to discover everything I could about the methods used – how they had identified the goods in advance, for instance. This was no ordinary robbery. The haul was exceptional, and I prophesy big trouble in Rome.’
Without actually answering the original question, Petronius Longus had managed to put the situation in context. He came out of it well, too. I knew it was bluff, but he looked like a man who was planning well.
‘You expect a repetition of today?’
‘I fear it, sir.’
The Emperor leant forwards suddenly. ‘Were you expecting this?’
Petronius did not flinch from the fierce question. ‘No, sir. But I had felt something might happen.’
‘Why?’
‘A power vacuum has been created in the criminal fraternity.’
‘How? Oh, Balbinus Pius of course. You were responsible for that.’
This time Petro was startled. He had not realised that the tablet which Vespasian had been reading when we entered would have been his brief from the secretariat: a swift summary of events today, an account of Petro’s career, a résumé of the Balbinus case, even polite suggestions for handling this interview.
I stepped in: ‘Petronius Longus is too modest to regale you with his success, sir. He was indeed the officer who convicted Balbinus. He found an opportunity to do it, and he saw matters through. He’s too good a man to stop there. He thought ahead, and considered the effect on Rome.’
Vespasian gave no sign of having heard me, though he certainly had. He looked at Petro, who was quite capable of sliding out of this. While I burbled, he had already marshalled his thoughts: ‘Sir, I realised the size of the Emporium heist meant there would be political implications.’
‘Political?’ We had the Emperor’s full attention. He himself had stepped into a power vacuum when he wrested the throne from the various contenders and settled in to remedy the oddities of Nero’s reign and the devastation of the ensuing civil war. He had yet to prove himself. He was working hard, but the benefits of good government take longer than the ravages of bad to become apparent. His grasp on power was still precarious.
I suggested dryly, ‘Robbery on a grand scale casts doubt upon the government’s effectiveness, sir.’
‘No, it casts doubt on the effectiveness of the watch!’ retorted the Emperor.
Petronius was visibly annoyed with me. ‘Sir, it will cause grumbles, I realise. But I take this theft as a signal. It was very bold. Some element is declaring open war –’
‘On whom?’ rapped the Emperor. ‘You? Me?’
‘On the watch, certainly,’ Petro replied slowly. ‘On the state by implication. And probably on other major thieves. Given that context, I should say that it is likely to involve more than one city sector –’
‘That’s beyond your scope!’ Vespasian had an old-fashioned regard for the limits of office. Immediately he reined Petro in: ‘That calls for a co-ordinated strategy.’
‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Petronius, looking meek. ‘I was of course intending to alert my cohort tribune and the Prefect of the City, sir.’ The lying shark!
Vespasian thought about it. ‘I’d better see your tribune. I’d better see them all.’ He gave a slight nod to some sideliner in a white tunic. This silent, virtually invisible official was more than just a secretary. Notes were being made briefly on a tablet, but these were the notes of a man taking instructions. He knew the first rule of administration: always cover yourself. ‘Conference. After lunch. Warn Titus.’ The Emperor spoke offhandedly, though both Petro and I had a sense of starting far more than we had bargained for. He turned back to us. ‘That still leaves the riot to diffuse. What do you suggest?’
Knowing that the man who starts a riot rarely thinks about how he will stop it, I thought best to offer ideas myself. ‘You could mollify the discontent to some degree by announcing compensation, sir.’
‘Compensation?’
I had done it now. I had used a naughty word.
XI
‘Thanks a lot, Falco!’
We were back on the bench in the corridor. The chamberlain who shepherded visitors was looking curious. The white-tunic-clad official strode off. Vespasian’s mention of lunch told us that the ‘few minutes’ we had been told to wait would be several hours. Petronius was furious. ‘Well if that was helping, thanks, Falco! Thanks to you mentioning money, the poor old buffer’s had to rush to his bedroom for a quiet lie-down!’
‘Forget it,’ I assured Petro. ‘Vespasian’s famously tight, but he won’t faint at the mere mention. If he hates our suggestion he’ll say no.’
‘Your suggestion,’ Petro inserted. I ignored it.
We were silent for a while, mulling over events past and recent. ‘What in Hades have you got me into here?’ Petro grumbled.
‘At some point later, when we want to be having our dinner, we’ll find ourselves advising a committee on the fine points of managing crime.’
‘I just want to get back to my case.’
‘This could be the most promising assignment of your life.’
‘Stuff it,’ Petro growled.
* * *
It was in fact lunch time when things started to happen. First the white tunic came and collected us. He wanted to pick our brains. We allowed it, but made sure we shared his lunch.
He introduced himself as Tiberius Claudius Laeta. Evidently a Palace freedman of great status, he had possession of a room that was twice as big as my whole apartment. There, when Vespasian didn’t need a minion to push around, the good Laeta could sit and pick his nose. There, too, persons of lesser status brought him trayloads of sustenance.
‘Nice!’ we said.
‘It’s a living,’ he replied. There was only one winecup but Petro quickly found a couple of dusty extras hidden behind some scroll boxes. The clerk tried to look impressed with our initiative as, smiling like happy new cronies, we poured his flagon for him. Since the wine was free, it proved good enough even for Petro. Laeta raised his cup to us, looking pleased to have company. Being top clerk, which he obviously was, can be a lonely life. ‘So! I gather you’re Falco, one of Anacrites’ men?’
‘I’m Falco,’ I answered patiently. ‘I’m my own man.’
‘Sorry. I understood you worked for the bureau that we don’t talk about.’
‘I have worked for the Emperor. I found the rewards unrealistic, and I don’t plan any more.’
‘Ah!’ The good Laeta managed to say this with an air of discretion, while implying that whatever bureau he served was scheming to put the Chief Spy on the rim of a live volcano and give him a big shove. ‘Maybe you would find it more rewarding working for us.’
‘Maybe,’ I said, fairly peacefully. If it upset Anacrites, I would consider anything.
Claudius Laeta gave me a considered stare, then turned to Petronius. Petro had been stolidly putting away a platter of cold artichoke hearts. As his attention was demanded by our host, I myself started on Laeta’s dish of anchovies. ‘And you are Petronius Longus, of the Aventine Watch?’ Petro nodded, still chewing. ‘Do set me straight about the vigiles. I confuse them with the Urban Cohorts…’
‘Easily done.’ Petronius filled him in politely. Replete, he leant back on a stool and gave Laeta his lecture for new recruits: ‘This is how law and order works in Rome. Top of the heap you have the Praetorian Guard; Cohorts One to Nine, commanded by the Praetorian Prefect, barracked at the Praetorian Camp. Fully armed. Duties: one, guarding the Emperor: two, ceremonial swank
. They are a hand-picked élite, and full of themselves. Next in line and tacked on to them are Cohorts Ten to Twelve, known as the Urbans. Commanded by the Urban Prefect – a senator – who is basically the city manager. Routinely armed with sword and knife. Their unofficial job description is to repress the mob. Duties officially: to keep the peace, keep their ears open, and keep the Urban Prefect informed of absolutely everything.’
‘Spying?’ Laeta queried dryly. ‘I thought Anacrites did that?’
‘He spies on them while they’re spying on us,’ I suggested.
‘And at the bottom,’ Petro continued, ‘doing all the real work, you have the vigiles, commanded by the Prefect of the Vigiles. Unarmed, but run on military lines. Seven cohorts, each led by a tribune who is an ex-chief centurion; each with seven centuries who do the foot patrols. Rome has fourteen administrative regions. Each cohort looks after two. Duties: everything those flash bastards at the Praetorian Camp won’t lower themselves to touch.’
‘So in the Aventine Watch you cover the Twelfth and Thirteenth regions?’
‘Yes. We’re the Fourth Cohort.’
‘And your tribune is?’
‘Marcus Rubella.’ Petro rarely spoke of the tribune, whom he cordially dismissed as a legionary has-been who should have stuck to square-bashing.
‘An equestrian?’
‘Bought it with his discharge grant. Almost enough rank now to be a master criminal,’ Petro replied dryly, thinking of Balbinus Pius.
‘And the main role of the vigiles is fire-watching?’
‘One role.’ Petro hated to be thought of as a mere fireman. ‘Yes, but since that involves patrolling the streets at night, when most crimes are committed, our remit expanded. We apprehend street thieves and housebreakers, round up runaway slaves, keep custodians of tenements and warehouses up to the mark. We spend a lot of effort controlling the baths. Clothes stealing is a big problem.’
‘So you remain a proletarian squad?’ Laeta was falling into the administrator’s trap of obsession with titles and rank.
‘We are freedmen and honest citizens,’ snarled Petro, clearly not amused.
‘Oh quite. And what’s your own position?’
‘Casework,’ said Petro. ‘I head the enquiry team for the Thirteenth district. The foot patrols pound the pavements, sniffing for smoke and apprehending wrongdoers if they meet them face to face. They’re competent for basic tasks like thrashing householders who let stoves fall over. But each cohort has an officer like myself with a small team of agents doing house-to-house searches and general follow-up. Two, in fact, one per district. Between us we trace the stolen goblets and investigate who hit the barmaid over the head with a plank.’
‘Reporting to the tribune?’
‘Partly. We do a lot for the Prefect’s office as well. Any case where more than a public whipping is called for has to go forward to him. The Prefect has a full staff, including a registrar for various lists of undesirables, and an interrogation officer –’
‘He carries out the torturing?’
‘We find brute force can be counterproductive,’ Petro replied: the official disclaimer.
I laughed bitterly. ‘Tell that to a hard case who has just had his privates squeezed in the little back room!’
Petronius chose not to hear me.
‘So…’ Laeta moved on. ‘Tell me your anxieties about the Emporium raid. Your theory is that we have an organised and daring gang moving in on the city centre? I’d like to know how much of Rome is threatened.’
‘Who can say?’ Petronius knew better than to give neat summaries. Criminals don’t follow neat rules. ‘I’d reckon all the central watches ought to be put on alert.’
Laeta made a note. ‘So what is your assessment of the threat?’
‘They are aiming at commodities,’ Petro answered confidently. ‘It will be wharves and stores – not, I think, the general food markets. This affects the Thirteenth region mainly, but also the Eleventh and Twelfth, which include some specialist warehouses. I doubt if the granaries are vulnerable.’
‘Why not?’
‘With the state corn dole for the poor and the rich living off grain from their own estates, where’s the scope for a black market? The bastards might take a swipe at the paper warehouse on the Quirinal. The Saepta Julia will also be a target. The jewellers should be warned.’ Laeta was absorbing all this assiduously.
He had a warm almond omelette under a cover, so we divided that up into three for him and shared it round. Soon the food tray was empty.
Laeta then excused himself. We were allowed to put our feet up in his luxurious bolt hole until required.
‘This is a right mess, Falco!’ Petro tested the flagon but we had already drained it. ‘I don’t want a bunch of amateurs all over my patch.’
‘Don’t burst your pod. It was you who made yourself out to be a master of criminal intelligence.’
‘Hercules Victor! How was I to know a passing thought would be turned into an issue, with secretaries running around like rabbits and a full intersectional conference on major crime being thrown together the same day?’
I grinned at him kindly. ‘Well, you’ve learned something useful here: keep your thoughts to yourself!’
Rooting amongst the scroll boxes, I discovered a slim alabastron of red wine that Laeta had already unbunged and half drunk on some previous occasion. We unbunged it again and helped ourselves. I replaced the container just where I had found it, so Laeta would not think we had been prying amongst his personal stuff.
We took it in turns to nod off.
* * *
Instinct told us when to rouse ourselves. This we had learned primarily while watching for moustachioed Britons to jump out from broom bushes. In fact, the Britons had never jumped us. But the instinct had proved useful for warning us of bad-tempered centurions who didn’t think it was funny if the footsloggers on guard duty happened to lean against a parapet to discuss whether the Greens were having their best season ever in the chariot races at home. At any event, when Claudius Laeta bustled back to fetch us, we were neither leaning nor dozing, but had washed our hands and faces in a bowl that a flunkey had brought for Laeta’s use, then combed our hair like a couple of swanks going to a party, and sat ourselves up like men who could be relied upon.
‘Ah there you are…’ Laeta gazed around his room nervously, as if he expected to find vandalism. ‘The old man’s gone across to his own quarters. We’ll have to make the trip to the Golden House.’
I smiled. ‘Lucius Petronius and I would welcome a stroll in the fresh air.’
Laeta looked worried a second time, as if he was wondering what we had been up to that could necessitate a breather.
* * *
Nero had set out his Golden House across the whole of central Rome. Via a garden that filled the entire valley of the Forum, he had linked the old Palace of the Caesars to a new complex completed for him by masters of architectural innovation and decor. Our conference was held in the new part. I had seen it before. It still made me gasp.
To reach it, we had come down from the Palatine, through the cool, guarded cryptoporticus, and walked across the eastern end of the Forum, past the Vestals’ House and the Sweating Fountain, then around the mess that had recently been the Great Lake dominating the country gardens that Nero had created in the bowl of the Palatine and Esquiline hills. The lake was now a gigantic hole where Vespasian had inaugurated his promised amphitheatre. On the Oppian crest beyond it still stood Nero’s fantastic palace. It was too opulent for the new Flavian dynasty, who had restrained good taste, yet too costly and too exquisite to pull down. To build another palace when Rome itself lay in ruins would look a worse extravagance than Nero’s. So Vespasian and his sons were living here. At least they could blame their mad predecessor.
Claudius Laeta led us through a maze of marble-clad entrance halls and tall, intensely decorated corridors. I think we were in the east wing; the west seemed to be the private quarters. Guards nodde
d Laeta past, and he found his way with ease. To a stranger, the Golden House was deliberately bewildering. Rooms and passageways succeeded one another in a seemingly random profusion. The eye was dazzled with gilt and the gleam of the finest polished marble; the brain was bemused by twists and turns; the ear was assaulted by the continual music of water in fountains and cascades. Petronius stumbled into me as he tried to stare up at the minutely painted ceilings while Laeta hurried us along. Finally we took a dart to the left, glimpsed an apsidal hall, whipped past another room, and stepped into the famous fabulous octagonal dining room.
In Nero’s day people came here for orgies; just our luck to arrive when times had changed and the best we could get was a crime conference.
The room was full of light. There was an open aspect to the south, with a heart-stopping view that we would not be gazing at. There was a theatrical cascade (turned off). There were curtained side rooms in which scenes of revolting debauchery had once occurred (now empty). Above our heads had been the legendary revolving ivory ceiling that had showered gifts down upon lucky diners (dismantled; no presents for us).
Already assembled were Vespasian and his elder son, Titus, seated on thrones. Petronius would like the thrones. He approved of formality. Titus, a younger version of his father but with a jolly hint of chubbiness, gave me a pleasant nod; I showed my teeth politely. Calm administrators were handing them last-minute briefs.
Other officials were just arriving with us. Summoned from their lunches were both the Urban Prefect, who thought he ran the city, and the Prefect of the Vigiles, who really did the work. Each had a fleet of office minions who were shuttled into the side rooms. To speak up for them (since they kept themselves unencumbered by practical knowledge), the prefects had brought all seven tribunes of the vigiles cohorts, including Rubella, the Fourth Cohort’s own top man, to whom Petro was supposed to report any problems before they became public. Rubella had brought a paper cone of sunflower seeds, which he continued to munch surreptitiously. Despite Petro’s scorn, I thought he looked pleasingly human.
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