I wondered if Anacrites had been allowed into that insiders' sanctum this time. He knew how things worked. The damage to Maia's previous much-loved sun terrace, when he trashed her place, had been particularly vile.
Helena had come with me tonight. Maia greeted her with a sniff. 'Oh he's brought a woman to worm out all the secrets, has he? You think I'll be softened up by girls' chat?'
Helena gave an easy-going laugh. 'I'll sit with the children.' We had glimpsed them, doing schoolwork in subdued silence: Maia's four, who ranged from six to thirteen, plus Petronilla, Petro's girl, who lived here most of the time now because her mother had a new boyfriend. Petronilla had condemned Silvia's latest conquest as 'a lump of mouldy dough'. She was eleven and already scathing. So far, Petro was still her hero, though he expected daddy's little girl to begin disparaging him any day now.
A shadow darkened Maia's face. 'Yes,' she said urgently. 'Yes, Helena. Do that.' So the children knew Anacrites had been here, and they needed comfort.
I was shepherded to the balcony. Maia closed the folding doors behind us. We sat together, in our usual positions.
'Right. You had a visitation. Tell me.'
Now we were private, I could see how badly Maia was shaken. 'I don't know what he wanted. Why now, Marcus?'
'What did he say he wanted?'
'Explaining is not his style, brother.'
I lay back and breathed slowly. Around us were the noises of a domestic district at nightfall. Here on the Aventine, there was always a sense of being high above the city and slightly aside of the centre. Occasional sounds of traffic and trumpets came from a very great distance. Closer to, owls hooted from the gilded roof trees of very old temples. There were all the normal wafts of grilled fish and panfried garlic, the rumpus of angry women berating tipsy men, the weary wails of sick or unhappy children. But this was our hill, the hill where Maia and I grew up. It was a place of augury, foliage gods and slaves' liberation. It was where Cacus the hideous caveman once lived and where the poets' association traipsed about singing silly odes. For us the flavours were subtly distinct from every other Rome region.
'Better start at the beginning,' I told Maia in a quiet voice.
'He came this morning.'
'If I am to evaluate what this bastard is really up to,' I said quietly, 'then start right at the beginning.'
Maia was silent. I gazed across at her. Normally you think of your sister as she was at eighteen. Tonight, by the flicker of a pottery lamp, every year was etched on her. I was thirty-six; Maia was two years younger. She had survived a wearisome marriage, births, the death of one daughter, a cruel widowhood and ensuing financial hardship, then a couple of crazy dalliances. There were at least a couple; I was her brother, what would I know? Her worst mistake was when she let Anacrites home in on her.
'You never really told us: was it serious?'
'Not for me.' For once Maia was so unnerved she opened up. 'I met him, you know, after he was hurt and you took him to Mother's to recuperate.' Maia was the kind of daughter who was always popping into Ma's house to share a cabbage – keeping an eye on the old tyrant. 'After Famia died, Anacrites turned up one day. He treated me respectfully – that was a change after Famia using me as a boot scraper for all those years…'
'You liked him?'
'Why not? He was well dressed, well spoken, well set up in an official position – -'
'Did he tell you about his work?'
'He told me what it was. He never discussed details… I was ready,' Maia admitted. 'Ready for a fling.'
I could not resist my next question. Be honest, legate, you would have begged to know too: 'Good lover?' Maia merely stared at me. I cleared my throat and played responsible. 'You made it clear all along that you wanted nothing permanent?'
'At first it could have gone anywhere.' I controlled a shudder. 'But I soon felt he was pressing too close. There was something about him,' Maia mused. 'Something just not right.'
'He's a creep. You felt it.'
'I suppose so.'
'Instinct.'
'I certainly see him as a creep now.'
'I don't understand. I never understood why you had anything to do with him, Maia.'
'I told you. He comes over well when he wants. The man had had a terrible head injury, so I thought any oddness was because of the damage.'
'Well, I like to be fair – - only I knew Anacrites long before he had his skull bashed in by some bent Spanish oil producers. He was sinister from the start. I've always thought,' I told Maia, 'the head wound only made his character more visible. He's a snake. Untrustworthy, obnoxious, poisonous.'
Maia said nothing. I did not insist. I never wanted to push her into admitting she had been fooled.
'We had nothing in common,' she said in a depressed voice. 'As soon as I told him there was no future, I felt so relieved it was over -' So true. Women are not sentimentalists. I remembered how she had immediately begun flirting with Petronius, who happened to be available. 'Anacrites would not believe that we were finished – then he turned vindictive. You know the rest, Marcus. Don't make me go over it.'
'No, no,' I reassured her. He had hung about, morosely stalking her, until the fateful day he had her home destroyed. I could see my sister growing tense as she tried to avoid those memories. 'Just tell me, what happened today, Maia?'
'For some reason, I opened the door – I don't know why. He hadn't knocked. There he was – - standing in the passage, right outside. I was completely shocked. How long had he been out there? He got inside before I caught my breath.'
'Then what?'
'He kept pretending everything was normal. It was just a social call.'
'Was he unpleasant?'
'No. Marcus, I hadn't seen him, not to talk to, since I gave him his marching orders.'
'Were you scared?'
'I was worried Lucius would come home. There would have been a horrendous row. Anyway, I pretended he was there, asleep indoors, so I shooed the spy away. You know Anacrites – I thought he probably realised I was lying.'
'So what did he say?'
'That was the funny thing.' Maia frowned. 'He tried small talk – not that he knows how to do it. His conversation is zero. That was one reason I couldn't continue with him. After Famia, I needed a man who would respond if I talked to him.'
I laughed. 'Oh, you get banter from Lucius Petronius?'
'He has his hidden side; don't all of you!' scoffed Maia. 'I was about to mention the incident, when Anacrites actually brought the subject up himself. Apologised. According to him it was "an administrative mistake". Then he pleaded his injury, said he couldn't remember properly. He tried to make me sorry for him by telling me how tired he had been, how he had to cover that up so he didn't lose his job, how he had lost years of his life through being bludgeoned… Anyway – and this is what I wanted to tell you, Marcus – Anacrites seemed mainly interested in that case he's taken off you,' said Maia. 'The warty melon kept trying to extract from me just what you and Lucius have found out.'
'And you said…?'
'I had nothing to tell him. You know Lucius.'
Petronius never believed in discussing his work with his womenfolk. Anacrites should have approached Helena instead – she knew everything; not that she would break my confidence. He was too scared of her to attempt it, of course.
Anacrites had upset my sister for nothing. He had angered me too – - and if Petro heard about this, he would be livid.
Maia and I agreed that Petronius had better not be told.
XXVII
With Petronius stuck in Rome, grounded by his tribune, I made another trip to the coast.
This time Helena came with me. I took her to see Pa's maritime villa. I brought Nux as well, since my household was completely ruled by the dog. Luckily tearing through the pinewoods and racing along the beach suited her just fine. Nux was prepared to allow us to keep this wonderful place.
Helena also approved, so we spent several days discussing ho
w to arrange things to suit us, turning the house into a seaside family home rather than a businessman's retreat. While we were working, some of the slaves reported a man hanging around in the woods. He was a stranger to them, but from their description, I wondered if it was one of Anacrites' agents.
We knew a woman who lived with the priestesses at a temple in Ardea. Driving off with a deal of commotion, Helena went to visit her. I stayed at the villa; I made myself visible shifting furniture and artwork to outbuildings, then spent time loafing on a daybed on the shore while the dog brought driftwood to me. The mysterious sightings stopped. I hoped the agent had gone back to Rome to report that I was at the coast for domestic reasons.
It would be typical of Anacrites to waste time and resources. He should have been pursuing the Claudii. Instead he was obsessed with Petro and me. He knew us well; he knew we would try to pip him on the case. But that cut both ways. We understood him too.
On Helena's return we went down to Antium. We -were enjoying our break from the children, and we did love to be out and about on enquiries. She was right: I must never stop doing this work – and when it was feasible I must always let her join in.
Helena was charmed by Antium, with its shabby, outdated grandeur. As always happens, there was nothing we wanted to see at the theatre, though old posters told us annoyingly that the week before Davos, our old contact who was Thalia's lover, had presented a play here. I would really have liked the chance for a chat with Davos!
Exploring more successfully than I had had time to do with Albia, Helena and I managed to find decent local baths then a cluster of fish restaurants. We lingered over a fine meal, eaten out of doors with grand sea views from the lofty precipice where Antium stood. This was always an hour when we liked to come together, to relax, review the day and reassert our partnership. With just the two of us tonight, it was like old times – that elusive condition married people should seek more often.
As we savoured the last of our wine, I took her hand and said, 'Everything will be all right.'
'The case, Marcus?'
'No, not that.'
Helena knew what I meant.
We enjoyed the evening a little longer, then I went to pay the bill and ask the restaurant-keeper where he bought his bread. His baker was not Vexus, Demetria's father; still, the man gave me suggestions where to start looking next day.
I went on my own, leaving Helena to take Nux around the forum.
It took me some tramping of narrow streets. Vexus worked at the edge of the city, with one small oven and not even his own grindstone. It was a rough, depressed quarter with dusty streets where half-starved dogs lay on doorsteps like corpses. There were better shops, with a better clientele, in the smarter areas. This man, a short, thickset ugly-faced fellow, baked heavy dark ryebread for the poor. He looked as if he had been miserable for the past thirty years. I began to understand how his daughter, growing up here without a future, might have settled for one of the Claudii. Even so, there seemed nothing basically wrong with the home she came from. Unless she had only one eye in the middle of her forehead yet failed to attract men with her novelty value, there was no reason for Claudius Nobilis to assume she was so desperate he could treat her badly.
I bought a bread roll to start the conversation; it never works. As soon as I said what I wanted, Vexus turned unhelpful. He had not overflowed with customer care to start with. I introduced myself and I might have been trying to sell him a silver-boxed ten-scroll set of Greek encyclopaedias. Used ones.
'Get lost.'
'I want to help your daughter.'
'Leave my daughter alone. She's not here and she's had enough trouble.'
'Can I see her?'
'No.'
'I don't blame you – - but my enquiry won't harm her. Maybe I can get the Claudii off her back.'
'I'd like to see that!' Vexus implied I wasn't up to it.
'Will you at least tell me about Nobilis?'
'Mind your own business.'
'I'd like to – but those wastrels on the marsh have become the Emperor's business. I'm stuck with investigating. So let me guess: your girl married Nobilis when she was too young to know what she was doing – against your advice, no doubt? It went sour. He beat her.' I wondered if the father was violent too. He looked strong, but controlled. Still, men from boot-menders up to the consulship have been known to conceal their domestic brutality. 'Did they have any children?'
'No, thank Jove!'
'So Demetria decided to leave, but Nobilis would not let her go. She came home; he hated it. She found someone else, and he put a stop to that… Right?'
'Nothing to say.'
'Is she still with her new man?'
'No.'
'Nobilis put the scares on?'
'Half killed him.'
'In front of her?'
'That was the point, Falco!'
'So the new man caved in?'
'He got rid of her,' agreed her father bitterly.
A ghastly thought struck me. 'Don't say she went back to Nobilis?'
Vexus pressed his lips together in a thin line. 'Thankfully, I put a stop to that.'
'But she was so frightened, doing what Nobilis said became a possibility?'
'No,' said the baker, with heavy emphasis. 'She was so frightened it was never a possibility.'
That was all he would tell me. I left details for Demetria to contact me, if she would. No chance. I heard the tablet with my name on it thump into a trash bucket before I got back outside to the street.
I asked about Demetria around the neighbourhood. I met nothing but hostility. The atmosphere felt dangerous. I left before a riot could start.
XXVII
I had another lead to follow: Petronius and I had been told by the waitress at Satricum that Claudius Nobilis worked for a corn dealer called Thamyris. He lived outside town. I took Nux and Helena and drove out to his place, a scattered set of barns and workshops off the coast road that went south.
Thamyris was a wide, squat, shabby typical countryman, in his sixties, wearing the usual rough tunic and a battered hat which he kept on even though when we arrived it was the lunch break. He and his men were gathered on benches, a peaceful group. They had mastered the art of making their working day revolve around the time they took off. Some were eating, some whittling. There was easy-going chat. Nux jumped from our cart and went to sit with them. She guessed correctly they would pet her and feed her titbits.
Nobody showed any curiosity about us. If we had wanted to buy grain we would have had to wait. The men stayed where they were and carried on enjoying their break; Thamyris stayed put and talked to us. Helena was allowed to sit on one of the benches, which a lad willingly swept of straw first, using the back of a fairly clean hand.
I explained what I wanted. Thamyris replied slowly and thoughtfully, as if he had answered these questions before. I asked him; he said he was always being consulted these days about Claudius Nobilis. For years the man had worked in this labour gang unremarked, but now the local authorities had a definite eye on him. It might have been awkward, had he not already taken himself off somewhere.
'Do you know where he's gone?'
'He said something about the family. Knowing what they are like, I kept my nose out of that.'
'So who else has been asking about him?'
'Men from Antium. A man from Rome.'
'I'm supposed to be the man from Rome – - who was the other bastard?'
'Someone like you!' The grain dealer enjoyed the joke. I pressed him for details and came to the conclusion he had been visited by one of Anacrites' runners.
While I brooded on that, Helena changed the subject pleasantly: 'What was your impression of Nobilis when he worked for you?'
Thamyris summed up like an employer who noticed things: 'He did the work, though he didn't push himself.'
'Did he fit in? Was he one of the lads?' I asked.
'Yes and no. He never said much. If we were all sitting around like this,
he would be with us. If we went out for a drink together in the evening, he would tag along. But he always tended to move off a little distance from the group.'
'Did he strike you as at all odd?' Helena then wondered.
'He had his obsessions. He liked talking about weapons. He collected spears and knives – nasty big ones. He seemed a bit too interested, if you understand me.'
I nodded. 'Trouble?'
'He never gave me any.'
'But he came with a reputation?'
'That I don't deny. People said he had been accused of thieving as a child, and I did hear that years ago a woman said he had raped her.' Thamyris seemed unconcerned. On the scale of country crime, rape tended to rank with shouting boo at chickens.
'So why do you think he left?' asked Helena. 'We heard he was "going to see his grandmother", whatever that means. What's the mystery?'
'A classic excuse.' Thamyris gave a laugh. It was the irritating kind that suggests someone knows a lot more than you do and intends to take a very long while revealing it. 'When people want time off.'
Helena asked, 'So what was up with him? Was he upset? Did he have a quarrel?'
'Better ask Costus.' Hearing his name, a corn cockle on another bench looked over. 'Nobilis!' called his boss in explanation.
'Oh him!' The younger man exclaimed dismissively; then he just went back to whittling.
I raised my eyebrows. Thamyris dropped his voice. 'Had a fling.' I showed that I still didn't get it. 'Costus.' The voice lowered even further. 'With Demetria!'
I left Helena to draw out anything else she could from the dealer, and strolled across to Costus. He was a handsome chunk, who looked none too bright – - in fact, if he had moved in on the wife of the violent Nobilis, he couldn't be. 'You're brave!'
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