Nemesis mdf-20

by Lindsey Davis

  'You are fooling?' Minas was only half right.

  'Forget convention. I think the best places are the centre of the couches – -' Still struggling to seat everyone, Helena steered Anacrites between Minas and me. Aelianus had to go at the top of the left-hand couch, talking across the corner to Minas, with Hosidia behind him; Justinus was opposite Hosidia with Claudia above him, adjacent to me across the other top corner. Albia was below Justinus. He was a good lad and would talk to her; she would probably hope to upset Aelianus by being friendly with his brother. At the far end of the left-hand couch, Helena was stuck with Hosidia. Good manners would have placed Helena next to me, but she had demoted herself in order to put the spy in my range. At least I could wink down the room at her.

  During the appetisers, our host led the conversation – - as much as he could do, with Minas tipsily interrupting. We had seen him in action; as a symposium-crawler no one could touch him, even in Athens' exhausting party whirl.

  The wine was better than good; Anacrites discussed it fluently. Perhaps he had taken himself to wine-buffery classes. At any rate, he served palatable mulsum with the appetisers, not too sweet, then a very fine Caecubian. One of the best wines in the Empire, that must have cost a packet. He also introduced us to an unfamiliar variety he had just acquired, from Pucinum; he was dying for us to ask where Pucinum was so he could show off, but nobody bothered. 'What do you think, Falco? The Empress Livia always drank Pucinum wines, ascribing her long life to their medicinal qualities.'

  'Very nice – - though the phrase "medicinal qualities" slightly puts me off!'

  'Well, it kept her going to eighty-three, outliving her contemporaries – -'

  'I thought that was because she had poisoned them all…'

  I asked for a separate water cup and drank the wine sparingly. Anacrites knew me well enough to have seen me do it before. I had a curious sense that tonight he wanted to relax for once – yet now he was torn, in case loosening up gave me some advantage.

  While he continued to hold forth on vintages, I chatted to my other neighbour, Claudia Rufina. The three Camillus siblings were all lofty but Justinus had married a woman tall enough to look him in the eye; this Claudia now saw as necessary since he could be a rogue, an edgy character who needed constant watching. On a dining couch designed for our stumpy republican ancestors, she was having problems twisting herself to fit. But once she settled, Claudia gossiped with me on the current situation in the senator's house. 'Things are tense, Marcus.'

  Minas had emptied the Camillus wine cellar in about five days. The amiable senator declined to restock, so Minas got huffy. Then Camillus senior hit on the idea that Aelianus and his bride should live next door; he owned the adjacent house, where his brother had once lived. It was decreed that Minas must stay with the couple. 'Julia Justa said, So nice for him to see a lot of his daughter, before he goes back to Greece… I don't think the professor intends going back, Marcus!'

  'No; he is determined to be a big rissole in Rome.'

  'I would have thought,' said Claudia, who was a kind-hearted girl, 'the newly-weds might be given some time to themselves – especially as they don't seem to have had much opportunity yet to get to know each other.' That was ironic. Claudia and Quintus would probably stick out their marriage (she had an excellent olive oil fortune which encouraged him mightily), but they were experts at communication failure.

  'You presuppose, my dear, that either of them wants familiarity.'

  'You cynic!'

  'I've lived. Still, we must be hopeful… How are the lovebirds getting on?'

  Claudia lowered her voice. 'They have separate bedrooms!'

  'How fashionable! Though not much fun.'

  'They will never have children.' Claudia and Quintus had produced two small sons very quickly; she assumed everyone wanted the same. At home we joked that Quintus could get his wife pregnant just by kicking his boots, under the bed.

  Babies were still a painful subject with Helena and me. To stop Claudia detailing the wonders of their newest son, I turned back to Anacrites. Forcing Aulus to endure a bout of Minas, I grabbed our host's attention. 'So! Tell us all about the big secret mission. Where did you go? How long did you stay? How many barbarians tried to garrotte you? Do tell me some at least tried. And what were you doing abroad in the first place, acting as the Emperor's messenger-boy?'

  'You're just jealous,' Anacrites replied coyly.

  'Cobnuts! Now, I don't mind you playfully pretending it's a state secret – -just so long as you confess all.'

  'It was nothing.' Everyone was now listening, so Anacrites had to answer. 'It seems that when his mistress Antonia Caenis was alive, Vespasian managed to discover for her that her ancestors came from Istria.' Minas looked puzzled yet again, so Anacrites explained that our affable old Emperor had lived much of his life with an influential freedwoman who filled a wife's place. 'Senators are forbidden to marry freedwomen. Apparently Caenis had not known her origins and I suppose it bothered her. Once Vespasian assumed power, he had access to the records. Someone finally looked up answers.'

  'That's a romantic story,' Claudia said.

  'It was true love.' Helena supplied the fact that Caenis had managed to visit her homeland for nostalgic reasons before she died. 'I met her; I liked her enormously. Did you know her, Anacrites?'

  'I knew who she was, of course,' he said, in that careful way of his. From what I had seen, in a couple of meetings while she was alive, Antonia Caenis had more sense than to cosy up to the spy.

  'I wondered if your backgrounds were similar?' Helena pressed. The spy, not deft with a spoon, concentrated on chasing a langoustine nibble around his foodbowl. I admired my sweetheart for many fine qualities, not least her ability to denude a silver comport of its most succulent seafood while seemingly engaged in chat. Helena served herself to three from the central table while he fumbled. If we had been seated together she might have passed one to me. 'So what were your duties in Istria, Anacrites?' Nobody else will have noticed, but Helena was aware of the way I was smiling down the room at her.

  'Merely ceremonial. Falco would have been impatient with it.. .'I leaned on my elbow and glared at him sternly. Anacrites was just too good to show it made him uncomfortable. 'Vespasian endowed various public buildings, in honour of Caenis. An amphitheatre at Pola, for instance, needed restoration – -'

  'He paid for it?'

  'He loved her, Marcus,' Helena called reprovingly. 'Go on, Anacrites.'

  'I was sent to represent him at the inauguration. So, Falco, it was nothing sinister!'

  I laughed off this weak attempt to make me appear paranoid. 'My dear fellow, any time you have the chance to cut civic ribbons in a two-bit foreign town, you do it. I am surprised you could be spared for such matters.'

  He flushed slightly. 'Pola is a major city, Colonia Pietas Iulia Pola Pollentia Herculanea. I was owed leave. I was honoured to go. It suited me too,' he let slip.

  'Oh?' I was on it at once.

  'I have connections there.'

  'Connections?' I patted his shoulder. 'Can we be learning personal secrets?'

  Anacrites shifted. 'It is very beautiful along the coast.'

  'Full of pirates, lurking in the rocky creeks, according to my Uncle Fulvius. He watched their movements for the fleet,' I told the spy, trying to make him think this undercover work had been for some mysterious higher agency. Fulvius was in Egypt now, or I would never have mentioned it. No rose suspended from a ceiling was protection enough; had Fulvius still been engaged as a 'military corn factor' (a ridiculous myth, because no corn factor is ever what he seems) he would not have thanked me for interesting Anacrites. 'So what was the real draw, Anacrites?'

  'Oh… an opportunity to get my hands on some Pucinum wine!' The man was indefatigably slippery.

  To his obvious relief the servers cleared the starter tables and brought in the main course. While this was organised, the tumblers tumbled off for a break and a professional singer swanned up to deligh
t us. He must be all the rage; I recognised this caroller from Laeta's office. Immediately I wondered if he was Laeta's plant, observing Anacrites at play. The thought kept me happy until the new foodbowls were laid.

  Time for business. (Anything to avoid listening to this singer.) 'So Anacrites, how are you getting on with the Modestus killing?'

  'Don't ask, Falco!'

  'I just did. Now listen, happy host, I am your guest of honour. While I stretch out on my elbow here in the best place, the consul's spot, my every whim is yours to fulfil – so come clean! What's the situation?'

  'There has been another death.' The spy had a wide-eyed honest look that made me want to screw bits off my bread roll and stuff him like a trigon ball. 'It bears similarities to the Modestus killing.. .'

  'But?'

  'Either it's some sad mimic – plenty of people knew what happened to Modestus; the vigiles may have said too much in public -' Oh yes, blame them, you bastard! 'Or I think it is a ploy, Falco – falsely implying that the killer works from Rome. Of course, I am not fooled so easily. Modestus had been tailed on his journey; he was deliberately targeted. This was different.'

  'Interesting!' I was shocked. Was Anacrites really so shrewd? I almost wondered if he had a nark in the vigiles' patrol house who had eavesdropped on Petronius and me.

  Aware of my surprise, he applied fake humility. 'What do you say, Falco? I'd like to hear your professional evaluation.'

  'Oh you seem on top of things.'

  'Thanks. Did you know about the second killing? Have you discussed it with Petronius?' He really wanted to know whether we were still monitoring his case.

  'Yes, we heard about it.'

  'And what was his verdict?'

  'We think a crazed copycat killer knifed the poor courier… So are you still looking for those Claudii?'

  'Of course.' It was the right thing to say. He was smooth as a wet rat sliding down a drain. Still, I never expected Anacrites to be totally incompetent, let alone appear corrupt. He was too good to show what he was up to.

  He turned away, readjusting a pomegranate silk cushion so he could converse again with Minas. 'We don't want to talk about a murder over dinner, Falco.'

  You could tell he rarely entertained. He had no idea that far from being squeamish, guests would be eager to hear about gore.

  When the main course arrived, he had overdone things. There was no need. His caterers were first class; we would have been flattered by anything they cooked. A couple of roasts, a simple platter with a fine fish, a vegetable melange with one or two unusual ingredients, would have sufficed. But he had to over-impress. Although he had complimented Helena and me on the warm atmosphere of our Saturnalia gathering last December, Anacrites had failed to analyse it: good food, fresh ingredients not overcooked, a few carefully chosen herbs and spices, all served in a relaxed style with everybody mucking in.

  Instead we had tired old Lucullan oysters – - 'I'm sorry, Falco; I know you were in Britain, but I could not get Rutupian!' After flamingo tongues and lobster in double sauces came the ridiculous climax. Albia squeaked and sat up on her couch in happy expectation: a major-domo clinked an amphora to call for attention, spare servers stood back expectantly, the tumblers' harpists (who must have finished their boozing break) rattled off dramatic arpeggios accompanying a drum roll. A pair of sweating waiters dragged in the Trojan hog. Though young, it was a big brute, presented on a trolley upright on its feet, wearing its hair and tusks. From the glaze on its cheeks and the delectable odours, it had slow-roasted most of the day. Fake grass, full of pastry rabbits, nestled around its trotters. A crown of gilded laurel topped it, wired on between the piggy's shining ears.

  A master carver approached, perhaps the chef himself, wielding a vicious meat sabre. I wouldn't trust him on a dark night round the back of a seedy posca bar. His blade flashed in the lamplight. With one mighty sweep he cut open the boar's belly. Glistening innards tumbled out towards us, like raw guts. As Helena had said, they were sausages. While we still believed they were hot viscera, he tossed a quick-fire barrage into all our foodbowls. There were screams. Someone clapped briefly. Minas took a moment to grasp what was happening, then exploded with delight. 'Excellent, excellent!' He was so thrilled, he had to beckon a server to fill up his wine goblet. A hum of appreciative voices congratulated Anacrites, while Helena and I looked on patiently.

  It was a shock – - though not if you knew what was coming. The trouble with the tired old Trojan hog trick is it only works once. Was I jaded? I made an effort to look excited – well, mildly – though even Claudia forgot her natural generosity and muttered to me, 'Those Lucanian sausages look very undercooked! I don't think I'll eat them.'

  The crackling was good, though full of bristles.

  XXXIII

  Some time while everyone was gnawing tough pork, then picking their teeth discreetly, I noticed that Albia had slipped away from the table. Her absence went unremarked by others. As the main course ended, people were behaving informally. One by one they went out for a natural break, on their return taking the opportunity to move around and talk to different guests. Justinus was now alongside his brother. Helena abandoned Hosidia and crossed the room for a chat with Claudia.

  I was bored with Anacrites' well-clad back as he listened to Minas. Luckily the gloopy singer reappeared; he had picked up the Cretan shepherds' habit of explaining everything long-windedly – so often, of course, lamenting young sailors lured to their doom by sinister sea-nymphs or brides who had died on their wedding day. When he announced, 'The next song is a very sad one', I went to find a lavatory.

  I explored in a desultory fashion, but I had been in the house before and seen all I wanted of the layout, decor and cold living arrangements. I found the kitchen, with the caterers engaged in washing bowls – - most of them, anyway; I had passed a couple sidling about, probably pinching Anacrites' fancy curios.

  The services were, as I expected, next to the kitchen – - functional, but with the faint unscrubbed odour you expect in a male establishment. (I was well trained; in a strange house it is a man's duty to report to his wife what the facilities are like.) Emerging, I took a wrong turn somehow.

  I ended up in servants' quarters, a series of undecorated small rooms that served routine purposes. There were sacks of onions, buckets and besoms. Even a spy has to endure the domestic – - though I bet Anacrites put his onion-seller through an oral security test. That would explain why he had been sold mouldy, sprouting ones.

  I spotted a figure ahead of me, slipping down a passageway. He did not hear me call out for directions, but he had left a door open and I heard voices. In one of the rooms, Anacrites' two legmen were sitting with a draughtsboard. I was surprised; I would expect him to keep work and home separate. Instead, the Melitans, as I called them, gave the impression this was a regular haunt. Their room had a sour smell that hinted of long-term use.

  The duo were not playing, just talking. They could be arguing about whose turn it was to remove their food tray (there was a large jumble of used crockery and utensils piled ready to go back to the kitchen). They barely troubled to react to my appearance.

  'Lost my way.'

  Neither spoke. One waved an arm. I turned out of the room, pointed myself in the direction he indicated, and departed. After I walked off, their voices stopped abruptly, however.

  They might not be Melitan, but they definitely were brothers. They had the same facial looks, the same dress code (dingy tunics; open-strapped shin boots), the same movements and accents (I had noticed they talked Latin). Most of all, the way they behaved together was the way Festus and I used to be: that blend of spats and tolerance only brothers have.

  Back on familiar ground, curiosity drew me to a colonnaded peristyle, formally planted around a statue of three half-size nymphs. This was where the dining room really ought to be situated. I wondered if there was in fact a better triclinium than Anacrites had assigned to us.

  I was looking for Albia. Sure enough,
she was there on a low wall, looking in at the courtyard. She was just sitting, so I paused. Albia had gone out for a break from watching Aelianus being polite to his wife. It would be best if she could work through her heartache privately.

  Someone else interrupted her reverie: Anacrites strolled through the colonnade opposite. Crossing a corner of the garden, he went straight over to Albia. He sat on the wall beside her, not so near as to make her nervous, though near enough to worry me.

  'There you are!' he said easily, as though she had been missed, not perhaps by the company but by him. To reinforce his position as a careful host, he added, 'I am glad I saw you hiding here. Helena Justina told me all about your unhappiness.'

  'Really!' He would have his work cut out with Albia. He played it well, saying nothing more until she asked in her blunt way, 'What are you doing away from your guests?'

  Anacrites rubbed the tips of two fingers against his right temple. 'Sometimes commotion disturbs me.'

  'Oh yes,' Albia, the unfeeling adolescent, answered. 'I heard you had your head smashed in.'

  He managed to sound rueful. 'I don't remember much about it.'

  'Does it affect your work?'

  'Not often. The effects are random. Days may be good or bad. It's very frustrating.'

  'So what happens?'

  'I think I have partly lost my powers of concentration.' It must be three years since his head wound; he had had time to learn how to cope.

  'That's awkward. You might lose your job. Do you have to conceal it from everyone?'

  'Whoa!' In the teeth of Albia's relentless attack, Anacrites made it jocular: 'I'm the spy. I'm supposed to ask the heavy questions.'