Nemesis mdf-20

by Lindsey Davis

  I understood exactly why Quintus and Aulus had palmed it. This bauble required investigation.

  XXXV

  Anacrites was a sad case. Nobody else would turn up before breakfast to ask if last night's guests had enjoyed his dinner. That was his excuse anyway.

  'I have mislaid that jewellery.' He had already trekked to the Capena Gate to enquire after the cameo. The two Camilli denied all knowledge, so he came to me. Anacrites still pretended this loss could make life awkward with the item's owner, though he did not want to give more details about which floozy that was supposed to be.

  'What's her name, your bird of expensive plumage?'

  'You don't need to know…'

  He was in a dilemma, drawing attention to the piece, when he clearly wished we knew nothing about it.

  I was determined to investigate that cameo's history. I lied, therefore, and said I did not have it. 'I'd forgotten all about it. Maybe those light-fingered caterers of yours saw somebody drop it and picked it up a second time…' No; he had been to ask them, he said. Jupiter! He must have been busy. 'Who were they anyway?' I asked. 'You'd have to lock up the family silver if you hired them, but that chef was wonderful.'

  Briefly, Anacrites glowed under my praise. 'The organiser is called Heracleides, sign of the Dogstar by the Caelimontan Gate. Laeta put me on to them.'

  'Laeta?' I smiled gently. 'Taking a risk, weren't you?'

  'I checked their credentials. They provide imperial banquets, Marcus.' Anacrites sounded stiff. 'Gladiators' last meals before a fight. Buffets for seedy theatre impresarios who are trying to seduce young actresses. All very much in the public eye. The proprietor has too much good name to risk losing it – Besides, the thefts were carried out by minions, mere opportunism. And I was protected. I had my own security -'

  'I saw your house guests!'

  'Who did you see?' Anacrites demanded.

  'Your dilatory agents, playing board games in a back-corridor hole

  …' Some flicker disturbed his carefully cultivated, steady gaze. If I understood that half-hidden reaction, the Melitans were in for a nasty half hour when he next saw them. He could be vindictive. If they didn't know that already, they were about to find out. 'I meant, was a suggestion from Laeta safe for you, dear boy?' I gazed at him and shook my head slowly. 'Given his well-known wish to winkle you out of office?'

  The spy's eyes widened.

  'No, he wouldn't!' I cried. 'I'm being ridiculous. Laeta is a man of honour, he is above conspiracy. Forget I spoke.' Although Anacrites had imposed iron control on his face muscles, I could see he now realised Laeta might have wrong-footed him.

  He changed tack quickly. Gazing around the salon where I had been forced to entertain him, he noted the profusion of new bronze statuettes, polished expanding brazier tripods, fancy lamps suspended from branched candelabra. 'Such lovely things, Falco! You're very prosperous, since your father died. I wonder – - does it affect your future?'

  'Will I give up informing?' I laughed gaily. 'No chance. You'll never be rid of me.'

  Anacrites smirked. All last night's affability had dissolved with his hangover and he went on to the attack: 'I'd say your new wealth exceeds due proportion. When a man receives more from Fortune than he should, winged Nemesis will come along and right the balance.'

  'Nemesis is a sweetie. She and I are old friends… Why don't you come out straight and say you think I don't deserve it?'

  'Not for me to judge. You don't bother me, Falco. Compared with you, I'm fireproof

  He had to have the last word. I could have allowed it because it meant so much to him – - but we were in my house, so I patted back the ball. 'Your confidence sounds dangerously close to hubris! You just said it, Anacrites: presumption offends the gods.'

  He left. I went off to breakfast with a lighter step.

  Helena and I amused ourselves over the bread rolls discussing reasons why Anacrites could be so worked up about the jewel. After all, he had money nowadays. If some night-moth complained she had lost part of her necklace during their frolics, he could afford to buy her a new one to shut her up.

  Some wrangles are meaningless and soon forgotten. Anacrites and I often exchanged insults; we meant them to bite and we meant every word, though it never stuck for long. But the clash we had that morning insidiously stayed with me. I continued to believe that cameo was significant – and I wanted to know why Anacrites had panicked.

  XXXVI

  The Heracleides company was run by one man who lived over a stable block. It was a large stable. Up in his elegant apartment he certainly did not tread on hay. His personalised loft had been floored with highly polished boards; a team of slaves must skate around with dusters on their feet each morning. Instead of mangers, there were sumptuous cushioned couches with dramatic flared legs like whole elephant tusks. He went in for ivory – - always the snobbish side of flash. And the flared leg is much beloved by stagy folk (I was thinking like Pa.)

  Heracleides ran his outfit from a line of stabled wagons that contained his staffs cooking and serving equipment. Where these staff lurked by day was not immediately obvious. Heracleides, I already knew, believed in distance supervision. He flattered clients with promises of individual attention, yet stayed away from their big night. According to him, his highly trained personnel had been with him for decades; they were safe to leave alone and his presence was unnecessary. At a venue, he would not so much as place a violet in a vase. I guessed his only interest was in counting the profits.

  Younger than I expected, he was a pampered specimen – too much time at the baths, probably baths which offered stodgy saffron cakes and erotic massage. His tunic had a fringed hem; a narrow gold fillet bound his suntanned brow. You know the type: all high-stepping insincerity. Not safe to buy a rock oyster from, let alone a three-course dinner with entertainment and flowers.

  Trying to impress me, he paraded his business ethic: love of fine detail, competitive rates and a long list of very famous customers. I wasn't fooled. I understood him straight away. He was a chancer.

  I took a flared-leg chair, which needless to say had its back at the -wrong angle for the average spine. One of the fancy legs was loose too.

  I mentioned to Heracleides that sadly the staff he spoke of so highly had been involved in an incident last night. At once the operatives who had supposedly been with him for years became temporaries who must have come to him with false references, bad people whom he said he would never use again. I asked to see them. Hardly to my surprise, that was impossible. I stated calmly I would come back with the vigiles that evening and if the person I was looking for was not then present, Heracleides would be in trouble.

  I spelled out the trouble: 'Got a function tonight, have you? Lucky you don't supervise in person or you'd be forced to cancel. Looks like you'll be stuck here answering five hundred questions about the status of your boy and girl helpers until the moon comes out. Any of them got form? Past arrests for pinching clients' pretty manicure boxes? Your women ever been on the vigiles' prostitute lists?' In the service industry that was inevitable. Waitresses were there to sleep with. 'And what about you, Heracleides – - what's your citizen status? Did you answer your summons for the Census? Got any imported artwork you never paid port duty on? Where did all this charming ivory come from – - would it be African?'

  He tried to play tough. 'What do you want, Falco?'

  'I want whichever of your staff picked up a fine cameo pendant at the spy's house. If they talk to me today, I can promise no comeback.'

  'I wish I'd never taken that brief

  'Think of this as structured learning. Now, show me your managerial expertise: kindly produce my witness.'

  He liked the jargon. He disappeared to ask the group which of them was guilty. He wasn't long coming back. His minions must be curled up in the stable stalls downstairs.

  'It's my chef. He's not available. I sent him on a meat-carving course. Sorry – you've had a wasted journey.'

  'He
slashed the Trojan hog with panache last night. He doesn't need extra training. You're lying. Let's make a little trip downstairs, shall we?'

  We made the trip. I walked at my favourite pace, steady but purposeful. Heracleides stumbled more jerkily. That was because I was holding him up by the back of his tunic, so he had to walk on tiptoe. Draught mules watched thoughtfully as we appeared together in the stable.

  'Call your chef

  'He's not here, Falco.'

  'Call him!'

  'Nymphidias…'

  'Too quiet.' I reinforced the request painfully. Heracleides yelled Nymphidias' name with much more urgency and the chef crawled out from behind a barrel. He was the man who stole the miniature painting yesterday, I knew. In view of his expertise with knives, I kept my distance.

  I let go of the party-planner, shaking my fingers fastidiously. Heracleides fell headlong into some dirty straw, though of course I had not pushed him. I squared up to the chef. Not having his big carver with him, his bravado crumbled.

  I extracted the facts fast. Yes, Nymphidias stole the cameo. He had found it in one of the small rooms down the corridor where I got lost earlier in the evening. In the room had been a narrow bed, a man's spare clothes, and a luggage pack. The jewel was in the pack, wrapped carefully in cloth. Everything else there had looked masculine.

  I described the Melitans. The chef knew who I meant. They had both come into the kitchen at one point, asking for a meal. Nymphidias said it was a cheek – not in the party contract and they had demanded double portions too – - but he prepared some food in a slack moment, which he personally took to their quarters as an excuse to look around. They were in the room where I saw them sitting, not the same as where he found the cameo.

  It started to look as if all kinds of agents slept at the spy's house, on occasions. He must be running a kind of runners' dormitory.

  'You see anyone else apart from the two who were hungry?'

  'No.'

  'Nobody who stayed in the single room, where you found the jewel?'

  'No.'

  I did not believe it. 'There was someone else – I saw him myself.'

  'Party guests came to use the washroom. So did the musicians. That singer was hanging about like a spare part – we run into him at a lot of das.'

  'He's called Scorpus,' Heracleides put in, trying to seem helpful. 'Always takes an interest in how much money the hosts have, who their wives are sleeping with, and so on. Very persistent. It's all wrong; in our business you have to be discreet. These clients are high-status; they expect complete discretion.'

  'So unprofessional,' I sympathised. 'He sings appallingly too. Whose nark is he? Who pays him?'

  'You'll have to ask him.' Heracleides looked jealous, as though he thought Scorpus might receive more for information than he did.

  'And who do you spy for?'

  'No comment.'

  'Oh him! I've met that shy boy "no comment" before! There are ways to make him less bashful – and they are not pleasant.'

  I returned my attention to the chef. He said the spy's household staff had kept to themselves all evening, annoyed that outsiders had been hired. Apparently that was common. When Heracleides ran functions, he told his staff to make sure the house slaves did not spike drinks or spoil dishes. Anacrites dressed his slaves in green (how sickly; he would!); when they did wander about, they were easy to identify.

  'So,' I enquired of Nymphidias, 'from its position and appearance, what did you think when you found this jewel?'

  He sniffed. 'I thought whoever had it must have no right to it. It was hidden away too carefully. The rest of his stuff didn't look at all swank. The gem couldn't be his. So I might as well take it off him, mightn't I? Just the way,' he whined, with a new aggression in his tone, 'you've taken it off me.'

  'The difference being,' I answered quietly, 'I shall hand it in to the vigiles, so they can find out who really owns it.'

  Standing beside me, Heracleides laughed. 'Anacrites won't like that!'

  He was right. But Anacrites would never know, until there was a good reason for Petronius and me to tell him.

  Before I left, I took Heracleides out of hearing of his staff. 'One last question. Who is so keen to know what goes on in Anacrites' house?'

  'I don't know what you mean, Falco.'

  'Pig's pizzle. Anacrites is supposed to be the Chief Spy – - but more observers sneaked in last night than deluded fathers and clever slaves in a Greek farce. What if I float the name Claudius Laeta past you?'

  'Never heard of him.'

  'You're tiring me out. Anacrites may be simple-minded, but I can spot infiltrators. Admit it; you do the same as Scorpus. You get paid to poke around houses, on likely nights… Indiscretions happen at parties. People drink too much, there is unfortunate groping, you overhear talk of an illegal betting syndicate, someone says Domitian Caesar needs a good spank, someone else knows about the Praetor's nasty habit – '

  Heracleides looked wide-eyed. 'What habit?'

  I had started a rumour. Well, it was probably true. 'Educated guess… We can make a deal. You tell me about Laeta, and I'll make sure you will hear no more about your staffs pilfering last night?'

  'Can't help you, honestly. Oh leave it alone, Falco – - we've got a good racket, and it's harmless. The hosts can all afford it. And we don't keep the stuff ourselves.'

  'What racket's this?'

  At once Heracleides regretted the slip. He soon drooped and confessed. 'We lift a few pretty things that look as if they may have sentimental value. We pass them to our principal. He goes along to the house a few days later. He tells them he has heard on his special grapevine about some property that belongs to them. He thinks he can get it all back, and will retrieve it as a special favour. Of course there is a premium to pay… You know.' I knew all right.

  'So who is this?' It could not be Laeta. He had more class. Blackmail was his medium, not ransoming heirlooms.

  'Someone I'm not prepared to mess with, Falco.' Well, the scam was almost irrelevant. I handled property-hostage hustles sometimes, but my present interest was in bigger things.

  Heracleides seemed genuinely afraid. Joking initially, I finished up, 'That settles it. I shall have to assume that you work for Momus!'

  Then the party-planner shuddered. 'Yes, but he scares me! For heaven's sake don't tell the filthy bastard that I told you, Falco.'

  Momus, as well as Laeta? – Now this was really getting complicated.

  XXXVII

  I managed to screw from the party-planner directions for finding the torch singer. It took me an hour to locate his block, and identify which attic he festered in. Scorpus was fast asleep on his bed. That's the beauty of witnesses who work late nights. You can generally find them.

  I sized him up before I woke him. He was chunky, though not athletic. He had a red face, a grey moustache, fairish hair receding badly. He looked like a tax lawyer. He probably played for them.

  He slept in a disreputable loincloth; I threw a blanket over him. He woke up. He thought I wanted his money or his body, which he took in good part; then he saw that I was holding his lyre and he panicked. There was no need even to threaten him. It was such a good instrument it would have hurt even me if I had to smash it. He would talk. In great alarm he struggled to get up, but I pushed him back prone, using one foot. I did it gently. I didn't want this aesthetic type to collapse with anxiety.

  'My name's Falco. Didius Falco. I expect you know that. And you're Scorpus, the disgusting highbrow singer of doleful dirges -'

  'I play in the respected Dorian mode!'

  'What I said. Minor keys and melancholia. If your listeners aren't sad when you start, by the time you stop, the poor idiots will be suicidal.'

  'That's harsh.'

  'Like life… Just lie there and co-operate. It won't hurt. Well, not as much as refusing, trust me… We can save time, because I know the score. Whenever there is a gathering at an expensive private house, with hired-in food and entertainm
ent, half the specialist artistes are collecting and selling information. You certainly do it. I want to know your paymaster, and anything you saw of interest last night at the Chief Spy's house.'

  He yawned insultingly. 'Is that all!'

  'It's enough. Let's start with Claudius Laeta. Did he pay you to collect dirt on Anacrites – or have I got this the wrong way round: when you play for the great Laeta at the Palace is somebody else giving you kickbacks to observe him?'

  'Both.'

  'Ah Hades!' I twanged a lyre-string vacantly, as if seeing how far I could make it stretch before it snapped. I can play a lyre. I use it for disguises. I know what happens when a string breaks and was really not keen to have whipping animal-gut flick at high speed into my eye. Scorpus could only see the threat to his precious instrument.

  'Please don't do any damage!'

  'Who's spying on Laeta? Momus? Anacrites?'

  'Both – - Everyone thinks I am working for them. Really I'm freelance.'

  'Freelance, as in you'll take anybody's money? And you'll shit on anybody too?' I sneered. It made no impact. He was shameless. Well, I knew that from what he twangled for helpless listeners. 'You can do better than this, Scorpus.'

  'What are you after?' He caved in. He had no interest in the fine practice of resistance. I was almost disappointed.

  'I want to know what you saw.'

  'Much the same as you did, I suppose,' he retorted defiantly.

  'I was a guest. I couldn't look around freely, and anyway I've been in that house before. I know he has a pornographic art collection, so don't try to pass that off as news.'

  'Has he?'

  'He's sold a lot of it. Somebody must have warned him he's under observation.'

  'I can't think who would warn that man of anything.'

  'Then you have more taste than I supposed! What have you told Laeta?'