Nemesis mdf-20

by Lindsey Davis

  When I said that now we thought we knew who the abductors were, she just waved me away. It was too late to save her son, so it was too late for her.

  Angrily, I renewed my vow that this time we would find justice, for both Volusius and his mother.

  LI

  Peace in the home. What a wonderful thought. If only I had it. The Camilli had already arrived – - anything to get away from Minas of Karystos and their wives. Nux was chasing around the house, barking loudly. Slaves were pursuing her, unaware that this only aggravated the dog's excitement. Albia would normally have waded in to sort this out, but she was shouting at Helena over me having invited Aulus. Julia and Favonia had picked up the idea of complaining and were wailing their heads off. As soon as I turned up, slaves began crying too; I could not see what that was about. Perhaps they were the ones I intended selling. I had not told them yet, but a list existed. They could have bribed Katutis to reveal it. Katutis was keeping out of sight, which clinched it.

  Lunch. Very pleasant. Rather tense, but that is what lunch at home exists for.

  No Albia. Helena had sent her on an errand to my mother. Ma would be taking me to task about the girl soon.

  No dog. Worn out, Nux had fallen asleep in her basket.

  No children. I had ordered them out of the room when Favonia threw a foodbowl on the floor and Julia giggled.

  No slaves. I was not yet ready to treat a crowd of feckless strangers as extended family, with more domestic privileges than I allowed to my own relatives. I would house them, feed them, express gratitude and affection on a moderate scale – - but no more. Nema, previously Pa's bodyslave, commented that he was very surprised by my attitude.

  'We could have met at a bar,' Quintus suggested.

  'Are you saying,' demanded his sister in a voice like an ocean breaker as it stripped barnacles off rocks, 'my house is badly run?'

  'No, Helena.'

  A meeting convened. Katutis appeared with a bunch of note-tablets and a hopeful expression; he was upset when I told him not to take minutes. 'Why else, Marcus Didius, would a man hold a meeting, but to have its conclusions recorded?'

  'This is confidential.'

  'Then good recording practice is to write "Confidential" at the head of the scroll.'

  'So the next time Anacrites raids my house, he sees that and backs away bleating, Oh I am not allowed to look at this! In fact that's a certain way to make him grab it.'

  Katutis slunk off, muttering like a malevolent priest.

  The big, comforting presence of Petronius Longus soothed those of us who remained. Helena, whose meal had been interrupted by the various ructions, was still chewing flatbread. Dabbing chickpea paste ferociously on to her bread, she had the look of a woman who knew she would soon have heartburn. 'Oh don't wait for me to finish!' she scolded Petronius, in a tremolo of agitated bracelets.

  Petro cracked on smartly. 'There is news. It's good – though it will pose questions. Since Fusculus proved the link to Arrius Persicus, I let him call on the carter, and thump him until he squeaked -'

  'Can you not do anything without unnecessary violence?' Not a good idea to remind Helena about our treatment of the agent.

  Petronius had the grace to look guilty. 'The carter now admits his spendthrift, two-timing client was indeed posting off a secret love token – and not for the first time. It was a routine arrangement. She's a lucky little pullet. This is why the carter panicked when his courier vanished – - he thought the newly-wed had gone bad now he had a wife to support, so he pinched the gem. Later the carter kept quiet about that, in a misguided attempt to protect his customer.'

  'Did the carter know what the hidden gift was?' Helena asked.

  'A cameo on a chain. Persicus had bragged to him about it.'

  'The chain is news,' I said. 'It's not been found. Who has got their sticky hands on that, I wonder?… Need we interview Persicus?'

  'Not at this stage. If we want a deposition for the Prefect later, Fusculus can go along and scare him shitless then.'

  'Back to basics then. The cameo comes from Antium, Persicus is sending it to his mistress. The gem is in some unconvincing wadding, in a parcel, in a pannier. The young bridegroom sets off on the donkey, no doubt whistling a jaunty measure and thinking about enthusiastic sex. Then what happened at the necropolis?' I ticked off possibilities: 'Better consider it: did the courier steal the gem?'

  'No,' said Quintus. 'He wouldn't commit suicide and stuff himself in a shallow grave.'

  'So was he robbed by somebody who knew what he was carrying? Did the carter himself set it up, even?'

  'If so, he was foolish to report his courier missing.' Quintus again. 'And why would he kill his man?'

  'As for someone else knowing,' Petronius said, 'Fusculus heard they were always very discreet when they had valuables to transport.'

  'Models of good practice?'

  'Fusculus said the carter swears the lad was tried and trusted. Could be relied on to avoid attracting notice.'

  Aulus, who had been subdued since Albia had hysterics, recovered enough to add his thoughts: 'So, did the young man just classically happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong moment? Was his murder random – - though then his attackers found our exquisite cameo in his donkey pannier and thought it was their lucky day?'

  'That seems right,' I agreed. 'Being chosen by a cruising killer was an accident.'

  'Someone who looked harmless, stopped him,' said Petro. 'Excuse me, what's the way to Clusium? – - My pocket lodestone's broken… I don't suppose this time the lurer said, Do you want to look at my brother's lovely spear collection? – - but we'll never know.'

  Helena had calmed down. She tidied bowls into piles. 'Now stop tiptoeing around the big question.' We men sat quiet, our backs a little straighter, our faces grave. 'How did someone in Anacrites' house get their hands on the cameo?'

  Petronius drained his water cup. 'As far as the Seventh Cohort know, the donkey and its pannier disappeared. Suppose later, while Anacrites and his men were investigating, they found the donkey wandering?'

  'Not right,' I said. 'He let the Seventh carry on with routine enquiries. Unlike you and the Fourth, he has no beef with the Seventh. Anyway if, for once, he actually found evidence, he would have boasted about it.'

  Helena scoffed too: 'Even if his men had legitimately discovered the parcel, why did the cameo end up hidden in their luggage?'

  'Are his agents screwing Anacrites – pinching evidence to sell?' Normally deadpan, Aulus looked cheery at the thought.

  'Has been known,' Petro confirmed dourly. I knew the problem was endemic among the vigiles. House fires gave particular scope for pilfering from victims. 'But Anacrites knew about the gem, didn't he, Falco?'

  'No, in fact.' I cast my mind back to the scene when the Camilli and I were pulling up the caterers for theft, with Anacrites watching us. 'When he saw the cameo, he first denied knowledge. He took a moment to realise what it must be. Am I right, lads?'

  Both Camilli nodded. Aulus said, 'He looked annoyed – but he chose to protect the agents. Thinking fast, he came up with that limp story about a woman.'

  'He became very jumpy,' added Quintus.

  'Yes -jumpy enough for you to think the cameo was significant, and to palm it!'

  'Ooh, naughty!' said Petro, grinning.

  Helena frowned. 'Why would Anacrites protect his men if they are corrupt? Wouldn't he be livid that they stole evidence and jeopardised his chances of cracking the case?'

  Petronius thumped a clenched fist several times on the table. The beat was measured, the meaning grim. 'You can have the wandering donkey theory – - though I think it's bullocks' bollocks. Try this: during the courier's murder, one of his killers took the cameo. It was a trophy. It was secreted away to gloat over, the way killers' trophies are.'

  I agreed: 'And it never left the killer. He took it home and hid the thing in his room. When Anacrites saw what the caterers had found, it took him a moment, but he knew what it meant.
Why? Because he already knew he had a killer in his house. Work the rest out, lads -'

  The Camilli made the connection immediately. Justinus said, 'The so-called Melitans are the two Claudii who work in Rome. They are Pius and Virtus.'

  Helena sat back as it all made sense. 'Anacrites himself is protecting the Claudii – and not just since Modestus died. He has actively been their patron for much longer.'

  I nodded. 'I'm slow. As soon as he let slip that his agents were twins, it should have rung bells. Too much coincidence.'

  'It's good. It was another bit of very simple concealment,' said Aulus. 'Once you know, however, the subterfuge leaps out. I don't know how he thought he could get away with it for much longer.'

  'Arrogance. He believes he is untouchable.' Petro claimed the big finish: 'Two of the murdering Claudii actually go out to kill from the spy's house. Anacrites himself has given the twins a base in Rome, providing them with a locale. He knows – but he still let them get away with it. So what is his game, Falco?'

  Baffled by the spy's stupidity, I shook my head. 'He is crazy. I suppose he may be struggling to contain them. On an off-day, he may even stupidly have told them to provide a corpse north of the Tiber to distract attention from the Modestus killing on the other side of Rome.'

  Helena had been thinking fast. 'Anacrites cannot have known originally what these men were. He must have taken them on to work for him – which we think was a couple of years ago -' That was what Pius or Virtus, whichever we had held captive, had told Petro and me, though I did not remind her of the circumstances. 'He found out later. Then he may have been attracted by a hint of danger attached to them. You know how he is; he would never admit that he made a mistake in hiring them.'

  I agreed. 'When he learned the truth, he would simply convince himself he had chosen ideal staff. He would think having a colourful background made them just right for his work's "special nature".'

  Justinus barked with laughter. 'So, being perverted murderers equates with "special intelligence skills", does it?'

  Aelianus had once been a recruitment target; he knew the spy's sales patter: 'Anacrites maintains that spying is a little over the edge of legality. That's exciting. He sees himself as cunning and dangerous. He gloats that he can get away with using assassins "for the good of the state" – - well, think about Perella.'

  I thought it a good diagnosis: 'He would tell himself he could control them. But when he came back from Istria and discovered the Modestus murder had drawn attention to the Claudii, faced with them getting out of hand, he tried to take personal control.'

  'Marcus, I'm afraid your involvement must have made it all worse for him,' Helena told me ruefully.

  'Too right. Not only must he bury the problem before the Claudii are exposed, he has to distract me.'

  Justinus blew his cheeks out. 'And there's no chance for us to expose his position, you know. He will only accuse us of interfering in some covert operation, endangering the Empire.'

  'We are stuffed,' said Aelianus. He was young. He gave up easily.

  I was older. I knew how the world worked. I was starting to think he had the right idea.

  Petronius let out a grim laugh. 'Well, one of the twins is dealt with. Either Pius or Virtus has been removed from society – - without us even realising who he was.'

  I myself would not have mentioned that again. Helena glowered. The Camilli sensed awkwardness and did not ask what Petro meant.

  Of course it explained why Pius or Virtus would never admit his name to us – and why Anacrites also glossed over his men's identity. It also explained why the agent – - child of a cold, controlling father and a remote, neglectful mother, growing up with sadistic brothers – had managed to resist our interrogation.

  And it explained the knives he carried. I tried not to look at Helena Justina as we both grasped that I had brought a perverted killer right into our house. I felt queasy remembering we had kept him here, in the same building as my wife and children.

  Petronius may have picked up what Helena and I were thinking. He lowered his voice. 'So, Marcus Didius, my old tentmate, who volunteers to confront Anacrites?'

  'Not us – not yet,' I answered.

  Ever cautious, Petro nodded too.

  LII

  Claudius Virtus lived in the Transtiberina. Petronius had found the address in the vigiles' lists. This was the Fourteenth District, a hike across the Tiber, an area I had always distrusted. It had a long history as a haunt of immigrants and outsiders, which gave it a reputation as a refuge for low-grade hustlers. Officially part of Rome for several generations, it retained a tang of the alien. Its dank air was imbued with murky hints of cumin and rue; alive with harsh, foreign voices, its dark, narrow lanes were populated with people in exotic cloaks who kept strange birds in cages up above on their windowsills. Carts here regularly tried to ignore the curfew. The vigiles, whose station house was just off the Via Aurelia, rarely made their presence felt, even to tackle the soft option of traffic nuisance. This area was attached to Rome, yet kept from full participation by more than the yellow-grey loop of the Tiber. The Transtib would always stay separate.

  As I walked with Petro, Aulus and Quintus, I was still remembering that night at the spy's house. 'I saw someone else. Just a glimpse. I think he had been with the two agents. Could it have been Nobilis? Nobody we've questioned seems to have spotted him, though the chef did say Pius and Virtus asked for double portions with their meal – - that could have been a cover for their brother. I certainly saw enough used dishes for three.'

  'Description?'

  'No good. He was too far away, and in a gloomy corridor. It was after dark by then, and Anacrites is mean with lamps.'

  'So who do you think it was, Falco?'

  'I don't know – but don't let's forget him. According to the caterer's chef, the third man was the one with the cameo.'

  Virtus rented a room above a row of crumbling shops. It was in the same building as the bar we chose when we arrived, immediately above us. If he had been there, he could have jumped through a window and landed right on Quintus. But there was a fifty-fifty chance he had gone away, and would not be coming back.

  The barman, who knew him, said Virtus had not lived there full-time for six months. He kept the place on, and had been coming back to check his stuff once a week. Not just lately, however.

  'Sounds as though he's living in with a girlfriend? Keeping up with his rent because he thinks she's going to throw him out. Or he may want to dump her?'

  'Not as far as I know. He's married, I believe.' That did not rule out Petro's girlfriend theory. 'Working in Rome to earn some cash, but he goes home.'

  'Where would "home" be?'

  'No idea, sorry.' We knew: the Pontine Marshes. The wife's name was Plotia. I had even met her. Petronius had searched the rustic shack where Virtus left her. Not much cash seemed to find its way back there.

  'Where else might he go?'

  'He mentioned a brother.'

  'Pius?'

  The barman shook his head. 'Means nothing, sorry.' He was very apologetic. According to Petro, as we went upstairs, the man in the apron should have been apologising for his lousy drink.

  Petronius shouldered in the door. He didn't care if the occupant learned we were after him. The landlord could claim compensation; from the state of his building, he wouldn't come around to notice the damage.

  It was a one-room apartment, its interior kept with the squalid housekeeping we recognised as the Claudius trademark. Flies lived here as subtenants; they soared about with the lethargic flight of insects that had gorged on unpleasant decay, close nearby. The smell in the room was familiar: an unclean, earthy odour I recalled from the spy's house, in those mean corridor rooms where the Claudii were lodged.

  There was no space for four healthy adults. I volunteered to search, with Justinus. Petronius reluctantly agreed to wait downstairs in the bar with Aelianus.

  'It's a simple room-search, Lucius. Let me handle it. Back
off; you're worse than Anacrites!'

  'I don't want you to cock it up.'

  'Thanks, friend. Any time Quintus and I can shaft you in return, assume we'll be available.'

  The 'stuff' Virtus came back to check was minimal. Apart from the landlord's basic furniture – sagging bed, lopsided stool, a skinny old sack on the floor for a rug – - we found only a filthy foodbowl, empty wineskins, and a used loincloth which Aulus lifted up on the handle of a bald broom from the corridor then dropped in distaste.

  We found no trophies from killings. However, hidden behind the inevitable loose wall panel, there were more knives. These were bigger and nastier than the ones we took off the agent.

  After Quintus and I went downstairs again, Petronius insisted on going up to double-check.

  'Jove, he's finicky!'

  'Doesn't want to make a mistake with the Urban Cohorts watching.'

  'Doesn't trust you, Falco!'

  I asked more questions of the barman. This time he changed his story; he now remembered he had met the tenant's brother. His wife had appeared, curious about us. He was short and sparely built; she was shorter and enormous. She had met the brother too. The fond couple engaged in a hot marital argument; the barman maintained the brother was a scruff and a shambles, which the wife doggedly disputed. 'Kept himself nice. Good threads. Combed his hair.' They went on disputing, until it almost sounded as if they had seen two different brothers. Given the numbers of Claudii, this was possible.

  'Fancied him?' asked Aulus, cracking the grimace he used for charm.

  'Not likely – - he had funny eyes.'

  It was the wife who knew the real reason Virtus came back so regularly. 'He's one of Alis' regulars. He comes every Thursday.'