Nemesis mdf-20

by Lindsey Davis

  'Is Alis the local prostitute?'

  'Not her! Fortune-teller. Just around the corner. She does a bit of witchcraft when people want to pay for it. Thursday is her night for seances. Virtus always went.'

  As Petronius could not tear himself away from the room upstairs, I left the Camilli to wait for him. I strolled past a veg stall, a pot shop and a sponge bar, tripped around a corner by a fountain that was so dry its stone had cracked in the sun, and parked myself in a peeling doorway in order to inspect the fortune-teller's. The place I had been told Alis lived in was anonymous. These women work by word of mouth, usually hoarse whispers passed on in the environs of unscrupulous temples. Anyone who has enough sixth sense to find a horoscope-hatcher, doesn't need her services.

  After waiting a while, I went across and knocked. A frizzy baggage came to the door and admitted me. She was middle-aged and top heavy, wearing peculiar layers of clothes, over which were dried-flower wreaths with funny feathers sticking out of them. I expected a dead mouse to drop out any minute. The prevailing colour of her wardrobe was vermilion. It was amazing how many scarves and belts and under-tunics she had managed to acquire in that far-from-fashionable shade.

  She moved with a shuffle and was slow getting around. Only her eyes had that sly, kindly glint you find in folk whose livelihood depends on befriending people with no personality, banking on the possibility that the vulnerable might part with their life savings and have no relatives to ask questions.

  'My name's Falco.'

  'What do you want, Falco?'

  'You can tell it's not a love potion or a curse, then?'

  'I can tell what you are, sonny! You won't fool me into drawing up a lifeline for the Emperor. I practise my ancient arts fully within the law, son. I pay my dues to the vigiles to leave me alone. And I don't do poisons. Who sent you?'

  I sighed gently. 'No fooling you, grandma! I work for the government; I want information.'

  'What will you pay?'

  'The going rate.'

  'What's that?'

  I looked in my purse and showed her a few coins. She sniffed. I doubled it. She asked for treble; we settled on two and half.

  She toddled into a corner to brew herself some nettle tea before we started. I gazed around, impressed that one elderly woman could have collected so many doilies and corn dollies, so many horrible old curtains, so many amulets with evil eyes or hieroglyphs or stars. The air was thick with dust, every surface was crammed with eccentric objects, the high window was veiled. I bet every superstitious old woman from a two-mile radius came here for her special Thursdays. I bet half of them left her something in their wills.

  Nothing that smacked obviously of witchcraft was out on view. The desiccated claws and vials of toad's blood must be behind the musty swathes of curtain.

  Eventually she settled down with her tea bowl and I learned Claudius Virtus was a regular at the seances. 'He was interested in the Dark Side. Always full of questions – - I don't know where he got his theories. From his own strange brain, if you ask me.'

  'Are you going to tell me what you do at your meetings?'

  'We try to contact the spirits of the dead. I have the gift to call them up from the Underworld.'

  'Really? And did Virtus ask about anyone in particular?'

  'Usually he watched the rest. He tried to talk to his mother once.'

  'Did she answer?'

  'No.'

  'Why would that be?'

  Abruptly, Alis turned confiding: 'I got the creeps, Falco. I don't know why. I just felt I didn't want to be in the middle of that conversation.'

  'You have some control then?' I asked with a smile.

  The seer sipped her nettle tea, with the manners of a lady.

  She told me Virtus had never missed a meeting until a few weeks ago. His mother – Casta – had died a couple of years before, he told Alis; he claimed to be close to her and said all the family adored the woman.

  'My information is she was vicious,' I said. 'She had twenty children and was reputed to treat them all very coldly.'

  'That's your answer,' replied Alis comfortably. 'It explains Virtus. He tells himself she was wonderful; he wants to believe it, doesn't he? In his poor mind, his ma is a darling who loved him. He misses her now, because he wants her to have been someone he should miss. If you were to say to him what you just said to me about his mother, he'd deny it furiously – - and probably attack you.' I believed that.

  Alis had winkled out of him that his father died before his mother, and that he had other relatives, some in Rome. 'More than one?'

  'I gained that impression. He spoke of "the boys".'

  'There are sisters too.'

  Alis shrugged. She knew about the twin, believed he lived not far away, but had never set eyes on him. Plotia, the wife, had never been mentioned. When I commented that I was not surprised, Alis pulled a face and nodded as if she knew what I meant. Of course I despised this woman and her arcane dealings – yet in her frumpy, frowsty way, she was a good judge of character; she had to be.

  'Did you think him capable of great violence?'

  'Aren't all men?'

  Virtus had ceased coming to the meetings, without warning. I took this as evidence that he was the agent we had sent to a hard death in the mines.

  Alis put down her tea bowl. She sat motionless, as if listening. 'I don't feel we have lost him, Falco. He is still among those who wander the earth in body.'

  I said I was sure she knew more about that than me, then I made my farewells as politely as a sceptic could.

  This conversation had made me feel closer to Virtus now than in all the time Petronius and I had spent with him.

  LIII

  We men had a short case conference as we walked back towards the river. We would have preferred to stay at the bar, but that meant the helpful barman and his inquisitive wife would have listened. Anyway, Petro hated their drink.

  We agreed it was futile for us to tackle Anacrites. However, the time had come to explore whether any higher authorities would take an interest. Camillus senior was on friendly terms with the Emperor; the senator might speak on the subject next time he was chatting with Vespasian. It would be tricky: so tricky, I shied off it until we gathered better evidence though I instructed Aulus and Quintus to tell their father what we believed. We had convinced ourselves, but that was not the same as proof.

  Titus might be open to an approach, though his reputation varied from kind-hearted and affable to debauched and brutal. As commander of the Praetorians, he was Anacrites' commander too; that could rebound on us. If we failed to persuade him the spy was compromised, we could unleash a violent backlash from Anacrites – all for nothing. Even if Titus believed us, it could look as if he had misjudged his man. Nobody wanted Titus Caesar as an enemy. His dinner parties were more fun than the spy's – - but he exercised the power of life or death over people who upset him.

  I said I would have another word with Laeta and Momus. All the others thought that an excellent idea. They went to a bar near the Theatre of Marcellus that Petro reckoned was really well worth visiting, while they waved me off to the Palace.

  I saw Laeta first, my preference. He did not turn me away. His method was to greet you with interest, listen gravely – then if your story was unwelcome politically, he let you down without a qualm. Unsurprisingly, he let me down.

  'It's too thin. On what you've got, Falco, I don't see this going anywhere. Anacrites will simply say he made a mistake when he employed those men, and thank you for pointing it out to him.'

  'Then he'll get me for it.'

  'Of course. What do you expect with his background?'

  'What does that mean?' I raised an eyebrow. 'As far as I know, his background is the same as yours. An imperial slave who made good -in his case, for unfathomable reasons.'

  'He is bright,' Laeta said tersely.

  'I've known pavement sweepers who could think and talk and grade dog turds to a system as they collected them – but
such men don't end up in senior positions.'

  'Anacrites was always known for his intellect – though he was more physical than most secretaries, which suits his calling. He had pliability; he could bend with the political breeze – which, when he and I were coming up the staff list, was a must!'

  'He adapted himself to the quirks of emperors, whether mad, half-mad, drunkard or plain incompetent?'

  'Still at it. Titus thinks well of him.'

  'But you don't. You have a singer spying on him at home,' I threw in.

  Laeta brushed it aside. 'The same man who observes me for Anacrites! Suspicion is a game we all play. Nevertheless, Marcus Didius, if you find genuine proof of corruption, I am sure I can persuade the old man to act on it.'

  'Well, thanks! Tell me what you meant about the spy's background,' I persisted.

  Laeta gave me a fond shake of the head – but then what he said was enlightening: 'Many of us feel he never fitted in. You compared him with me – - but my grandmother was a favourite of the Empress Livia; I have respected brothers and cousins in the secretariats. Anacrites came up the ladder by himself, always a loner. It gave him an edge, honed his ambition – - but he never shakes off his isolation.'

  'Not isolated enough for me; he crushes up against me and my family.'

  Laeta laughed softly. 'I wonder why?' He went no further, naturally. 'So, Falco, dare I ask: are you and your cronies still investigating the Pontine Marsh murders?'

  I gave him a straight look. 'How can we, when our last instructions were to drop the case? Instructions, Claudius Laeta, which you gave us!'

  He laughed again. I smiled with him as a courtesy. But as soon as I left, I stopped smiling.

  Momus, I was certain, never had a slave grandmama who was cosy with the old Empress. He must have crawled out of an egg in a streak of hot slime somewhere. Any horrible siblings were basking in rich men's zoos or their heads were on walls as hunters' trophies.

  Momus reacted eagerly to news of the spy's implication in sordid crimes, until I hankered for Laeta's measured thoughtfulness instead. Momus even promised to help – - though he freely agreed it was hard to see what he could do.

  'Momus, I still don't think the Claudii showed up and got jobs with the spy by accident. Are you ever going to tell me what you know about them?'

  'Falco, if I knew how they control him, I'd be controlling him myself

  'Do you admit you've put in people to watch him?'

  'Of course I haven't,' he lied.

  I left, reflecting ruefully that Momus had always been useless.

  There was one more possibility.

  Anacrites sometimes used a freelance on very special assignments, a woman. Helena and I had run into her a few times, and although I had a professional respect for her, we viewed her warily. She killed for Anacrites, killed to order. She took a pride in a beautiful performance, whether it was death or dancing. Dance was her cover. Just like her assassinations, it was clean, prepared in every detail, immaculate and took your breath away. Her talent gave her access to people Anacrites wished to remove; distracted by her brilliance, they were at her mercy. As often as not, no connection was made between her dancing and the discovery of a shocking corpse. Her name was Perella. She used a thin-bladed knife to slit her victims' throats. Knowing her method, I never let her stand behind me.

  The first time I met Perella, before I knew her significance, it was at her home. Though a few years had passed, I managed to find the place again: a small apartment near the Esquiline, inexpensive but endurable. She let me in, barely surprised to see me. I was given a bowl of nuts and a beaker of barley water, urged to take the good chair and the footstool. It was like visiting a great-aunt, one who looked demure but who would reminisce about times when she juggled three lovers all at once – - and who was rumoured to still do it, passing them on to the baker's wife, when she felt tired.

  What made me remember Perella was my encounter with the mystic Alis. Perella, too, was of mature age and build; in fact more years of age than it was kind to mention. The skilled diva remained supple. She had power too; not so long before, I saw her kick a man in the privates so hard she wrote off all chance of him producing children.

  'Didius Falco! Whenever I see you, I feel apprehensive.'

  'Nice courtesy, Perella. And I take you very seriously too. Still working?'

  'Retired – generally.' That figured. Her hair, never stylish, had once passed for blonde; she was letting the grey work its way out through the lopsided chignon. The skin on her neck had coarsened. But her self-containment did not alter. 'Yourself?'

  'I had the chance – came into money. I decided work was in my blood.'

  'What are you working on?' Perella was eating pistachios as if all that mattered was splitting their shells. She tossed off the question like casual conversation – - but I never forgot she was an agent. A good one.

  I let time pass before I answered. Perella put the nuts down. We gazed at one another. I said quietly, 'As usual, my role is complex. I cannot trust my principle – - insofar as I have any, given that the case I was investigating for a dead man's nephew was then grabbed by Anacrites.'

  Perella folded her hands on her full waistline, as if she was just about to ask me where I got my stylish wrist purse. 'My whimsical employer!'

  'Still?'

  'Oh yes. You mean the marsh bugs, I suppose? He sent me there, if you're interested.' I must have looked surprised. 'I can swat flies, Falco.'

  'And which fly,' I asked with emphasis, 'was he wanting you to swat?'

  'A vicious coward called Nobilis.' Although Perella worked for Anacrites, he never quite managed to buy her loyalty. She was more likely to connive with me, a fellow professional. 'Nobilis must have heard I was coming, so he fled abroad.'

  I could not blame him. 'So that's why he vanished! How did he know you were coming for him?'

  'I wonder!' scoffed Perella. She implied Anacrites let it slip.

  'Do you know where he went?'

  'Pucinum.' Where had I heard that name recently? 'Fled into hiding with his grandma,' Perella said, sneeringly. 'That's where they come from, those animals. I could have gone over there and dealt with him easily.'

  'Did Anacrites run out of cash for your fare?'

  'Much more intriguing! Anacrites was going that way himself.'

  Davis, Lindsey – Falco 20

  Nemesis (2010)

  'Aha! So Pucinum is in Istria!' I whistled through my bottom teeth, to give myself thinking time. 'I've remembered – he bought wine there on the trip… Has Anacrites done the business? Has he finished Nobilis himself?'

  Perella gave me an odd look. 'Well, just like you, I'm off the case. But, just like you, I never let go. He didn't. Nobilis is back, according to my sources. Seen in Rome. Anacrites must have reprieved him.'

  'Or he just bungled it.'

  'Not so,' said Perella softly. 'Claudius Nobilis came home on the same ship as the spy. The pair of them together, tight as ticks.'

  'Anacrites brought him back? But not in leg irons – - I haven't seen a trial announced!'

  'Surprise! You'd think,' Perella told me in disgust, 'if he wanted Nobilis dead, as he told me, he could have found the chance to put a boot in the small of his back and shove the bastard overboard. Anacrites is handy enough – - and I hear you know all about that!'

  'What?'

  'A little bird twittered "Lepcis Magna"?'

  'That birdie must fly absolutely everywhere! I'll wring his neck for tweeting.' Anacrites had fought as a gladiator at Lepcis. It was illegal for any but slaves. Citizens who fought in the arena became non-persons. News of it would make Anacrites a social outcast; he would lose his job, his ranking, his reputation, everything. I smiled gently. 'You are well informed. It's true; he spilled blood on the sand. But that information is mine to exploit, Perella. I was there.'

  'I won't step in – even though I want his job.'

  'You want his job?'

  'Why not?' Indeed! The Pra
etorians would never accept her, yet Perella was just as shrewd, experienced and ruthless as the current incumbent. More intelligent, in my opinion. She had the talent. Only the ancient traditions of keeping women beside the hearth interfered with her qualifications. No tombstone yet had ever said: She kept the house and worked in wool – and slit a few throats for security reasons

  … 'You could destroy Anacrites, Falco – - and presumably he knows it. Can you ever feel safe?'

  'I have protection: other witnesses. If he touches me, they'll tell. So he's the one who lives in fear. I'm saving the information for the sweetest possible moment.'

  The dancer took up her barley water peacefully. She still sounded like a well-disposed aunt, giving me career advice: 'Don't wait too long, my dear.'

  LIV

  I found my team, not as tipsy as I feared, merely unreliable. I said it was good to associate with happy men. Petronius had to work, or at least take a nap at the station house. The Camilli, being persons of leisure, rolled along with me. They had reached the clingy phase, where I was their best friend. Trailing them like seaweed stuck on an oar, I went up the Aventine to Ma's house, intending to collect Albia.

  She had left, for home my mother said. 'Anacrites was here – he drops in, to see I am all right,' she confided in Aelianus and Justinus hoarsely. 'He knows my own don't give me a second thought. When I am found stone dead in my chair one morning, it will be Anacrites who raises the alarm.'

  I cursed this libel and sat down on a bench. The Camilli did likewise, fitting in fast, as people did at Mother's house. They were clearly thinking: what a dear little old lady. She sat there, tiny and terrible, letting them believe it. Her beady black eyes rested wisely upon them. 'I hope my good-for-nothing son hasn't taken you drinking.'

  'They were drinking; I was somewhere else, working,' I protested. 'Now I shall have to take them to the baths, have them home to dine, and sober them up for their trusting wives.'

  'I don't expect trust comes into it!' reckoned Ma. The senators' sons looked shifty. Belated doubts about the dear little old lady filtered through their blearied brains.