Ma then described a cringe-making scene at her house earlier between Anacrites and Albia. 'He said "I always admire Junilla Tacita; you should come to her when you are troubled, dearie".' He cannot have called Albia 'dearie'; it was the word Ma used, to avoid truly accepting this outsider as a granddaughter. Albia saw Ma's reservations; she only came up here when Helena sent her. 'We all had a nice chat, then when your Albia was ready to go, he so kindly offered to see her home. Beautiful manners,' Ma insisted to the Camilli.
Aulus said in a solemn, lawyer's voice, 'You can tell a man's character by the way he treats young women.' He thought he was being satirical: big mistake, Aulus.
'You are the one who broke her poor little heart, are you?' asked Ma, with her crucifying sneer. 'Well, you would know all about character!'
I judged it time to leave.
Albia was safe at home. Anacrites had left her on the doorstep, merely sending in greetings to Helena; he probably knew this would only increase her anxiety – - and my wrath. Albia failed to see what the fuss was about.
She dined with us, despite Aulus being present. Nothing kept Albia from her food. So she overheard us relating our progress. Helena summed up: 'Virtus has been dealt with; let us not remember how. He said Pius had gone home to the Pontine Marshes. Perella believes Nobilis is back in Rome, though you have no leads, unless it was him Marcus saw at the spy's house. Now we know the "Melitans" are his brothers that does seem likely. You won't get in there a second time to look. Relations with Anacrites are deteriorating, and he will hardly invite us all to dinner again – '
With yelps of pain, her brothers and I pleaded to be excused if he did.
'I could go to his house!' piped up Albia. 'He is perfectly nice to me! He says I can go at any time.'
'Keep away from him,' snapped Helena. 'Have respect for yourself, Albia.'
'Don't listen when he makes out you're special!' I said crushingly, 'Saying he's never met anybody like you is a very old line, sweetheart. When a man – any man – who has a collection of obscene art invites a young girl to visit, there is only one reason. It's nothing to do with culture.'
'Is this from experience, Falco?' Albia asked, disingenuously. 'How did you meet Helena Justina?' murmured our little troublemaker.
'I worked for her father. He hired me. I met her. She hired me as well. I never invited her to my horrible hutch.' Helena turned up there of her own accord. That was how I knew enough about strong-minded girls to be afraid for Albia.
'Was it when you lived at Fountain Court? I've seen it! I went with Lentullus, hiding that cameo. Is that how you know how the art invitation works, Falco? Did you lure girls up to your garret, pretending your father was an auctioneer so you had curios to show them – - then when they had climbed all those stairs and found out there was nothing, it was too late and they were too weary to argue?'
'Certainly not,' Helena interrupted calmly. 'Marcus was such an innocent in those days, I had to show him what girls were for.'
Albia broke up in giggles. It was good to see her smile.
I topped up everybody's water cup while I tried to reassert the myth of a respectable past.
We agreed it was time to go after Claudius Pius. Assuming his brother had told Petro and me the truth, then Pius was visiting his wife, that fragile soul Byrta. It meant another trip into the marshes, though at least that would let me go over to Antium and liaise with Silvius, of the Urban Cohorts. Petronius had checked with Rubella, who still refused to release him from Rome, even to work with Silvius. So Justinus, with his experience on our first trip, won the ballot to come with me.
Next day at dawn, I was all packed and about to mount a mule outside my house, when Helena ran out after me. She told me anxiously that Albia was not in her room. Our conversation the day before had had unwelcome results. The girl had left a note – at least she was that sensible – - to say she was going to Anacrites' house 'to have a look around'. If she went last evening, he had kept her overnight.
'Don't worry,' Helena reassured me, though her voice was tense. 'You get off – I'll fetch her back somehow.' I wanted to stay, but I had five slaves chomping at the bit behind me and had made arrangements with Justinus to depart at first light. 'Leave it to me, Marcus. Don't fret. Take care, my love.'
'Always. You too. Sweetheart, I love you.'
'I love you too. Come home soon.'
As I rode through Rome in the thin air of a very early morning, on my way to collect Justinus at the Capena Gate, I thought about those words. How many people have said them as a talisman, but never saw their precious love again? I wondered if Livia Primilla, the elderly wife of Julius Modestus, had spoken the words when her husband rode to challenge the Claudii. If I failed to return from this journey, Helena Justina would come after me too. I should have told her not to do it, not without an army. But that would have meant planting the suggestion that her brother and I might be in serious danger.
At the Capena Gate, Aelianus emerged to wave us off. He was mildly jealous, though as an assistant he always enjoyed being left in charge. I mentioned what had happened to Albia. 'Aulus, it's not your affair. Obviously this is awkward for you, but could you check with Helena that everything is all right? Will you tell her I had a thought as I came through the Forum: if she goes to see the spy, take my mother.'
'Will he listen to your mother?'
'Mediation! Helena will know – - in a crisis with an enemy, it's a fine Roman tradition to send in an elderly woman, with a long black veil and a very stern lecture.'
Justinus suggested leaving behind Lentullus, who could bring us news later.
So Justinus and I, taking a handful of slaves as back-up, rode off once more to Latium. Thirty miles later, as near we could get discreetly, we camped overnight, not showing ourselves at any inns where landlords might give advance warning of our presence. We planned the traditional dawn raid.
At first light, with the promise of an unpleasantly hot late August day, we reached the end of the track. Here, we knew, three of the Claudius brothers lived when it suited them, in poverty and filth, with two skinny, subdued wives and innumerable wild children. We had already passed the shack where their brother Probus mouldered; we saw no sign of him, nor his ferocious dog, Fangs.
The woodlands were sultry. Fetid steam rose from depleted pools as the marshes dried out through the summer. It must have rained recently; there was a dank, unpleasant smell everywhere. Clouds of flies rose up from tangles of half-decayed undergrowth, skirling in our faces in predatory black curtains as we disturbed them. The insects were worse than we remembered, the going more difficult, the isolation drearier.
We rode up as quietly as possible. We all dismounted. With drawn swords, Justinus and I went straight to the hovel where Pius and his wife lived, while our slaves checked around the back. We banged the door, but there was no answer. The hutment which belonged to Nobilis looked as deserted as before. While we continued knocking, a man appeared in the doorway of the third hut. A woman's voice sounded behind him.
'What's that noise?' he shouted. It was the other 'Melitan'. I recognised him, and he recognised me – though he cannot have known quite how familiar he seemed. Anacrites had said the twins were not identical; maybe this one was half a digit taller, a few pounds heavier, but there was little in it.
'Claudius Pius?' If so, he was on the wrong doorstep, growling over his shoulder at the wrong woman. Mind you, it did not surprise me that one of the Claudii should be screwing his brother's wife.
He rounded aggressively. 'No. I am Virtus.'
I believed him. We had muddled them up. I should have known. Anyone who has ever seen a theatrical farce would expect the wrong one to pop out of a doorway. That's what you get with twins.
LV
He could be lying. Impersonating each other to fool people is a lifelong game for twins. When I was at school, the Masti were famous for it; their loving mother helped by always dressing them in identical tunics, with their hair curled in the sa
me ridiculous quiff. They spent their days tormenting our teacher, then later were reputed to swap girlfriends. Causing confusion would have gone on forever, if Lucius Mastus had not been run over by a stonemason's wagon. His brother Gaius was never the same afterwards. All the joy went out of him.
Virtus had the same build, skin, freckles, light eyes and upturned nose as the man Petro and I had captured. I felt uncomfortable with it, though I did not believe the telepathy of twins could have told him what his brother went through. I suppose I had a bad conscience.
After grumbling noises from indoors, Byrta sidled into view next to him. In the act of re-draping her clothes, she hitched a scarf around her neck. Maybe it was to hide love bites, if she called their relationship love. It was some rich red colour, decent material. I supposed Virtus must have brought it for her from Rome as a present.
She vouched for him being Virtus not Pius. I said he had to come with us. He reluctantly complied. His wife did not rush to pack him a travelling bag. We searched his home before we left, but found nothing, not even weapons. If he really was Virtus, he had left his armoury in the Transtiberina apartment, so it was now secured at the Fourth Cohort's station house. The woman stayed behind with their children.
We asked about his brother Probus. Virtus said men had come and arrested him – - Silvius and the Urban Cohorts, presumably. 'Why didn't they get you at the same time?'
'I heard them coming.'
We took him with us to Antium, where we joined up with Silvius. Silvius confirmed he had Probus in custody. Probus seemed to be breaking ranks and denouncing Nobilis, though it was too early to say if he would distance himself enough to give us evidence. When Silvius wanted to question Virtus, I had had enough with the other twin, so I gave him the prisoner without quibbling. Justinus and I sat in. I insisted on that.
In two days of hard questioning, Virtus said little useful. His line now was that he had never had anything to do with any of his brothers' cruel practices – - and, as he knew well, we had nothing to tie him to the murders.
'None of us ever knew what Nobilis was up to.' That tired cliche. 'These things you are saying about him and Pius are terrible. Thank the gods our father will never know about it.'
'Aristocles was no moralist! Look at the disgusting rabble he and Casta produced. Strong family bonds, have you?' asked Silvius, insinuating,
'Oh I see your game! I repudiate my brother. I reject Nobilis. If he and Pius did those things, I dissociate them from our family. They shame us. They are blackening the family name.'
'What family name? Don't make me spew.'
Virtus just stared at Silvius. He was not a clod. None of them were. That was how those of them who committed the crimes had covered up their tracks for so many decades.
'We'll get the truth,' sneered Silvius. 'Probus is here in custody, you know that. Your Probus seems a fellow with a conscience. Probus has begun telling us a lot of helpful things – all about his perverted brothers.'
'Probus is just as bad as them,' scoffed Virtus.
When Silvius needed a break, I was given a go. 'Tell me about your connection with Anacrites, Virtus.'
'Nothing to say.'
'When did you find out about him?'
'Around two years back. We went up to Rome and asked him for work. He thought he could use us, so it was fixed up. I know when it was, because our mother had just died.'
'Casta? Was her death something to do with you going to see Anacrites?'
'Yes and no. When we lost her, we felt cast adrift.'
'Oh you poor little orphans!'
'Have a heart, Falco!' Justinus broke in, grinning. Silvius let out a short laugh too. He had bad teeth, not many left.
I had remembered something someone told us about Casta. Unexpectedly, I strode up, grabbed the prisoner by his hair, then turned his head to demonstrate he had part of an ear missing. 'Did your mother do that to you?' I yelled.
'I deserved it,' said Virtus, immediately and without blinking.
We had to stop then, because news came in about the discovery of more bodies.
Justinus and I went with Silvius to inspect the site. On the way, Silvius owned up that the Urbans had been using Claudius Probus for the past few days to help them identify places where his brother Nobilis might have buried corpses. 'We believe Probus is himself implicated in the abductions, though not as the principal.'
'How did you make him talk?'
'We had to provide immunity. The way it works, Probus suggests places that Nobilis liked – secret lairs he had, on his own or with Pius.'
'Pius was the one who lured the victims; he brought them to Nobilis?'
'Seems so. These spots are difficult to access, so Probus takes us and points out where to look.'
'He knows too much about it to be innocent.'
'He admits that. He says he was young, and coerced by his brothers. He claims he became too horrified and stopped joining in.'
I hated him being given immunity. Sometimes you have to compromise, but if Probus was directly involved in the deaths, immunity was wrong. Silvius just shrugged. 'When you see the terrain, you will understand. There is no other way we could ever find the bodies. My seniors conferred. It's worth it, to clear up the old disappearances.'
Silvius was quite right about the dreadful terrain. The first place we went was a forest, a few miles out of Antium. A thick canopy of slim-trunked scented pines, intermingled with stunted cork oaks, filled this thickly wooded area. At ground level, dense brushwood impeded movement. Nobilis must have used a narrow track. A slightly wider access had been bashed down by the Urbans. Following a guide, we struggled along it to a dell. We went in silence. When we reached the activity, the shocked hush continued, broken only by rustles and chopping spades as work went on slowly at the sordid scene.
Bodies had been excavated and placed on flattened underbrush. There were eight or nine, of different ages; their poor condition prevented an exact tally. Most were now collected in proper array, but the bones of one or two could only be hopelessly jumbled on a sack. The troops had lifted most remains from their resting places and laid them in a row – except one. One body lay apart and they had not touched it. One was new.
The men stood back. Silvius, Justinus and I went to look. While the workers waited, watching us, we surveyed the remains, pretending to be experts.
Most of the recovered bodies had been found in the ritual position, face down and with outstretched arms – the mark of the Modestus killers. There were no more severed hands. Petronius must have been right that this was the letter-writer's particular punishment for making appeals to the Emperor.
We had all seen dead men. Dead women too. We had seen flesh battered and bones treated disrespectfully. Even Justinus, the youngest here, must already know the swift sag of the stomach that comes in the presence of unnatural death. That smell. The mocking way skulls grin. The shock at the way human skeletons can hang together even when entirely stripped of meat and organs. The worse shock, when long-dead bones suddenly fall apart.
What lay here was in one sense no longer human; yet these bodies were still part of the wider tribe we belonged to. Most had died years ago. Many would never be identified. But they called on us as family. They imposed responsibilities. I cannot have been the only one who silently promised them justice.
The newest corpse was a woman.
'How long?'
'Two days, at most.'
Her killer must have been fleeing from the forest almost as the first troops approached. Perhaps the noise of them stomping down thickets had disturbed him. Perhaps he even glimpsed them through the trees.
She lay on her own, not with the others. Those who found her had felt she was different – - still close enough to living to count as a person, not simply anonymous 'remains'. Indeed, it would have been possible to recognise her face – - had her killer not battered her badly. She had suffered; large areas of her skin were discoloured by bruising. Someone suggested much of the beating w
as inflicted after death; we preferred to think so. Either her trunk was swollen because of what had happened internally during the violence, or she had been pregnant. Unlike the other bodies, which were deposited face down in scraped graves, this one had been left unburied and looking at the sky. She had not been ripped open. He had not finished with her corpse.
Around her neck still lay a gold chain that must have been the means by which Nobilis managed to get close to her again. The expensive granulation looked like the hanging loop on the Dioscurides cameo. I could see the fastening. I forced myself to bend down over the body, unhook it, and remove the chain. It had dug into the flesh, but I pulled on it as gently as I could.
'I know who this is.'
I recognised her dress. I remembered that sad rag from when she was brought to see Helena and me in the inn at Satricum. It was Demetria, daft daughter of the morose baker Vexus, obedient lover of the foolish grain seller Costus – and one-time wife of Claudius Nobilis, the pernicious freedman who so relentlessly refused to release her from his possession, that he finally came after her and slaughtered her.
LVI
Word of the grisly discoveries in the forest had inevitably spread. The bodies were carried out on hurdles; we left a small group of men still searching. When we came back to the road, a crowd had gathered. A few, who must have lost friends or relatives in the past, rushed forwards as the cortege emerged from the woods, and had to be held back by troops. Also there, though keeping to themselves in a tight knot, was a group of women I was told were from the Claudius family: three sisters, plus the sisters-in-law, Plotia and Byrta.
They neither spoke to us, nor we to them. They stared, blank-faced, as we removed the dead. It seemed to me they would never speak, never assist with any knowledge they had of the crimes, never even defend themselves. Others kept away from them; who could believe these women were truly innocent of the crimes their men perpetrated? How could they really have known nothing? They would be ostracised. They and their children were further casualties. A grim cycle would repeat itself. The children would grow up angry and isolated. Already none of them knew anything except neglect and violence. Which descendants of Aristocles and Casta could ever escape the stigma of this bleak family? To start a new life would be too hard; to learn new behaviour impossible.
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