Nemesis mdf-20

by Lindsey Davis

  LXII

  There were two stages: the search and the action. I may have implied to my loved ones there would be one other element beforehand: mature consideration. But Petronius and I dispensed with that.

  Our division of labour was simple. We both reconnoitred the chosen location for the deed, convinced ourselves no one would bother us there, surveyed escape routes. We identified a dump site. We knew it would work; I had used it once before. Petro was bringing swords and a crowbar for the manhole. I had to find the spy.

  It was important that nobody noticed me looking. That ruled out knocking on the door at Anacrites' house, pretending to sell hot sausages; his staff knew who I was. Even worse would have been showing my face on the Palatine, asking the clerk in the office, Phileros, for details of his whereabouts, allowing the rheumy-eyed Momus to spot me, contacting that snake Laeta. They might all guess my role later; I could live with suspicion. But I must leave no trace of the process. There was no point conducting this kind of operation if it left new witnesses who could apply new pressure. We wanted clean air and a quiet life, with no further harassment.

  I spent much of the day checking known haunts. That was depressing. Anacrites had pitiful taste in lunch bars. I watched Ma's house for an hour or so, but she was entertaining Aristagoras, her ninety-year-old smooch. Anacrites must be in his office, working his ordinary day. Arrive, work, plot, gloat, leave for bath and dinner.

  At the eighth hour I made my way somewhere I had never been before, though I had heard of it, back in the days when Anacrites and I worked together on the Census. He had told me then it was his favourite and I had stored the information in an empty brain cell, for potential use one day. It was an expensive private bath house on the south end of the Circus, in a short sunny street near the Temple of Sol and Luna.

  Nobody knew me. The cloakroom boy confirmed Anacrites was there. I said I was an off-duty investment consultant and the spy had agreed to see me about buying a dog-collar factory in Bithynia. Madness always pays off. They let me in straight away.

  My quarry was at that moment not plying his strigil in a steam room; he had moved on and was secluded in a curtained room, experiencing – - though certainly not enjoying – - the attentions of a team of personal hygienists. I could have waited for him to emerge, but not waiting was so much more fun.

  They had a security system, designed to put off the inquisitive: they simply told anyone to push off, if they insensitively noticed screaming. The bouncer was a plump dwarf in a short tight white tunic, who doubled as manicurist. She offered me a half-price cuticle tidy up, but I declined without regret.

  'No time, precious. I am absolutely bursting to see my dear old friend in here – don't worry, he always lets me come and watch. We have no secrets!'

  Well, until today he had had this one.

  I whipped aside a sagging length of moth-eaten purple cloth that gave clients imagined privacy. I would not have put myself in this position without an oak door, five-tumbler barrel locks, armed guards and an attack dog.

  There were a couple of couches, one occupied. I had found him, and he must be cursing me. Well, he would have been, if he had not had his teeth gritted in serious agony.

  Four or five practitioners were frowning with concentration as they applied themselves to the spy's selected parts. He was splayed on his front at that moment, legs apart and feet towards me. I always realised he must depilate his arms and legs. Now I knew he boasted hideous fancy stuff under his tunic. When I burst in he was not wearing one. He was naked, apart from a light coating all over with very high quality almond oil.

  The hair-removers had scythed off his torso rug and defoliated his buttock fur. Now they were subjecting him to the most painful part of their expensive duties. Anacrites had bought the whole deal. The specialists were giving him what is known in louche circles as a back, sac and crack. Or so I am told. You would never catch me having it.

  He was probably dying for the agony to stop, but when I entered the room those attending to him did not pause. Their instructions were probably to keep going, just as long as the customer could stand it.

  'It's Falco. No – don't move an inch!' I carolled cheerily. 'This is too good to miss! I have spent many hours imagining resourceful ways to torture you – but, Tiberius Claudius Anacrites, I never thought of hot pitch poured on your exposed genitals!'

  Whoever did think of it, and persuaded him to have it done, deserved to be awarded a radiate diadem.

  Anacrites let out a faint mortified cry. I assured him he could take his time, make a thorough job of it with the hot pitch peel, ensure every naughty stray hair was yanked out with the tweezers. I said I could not bear to watch, but I would wait for him outside, enjoying a glazed honeycake from one of the bath house's itinerant food tray men. 'I need to see you urgently. If you are still on the Modestus case, this is about Nobilis.'

  He bounced out not long afterwards, pretending nothing had happened. Perhaps embarrassment clouded his judgement from that point.

  I was holding a packet of honeycakes, which I had decided would be reassuring. I announced that Nobilis had escaped capture in Latium (this was why I had asked Silvius to delay his report). According to me, Nobilis had trekked back to Rome, where he was spotted by the bright-eyed vigiles. Petronius Longus knew where he was and was guarding the location; since it was the spy's case, I had come to fetch him. 'He's hiding up. The place looks grim, but Petronius and I are with you. There's no time to wait for back-up; he has a hundred escape routes available.'

  Anacrites did ask, 'How do I know you're not lying, Falco?'

  'You don't,' I replied curtly – - that old double bluff, which never fails if your opponent is conceited. Taking it upon himself to believe me was a daring executive decision.

  He agreed to come. He had no bodyguards with him at the baths, so it was him and me. I said Petro had told us to hurry, because he was alone on guard. So we walked rapidly through Rome, just a short distance. As we strode side by side, with Anacrites trying to forget his privates were painful (but walking with great difficulty, I was glad to see), I let myself make comparisons.

  Although my own family were a ramshackle feckless bunch, to Anacrites the Didii must be a thousand times better and happier than his: warm, vibrant, cheerful and, under their craziness, caring about one another. I was starting to see why Helena had always thought Anacrites yearned to be me – yearned for it, yet felt so jealous he wanted to destroy what I had.

  This was crucial to understanding him: the contrast between my Aventine family and his swamp-dwelling relations. His set had ended up alienated and dire, all petty criminals, some venal. Mine might look hopeless and annoying but they mostly had good hearts. Clearly it was due to Ma. Her life was a struggle but she always took a determined interest in her offspring; too much, we thought, though it produced results. Anacrites, spawned in trouble and ripped from his roots, ended up amoral and friendless. I had been given tenacious ethics and could relate to most people. He might easily have gone the way of his murdering brothers – perhaps had done. I never could. One of us was unavoidably a villain, the other perhaps a hero.

  A tangle of streets close to the Forum was the place Petronius and I had chosen. It was ripe to be redeveloped by some free-spending emperor. Perhaps by the time we were very old men it would be.

  We met Petronius Longus at the end of a narrow alley called Nap Lane. He was carrying equipment, well wrapped up. It struck me that this alley was an urban version of that ravine near Antium. Previously known to both of us, it was a bare wagon's width across; a laden cart could lose its cargo, bashing against the walls. Steep, boarded-up facades of abandoned buildings rose either side. They made the street, which was clogged with dried mud and littered with fly-tipped debris, almost too dark to see down. Absentee entrepreneurs owned or rented decayed warehouses here, either left empty or half filled with stolen goods. Shady runaways sometimes sheltered in these cordoned-off, rotting premises; most were too scared and preferre
d to starve and be mugged in the shade of bridges where someone might at least find their corpses.

  Everywhere was quiet. It was dinnertime in Rome. This was a fine day in early September, between the Calends and the Nones, still in the school holidays; not a festival; before the Roman Games; not a black day in the calendar. Absolutely nothing noteworthy about the day at all, in fact.

  Nobody saw three men hold a short discussion, after which they all walked into the dingy alley. They were comfortably built and capable, so they all went with confidence. A few moments later, there were sounds of a short scuffle, expertly managed. It was followed by dull metallic noises, as if someone had pulled up and dropped a large manhole cover. The Great Sewer, the Cloaca Maxima, ran beneath the rutted roadway, taking sewage and storm water to the River Tiber.

  Not long afterwards, two people strolled out again from that alley. Emerging into the late evening light, they walked unhurriedly, comfortable in an easy friendship. They looked like two men casually eating pastries and perhaps talking about the races. Two men who were preparing to leave the streets after the day's business and who were setting off home to their families.

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