Nemesis - Falco 20

by Lindsey Davis

  Then we ran into the vigiles. Since the Twelfth is looked after by the Fourth Cohort, these were a section of Petro’s men.

  Outside the city boundary, discipline evaporated. Some, inevitably, were lying under pine trees for a nap. However, others applied themselves fairly well. They told me they were on the case Petronius had told me about: the corpse dumped in a mausoleum. One ritual laying-out was not enough for Petro. Armed with crowbars and a love of violence, his troops were bashing open mausoleums and peering inside for other bodies that ought not to be there. In the crumbly roadside necropolis, many tombs were so ancient nobody knew who built them. They were easy to search, once the vigiles scraped the sleeping vagrants off their worn old entrance steps. Others, even the oldest, were still used by families; thanks to good diet and our nation’s virility, some Roman clans had long pedigrees.

  One cranky owner must have stipulated he had to be present; I saw Tiberius Fusculus, Petro’s trusty, hiding his impatience while the blighted toff fumbled interminably with a padlock. I pulled up the cart . and when Fusculus was free again, he strolled over. He was overweight, hot and red-faced. Albia gave him a drink of water. ‘Take it all. Who cares?’ She dispensed her generosity with airy fatalism, as if she herself did not care if she died of thirst.

  Avoiding Albia’s aggression like a wise man, Fusculus told me that no more corpses had been found. ‘Well, plenty - -’ Fusculus joked,’- - but none we link to the case.’

  ‘Will Petronius pull you off it soon?’

  ‘Not yet, Falco. Obstinate beggar is convinced we have turned up a ritual killer.’

  ‘Then Petronius Longus must sit it out until the next new moon, or there’s a “rho” in the month, or the red tunic comes home from the laundry - whatever weird trigger tells this killer it’s time for him to shed more gore.’

  ‘Normally,’ Fusculus agreed, ‘the boss would be happy to lie low. Especially in summer when he likes to get home early to your revered sister and have a nap on their nice sun terrace.’

  I was amused. Petro had his eccentric side; he never liked anybody knowing his habits and he had not even told his men that he was living with Maia. They all knew of course. ‘What’s different?’ I asked.

  ‘Sealed lips. State secret.’

  ‘Very grown-up! And are you going to share it?’

  ‘Absolutely bloody not, Falco. This is so utterly sub rosa, one word to you and I’d be spit-roasted with a bunch of oregano pushed up my bum.’

  Tired of boys’ talk, Albia interrupted. ‘I suppose, Tiberius Fusculus, that means Uncle Lucius has not told you his thinking on this?’

  He gazed at her almost as speculatively as Silanus had before he asked if she was married. ‘Bright girlie. No, Uncle Lucius - tight bastard - - has not revealed his mighty thoughts.’

  I grinned. ‘I’ll have to ask him myself then.’

  ‘You do that, Falco.’ Fusculus reapplied himself to searching tombs. I clucked up the donkey. As the cart jerked and moved off, Fusculus called after us without rancour, ‘The big clue is - we found luggage!’

  Interesting.

  It was so interesting I was dying to ask Petronius about it. First, I returned the cart to the hire stables, took Albia home, and gave a good show of being safely back with my family. After about half an hour I nipped out to see Petro. Helena spotted me going. I winked and promised to share any gossip as soon as I came back. She sighed, but did not intervene.

  Petronius, amazingly, was trying on his toga. This rare sight made me chortle - until I found out why. It was dusk, so the sweltering streets had cooled a fraction; not enough for loading pounds of heavy white wool on your shoulders, though. No option, it seemed: Petro had to stand in for his tribune, Rubella. The Fourth Cohort’s senior officer had been summoned to a high-status conference on the Palatine.

  Petronius would normally have been taken along too, in order to whisper corrections whenever Rubella got information wrong - - mishandling facts was any lazy tribune’s prerogative. As it was July, Rubella was away. Since he had not bothered to inform the Prefect of Vigiles he had snatched a vacation, if Petro wanted, he could land Rubella in mule dung. However, he would be a fool to do so.

  ‘Falco, you know what I think of Rubella - -’

  I assured him I thought the same. Marcus Rubella was an over-promoted, super-ambitious, unreliable, self-seeking squit. However, I thought he was the best the cohort would get. ‘Fill me in, Petro.’

  ‘On Rubella?’

  ‘On the case, idiot.’

  ‘We found a hidden pack that must have belonged to that murder victim. Maybe he noticed he was being followed, so he tucked away his stuff just before he was grabbed.’

  ‘What’s the palace connection?’

  ‘He was carrying a draft petition to the Emperor.’

  ‘About?’

  Petronius winced. ‘Ghastly moans. Complaining about local crime. This public disgrace has been allowed to fester far too long; the authorities in our region simply will not address the issue … The Emperor should take the initiative and refuse to tolerate nuisances caused by criminals who boast they have special protection … Nobody will ever listen, of course. Still, I shoved it onwards to the top - gave the poor bastard his last chance of an audience. Least I could do, I thought.’

  ‘You know who he is?’

  ‘I said it’s a draft, you noodle! Nobody signs their name on a private rough.’

  ‘Silly me! So it was no help?’

  ‘I’d have kept it, if it had been useful. Obviously I had to mention to the scroll-beetles that the writer was discovered ripped open from crotch to gullet, with his hands removed.’

  The details were new. I pulled a face. ‘Pluto! That would have made your report attract notice.’

  ‘Seems so. What came over me? Now some schnoozle wants a brief.’

  ‘Minding his back,’ I said. ‘You’ll handle it. You know your stuff. And you’ve been there before.’ Petronius had attended at the Palace with me. We once had a policy discussion with the Emperor and a full phalanx of flunkies. Vespasian took our measure. Even so, we ticed a moneymaking commission out of him that time. ‘Who sent the summons?’

  ‘Some grunt called Laeta.’

  I pulled up short. ‘Claudius Laeta? I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Keep out of it. I don’t need a nursemaid, Falco.’

  ‘Laeta is trouble. Appearing amenable is his speciality. Then he’ll extract your balls and twist them up in an old knitted sock, swing it round his head and knock you down with your own magic machinery.’

  ‘For a spare-time poet, your imagery stinks,’ opined my old friend dourly. But he must have been nervous about the meeting, because he let me tag along.

  Unlike him, I did not go togate. Laeta was head of the main secretariat. The man had sent me on so many dubious missions, he would receive no respect from me. The only good thing about Laeta was his constantly trying to double-cross Anacrites, the Chief Spy. I watched from the sidelines and tried to play them off against each other.

  Petronius and I ambled gently from the patrol house. I was enjoying my return. I threw back my head and breathed in the last heat of a warm city day. I heard the low buzz of voices from families and groups of friends, eating, chatting, gathering to enjoy those quiet hours of the day before they resumed their usual habits of fornicating with each other’s wives and cheating each other at business or dice. Strings of shrieking garland-girls were going home; nobody would buy dinner flowers now. Sounds of flutes and a drummer vied with the clatter of crockery from an alley, obviously the back door to several bars. Wafts of frying food, swum in oil and enlivened with thyme and rosemary, floated just above street level.

  I had missed Rome. Petronius pointed out with a grin that I had only been away three days, during which I should have been happy, since at Pa’s villa I had all those expensive new possessions to count. Always generous, Petro bore no grudge for my good fortune. Like me, perhaps he did not yet take it seriously.
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  On descending the Aventine, to cross to the Palatine we had a choice of passing around the Circus Maximus at the starting-gate end or hoofing down past the apse. The racetrack was absolutely in our way. Even if Petro could have used influence to get inside and cut straight across, there was no point because then we would have had the Palatine’s vertical face ahead of us. Since we both grew up on the Aventine, we were used to this inconvenience. Sometimes we detoured one way, sometimes the other. Either by-pass was long and frustrating. As it was his meeting tonight, I let him choose; he opted for the starting-gates, then wending gently through the Forum Boarium. It stank of raw blood and butchery but gave us a clear run at the Palatine via regular approaches. Petronius was not in a mood to slide through a back door and get lost in the pernicious maze of corridors.

  He presented himself to the Praetorian Guard, managing not to be rude to those braggarts. If I stood on my rights with the Guards when they threatened to push us around, Petronius would shrug and dump me. I followed my friend’s lead meekly.

  Neither of us had any idea at that moment, but we were beginning an adventure that would be as difficult and dangerous as any we had ever attempted. And its connection with the Palatine overlords would be much more than simple bureaucracy.

  XII

  The tall vaulted corridors of the old Palace had their usual evening hush. This was the time I liked to come here. The crowds of jabbering petitioners had given up and gone home, leaving residual odours of garlic sausage and sweat. People were about, but the daytime tension relaxed. The night shift was efficient, but unexcitable. They put anything important or awkward on hold for the day shift.

  Slaves padded past us, setting out oil lamps. Under our frugal Emperor, there was never quite enough light. The slaves had mastered the art of implying they had too much work to break off and tell us whether the office we were looking for was down the right-or left-hand corridor, let alone to admit whether the imperial family was in residence or had all gone away to some summer villa …

  Systems here had stayed the same since Tiberius organised this part of the Palatine. The imperial livery had changed and there was less open fornication; little else altered. Emperors came and went while bureaucracy continued, as rampant as mould. Vespasian and Titus lived in Nero’s repulsively opulent Golden House on the other side of the Forum, while elite secretariats kept their old offices in this historic complex. The bigger the name, the grander the office. Laeta had a suite. Its doorknobs were gilded and a quiet slave constantly mopped the marble floor outside. She was probably there to eavesdrop on preadmission visitors.

  ‘This place always reeks of suspicion,’ Petro mumbled, keeping an eye on the mopper. Once she looked up and automatically he smiled at her. Like any healthy Roman male, he kept in practice as a flirt.

  I agreed. ‘To say they all plot is like saying slugs eat lettuce.’

  Laeta worked late. As a bureaucrat he genuinely believed his vital work required more than an ordinary business day, even from an expert like him. He kept us waiting. That was to make us impressed that he should find time for us. Petronius and I slouched on corridor benches below a high, elegant ceiling and remarked loudly that being so disorganised at his rank was pathetic. We made sure the usher heard. Enlivening the life of underlings is a ploy worth spending time on.

  Maia and Helena said we had never grown up. We could be mature - - though kicking our heels in boredom brought out the worst in us.

  Finally Petronius was called in and I followed. When he saw me on his marble threshold, Laeta looked irritated. He was a middle-aged, middle ranker with an astute gaze. He was bursting to ask what I was doing there; he wondered whether somebody had failed to brief him on a policy issue - or, worse, had he been briefed but had forgotten it? He felt obliged to nod a greeting, but some unease showed.

  We shimmied across the doormat - a pleasing integral mosaic - and began our next role-play. It involved extravagant respect from Petronius, while I stared as if flattering a senior official had never occurred to me. Petro declared he was honoured to meet such an important man of whom (he said) he had heard much, all of it impressive. Laeta fended off a blush. Everyone must suck up to him, but he was unsure how to take it from us. Well, I said he was astute.

  Tiberius Claudius Laeta was a rising comet, experienced but still with a decade or two of conniving in him. His forenames indicated he had been a slave in the imperial house, freed under a previous emperor; from his age it would be Claudius. The imperial household had produced many senior bureaucrats, including my bugbear Anacrites, who had wormed his way up to be Chief Spy very quickly and, to me, quite unaccountably; he was the kind of light garbage that floats. Anacrites was younger than Laeta and had been freed by Nero - - hardly a recommendation, to have that eye-rolling maniac think well of you.

  ‘You submitted a man’s petition, Watch Captain.’ Prepared for the meeting, he waved it at us.

  ‘Found in a murder victim’s baggage,’ Petro confirmed. ‘I assessed it as the dead man’s last words. Delivery seemed the decent thing.’

  ‘Yes, you explained - -’ Laeta laid down the tablet abruptly, hoping to cut off bloody descriptions of the corpse. I made a grab to see what was written. Laeta was too refined to snatch the tablet back but watched jealously, like a man seeing his lover depart on an international journey.

  The complaint was as Petro had described. The handwriting was decent, the language civil service Greek. If the author was not a professional scribe, he had certainly had general clerical training. One aspect surprised me: a tone of familiarity. ‘Had this man written in before?’

  ‘One of our regulars.’ Laeta sounded weary.

  ‘Classic aggrieved citizen?’

  ‘Let’s say, detailed!’ Free Roman citizens have the right to petition the Emperor. That did not mean Vespasian personally read every scroll. He thought he did. So did those who made petition-writing their hobby. In truth, officials like Laeta censored out the batty ramblings of obsessives, at the same time as they were checking for unhinged threats against the Emperor’s person and simple-minded do-gooders offering religious advice.

  ‘Bit of a menace then?’ Petronius asked, more mildly than me.

  Laeta was too professional to insult a member of the public. His duty required him to be fair, to defend the high principle of equal access to the Emperor. ‘On the one side -’ elbows on the table, he turned back his left hand as if holding up a market weight, ‘- he has the right to campaign. And on the other - -’ he balanced the hypothetical weight with his other hand, ‘- resources are limited, so we just cannot investigate every perceived problem.’

  Perceived said a lot. No wonder Laeta looked relaxed. He perceived he could ignore such stuff.

  ‘Did this fellow always make the same complaint?’ I asked.

  ‘Usually. He worried over law-and-order issues. He was agitated about a large tribe of petty criminals who should, in his opinion, be exterminated. The fact is,’ Laeta informed us smoothly, ‘all over the Empire, groups exist who arouse their neighbours’ prejudice, perhaps because they seem feckless or a little different. They live rough, they rebuff approaches from the community. People suspect them of stealing, of luring away women, insulting priests, depressing property values and having lewd habits. Drink and putting curses on cattle are a constant theme of complaints.’

  ‘Living next door to deadbeats can be a real problem,’ Petronius corrected him. He had no truck with social misfits. He didn’t believe curse tablets could make cows barren, but he did reckon that when people bestirred themselves to complain formally, the thefts and assaults they protested about were probably real. To him, Laeta’s bland remarks were official excuses for inaction.

  To be angry about neighbours’ bad behaviour would seem a crazy waste of time where we grew up. On the Aventine, there were too many persons of lewd habits to write petitions about it. Everyone drank, to take away the pain of existence. Nobody wore themselves out trying to have ethical standards. Even
joining the army when we were eighteen was such a nod to the establishment it had made Petro and me objects of raucous derision.

  ‘Of course we take all such reports seriously,’ Laeta assured us. Tell that to the man who wrote in, I thought.

  ‘You rush to rootle out the villains?’ I teased him. ‘Their horrid shacks are upended by military-style machines, their filthy possessions tossed away, and the pilfering layabouts are made to take regular jobs in nasty occupations?’

  Laeta scowled. ‘We ask the district magistrate to make enquiries.’

  ‘And if your correspondent writes again - - when he does, since he refuses to give up - you just send another soft request to the same magistrate who let everyone down the first time?’

  ‘Dispersed responsibility, Falco.’ Laeta let my jibes trickle off like river water from a cormorant.

  ‘Well, it’s hardly corrupt, but I’d define it as inept and complacent.’

  ‘Always yourself]’ smiled Laeta. ‘I do admire that, Falco … Sometimes these complaints die down,’ he said to Petronius, as if addressing the reasonable man in our pairing. ‘So much better if a situation is dealt with peacefully, and at the local level. Nevertheless, should there be a flare-up that the local authorities cannot handle, it will be tackled - tackled aggressively.’

  ‘This involves more than bad neighbours,’ Petronius assessed. He was glum. ‘Now a man has died. Tortured, killed, and his body deposited in a blasphemous way. He appears to have been coming to Rome to appeal to the Emperor personally. That, to me, places a moral duty on Rome to look into what happened - - and to pursue the victim’s complaints.’

  ‘Quite.’ Laeta, too, became more subdued. He clasped his hands on the surface of his shining marble table. Mention of moral duties always casts a blight on bureaucrats. He admitted, in a frank way that from him was an apology, ‘It now appears the man’s petitions were justified.’