Nemesis - Falco 20

by Lindsey Davis

  He was presented with a lot of mangy animals by rustlers who had just ‘found’ oxen wandering, but never his own.

  The day I saw the poster, I was at the Forum to meet my banker, that morose ledger-fixer, Nothokleptes. His fingers could fiddle an abacus like no other’s. He wanted to hire me a larger bankbox (for which there would be a larger fee) while I needed to explain that my sudden acquisition of large sums was not due to illegal money-lending scams or fraud on twittering old widows. Nothokleptes was quickly convinced I was legit; with a fine grasp of Roman nomenclature, he stopped referring to me as ‘Falco, you shameless bankrupt’ and now schmoosed, ‘Marcus Didius, my dear respected client’. He claimed he had always known I would come good, though I had no recollection of this astrological forecast in the long dark days when I was begging for credit. I still had to get used to my new position. I admit I was surprised when Nothokleptes seated me at a little bronze-legged table and sent out a lad to buy me a custard pastry. It was soggy, with not enough nutmeg topping, but I saw that my financial fortunes must have officially turned around. Thanks again, Pa!

  Mellowed by egg custard, though with mild indigestion, I climbed up the Aventine to visit my mother. She was out, putting the world to rights. So I called at the house nearby where Petro and Maia now lived. She said he was sleeping. Then she backed me into a daybed on their sun terrace and forced a dish of salted almonds on me. I was beginning to see why men of wealth were also men of girth.

  ‘Lucius has come home from Latium in a foul mood, and it can’t just be losing that ridiculous ox. I blame you, Marcus!’ Maia tolerated me more than my other sisters did, but she followed the trend. Petro’s first wife, Arria Silvia, always thought I was a bad influence. That was even though, according to me, our worst adventures had always been his idea.

  ‘I never did anything!’ Why did a discussion with relatives always make me sound like a truculent five-year-old?

  ‘I suppose that’s what the low-lifes in the marshes all said too! Lucius keeps mum, but I can tell you got nowhere. You’ll have to buck up,’ Maia instructed me. She was a decent sort, when not being abrupt, hasty-tempered, condemnatory and unreasonable. That was her good side; her wild side was frightening. ‘Get this case moving, will you?’

  ‘It’s his case.’

  ‘He’s your responsibility.’

  ‘No - he’s thirty-six years old and a salaried officer. Besides, he wasn’t even my responsibility when we were young soldiers drinking our way across Britain while the tribes rampaged around us.’

  ‘I can’t live with him this grouchy,’ Maia insisted. ‘You’re supposed to be the investigator, so stop loafing and get sleuthing.’

  I promised I would, but sloped off home. Helena was slightly more sympathetic - - if only because she felt her role was to appear always more rational than my female relatives. Putting their noses out of joint with her blameless serenity was, according to Helena, in the noble tradition of Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, every wise matron’s heroine.

  ‘You are not going to send me out pavement-bashing with a flea in my ear, I hope, darling?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Helena paused. ‘Though I am very surprised, Marcus, that you have made no attempt to find those Claudii who work in Rome, or learn where Claudius Nobilis went off to!’

  I knew when I was beaten. I crawled out of the house like a slug with a spade put halfway through him.

  I had no intention of being bossed. Pa, who knew just how to live a worthwhile masculine life, had bequeathed me one thing of greater worth than its book-value: I now possessed his bolt-hole. As nonchalantly as possible, I took myself to the Saepta Julia.

  Now I was so prosperous, I even had two bolt-holes. I was still paying rent on a cubbyhole Anacrites and I once hired, back when we were working on tax matters. I had affection for the place that had acquired me middle rank. I was using it now for the legacy paperwork, so it was stuffed with scrolls and piteous pleas for the inheritance tax clerks to give me time to pay. I didn’t need more time, but today Nothokleptes had impressed upon me the need to delay bills so he could invest the capital in short-term sure prospects. ‘The more you have, the more you can make, young Falco. You realise that, surely?’ I certainly realised the more I had, the more my banker could cream off for himself. ‘Only the destitute pay up prompt, for fear they won’t have any money later.’

  I had told Nothokleptes I would have to get used to this principle - - but that I was a fast learner.

  I sat in the cubbyhole, thinking, until boredom took over. Then I sauntered along the Saepta’s upper gallery, enjoying the vibrant life going on at this level and below, just as Pa used to do. I could see why he loved this place. There was never a dull moment, as fat jewellers and paranoid goldsmiths swaggered around trying to bamboozle would-be customers, while pickpockets tailed the customers and guards wondered absently whether to tackle the pickpockets. There were constant cries from food-sellers who wandered the building with gigantic trays or weighed down by garlands of drink flagons. Wafts of grilled meat and suet patties vied with the reek of garlic and the stench of pomade. Every now and then some man of note - - or a nobody who thought he was one - pressed through the throng with a train of arrogant slaves in livery, trailing sweaty secretaries and put-upon fan-danglers. Disdainful locals refused to be pushed around, resulting in loud altercations.

  I enjoyed watching the gallery rage, then stepped over a vagrant and entered the office. My nephew Gaius, Galla’s second eldest, was loafing there. He looked me over. ‘You don’t want to waste your time here, Uncle Marcus. Why not give me a couple of thousand a week and I’ll run the place for you?’

  He was at an indefinable point in his late teens, old enough to be useful, not old enough to trust. He looked like a tattooed barbarian, though with infected sores where the woad should be. He was a sweetie underneath; we sometimes used him for babysitting.

  ‘Thanks for the kind offer, Gaius. I don’t need help. We just put chipped old pots on show by the door and idiots rush in to pay huge sums for them.’

  Gaius dropped into a stone throne, his favourite lounger, where he spread himself like a potentate. He was drinking Pa’s flagon of Campagnan red, supposedly kept for celebrating big auction gains or for numbing the pain of losses. He waved me to a cheery cup that advised me to drink now for I would die tomorrow; as I poured a tot, Gaius warned me in serious tone, ‘You want to take a lot of water with that, Uncle Marcus. It’s probably too strong for you.’

  ‘Yours is neat?’

  ‘But I am used to it,’ smiled Gaius. His brass-necked cheek came straight from my louche brother Festus, from Pa, and a long line of previous Didii. I made no attempt to remonstrate. Like Lucius Petronius, I was thirty-six and had learned when there was no point arguing.

  We talked, with surprising sense from Gaius, about an auction held in my absence. ‘Things are looking up again, no question. People stayed away to begin with, thinking nothing would be the same without Grandpa, but customers are trickling back.’

  ‘They are learning you’re up to it. One or two may even have heard good things about me.’

  ‘Don’t bank on that, Uncle Marcus! Yet again, we failed to shift that two-handed urn with the centaurs battling, but that’s been around for over a year; the artwork’s crap and people are bored with the subject. I’m going to organise fake bidders next time. See if we can force some interest.’

  ‘Geminus didn’t really want to sell that pot,’ I said. ‘It hung on so long, he grew fond of it.’

  Young Gaius shook his head like a Greek sage. ‘There’s no scope for sentiment in this business!’ Then, to my surprise, he asked shyly whether Helena and I were getting over the baby, and complimented me on my handling of Pa’s funeral and memorial dinner.

  Business over, I called in a passing peddler, bought Gaius a flatbread stuffed with chickpeas, and left him to it.

  I sauntered back towards the centre of town, passing the Theatre of Balbus and the Porticu
s of Octavia as if I had no clear idea where I was going. I had made up my mind, however. I turned away from the river, then climbed up to the Palatine via the Clivus Victoriae. I gained entrance by telling the guards I needed to see Claudius Laeta. But I was going to see Momus.

  XXIII

  Falco! You cack-handed, two-timing, pompous backstairs bastard - - seems a century since I laid eyes on your ugly bum-crack!’ Momus represented the refined element of the Palatine.

  He was sprawling on a bench like a big blob of sea anemone, one that had let itself go. Even his headlice were low-grade. He had a paper of nuts lying next to him, but was too lethargic to dip in and munch. ‘Torpor’ would have been his cognomen, had he been refined enough to want his entitlement to three names.

  Thinking about imperial freedmen, as I was for the case, I asked him what family name he used. Momus gave me a wide shrug, astonished anybody asked that question. He was so informal he had never bothered to work out his nomen.

  ‘Who was on the throne when you got your cap of liberty?’

  ‘Some useless pervert.’

  ‘Sounds like Nero.’

  ‘Probably the Divine Claudius.’ Momus made ‘Divine’ sound like an obscenity, which in the case of that old duffer Claudius it traditionally was.

  I leaned on a wall, as far away from his body odour as I could get without retreating into the corridor. There was nowhere to sit. Most people who came to see Momus were slaves he was brutalising. He didn’t offer them a stool for beatings and buggery. He might be as low as a palace officer could get, but he was one level up from them so he took the traditional seat of power while they cringed in whatever desperate position he chose for them and waited for their punishment.

  ‘So were you a contemporary of an obnoxious bunch of imperial freedmen called the Claudii? Most live in the Pontine Marshes, though I’m told they have connections with Rome.’

  Momus took a long time rubbing his bleary eyes, then surprisingly he said no.

  I said quietly, ‘I thought you were famous for knowing the entire familia?’

  He pulled a face. He was not intending to help me. That was unusual. Normally our loathing of Anacrites and our distrust of Laeta made us allies.

  ‘Somebody knows them,’ I said. ‘Somebody is rumoured to protect them.’

  ‘Not me, Falco.’

  ‘No, I never saw you as the patron type!’ Even just talking to Momus always made me feel I had let down my own moral standards. I may be an informer but I do have some.

  Momus laughed, but no ice was broken in his reception of my joke.

  ‘Half the towns in Latium are shit-scared of treading on their nasty toes,’ I told him. ‘And you claim you don’t know them? Leaving me no choice, old crony, but to suppose you must be shit-scared of this somebody who watches over them.’

  Momus did not move a muscle.

  I blew out my cheeks slowly, as if impressed by the scale of the problem. That was easy. I was genuinely marvelling. Momus liked to be outspoken. His silence was not part of his routine sea-anemone lolling. If he had had tentacles, he would have stopped waving them as soon as I mentioned the Claudii. Momus was taking a lot of trouble to show no reaction, but his grime-engrained skin acquired extra sheen. I could have wiped his greasy, sweating face and then oiled a wheel-axle with the rag.

  Eventually he growled, ‘Don’t mess with this, Falco. You’re too young and sweet.’

  He was being ironic, but the warning had a note of real concern. I thanked him for the advice and took myself to see Laeta.

  I knew he would be there. In the first place, he enjoyed pretending his burden of work was terrible - and in the second, he really was the most important scroll-bug in the imperial bureaux. At this time in the summer, the betting was that all three of his masters, Vespasian and both his sons, were taking their ease at some family villa, perhaps out in the Sabine hills where they originated. When that happened, Claudius Laeta was left at the Palatine to run the Empire smoothly. Few people ever noticed that-power was temporarily in his hands.

  As an informal gesture to the fact that it was after business hours, Laeta had a singer intoning an epode. The musician was heavily emphasising the iambic trimesters and dimeters in a long, slow, lugubrious piece that used the style aficionados call affected archaism. It was music you could never dance to, nor would it lull you to sleep, raise your spirits or encourage a fine-featured woman to sleep with you. Laeta had one finger placed against his brow to indicate subconscious delight. I wondered why men who listen to such torture always think themselves so superior.

  The Dorian dirge subsided. Laeta had made an almost imperceptible gesture, so the singer left. Going voluntarily saved him having me drag him outside and bind him by his tasselled wristbands to a fast-moving cart.

  ‘I’m glad you dropped by, Falco.’ Always a bad start.

  Laeta then told me that Anacrites was back from whatever mission the Emperor had let him loose to ruin. Instead of waiting for more orders, the Chief Spy had taken it upon himself to follow up the Modestus case. ‘I have informed Marcus Rubella he can drop the investigation,’ said Laeta, barely looking up from his deskful of documents.

  ‘That stinks!’

  ‘It’s a done deal, Falco.’

  ‘You think Anacrites is fit for this?’ I demanded.

  ‘Of course not.’ At this point, Laeta did look up and meet my eyes. His were clear, cynical and unlikely to be swayed by protests. ‘Think yourself lucky, Falco. Tell your vigiles friend too. This case may go very mouldy before it’s over. If the spy thinks he wants the job, that’s typical of his misjudgement - - but let him go ahead and bungle it. We can all watch Anacrites get nasty black squid ink down one of those barley-coloured tunics he insists on wearing.’

  Laeta always wore white. Classic. Expensive and aristocratic. By implication incorruptible - though I had always assumed he was very corrupt indeed.

  I dropped my voice. ‘What’s going on, Laeta?’

  He laid down his pen and leaned his chin on his hands. ‘Nothing, Falco.’

  I folded my arms. ‘I can spot official lying. You can tell me the truth. I have the Emperor’s confidence. I thought you and I worked from the same order sheet.’

  ‘I am sure we do.’ Claudius Laeta gave me the look some bureaucrats use. It made no denial of a cover-up and seemed to assume I knew everything he did. I felt I could see distaste for whatever game Anacrites was playing.

  ‘I thought this was a confidential enquiry. How did Anacrites even find out about it?’

  ‘Your crony Petronius put in a claim for a replacement ox and cart. An auditor strolled up the corridor and mentioned it to the spy.’

  ‘Oh no! I wonder what that was worth? I do see the Treasury will quibble - - but the adjudicators are perfectly capable of turning down expenses without bringing in Anacrites. It’s nothing to do with him.’

  Laeta for once allowed himself to be rude about another official: ‘You know how he works. He spends most of his time spying on his colleagues rather than enemies of the state.’

  ‘Shall I challenge him on this?’ I asked.

  ‘I advise against.’

  ‘Why?’

  Laeta’s eyes were keen and oddly sympathetic. ‘Take a steer from a friend. Anacrites is always dangerous. If he really feels he wants this work, stand back.’

  ‘That’s not my style.’

  Laeta leaned back with the palms of his hands on the edge of his table. ‘I know it’s not, Falco. That’s why I am taking the trouble, out of respect for your qualities, to say, just let this one go.’

  I thanked him for his concern, though I did not understand it. Then I left his office wondering what exactly the Chief Spy could find fascinating in a bunch of belligerent marshfrogs killing a neighbour in a feud about a boundary fence.

  My style was, as Laeta may have realised, to march straight up the corridor to Anacrites’ office, intending to ask him.

  Once again he was absent.

 
Two of his men were there this time, eating folded flatbreads. I had seen them before. I reckoned they were brothers, and for no logical reason I had placed them as Melitans. Anacrites had had these idiots watching my house last December. I was looking after a state prisoner temporarily and, in his own tiresome style, he tried muscling in. Just like this, really. If he thought I was being noticed by the Palace, he could never leave me alone.

  The legmen had taken over his room as if this was their base, where they were allowed to eat their supper before they were sent out on their next assignment. One was actually sitting in the seat Anacrites normally used. Even spies have to eat. That included the unfortunates Anacrites employed. Any over-familiarity was his problem.

  When I looked in, the pair straightened up slightly; they rearranged their foreign-looking features so they seemed helpful, though neither bothered to ask what I wanted. They made vague attempts to hide their vegetable turnovers until they saw I didn’t give a damn.

  ‘He’s out?’

  They nodded. One raised his bread two inches as an affirmative. I didn’t ask where he had gone, so they did not need to tell me. They knew who I was. I wondered whether they guessed why I wanted to talk to Anacrites.

  He was obsessively secretive, too close to make a good commander. His men probably had no idea what he was up to. That was the problem with him: half the time he didn’t know what he was doing himself.

  XXIV

  For some reason, when I left the Palace, the night seemed full of threats and unhappiness. Rome had its seamy side. I seemed more aware of it tonight. I noticed caterwauling and unhappy cries, both near and distant; there seemed to be a bad smell everywhere, as if while I was in the Palace some major disaster with the drains had occurred. Darkness insinuated lower areas, creating pools of menace where there ought to be streets. Monuments that stood amidst a few lights looked cold and forbidding instead of familiar.