Nemesis - Falco 20

by Lindsey Davis

  Petronius had finished the night shift and gone home. Fusculus was there and gave me the story.

  ‘Same modus as before?’

  ‘Apparently. Body found at the necropolis - though not in a tomb this time. There’s a difference from the Appia and Latina sites, where you find patrician surnames and bloody big mausoleums. The Via Triumphalis is a big burial ground with a mixed clientele, slaves to middle rank. Its burials are mixed, everything from old skeletons popping out of shallow graves to grey stone urns with nice pointy lids or half a broken amphora lying on its side to hold the deceased’s ashes.’

  ‘About our level!’ I said, grinning.

  ‘Not as fancy as that inscription your papa fixed up for himself, Falco! No This is my memorial which may never be sold, with a frontage of a thousand feet; no pretty Etruscan funeral altar, with dear little wings on it.’

  I was not yet ready for jokes. I could satirise losing Pa, but thinking about my tiny son demanded respect. ‘Fusculus - that’s a large cemetery with a litter of confusing graves. Why did this corpse attract attention?’

  ‘You know some crazy killers want to yell out, Look at me; I’ve done what I wanted and you can’t catch me! Petronius reckons the dead man was placed near the road specially, so someone would notice.’

  ‘Did you see the body?’

  ‘That was indeed my privilege.’

  ‘Modestus was middle-aged. Someone similar?’

  ‘No, this one’s young. Slight build - easy to overcome.’

  ‘How was he set out?’

  ‘Obviously ritual. Face down, arms outstretched sideways like a crucified slave. Well, when I say full length, Falco, that is excluding both his hands which, having been hacked off, were placed very neatly either side of his head. Same groundplan as Modestus. And like Modestus, when the Seventh rolled him over, they found him sawn open from his gullet to his privates.’

  ‘Any other mutilation?’

  ‘That was enough!’

  ‘As vindictive as the Modestus killing?’

  Fusculus gave that thought. ‘Maybe not. He had been thumped, but probably during initial attempts to subdue him.’

  ‘Then apart from the fact he lost his hopes in life, you could say he did not suffer?’

  ‘So nicely put! His clothes were there. Shoes, neckerchief - - and bright new wedding ring still on his severed hand. Mind, I don’t think anyone would try selling what was left of his tunic in the flea market -not after he was slit open.’

  ‘Ring left behind - - so theft not a motive?’

  ‘No money on him, so maybe. His donkey’s missing, but anyone could have pinched that from the roadside if the killer left it.’

  ‘And do we know who he is?’

  ‘We do, in fact!’ Fusculus left me waiting. It was the end of the night and he soon lost interest in teasing. ‘… A carter reported his courier missing. Young fellow. Just got married, so the bride started jumping as soon as he failed to report for his dinner. Her very first attempt at seafood patties - - now he’ll never know how terrible they were … He’d been sent out with a parcel - the Seventh haven’t found the parcel, but it was in his donkey pannier. That caring citizen, his master, reported him gone because he thought the lad had simply scarpered with the goods.’

  ‘So this parcel-boy was heading out of Rome, not coming into town? And not on the Pontine Marshes side?’

  ‘No. So the Seventh were assuming it’s the same killer, because of the method, but those on high say different.’

  ‘Not the Claudii? That’s the Anacrites verdict?’ I was angry. ‘Tiberius, my lad - this points us in the other direction much too obviously!’

  ‘Funny thing,’ murmured Fusculus. ‘That’s what Petronius Longus decided.’ He pretended to look impressed that we two could so swiftly come up with the same suggestion. ‘Mind you, he always likes to be a wild man over theories. If seven people say a cabbage-seller did it, the mighty Longus will arrest the baker. He’ll be right too. Clever bastard.’

  Going on my way, when I reached the door I whipped back with a sudden last question. This was a trick to reserve for suspects, really, but Tiberius Fusculus was one person in the vigiles who appreciated stagecraft. ‘Have you discounted a copycat?’

  ‘Ah, Falco, there’s always that delight to cause confusion!’

  Petro had been going to bed when I arrived, but he stayed up to gossip. We went out to the balcony. He closed the folding door. That was how he did things. Through the slats I could see Maia waggling her fingers at us and sticking out her tongue. Ma would have listened secretly. Helena would have dragged the door straight open again and brought a stool for herself.

  He gave me further details. The Seventh Cohort, all halfwits in Petro’s opinion, had been first on the scene. The Via Triumphalis, which runs out of the city on the north-east side, was the Seventh’s beat; they had jurisdiction over the Ninth and Fourteenth districts, including any burial ground just outside the boundary. They consulted the Fourth Cohort. They knew Petronius had the Modestus case, though they had been unaware of the Anacrites complication. The Fourth’s tribune wanted to be a Praetorian Guard and spies were a Praetorian subdivision, so as it had a bearing on his own position Rubella stuck by the rules. He notified Anacrites of the new linked case so fast the hot wax seal burned the spy’s fingers. Anacrites had allowed the Seventh to continue with routine enquiries. Either they lacked the taint of association with Petronius and me, or he just thought they were too stupid to get in his way.

  ‘As they are,’ said Petro.

  ‘You’re tired.’

  ‘I’m right.’

  ‘Of course. So what do you think? Fusculus says the new official view is that the Triumphalis death indicates random killings on any road near Rome. It’s supposed to tell us the Modestus death was just a traveller’s unlucky accident.’

  ‘Yes, apparently that is a luminous truth.’

  ‘Modestus getting topped on his way into Rome has no relation to the Claudii but is pure coincidence?’

  ‘Wrong road, wrong time.’ Petro paused, as Maia came out with a dish of stuffed vine leaves, checking up that we were not enjoying ourselves too much without her.

  ‘He needs his rest, Marcus.’

  ‘We’ve nearly finished.’

  ‘I know you; you haven’t even started.’

  ‘Buzz off and let us get on then.’ Petro’s tone was affectionate. My sister put up with it.

  I chomped a vine leaf. Home made. Wheatgrain and pine nut filling in a slightly tart dressing. Mint. Good, but I stayed gloomy. ‘Spill, sunshine.’

  Petro took a snack between one thumb and finger, but merely waved it as he talked. ‘Marcus, here is my personal list of anomalies. First, why did the Modestus killers cut off his hands? I still think for revenge: those hands had repeatedly written angry letters to complain about the Claudii. Someone must have heard about Cicero - murdered for railing against Mark Antony. Cicero’s hands, which wrote his polemics, were removed and stuck on spikes either side of the head up on the rostrum where he had made his speeches.’

  ‘One hand.’

  ‘Pedant.’

  ‘The allusion seems too literary.’

  ‘No, it’s not. Everyone knows what happened to Cicero. Even I know!’ boasted Petro. He had been to school, but whereas my adult hobbies were drinking and reading, his were drinking and drinking some more. ‘Besides, what do you think Nobilis and Probus do all day at their miserable shacks? They sit down with a learned scroll to improve their minds, don’t they?’

  ‘Show me proof! But I go with revenge against the petitioner’s hands. Next anomaly?’

  ‘I had had our doctor, Scythax, take a look at the remains before we got Modestus cremated. Scythax thought he was probably still alive when his hands were removed. Nobilis may know about the death of Cicero; he intended Modestus would appreciate his fate.’

  ‘Meanwhile, the courier’s boy never wrote poison pen letters.’

  ‘No, he coul
dn’t read or write.’ Trust Petro to have asked the question. ‘His body may have been stretched out like Modestus, but his slashed belly is different. Scythax tends to be cautious forensically, but he reckons the Modestus killer cut open the corpse after death. I mean, he probably came back and did it several days later.’

  I cringed. ‘What was that for?’

  ‘Who knows why? Reinforcing his power, maybe.’ Petro munched his snack now, thinking about perversion and frowning. ‘Anyway, the courier was opened up the same day he died. We can be sure, because he set off in the afternoon and was found at first light next day. He was practically warm.’

  ‘The murder sounds hurried - that’s untypical of repeat killers.’ I could tell from the way Petronius had paced his narrative, there must be at least one more discrepancy. ‘What else?’

  ‘Whoever killed Modestus, from the detritus left nearby, I suspect more than one man was there. And they stayed around the crime scene for several days. After the killing, I mean. Possibly someone came back to slash Modestus open - but I say, the bastards never went away.’

  ‘Jupiter! This happens?’

  ‘With perverts. Of course, people who hold other theories will argue that around the Via Appia tombs there are plenty of comers and goers, squatters and campers, so how can we tell?’

  ‘And how can you?’

  ‘As well as the post mortem filleting job, we found seats that had been moved out of the tomb; discarded amphorae; obvious food evidence. There was human shit and it was the right vintage.’

  I winced. ‘Your job is charming.’

  ‘My job is to get it right and not let bastards bamboozle me.’

  ‘If the Modestus killers had wanted to play with the courier’s boy like that, all they had to do was take him away from the road out of sight. Instead they placed him right beside the road-edge ditch, where he was bound to be spotted immediately.’

  ‘Funny, that!’ observed Petro. ‘The whole thing stinks - - though a stupid spy might fall for it.’

  He did need his rest and while he brooded, Petronius Longus fell asleep. I did not disturb him. I sat on there, letting him snore on the other daybed, while I continued thinking.

  Maia looked out once. She brought me some warmed honey mulsum, silently curling my fingers around the beaker, then roughing up my curls. After these sisterly attentions, she left us to it.

  XXXI

  It was time to look harder at Anacrites. Helena was right about how we could do that. Escorting my womenfolk to a soiree at his old-style Palatine mansion would not have been my choice, but his invitation had arrived and Rome is a city of civilised dining. Commerce and corruption of all kinds are furthered by social evenings of this type. I wanted to get close enough to him to work out why he wanted to be close to me.

  At my members-only gym, Glaucus’ at the back of the Temple of Castor and Pollux, I bathed and put myself in the safe hands of the sneery barber. First, I had Glaucus give me a fierce weapons practice, followed by a session with his most brutal masseur. When Glaucus asked if all this preparation meant I was off on another dangerous mission overseas, I told him where I was going that evening. His advice was to watch my footwork, watch what I was given to eat, but above all watch my back. He had met Anacrites. When the spy had applied to join the gym as a regular, Glaucus found he was so over-subscribed he could only put Anacrites on the very competitive waiting list … Anacrites was still there.

  ‘Say no when he passes you the mushrooms,’ Glaucus hinted. An old Roman allusion to poison. ‘Better still, here’s an idea. You got plenty of slaves off your old man when he died, didn’t you? Take one along as your taster. Be sensible, Falco. You’re paid up here until the end of the year - - you don’t want to waste part of your subscription.’

  ‘I regard my slaves as family,’ I protested with a righteous air.

  ‘All the more reason to bump a few off!’ replied Glaucus. Nobody would know he had a good-looking wife he doted on and an athlete son who was his pride and joy.

  According to Helena it was more trying for a woman to get dressed when she wanted to look as if she had gone to no trouble than when she was trying to show vast respect to some possible patron in order to advance her husband (never applicable in my case) or to impress a man she was sizing up for passionate adultery (not applicable in Helena’s, I hoped - - though if that was her intention there was not much I could do about it; she was far too devious). I lay on the bed watching proceedings, naked and hoping the scent of the masseur’s crocus oils would evaporate. His goo was useless for attracting women. Helena Justina had just wrinkled her nose in mild curiosity, as if I had come home with an arm missing and she was subconsciously wondering what was different about me. The hour which we could have filled with lovemaking went to trying on gowns, searching for girdles and picking through her jewel casket. When she was halfway through applying face paint, she rushed off to supervise Albia, who had decided that since her parents never took her anywhere, she would wear all the sparkle she possessed while there was an opportunity.

  ‘We need to look as though we know it’s not just borage tea and a pickled egg,’ I heard Helena telling her. Two room doors had been left open, to facilitate the shrieks as the only good gown in the chest was found to have had honey spilled down it and the clasp on each chosen necklace broke under frantic fingers. ‘But that we don’t think enough of Anacrites to bring out our best.’

  ‘And why is it we hate him?’ Albia asked with her fastidious curiosity. She tended to act as if all things done in Rome were crazy beyond belief to anyone born in the provinces.

  ‘No hatred. We treat him cautiously,’ Helena reproved her. ‘We find his jealousy of Falco a touch unhealthy.’

  ‘Oh - as in, he tried to have Falco splayed on a rock for carrion birds in Nabataea?’

  ‘Quite. Trying to arrange a long-distance execution was not acceptable etiquette.’

  ‘So will the spy try short-distance Falco-killing this evening?’ Albia sounded far too interested.

  ‘No, darling. Anacrites is too shrewd to try anything with you and me there. I’d poke his eyes out, while you rushed for a lawyer.’

  That was reassuring. I hauled myself upright and sorted out a tunic I was willing to wear.

  ‘Oh Marcus! You’re not going in that disaster. Wear your russet.’

  ‘Too smart.’

  I had always loathed the russet, which made me look like some praetor’s pimpled equerry. Naturally, that was what my stylists made me wear.

  At the Anacrites establishment, which he must have acquired with his Census earnings, the murderous watchdog had been sluiced with scented water and told to bark more quietly. That would be a bonus for the wealthy neighbours who were usually too scared to complain. The formidable gates had been oiled so they could be forced wide enough; Pa’s old six-bearer litter sailed us through. We were cleared by the bestubbled porter and passed into the custody of liveried greeting slaves.

  They were slick. So slick, Helena guessed Anacrites had hired professional party-planners. His house was busy with Lusitanians in matching snowy tunics. There were garlands in themed colours. A young lady facilitator in platform soles and a faux fur bustband picked out bijou little guest-gifts for us (I got dice, that would only land on three). At the spy’s back door must be a train of carts bringing the accoutrements of outside caterers - - bronze buckets of fancy seafood from specialist suppliers, slightly worn table linen, and their own griddles. For Anacrites, this evening clearly meant much more than a comfortable supper among friends.

  I pinched Albia cheerfully. ‘Assume the Trojan hog is on!’

  The greeters whipped away our outer garments and shoes. A rumpus at the door announced further visitors. Since one of the voices was that of Camillus Aelianus - - sounding a little weary perhaps - - that boded ill. We had hardly reached the atrium and Albia already looked surly. Then I heard the hideous baritone of Minas of Karystos. He must have stiffened his resolve with cocktails before the part
y set out.

  Helena and I shuffled past the atrium pool, towing Albia. Tiny lamps like fireflies, the kind designers think sophisticated, twittered around the pool, many already going out. While the newcomers were shovelled into their dining sandals, we found our way through the murk and came upon our host reclining on a reading-couch, like a man who was trying to calm his nerves.

  He jumped up, wearing one of his slimfit tunics (great gods, the vain fool must have darts put in, to make him look trim). I was very put out that his was a brown shade rather close to mine. I’d half expected him to have a torc around his neck, but he had confined himself to matched gold cuffs on his upper arms. He exercised. He had enough muscle to show off, though his arms were oddly smooth, as if he had the hairs individually plucked.

  ‘You invited my brother!’ Helena barked at him. Anacrites had changed her from peacemaker to firebrand in one move. Even he looked startled.

  ‘Dear Helena Justina -’ Oh it was formal names tonight! ‘Since Lucius Petronius and Maia Favonia unfortunately had other commitments, I invited both your brothers.’ He made it sound as though he was doing her a favour, as if the noble Camilli were incapable of arranging a family party for themselves. What it really meant was that he only knew us. I was right: he had no friends. ‘I hoped you would approve,’ he whined.

  Fortunately the band struck up.

  He had three lyres and a light hand-drummer. They accompanied a short troupe of fairly good tumblers in almost new costumes, followed by a girl who sang brief Cretan shepherd songs after long explanations from a man in a shaggy goatskin cape. Ignoring this, we waved cheerily to Justinus and his wife Claudia, less cheerily to Aelianus, his new wife Hosidia and his tottering father-in-law. ‘Cretan was the best I could get at short notice to compliment Greeks,’ Anacrites whispered as he went to welcome the Camilli. As a host he seemed anxious, a new and surreal side to him.