Nemesis - Falco 20

by Lindsey Davis

  Anacrites shot me a suspicious glance. ‘How do you know they are brothers?’

  ‘They look like brothers - - and in some passing conversation, they told me, you idiot. I don’t waste my time trying to find out sordid details about your useless staff.’

  Anacrites then set about peering into all our upstairs rooms, while I ambled along with him to ensure he saw nothing too private. I encouraged him to look under beds, if I knew there were chamber pots; I wished we had put snappy rat traps just inside cupboards. A toy donkey fell down a step and nearly made the spy take a tumble, but the beds were neatly made, shutters closed, lamps trimmed and filled. We had staff; order had seeped into my domestic life like a leaking drain. None of the slaves were discovered rifling papers or money chests, none were screwing one another in the guest rooms or playing with themselves alone in linen cupboards. Something about Anacrites made them all scuttle for cover even though I, their reassuring master, was escorting him, with my half-read scroll of Horace still tucked under my elbow and an expression of pained tolerance at his damned intrusion.

  We glanced in every room, then went out on to the roof terrace. ‘If he’s up here, I’ll throw him off.’ By now I was curt. ‘This has gone far enough. What’s going on?’

  ‘I told you - - my agent has gone missing; I have to find him. He has family, for one thing; if something’s happened, they will want to know.’

  ‘Married?’ I felt a strange need to know. I had shared three crucial days in that man’s life. His worthwhile existence reached its end in my home. Petronius and I were his last civilised contacts. Remembering Helena’s furious comparison, I wondered if psychopathic killers developed this warped sense of relationship with their victims.

  ‘Yes, there is a wife - - or so I believe.’

  ‘Parents living?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And he has a brother who looks like a twin.’

  ‘They are not identical’

  ‘Oh you know something about them then, Anacrites?’

  ‘I take care of my men. Give me credit for being professional.’

  ‘An impeccable employer! He’s probably fallen victim to a street mugger, or been knocked down by a wagon and hauled off to a healing sanctuary. Try the Temple of Aesculapius. Maybe he ran away because he couldn’t stand his working environment - or couldn’t stand his superior.’

  ‘He wouldn’t run away from me,’ Anacrites said, with an odd expression.

  We returned downstairs. On reaching the lower hall, Anacrites decided to search the ground-floor rooms. ‘We don’t use them,’ I said. ‘Too damp.’

  He insisted. He looked ready for a fight with me, but I did not quibble.

  When he looked in the room where we had kept our captive, Anacrites sniffed slightly. No trace of his missing man remained, though like a bloodhound, the spy seemed to harbour doubts. If I had believed in supernatural powers, I would have thought he was picking up the aura of a soul in torment. The room stood empty, apart from a well-scrubbed bench against one wall. The floor and walls looked spotless.

  The air was clean, pervaded only by a faint smell of beeswax where the boards had been given a buffing very recently.

  ‘I used this as a holding cell,’ I told Anacrites gently. ‘For my late father’s slaves - -’ Mentioning my bereavement made the bastard look humble. I -wanted to kick him. ‘While I was assessing which were for the slave market. And if, in your role as an interfering state auditor, you intend to ask - yes, I paid the four per cent tax on every one I sold.’

  ‘I would not dream of implying otherwise, Marcus.’ Every time Anacrites called me Marcus it just reminded me how impossible it would be ever to call him ‘Tiberius’.

  He left eventually. I wondered if the unpredictable swine -would come back for another attempt. Anacrites often did a job, then half an hour later thought of three things he had missed.

  His ‘search’ was just a surface skim. He could be inept - yet he could also be more thorough when the mood took him. Tonight he just gave my house a casual walk-through. I even wondered if he had left his visit until now because he’d known all along where the agent was, and actually wanted to lose him from his payroll. After all, he knew I always spotted surveillance and would take against it. He had just claimed to be a concerned superior. When the Melitan went missing, it should not have taken him three days to act.

  Luckily, at heart Anacrites was so obsessed with outsmarting me that once we engaged in mental tussle, he noticed little else. He seemed unaware that, while I walked him around, my heart was beating fast. When Albia left with Lentullus and called Nux for a walk, the madcap mongrel had raced downstairs eagerly. Our dog was carrying her latest toy. It was a short piece of rope; she liked to fight people for it, gripping on like fury, shaking it from side to side and growling with excitement. Nux would have offered to play the tugging game with Anacrites, had he shown the slightest interest. Instead, wagging her tail crazily, she scampered away after Albia.

  As far as I could tell, the spy failed to spot that my dog’s prized new toy had once been his agent’s strangling rope.

  XLVI

  Anacrites did not dare search Maia’s apartment in person, though he sent his two ex-soldiers. They were very polite, especially when they found that only Marius (aged thirteen) and Ancus (ten) were in. They must have been warned to expect a termagant and possibly a large angry vigiles officer, so finding a scholarly boy and his very shy little brother caught them wrong-footed. My elder nephew wanted to be a rhetoric teacher; so, Marius practised legal disputation on them (the rights of a Roman householder) while they quickly peered about, found nothing, and fled.

  Petronius heard about it later. He would have been furious, but by then something big had blown up. Something so big, that since no harm had been done at the apartment, he left the issue alone. He had noted it, though. He was adding it to the long list of outrages for which Anacrites would one day pay.

  I was setting off to Helena at the villa when I received an intriguing invitation. I was to meet Petronius at a bar called the Leopard, one we never frequented. He suggested I bring my Camillus assistants. A cryptic note on his message warned us Play by Isca rules. Only I knew what that meant: it referred to a secret court-martial we once took part in. So, this was a meeting of high importance, to be kept from the authorities. Nothing that was said today at the Leopard would ever be acknowledged afterwards. No one could break faith. And for me, there was a subtle indication that somebody of status - - Anacrites? - - was about to be formally shafted.

  Aelianus and Justinus were agog and turned up willingly at my house. We had a brief moment of tension when Albia stalked down to the hall while we were assembling. I overheard Aelianus plead with her, ‘Won’t you at least speak to me?’

  To which Albia coldly answered, ‘No!’ She stormed out of the house, giving me a filthy look for my contact with Aulus. At least I knew this time she was not rushing to the Capena Gate to stalk him.

  ‘You’re an idiot!’ said Quintus to his brother - who did not deny it.

  When we arrived at the bar, Petronius was already there. He had a man with him. It was a large place. They were in a room at the back, which they had managed to keep to themselves. Money probably changed hands for that.

  Brief introductions ensued. ‘This is Silvius. He’ll tell you himself what he does - insofar as he can say.’

  The draughtboard and counters had been allocated to our room, a cover for us being there; we seemed like an illegal gambling consortium. While drinks were ordered, I sized up Silvius. He was lean, scornful, capable. Maybe early fifties. A semi-shaved grey head. One finger missing. Been around the houses - on good terms with the householders, maybe even better terms with their wives. I would not like him staying in my house. That did not mean I could not work with him - far from it.

  ‘What are you thinking, Falco?’ Petro asked, with a mild smile that meant he knew.

  ‘Silvius is one of us.’

  ‘Honoured
,’ said Silvius. He had an easy-going baritone voice that had ordered up plenty of flagons in its time. He had spent long nights in smoky bars, talking. Either he was a lyric poet, a speculative saucepan-seller - - or he traded information.

  The drinks came. Sides arrived simultaneously in pottery dishes. There would be no need for the waiter to trouble us again.

  I saw Silvius eyeing the two young Camilli. Petro must have given him the rundown on us all. They had left their pristine togas in the clothes press and were turned out professionally: neutral tunics, serviceable belts, worn-in boots, no flash metal buckles or tags on their laces. Neither went in for jewellery, though Aulus had a rather wide new gold wedding ring; Quintus was not wearing his, but I thought he had had it on when he escorted his wife to the spy’s party. You could just about take these two down an alley in the Subura without causing a rush of pickpockets, though they still had to learn how to pass along the streets completely unnoticed. At least they looked nowadays as though they might see trouble coming. As they thickened up in their middle-to-late twenties, each looked as if he might be handy when that trouble reached him. Their hair was too long and their chins too cleanshaven, but if we were soon to have action, I knew they would enjoy making themselves more scruffy.

  ‘They will do; they are fit,’ I said in an undertone. Silvius heard it without comment. Both Camilli noticed the exchange. Neither flared up. They had learned to accept how you edged towards acceptance in new professional relationships. When work was dangerous, each man had to make his own judgements about people he would be dealing with. Aulus leaned back on the bench and subjected Silvius in turn to scrutiny.

  We raised a quiet toast, then set our beakers down again as Petronius prepared to speak.

  ‘Is this about our Modestus case?’ Having been to the marshes with us, Quintus was over-keen and jumped in. I laid a finger to my lips. Good-natured, Quintus shrugged an apology.

  Petro began slowly. ‘Marcus Rubella, my tribune, introduced Silvius to me, but officially, Rubella never met Silvius - and nor have I. Officially we surrendered the case into the safe hands of the honest Praetorians, together with their intellectual comrade, Anacrites the spy. There’s a poor interface with his organisation. We all let Anacrites play by himself.’

  Aulus asked, keeping his voice level, ‘Who are “we all”? The vigiles, the Praetorians, and whoever Silvius’ people are?’

  Petro gave a satirical growl. ‘Here is how cooperation works, boys.’ He branched into a lecture I had heard him give before: ‘The Praetorian Guard provide the Emperor’s security - hence the link with the intelligence outfit. Titus Caesar commands them, to keep them under control - though who will control Titus? They spend a lot of time nowadays arresting people whose faces Titus does not like. Upset Anacrites, and that could be us. The Urban Prefect is Rome’s city manager. Duties include investigating major crime - note that. Then come the vigiles. Duties: sniffing out fires, apprehending street thieves, rounding up runaway slaves. When we catch minor criminals, we give them on-the-spot chastisement - - otherwise we parcel them up for the Urban Prefect, who charges them formally. So another point to note, Aelianus: we have good lines of communication with the Urbans. Very good.’

  I leaned on one elbow and pointed one forefinger at Silvius. Silvius nodded. He belonged to the Urban Cohorts.

  The Camilli watched this interchange. Justinus asked pointedly, ‘The Guards and the Urbans live in the same camp. Are they not natural allies?’

  ‘You might think so,’ admitted Silvius. ‘Though not for long. Not once your keen eyes observed how the Praetorians behave like gods, looking down on the Urbans as their poor relations - - while also thinking that the vigiles are puny ex-slaves, commanded by has-been officers.’ Petronius spat out an olive stone. ‘Pity the pathetic Urban who has bought the myth that it is easy to pass from one section to the other, merely on talent and merit,’ Silvius continued in complaint. I wondered if that was what he had tried to do, and failed. ‘No vigiles officer, I suspect, would even waste his time thinking it could happen.’ Ah. Tell that to Marcus Rubella, whose dream was to rise on snowy wings to wear the Praetorian uniform.

  ‘So you work in Rome,’ Aulus pressed Silvius.

  ‘Personally, no.’

  We all raised our eyebrows - except for Petronius who calmly supped his drink and waited for Silvius to explain.

  ‘The Praetorians,’ said Silvius, with sly satisfaction, ‘have to remain with the Emperor. The Urban Cohorts are free to roam. Our remit covers major crime - not only in the city, but anywhere within a hundred miles. Because, you see, any horrible criminal activity in that area might affect the sacred capital.’

  ‘Now it makes sense,’ said Aelianus. Even in the shaky hands of Minas of Karystos he had absorbed enough legal training to care about jurisdictions. ‘For instance, the Modestus case would fall to you?’

  ‘Yes, but Anacrites wants it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘There is a magistrate at Antium -’

  Justinus laughed. ‘The invisible man!’

  It was Silvius’ turn to raise an eyebrow.

  ‘When Modestus and Primilla disappeared, a posse from Antium was sent to investigate. Before Anacrites waded in and stopped our activity, Falco, Petronius and I tried to liaise with the magistrate but he declined to meet us.’

  ‘You assumed Antium dropped all interest?’ suggested Silvius. ‘No, there is more to the man than that, boys. When he found nothing in the soggy marshes, it’s true he went home and seemed to keep his head down. You may suppose he just spends his life enjoying the sea breezes at Antium, but this togate beach bum has a sense of duty - for civic rectitude, he could be one of our clean-living, right-thinking, porridge-slurping ancestors. Nor does bureaucracy scare him. Amazingly, he went on digging. He looked through records. Then one fine day, he was entertaining the Urban Prefect - our beloved commander, who, it has to be admitted, had gone out to Antium using official expenses in order to scout for a cut-price villa, to keep his bitching wife quiet. Over the men’s sophisticated luncheon, words were exchanged of a diligent nature. Feel free to marvel.’

  Aulus leaned in, scooping seafood from a dish. ‘What have they found?’ He had no truck with fancy narratives. Minas probably thought Aulus was not a natural lawyer, but his plain gruffiiess satisfied me.

  ‘The magistrate has been following up reports of missing people, people who had disappeared while travelling mainly, so unlikely to have caused real local outcry. A list was prepared. Footmen were sent out into the countryside, some carrying long probes. And they found,’ said Silvius, enjoying the chill he laid on us, ‘two double sets of bodies.’

  Aulus dumped a chewed prawn head in an empty saucer. ‘So far.’

  Silvius looked at me with only a trace of sarcasm. ‘He catches on!’

  ‘Thanks. I saved him from ruination: army and the diplomatic - he was a slow slug until I took on his training …’ While Aulus seethed mildly, I pressed Silvius, ‘You work outside Rome - - so when the Antium big bug talked to the Urban commander, you were assigned to the case?’

  ‘That’s right. “Liaison officer”. Keeping the locals on track - while letting them believe they have control.’

  ‘Did you see the bodies yourself?’

  He moved a little on his bench, disturbed by memories. ‘Yes - one lot while still in situ. They were old bones. Nothing to identify. One pair much more recent than the other. Shallow graves, one trench to each body, each two of a pair lying close to each other - - no more than ten feet separate - - but the two pairs were half a mile apart. To find more, there will be a lot of ground to cover. The locals are still looking. And we’ve kept it secret.’

  ‘People will soon know.’

  ‘Sadly they will, Falco. So we need movement. I was sent to Rome to chivvy it up - only to learn the Modestus case has been passed over to the spy. I’m disgusted. This is no job for Anacrites. We Urbans won’t cave in to him and the Praetorians. So our Prefect talked
to the Vigiles Prefect. I’ve now been sent to communicate with you boys - very, very quietly. It’s imperative the Praetorians don’t know until they have to -and, until we can make arrests, nor must the Claudii.’

  We all breathed in, or whistled through our teeth.

  Petronius pushed aside his beaker. ‘I’d like to hear more about the circumstances of these other deaths. How, when, where, who?’

  ‘The graves are a few miles out of Antium. The oldest, just skeletons, may date back decades. The others are maybe five years old. How can anyone tell? A gravedigger from a necropolis was brought in to confer, but he couldn’t say anything more specific. Because of their condition, impossible to say what had been done to them, though there could be cut marks on bones. We can’t attach names - - no clues to identity, though using the missing list, we may make guesses.’

  ‘How were they laid out in the graves?’ I asked.

  ‘Arms at full stretch - like Modestus and that courier.’

  ‘Any hands removed?’ That was Petro.

  ‘No. One corpse had an arm missing, but the grave had been disturbed, probably by animals. One had a foot off-maybe he kicked out and was given special punishment.’

  ‘Any clothing or other items?’

  ‘Nothing useful. Rags mostly. No money or valuables. It all looked careful, by the way. Marcus Rubella told me the courier’s burial seemed rushed?’

  ‘We’re keeping an open mind on the courier,’ I told Silvius. ‘Even Anacrites thinks it could be a distraction, according to what he told me … Maybe it’s him all along, trying to divert attention from the Pontine connection, to protect the Claudii.’

  ‘Why would he want to look after those bastards?’

  ‘Who knows? Have you met him? Do you know what he’s like?’

  Silvius spat contemptuously.

  After a small pause Petro kept niggling. ‘Did your four bodies give up any hints about the killer? Was there more than one, for instance? Did they stay on the scene afterwards, to commit further defilement?’