'I love you,' I gurgled eventually, to take her mind off whatever dark thoughts held her transfixed.
'You do know when to splash out on a romantic phrase!' She gripped me by the bristled chin and stared into my bleary eyes. A girl of great courage, even she went slightly pale. 'Falco, your raffish good looks are the worse for wear.'
'You're a charitable woman.'
'I'm a fool!' she frowned. Helena Justina knew she had let herself be lured into caring for an unsatisfactory lowlife who would only bring her sorrow. She had convinced herself she enjoyed the challenge. Her influence had already refined me, though I managed to conceal the evidence. 'Damn you, Marcus, I thought you had been carried away by the excitement of your orgy and were lying in the lap of a dancing girl.'
I grinned. If Helena cared enough for me to be upset there was always hope. 'There was a dancing girl at the party but I had nothing to do with her. She was got up as Diana in a fraction of a costume. Spent her time leaning backwards so you could look right down -'
'At your foodbowl, if you were sensible!'
'Exactly,' I assured my beloved.
She gave me a fierce hug; by accident I let out a revolting belch. 'Then I thought you had been set upon and were bleeding in a gutter somewhere.'
'Just as well it didn't happen. I was carrying a valuable quantity of top-quality liquamen, which I managed to pinch from the party as a gift for my lady love, whose pregnancy has given her insatiable cravings for the most expensive kind of sauce.'
'My unerring good taste! As a bribe, it's virtually enough,' she conceded. Always fair.
'It's a whole amphora.'
'That's the way to show your remorse!'
'I had to borrow two slaves to drag it home.' 'My hero. So is it from Baetica?'
'The label on the shoulder says Gades.'
'Sure it's not just cheap old Muria?'
'Do I look like a second-class tunnyfish salesman? Entrails of prime mackerel, I promise you.' I had not tested the garum but the boast seemed safe. Given the high standard of food at the dinner, the condiments were bound to be excellent. 'Am I forgiven, then?'
'For not knowing where you live?' she jibed pointedly. 'Yes, I'm suitably embarrassed.'
Helena Justina smiled. 'I'm afraid you will have to face quite a lot more embarrassment. You see, Marcus my darling - I was so worried by your non-appearance that I rushed out at first light to see petronius Longus.' Petronius, my best friend, was not above sarcasm when it came to my escapades. He worked as an enquiry officer in the local watch. Helena gurgled prettily. 'I was distraught, Marcus. I insisted he get the vigiles to look everywhere for you ...'
Helena assumed the demure expression of a girl who intended to enjoy herself, knowing I was condemned to suffer in a very public manner. She did not need to continue. Everyone on the Aventine would have heard that I disappeared last night. And whatever lies about my drunken return I tried telling, the true story was bound to come out.
VI
Luckily Petronius must have had enough to do chasing real villains. He had no time to come looking for me.
I spent my morning in modest domestic pursuits. Sleeping. Asking for headache remedies. Giving attention to the selfless woman who had chosen to spend her life with me.
Then a distraction turned up. We heard a man who was hot and fractious arriving on the outer stairs. We ignored the noise until he burst in on us. It was Claudius Laeta: he seemed to expect rather more ceremony than the quiet stare he received from both of us.
I had got myself bathed, shaved, massaged, combed, dressed in a clean tunic, revitalised with several pints of cold water, then further nourished with a simple meal of lightly cooked cucumber in eggs. I was sitting like a decent householder at my own table, talking to my own woman and politely allowing her to select whatever subject she liked. The chat was undemanding because Helena had her mouth full of mustcake. She had bought it for herself that morning, half suspecting I would turn up eventually with some disgraceful tale. There had been no suggestion of offering me any.
So we sat, decorous and peaceful after lunch, when a man with a commission I didn't want or care for burst into our home: for an informer, this was a normal event. I greeted him resignedly. Luckily we had our temporary table in the room without the obscene plasterwork. I took my time fetching another seat from a cubbyhole. I knew whatever Laeta had come to say would be burdensome.
Laeta sat down. Here, in a low street on the turbulent Aventine, the great man was well out of his fishpond. Like a grounded carp he was gasping, too. I never told anyone my new address, preferring to let trouble go to the old one. He must have stomped up the six flights to my room across the road, then stumbled down them all again before Lenia at the laundry (who had callously watched him going up) drawled out that I also leased an apartment over the basket shop opposite. He had vented his curses on the ox-wagon driver who had knocked him down as he was crossing Fountain Court.
'Perhaps Marcus Didius can advise you on suing the driver?' murmured Helena, with the refined patrician mockery which was the last thing he could cope with in his present indignant state.
I introduced her formally: 'Helena Justina, daughter of Camillus Verus, the senator; he's a friend of Vespasian, as I expect you know.'
'Your wife?' quavered Laeta, alarmed by the incongruity and trying not to sound surprised.
We smiled at him.
'What's the problem?' I asked gently. There had to be a problem, or a high-class official would not have dragged himself here, especially without an escort.
He cast a wild glance towards Helena, meaning I should get rid of her. Not easy. Not easy, even if I had wanted to. Quite impossible while she was two months away from giving birth and shamelessly exploiting it: groaning with restrained discomfort as she settled into her wicker armchair with her tired feet on her personal footstool. She folded her stole around herself and smiled at Laeta again - then continued with the remains of her cake. He was not worldly enough to suggest he and I went out to a wine bar, so Helena prepared to listen.
As she licked her long fingers I watched her wicked brown eyes survey the top clerk. He was sweating badly, partly from his hike up to my old eyrie and partly from agonies of awkwardness here. I wondered what Helena made of him. In fact, I wondered what I really made of him myself.
'Did you enjoy the dinner, Falco?'
'Excellent.' Years of encouraging difficult clients had taught me to lie smoothly. I seemed to have a prospective client here. Well, I had already turned down people who were more important than him.
'Good; good ... I need your help,' he confessed.
I raised an eyebrow as if that sordid idea had never crossed my mind. 'What can I do for you?'
This time Laeta turned to Helena directly. 'Perhaps you have some weaving you want to attend to?' He was persistent, yet had the sense to make it sound like a joke in case she still refused to budge.
'Afraid not.' She waved her arm around the empty room. 'We're still waiting for the loom to be delivered.'
I grinned. Helena Justina had never promised me the traditional attributes of a good Roman wife: reclusive social habits, a submissive demeanour, obedience to her male relatives, a big fat dowry - let alone home-woven tunics. All I got was bed and banter. Somehow I still ended up convinced that I had it better than the old republicans.
Laeta stopped fidgeting. He fixed his gaze on me as if to make my eccentric companion invisible. 'I need assistance from someone who is totally reliable.'
I had heard that before. 'You're saying the job is dangerous!'
'This could bring you large rewards, Falco.'
'That old song! This is work of an official nature?' 'Yes.'
'And is it official as in "just between friends", offrcial as in "a highly placed person whose name I won't mention needs this", or official as in "the highly placed person must never know about it and if you get in trouble I'll deny I've ever heard of you"?'
'Are you always so cynical?'
'I've worked for the Palace before.'
Helena cut in, 'Marcus Didius has risked his life on public service. His reward has been slow payment, followed by a refusal of social promotion even though it had previously been promised him.'
'Well, I know nothing of your past employment terms, Marcus Didius.' Laeta knew how to blame other departments. A natural. 'My own secretariat has an unblemished record.'
'Oh good!' I jeered. 'Yet my enthusiasm for your bureau's clean habits doesn't mean I accept the job.'
'I have not told you what it is,' he twinkled.
'By Jove; no you haven't! My curiosity is bursting.' 'You're being satirical.'
'I'm being rude, Laeta.'
'Well, I'm sorry you take this attitude, Falco -' There was an unspoken hint of regret that he had honoured me with his invitation to the oil producers' party. I ignored it. 'I had been told you were a good agent.'
'Good means selective.'
'But you refuse my work?'
'I'm waiting to hear about it.'
'Ah!' He assumed an expression of huge relief. 'I can promise I shall take personal responsibility for the payment of your fees. How much are we talking about, by the way?'
'I'll fix the terms when I accept the work - and I'll only accept if I know what it is.'
There was no escape. He looked uncomfortable, then he came out with it: 'Someone from our dinner last night has been found badly beaten in the street.'
'Then you must call for a surgeon and inform the local cohort of the watch!'
I avoided looking at Helena, aware she was newly anxious on my own behalf. If I had known we had to talk about people being beaten up, I would have whipped Laeta out of doors as soon as he arrived.
He pinched his mouth. 'This is not for the watch.' 'What makes a late-night street mugging peculiar?
Home-going revellers are always being attacked'
'He lives at the Palace. So he wasn't going home.' 'Is that significant? Who is this man?'
I should have worked out the answer, if only from the high status of my visitor and his unhealthy excitement. Yet it was quite unexpected when Laeta informed me with an air of panache: 'Anacrites, the Chief of Intelligence!'
VII
'Anacrites?' I laughed briefly, though not at the spy's misfortune. 'Then the first question you should be asking is whether I did it!'
'I did consider that,' Laeta shot back.
'Next, the attack may be connected to his work. Maybe, unknown to you, I'm already involved.'
'I understood that after he landed you in trouble on your Eastern trip, the last thing you would ever do is work with him.'
I let that pass. 'How did he get himself beaten up?' 'He must have gone out for some reason.'
'He wasn't going home? He actually lives at the Palace?'
'It's understandable, Falco. He's a free man, but he holds a sensitive senior position. There must be considerations of security.' Laeta had clearly given much thought to the luxury Anacrites had fixed up for himself: inter-service jealousies were seething again. 'I believe he has invested in a large villa at Baiae, but it's for holidays - which he rarely takes - and no doubt his retirement eventually -'
Laeta's obsession with his rival's private life intrigued me - as did the amazing thought that Anacrites could somehow afford a villa at ultra-fashionable Baiae. 'How badly is he hurt?' I butted in.
'The message said he might not live.'
'Message?'
'Apparently he was discovered and rescued by a householder who sent a slave to the Palatine this morning.' 'This man identified Anacrites how?'
'That I don't know.'
'Who has checked Anacrites' condition? You have not seen him?'
'No!' Laeta seemed surprised.
I restrained myself. This was looking like a mess. 'Is he still with the charitable private citizen?' Silence confirmed it. So! You believe Anacrites has been knocked about, and possibly murdered, by somebody or some group he was investigating. Official panic ensues. You, as Chief of Correspondence - a quite separate bureau - become involved.' Or he involved himself, more likely. 'Yet the Chief Spy himself has been left all day, perhaps without medical attention, and in a place where either he or the helpful citizen may be attacked again. Meanwhile nobody from the official side has bothered to find out how badly Anacrites is hurt, or whether he can speak about what happened?'
Laeta made no attempt to excuse the stupidity. He linked the fingertips of both hands. 'Put like that,' he said, with all the reasonableness of an important official who had been caught on the hop, 'it sounds as if you and I should go straight there now, Falco.'
I glanced across at Helena. She shrugged, resigned to it. She knew I hated Anacrites; she also knew that any wounded man needs help from someone sensible. One day the body bleeding in the gutter might be mine.
I had a further question: 'Anacrites runs a full complement of agents; why are they not being asked to see to this?' Laeta looked shifty; I dropped in the real point: 'Does the Emperor know what has occurred?'
'He knows.' I could not decide whether to believe the clerk or not.
At least Laeta had brought an address. It took us to a medium apartment on the south end of the Esquiline - a once notorious district, now prettied up. A famous graveyard which had once possessed a filthy reputation had been developed into five or six public gardens. These still provided a venue for fornication and robbery, so the streets were littered with broken wine jugs and the locals walked about with their heads down, avoiding eye contact. Near the aqueducts some pleasant private homes braved it out.
On the first level of living quarters in a four-storey block, up a cleanly swept stair which was guarded by standard bay trees, lived a fusspot bachelor architect called Calisthenus. He had been trapped at home all day, unwilling to leave a mugging victim who might suddenly revive and make off with his rescuer's collection of Campanian cameos.
Laeta, with unnecessary caution, refused to identify himself. I did the talking: 'I'm Didius Falco.' I knew how to imbue that with authority; there was no need to specify what post I held. 'We've come to carry off the mugging victim you so kindly took in - assuming he is still alive.'
'Just about, but unconscious still.' Calisthenus looked as if he thought he deserved our official attention. I contained my distaste. He was a thin, pale weeping willow who spoke in a tired drawl. He implied he had great ideas preoccupying him, as if he were a grand temple designer; in reality he probably built rows of little cobblers' shops.
'How did you come across him?'
'Impossible to avoid: he was blocking my exit.' 'Had you heard any disturbance last night?'
Not specially. We get a lot of noise around here. You learn to sleep through it.' And to ignore trouble until they could not step over it.
We reached a small closet where a slave normally dossed down. Anacrites was lying on the meagre pallet, while the slave watched him from a stool, looking annoyed that his blanket was being bled on. The spy was indeed unconscious. He was so ill that for a second I found him unrecognisable.
I spoke his name: no response.
There was a cloth in a bowl of cold water; I wiped his face. His skin was completely drained of colour and felt idly moist. The pulse in his neck took careful finding. He had gone somewhere very far away, probably on a journey that would have no return.
I lifted the cloak covering him, his own garment presumably. He still wore last night's reddish tunic held togetner along all its seams with padded braid in dark berry colours. Anacrites always swanked in good stuff, though he avoided garish shades; he knew how to mix comfort with unobtrusiveness.
There were no bloodstains on the tunic. I found no stabbing wounds nor general signs of beating, though he did have identical bad bruises on both his upper arms as if he had been fiercely grabbed. The side of one shin had a small cut, new and about a digit long, from which ran a dried trickle of blood, thin and straight as a dead worm. No serious wounds accounted for his desperate c
ondition until I drew back another cloth. It had been placed at the top of his head, where it formed a wad pressed against his skull.
I peeled it off gently. This explained everything. Someone with unpleasant manners had used Anacrites as a pestle in a very rough mortar, half scalping him. Through the mess of blood and hair I could see to the bone. The spy's cranium had been crushed in a way that had probably damaged his brain.
Calisthenus, the droopy architect, had reappeared in the doorway. He was holding Anacrites' belt; I recognised it from last night. 'He was not robbed. There is a purse here.' I heard it clink. Laeta grabbed the belt and searched the purse, finding just small change in normal quantities. I didn't bother. If he hoped to discover clues there, Laeta had never dealt with spies. I knew Anacrites would carry no documents, not even a picture of his girlfriend if he had one. If he ever carried a note-tablet he would have been too close even to scratch out a shopping list.
A Dying Light in Corduba Page 4