A Dying Light in Corduba

by Lindsey Davis

  Petronius and I took a sombre look around while the Second Cohort members tried not to show that they resented us checking their work. We found nothing remarkable, nothing to identify the man or his occupation. Even so, to me the style of his living quarters was depressingly familiar.

  Then, as we were all trooping out again, I stopped. Light from our lantern happened to fall on the doorpost outside the apartment. There, somebody some years ago had drawn a neat pictogram of a single human eye. I knew the faded symbol. It's a sign informers use.

  Petro and I stared at each other. Looking more keenly for clues, I noticed that although the doorlock appeared innocuous its fine bronze lion-headed key, which the Second had taken from the body, showed that instead of the common pin-tumbler fastener that most people use, Valentinus had invested in a devious iron rotary lock, which would be difficult to pick or force without the proper key. Then, crouching near ground level, Petro spotted two tiny metal tacks, one knocked into the door itself, one in the frame. A classic tell-tale: tied between the tacks had been a human hair. It had been broken, presumably when the Second first entered.

  'No offence, lads, but we'd better think about this again,' said Petro, looking virtuous.

  He and I went back inside. Quietly and carefully we searched the room afresh, as if Valentinus had been a pal of ours. This time the Second watched us in fascination while we took the place apart.

  Under the bed, lashed to its frame, we found a sword capable of quick release by pulling one end of a knot.

  Although the windows looked out of reach, if you dragged the table to one, or climbed on the upended bench below the other, you could stretch outside and discover that somebody had banged in a couple of useful hooks. One had an amphora of good Setinum red wine hung up to warm in the sunlight; the other, through which a lithe man might just wriggle, had a stout rope neatly rolled up but long enough to reach a balcony roof on the storey below. Under most of the floorboards lurked nothing of interest, though we did find some letters from his family (parents and a cousin, who lived a few miles from Rome). We discovered no money. Like me, Valentinus probably kept a bankbox in the Forum, with its access number stored securely in his head.

  One floorboard in the bedroom actually had nails with false heads. It came up quite smoothly when you pulled it up by way of a knot, waggled your fingers underneath the wood and released a specially constructed bar that pivoted aside. Built under the board was a small, locked wooden compartment. Eventually I located the key, concealed in a hollow carved under the seat of the stool in the outer room. In his secret box the dead man had kept spare, succinct notes about his work. He was a neat, regular record-keeper. We already knew that: Valentinus' hat had been double lined; inside it Petronius had found expense sheets of a type I knew all too well.

  Some work that the dead man did, probably from necessity, was just the kind of dreary intrigue I often had to carry out myself for private clients. The rest was different. Valentinus had been more than an informer, he was a spy. He was claiming for many hours spent on surveillance. And although there were no names for the people he had been recently watching, the latest entries on his claim sheet were all codenamed 'Corduba'. Corduba is the capital of Romanised Baetica.

  We reckoned we knew who had commissioned this work. One of the expense claims from his hat had already been stamped and approved for payment. The stamp was a large oval, featuring two elephants with entwined trunks: Anacrites' chalcedony seal.

  Petronius left me in the Forum. The task was mine now. Facing up to it with my usual compulsion and stamina, I went home to bed.

  Next day, striking while some impetus was with me, I walked back to the Forum, up through the Cryptoporticus where the scoffing Praetorians knew me well enough to admit me after a few threats and jeers, then into the old Palace. I had no need of Claudius Laeta to advise me who to interview or to smooth the way. I possessed other contacts. Mine were probably no more reliable than the devious correspondence chief, but I was attached to them on the usual perverse grounds that make you trust men you have known for some time even when you suspect that they lie, cheat and steal.

  Momus was a slave overseer. He looked as healthy as a side of condemned beef and as dangerous as an escaped gladiator on the run. His eyes were moist with some infection, his body was scarred, his face was a fascinating grey shade as if he had not been outside for the past decade. Being an overseer was something he no longer worked at very hard; he left the rituals of slave market, placement, whipping and bribe-taking to others.

  Momus now held some nebulous position at the Palace; in effect, he was another spy. He did not work for Anacrites. He did not care for Anacrites either. But in a bureaucracy every employee has to have another officer who reports on him to his superiors. Anacrites was attached to the Praetorian Guard but worked directly to the Emperor, so he was judged by Vespasian himself when it came to matters of reprimand or reward. Both Anacrites and I believed Momus to be the nark who told the Emperor what he should think of the Chief Spy's work. That meant Anacrites despised and loathed him, but it made Momus a friend of mine.

  I told him the Chief Spy had been seriously hurt. It was supposed to be a secret but Momus already knew. I guessed he had also heard that Anacrites was supposed to be hidden away at the Temple of Aesculapius on Tiber Island - but maybe he had not yet found out that the victim was really laid up on the Aventine with Ma.

  'Something funny's going on, Momus.'

  'What's new, Falco?'

  'This attack is supposed to relate to intelligence work. Nobody even knows what Anacrites was investigating. I'm trying to track down his agents, or records of what he's been involved with -'

  'You'll have a job.' Momus enjoyed disheartening me. 'Anacrites is like an Athenian vote machine.'

  'That's a bit subtle for me.'

  'You know; it's a gadget to prevent nobbling. When they used open jars fistfuls of votes used to go astray. So now the voters put balls in the top of a closed box; they wiggle down inside and then the election results pop out at the bottom. No fraud - and no fun, either. Trust the bloody Greeks.'

  'What's this to do with Anacrites?'

  'People pile information into his brain and if he's in the right mood he farts out a report. In between, everything is locked up.'

  'Well, it looks as if the next person he blows a report at could be Charon the ferryman.'

  'Oh dear, poor Charon'' sneered Momus, with the cheery expression of a man who was just thinking that if Anacrites had sailed away on the decrepit punt to Hades, he might immediately apply for Anacrites' job. Some state employees love to hear about a colleague's premature demise.

  'Charon's going to be busy,' I commented. 'Villains have been cracking spies' heads all over the Esquiline. There was also a pleasant lad who used to do surveillance work.'

  'Do I know him, Falco?'

  'Valentinus.'

  Momus let out a snarl of disgust. 'Oh Jupiter! Dead? That's terrible. Valentinus who lived on the Esquiline? Oh no; he was class, Falco. He must have been the best snuffler Anacrites used.'

  'Well, he's not on the staff roll.'

  'Better sense. He stayed freelance. Self-employed. I used him myself sometimes.'

  'What for?'

  'Oh ... tracking down runaways.' The alleged overseer looked vague. I reckoned whatever Momus used Valentinus for would give me a queasy stomach. I decided not to know.

  'Was he good?'

  'The best. Straight, fast, decent to deal with, and accurate.'

  I sighed. More and more this sounded like a man I would have liked to share a drink with. I could have made friends with Valentinus last night at the dinner, if I had only realised. Then maybe if we had rolled out of the Palace together like cronies, events might have turned out differently for the freelance. Together we might have fought off his attackers. It could have saved his life.

  Momus was eyeing me up. He knew I had an interest. 'You going to sort this out, Falco?'

  'It looks l
ike a murky fishpond. Reckon I stand a chance?'

  'No. You're a clown.'

  'Thanks, Momus.'

  'My pleasure.'

  'Don't enjoy yourself too much with the hard-hitting insults; I may prove you wrong.'

  'Virgins might stay chaste!'

  I sighed. 'Heard anything about any dirty goings-on in Baetica?'

  'No. Baetica's all sunshine and fish-sauce.'

  'Know anything about the Society of Olive Oil Producers, then?'

  'Load of old belchers who meet in the basement and plot how they can straighten out the world?'

  'They didn't seem to be plotting last evening, just stuffing their faces. Oh, and most were trying to ignore a group of genuine Baetican visitors.'

  'That's them!' grinned Momus. 'They pretend to love anything Hispanic - but only if it can be served on a dish.' I gathered that the Society was officially deemed innocuous. As usual, Momus knew more about it than a slave overseer should. 'Anacrites got himself voted into the club so he could keep an eye on them.'

  Was political scheming likely?'

  'Piddle! He just liked feeding at their well-filled manger.' 'Well, as anarchists they didn't look very adventurous.' 'Of course not,' scoffed Momus. 'I haven't noticed the world being straightened out, have you?'

  There was not much else Momus could tell me about Anacrites or Valentinus - or at least nothing he was prepared to reveal. But with his knowledge of the unfree workforce he did know which usher had been running the dinner for the Society. While I was at the Palace I looked out this man and talked to him.

  He was a lugubrious slave called Helva. Like most palace types he looked oriental in origin and gave the impression he misunderstood whatever was being said to him, probably on purpose. He had an official job, but was trying to improve himself by sucking up to men of status; the Baetican Society members obviously saw him as a soft touch to be sneered at and put upon.

  'Helva, who did the organising for this exclusive club?' 'An informal committee.' Unhelpful: clearly he could see my status did not call for an ingratiating style.

  'Who was on it?'

  'Whoever bothered to turn up when I insisted someone tell me what was wanted.'

  'Some names would help,' I suggested pleasantly.

  'Oh, Laeta and his deputies, then Quinctius Attractus -'

  'Is he an overweight senator who likes holding court?' 'He has interests in Baetica and he's the big mover in the Society.'

  'Is he Spanish by origin?'

  'Not the slightest. Old patrician family.'

  'I should have known. I understood the Society's real links with Hispania are defunct and that members try to deter provincials from attending?'

  'Most do. Attractus is more enlightened.'

  'You mean, he sees the Society as his personal platform for glory and he likes to suggest he can work wonders in Rome for any visitors from Spain? Is that why he hogs a private room?'

  'Well, unofficially. Other members annoy him by barging in.'

  'They think he's someone to annoy, do they?'

  It looked to me as if Attractus, and possibly his Baetican friends, had been under observation - probably by both Anacrites and his agent. Was Anacrites suspicious of something they were up to? Did Attractus or the Baetican group want to wipe him out as a result? It looked all too obvious if they were the attackers. They surely must realise questions would be asked. Or was Attractus so arrogant he thought the attacks could be got away with?

  Needing to think about that, I went back to my original question. 'Who else organises events?'

  'Anacrites

  'Anacrites? He never struck me as a dinner party planner! What was his role?'

  'Be reasonable, Falco! He's a spy. What do you think his role is? On rare occasions when he exerts himself, he causes upsets. He really enjoys carping about the guests other members bring. "If you knew what I knew, you wouldn't mix with so-and-so ..." All hints, of course; he never says why.'

  'Master of the non-specific insult!'

  'Then if ever I upset him he'll query the accounts for the previous party and accuse me of diddling them. The rest of the time he does nothing, or as little as possible.'

  Did he have anything special to say about yesterday?' 'No. Only that he wanted space for himself and his guest in the private room.'

  'Why?'

  'Usual reason: it was bound to offend Attractus.' 'And the spy's guest was Valentinus?'

  'No, it was the senator's son,' said Helva. 'The one who just came back from Corduba.'

  Aelianus?' Helena's brother! Well, that explained how Aelianus had wheedled his way in - on the tunic tail of the Chief Spy. Unhealthy news.

  'I know the family - I didn't realise Anacrites and Aelianus were on such good terms.'

  'I don't suppose they are,' Helva remarked cynically. 'I expect one of them thought the other would do him some good - and if you know Anacrites you can bet which way the benefit was supposed to flow!'

  It left an unanswered question. 'You knew who I meant when I mentioned Valentinus. Who brought him last night?'

  'No one.' Helva gave me a narrow look. He was trying to work out how much I knew. All I had to do now was work out what dubious situation I was reckoned to know about, and I could press him hard. Until then I was likely to miss something important.

  'Look, was Valentinus an official member of the Society?' Helva must have known I could check up; he reluctantly shook his head. 'So how much money did he slip you to let him in?'

  'That's a disgusting suggestion; I'm a reputable state servant -'

  I named the sum that I would have offered and Helva in his gloomy-faced way told me I was a mean bastard who gave bribery a bad name.

  I decided to appeal to his better nature, if he had one. 'I don't suppose you've heard - Anacrites has been badly hurt.'

  'Yes, I heard it's a big secret.'

  Then I told him that Valentinus was actually dead. This time his face fell. All slaves can spot serious trouble. 'So this is bad, Helva. Time to cough, or it will be the Guards you have to talk to. Had Valentinus paid you to admit him to any previous dinners?'

  'Once or twice. He knew how to behave himself. He could fit in. Besides, I had seen Anacrites wink at him so I assumed it was something I was supposed to allow.'

  'How did he wangle himself a place in the private room?'

  'Pure skill,' said Helva, frowning with admiration. 'He picked up one of the Baeticans as they arrived in the lobby and sauntered in chattering to him.' I knew the trick. A few minutes discussing the weather can admit you to many private parties. Quinctius Attractus was not officially supposed to reserve that room for himself. If there were free places anyone could take them.'

  'So he didn't object to Valentinus?'

  'He couldn't. Any more than he could complain about being landed with Anacrites. They took their couches among his party as if it were a coincidence, and he had to put up with it. Anyway, Attractus is not observant. He was probably so busy getting hot under the tunic about Anacrites, he never noticed Valentinus was there too.'

  I wondered if the blinkered senator had noticed me.

  I asked Helva about the entertainment. 'Who booked the musicians?'

  'I did.'

  'Is that routine? Do you pick the performers yourself?' 'Quite often. The members are only really interested in food and wine.'

  'Is there always a Spanish dancer?'

  'It seems appropriate. She's not really Spanish, incidentally.' Just like most 'Thracian' gladiators, 'Egyptian' fortune-tellers, and 'Syrian' flute players. Come to that, most of the 'Spanish hams' bought at food markets were previously seen skipping around pig farms in Latium.

  'She? Is it always the same one?'

  'She's not bad, Falco. The members feel reassured if they recognise the entertainment. They don't watch her much anyway; they only care about their food and drink.'

  Attractus was boasting he paid for her. Is that usual?'

  'He always does. It's supposed
to be a generous gesture - well, it shows he's rich, and of course he gets to have the dancing performed first wherever he's dining himself. The other members are happy to let him contribute, and his guests are impressed.'

  He told me the girl's name was Perella. Half an hour later I was bracing myself to square up to the immaculate body that I had last seen in hunting gear.

  I had a slight surprise. I was expecting to meet the dashing Diana with the blue-black hair who had elected to be so rude to me. To my surprise Perella, who was supposed to be the dancer who performed regularly at the Society of Olive Oil Producers of Baetica, was a short, stout, surly blonde.