XI
'Blonde' was putting it kindly. She had hair the texture of mule fodder and about the same shade. It looked as if she styled it once a month then just poked in more bone pins when ends worked loose. You could see why independent- minded pieces of the fantastic coiffure might want to make a break for freedom. The high-piled construction looked as if she was keeping three white mice and her dowry in it.
Lower down, the scenario improved somewhat. I won't say she was tasty, but her person was clean and tidy. As a chaste, ethereal moon goddess she would be a disaster, though as a companion in a wine bar she might be cracking good fun. She was of an age where you could rely on her having had a fair old amount of experience - in almost anything.
'Oh! Am I in the right place? I'm looking for Perella. Are you her friend?'
'I'm her!' So Perella was definitely the wrong dancer. She was putting out a smile that she meant to be winsome: wrong assumption, but I could cope with that. 'What might you be looking for, centurion?'
'Chaste conversation, sweetheart.' She knew better than to believe it. Her outlook on society was mature. 'The name's Falco.' It meant nothing to her, apparently. Well, sometimes it was best if my reputation had not gone before me. Critics can be uncouth. 'I expect you'd like my credentials. Do you know Thalia, the snake dancer at Nero's Circus?'
'Never heard of her.' So much for my guaranteed entrto the world of Terpsichore.
'Well, if you knew her, she'd vouch for me.'
'As what?' asked the dancer, pointedly.
'As an honest man on an important quest with a few simple queries to put to you.'
'Such as?'
'Why wasn't a luscious piece like you dancing at the dinner for the Society of Baetican Oil Producers two nights ago?'
'Why do you ask?' leered Perella. 'Were you there hoping to watch me - or were they only letting in the rich, handsome ones?'
'I was there.'
'I always told them they had a slack door policy.' 'Don't be cruel! Anyway, you're a regular. What happened to you that night?'
Getting tough actually softened her up. 'Don't ask me,' she confided in a cheerful tone. 'The message just came that I was not wanted so I stayed in and put my feet up.'
'Who sent you the message?'
'Helva presumably.'
'No. Helva still thinks you did the act. He told me to ask you about it.'
Perella squared up, looking angry. 'Then somebody's messed me about!'
The thought crossed my mind that Helva himself might have decided to employ a higher-class dancer and that he had been scared of telling Perella - but then he would hardly have sent me along here to give him away. 'Who was it came to warn you off, Perella? Can you give a description?'
'No idea. I never took any notice of him.' I waited while she scanned her memory, a slow process apparently - though I did wonder if she was considering whether she wanted to tell me the truth She looked older than a dancer should, with coarser skin and bonier limbs. Close to, these performers are never as refined as they appear when in costume. 'Dark fellow,' she said eventually. 'Had a few years on him.' Sounded like one of Diana's tame musicians.
'Seen him before?'
'Not to remember.'
'And what exactly did he say?'
'That Helva apologised, but the bloody Baetican troughnuzzlers had decided not to have music.'
'Any reason??
'None. I thought either the new Emperor had put his foot down about them using the rooms for enjoying themselves, or they had run out of money and couldn't find my fee.'
'They looked a well-packed lot.'
'Mean, though!' replied Perella, with feeling. 'Most of them spend the whole time moaning how much the dinners cost them; they wouldn't have entertainers at all. There's a swank who pays -'
'Quinctius Attractus?'
'That's him. He usually pays up, but it takes several tries to get it and there's never a sniff of a tip!'
'So he could decide to hire his own girl, if he wanted to?' 'The bastard could,' Perella agreed sourly.
'Would he bother to tell Helva?'
'No. He's a nob. He doesn't understand about organisation. He wouldn't think of it.'
'And would the girl be able to get in without Helva noticing that she wasn't you?'
'Helva's so short-sighted you have to get an inch from his nose before he can see who you are. Anyone who rattled a tambourine would sail straight in.'
So there had been a set-up. It came as no surprise that the so-called 'good girl from Hispalis' was not as good as she pretended. In my experience good girls never are.
Perella had nothing more to tell me. I was left with a loose end: unknown entertainers had deliberately muscled in and taken the usual dancer's place. They knew enough to use Helva's name in a convincing fake message. Knew it, or had been told what to say. Were they specifically booked by Attractus, or did he just accept that Helva had acquired them? And why? I would be asking the senator, but somehow I guessed in advance that tracing the lovely Diana
and her two dark-skinned musicians would be next to impossible.
They could have been sent to the dinner by Anacrites. They could have been infiltrated by someone outside (a jealous would-be member of the dining club, perhaps?). Or they could have come of their own accord. They might have nothing at all to do with the attacks on Anacrites and Valentinus. Even though circumstances had made them look suspicious, they mignt simply be struggling performers who had failed to persuade Helva to give them an audition, and who then used their initiative.
But I told Perella she had been trounced by a very slick rival, and probably one who had had more than Spanish dancing in mind. Perella shoved a couple of new hairpins into her tumbling scarecrow coiffure, and gave me an unfathomable look. She threatened to 'sort' the girl from Hispalis. She sounded as if she meant it too. I left her my address in case she had any success.
'By the way, Perella, if you do meet this girl be careful how you tangle with her. It looks as if she was involved in a killing that night - and in a nasty attack on the Chief Spy.'
Perella went white. 'Anacrites?'
As she stood staring I added, 'You'd do best to avoid her. Finding this one is a job for an agent - and a good one at that.'
'And you reckon you're up to it, Falco?' Perella asked drily.
I gave her my best smile.
I was not yet ready for another conversation with Laeta, so I escaped from the Palace, ran some domestic errands, then went home to Helena for lunch. Fried anchovies in a plain wine sauce. Unassuming but tasty.
Helena told me I had received a message of my own that morning. It was from Petronius. He had found out something useful: I went straight out after eating, taking Helena with me for the exercise, and also Nux in the vain hope that while the scruffy hound was careering around in circles we might lose her somewhere. Petro was at home, off duty. Helena went off with his wife while Nux and I found my old. crony in the yard at the back, doing woodwork.
'This is for you, Falco. I hope you're grateful.' 'What is it - a small coffin or a large brooch box?'
'Stop playing the fool. It's going to be a cradle.' Nux jumped in to try it. Petro turfed her out again.
'It's going to be a good one then,' I smiled. That was true. Petro enjoyed carpentry and was skilled at it. Always methodical and practical, he had a decent respect for wood. He was making a bed where eventually the sturdy unborn one who was already kicking me in the ribs every night would be safe; it had half-moon rockers, a knob to hang a rattle on, and a canopy over the pillow end. I felt touched.
'Yes, well; it's for the baby, so if your lousy behaviour makes Helena Justina leave you, this cradle will have to go with her.'
'I doubt it,' I scoffed. 'If she flits she'll leave the baby behind.' Petronius looked horrified, so I carried on appalling him: 'Helena only likes children when they are old enough to hold adult conversations. The bargain is, she'll carry my offspring and give it birth but only on condition I'm ther
e to defend her from the midwife and that afterwards I bring it up myself until it's old enough to pay its own tavern bills.'
Petronius gave me a piercing stare; then he laughed weakly. 'You maniac! I thought you were serious ...' He lost interest, which saved me having to disillusion him with the news that I meant what I said - and so did Helena. 'Listen, Falco, I've come up with some evidence for you: the Second must want to redeem their reputation after missing all that stuff in Valentinus' apartment. They went back to the crime scene this morning and did a hands and knees creep.'
I joined him in chuckling at the thought of his luckless colleagues enduring stones in the kneecap and backache. 'Anything turn up?'
'Could be. They want to know if we think this is relevant -'
Petronius Longus placed a small item on his sawing bench. I blew the road dust off it, then sighed quietly. This was relevant enough to identify the attackers: it was a small golden arrow, as neat as a toy but dangerously sharp. On its tip was a rusty stain that was probably blood. Remembering the small leg wounds carried by both Anacrites and Valentinus, I guessed that both victims had been surprised by being shot in the calf from behind. The toy arrow would sting enough to bother them, then when they stooped to investigate they were rushed, grabbed, and run hard against a nearby wall.
Helena Justina had come out behind us, unnoticed. 'Oh dear!' she exclaimed, ever one with the unwelcome insight. 'I suppose that belonged to your mysterious Spanish dancer. Don't tell me it's just been found in a compromising position at the scene of a crime?'
Gloomily we confirmed it.
'Ah, never mind, Marcus,' Helena then chivvied me kindly. 'Cheer up, my love! You ought to have lots of fun with this - it looks as though somebody is setting you up against a beautiful female spy!'
Naturally I retorted that I was not in the mood for clich- though I have to admit my heart took an uneasy lurch.
XII
There was no chance of interviewing the girl from Hispalis. I didn't even know her name - or her alias. If she was sharp she would have left Rome. Smirking, Petronius Longus promised to place her description on his list of wanted suspects. He offered to subject her to a personal interrogation. I knew what that meant.
I told him not to exert himself; I would probe her secrets myself. Petronius, who believed that men with pregnant wives were bound to be looking for extra-domestic exercise, twinkled wisely and promised to inform me the minute the beauteous Diana came his way. At this point Helena said coldly that she would take herself home.
I went to see Quinctius Attractus.
When a case involves a senator, I always start at the top. I don't mean this was a step towards clearing up uncertainties. Not at all. Interviewing a member of Rome's revered patrician order was likely to introduce pure chaos of the kind that is believed by some philosophers to comprise the outermost limits of the eternally whirling universe: a vortex of limitless and fathomless darkness. In short, political ignorance, commercial deceit, and blatant lies.
Even provincials among you will deduce that M. Didius Falco, the intrepid informer, had posed questions to senators before.
You'll spot this too: I went to see Quinctius Attractus to get any whirling vortex straight out of the way.
Once I had managed to impress the doorkeeper with my rank - well, once I had slipped him half a denarius - I was allowed to step inside away from a sharp April wind that was darting through the city streets. Attractus lived in an imposing house, groaning with art torn from more ancient
and more refined civilisations than our own. Egyptian turquoise and enamel vied for space with Thracian gold and Etruscan bronze. Pentellic marble crowded his corridors. Forests of plinths bore up porphyries and alabasters. Racks bowed beneath uncatalogued rows of vases and craters, against which lolled unmounted wall plaques and fabulous old armour which must have been plundered from many famous battlefields.
Quinctius Attractus condescended to come to his public rooms to meet me. I remembered the heavy build and weathered country countenance from two nights ago; today I was being given the full urban look - the statesman putting an invisible peg on his nose so he could follow the old Roman tradition and be nobly at home to the unwashed.
Our interview was hardly private. In every archway lurked a toga-twitcher just itching to dart out and pluck straight a pleat. They kept him perfect. His boot-thongs were aligned. His sparse curls gleamed, rigid with pomade. If a finger-ring slipped sideways a lithe slave nipped forwards to straighten it. Every time he walked three paces his purple-striped garments all had to be realigned on his wide shoulders and fat arms.
If I hated this parade when he first came to receive me, I felt utter frustration once he started to talk. It was all condescension and empty guff. He was the type who liked to lean back slightly, gazing above his companion's head, while intoning nonsense. He reminded me of a barrister who had just lost a case, coming out into the Forum knowing he will have to face a tricky interview. I said I had come to discuss the Oil Producers' dinner - and he seemed to be expecting it.
'The Society - oh, it's just a meeting place for friends -' 'Some of the friends met very nasty accidents afterwards, senator.'
'Really? Well, Anacrites will vouch for us all -' 'Afraid not, sir. Anacrites has been badly hurt.' 'That so?' One of his flapping footmen found it necessary to rush up and straighten a thread of fringe on a heavily decorated tunic sleeve.
'He was attacked the night of the dinner. He may not survive.'
'I'm shocked.' Checking the fall of his toga, he looked as if he had just heard about a minor skirmish between locals in some remote area. Then he noticed me watching and his fleshy jowls set for a ritual senatorial platitude: 'Terrible. A sound man.'
I swallowed it whole, then tried to fix the slithery senator to a firm base: 'Were you aware that Anacrites was the chief Spy?'
'Oh certainly. Bound to. You can't have a man like that attending private functions unless everybody knows what his position is. Men would wonder. Men wouldn't know when it was safe to speak freely. Be a shambles.'
'Oh? Does the Society of Baetican Olive Oil Producers often discuss sensitive issues, then?' He stared at my effrontery. I hadn't finished yet: 'You're telling me the chief of Intelligence was openly invited to join your group, in order to suborn him? I'm willing to bet you allowed Anacrites membership without the indignity of subscription fees!' A nice life, for a spy who was gregarious.
'How formal is tnis?' Attractus demanded suddenly. I knew the type. He had assumed that his rank gave him immunity from questioning. Now I was being nasty, and he couldn't believe it was happening. 'You say you're from the Palace - do you have some kind of docket?'
'I don't need one. My commission is from the highest quarters. Responsible people will co-operate.'
Just as suddenly he changed attitude again: 'Ask away then!' he boomed - still not seriously expecting I would dare.
'Thank you.' I controlled my temper. 'Senator, at the last assembly of the Society for the Olive Oil Producers of Baetica you dined in a private room with a mixed group, including several Baeticans. I need to identify your visitors, sir.' Our eyes met. 'For elimination purposes.'
The old lie proved sufficient, as it usually does. 'Business acquaintances,' he guffed with an offhand air. 'See my secretary if you must have names.'
'Thanks. I have the names; we were introduced,' I reminded him. 'I need to know more about them.'
'I can vouch for them.' More vouching! I was used to the fine notion that the slightest trade connection made for complete blood-brotherhood. I knew how much faith to place in it too.
'They were your guests that evening. Was there any special reason for entertaining those particular men that particular night?'
'Routine hospitality. It is appropriate,' mouthed Quinctius sarcastically, 'that when senior men from Baetica visit Rome they should be made welcome.'
'You have strong personal connections with that province?'
'I own land there. I have
a wide range of interests, in fact. My son has just been appointed quaestor to the province too.'
'That's a fine honour, sir. You must be proud of him.' I didn't mean the compliment, and he didn't bother acknowledging it. 'So you take the lead in encouraging local business interests in Rome? You're a proxenos.' The handy Greek term might impress some people, but not Attractus. I was referring to the useful arrangements all overseas traders make to have their interests represented on foreign soil by some local with influence - a local who, in the good old Greek tradition, expects them to grease his palm.
'I do what I can.' I wondered what form that took. I also wondered what the Baeticans were expected to provide in return. Simple gifts like the rich produce of their country - or something more complex? Cash in hand, perhaps?
A Dying Light in Corduba Page 7