Saturnalia

XX

I didn't have to strain my face looking friendly; Anacrites was not at home.

With directions from Momus, I had found his house. It was typical of those old, expensive places that infrequently survive on the Palatine, perfectly placed with a view of the Forum just above the Vestals' House. Once owned by names that are famous in history, these houses are now used as grace-and-favour payoffs for important officials. High walls obscured much of the view inside. The house stood on just enough land to allow carefully positioned pine trees in front of any windows people might see into. Most windows had closed shutters anyway. The property looked tended and occupied, yet it lay almost in darkness. I had the impression there would never be anyone about, no sign of household slaves even by day. But it would be well supplied with staff. Some would be for security. They would react first, and ask who you were when you regained consciousness.

I managed to force my way in through double gates and knocked heavily at the front door. An obviously enormous dog began to bark somewhere indoors. Nobody answered for a long while. Then eyes looked out through a grille and a man's voice told me the master was not at home. That was probably true. Anacrites would be so surprised someone had come to visit him, he would have me dragged indoors at once.

I contemplated lurking in a gateway opposite until the Spy was brought home in a litter, then jumping out and giving him a nasty shock as he fumbled with his door-key, but it was a cold night. For all I knew he had a woman somewhere and would stay out with her. More likely, he would wind up back in his office, brooding alone though his return there could be at any hour. Now, he could be enjoying himself at an imperial banquet; he pretended to be unobtrusive, but he liked to socialise. The thought of him nibbling snacks somewhere warm and hospitable while I tramped the dark streets on a blind errand killed my best intentions. I lost the heart to persist.

I had made an effort; before I left the Palace, I had left a cryptic note on his desk: 'Something to tell you – MDF.’ This might not set the Spy's pulse racing, but he would eventually turn up at an inconvenient moment to discover what I wanted; when I used to work with him, I had seen his curiosity boil over. The harder he pretended to be indifferent, the sooner he jumped up and rushed to investigate. It indicated lack of confidence in his own judgement. Some of us can toss an annoying note in the rubbish pail, then forget it.

No chance of that for Anacrites: Momus would also make sure he knew I had been there, and would delight in being mysterious. Anacrites always thought Momus had been put on the same corridor so he could report on him to his superiors, or to watch him for Claudius Laeta. Momus encouraged this fear by giving himself increasingly dark titles such as Inspector of Audit Inspectors. (This also upset Internal Audit, a body that assumed inflated rights and privileges under Vespasian, whose middle-class father had been a tax inspector.) Everyone but me failed to notice the salient fact: Momus was a lazy hound, whose sole aim as a government employee was to hide from notice and do absolutely nothing.

They were all paranoid at the Palace. Knowing what I did, most of them were right. Tomorrow I would probably have too much to do; tonight there was nothing else I could achieve. From Anacrites' house, I set off for home, cursing this waste of effort and time. It was typical of the Spy to thwart me. Typical that he did it without even knowing that I was. trying to find him.

It was now late. I walked quietly, keeping to the centre of the street, checking dark entrances and looking carefully down alleys as I passed. The wintry air tingled with cold. There must be snow up in the hills; sometimes ice creeps a long way down from the Alps and along the Apennines, sheeting on the edges of the lakes. Blizzards can occasionally gust as far south as Sicily. Tonight the sky was clear, making it even colder. More light filtered down from the stars high above than from lanterns, though thin cracks of lamplight showed around the edges of ill-fitting shutters. People were quiet. We had a lull in the run-up to Saturnalia, as everybody braced themselves for the real festival. Mostly I seemed to be alone. It was too cold for burglars and street-muggers, though you can never entirely rely on that. At times I heard hurried footsteps as determined drinkers made their way to bars, or slower footfalls as they left. Family businesses that would normally show lights all evening had their folding doors pulled tight across. Furniture-makers and copper beaters had finished work early. There were very few builders' delivery carts. This was no time to discover a leaky water pipe or to lose half your roof tiles; nobody can get any work done over Saturnalia, and that isn't because frost ruins mortar. Most trades in construction had already closed down for an extended holiday. Other deliveries seemed equally slack. Instead I could hear ghastly a cappella drunks serenading themselves in wailing caupona choirs. It robbed me of any desire to stop for a drink.

I had been forced to take a long route. Anacrites' billet lay at the far end of the Forum, so I had to trek home around the Circus Maximus. I chose to trudge across the valley at the apsidal end, which lay closest, aiming to turn towards the river once I made the far side. Going from the Palatine to the Aventine is a real pig. The monumental racetrack completely blocks your way, and I happened to know that climbing in and walking the length between two great empty banks of seats at night was a great jape only for the young and crazy. I was far too old for dodging night-watchmen. Being somewhere I was not supposed to be no longer held a thrill. I had had to do it too many times in the normal course of my business. Negotiating the arches of the Aqua Marcia and Aqua Appia, I was so near the Capena Gate I took the opportunity to call in on Helena's family. I could boast I was pursuing their lost person by both day and night. As I cut away horn main highways on my short detour to the senator's house, which lay close to the aqueducts, I came down one dark side street where I sensed trouble. I had thought I heard somebody scuttle away as I turned around the corner. Then I stumbled over a pair of legs. I jumped back, with the hairs standing up on my neck.

I was going for my knife, but paused. The figure on the ground lay too still. This did not feel like an ambush, but I made sure no accomplice rushed out of the darkness to rob me. Gingerly, I stretched out one leg and moved rags aside with a toe. The man was dead. I could see no signs of foul play. A stinking vagrant, too rank to inspect closely, had succumbed to cold and hunger, curled up in misery against the bay tree outside some householder's forbidding door.

I listened: silence. If I ran into the vigiles, I could report the corpse. Either they would cart it away routinely or the householder would discover the deceased tomorrow and inform the relevant aedile that something unpleasant needed to be cleared from a respectable street. Another pauper, another runaway slave, another inadequate had lost the fight to survive. Fleas would be hopping off him, searching for a new host, so I kept well back.

I eased my tense shoulders, listened once more, then walked on. At the end of the street I turned back. A fellow-traveller, cloaked and hooded, appeared nom the far shadows, leading a donkey. Unwilling to delay longer when I could offer no help, I slipped into my own patch of shadows and moved off again without speaking. The Camillus door porter was a long-headed loon with a tiny brain and a truculent attitude, whose main delight in life was turning away legitimate visitors. He took his time answering my knock, and then claimed nobody was in. This was traditional. He had known me for six years now, knew I was a regular visitor, knew I was married to Helena. I asked this Janus politely if he could give me some idea how many more aeons I had to endure before I gained rights of entrance. The insufferable squit played dumb.

I was just threatening to beat him so he would recognise me next time, when he was rescued by the senator. Decimus Camillus had heard the commotion and came out in his house slippers to let me in himself. This spared me nom having to decide what I would tell Julia

Justa and Claudia Rufina, and more importantly, what at this stage of uncertainty I would not tell them. However, I relayed to the senator everything I had found out. He said, 'That's not much!' I said, 'Thanks for the vote of confidence.' The Camillus family lived in the more run-down of a pair of houses, spacious by my standards but cramped when compared with most senatorial homes. The senator and I walked quickly, like conspirators, through the black and white tiled hall, where the faded dado had at last been given a repaint, this time in a rather hot orange. Unwise, I thought. I said nothing, in case the senator had chosen it. We ended up in his tiny study, overlooked by statue busts and high shelves of book canisters. Richer men keep their scrolls in ornate silverware; Decimus had wood, but it was delicately scented cedar wood and the fittings were smart. Unlike many an aristocrat, I knew he read the scrolls. His children had grown up welcome to take and read anything they chose; Helena still came back on raids when we needed to research, and I too was allowed borrowing rights.

I cleared a space among the untidy documents, finding a stool hidden beneath the mess. 'It's a tricky situation, sir. The Praetorians were seen arresting your son, and my private information is that Anacrites – who is attached to the Guards, of course – is currently holding him. I take it no one has informed you? Well, that's illegal for starters. You have to decide whether you want to go straight to Vespasian, and make indignant protests. As the Emperor's old friend, as a member of the Senate, and just generally as the father of a free Roman citizen, you can demand an immediate audience.'

We were both silent. Decimus gazed at me. He was tall but stooped, his hair thinner and greyer than when I first knew him; both age and family troubles had taken their toll. 'I see you really want me to wait, Marcus.' He often looked as if he disagreed with my methods, but we rarely fought over it.

I had never shown him fake respect. I told him bluntly, 'I'd like to interview Anacrites first. Find out his game. If that fails, then we have the heavy option.' 'You think the man is dangerous.' 'I think I'd like to remove every hair on his body, using the slow singe method, then baste him with honey and leave him tied up by a hornets' nest.' It would be at a time of my choosing, however. 'He makes a bad enemy. Rationally, therefore, it would be best to extract Quintus without making Anacrites feel he has been publicly overruled. '

'Is Quintus being harmed?' His father tried not to be specific. In prison the risks were starvation, disease, buggery by fellow-prisoners, beating by the jailer, nibbling by rats, chafing of chains, fear, and professional torture.

I tried to ignore the thought that I could not find Anacrites tonight because he was in some dank cell, watching as inquisitors applied their painful techniques to Justinus. 'A senator's son? One to whom Vespasian once promised rapid social advancement? What do you think, sir?' 'I won't be happy until I have him home, Marcus.' 'Well, give me half a day. If I haven't got him back by noon, you go and raise havoc on the Palatine yourself' 'If you do get him back, I may raise havoc anyway!' That was how we left it. It was late now, and I could see that the senator was put out, so I did not even stay for a drink with him. I climbed back over the Aventine, this time making my way past my mother's apartment. To my surprise, she still had a light showing, so I went up. It was possible she was entertaining Aristagoras, a ninety year-old neighbour who had set his sights on her. If so, it was time the flirtatious old bastard tottered back to his own roost and let Ma go to bed.

I let myself in. Every Roman mother's boy is allowed to keep a latch-lifter to the place where he was brought up; every Roman mother hopes one day he will come home again.

Even with Ma's sight failing, everywhere was spotless. I moved gently through the door curtain, and straight into the kitchen. The usual frugal lamp was supplemented by a candelabrum Ma brought out for favoured visitors. Someone was sitting at the big table, with his back to me. He wore a subdued oyster-coloured tunic, decorated with grey and purple braid that must have cost more by the yard than most families had for their weekly food bill. Black hair was combed back on to his neck, where it curled in oily spikes as he hunched over a bowl from which rose wafts of Ma's delicious leek broth. There would be none for me, because the cauldron was already washed and upended on a workbench behind my mother. She herself was sitting with her hands folded on the table.

'Who's that?' squawked Ma, pretending she was unable to make out who had come in. 'Marcus! Is that you creeping about to frighten me?' Her guest turned around quickly. He was nervous. That was good. I stared into those pale eyes – noticing for the first time ever that while one was a watery grey as I remembered, the other was a light hazel. I let him worry for a moment, then smiled at him. I knew how to make it look sincere – and I knew that would cause him more anxiety. 'Fancy finding you here – Io, Anacrites!'