Nemesis

‘Cretan my rear end! The tumblers arrived last week from Bruttium and all the rest came straight over the Tiber from Nero’s Circus.’

‘You amaze me! And they have no money-making sidelines?’

‘I didn’t say that. I believe,’ said Scorpus, with disgust, ‘the strummers have been known to sell stories about indiscretions for the dirty scandal page in the Daily Gazette.’

I winced. ‘That’s low!’

‘I agree — though I believe there is cash to be made.’

‘Fortunately the Camilli — to whom I am related, by the way, so watch it — are models of tedious morality. As for Anacrites, snitching on him would be madness: you could end up holding your next musical evening with Praetorian Guards, answering an arrest warrant signed by Titus Caesar, before they drag you on a very short walk to your death.’

I plucked his lyre, reflecting that the musicians he sneered at as strummers had played seven-string lyres too — their instruments probably costing much less than this fine pearl-inlaid walnut specimen. The singer gave me a sideways scrutiny. ‘So what were you doing there, Falco?’

‘Oh all I got was indigestion and a sore head.’

Thinking this had made us friends, Scorpus tried again to get up. I shoved him back angrily. ‘Oh get this over with! What do you want, Falco?’

‘Who did you see? There were two agents lurking in a back room — was somebody else with them?’

He had had enough time between playing his sets for a thorough reconnoitre. He knew about the Melitans. But Scorpus claimed, convincingly it seemed, that he saw no one else; he did not know who occupied that other room, where the pilfering chef found the cameo.

I gave up and went home for lunch.

The singer had lied to me. I did not know it at the time, but when I found out afterwards, I felt no real surprise.

XXXVIII

After lunch my secretary needed me to attend to business; in superior homes it might be the other way around, but not with Katutis. He told me what I had to tell him to do. I complied. Still, I was lucky to have my hour with him. Now I was known to have a secretary, other people continually borrowed him. Katutis was supposed to take down my case-notes and start collating my memoirs, but he spent whole afternoons writing out soup recipes, curses and laundry lists.

Next, Helena wanted to discuss household matters, which meant more meek compliance. My daughters then had an urgent need to show me drawings and ask for new shoes like those their friend three doors down had been given by their spoiling parents. Even the dog stood at the front door with her leash in her mouth.

Only Albia tried to avoid anything to do with me, but I took her out anyway. That would teach her to tell Anacrites she could do an informer’s job.

I was taking the cameo to Petronius. By the time we reached Maia’s apartment, it was so near to evening we only just caught him before he left for duty.

‘Hold on. I want to show you this, off vigiles premises.’

He got the message.

With Albia watching, we inspected the jewel. It was carved from sardonyx, the redder form of onyx. ‘It’s like an agate, Albia — layered hard stone.’

‘More education!’

‘Listen and learn, girl.’

Petronius held the gemstone in his mighty paw while he tried to work out what was going on in the picture. It was a two-layered cut, in low relief. The onyx banding was white and red-brown, beautifully executed. The lower half of the design showed a gloomy bunch of captured barbarians. On an upper frieze, gathered around twirly horns of plenty, minor deities were applying triumphal crowns to the noble brows of bare-chested noble personages. An eagle, probably representing Jove, was trying to muscle in. ‘Claudian imperial family,’ Petronius guessed. ‘They always have that clean-cut, very close-shaven look. They were all untrustworthy midgets really.’

Albia giggled.

‘He’s exaggerating, Albia. Lucius Petronius, being a great hulk himself, likes to make out anyone dainty is deformed. However, this is so special it may even have belonged to Augustus or someone in that family, either commissioned by them or given as a gift by a sycophant.’

Petro’s eyebrows shot up. ‘It’s that good?’

‘Trust me; I’m an antique dealer. Without provenance it’s hard to be sure, but I would say this could be the work of Dioscurides. If not his own piece, it certainly came from his workshop.’

‘Dio who?’

‘Augustus’ favourite cameo-cutter. Well, look at the workmanship! Whoever carved this was brilliant.’

Petronius leaned towards Albia and growled, ‘Have you noticed how Falco keeps sounding like a bent auctioneer these days?’

‘Yes, at home we all feel we are living with a fake-winejug seller.’

‘Rag away!’ I grinned. ‘Whoever owned this — I don’t mean some mystery lodger at the spy’s house — knew its worth. The purchaser, who may have been a woman because it has been a necklace pendant, had the money and the knowledge to buy real quality.’

‘Someone in mind?’ asked Petro.

‘I hope we can tie it to Modestus’ wife, Livia Primilla. From the nephew’s vagueness when I asked about any distinguishing jewellery she wore, I don’t think he would recognise it, but he said she wore good stuff.’

Petronius perked up. ‘If it was her, and if she was wearing this when she disappeared, there is a chance we can identify it.’

He told us that the Fifth Cohort had picked up a runaway slave living rough near the Porta Metrovia, who was called Syrus. They were bringing him over to the Fourth that night, for quizzing about whether he was the Syrus given to the butcher by Sextus Silanus — the one who had waved Primilla off when she went to see the Claudii.

‘Couldn’t the Fifth have asked him for themselves?’

‘They could have tried,’ said Petro. ‘But the slave’s scared to talk and everyone knows Sergius is the best in the business.’

Sergius was the Fourth Cohort’s torturer.

At this point I would have left Albia at Maia’s house; sensing a brush-off, she insisted on coming to the station house with us.

Sergius was waiting for Petronius to arrive before he started. He had stashed Syrus in a small cell, like someone marinating a choice cut of meat for a few hours before grilling.

‘You could just ask the man,’ Albia suggested. It could have been Helena talking.

‘Not half the fun,’ said Sergius. ‘Besides, the slave’s evidence will only count if he screams it out while I’m thrashing him. The theory is, pain will make him honest.’

‘Does it work in practice, Sergius?’

‘Once in a while.’

‘How can you tell whether what he says is true or not?’

‘You can’t. But then you can’t tell when you’re questioning a free citizen either. Most of them lie. That applies whether they have something real to hide — or are just being buggers on principle.’

I thought Albia might have been upset by the whip man’s attitude, but young girls are tough. She listened quietly, filing away the details in that strange little head of hers. ‘If this is the right slave, what will happen to him?’

‘He will be whipped hard, for causing us trouble, then returned to whoever owns him.’

‘No choice?’

‘Certainly not. He is their property.’

‘A non-person?’

‘That’s the definition.’

Albia accepted this as one more fact that showed Romans were cruel — assuming that idea was what caused her enquiry. Sometimes she was unreadable.

Albia turned her pale little face to me. ‘Do you think coming from a rough, hard background, being treated badly in their slave generation, explains why those Claudii turned out as they are?’

‘Maybe. But some groups, some families are feckless by nature. People carry their character defects from birth, whatever their origin. You find freedmen who are loyal, kind-hearted, hard-working and decent to live with. Then you find noblemen who are vicious, deceitful and intolerable to be around.’

Albia smiled. ‘Helena would say, “I blame their mothers!” ‘

Petronius clapped her on the shoulder. ‘There may be some truth in that.’

‘So how does this theory explain Anacrites the spy?’

Petro and I both laughed. I said it: ‘He is just a poor sad boy who never had a mother!’

Albia gave me a long look. She did not say, since she could see I had just remembered it, that until Helena picked her off the streets in Londinium, she herself had struggled with neither parent.

Petronius, a father of girls, recognised her mood. ‘Falco is right. Most people do seem to be born with a character inbuilt. So you, Flavia Albia, are destined to be decent, sweet and true.’

‘Don’t patronise me!’ Of course, being Lucius Petronius, he had charmed her.

We left it there. Sergius, with his long whip, was impatient to begin.

He got as far as ascertaining that the terrified fellow the Fifth had brought us was indeed the slave Livia Primilla owned. When she went to see the Claudii, she had given him instructions to wait three days then if she failed to come home, to go to tell her nephew. Syrus, who looked as if he had come from the interior deserts of Africa, was able to describe the scene: Primilla mounted on a donkey, wearing a round-brimmed travel hat. The slave was poor on garments but thought her outfit was in shades of dark red, with a long fringed stole that was also red or damson coloured. Petronius showed him the sardonyx cameo; he failed to recognise it.

One new piece of information emerged. Petronius demanded: how could her staff, despite their duty of care to their mistress, have let Primilla go off alone to see the Claudii — especially after Modestus had already gone missing? Syrus said Primilla had intended to meet up with someone: the overseer who looked after the property and who had first found the broken fences, a man called Macer. This was a development. This man had not previously figured in the disappearances. He must be one of the family slaves who had run away.

At that point, we were thwarted. Loud hammering at the mighty gates of the station house announced unwelcome visitors. The gates were kicked open. In burst a small group of large armoured men. Plumes danced in their glittering helmets. Violence curdled the air.

Three tiers of military cohorts kept law and order in the city; neither law nor order had much to do with the feud between them all. The Praetorian Guards despised the Urban Cohorts and they both hated the vigiles. But the Praetorians protected the Emperor and were commanded by Titus Caesar now; whenever those thrusting bullyboys strode from their camp and appeared in public, there could be no contest.

They burst into the exercise yard like dam water after a leak. There was no stopping them. Petronius did not try. Somehow Anacrites had learned we had the slavey; he had sent the Guards to snatch Syrus. They made it plain, it would be foolish to request a warrant.

‘Take the ungrateful bastard; I don’t want him. Our budget’s too tight for feeding runaways.’ Well, Syrus was a slave. Nobody was going to make an issue of it. ‘I heard the Fifth had found him,’ Petronius told the Guards’ leader helpfully. ‘My plan was to check the facts and send him up to the Palace with a note. You’re doing me a favour. He’s all yours.’

‘Oh he is!’ snarled the Guards’ leader. ‘Word of warning — don’t meddle!’

‘Are you speaking for Anacrites?’

‘None of your business who I’m speaking for — back off, soldier!’

I could not believe the spy had been so crude — and it went against the careful pretence of comradeship he had been laying on thick at his dinner party. But that was him, since his head wound. He was highly unpredictable. Capricious mood changes damaged his judgement. The one thing a spy needs is self-preservation — and that demands self-knowledge.

Syrus was hauled from the interrogation cell by the Emperor’s elite thugs while we stood around like puddings. Terror overtook him so his legs gave way; the Guards virtually carried him. His eyes rolled white and he shat himself. It had nothing to do with Sergius, who despite our teasing of Albia had barely touched him. Petronius was not preparing a witness statement; he had wanted answers, answers he could trust. Instead, as the Praetorians dragged the slave away, the poor creature knew his fate. He would be dead in a ditch within the hour. Anacrites, we were starting to suspect, either knew the answers already or he did not care.

Petronius cursed. He knew nobody would ever see that slave again. At least we still had the cameo. Petro retrieved it from a murky bucket of water where he had quickly dropped it when the Guards crashed in.

As for them giving us orders to back off, it was blatant intimidation. Nothing new for the Praetorians; not so new for the spy — but foolish. So stupid, in fact, that Petronius and I wondered if Anacrites had lost his grip.

XXXIX

‘You two great men have lost yourselves!’ Albia was a frank wench; it was liable to get her into trouble. ‘Why don’t you ask the big question: if the cameo really belonged to Primilla, and if it was taken by a killer — how did Anacrites get it?’

I pointed out coldly that I had spent all morning among the dregs of artistic society trying to find out. ‘Anyone else, Petronius and I would go along to his house, pin him to a wall with a meat skewer and demand an explanation. But the spy can’t be handled like that. He claims it belongs to some woman he had had at the house.’

Petronius snorted. ‘She must be desperate.’

‘So many are, sadly,’ Albia commented. ‘That is how you men get away with things.’

‘Helena is teaching her a lot!’ said Petro.

‘Sarcasm especially. It’s always possible the spy does have a girlfriend.’

Albia biffed this aside. ‘The jewel was found by the hog-chef, tucked away in luggage that we think belongs to the Melitan brothers. If they are Melitan. Or even brothers. Who said so? Nobody. This is just a fantasy Falco dreamed up last Saturnalia, when he had had too much wine with his hot water. I remember the pair of them watching our house, and the only thing we could tell was that they were idiots.’

‘You ought to be at school, young lady,’ Petronius instructed her. ‘Not hanging around a vigiles house, causing upset.’

‘I’m making sensible suggestions. And, by the way, I am home-tutored by Helena.’

‘Oh take her home, Falco.’

‘I can’t. You and I have to talk about this cameo — ’

‘Send her then. Albia, be off with you!’ Petro lowered his voice to me. ‘I could assign a man to escort her — ’

‘I don’t need a bodyguard!’ snapped Albia. ‘I’ll go by myself

She went.

Petronius Longus stared at me. ‘You let her walk in the streets alone?’

‘Nothing else is practical. You allow Petronilla out unchaperoned, don’t you?’

‘Petronilla is a child. Much safer. Your girl is marriageable age.’ He meant beddable.

We left it.

‘She’s right,’ I grumbled. ‘We need to explore how the cameo came to the Melitans.’

‘Surely you mean the idiotic agents of unknown origin?’

‘Bastard! I’m sure they look like brothers. Listen — if there is an innocent explanation for them having it, that saves us trying to link this to the Pontine killings. Maybe Anacrites really does screw women. Asking him for more details will be a waste of effort — but we could find his unknown-origin agents and ask them questions. He won’t like it, but by the time he finds out, it’s done. Can’t you put troops out to look for them?’

Petronius groaned. ‘I’d love to. I haven’t got the manpower, Falco. If Anacrites keeps them close to him at home or in his office, those are no-go areas. I can’t send troops into the Palace and I am not getting a formal reprimand for watching that swine’s private house — especially not on a case I was told to drop,’ Petro concluded reasonably.

‘Last night, he suggested they were his bodyguards.’

‘Then the whole idea is definitely off

‘You didn’t tell me it was on.’

‘I’m thinking about it.’

In the end, Petro taxing his brain proved unnecessary. One of my nephews turned up at the station house, bringing a message. Katutis had written it out. His writing was so neat, I always had difficulty deciphering the letters.

‘What exactly is the point of your secretary, Falco?’

‘Oh he goes his own way. That keeps him happy.’

Petro got his clerk to decipher. Albia had spotted one of the hangdog Melitans. Anacrites was watching my house again.

‘The bastard! He’s made this too easy for us —’

Petronius grabbed my arm. ‘Now hang on, Marcus; we need to plan this properly — ’

I nodded. Next minute he and I were scuffling in a doorway, laughing like ten-year-olds, as we each tried to be first through as we dashed out to run down the Aventine by the nearest steps to the Embankment. We knew that in taking on the Melitan we would be taking on Anacrites. Nothing of what happened next had been adequately considered. But with hindsight, it is fair to say Petronius and I would still have done it.

XL

We separated and approached from two directions. It was still light. The day’s heat had diminished slightly, but blue sky still soared over the marbled bank, the Tiber, and the low hills opposite. The frenetic hum of city life had lost a little of its persistence as businesses slowed down and individuals thought about going to the baths. Those bath houses that had already opened would have just allowed admittance to their outer porticoes. Stokers were busy raising a smoke, ready for the formal entry to the changing rooms when the bell rang. There was plenty of banging and shouting, which carried further across the water as the last boat relays brought goods up to the Emporium from Ostia, making the weary stevedores curse as they longed to down tools and bunk off to wine shops.

Surveillance could not be easy. My house had no side or back approaches. The front looked straight out across the Tiber over the Transtiberina slums, towards the old Naumachia where Augustus had staged mock-sea-battles. Nobody here kept topiary in terracotta pots, suitable to hide behind, because if we did night-time drunks just rolled them over the road and pushed them in the river. Occasionally carts were parked, but as the Embankment was a main thoroughfare and a commercial artery, the street aediles had them moved to avoid congestion. All an observer could do was hang around in the road chewing a bread roll, hoping I would not appear in person and spot him. Last time the two so-called Melitans were watching us, the whole family used to wave at them as we came and went. Even the dog once ran up to wag her tail and say hello.

Albia was right. He was there. One of them, on his own. I wondered where his brother was. Maybe the two agents were taking turns — or if Anacrites was thoroughly obsessed with us, the other might be outside Petro and Maia’s apartment. We would have to find out. My sister would become hysterical if she thought the spy was having her watched.

What we did next was totally unplanned. Petronius and I had been in this kind of dark situation once before, in Britain. An officer who betrayed our legion had to be dealt with. Justice was done. Maybe it gave us a taste for hard revenge. I for one had hoped we’d never find ourselves in such a situation again, but when we ended up here on the Embankment with the spy’s agent, neither Petro nor I thought twice.

The man saw me coming, as I walked directly up to him. He was considering resistance when Petro tapped him on the shoulder from behind. We were already too close for him to run or fight. So we had him. We simply took him into custody.

At the time we presumed he thought Anacrites would rescue him. Perhaps he did think that. Perhaps we did. He may have expected we would merely argue about the surveillance, at worst throw a few punches, then order him to stop harassing me. That may even have been what we initially intended.

We searched him. It was no surprise to find that he was carrying: four knives of different sizes plus a short piece of rope that was only suitable for strangulation. We kept him standing in the road while we stripped him of this armoury, not bothering to be polite, though since it was a public place, we were not particularly brutal. He grunted a bit. Petro and I were feeling our way towards a decision.

Once we made him safe, we took him into my house. He had not expected that. Neither had we, to be honest; it seemed to follow on naturally from the search process. In this way we took him off the street and out of sight very rapidly — and we saved Petronius the potential awkwardness of imprisoning one of the spy’s men at the station house. As soon as we stepped inside and the front door closed, everything became intensely serious.

We put him in a downstairs room. It was one of the damp ones I reserved for summer storage. In August he would not develop asthma or foot rot. The walls and door were thick. I pointed out that nobody would hear him call for help. Then we gagged him anyway. By this time, the black implications were growing. For him, there could now be no happy ending. For us, too, there was no going back.

We worked quietly. He endured it with resignation. This would not be a job for the vigiles punishment officer, Sergius and his metal-tanged whip; we would give it our personal treatment. The agent was an unimpressive specimen, but it was soon clear he would be professional. We bound his arms behind his back, tied his ankles together, then picked him up like a long parcel and roped him carefully to the top of a heavy bench, face up. We turned the bench on its end so he hung upside down, then left him to think about his situation while we went for refreshments and warned all my household that the room was out of bounds. Albia would probably have rushed straight in there, but she was out on one of her long solo walks.

Helena was apprehensive, though we tried to avoid her concern. She could tell Petro and I were beginning to feel raw. We had no regrets about our capture, but we had put ourselves in a grim deep hole. Helena drew herself up and said, ‘I live here with very young children. I want to know what you are intending to do to this man.’

‘Ask him questions.’ Ask him questions in a particular way, a way that would produce answers — eventually.

‘And if he refuses to answer?’

‘We’ll improvise.’

‘How long should it take?’

‘Perhaps a few days, love.’

‘Days! You are going to hurt him, aren’t you?’

‘No. There’s no point.’

‘Am I to provide food and drink for him?’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

‘I wish you meant he won’t be here that long.’

‘No. We don’t mean that.’

‘You cannot starve him.’ We could. With this kind of man, we would have to. And that was just the start.

‘Well, maybe a bowl of delectable soup, with an aromatic scent,’ suggested Petronius with a smile. ‘After two or three days. .’ To stand in the room and tantalise.

‘What about toilet facilities?’ Helena demanded angrily.

‘Good thinking! A bucket and a large sponge would be wonderful, please.’ We would clean up as we went. Petro and I had fathered babies; we could look after a prisoner hygienically. A regime of squalor has been known to work, but Helena was right; this was our house.

Our first conversations with him were civilised.

‘Anacrites sent you — agreed? How long have you known him?’

‘Couldn’t say.’

‘I can check the payroll. I have contacts.’

‘Couple of years.’

‘Who is the other fellow I’ve been seeing with you? A brother of yours, I’m thinking.’

‘Could be.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Gone to see his wife.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Where he lives.’

‘Don’t be funny with us. You two look like twins.’

‘And you two look like donkey-fuckers.’

‘I’ll overlook that, but don’t push us. Do you have a name?’

‘Can’t tell you.’

‘Are you from Melita?’

‘Where?’

‘Small island.’ Ma had a Melitan lodger once. Thinking about it, at close quarters, this man was not olive-skinned, hairy or stumpy enough. He was hard to place — not from the East, but not from as far north as Gaul or Britain either.

‘Don’t insult me. I’m from Latium,’ he claimed.

‘You don’t look like it.’

‘How would you know?’ A generation back, on Mother’s side, I was from Latium myself. His accent was right: Latin, though countrified. This was almost the first occasion I had heard him speak. Three-quarters of Rome sounded just the same.

‘What part of Latium?’

‘Can’t tell you.’

‘Could be anywhere from Tibur to Tarracina. Lanuvium? Praeneste? Antium? Come on, what’s the harm? Be specific’

Silence.

‘At least he never says, Find out yourself!’ Petronius weighed in. ‘He’s being wise. That only leads to a big kicking.’

‘Not our style.’

‘No; we’re soft little cupids.’

‘So far.’ I think we knew we were on the cusp of surprising ourselves.

‘He doesn’t like you, Falco. Perhaps he has a point. Let me talk to him. I expect he wants to deal with a professional.’

‘Just don’t thump him. You’ll defile my house.’

‘Who needs to touch him? He’s going to be sensible. Aren’t you, sunshine? Tell us your name now.’

‘Find out yourself

Oh dear. Well, Petronius Longus had warned him.

We left him soon afterwards. It was dinnertime. For us.

XLI

We continued. One at a time, then in tandem. Long pauses. Short pauses. For the agent, existence became concentrated on events in this small room. When Petronius and I left the door open briefly, so he heard a child’s cry or a rattle of pots in the distance, it must have seemed other-worldly.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Can’t tell you.’

‘Won’t, you mean. Why did Anacrites order you to watch my house?’

‘Only he knows.’

‘We may have to ask him, then. So much easier all round, if we can stop him knowing you were so easily spotted and caught. . No, I’m wrong. He must realise by now. How soon do you think he missed you? Can’t have taken long. Where is he, I wonder? What’s he going to do about you? You would think Praetorian Guards would rip in here to grab you back for him. ‘Has he given up on you? Perhaps he’s away — could he have gone to the Pontine Marshes, working the Modestus case? Looking for the Claudii — have you heard about them?’

‘Can’t tell you.’

Petronius Longus suddenly spun the cameo in the air. ‘Did you have this?’

‘Never seen it before.’

‘You or your brother?’

‘Better ask him.’

‘Now I’m depressed, Falco — imagine having to talk to two of them!’

‘Suits me. One each. You could take yours to the station house, give him a real thrashing, use your implements. I could keep one here to play with.’

‘Yours would talk first. You wear people out with your wonderful kindness. Villains cave in, weeping. They want the brutality they are used to. They understand that. You being their lovely benefactor just confuses people, Falco.’

‘No, I think people respect humanity. After all, we could pull out his fingernails and crush his balls. Instead, what does he get? Moderate language and a pleasant manner. Look at this one — he admires restraint, don’t you? — Oh don’t hit him again; he’s going to tell us everything without that… I still think he and the other one are twins. Twins can communicate through thought, you know. I bet his brother’s sweating. What’s your name again?’

‘Can’t tell you.’

‘What’s your brother’s name?’

‘Can’t tell you.’

‘Where did this cameo come from?’

Long silence.

XLII

Once, I thought he had been weeping while we left him alone. On my return, his eyes were dull, as if in the long interval of solitude, he had been remembering old pain. But his resistance stiffened. Someone had spent years conditioning this man. We could not touch him. He would endure all, without weakening and collapsing. He would ride it out, even curbing signs of hostility, until we gave up.

We were tiring of the game. He had stopped refusing to tell us things. He stopped talking to us at all.

‘I’m going to throw a bucket of cold water at him.’

‘No don’t do that. This is my house, Petro. I don’t want water everywhere. You go and have a bite. There’s some really good goat’s cheese, just came from the market this morning, strong and salty. And I’ve put out a flask of Alban wine; believe me, you really need to try it. Leave me with our friend here.’

Petronius left the room.

‘Now, here we are, cosy and private. How about you tell me who you are and what you do for Anacrites?’

No answer.

I threw a bucket of cold water at him.

XLIII

A development. Helena Justina had been brooding ever since we first brought the man into the house. Now she braced herself, waited until everyone else was preoccupied, then came down to see what was happening.

We had the bench standing properly at that time. He was looking up at the ceiling, or he would have been, had he not appeared to be asleep. Petronius and I were standing back, arms folded, thinking up our next move. At that quiet moment, Helena must have been surprised by the ordinary atmosphere. She may have felt relieved by the lack of violence. Then she realised it was more sinister than it appeared.

Petronius and I greeted her affably. Outwardly normal, we could have been two men in a workshop who had been preoccupied with a big carpentry project; she could be the woman of the house just making sure two simple lags were not drinking nettle beer brewed in a billycan or reading pornographic scrolls. Our sleeves were rolled up high. Our attitude was businesslike; though drained by days of concentrated, unsuccessful effort, we were feeling weary.

The man on the bench seemed aware that Helena had entered the room. His eyelids flickered, though his eyes stayed closed. She stood there: more gaunt facially since she lost the baby, tall, positive though wary, dressed in drifting summer white, wafting a light silver-blue stole, as cool as refreshing sorbet chilled in a rich man’s snow-cellar. He might smell her citrus perfume. He must hear the quiver of her bangles and her clear voice.

Observant and intelligent, she absorbed the scene. I watched her looking for signs of what we had been doing — while dreading what she might learn. There was nothing to see. Everything looked clean and neat. She focused on the man. She saw his exhaustion, how hunger, thirst, isolation and fear were bringing him close to hallucination, despite his ferocious will to resist. He had to fight now, to stop his mind wandering.

Helena realised how our task had dispirited Petronius and me too, how our power over the helpless man would soon defile us. Most men would have been corrupted from the moment the prisoner was taken and tied up, his helplessness freeing them from moral restraint. Even we had to struggle to avoid being most men.

‘This is too brutal. I want you to stop.’ The words were firm, but Helena’s voice shook.

‘We can’t, love. It’s about long-term sanction of bad neighbours’ bullying. It’s about murder, and official cover-ups of murder. He seems to be involved. If his activities have an innocent explanation, he only has to tell us.’

‘You are being bullies too.’

‘Necessarily.’

‘He is close to collapse.’

‘He has endured worse, we can tell.’

‘Then you won’t break him,’ Helena said.

We ourselves were starting to dread that. We had learned that he had been ready for the ordeal. He had put himself into a state of passivity. His background must be bad. His past experience hardly showed physically; there were no old marks or scars. We could not deduce what his previous life consisted of, though we could tell he knew humiliation and deprivation. When we made threats, he knew that situation too. He was in many ways quite ordinary, a face in any crowd. He was like us, and yet unlike us.

Helena had come with a prepared speech. Petro and I stood at rest and heard her out.

‘I have only agreed to what you have been doing because Anacrites is so dangerous. I am horrified by what you have done to this man. You have toyed with him, teased him, tortured him. You have obliterated his personality. This is inhumane. It goes on for days, he never knows what will happen in the end — Marcus, Lucius, can you explain to me what difference there is between your mistreatment of this man, and the way that the killers of Julius Modestus abducted and abused him?’

‘We have not used knives on him,’ said Petro bleakly. The urge to keep up pressure on the agent got the better of him: ‘Well — not yet.’ He gestured to the hideous collection we had taken from our abductee. ‘Those are his. Assume he carried them to use.’

It was an instinctive response, not the real answer. I knew Helena, loved her, respected her enough to find a better reply: ‘There is a difference. We have a legitimate purpose — the general good. Unlike the killers, we don’t relish this. And unlike their victims, this man can easily stop what is happening. All he has to do is answer us.’

Helena still stood there rebelliously.

‘He has a choice,’ Petronius reinforced me.

‘He looks half dead, Lucius.’

‘That makes him half alive. He is better off than a corpse — by a long way.’

Helena shook her head. ‘I don’t approve. I don’t want him to die here in my house. Besides, you are running a huge risk. Surely Anacrites could burst in to rescue him any minute?’

The man on the bench had opened his eyes; he was now watching us. Had mention of Anacrites revived him? Or did Helena’s spirited speech awaken hopes he had not known he harboured?

Helena saw the alteration. She moved closer, inspecting him. His light-skinned, now heavily stubbled face had a faint scatter of liver spots or freckles. His nose was upturned; his eyes were pale, a washed-out hazel colour. He could be, as he had told us, from Italy, though he looked different from true dark-eyed Mediterraneans.

In a much lower voice, Helena spoke to him directly. ‘Anacrites will not be coming for you, will he? For some reason he has abandoned you.’

The man closed his eyes again. He shook his head very slightly, in resignation.

Helena breathed in. ‘Listen, then. All they really want to know is where that cameo jewel originated.’

At last he spoke. He said something to her, speaking almost inaudibly.

She moved away again and looked at us. ‘He says it was found in undergrowth, out on the marshes.’ Helena walked to the door. ‘Now you two, I want him out of here, please.’

She refrained from saying, That was easy, wasn’t it?

We refrained from pointing out he could be lying; he probably was.

When she had gone, Petronius asked him, in a quiet, regretful tone of voice, ‘I don’t suppose if we took you to the marshes, you would point out the spot where you say this cameo was found? Or tell us more about the context?’

The man on the bench smiled for once, as if he let himself enjoy our understanding; he shook his head sadly. He lay quite still. He seemed to believe that the end was coming. It looked as if he had decided there was no hope now, never had been any.

He spoke to us, the first time in two days. He croaked, ‘Are you going to kill me?’

‘No.’

We had our standards.

XLIV

The next time I emerged from the room, I was shocked to find the hallway full of luggage. Sheepish slaves carried on moving chests out through the front doors, clearly aware that I had not been told what was going on. I bit my lip and did not ask them.

I found Helena. She was sitting motionless in the salon, as if waiting for me to interrogate her as roughly as we were dealing with the agent. Instead, I merely gazed at her sadly.

‘I cannot stay here, Marcus. I cannot have my children in this house.’ Her voice was low. Her anger was only just under control.

The usual thoughts passed through my head — that she was being unreasonable (though I knew she had tolerated what was going on longer than I could have expected) and that this was some overreaction in the grief she was still feeling after the baby’s death; I had the sense not to say that.

I seated myself opposite, wearily. I held my head in my hands. ‘Tell me the worst.’

‘I have sent the girls away and now that I have spoken to you, I will be joining them.’

‘Where? How long for?’

‘What do you care?’

Flaring up like that against me was so rare, it shocked me. A terrible moment passed between us as I held back the urge to retaliate with equal anger. Perhaps fortunately, I was too tired. Then perhaps because I was so exhausted, Helena was able to see me as vulnerable and to relent slightly.

‘I care,’ I said. After a moment I forced out the question: ‘Are you leaving me?’

Her chin went up. ‘Are you still the same man?’

The truth was, I no longer knew. ‘I hope so.’

Helena let me suffer, but briefly. Staring at the floor, she said, ‘We will go to your father’s villa on the Janiculan.’

She started to rise. I went across to her; taking her hands in mine I forced her to look at me. ‘When I have finished, I will come and fetch you all.’

Helena tugged her hands free.

‘Helena, I love you.’

‘I loved you too, Marcus.’

Then I laughed at her gently. ‘You still do, sweetheart.’

‘Cobnuts!’ she snapped, as she swept from the room. But the put-down she had used was a habitual one of mine, so I knew that I had not lost her.

I had to bring this to a finish.

Petronius and I had told the man we would not kill him. We could never give him back, however. Capturing one of the spy’s agents was irreversible. So what happened to him next would involve more terror, cruel treatment and — soon, probably, though not soon enough for him — his death, even if it was not at our hands.

Petro and I had talked about a solution. We abandoned our efforts to extract information and made final arrangements. I had thought of a way to do this, so there would be no comeback.

I left the house, the first time I had been out for days. I went to see Momus. For an eye-watering sum, Momus fixed it up for me. I did not say who we wanted to put away so discreetly, or why; with his sharp grasp of a filthy situation, Momus knew better than to request details. When he wrote out a docket he just asked, ‘Are you telling me his real name — or shall I give him a new one?’

We still did not know who he was. He was so hard, he consistently refused to tell us. ‘Anonymity would be ideal.’

‘I’ll make him a Marcus!’ Momus jeered, always one for a joke in bad taste.

I was startled how easy it was to make somebody disappear. Anacrites’ man would be taken away from my house that night. The overseer who worked for the Urban Prefect was now expecting an extra body; when we delivered the Melitan, he would be infiltrated among a batch of convicts who were going for hard labour in the mines. This punishment was intended to be a death sentence, an alternative to crucifixion or mauling by the arena beasts. Protest would be pointless. Convicted criminals always claimed to be the victims of mistakes. Nobody would listen. No one in Rome would ever see him again. Chained with an iron neck-collar in a slave gang in a remote part of some overseas province, stripped and starved, he would be worked until it killed him.

We told him. I had once worked as a slave in a lead mine, so I knew all the horrors.

We gave him a last chance. And he still said nothing.

LXV

Soon after I returned home alone after removing the agent, Anacrites came to the house.

I had bathed and eaten. I had devoted time to making sure all trace of recent events had been removed. I was in my study, reading a scroll of affable Horace to cleanse my sullied brain. It was late. I was missing my family.

A slave announced the spy was downstairs. Would I see him? This was how things worked now; I would probably get used to it. Helena must have stiffened the staff, teaching them not to let visitors get past them. It gave a prosperous householder a few moments to prepare himself — much better than the days when any intruder walked right into my shabby apartment, saw exactly what I had been doing (and with whom), then forced me to listen to his story whether I cared or not.

I paused to wonder at the spy’s timing — did he know we had shed our prisoner? Then I went in my house slippers to greet him.

He had no Praetorians. The other ‘Melitan’ was not with him either. He had brought a couple of low-grade men, though when I invited him up he left them below in the entrance hall. Taking no chances, I put slaves to watch them. I had known him when he only had available a legman with enormous feet and a dwarf; later he hired a professional informer, though he was killed on duty. A woman worked with him sometimes. This pair today — were a grade up from basic, ex-soldiers I guessed, though pitiful; in a peaceful province they would have been relegated to rampart turf-cutting or in war they would have been expendable, mere spear fodder.

‘I called in to wish you good fortune, Falco, on the Feast of the Rustic Vinalia,’ Anacrites bluffed. I rarely honoured feast days, whether mystic or agricultural; nor did he, in my experience. I had sat with him in our Census office, yearning in vain for him to leave early to go sardine-munching at the Fishermen’s Games in the Transtiberina or to pay his respects to Invincible Hercules.

‘Thanks; how civil’ I refrained from bringing out a rock-crystal flagon of rotgut nouveau.

Anacrites favoured guarded sobriety while he was working — so different from Petronius and me, abandoning care at every opportunity and living on the edge. He made no attempt to cadge a festival drink. Significantly, as was also his tendency, he straightway lost his nerve. Despite having probably spent hours perfecting an excuse, he came right out with it: ‘I have mislaid an agent.’

‘Careless. What’s it to me?’

‘He was last seen outside your house. You won’t object if I take a look around here, will you, Falco?’

‘This is hardly an amicable gesture — and after we all had such a rollicking time at your hog-roast too! Still, help yourself. I dare say there is no point objecting. If you find him squatting on my property, I’ll want compensation for his upkeep.’

This terse banter was interrupted by new arrivals. For an instant I thought the spy had brought the Guards after all. Someone banged the front door knocker in a military manner, though then a key scratched in the lock angrily: Albia. She had been roaming on her own again. I knew Helena had been unable to find her when the others left for the Janiculan; I was supposed to send the girl on. She looked disgruntled and, curiously, was accompanied by Lentullus.

‘Thanks, jailor, you can go now!’ she ordered him crossly. She stalked across the vestibule. From choice I would have ordered Lentullus to wait, so he could explain out of the spy’s hearing. Albia turned back from the stairs and made furious signals for him to clear off.

Lentullus stood to attention and announced, ‘Camillus Justinus asked me to return your young lady, Falco. He saw her outside our house, staring — it’s a habit she’s prone to recently.’

‘Oh Albia!’ I dreaded having to play the heavy-handed father.

‘Looking is not a crime,’ she snarled.

‘You have been harassing a senator,’ I disagreed, all too conscious of Anacrites listening in. ‘If I know you, girl, you do your best to make your glare upsetting. Lentullus, please apologise to the senator. Thank Justinus for his kindly intervention, and assure them all this will not be repeated.’

‘It’s just that the Greek lady was getting spooked,’ said Lentullus. ‘The tribune said we’d better whip your girlie back home today and have a word with you about it.’ He beamed at Albia, showing his admiration. ‘She’s a bit of a one, isn’t she?’

‘One and a half,’ I grumbled. ‘Anacrites, would you just excuse me for a moment while I sort out a reward for Lentullus —’

Anacrites waved me away, since he was then able to approach Albia. I heard the bastard offer that if she ever needed a refuge from family troubles, she knew where his house was. . This evening had become a disaster.

Behind the spy’s back I quickly passed to Lentullus the cameo jewel, pressing it against his palm the way Aulus had given it to me. Being Lentullus, he needed a really big wink to help him get the point. ‘Remember the time we hid the tribune in that old apartment of mine? Can you find it again — above the Eagle Laundry in that little street? Could you possibly take a detour up there on your way back home?’ I muttered — where there was a hiding-place in my old doss, and Lentullus promised to conceal the jewel.

Albia had broken away from Anacrites and barged up, thinking I was talking about her. She sensed me making arrangements with Lentullus. ‘I’ll take Nux for a walk — if I’m allowed out?’

‘You’ve just been out — but you are not a prisoner. Just stop stalking Camillus Aelianus — and keep away from other men as — well.’ I meant the spy. Lentullus was too much of a clown to count.

I returned to Anacrites and his planned search of my house. ‘Who are you looking for?’ Better to ask, rather than admit I knew. ‘Does your lost lamb have a name?’

‘State secret,’ Anacrites mumbled, pretending to make a joke of it.

‘Oh, one of your precious bodyguards, would that be?’ This was like trying to squeeze a dry sponge, one that had been desiccated in the sun on a harbour wall for three weeks. He nodded reluctantly, so I added, ‘Aren’t there two? Where’s the other one? Doesn’t he know what his brother’s been up to?’

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 co-operation 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?’

Silvius was pecking at snacks now, undeterred by the subject under discussion. ‘The sites were too old. I wouldn’t even say for sure that the deaths occurred where we found the graves. Two were in a lonely spot. It’s a deep ravine, a place with a real sense of evil. We hated being there.’

‘A ravine?’

‘Water channel scoured out by a river at flood time. Dry in summer.’

Petro pushed back from the table, arms braced. ‘So — this is the question: what makes you decide your very old corpses, discovered close to Antium, are linked to the Claudius family who live — insofar as we can call what they do living — away across the marshes.’

Silvius paused. He liked to milk a situation. We all waited.

‘Petronius Longus, this is what I need your help for. There is a witness.’

‘What?’

‘Somewhere in Rome, we hope. Ten years ago, a young man fell into a street bar near Antium. He was hysterical and claimed he had been led off the road and nearly murdered by two villains. One man who seemed friendly and helpful had lured him, then suddenly jumped him and took him to an accomplice, an extremely sinister presence. He was obviously planning to commit terrible acts. The intended victim somehow escaped their clutches.’

Silvius himself shuddered, while the rest of us moved in our seats and variously reacted.

‘Nobody took much notice at the time. If there was any kind of enquiry, it dwindled away fast. All the locals now think it was a couple of Claudii — Nobilis and one of his brothers. They were never interviewed, nor put in front of the victim for identification. They must reckon they got away with it. But we know the young man came from Rome — which of course wouldn’t have helped him get attention in Latium. He is believed to have returned home after his ordeal. So, highly recommended Watch Captain with the interesting friends — ’ Silvius raised his beaker to the Camilli and me. ‘You are requested to help me find him.’

XLVII

All they knew was that the young man with the narrow escape was called Volusius. He was thought to be a teacher. Silvius had no details of his address in Rome. Petro had already tried the teachers’ guild. A pompous official, possibly detecting that Lucius Petronius despised formal education, said he would ask his members but it would probably take time.

Petronius had cursed him for a piece of offal — but he managed to reserve this view until he was alone. Perhaps the guild master would come good. Wrong. It took him no time to ‘consult his members’ — in other words, he had not bothered. He said he had no member of that name on his current list and nobody had ever heard of Volusius. He declared the lad must have been an impostor. Petronius asked why would anyone ever lower themselves to claim fraudulently that they thrashed schoolchildren for a living? The guild master offered to demonstrate his big stick technique. Petro left, not hastily but without lingering.

The vigiles cohorts keep lists of certain undesirable professions (mine, for instance), though teachers are excluded. Impersonating a teacher, as the master had suggested, ought to be illegal but there were no lists for that either: probably because the pay was so low, fraud was in fact so unlikely.

Rubella still refused to allow Petronius to leave Rome. So by the time our meeting broke up, I had volunteered for another trip to Antium, to re-interview people at the bar where the escaped Volusius had turned up screaming for help ten years ago. If the bar was still there, which Petronius doubted, someone surely would remember a hysterical youth falling on the counter while screaming he had been abducted and scared witless. Even in the country, that must be more unusual than calves being run over by hay wagons.

The bar was there. It had been sold to a new owner who knew nothing about the incident. His clientele had changed. They knew nothing either.

Or so the bastards told me.

I pointed out quietly that if they left these killers on the loose, one of them could be a body in a shallow grave one day.

‘Never!’ a wall-eyed sheep-stealer assured me. ‘All of us know better than to accept an invitation from Claudius Pius to go for a little walk down a marsh track to see his brother’s spear collection.’

‘Who mentioned Claudius Pius?’ I asked in a level tone.

He rethought rapidly. ‘You did!’ he snapped. ‘Didn’t he?’

They all agreed that I had done so, despite it being obvious I had not. So against expectations I had discovered who lured away the victims — though this feeble conversation would not count as proof.

‘Anyone seen Pius around here recently?’

Of course not.

‘So tell me about “seeing the spear collection”. How do you know that was the lure?’

‘It’s what the teacher said.’

‘I thought you knew nothing about the teacher?’

‘Oh no, but that’s what people around here all reckon.’

‘Anything else people around here know? Which brother’s spears were on offer, for instance?’

‘Oh Nobilis, bound to be. Probus has some, but nothing by comparison.’

‘Any recent sightings of Nobilis?’

No. They said anyone who saw Claudius Nobilis would quickly look the other way.

‘So what exactly are you scared of?’

They looked at me as though I was demented if I had to ask.

I was ready to give up. This bar might seem a safe haven to a young man escaping two murderers, but as a watering hole it was deadly. If this was the best place to buy a drink where I lived, I would emigrate to Chersonesis Taurica, die in exile like Ovid at the back of beyond, yet still think I had the best of it.

Preparing to leave, I glanced around the dismal place, then had one last try: ‘I just can’t work out what a teacher from Rome would have been doing on this road in the first place. None of them earn enough for a summer villa on the coast. I don’t suppose “people around here” know why he came, do they?’

‘He was coming to Antium to be interviewed for a holiday job.’

‘Is that right!’

To my amazement, it turned out to be well known in those parts just which wealthy villa owner had summoned him. Incredibly, the rich man still had the same villa.

I never met the prospective employer, but it was unnecessary. He was the type who, faced with a potential hire who had come to grief, insisted that full details of the man’s experience must be written down; in case Volusius tried to sue for compensation, presumably. A transcript still existed. I was shown it. They would not let me take it off the premises, but a scribe sat down and copied out the ten-year-old statement for me.

Volusius described meeting the man everyone now thought was Claudius Pius, who made friends and lured him off the road to meet his brother. Despite having no interest in weapons, the naive young teacher found himself agreeing to accompany Pius. They went further than he expected, down extremely remote tracks, and he was already worried when they encountered the promised brother. This man was sinister. They met him in a clearing, as though he had been waiting. It made Volusius realise he had been deliberately stalked. He knew he had been brought here for evil reasons.

Volusius had made a terrible mistake. Although he felt he was about to be murdered, he managed not to show he understood his danger. Perhaps because there were two of them and they thought they could easily control him, the brothers were careless. Volusius broke away and managed to run off. Shaking with fear, he hid in a thicket for hours, overhearing a discussion about fetching a dog to track him down. As soon as he thought the men were out of earshot, he made a break for it, and ran until he reached the road and found the bar. The barkeeper at the time took him to safety at the villa where he had originally been heading.

The villa owner had clout. A search was conducted, though nobody was found. No one then made a link with the Claudii. Volusius gave a description of the two men, but it was too vague. If he had heard names, he could not remember them. He went into shock, too jittery to be of use as a witness. Some people even doubted his story. There was not a scratch on him. Nobody had seen him with the strangers. His fear might not be caused by trauma, but a pre-existing mental problem that made him imagine things. Enquiries petered out.

‘And did he get the job?’ I asked the slave I was talking to.

‘Out of the question. He was a gibbering wreck. A man in that state could not be allowed to give lessons to respectable boys. He never even met them.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He went back to Rome.’

‘Was he fit to travel? After such an ordeal, didn’t he panic at the prospect?’

‘We kept him here a few days. He was allowed to write a letter and his mother came for him.’

‘Got her address by any chance?’

‘Afraid not, Falco.’

‘We’ve lost him then

‘Why do you need to find him? It’s all here.’

‘And it’s invaluable, thank you. But we now believe the two men existed all right and there is an idea who they are. Volusius, as the only known survivor, might be able to identify them.’

‘I bet he’d still panic, even after all these years.’

‘Maybe. We have to hope seeing them in custody will reassure him. . Tell me, what was the point of offering him a job here? Don’t boys in a wealthy family have their own private tutor? Were they so dumb, they needed extra cramming in the summer holidays?’

‘Excuse me! Quite the opposite. My master’s sons had an all-round education in which they both excelled. This was to give them special lessons, because they were so gifted and mentally demanding.’ It was to keep them occupied, I guessed, to stop them groping the maids and setting the house on fire. ‘Volusius had a sideline — expertise in algebra.’

Now we were getting somewhere. The vigiles do not keep track of the miserable, half-starved souls who teach urchins the alphabet under street corner awnings, not unless there is a very large number of reports of sexual abuse; or, better still, complaints about noise. But in Rome, playing about with numbers carries dark undertones of magic. Like prostitutes, Christians and informers, therefore, mathematicians are classified by the vigiles as social undesirables. Their details are kept on lists.

XLVIII

I had one more task before I left Antium. I went to the workshop which had once belonged to the famous cameo-cutter, Dioscurides. He was long gone but an atelier still existed, where high-class craftsmen made every kind of cameo, not just from gems and from coral brought up from the Bay of Neapolis, but wondrous pieces carved from two-tone layered glass. I bought a small vase for Helena, an exquisite design in white and dark blue which I could either save for her birthday in October or hand over now to win her round if she was still being distant with me.

Remembering that I owned an auction house, I even made enquiries about bulk purchase — but the snooty salesmen sneered at that; they wanted only to deal direct with customers and take all the profits. Pa would have wangled some deal, I knew. I wasn’t my father; I refused to become his ghost.

Exclusivity did help, however. When I asked about the jewel found at Anacrites’ house, I was told they would have records of who made it, who bought it and when. I described it. They professed admiration for my eloquent detail. They sent me out for lunch. When I returned, a small piece of parchment was handed over, which they insisted ‘was in confidence. The cameo had been made a long time ago for an emperor who died before it was finished; it had remained at the workshop, awaiting the right buyer, until very recently.

Sadly, the eventual purchaser was not Modestus or his wife Livia Primilla, but a man in Rome called Arrius Persicus, who must have oodles of bullion, from the price he paid. It was not written down, though proudly whispered to me. The gem left the workshop only a few weeks ago. That too ruled out Modestus and Primilla. It also left no obvious link to Anacrites. Unless Persicus had disappeared mysteriously in the past month, the agent’s claim to Petro and me that the cameo was found ‘in undergrowth on the marshes’ became suspect.

It was possible Persicus had been done in on his way back to Rome with his expensive new bijou. Petronius would have to check if he had been reported missing.

‘Is he a collector of precious objects, or do you know who he bought it for?’

‘Confidential, Falco.’

‘Girlfriend, you mean?’

‘We rather thought so.’

‘I’m sure you get a smell for it… Is he married?’

‘Presumably. He bought a second piece that day — very much cheaper.’

How sad life could be.

I returned to Rome, passing straight through and making my way to the Janiculan. Communicating with my own sweet wife Helena Justina was now an urgent issue.

I dumped my luggage in the porch. Times had changed: I knew people would take it in for me. I could hear my little ones romping in the gardens, with Nux barking. Instinct drew me down a path away from them. I found Helena seated on a bench that had been set up close to where we held my father’s funeral. A new memorial stood there, with an inscription to Pa and a sad last line naming our lost baby son. Also Marcus Didius Justinianus, beloved of his parents: may the earth lie lightly upon him. I had not been able to ask Helena anything about this; I had to arrange it myself. I had not even seen it since the mason set it up.

Helena’s attitude suggested that she came here regularly. She was not weeping, though I thought I detected tears on her cheeks. If she was managing to mourn, that was an improvement on her previous tight, tense refusal to acknowledge what had happened.

After I met her gaze, I sat beside her in silence, then we looked at the memorial together. After a time, Helena of her own accord placed her hand on mine.

It was some weeks to Helena’s birthday, but when we returned to the house I gave her the blue glass vase anyway. She was worth it. I told her that; she told me I was a hound, but she still loved me. ‘I would have been just as pleased at your return without a gift.’ A man in my line of work has to be cynical, but I believed her.

‘Just so long as you don’t see it as a bribe.’ This would be our only mention of Petro and me keeping that man at our house.

‘Even you can’t afford the size of bribe you would have needed.’ ‘Oh I know. At least, unlike the wife of Arrius Persicus, you know I haven’t bought a bigger present for some secret mistress.’

‘No, darling. Spending even this much money must have been enough of a shock.’

‘I’ll get used to doing it. For you.’

‘Well,’ said Helena graciously. ‘You had better go and tell Petronius Longus what you found out.’

‘You’re giving me a pass out of barracks! — Not tonight, though, honeycake. I’m staying in with you.’

‘Don’t overdo it, Falco — or I will think you have something to hide.’ Helena Justina was almost her old self again.

I really felt too travel-weary to seek out Petro but sent a message to him with news of Volusius being a mathematician and Arrius Persicus buying the cameo. He would follow up these leads. I suggested we meet up for breakfast at Flora’s next day. I burrowed back into domesticity — patted the children, tickled the dog, played mental tug of war with Albia about nothing much, bathed, dined, slept.

‘Anyway,’ Albia had demanded, ‘what did you do with that scraggy bit of rope you took away from Nux? We spent hours searching for it while you were away.’

‘I burned it. You don’t need to know why — nor does the dog.’

‘That was a waste. She loved her tugging rope.’

Nux was a scamp but I liked to think even she had standards. She might not have loved the rope if she knew what it was. Besides, with Anacrites repeatedly dropping in on us like an annoying uncle, the dog’s toy had to be sacrificed.

While I was in Antium, he had even come up to the villa, Helena said. She told him I had gone to Praeneste for a client. She claimed it was a very attractive ‘widow for whom I carried out unspeakable personal services; Anacrites had commiserated with her in apparent shock and sorrow.

‘He said, This is a new side to Falco. So I snapped, You are not a very good spy if you think that! Don’t relax,’ Helena warned me. ‘The man is not stupid. He didn’t believe a word of it. Marcus, he will be wondering where you really did go.’

Next morning Helena arranged to bring the family back to our house. I had the impression she had been pretty well ready to do it even if I had not arrived to fetch them. I left the villa earlier. Even up here, I checked carefully that I was not followed. The spy was a man. down now, though; perhaps he would stop haunting me.

Flora’s Caupona was a decrepit drinks place in my family’s part of the Aventine, run by my sister Junia. Luckily she had not yet arrived, since her mornings were occupied with the needs of her son, who was profoundly deaf. Junia had proved an inventive, devoted mother who spent hours coaxing him into basic communication. She had already had plenty of practice with her supremely dull husband, so perhaps her patience with little Marcus was not all that surprising.

In her absence the waiter Apollonius produced what the workers who formed the caupona’s early passing trade had to endure as stamina food: stale bread and weak posca, the vinegary drink that is given to slaves and soldiers. Nobody who hoped for a sociable outdoor breakfast would ever come here. The tuck had one advantage, though; it was better, and safer, than what Flora’s served for lunch.

Apollonius had once taught geometry at an infant school; he taught Maia and me. It would have been a neat coincidence if he had known the victim Volusius — a coincidence to find only in a Greek adventure yarn. In real life it never happens. ‘Can’t say I’ve heard of him, Falco.’

While I waited for Petro to show, I wondered glumly if the stricken young teacher half dead of fright at Antium could also have left his job and become a wine waiter. If so, in this city with hundreds of thousands of street bars, we would never find him.

I could tell by the jaunty way Petro approached that he had made progress. During the night shift, he said, the new facts I brought from Antium turned into excellent leads.

We told Apollonius to go into the back room and stay there, reading a long scroll of Socrates.

‘What if customers come?’

‘We’ll serve them for you.’

‘You can’t do that!’

‘My sister owns the joint.’ Wrong. I owned the joint now; Junia just managed it for me. A terrifying thought.

‘You mean you’ll send my customers packing!’

‘Relax. We’ll call you.’

One or two latecomers did try to buy stuff. We told them we were hygiene inspectors and had to close the bar down. Then indeed we sent them packing.

XLIX

Even after his shift, Petronius was buoyant. ‘Let’s start with the gem-buyer. Marcus, my boy, you’ve done well.’

‘Persicus?’

‘Persicus! He meant nothing to me, but Fusculus recognised the name.’

‘Fusculus is a lad.’

‘He’s a sparkler. Too good, I’m afraid. Rubella will probably transfer him to another cohort for “career development”.’

‘How does he know about Persicus? We were not aware of him before, surely?’

‘We could have been. He never showed on a statement, but while the Seventh Cohort were formally telling Rubella and me about that murdered courier, a couple of troops waited outside; talking to Fusculus, they gave up extra details. Their written reports are as skimpy as a whore’s nightgown. I suspect their clerk can’t even write — one of their centurions’ halfwit cousins, who got the job as a favour. .’ He calmed down when I grinned. ‘But their enquiry chief asked the right questions. The carter was forced to supply details of the courier’s package, in case it was relevant — or the Seventh even found it.’

‘Have they?’

‘Don’t make me weep! The carter said the parcel was a load of cushion stuffing, sent by a client to his country estate.’

‘The client was Arrius Persicus?’

‘Correct. This is the good bit. He’s alive and well and has never mentioned losing any fabulous cameo.’

I guffawed. ‘In case his wife finds out he has a girlfriend! Shouldn’t cushion stuffing go the other way? Wool, feathers, straw — they all come from the country into Rome.’

‘Exactly.’ Petro tried to winkle crumbs of the stale bread we were gnawing from between his teeth. The crumbs clung on resolutely. Junia must have Apollonius spread it with cow-heel glue as some new gourmet fashion. ‘The crucial parcel didn’t sound significant initially — which was a clever ploy. The Seventh thought they could forget about it. So let’s think: why dispatch a load of cheap stuffing via an expensive courier?’

‘Obvious: something costly was concealed inside.’

‘You bet.’

We sat quiet for a beat, thinking.

‘Anyway — don’t let’s get too excited too fast. Fusculus has gone to ask the carter about it on the sly. We still have to pretend we’re not intervening in Anacrites’ case. If the cameo was in the courier’s parcel, then it’s a lead — but you and I need a long, hard think about the implications. .’

‘I’ll start thinking too much now, unless you distract me. So, what about the teacher with the numerical sideline?’

Petronius perked up. ‘Found him. Easy. The mathematicians list is one of the shortest: thank you, Jove. Volusius may have died eight years ago. At any rate, he vanished from our records — which is hard to achieve, once we have a rascal in our blotted scroll.’

I groaned. ‘Dead end?’

‘Not quite.’ Petronius gave up on Flora’s breakfast and threw what was left of his bread to a pigeon in the street. It flew off, affronted. He sniffed the acetic posca then dashed that into the gutter too. ‘He lived with his mother, off the Clivus Suburanus, close to the Porticus of Livia. I’m whacked and old dames don’t have enough verve to keep my eyes open. I’m going home to bed but you, being a layabout with time on your hands, may fancy a chat with her.’

I said I was always available to do work the noble Lucius found too much for him. And while he could only chat up pretty things of twenty, I was more versatile and could charm even older women.

Petronius let me get away with that, because he was bursting with one further fact. ‘While I had the old documents spread around the room, my eye fell on something.’ Calm by nature, he seemed excitable now: ‘I found one of the Claudii!’

‘Speak, oracle!’

‘I’m sure it’s him. Two years ago, a Claudius Virtus, newly arrived in Rome from Latium, appeared as a person of interest.’

‘What had he done? Joined a dodgy religion?’

‘Depends how you categorise cults, Marcus. We have him down as taking an interest in astrology.’

‘Stargazing?’

‘People-forecasting- wickedness. I hate that stuff. Life’s dire without finding out in advance what will be dumped on you by Fate.’

‘According to Anacrites, when he turned on me recently, when Fate gives you anything worth having, if you dare to enjoy your good fortune, remorseless Nemesis will fly up to snatch it away.’

‘Is he sniping at your legacy?’

‘You guessed. Is Virtus still living in the same place?’

‘Who knows? We don’t always update our records unless some name bobs up in a new offence.’

I said that in addition to Volusius’ mother I would visit Virtus, but Petronius would not reveal the address. He would meet me for lunch after a few hours’ rest, then we could go together. I promised to round up one of the Camilli, or both, to accompany us. Lunch could be at my house; Flora’s had lost our custom.

‘We should go armed. These bastards collect spears. The Urbans carry swords and knives — why don’t we ask Silvius for back-up?’

Petronius Longus was a vigiles man and he would never change. Despite the supposed joint operation with Silvius, he assumed a vague expression. ‘Let’s you and I just take a quiet recce first.’ He was as keen on inter-cohort co-operation as a fifteen-year-old boy thinking about purity.

‘Fine. We’ll tiptoe up like cat burglars… I could knock on the door for a horoscope — but I don’t want Virtus to look into my future and see when he and his stinking brother Nobilis will be arrested.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Lucius Petronius had no faith in clairvoyance. ‘He won’t even be able to foresee what he’s getting for lunch.’

‘Right. What’s your star sign, by the way? You’re under the Virgin, aren’t you?’

‘Believe that, Marcus, if it gives pleasure to your childish mind.’

L

I sent a runner to tell Aulus and Quintus to come over for lunch.

Meanwhile, I went alone to find the teacher’s last known address.

It was a dismal mission. I found the apartment, in a tangle of narrow lanes on the way to the Esquiline Gate; indoors, as she generally must be, was the ancient, widowed mother. I guessed she had lost her husband young. Perhaps there had been a legacy; the rental where she lived — where she had brought up her only son Volusius — was cramped but just about tolerable. She was the proud kind, to whom poverty must be perpetually shameful. She had scrimped to get her boy an education, investing all her own hopes in his obvious potential. Although he became a teacher, because of his experience at Antium only disappointment followed. She was now half-blind, but taking in tunics to mend, to keep from starving.

Volusius was dead. His mother said he had never recovered from his fright that day at Latium. It affected him so badly he could no longer teach. He lost his job at the local school, then failed to find other work. He moped around as a loser, became mentally disturbed and committed suicide — threw himself in the river just after the second anniversary of being abducted.

‘Did he talk about what had happened?’

‘He could never bear to.’

‘You went there to fetch him home afterwards. Was he in a bad state?’

‘Terrible. He knew we had to pass the place where he had met those men. He froze at the memory. He was shaking so much when we tried to set off home, the people at the villa had to give him a sleeping draught and send us in a cart. Once I got him home, he woke up in familiar surroundings and just broke down crying. He kept saying to me he was sorry — as if what happened was somehow his fault.’

‘I was hoping, if I could find him, he could describe the men who took him.’

The mother shook her head. ‘Scum!’

Such vehemence in the mouth of a civilised woman was ugly. The lasting effect on her was an extra consequence of the killings. This mother had not only lost her only son, too young, but all her own hopes. What happened to Volusius was on her mind daily. Now she lived alone, dwindling arthritically into fear and despair. There was no one left to take care of her. She was going to need looking after soon, and I could see she knew it.

When I said that now we thought we knew who the abductors were, she just waved me away. It was too late to save her son, so it was too late for her.

Angrily, I renewed my vow that this time we would find justice, for both Volusius and his mother.

LI

Peace in the home. What a wonderful thought. If only I had it. The Camilli had already arrived — anything to get away from Minas of Karystos and their wives. Nux was chasing around the house, barking loudly. Slaves were pursuing her, unaware that this only aggravated the dog’s excitement. Albia would normally have waded in to sort this out, but she was shouting at Helena over me having invited Aulus. Julia and Favonia had picked up the idea of complaining and were wailing their heads off. As soon as I turned up, slaves began crying too; I could not see what that was about. Perhaps they were the ones I intended selling. I had not told them yet, but a list existed. They could have bribed Katutis to reveal it. Katutis was keeping out of sight, which clinched it.

Lunch. Very pleasant. Rather tense, but that is what lunch at home exists for.

No Albia. Helena had sent her on an errand to my mother. Ma would be taking me to task about the girl soon.

No dog. Worn out, Nux had fallen asleep in her basket.

No children. I had ordered them out of the room when Favonia threw a foodbowl on the floor and Julia giggled.

No slaves. I was not yet ready to treat a crowd of feckless strangers as extended family, with more domestic privileges than I allowed to my own relatives. I would house them, feed them, express gratitude and affection on a moderate scale — but no more. Nema, previously Pa’s bodyslave, commented that he was very surprised by my attitude.

‘We could have met at a bar,’ Quintus suggested.

‘Are you saying,’ demanded his sister in a voice like an ocean breaker as it stripped barnacles off rocks, ‘my house is badly run?’

‘No, Helena.’

A meeting convened. Katutis appeared with a bunch of note-tablets and a hopeful expression; he was upset when I told him not to take minutes. ‘Why else, Marcus Didius, would a man hold a meeting, but to have its conclusions recorded?’

‘This is confidential.’

‘Then good recording practice is to write “Confidential” at the head of the scroll.’

‘So the next time Anacrites raids my house, he sees that and backs away bleating, Oh I am not allowed to look at this! In fact that’s a certain way to make him grab it.’

Katutis slunk off, muttering like a malevolent priest.

The big, comforting presence of Petronius Longus soothed those of us who remained. Helena, whose meal had been interrupted by the various ructions, was still chewing flatbread. Dabbing chickpea paste ferociously on to her bread, she had the look of a woman who knew she would soon have heartburn. ‘Oh don’t wait for me to finish!’ she scolded Petronius, in a tremolo of agitated bracelets.

Petro cracked on smartly. ‘There is news. It’s good — though it will pose questions. Since Fusculus proved the link to Arrius Persicus, I let him call on the carter, and thump him until he squeaked — ’

‘Can you not do anything without unnecessary violence?’ Not a good idea to remind Helena about our treatment of the agent.

Petronius had the grace to look guilty. ‘The carter now admits his spendthrift, two-timing client was indeed posting off a secret love token — and not for the first time. It was a routine arrangement. She’s a lucky little pullet. This is why the carter panicked when his courier vanished — he thought the newly-wed had gone bad now he had a wife to support, so he pinched the gem. Later the carter kept quiet about that, in a misguided attempt to protect his customer.’

‘Did the carter know what the hidden gift was?’ Helena asked.

‘A cameo on a chain. Persicus had bragged to him about it.’

‘The chain is news,’ I said. ‘It’s not been found. Who has got their sticky hands on that, I wonder?. . Need we interview Persicus?’

‘Not at this stage. If we want a deposition for the Prefect later, Fusculus can go along and scare him shitless then.’

‘Back to basics then. The cameo comes from Antium, Persicus is sending it to his mistress. The gem is in some unconvincing wadding, in a parcel, in a pannier. The young bridegroom sets off on the donkey, no doubt whistling a jaunty measure and thinking about enthusiastic sex. Then what happened at the necropolis?’ I ticked off possibilities: ‘Better consider it: did the courier steal the gem?’

‘No,’ said Quintus. ‘He wouldn’t commit suicide and stuff himself in a shallow grave.’

‘So was he robbed by somebody who knew what he was carrying? Did the carter himself set it up, even?’

‘If so, he was foolish to report his courier missing.’ Quintus again. ‘And why would he kill his man?’

‘As for someone else knowing,’ Petronius said, ‘Fusculus heard they were always very discreet when they had valuables to transport.’

‘Models of good practice?’

‘Fusculus said the carter swears the lad was tried and trusted. Could be relied on to avoid attracting notice.’

Aulus, who had been subdued since Albia had hysterics, recovered enough to add his thoughts: ‘So, did the young man just classically happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong moment? Was his murder random — though then his attackers found our exquisite cameo in his donkey pannier and thought it was their lucky day?’

‘That seems right,’ I agreed. ‘Being chosen by a cruising killer was an accident.’

‘Someone who looked harmless, stopped him,’ said Petro. ‘Excuse me, what’s the way to Clusium? — My pocket lodestone’s broken . . I don’t suppose this time the lurer said, Do you want to look at my brother’s lovely spear collection? — but we’ll never know.’

Helena had calmed down. She tidied bowls into piles. ‘Now stop tiptoeing around the big question.’ We men sat quiet, our backs a little straighter, our faces grave. ‘How did someone in Anacrites’ house get their hands on the cameo?’

Petronius drained his water cup. ‘As far as the Seventh Cohort know, the donkey and its pannier disappeared. Suppose later, while Anacrites and his men were investigating, they found the donkey wandering?’

‘Not right,’ I said. ‘He let the Seventh carry on with routine enquiries. Unlike you and the Fourth, he has no beef with the Seventh. Anyway if, for once, he actually found evidence, he would have boasted about it.’

Helena scoffed too: ‘Even if his men had legitimately discovered the parcel, why did the cameo end up hidden in their luggage?’

‘Are his agents screwing Anacrites — pinching evidence to sell?’ Normally deadpan, Aulus looked cheery at the thought.

‘Has been known,’ Petro confirmed dourly. I knew the problem was endemic among the vigiles. House fires gave particular scope for pilfering from victims. ‘But Anacrites knew about the gem, didn’t he, Falco?’

‘No, in fact.’ I cast my mind back to the scene when the Camilli and I were pulling up the caterers for theft, with Anacrites watching us. ‘When he saw the cameo, he first denied knowledge. He took a moment to realise what it must be. Am I right, lads?’

Both Camilli nodded. Aulus said, ‘He looked annoyed — but he chose to protect the agents. Thinking fast, he came up with that limp story about a woman.’

‘He became very jumpy,’ added Quintus.

‘Yes — jumpy enough for you to think the cameo was significant, and to palm it!’

‘Ooh, naughty!’ said Petro, grinning.

Helena frowned. ‘Why would Anacrites protect his men if they are corrupt? Wouldn’t he be livid that they stole evidence and jeopardised his chances of cracking the case?’

Petronius thumped a clenched fist several times on the table. The beat was measured, the meaning grim. ‘You can have the wandering donkey theory — though I think it’s bullocks’ bollocks. Try this: during the courier’s murder, one of his killers took the cameo. It was a trophy. It was secreted away to gloat over, the way killers’ trophies are.’

I agreed: ‘And it never left the killer. He took it home and hid the thing in his room. When Anacrites saw what the caterers had found, it took him a moment, but he knew what it meant. Why? Because he already knew he had a killer in his house. Work the rest out, lads — ’

The Camilli made the connection immediately. Justinus said, ‘The so-called Melitans are the two Claudii who work in Rome. They are Pius and Virtus.’

Helena sat back as it all made sense. ‘Anacrites himself is protecting the Claudii — and not just since Modestus died. He has actively been their patron for much longer.’

I nodded. ‘I’m slow. As soon as he let slip that his agents were twins, it should have rung bells. Too much coincidence.’

‘It’s good. It was another bit of very simple concealment,’ said Aulus. ‘Once you know, however, the subterfuge leaps out. I don’t know how he thought he could get away with it for much longer.’

‘Arrogance. He believes he is untouchable.’ Petro claimed the big finish: ‘Two of the murdering Claudii actually go out to kill from the spy’s house. Anacrites himself has given the twins a base in Rome, providing them with a locale. He knows — but he still let them get away with it. So what is his game, Falco?’

Baffled by the spy’s stupidity, I shook my head. ‘He is crazy. I suppose he may be struggling to contain them. On an off-day, he may even stupidly have told them to provide a corpse north of the Tiber to distract attention from the Modestus killing on the other side of Rome.’

Helena had been thinking fast. ‘Anacrites cannot have known originally what these men were. He must have taken them on to work for him — which we think was a couple of years ago — ’ That was what Pius or Virtus, whichever we had held captive, had told Petro and me, though I did not remind her of the circumstances. ‘He found out later. Then he may have been attracted by a hint of danger attached to them. You know how he is; he would never admit that he made a mistake in hiring them.’

I agreed. ‘When he learned the truth, he would simply convince himself he had chosen ideal staff. He would think having a colourful background made them just right for his work’s “special nature”.’

Justinus barked with laughter. ‘So, being perverted murderers equates with “special intelligence skills”, does it?’

Aelianus had once been a recruitment target; he knew the spy’s sales patter: ‘Anacrites maintains that spying is a little over the edge of legality. That’s exciting. He sees himself as cunning and dangerous. He gloats that he can get away with using assassins “for the good of the state” — well, think about Perella.’

I thought it a good diagnosis: ‘He would tell himself he could control them. But when he came back from Istria and discovered the Modestus murder had drawn attention to the Claudii, faced with them getting out of hand, he tried to take personal control.’

‘Marcus, I’m afraid your involvement must have made it all worse for him,’ Helena told me ruefully.

‘Too right. Not only must he bury the problem before the Claudii are exposed, he has to distract me.’

Justinus blew his cheeks out. ‘And there’s no chance for us to expose his position, you know. He will only accuse us of interfering in some covert operation, endangering the Empire.’

‘We are stuffed,’ said Aelianus. He was young. He gave up easily.

I was older. I knew how the world worked. I was starting to think he had the right idea.

Petronius let out a grim laugh. ‘Well, one of the twins is dealt with. Either Pius or Virtus has been removed from society — without us even realising who he was.’

I myself would not have mentioned that again. Helena glowered. The Camilli sensed awkwardness and did not ask what Petro meant.

Of course it explained why Pius or Virtus would never admit his name to us — and why Anacrites also glossed over his men’s identity. It also explained why the agent — child of a cold, controlling father and a remote, neglectful mother, growing up with sadistic brothers — had managed to resist our interrogation.

And it explained the knives he carried. I tried not to look at Helena Justina as we both grasped that I had brought a perverted killer right into our house. I felt queasy remembering we had kept him here, in the same building as my wife and children.

Petronius may have picked up what Helena and I were thinking. He lowered his voice. ‘So, Marcus Didius, my old tentmate, who volunteers to confront Anacrites?’

‘Not us — not yet,’ I answered.

Ever cautious, Petro nodded too.

LII

Claudius Virtus lived in the Transtiberina. Petronius had found the address in the vigiles’ lists. This was the Fourteenth District, a hike across the Tiber, an area I had always distrusted. It had a long history as a haunt of immigrants and outsiders, which gave it a reputation as a refuge for low-grade hustlers. Officially part of Rome for several generations, it retained a tang of the alien. Its dank air was imbued with murky hints of cumin and rue; alive with harsh, foreign voices, its dark, narrow lanes were populated with people in exotic cloaks who kept strange birds in cages up above on their windowsills. Carts here regularly tried to ignore the curfew. The vigiles, whose station house was just off the Via Aurelia, rarely made their presence felt, even to tackle the soft option of traffic nuisance. This area was attached to Rome, yet kept from full participation by more than the yellow-grey loop of the Tiber. The Transtib would always stay separate.

As I walked with Petro, Aulus and Quintus, I was still remembering that night at the spy’s house. ‘I saw someone else. Just a glimpse. I think he had been with the two agents. Could it have been Nobilis? Nobody we’ve questioned seems to have spotted him, though the chef did say Pius and Virtus asked for double portions with their meal — that could have been a cover for their brother. I certainly saw enough used dishes for three.’

‘Description?’

‘No good. He was too far away, and in a gloomy corridor. It was after dark by then, and Anacrites is mean with lamps.’

‘So who do you think it was, Falco?’

‘I don’t know — but don’t let’s forget him. According to the caterer’s chef, the third man was the one with the cameo.’

Virtus rented a room above a row of crumbling shops. It was in the same building as the bar we chose when we arrived, immediately above us. If he had been there, he could have jumped through a window and landed right on Quintus. But there was a fifty-fifty chance he had gone away, and would not be coming back.

The barman, who knew him, said Virtus had not lived there full-time for six months. He kept the place on, and had been coming back to check his stuff once a week. Not just lately, however.

‘Sounds as though he’s living in with a girlfriend? Keeping up with his rent because he thinks she’s going to throw him out. Or he may want to dump her?’

‘Not as far as I know. He’s married, I believe.’ That did not rule out Petro’s girlfriend theory. ‘Working in Rome to earn some cash, but he goes home.’

‘Where would “home” be?’

‘No idea, sorry.’ We knew: the Pontine Marshes. The wife’s name was Plotia. I had even met her. Petronius had searched the rustic shack where Virtus left her. Not much cash seemed to find its way back there.

‘Where else might he go?’

‘He mentioned a brother.’

‘Pius?’

The barman shook his head. ‘Means nothing, sorry.’ He was very apologetic. According to Petro, as we went upstairs, the man in the apron should have been apologising for his lousy drink.

Petronius shouldered in the door. He didn’t care if the occupant learned we were after him. The landlord could claim compensation; from the state of his building, he wouldn’t come around to notice the damage.

It was a one-room apartment, its interior kept with the squalid housekeeping we recognised as the Claudius trademark. Flies lived here as subtenants; they soared about with the lethargic flight of insects that had gorged on unpleasant decay, close nearby. The smell in the room was familiar: an unclean, earthy odour I recalled from the spy’s house, in those mean corridor rooms where the Claudii were lodged.

There was no space for four healthy adults. I volunteered to search, with Justinus. Petronius reluctantly agreed to wait downstairs in the bar with Aelianus.

‘It’s a simple room-search, Lucius. Let me handle it. Back off; you’re worse than Anacrites!’

‘I don’t want you to cock it up.’

‘Thanks, friend. Any time Quintus and I can shaft you in return, assume we’ll be available.’

The ‘stuff’ Virtus came back to check was minimal. Apart from the landlord’s basic furniture — sagging bed, lopsided stool, a skinny old sack on the floor for a rug — we found only a filthy foodbowl, empty wineskins, and a used loincloth which Aulus lifted up on the handle of a bald broom from the corridor then dropped in distaste.

We found no trophies from killings. However, hidden behind the inevitable loose wall panel, there were more knives. These were bigger and nastier than the ones we took off the agent.

After Quintus and I went downstairs again, Petronius insisted on going up to double-check.

‘Jove, he’s finicky!’

‘Doesn’t want to make a mistake with the Urban Cohorts watching.’

‘Doesn’t trust you, Falco!’

I asked more questions of the barman. This time he changed his story; he now remembered he had met the tenant’s brother. His wife had appeared, curious about us. He was short and sparely built; she was shorter and enormous. She had met the brother too. The fond couple engaged in a hot marital argument; the barman maintained the brother was a scruff and a shambles, which the wife doggedly disputed. ‘Kept himself nice. Good threads. Combed his hair.’ They went on disputing, until it almost sounded as if they had seen two different brothers. Given the numbers of Claudii, this was possible.

‘Fancied him?’ asked Aulus, cracking the grimace he used for charm.

‘Not likely — he had funny eyes.’

It was the wife who knew the real reason Virtus came back so regularly. ‘He’s one of Alis’ regulars. He comes every Thursday.’

‘Is Alis the local prostitute?’

‘Not her! Fortune-teller. Just around the corner. She does a bit of witchcraft when people want to pay for it. Thursday is her night for seances. Virtus always went.’

As Petronius could not tear himself away from the room upstairs, I left the Camilli to wait for him. I strolled past a veg stall, a pot shop and a sponge bar, tripped around a corner by a fountain that was so dry its stone had cracked in the sun, and parked myself in a peeling doorway in order to inspect the fortune-teller’s. The place I had been told Alis lived in was anonymous. These women work by word of mouth, usually hoarse whispers passed on in the environs of unscrupulous temples. Anyone who has enough sixth sense to find a horoscope-hatcher, doesn’t need her services.

After waiting a while, I went across and knocked. A frizzy baggage came to the door and admitted me. She was middle-aged and top heavy, wearing peculiar layers of clothes, over which were dried-flower wreaths with funny feathers sticking out of them. I expected a dead mouse to drop out any minute. The prevailing colour of her wardrobe was vermilion. It was amazing how many scarves and belts and under-tunics she had managed to acquire in that far-from-fashionable shade.

She moved with a shuffle and was slow getting around. Only her eyes had that sly, kindly glint you find in folk whose livelihood depends on befriending people with no personality, banking on the possibility that the vulnerable might part with their life savings and have no relatives to ask questions.

‘My name’s Falco.’

‘What do you want, Falco?’

‘You can tell it’s not a love potion or a curse, then?’

‘I can tell what you are, sonny! You won’t fool me into drawing up a lifeline for the Emperor. I practise my ancient arts fully within the law, son. I pay my dues to the vigiles to leave me alone. And I don’t do poisons. Who sent you?’

I sighed gently. ‘No fooling you, grandma! I work for the government; I want information.’

‘What will you pay?’

‘The going rate.’

‘What’s that?’

I looked in my purse and showed her a few coins. She sniffed. I doubled it. She asked for treble; we settled on two and half.

She toddled into a corner to brew herself some nettle tea before we started. I gazed around, impressed that one elderly woman could have collected so many doilies and corn dollies, so many horrible old curtains, so many amulets with evil eyes or hieroglyphs or stars. The air was thick with dust, every surface was crammed with eccentric objects, the high window was veiled. I bet every superstitious old woman from a two-mile radius came here for her special Thursdays. I bet half of them left her something in their wills.

Nothing that smacked obviously of witchcraft was out on view. The desiccated claws and vials of toad’s blood must be behind the musty swathes of curtain.

Eventually she settled down with her tea bowl and I learned Claudius Virtus was a regular at the seances. ‘He was interested in the Dark Side. Always full of questions — I don’t know where he got his theories. From his own strange brain, if you ask me.’

‘Are you going to tell me what you do at your meetings?’

‘We try to contact the spirits of the dead. I have the gift to call them up from the Underworld.’

‘Really? And did Virtus ask about anyone in particular?’

‘Usually he watched the rest. He tried to talk to his mother once.’

‘Did she answer?’

‘No.’

‘Why would that be?’

Abruptly, Alis turned confiding: ‘I got the creeps, Falco. I don’t know why. I just felt I didn’t want to be in the middle of that conversation.’

‘You have some control then?’ I asked with a smile.

The seer sipped her nettle tea, with the manners of a lady.

She told me Virtus had never missed a meeting until a few weeks ago. His mother — Casta — had died a couple of years before, he told Alis; he claimed to be close to her and said all the family adored the woman.

‘My information is she was vicious,’ I said. ‘She had twenty children and was reputed to treat them all very coldly.’

‘That’s your answer,’ replied Alis comfortably. ‘It explains Virtus. He tells himself she was wonderful; he wants to believe it, doesn’t he? In his poor mind, his ma is a darling who loved him. He misses her now, because he wants her to have been someone he should miss. If you were to say to him what you just said to me about his mother, he’d deny it furiously — and probably attack you.’ I believed that.

Alis had winkled out of him that his father died before his mother, and that he had other relatives, some in Rome. ‘More than one?’

‘I gained that impression. He spoke of “the boys”.’

‘There are sisters too.’

Alis shrugged. She knew about the twin, believed he lived not far away, but had never set eyes on him. Plotia, the wife, had never been mentioned. When I commented that I was not surprised, Alis pulled a face and nodded as if she knew what I meant. Of course I despised this woman and her arcane dealings — yet in her frumpy, frowsty way, she was a good judge of character; she had to be.

‘Did you think him capable of great violence?’

‘Aren’t all men?’

Virtus had ceased coming to the meetings, without warning. I took this as evidence that he was the agent we had sent to a hard death in the mines.

Alis put down her tea bowl. She sat motionless, as if listening. ‘I don’t feel we have lost him, Falco. He is still among those who wander the earth in body.’

I said I was sure she knew more about that than me, then I made my farewells as politely as a sceptic could.

This conversation had made me feel closer to Virtus now than in all the time Petronius and I had spent with him.

LIII

We men had a short case conference as we walked back towards the river. We would have preferred to stay at the bar, but that meant the helpful barman and his inquisitive wife would have listened. Anyway, Petro hated their drink.

We agreed it was futile for us to tackle Anacrites. However, the time had come to explore whether any higher authorities would take an interest. Camillus senior was on friendly terms with the Emperor; the senator might speak on the subject next time he was chatting with Vespasian. It would be tricky: so tricky, I shied off it until we gathered better evidence though I instructed Aulus and Quintus to tell their father what we believed. We had convinced ourselves, but that was not the same as proof.

Titus might be open to an approach, though his reputation varied from kind-hearted and affable to debauched and brutal. As commander of the Praetorians, he was Anacrites’ commander too; that could rebound on us. If we failed to persuade him the spy was compromised, we could unleash a violent backlash from Anacrites — all for nothing. Even if Titus believed us, it could look as if he had misjudged his man. Nobody wanted Titus Caesar as an enemy. His dinner parties were more fun than the spy’s — but he exercised the power of life or death over people who upset him.

I said I would have another word with Laeta and Momus. All the others thought that an excellent idea. They went to a bar near the Theatre of Marcellus that Petro reckoned was really well worth visiting, while they waved me off to the Palace.

I saw Laeta first, my preference. He did not turn me away. His method was to greet you with interest, listen gravely — then if your story was unwelcome politically, he let you down without a qualm. Unsurprisingly, he let me down.

‘It’s too thin. On what you’ve got, Falco, I don’t see this going anywhere. Anacrites will simply say he made a mistake when he employed those men, and thank you for pointing it out to him.’

‘Then he’ll get me for it.’

‘Of course. What do you expect with his background?’

‘What does that mean?’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘As far as I know, his background is the same as yours. An imperial slave who made good — in his case, for unfathomable reasons.’

‘He is bright,’ Laeta said tersely.

‘I’ve known pavement sweepers who could think and talk and grade dog turds to a system as they collected them — but such men don’t end up in senior positions.’

‘Anacrites was always known for his intellect — though he was more physical than most secretaries, which suits his calling. He had pliability; he could bend with the political breeze — which, when he and I were coming up the staff list, was a must!’

‘He adapted himself to the quirks of emperors, whether mad, half-mad, drunkard or plain incompetent?’

‘Still at it. Titus thinks well of him.’

‘But you don’t. You have a singer spying on him at home,’ I threw in.

Laeta brushed it aside. ‘The same man who observes me for Anacrites! Suspicion is a game we all play. Nevertheless, Marcus Didius, if you find genuine proof of corruption, I am sure I can persuade the old man to act on it.’

‘Well, thanks! Tell me what you meant about the spy’s background,’ I persisted.

Laeta gave me a fond shake of the head — but then what he said was enlightening: ‘Many of us feel he never fitted in. You compared him with me — but my grandmother was a favourite of the Empress Livia; I have respected brothers and cousins in the secretariats. Anacrites came up the ladder by himself, always a loner. It gave him an edge, honed his ambition — but he never shakes off his isolation.’

‘Not isolated enough for me; he crushes up against me and my family.’

Laeta laughed softly. ‘I wonder why?’ He went no further, naturally. ‘So, Falco, dare I ask: are you and your cronies still investigating the Pontine Marsh murders?’

I gave him a straight look. ‘How can we, when our last instructions were to drop the case? Instructions, Claudius Laeta, which you gave us!’

He laughed again. I smiled with him as a courtesy. But as soon as I left, I stopped smiling.

Momus, I was certain, never had a slave grandmama who was cosy with the old Empress. He must have crawled out of an egg in a streak of hot slime somewhere. Any horrible siblings were basking in rich men’s zoos or their heads were on walls as hunters’ trophies.

Momus reacted eagerly to news of the spy’s implication in sordid crimes, until I hankered for Laeta’s measured thoughtfulness instead. Momus even promised to help — though he freely agreed it was hard to see what he could do.

‘Momus, I still don’t think the Claudii showed up and got jobs with the spy by accident. Are you ever going to tell me what you know about them?’

‘Falco, if I knew how they control him, I’d be controlling him myself

‘Do you admit you’ve put in people to watch him?’

‘Of course I haven’t,’ he lied.

I left, reflecting ruefully that Momus had always been useless.

There was one more possibility.

Anacrites sometimes used a freelance on very special assignments, a woman. Helena and I had run into her a few times, and although I had a professional respect for her, we viewed her warily. She killed for Anacrites, killed to order. She took a pride in a beautiful performance, whether it was death or dancing. Dance was her cover. Just like her assassinations, it was clean, prepared in every detail, immaculate and took your breath away. Her talent gave her access to people Anacrites wished to remove; distracted by her brilliance, they were at her mercy. As often as not, no connection was made between her dancing and the discovery of a shocking corpse. Her name was Perella. She used a thin-bladed knife to slit her victims’ throats. Knowing her method, I never let her stand behind me.

The first time I met Perella, before I knew her significance, it was at her home. Though a few years had passed, I managed to find the place again: a small apartment near the Esquiline, inexpensive but endurable. She let me in, barely surprised to see me. I was given a bowl of nuts and a beaker of barley water, urged to take the good chair and the footstool. It was like visiting a great-aunt, one who looked demure but who would reminisce about times when she juggled three lovers all at once — and who was rumoured to still do it, passing them on to the baker’s wife, when she felt tired.

What made me remember Perella was my encounter with the mystic Alis. Perella, too, was of mature age and build; in fact more years of age than it was kind to mention. The skilled diva remained supple. She had power too; not so long before, I saw her kick a man in the privates so hard she wrote off all chance of him producing children.

‘Didius Falco! Whenever I see you, I feel apprehensive.’

‘Nice courtesy, Perella. And I take you very seriously too. Still working?’

‘Retired — generally.’ That figured. Her hair, never stylish, had once passed for blonde; she was letting the grey work its way out through the lopsided chignon. The skin on her neck had coarsened. But her self-containment did not alter. ‘Yourself?’

‘I had the chance — came into money. I decided work was in my blood.’

‘What are you working on?’ Perella was eating pistachios as if all that mattered was splitting their shells. She tossed off the question like casual conversation — but I never forgot she was an agent. A good one.

I let time pass before I answered. Perella put the nuts down. We gazed at one another. I said quietly, ‘As usual, my role is complex. I cannot trust my principle — insofar as I have any, given that the case I was investigating for a dead man’s nephew was then grabbed by Anacrites.’

Perella folded her hands on her full waistline, as if she was just about to ask me where I got my stylish wrist purse. ‘My whimsical employer!’

‘Still?’

‘Oh yes. You mean the marsh bugs, I suppose? He sent me there, if you’re interested.’ I must have looked surprised. ‘I can swat flies, Falco.’

‘And which fly,’ I asked with emphasis, ‘was he wanting you to swat?’

‘A vicious coward called Nobilis.’ Although Perella worked for Anacrites, he never quite managed to buy her loyalty. She was more likely to connive with me, a fellow professional. ‘Nobilis must have heard I was coming, so he fled abroad.’

I could not blame him. ‘So that’s why he vanished! How did he know you were coming for him?’

‘I wonder!’ scoffed Perella. She implied Anacrites let it slip.

‘Do you know where he went?’

‘Pucinum.’ Where had I heard that name recently? ‘Fled into hiding with his grandma,’ Perella said, sneeringly. ‘That’s where they come from, those animals. I could have gone over there and dealt with him easily.’

‘Did Anacrites run out of cash for your fare?’

‘Much more intriguing! Anacrites was going that way himself.’

‘Aha! So Pucinum is in Istria!’ I whistled through my bottom teeth, to give myself thinking time. ‘I’ve remembered — he bought wine there on the trip. . Has Anacrites done the business? Has he finished Nobilis himself?’

Perella gave me an odd look. ‘Well, just like you, I’m off the case. But, just like you, I never let go. He didn’t. Nobilis is back, according to my sources. Seen in Rome. Anacrites must have reprieved him.’

‘Or he just bungled it.’

‘Not so,’ said Perella softly. ‘Claudius Nobilis came home on the same ship as the spy. The pair of them together, tight as ticks.’

‘Anacrites brought him back? But not in leg irons — I haven’t seen a trial announced!’

‘Surprise! You’d think,’ Perella told me in disgust, ‘if he wanted Nobilis dead, as he told me, he could have found the chance to put a boot in the small of his back and shove the bastard overboard. Anacrites is handy enough — and I hear you know all about that!’

‘What?’

‘A little bird twittered “Lepcis Magna”?’

‘That birdie must fly absolutely everywhere! I’ll wring his neck for tweeting.’ Anacrites had fought as a gladiator at Lepcis. It was illegal for any but slaves. Citizens who fought in the arena became non-persons. News of it would make Anacrites a social outcast; he would lose his job, his ranking, his reputation, everything. I smiled gently. ‘You are well informed. It’s true; he spilled blood on the sand. But that information is mine to exploit, Perella. I was there.’

‘I won’t step in — even though I want his job.’

‘You want his job?’

‘Why not?’ Indeed! The Praetorians would never accept her, yet Perella was just as shrewd, experienced and ruthless as the current incumbent. More intelligent, in my opinion. She had the talent. Only the ancient traditions of keeping women beside the hearth interfered with her qualifications. No tombstone yet had ever said: She kept the house and worked in wool — and slit a few throats for security reasons. . ‘You could destroy Anacrites, Falco — and presumably he knows it. Can you ever feel safe?’

‘I have protection: other witnesses. If he touches me, they’ll tell. So he’s the one who lives in fear. I’m saving the information for the sweetest possible moment.’

The dancer took up her barley water peacefully. She still sounded like a well-disposed aunt, giving me career advice: ‘Don’t wait too long, my dear.’

LIV

I found my team, not as tipsy as I feared, merely unreliable. I said it was good to associate with happy men. Petronius had to work, or at least take a nap at the station house. The Camilli, being persons of leisure, rolled along with me. They had reached the clingy phase, where I was their best friend. Trailing them like seaweed stuck on an oar, I went up the Aventine to Ma’s house, intending to collect Albia.

She had left, for home my mother said. ‘Anacrites was here — he drops in, to see I am all right,’ she confided in Aelianus and Justinus hoarsely. ‘He knows my own don’t give me a second thought. When I am found stone dead in my chair one morning, it will be Anacrites who raises the alarm.’

I cursed this libel and sat down on a bench. The Camilli did likewise, fitting in fast, as people did at Mother’s house. They were clearly thinking: what a dear little old lady. She sat there, tiny and terrible, letting them believe it. Her beady black eyes rested wisely upon them. ‘I hope my good-for-nothing son hasn’t taken you drinking.’

‘They were drinking; I was somewhere else, working,’ I protested. ‘Now I shall have to take them to the baths, have them home to dine, and sober them up for their trusting wives.’

‘I don’t expect trust comes into it!’ reckoned Ma. The senators’ sons looked shifty. Belated doubts about the dear little old lady filtered through their blearied brains.

Ma then described a cringe-making scene at her house earlier between Anacrites and Albia. ‘He said “I always admire Junilla Tacita; you should come to her when you are troubled, dearie”.’ He cannot have called Albia ‘dearie’; it was the word Ma used, to avoid truly accepting this outsider as a granddaughter. Albia saw Ma’s reservations; she only came up here when Helena sent her. ‘We all had a nice chat, then when your Albia was ready to go, he so kindly offered to see her home. Beautiful manners,’ Ma insisted to the Camilli.

Aulus said in a solemn, lawyer’s voice, ‘You can tell a man’s character by the way he treats young women.’ He thought he was being satirical: big mistake, Aulus.

‘You are the one who broke her poor little heart, are you?’ asked Ma, with her crucifying sneer. ‘Well, you would know all about character!’

I judged it time to leave.

Albia was safe at home. Anacrites had left her on the doorstep, merely sending in greetings to Helena; he probably knew this would only increase her anxiety — and my wrath. Albia failed to see what the fuss was about.

She dined with us, despite Aulus being present. Nothing kept Albia from her food. So she overheard us relating our progress. Helena summed up: ‘Virtus has been dealt with; let us not remember how. He said Pius had gone home to the Pontine Marshes. Perella believes Nobilis is back in Rome, though you have no leads, unless it was him Marcus saw at the spy’s house. Now we know the “Melitans” are his brothers that does seem likely. You won’t get in there a second time to look. Relations with Anacrites are deteriorating, and he will hardly invite us all to dinner again — ’

With yelps of pain, her brothers and I pleaded to be excused if he did.

‘I could go to his house!’ piped up Albia. ‘He is perfectly nice to me! He says I can go at any time.’

‘Keep away from him,’ snapped Helena. ‘Have respect for yourself, Albia.’

‘Don’t listen when he makes out you’re special!’ I said crushingly, ‘Saying he’s never met anybody like you is a very old line, sweetheart. When a man — any man — who has a collection of obscene art invites a young girl to visit, there is only one reason. It’s nothing to do with culture.’

‘Is this from experience, Falco?’ Albia asked, disingenuously. ‘How did you meet Helena Justina?’ murmured our little troublemaker.

‘I worked for her father. He hired me. I met her. She hired me as well. I never invited her to my horrible hutch.’ Helena turned up there of her own accord. That was how I knew enough about strong-minded girls to be afraid for Albia.

‘Was it when you lived at Fountain Court? I’ve seen it! I went with Lentullus, hiding that cameo. Is that how you know how the art invitation works, Falco? Did you lure girls up to your garret, pretending your father was an auctioneer so you had curios to show them — then when they had climbed all those stairs and found out there was nothing, it was too late and they were too weary to argue?’

‘Certainly not,’ Helena interrupted calmly. ‘Marcus was such an innocent in those days, I had to show him what girls were for.’

Albia broke up in giggles. It was good to see her smile.

I topped up everybody’s water cup while I tried to reassert the myth of a respectable past.

We agreed it was time to go after Claudius Pius. Assuming his brother had told Petro and me the truth, then Pius was visiting his wife, that fragile soul Byrta. It meant another trip into the marshes, though at least that would let me go over to Antium and liaise with Silvius, of the Urban Cohorts. Petronius had checked with Rubella, who still refused to release him from Rome, even to work with Silvius. So Justinus, with his experience on our first trip, won the ballot to come with me.

Next day at dawn, I was all packed and about to mount a mule outside my house, when Helena ran out after me. She told me anxiously that Albia was not in her room. Our conversation the day before had had unwelcome results. The girl had left a note — at least she was that sensible — to say she was going to Anacrites’ house ‘to have a look around’. If she went last evening, he had kept her overnight.

‘Don’t worry,’ Helena reassured me, though her voice was tense. ‘You get off — I’ll fetch her back somehow.’ I wanted to stay, but I had five slaves chomping at the bit behind me and had made arrangements with Justinus to depart at first light. ‘Leave it to me, Marcus. Don’t fret. Take care, my love.’

‘Always. You too. Sweetheart, I love you.’

‘I love you too. Come home soon.’

As I rode through Rome in the thin air of a very early morning, on my way to collect Justinus at the Capena Gate, I thought about those words. How many people have said them as a talisman, but never saw their precious love again? I wondered if Livia Primilla, the elderly wife of Julius Modestus, had spoken the words when her husband rode to challenge the Claudii. If I failed to return from this journey, Helena Justina would come after me too. I should have told her not to do it, not without an army. But that would have meant planting the suggestion that her brother and I might be in serious danger.

At the Capena Gate, Aelianus emerged to wave us off. He was mildly jealous, though as an assistant he always enjoyed being left in charge. I mentioned what had happened to Albia. ‘Aulus, it’s not your affair. Obviously this is awkward for you, but could you check with Helena that everything is all right? Will you tell her I had a thought as I came through the Forum: if she goes to see the spy, take my mother.’

‘Will he listen to your mother?’

‘Mediation! Helena will know — in a crisis with an enemy, it’s a fine Roman tradition to send in an elderly woman, with a long black veil and a very stern lecture.’

Justinus suggested leaving behind Lentullus, who could bring us news later.

So Justinus and I, taking a handful of slaves as back-up, rode off once more to Latium. Thirty miles later, as near we could get discreetly, we camped overnight, not showing ourselves at any inns where landlords might give advance warning of our presence. We planned the traditional dawn raid.

At first light, with the promise of an unpleasantly hot late August day, we reached the end of the track. Here, we knew, three of the Claudius brothers lived when it suited them, in poverty and filth, with two skinny, subdued wives and innumerable wild children. We had already passed the shack where their brother Probus mouldered; we saw no sign of him, nor his ferocious dog, Fangs.

The woodlands were sultry. Fetid steam rose from depleted pools as the marshes dried out through the summer. It must have rained recently; there was a dank, unpleasant smell everywhere. Clouds of flies rose up from tangles of half-decayed undergrowth, skirling in our faces in predatory black curtains as we disturbed them. The insects were worse than we remembered, the going more difficult, the isolation drearier.

We rode up as quietly as possible. We all dismounted. With drawn swords, Justinus and I went straight to the hovel where Pius and his wife lived, while our slaves checked around the back. We banged the door, but there was no answer. The hutment which belonged to Nobilis looked as deserted as before. While we continued knocking, a man appeared in the doorway of the third hut. A woman’s voice sounded behind him.

‘What’s that noise?’ he shouted. It was the other ‘Melitan’. I recognised him, and he recognised me — though he cannot have known quite how familiar he seemed. Anacrites had said the twins were not identical; maybe this one was half a digit taller, a few pounds heavier, but there was little in it.

‘Claudius Pius?’ If so, he was on the wrong doorstep, growling over his shoulder at the wrong woman. Mind you, it did not surprise me that one of the Claudii should be screwing his brother’s wife.

He rounded aggressively. ‘No. I am Virtus.’

I believed him. We had muddled them up. I should have known. Anyone who has ever seen a theatrical farce would expect the wrong one to pop out of a doorway. That’s what you get with twins.

LV

He could be lying. Impersonating each other to fool people is a lifelong game for twins. When I was at school, the Masti were famous for it; their loving mother helped by always dressing them in identical tunics, with their hair curled in the same ridiculous quiff. They spent their days tormenting our teacher, then later were reputed to swap girlfriends. Causing confusion would have gone on forever, if Lucius Mastus had not been run over by a stonemason’s wagon. His brother Gaius was never the same afterwards. All the joy went out of him.

Virtus had the same build, skin, freckles, light eyes and upturned nose as the man Petro and I had captured. I felt uncomfortable with it, though I did not believe the telepathy of twins could have told him what his brother went through. I suppose I had a bad conscience.

After grumbling noises from indoors, Byrta sidled into view next to him. In the act of re-draping her clothes, she hitched a scarf around her neck. Maybe it was to hide love bites, if she called their relationship love. It was some rich red colour, decent material. I supposed Virtus must have brought it for her from Rome as a present.

She vouched for him being Virtus not Pius. I said he had to come with us. He reluctantly complied. His wife did not rush to pack him a travelling bag. We searched his home before we left, but found nothing, not even weapons. If he really was Virtus, he had left his armoury in the Transtiberina apartment, so it was now secured at the Fourth Cohort’s station house. The woman stayed behind with their children.

We asked about his brother Probus. Virtus said men had come and arrested him — Silvius and the Urban Cohorts, presumably. ‘Why didn’t they get you at the same time?’

‘I heard them coming.’

We took him with us to Antium, where we joined up with Silvius. Silvius confirmed he had Probus in custody. Probus seemed to be breaking ranks and denouncing Nobilis, though it was too early to say if he would distance himself enough to give us evidence. When Silvius wanted to question Virtus, I had had enough with the other twin, so I gave him the prisoner without quibbling. Justinus and I sat in. I insisted on that.

In two days of hard questioning, Virtus said little useful. His line now was that he had never had anything to do with any of his brothers’ cruel practices — and, as he knew well, we had nothing to tie him to the murders.

‘None of us ever knew what Nobilis was up to.’ That tired clichй. ‘These things you are saying about him and Pius are terrible. Thank the gods our father will never know about it.’

‘Aristocles was no moralist! Look at the disgusting rabble he and Casta produced. Strong family bonds, have you?’ asked Silvius, insinuating,

‘Oh I see your game! I repudiate my brother. I reject Nobilis. If he and Pius did those things, I dissociate them from our family. They shame us. They are blackening the family name.’

‘What family name? Don’t make me spew.’

Virtus just stared at Silvius. He was not a clod. None of them were. That was how those of them who committed the crimes had covered up their tracks for so many decades.

‘We’ll get the truth,’ sneered Silvius. ‘Probus is here in custody, you know that. Your Probus seems a fellow with a conscience. Probus has begun telling us a lot of helpful things — all about his perverted brothers.’

‘Probus is just as bad as them,’ scoffed Virtus.

When Silvius needed a break, I was given a go. ‘Tell me about your connection with Anacrites, Virtus.’

‘Nothing to say.’

‘When did you find out about him?’

‘Around two years back. We went up to Rome and asked him for work. He thought he could use us, so it was fixed up. I know when it was, because our mother had just died.’

‘Casta? Was her death something to do with you going to see Anacrites?’

‘Yes and no. When we lost her, we felt cast adrift.’

‘Oh you poor little orphans!’

‘Have a heart, Falco!’ Justinus broke in, grinning. Silvius let out a short laugh too. He had bad teeth, not many left.

I had remembered something someone told us about Casta. Unexpectedly, I strode up, grabbed the prisoner by his hair, then turned his head to demonstrate he had part of an ear missing. ‘Did your mother do that to you?’ I yelled.

‘I deserved it,’ said Virtus, immediately and without blinking.

We had to stop then, because news came in about the discovery of more bodies.

Justinus and I went with Silvius to inspect the site. On the way, Silvius owned up that the Urbans had been using Claudius Probus for the past few days to help them identify places where his brother Nobilis might have buried corpses. ‘We believe Probus is himself implicated in the abductions, though not as the principal.’

‘How did you make him talk?’

‘We had to provide immunity. The way it works, Probus suggests places that Nobilis liked — secret lairs he had, on his own or with Pius.’

‘Pius was the one who lured the victims; he brought them to Nobilis?’

‘Seems so. These spots are difficult to access, so Probus takes us and points out where to look.’

‘He knows too much about it to be innocent.’

‘He admits that. He says he was young, and coerced by his brothers. He claims he became too horrified and stopped joining in.’

I hated him being given immunity. Sometimes you have to compromise, but if Probus was directly involved in the deaths, immunity was wrong. Silvius just shrugged. ‘When you see the terrain, you will understand. There is no other way we could ever find the bodies. My seniors conferred. It’s worth it, to clear up the old disappearances.’

Silvius was quite right about the dreadful terrain. The first place we went was a forest, a few miles out of Antium. A thick canopy of slim-trunked scented pines, intermingled with stunted cork oaks, filled this thickly wooded area. At ground level, dense brushwood impeded movement. Nobilis must have used a narrow track. A slightly wider access had been bashed down by the Urbans. Following a guide, we struggled along it to a dell. We went in silence. When we reached the activity, the shocked hush continued, broken only by rustles and chopping spades as work went on slowly at the sordid scene.

Bodies had been excavated and placed on flattened underbrush. There were eight or nine, of different ages; their poor condition prevented an exact tally. Most were now collected in proper array, but the bones of one or two could only be hopelessly jumbled on a sack. The troops had lifted most remains from their resting places and laid them in a row — except one. One body lay apart and they had not touched it. One was new.

The men stood back. Silvius, Justinus and I went to look. While the workers waited, watching us, we surveyed the remains, pretending to be experts.

Most of the recovered bodies had been found in the ritual position, face down and with outstretched arms — the mark of the Modestus killers. There were no more severed hands. Petronius must have been right that this was the letter-writer’s particular punishment for making appeals to the Emperor.

We had all seen dead men. Dead women too. We had seen flesh battered and bones treated disrespectfully. Even Justinus, the youngest here, must already know the swift sag of the stomach that comes in the presence of unnatural death. That smell. The mocking way skulls grin. The shock at the way human skeletons can hang together even when entirely stripped of meat and organs. The worse shock, when long-dead bones suddenly fall apart.

What lay here was in one sense no longer human; yet these bodies were still part of the wider tribe we belonged to. Most had died years ago. Many would never be identified. But they called on us as family. They imposed responsibilities. I cannot have been the only one who silently promised them justice.

The newest corpse was a woman.

‘How long?’

‘Two days, at most.’

Her killer must have been fleeing from the forest almost as the first troops approached. Perhaps the noise of them stomping down thickets had disturbed him. Perhaps he even glimpsed them through the trees.

She lay on her own, not with the others. Those who found her had felt she was different — still close enough to living to count as a person, not simply anonymous ‘remains’. Indeed, it would have been possible to recognise her face — had her killer not battered her badly. She had suffered; large areas of her skin were discoloured by bruising. Someone suggested much of the beating was inflicted after death; we preferred to think so. Either her trunk was swollen because of what had happened internally during the violence, or she had been pregnant. Unlike the other bodies, which were deposited face down in scraped graves, this one had been left unburied and looking at the sky. She had not been ripped open. He had not finished with her corpse.

Around her neck still lay a gold chain that must have been the means by which Nobilis managed to get close to her again. The expensive granulation looked like the hanging loop on the Dioscurides cameo. I could see the fastening. I forced myself to bend down over the body, unhook it, and remove the chain. It had dug into the flesh, but I pulled on it as gently as I could.

‘I know who this is.’

I recognised her dress. I remembered that sad rag from when she was brought to see Helena and me in the inn at Satricum. It was Demetria, daft daughter of the morose baker Vexus, obedient lover of the foolish grain seller Costus — and one-time wife of Claudius Nobilis, the pernicious freedman who so relentlessly refused to release her from his possession, that he finally came after her and slaughtered her.

LVI

Word of the grisly discoveries in the forest had inevitably spread. The bodies were carried out on hurdles; we left a small group of men still searching. When we came back to the road, a crowd had gathered. A few, who must have lost friends or relatives in the past, rushed forwards as the cortege emerged from the woods, and had to be held back by troops. Also there, though keeping to themselves in a tight knot, was a group of women I was told were from the Claudius family: three sisters, plus the sisters-in-law, Plotia and Byrta.

They neither spoke to us, nor we to them. They stared, blank-faced, as we removed the dead. It seemed to me they would never speak, never assist with any knowledge they had of the crimes, never even defend themselves. Others kept away from them; who could believe these women were truly innocent of the crimes their men perpetrated? How could they really have known nothing? They would be ostracised. They and their children were further casualties. A grim cycle would repeat itself. The children would grow up angry and isolated. Already none of them knew anything except neglect and violence. Which descendants of Aristocles and Casta could ever escape the stigma of this bleak family? To start a new life would be too hard; to learn new behaviour impossible.

I knew Plotia and Byrta had been friendly with Demetria, but her corpse was well covered; we kept her identity secret until we informed her family. Silvius and I did that. First, we sought out her father, Vexus. From what he told us, we were partly prepared when we visited the cottage where Demetria had lived with Costus. Costus had been taken in by his mother two days ago. Our news would not surprise him; he must count his lover already dead. Two days ago he had come home from his work to find Demetria gone. Their home had been trashed. Every pitiful stick of furniture they owned was wrecked. Vegetables and grain were scattered in the road outside. Pottery, skillets, brooms, rush lights, and a few personal possessions, were all stamped on, thwacked to pieces, shattered and smashed, the quiet means of domestic life pointlessly desecrated. And on the street door, we found a crude symbol: fixed with a long nail through its head was a doll.

A shiver ran through me. I recognised this savage witchcraft.

I knew now who came and destroyed my darling sister’s treasured home on the Aventine two years ago. Anacrites must have sent some of the Claudius brothers to frighten Maia and her children; his messengers included the depraved Nobilis.

LVII

Despite the long summer days, it was nearly dark when we turned in at our inn that night. Silvius had still not finished; he had gone to report to the magistrate.

The finds in the wood were only the start. Painstaking work would now begin on the few scraps of material from the graves which might provide clues, with attempts to work out physical details of the human remains — height, body-weight, sex — if it were possible. Only that way might at least some of the bones be identified, to close missing-person cases and give release to distraught survivors.

From one comparatively recent body, which had boots a local cobbler recognised, we knew the troops had uncovered Macer; he was the overseer who worked for Modestus and Primilla — the man who was beaten up when he remonstrated with the Claudii about the broken boundary fence and who accompanied Primilla when she went to challenge them about her missing husband. We knew we had not found Livia Primilla. I can say now that nothing of her ever was discovered. Her nephew would only ever be able to guess what must have happened.

I was ready for bed, though my head was thrumming with today’s experiences. I would not sleep. I sat up with Justinus, neither drinking nor talking. We were staying near the beach; most places at Antium fringed the coast so not only rich men’s villas but even ordinary homes and business premises had good views. Stars and a slim moon rose over the motionless Tyrrhenian Sea. The beauty of the scene was both calming and subtly disturbing. My young brother-in-law and I, experienced in dark adventures together, remained silent. Our terrible experiences today removed any need to communicate.

Suddenly we heard familiar voices. One was Lentullus. The piping tones of that nincompoop split the night with cries of mundane bewilderment as he tried to find us. Justinus smiled at me ruefully in the feeble outdoor lamplight; he half rose and called out. My secretary Katutis burst on the scene with Lentullus. They joined us, excitedly. Food and drink had to be supplied. There was a minor commotion, soon reduced as the hungry travellers ate.

While Justinus organised, I demanded, ‘Has Albia been found?’

‘Oh she’s all right!’ Lentullus assured me, ripping into bread ravenously.

Katutis had burrowed under his long tunic to produce a letter from Helena. ‘She wrote it herself!’ He was annoyed at this breach of etiquette. I felt off-kilter because letters between Helena and me were rare. We were infrequently apart for long.

I took the sealed document aside, taking a lamp so I could read in privacy.

Helena wrote to tell me a lively story.

For a couple of days back in Rome, much activity had revolved around my foster-daughter. Helena now knew Albia had betaken herself to the spy’s house, convinced she could discover for us whether he was harbouring Claudius Nobilis. It began well. At first Anacrites kept up the pretence that he and Albia had some kind of special relationship. Once she wheedled her way in, she used the age-old excuse of needing a lavatory; then she hastily explored the corridor of utility rooms where I had seen Pius and Virtus playing draughts. She found the room with a third bed. Baggage was still there. Unfortunately, so was the occupant. Albia came face to face with Nobilis. She knew it must be him from the sinister way he turned on her; Albia was terrified.

Luckily for her, Anacrites appeared. She wondered if he had actually been watching her progress. He sent Albia back to the main part of the house. Being her, she disobeyed and dawdled. She heard Anacrites quarrel with the man. He shouted that now Nobilis had been seen by Albia, he had to leave; the only safe course was to go home to Antium. Anacrites said he would deal with the girl.

Albia did not wait to see what that meant. She ordered a little slave boy to tell his master she would seek sanctuary in the House of the Vestal Virgins — the one place in Rome, she said, that not even the Chief Spy could invade. Then, although the spy’s house was always heavily secured, our streetwise Albia found a way out.

Now she had to decide where to hide for safety. Coming home that night was out of the question; Anacrites would follow her. Helena did not tell me in the letter where Albia was, although she said she knew. Her mother, friend of a retired Vestal, had obtained curious inside information. The spy had turned up at the Vestals’ House in the Forum, mob-handed with Praetorian Guards. The idiot tried to enter this sacred place that was barred to men. He outraged the Vestals, those revered women whose sanctum had been inviolable since the foundation of Rome six centuries ago (and just when, chortled Helena, they had settled down for the night with hot mulsum and dunking biscuits). When they caustically denied any knowledge of Albia, Anacrites refused to believe them. It was horrible to contemplate how severely the Vestals slapped him down in return. Only he would have taken on a group of vicious professional virgins who had six hundred years of training in how to reduce men to shreds. He retreated ignominiously.

All this had taken place before Helena and I realised Albia was missing. Next day — very soon after I left for Latium — Anacrites turned up at our house, alone, pretending to be concerned about her. Of course she was not there either. Helena showed him the door.

He tried my mother’s house. This was another bad mistake and as a result he had now lost her previously unshakable goodwill. Ma was dozing in her chair — anyone of sense would have tiptoed out again. He woke her. He was so het up, Ma could see he intended Albia no good. Despite her devotion to this worm whose life she had saved, Ma rallied; she might have been lukewarm about having Albia in the family, but in a crisis Ma always defended her grandchildren. Furious, she ordered Anacrites to leave, threatening to upend an onion casserole over his sleek head. Even he had to see their cosy relationship had ended.

Anacrites next convinced himself Albia must have run to Helena’s father, to ask the senator to intercede with the Emperor. This was the spy’s worst mistake. She was not there — never had been — but my winsome father-in-law became incensed when Anacrites forced a house search on him. Camillus Verus called for his litter and immediately had himself carried off to complain to Vespasian.

Not content with jumping into this vat of steaming dung, Anacrites stormed next door to the house where Aelianus now lived with his wife and the professor. Minas of Karystos was ecstatic at the outrage. Wielding a wineflask in one hand and a bread roll in the other, he rushed from a late breakfast to pronounce loudly on the rights of a citizen to live without interference. Unbeknown to us previously, he was a populist democrat, fiery on the subject. Even with omelette in his curly beard, he was good. He bounced outside into the street, seeing his big chance to advertise his hireable expertise to all the well-heeled inhabitants of that fine patrician quarter. Before a rapidly expanding crowd, Minas had already quoted Solon, Pericles, Thrasybulus the defeater of the Thirty Tyrants, Aristotle of course, and several extremely obscure Greek jurists, when aediles turned up to investigate the street disturbance. The aediles did nothing; they were so impressed by his luminary erudition and the interesting points he was making, they brought him half a barrel to stand on.

Anacrites did not find Albia. Officially, her whereabouts remained unknown.

As I read on in weary amazement, Lentullus crept up to me with his usual confiding manner. He burped shyly. ‘Falco, I know where your girlie may have gone — ’

I raised a finger. ‘Stop! Don’t say it! Don’t even think about it, Lentullus, in case Anacrites can read your brain.’ In fact not even the devious spy could untangle that ball of wool, but Lentullus sat down obediently by me on the bench, full of joy that we were sharing this Big Secret.

While he carefully kept quiet, I read the rest of Helena’s letter. That was personal. You don’t need to know.

Afterwards, I folded up the document and tucked it inside my tunic. We all sat a while longer, listening to the whispers of the dark ocean, each contemplating death and life, love and loathing, the long years of tragedy that had brought us here, and the hope that at last we were ending it.

A faint breeze had got up and morning was not far away, when we said our goodnights and for a few short hours all sought our beds.

LVIII

A lot of things had happened in the past few days. I told Silvius what we could now deduce about Nobilis and his movements. Anacrites had ordered him to leave Rome; Nobilis must have obeyed, much at the same time as Justinus and I left. We could easily have encountered him on the road down here.

His killing of Demetria confirmed his arrival. He must have been doing that while we were in the marshes arresting Virtus. We knew Nobilis must have carried out the attack on his ex-wife alone, because both Pius and Probus had been in custody. With troops swarming everywhere, he was probably pinned down in the Antium area. We set up a search.

If he went into the Pontine Marshes, we had no hope. The wild bogs stretched for nearly thirty miles between Antium and Tarracina, and between ten and fifteen miles across. This great rectangle of terrain was impossible to monitor. Nobilis knew the marsh intimately, had roamed there since childhood, had lived there all his adult life. He could elude us forever.

Catching Nobilis quickly was now imperative. We had to hope that activity during the forest search had prevented him slipping away. The troop movements could have trapped him close to Antium itself, or forced him west. We searched the town — no luck. A polite house-to-house was set up among the handsome coastal villas. Of course we encountered resistance from their wealthy owners, who would rather put up with a depraved killer in their midst than let the military check their property. Each huge spread possessed innumerable outbuildings, any of which could be a hiding-place. Justinus and I spent half a day attempting to mediate with the rich and secluded; Silvius had reckoned us respectable (a senator’s son and a man with his own auction house) so he assigned us the role of winning over the landed classes. For the most part, they saw it differently, though only one set the dogs on us.

We held a midday conference. Silvius had convinced himself that once Nobilis knew we had found the forest bodies, he would not just hunker down but would try to leave the area. Available roads were either north along the coast, taking the Via Severiana towards Ardea, Lavinium, and ultimately Ostia, or else the main road that skirted the northern edge of the marshes. That would take him over to the Via Appia, on the way to Rome. In Rome, could he still call on Anacrites for protection? Even if not, Nobilis could easily vanish into the city alleys as so many criminals had done. Ostia, if that was his choice, would give him access to ships bound for anywhere.

We pulled everyone off the property searches. It turned out to be the right choice. While we were still sitting around our lunch packs, coordinating our next moves, Lentullus edged up to Justinus and me. He asked if we wanted to know something funny about an ox cart that had just passed. The driver had seemed like any of the locals who pottered around. ‘He looked all right — for a farmer, if that’s what he is,’ said Lentullus. Lentullus had come from a farm originally. ‘And guess what — he had an ox that was just like Nero!’

‘Spot!’ Quintus and I roared at him, as we scrambled to our feet.

We all mounted up; we had a mix of mules and donkeys. Checking our weapons, we piled in pursuit. If this was just some inept ox rustler, we would look stupid, but we knew where Nero had been stolen so none of us believed that.

The countryside was gently rolling; when he turned off down a dirt track, we were close enough behind to see him leave the highway. A bullock cart can put on a fast turn of speed, a fully grown ox less so — and Nero had always been a plodder. Nonetheless, it was two miles before we caught up. It was Petro’s ox all right, but by then abandoned. No mistaking that dun-coloured hunk of beef, with his mournful low and his permanent stream of dribble. He was even hitched to our own cart, the one we had had to leave in the marshes after the ox was taken. There was no time to make jokes about salvage rights, but Petronius and his po-faced brother would be delighted.

Nobilis had left the cart and taken off on foot. I made Lentullus stay with the ox. His bad leg would have hampered him, and those two simple souls could look after one another while the rest of us, the hard men, tracked our killer. We stayed on mule-back as long as possible, but soon, like him, we had to leg it. He vanished down a deep ravine and there was no choice but to follow him in.

‘I know this place,’ said Silvius. ‘It’s where we first found bodies!’

Italy is a strange country geographically, so long and narrow, with its great spine, the ever-present Apennines. They were there in the distance, low-looking grey ridges far away but visible beyond the undulating foreground plain. Even in summer, towering clouds rise over those hills. You can see them as you approach Rome. After storms and in winter, rain pours off the Apennines. Trapped water causes the Pontine Marshes. Here close to Antium, groundwater lay very close to the surface but instead of forming marshes, rivers carved phenomenal channels through the alluvium, down which they sucked the surplus to the sea. For century after century it happened, creating strange caves, deep seasonal gullies, and incredible ravines. You would not know they were there. From above, the countryside seemed featureless. The presence of these gullies made farming harder, so only a short way past Antium was a near wilderness. In this dire place, Claudius Nobilis had struck down one of the deep ravines. There was nothing else to do: trusting our souls to the gods — those of us who believed in gods — we went in after him. A few who did not believe in a deity until then may have offered a swift apology for doubting and beseeched divine protection after all.

Why does it always happen to me? In the course of my work, I had been at the bottom of some ghastly holes. This was another appalling experience. Nobilis had scrambled into a fissure in the earth that became fifty feet deep in places, though never much more than six feet across. The sides rose perpendicularly. Soon we felt quite cut off from the world; we feared we would never manage to return. No place I had ever been in contained such a sense of menace. It felt like one of the approaches to Hades.

He kept going. Hours seemed to pass as we struggled slowly after him. The ravine’s formation reminded me of straight-sided rock-cut corridors I had seen in Nabataea, places so narrow a claustrophobic man would have to turn back afraid. In high summer, it was dry. One of our men, who had local knowledge, told us that when the rains came, such a ravine would contain raging water to waist height. In summer its soggy bottom fed the sturdy roots of unyielding undergrowth. The going was almost impossible. Bright green frogs croaked everywhere; flies tormented us. Sweat poured off us as we strove forwards. As we trampled on, scratched and torn by ferocious scrub plants, we became rapidly exhausted.

The place nearly defeated us. We were not the first to come here. Generations of criminals must have used this hateful crevice. They used it to hide themselves, their loot, their weaponry. They left behind sordid litter. Bodies must have been dumped here too. They would never be found. The undergrowth would conceal them, the floods would carry them away.

Ahead of us, the killer also struggled. He knew the ravine of old, yet found no easier way through it than we did. If paths had ever existed, harsh foliage had reclaimed them. Its prickly growth was impenetrable. The atmosphere, the heat, the smell, drained us. Being in a group, we just about kept up our spirits, and were closing the gap between us and our quarry. Nobilis was alone. He was on his own forever now, and he knew it.

In the end he could go no further. With no way out, he turned on us. We never saw him coming but suddenly we heard him, as with a long, wild yell, he crashed out of hiding. With barely time to react, we bunched closer, bringing our swords up defensively. For an instant it did seem his intention was to break out past us. The ravine was too narrow, the tangled thicket too dense. His animal howl of defeat, despair and rage continued. We braced ourselves.

Nobilis flung himself straight at us. So this man, who had killed so many people with his own crude weapons, used us and our raised swords to kill himself.

LIX

Once we dragged out our blades and the corpse fell to the ground, we stood in shock. Silvius recovered first and rolled him over. We gathered round, to inspect the remains. We had to see, once, the man we knew to be the killer.

He looked younger than Probus and the twins. There were likenesses. We could see he belonged to the Claudii. He was bigger, more unkempt, over-heavy. Dead as he was, he lay staring at the sky in a way that made us shiver. Camillus Justinus, a man of refinement, stooped down quickly to pull the eyes shut with one thumb and forefinger.

Just before he did so, Quintus looked up at me. ‘That barman’s wife in the Transtiberina may have seen Nobilis. She said he had peculiar eyes.’ He spoke with the same throwaway manner Helena would use in company, tossing me something to think about, for discussion later. I said nothing, but I looked — then I drew the same conclusions.

We left the body there. We were exhausted. Dragging it back up the ravine would have finished us. If his siblings wanted to collect Nobilis for burial, let them.

‘Myself, I like to go to law,’ said Silvius, back in Antium. ‘A quick show trial, and a bloody execution. Deterrent to others. Suicide-by-cohort never works the same.’

Since the Urban was in a vengeful mood, he then let on that Claudius Probus was to remain in custody.

‘What happened to his get-out clause?’

‘Ah, Falco, I just remembered! I am not empowered to offer it. Immunity from prosecution is reserved to the Emperor — and he, I gather, never intervenes in criminal cases. . So it’s thanks for the help, Probus — but tough luck!’

The surviving twin, Virtus, was also in trouble, potentially. Despite his insistence that he kept aloof from his brothers’ activities, Justinus had remembered something: ‘When we picked him up at their shack in the marshes, I noticed his wife, Byrta, was wearing a good quality scarf in a dark red material. Silvius, if you can ever find any of the runaway slaves who belonged to Modestus and Primilla, you must show them that scarf. Primilla was wearing something like it when she left home.’

Piece by piece, we were linking the Claudii to their victims. We also had the unusual chain that Nobilis must have given to Demetria; I was confident that belonged with the cameo taken from the Rome courier on the Via Triumphalis. Petro would send the cameo for comparison; Silvius would take it to the Dioscurides workshop for absolute confirmation.

We asked both Probus and Virtus about their connection with Anacrites. Both blanked us. In my view, now Nobilis was dead, they were afraid they would bear the full burden as public scapegoats, but they believed the spy would extricate them. I thought they were wrong. ‘No; he will distance himself now. I know him. He will sacrifice the Claudii to save his own career.’

‘I thought they could put pressure on him?’ said Silvius.

‘We still don’t know what — though Justinus and I have a theory we intend to check. I suggest you process Probus and Virtus here in Antium. Do it fast, Silvius. But if you can, please give me a couple of days, before you send word to Rome about Nobilis.’

‘What’s the plan, Falco? I can see you have one.’

‘Let me keep it to myself. Silvius, you don’t want to know.’

Silvius and the Urbans stayed in Latium to process the survivors’ trial. I and mine set off for home. Lentullus was bringing Nero and the ox-cart for Petronius, which meant the usual maddening slow progress. It took us a day to reach Bovillae. Next morning, Justinus and I left Lentullus to drive in without us, while we rode on ahead up the Via Appia.

We passed through the necropolis where the corpse of Modestus had been found. After that came the Appian Gate, then a long straight run through garden suburbs until we hit the dark shade of two leaky aqueducts at the Capena Gate. I excused myself, and left Quintus to pass on greetings to his parents and his wife. We arranged that he and his brother would come to my house the next day, for a catch-up meeting.

I moved on, reached the southern end of the Circus Maximus, where I veered left. Since I had a mule to do the hard work, I pressed him up the hill. He carried me uncomplainingly to the crest of the Aventine, with its snooty ancient temples on the high crags, around which beetled the vibrant plebs of this place where I was born.

After life on the coast, I felt assailed by the busy racket. More shops and workshops were crammed together on this one hill out of seven than traded in the whole of Antium. The crowds were loud — singing, shouting, whistling and catcalling. The pace was fast. The tone was coarse. I drew in a deep breath, grinning with joy to be home again. In that breath I tasted a strange brew of garlic, sawdust, fresh fish, raw meat, marble dust, new rope, old jars and, from the dark doorways of ill-kept apartment blocks, the reek of uncollected sewage in flabbergasting quantities. My mule was jostled, insulted, barked at and cursed. Two hens flew up in our faces as we wove a passage through garland girls and water carriers, ducked out of the way as a burglar dropped down off a fire porch with his clanking swag, turned off a narrow road into one that was barely passable. At the end of that lay the disguised entrance of the sour alleyway called Fountain Court.

A pang of nostalgia hit me like last night’s undigested Chicken Frontinian. The street was not much wider than the ravine where Nobilis killed himself. The sunny side was shady and the shady side was glum. A deplorable smell rose and wavered around like a bad genie outside the funeral parlour, while a fierce fight about a bill was spilling on to the pavement by the barber’s. To call it a pavement was ridiculous. The customer who was threatening to kill Appius, the barber, was sliding on molten mud. To call it mud as it oozed in through gaps in his sandal straps was optimistic. I rode by without making eye contact, though my sympathy was with the barber. Anyone so stupid as to patronise a tonsure-teaser who had the sad comb-over Appius gave himself should expect to get fleeced. Even a quadrans was too much to pay.

I dismounted stiffly at the Eagle Laundry and tied up the mule among the wet flapping sheets in what passed for a colonnade. Lenia, the laundress emerged nosily: a familiar figure, all frenzied red hair and drinker’s cough, tottering on high cork heels, unsteady after her afternoon bevvy. She winked heavily. She knew why I was here. I gave her a wave that passed for debonair, and as she snorted easy insults, I set off up the worn stone stairs. My rule was, three flights then take a breather; two more then pause a second time; take the last flight at a run before you collapsed among the woodlice and worse things that littered your path.

The doorpost of my old apartment still had the painted tile that advertised my name for clients. An old nail, carefully bent about ten years ago, was still hidden in a pot on the landing; as a spare latch-lifter it still worked. I put the nail back, pushed open the door very gently in case someone jumped me; I went in, feeling an odd patter of the heart.

It looked empty. There were two rooms. In the first stood a small wooden table, partly eaten away as if it were fossilised; two stools of different heights, one missing a leg; a cooking-bench; a shelf that once held pots and bowls but was now bare of fripperies. In the second room was just a narrow bed, made up neatly.

I called out that it was me. I heard pigeons flutter on the roof.

There was a folding door from the main room to a tiny balcony. I jerked the door with a special hitch that was needed to move it. Then I stepped out through the opening into the old, incongruously glamorous view over Rome, now bathed in warm afternoon sunlight. For a moment I soaked up that familiar scene, out over the northern Aventine to the Vaticanus Hill beyond the river.

Albia was basking on the small stone bench. Coming from Britain, she adored the sun. The building was so badly maintained by its landlord Smaractus that one day the whole balcony would fall off, taking the bench and anyone who was sitting on it. For the moment it held. It had held for the six or seven years that I lived here, in view of which it was easiest to continue to have blind faith than to try and make the unbearable Smaractus carry out repairs. The kind of builders he used would only weaken it fatally.

My fosterling wore an old blue dress, tight plaits, a simple bead necklace. She sat with her fingers linked, pretending to be happy, calm, and unafraid. There was no chance she was afraid of me. I was her father, just a joke. But she must know her situation. Someone else had terrified her.

‘I thought I would find you here.’ She made no answer. ‘You had better stay until I have a chance to straighten things out with Anacrites. Are you all right, Albia? Do you have food money?’

‘Lenia gave me a loan.’

‘I hope you fixed a good rate of interest!’

‘Helena came. She settled up.’

‘Well, I’ll send you an allowance until it’s safe to come home.’

‘I won’t be coming,’ Albia informed me suddenly and earnestly. ‘I have something to say, Marcus Didius. I love you all, but it cannot be my home.’

I wanted to argue but I was too tired. Anyway, I understood. I experienced deep sadness for her. ‘So we failed you, sweetheart.’

‘No.’ Albia spoke gently. ‘Let’s not have a family argument, like other tiresome people.’

‘Why not? Arguments are what families are for. You have a family now, you know that. You’re stuck, I’m afraid. Try not to be estranged from us, the way I was from my father.’

‘Do you regret that?’

I grinned abruptly, even laughed out loud. ‘Never for one moment — nor did he, the old menace!. . Have you told Helena this big idea of yours? Striking out on your own?’

‘She was upset.’

‘She would be!’

Albia turned to me, her face pale, her blue-grey eyes dark with panic despite her attempted bravado. ‘You gave me a chance; I am grateful. I want to stay in Rome. But I am going to make myself a life, a life that is suitable and sustainable. Don’t tell me I cannot try.’

Huffing gently, I squashed in on the bench beside her. Albia moved up, grumbling on principle. ‘So let’s hear about it?’

Uncertain of my reaction, she confided, ‘I cannot have the life you hoped to give me. Adoption only half works. I stay provincial — if not a barbarian. Someone who hates us might find out where I came from. In this city, spiteful rumours could damage you and Helena.’

‘Anacrites?’

‘He intends to do it.’ Albia spoke quietly; all self-confidence had drained out of her.

I wondered how he had so badly crushed her spirit. ‘And what about you? Did he try something on?’

‘No.’ Albia was inscrutable. She had made up her mind not to tell me. If Anacrites had seduced or raped her, she would spare me incandescent anger; she would protect Helena, too, from the pain of knowing. But even the fact that Anacrites had lured her into danger gave me motives to pursue him.

‘You sure?’ Pointless question.

‘He was not the same. He had changed — or at least had stopped hiding what he is really like. You were right about him: he looked lecherous. I decided straight away I must escape. Then I found Claudius Nobilis.’

‘Did he lay hands on you?’

‘No. He meant to. But Anacrites barged in and said “leave her to me”.’ Albia shuddered, looking older than her years. ‘Repulsive man!’

‘Don’t you think we are all the same?’ I teased, alluding to her opinion of Camillus Aelianus.

To my surprise, Albia smiled sweetly and replied, ‘Not quite all of you!’

‘So, Flavia Albia, you are leaving home. What are you planning?’

‘To live here. Do what you did.’

‘Right.’

‘No argument?’

‘No point. So you want to be an informer? Well, that could work.’ I put my head back against the rough surface of the wall, remembering the experience. Part of me was envious, though I hid it. ‘Start small. Work for women. Don’t accept any job that comes along — gain a name for being picky, then folks will feel flattered if you take them on. It’s a hard life, depressing and dangerous. The rewards are few, you can never relax, and even when you achieve success, your miserable cheating clients will not thank you.’

‘I can do this,’ Albia insisted. ‘I have the proper attitude — the right bitterness. And I have sympathy for desperate people. I have been orphaned, abandoned, starved, neglected, beaten, even in the clutches of a violent pimp. There will be no surprises,’ she concluded.

‘I see you have convinced yourself! Nothing scares you — even when it should.’ The romantic in me wanted to have faith in her. ‘You are too young. You have too much to learn,’ I warned, as the father in me took over.

‘I have been pushed into it before I’m ready, so it’s not ideal,’ replied Albia coolly. She had spent several days here, thinking up answers to thwart me. Then, because Helena Justina’s teaching had made an impression, she added demurely, ‘But I shall have you to teach me, Father.’

My throat went raw. ‘First time you ever called me that!’

‘Don’t get overexcited,’ Flavia Albia answered matter-of-factly. ‘You have to earn it, if you want it permanent.’

‘That’s my girl!’ I exclaimed proudly.

I stood up, easing my stiffback. I needed to see Glaucus at the gym, get back in shape. Before I left the apartment, I made a few adjustments to the old potted rose trees, pinching off dead wood from spindly branches. ‘Professional question, Albia: when you encountered Nobilis — did you notice his eyes?’

She jumped up eagerly. ‘Yes! I wanted to tell you —’

‘Save it. Come down to the house tomorrow. It will be a good exercise in moving around Rome unrecognised.’

‘What for?’

‘Family conference. We need to talk about Anacrites.’

LX

I awoke late. I was alone, Helena’s side of the bed long cooled. I could hear the house thrumming with movement and casual noises, everyone going about their business without me, as they must have done while I was absent, as they would do if I stayed dozing. I was the master, but expendable. However, a wet snuffle under the door from Nux waiting patiently outside told me the dog was aware of my homecoming last night.

I let her in, endured a quick greeting (she was a polite dog), then allowed her to jump on the bed, which was her real purpose. The whiskery fright was not allowed on beds or couches; that made no difference. Nux curled up and went to sleep. I washed my face, put a comb through my curls, dived into a favourite tunic. I was ill-shaven, hungry, stiff from travel and subdued. I had no casework I was aware of and would have to look for clients. In most respects I could have been back in the life I once led in Fountain Court. Once again, I felt mournful and bereft of my youth.

Downstairs, slaves saluted me with only mild disdain. A good breakfast and my alert assistants were waiting. My wife came in and kissed me. My children appeared in the doorway, made sure it was me, then ran off back to their games. A buffet slave refilled the bread basket with warm rolls as soon as I took a serving, poured hot water on to honey for me, cut smoked ham slices. The napkin laid upon my lap was fine linen. I drank from a smooth Samian beaker. When I came to rinse my hands again, scented water in a silver bowl was immediately offered to me.

I had forgotten I was rich. Helena saw my reaction; I noticed her amusement. ‘Jupiter!’

‘You’ll get used to it,’ she said, smiling.

My new status brought responsibilities. Clients were lined up, awaiting favours shamelessly.

I dealt briskly with Marina, wanting money of course, then ignored a message from my sister Junia about the caupona needing a refurbishment. Helena said there were queries at the auction house, not urgent; I could attend to them when I visited the Saepta. Next came another, much more serious, family problem. The usher (I now required one, it seemed) ushered in Thalia.

She was visibly pregnant, puffing slightly. It had not persuaded her to wear less revealing clothes. The two Camilli, waiting for me to be free for our planned meeting, exchanged startled glances. Arrayed in a few wafts of gauze and long strings of semiprecious beads, Thalia patted the bump that was supposed to be Pa’s offspring. ‘Not long now, Marcus!’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Terrible! The python knows; he’s off colour, poor Jason.’

‘Still dancing?’

‘Still dancing! Are you hoping exertion will bring on a miscarriage?’

‘That would be irresponsible.’

‘Gods! Money has made you so sanctimonious! — Now listen, I need to talk to you.’

‘Well, make it quick. I’m about to begin a business meeting.’

‘Stuff that,’ replied Thalia. ‘A little child’s life is at stake here. We’ve been let down, Falco, this poor baby and me. I’ve had words with that scheming shark, Septimus Parvo — your devious father’s utterly useless lawyer.’

‘He seemed competent.’ Thalia’s annoyance was cheering me up now.

‘You would say that. He tells me he has looked into things further and the will’s rotten. It won’t hold up. My poor little one has been cheated — and he is not even born yet!’

‘I don’t know what you mean, Thalia.’

‘According to Parvo,’ she enunciated with high distaste, ‘if a legacy is given to a posthumous infant, the child must be born of a legal marriage.’ Thalia was a tall woman of majestic stature; as she rounded on me fiercely, I felt some alarm. ‘Geminus said Parvo would sort everything out for me. I know what’s gone on here. This is a fiddle. You bastard, Falco — you must have put him up to it!’

Not for the first time since my father died, my first thought was to lay wheat cakes on a divinity’s altar and exclaim, Thank you, for my good fortune!

Aulus leaned forward, his face serious. ‘Parvo is quite right, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘My brother Aelianus,’ Helena told Thalia helpfully. ‘He has had legal training.’

‘I don’t trust him then!’ Thalia scoffed. Aulus took it well.

‘There can be no doubt, I’m afraid, Thalia.’ What an excellent fellow Aulus had turned out to be. ‘Didius Favonius remained married to his wife of many years, the mother of his legal children.’ Helena may have discussed all this with Aulus. He was a better scholar than we expected, but only with advance warning. He must have looked up the law specifically. ‘Everyone at Geminus’ funeral saw Junilla Tacita taking her place as the widow. She was acknowledged as such by all those friends, family and business colleagues who knew her deceased husband. Moreover,’ Aulus continued relentlessly, ‘to become an heir, the child must be referred to in the will itself. I do not believe a codicil will count.’

‘All that is as may be!’ Thalia could be worryingly firm. ‘I am here to make arrangements. Things have to be set up properly.’

I gulped nervously.

‘Here is the deal, Marcus Didius. When this child is born, it has to be looked after. Don’t expect me to do it. I can’t take a baby on tour with the circus! My animals — would be dangerously jealous, it’s not hygienic, and I don’t have the capacity.’

‘That’s very sad,’ Helena interrupted. ‘Children give so much pleasure and can be a comfort, Thalia.’

‘He’ll get in the way!’ Thalia replied, as riotously honest as when she discussed her sex life. Then she dropped me in the midden. ‘You will have to bring him up, Falco.’

‘What?’

‘I thought about it. This is what Geminus wanted. You know it is. He told you in that codicil: you were to see my baby as your own sister or your brother. You can’t argue with a fideicommissum.’ She was calm. She was composed. Before I could bluster excuses, Thalia added the death blow: ‘The best thing will be, Marcus darling, if as soon as he is born, you take him off me and adopt him.’

I closed my eyes while it sank in. I had expected troubles to come with money. I knew some of them would be complex, many crushing. Cynical though I was, nothing of this magnitude had crossed my mind. There was no escape, however. Pa had landed me absolutely.

I said I had to consult Helena. ‘That’s right,’ Thalia agreed composedly. ‘Then the dear little thing can grow up with you two, and be part of your beautiful family.’

Those quick brown eyes of Helena’s told me she foresaw everything, just as I did.

So I acquired a ‘brother’, who was almost certainly not my brother but whom I had to adopt and endure as my son. I would have shared the money with him fairly willingly, but now I had to give him a decent chance in life as well — quite another proposition. This could only go wrong. Helena and I anticipated from the start that little Marcus Didius Alexander Postumus (as his mother would name him, poor noddle) could never be grateful. We would offer him a home, education, moral guidance and affection. Pointless. A soulless waste of effort. He would be difficult to raise and impossible to console for the arbitrary fate that had been dumped on him. He was bound to seethe with jealousy and resentment. And I would not even blame him.

Thank you again, Geminus.

LXI

There had been slaves pootling around us, but we dismissed them. Katutis did not even try to argue; he was learning.

We sat in the salon. Helena had moved things around while I was in Latium. We reclined on day-couches with bronze fittings. Cushions in soft shades of blue and aqua lay under our elbows. The walls, newly painted last year, were respectable tones of honey and off-white, plain panels delineated by fine tendrils and elegant candelabrum motifs, intermittently relieved with discreet miniature paintings of birds, done in faint brushstrokes. These were civilised, though unpretentious surroundings. With her own sure taste, Helena had scaled down from when my father lived here, using less grandeur than when he had the place bursting with antiques. The salon made a quiet setting for the sombre discussion we were about to hold.