Saturnalia

XIV

Being tracked was always dangerous. I never underestimated the risk. Whether it was general muggers emerging from unlit alleys, hoping to follow some lump of off-guard after-dinner flab and snatch his purse along with his fine linen banquet napkin, or whether it was thugs trailing me specifically for reasons connected with a case, I treated them all as potential killers. Never ignore the half-seen shadow you try to convince yourself was nothing; you may very well end up with an assassin's knife sliding under your ribs. That cart being driven erratically in a road where carts don't normally deliver may have a driver who is planning to run you down. The faint noise overhead may be a heavy flowerpot falling down accidentally – or a pot someone has pushed over with a view to crushing your head. It may be three men dropping down on you from a balcony. 'Hey, Falco!'

Even before I pinpointed them, I knew I was being hunted by Germans. I had recognised the accent. Not the ex-bodyguards. The voice belonged to a younger man. At the breathy shout from my left, I spun around and checked my right. Long practice.

No one rushed me. Two quick steps had me with my back against a house wall. As I scanned around, I pulled my knife from my boot.

My mind raced. I was in the enclave between the Fourth and Sixth Districts. The High Lanes. Not as elegant and lofty as they sound. Somewhere close to the Porta Saluta, named for the Temple of Salus, or well-being. About to be very unhealthy for me.

I knew nobody in these streets. Had no idea where the nearest vigiles station was. Could not rely on local stallholders. Was unsure of the configuration of local lanes and back doubles, if I had to make a run for it… I identified the Germans. Several, and they looked tough.

People were about. A woman stood outside a shop with two young children; she was gazing at produce – knives? cushions? pastries? – while the little girl tugged her skirts, whining to go home. Businessmen were arguing lazily but long-windedly on a corner. A slave wheeled a handcart laden with cabbages, pretending not to notice when he dropped one and it rolled away. Two dogs stopped sniffing each other and stared at me. Only they had spotted my sudden movement and sensed something interesting was about to occur.

In the brief pause, one of the dogs walked over to the lost cabbage, which was still slowly rolling, and put his nose down to it as the vegetable teetered on the edge of the kerb then toppled down into the gutter. The cabbage gave a lop-sided lurch, and covered itself with muddy water. The dog licked it, then looked up at me, his curiosity on the wane. The other dog barked once, just making a point about who owned the street. My heart was pounding. 'Hey, Falco!' Taller than me by several inches and heavier by many pounds, three fair-haired men in their thirties stood in a loose group a few strides away. They had seen my knife. They looked faintly sheepish. I refused to be fooled.

'Hello. I am Ermanus,' offered the spokesman. He smiled at me. I did not smile back.

They were well built with heavy bellies; they looked raffish and untidy, but much harder than the old slugs t had been talking to earlier. These large boys went to the gym. If you punched those paunches, your fist would bounce off solid flesh, too fat, but supported by muscle. The black leather straps holding in their guts would barely give, and the metal studs in those workmanlike straps and five-inch belts would break your knuckles. If you hit these men, you would only have yourself to blame. They would fight back – and they would have had practice. Their biceps were bursting below their short, taut tunic sleeves. They had calves like military gateposts.

'You're Falco?' Ermanus now almost sounded tentative. Not true. In case anyone failed to find him frightening, dark blue patterns in woad wreathed all over his arms. His comrades were equally menacing. None of them wore cloaks, despite the cold. They wanted everyone to see how hard they were. 'Don't come any closer!' 'We just need a word…' Every landlord's enforcer, every master villain's back-up gang, every curmudgeon with a cudgel I had ever encountered said that. We just need a word… Dear gods, when would the world's brutes change their script? It was ridiculous when what they all meant was: shut up, don't call attention to us, just give in and lie down in the road quietly while we kick you insensible. Most of them were illiterate. Holding a conversation was the last thing any of the bastards really had in mind. I shifted my balance. 'You stay right there. What do you want?' 'You've been talking with our old fellows.' 'I was talking. Your old fellows were unresponsive. What of it?' 'Was it about a woman?' 'It may have been.' Or it may not. Or maybe I am not allowed to say. Thank you, Laeta, for putting me in this stupid position. Let me know how I can make you look like an idiot some day. 'From Germania Libera?' I wondered if the heavyweights were lusting after her – but I was starting to suspect that was the wrong scenario.

'I am searching for a woman from Free Germany, yes. Can you give me information?' I looked at them. They looked at me. 'If! I find her – and find her quickly – there may be a reward.' If I really did find her, I was confident Laeta would pay whatever I had to negotiate. He would have to. I would not hand her over until he covered any debts.

'She came calling on the old fellows.' They were not after a reward. It all emerged without prompting. 'Someone had told her they were from her region and she begged for assistance. They refused to have anything to do with her.'

'Do you know where she went afterwards?' No. 'You followed me – why not follow her? She used to be beautiful.' I was picking up hints now that the fabulous priestess held no appeal for Ermanus and his muscular pals. 'When was it she came calling? And this is important – what was her condition?' 'A week ago. She was desperate. And she said she was ill.' ‘Very ill? Enough to mention it – so how ill?' 'The old fellows thought she was playing on their sympathy.' First Phryne, the old freedwoman at the Quadrumatus villa, now her compatriots; either Veleda was faking, as Phryne suspected, or she had terrible luck when she sought help. I hoped she was not genuinely sick. I could not afford to have her keeling over from a neglected disease. Rome has its moral standards. We care for our special prisoners right up to the moment when we execute them.

'What did you think?' They shrugged. Total uninterest. I pressed them for further information, but they were stringing me along, trying to keep my attention; trying, I realised with foreboding, to detain me. I was starting to think this was a soft kind of ambush. 'Well,' I said. Best not to feel too outraged by the situation I now suspected. 'Thank you for telling me she turned up. It lets me know she had not found help at that stage. There was no need for you to try and scare me witless, creeping up like that.'

'We like the look of you, Falco. We know some people who are having a party tonight -' I had prised the truth out of them. 'Music, good food, entertainment – there will be drinking a lot, and playing around… Much fun. Much relaxation. Want to come along?'

I had a good idea what kind of party this relaxing hop would be. I understood now. The Rhineland fun-lovers with the leatherwork and studs were just looking for a new playmate.

'Sorry, blue eyes.' I tried to let them down gently. 'I don't get out much to orgies these days. I'm married, and I need to be at home. I have to ensure the wife doesn't get the taste again for her old wild ways.'

'There will be women!' Ermanus promised, while his two friends nodded, still begging me to change my mind. 'Hot women, Falco!' An alarming vision hit me of what kind of women would associate with these fruity party-lovers. There would be animal furs. People wearing tails. Skimpy costumes that ended where clothes ought to start. I wondered if they would have pastries in the form of male genitalia and drinks made with poppy sap. There were bound to be pornographic lamps.

I could hardly bear to say it: 'Don't tell me – it's a nymphs-and-satyrs party!' They looked amazed that I knew. 'Too much for me, Ermanus. My sciatica holds me back these days. It's always good to be wanted – but no, thanks!'

I walked on, still aware of being followed – but now only by three wistful gazes.