Saturnalia (10 page)

XVIII

Nux had been recaptured by Petronius himself. He had spotted her slinking up an alley, covered with mud and worse. Fortunately the vigiles keep a plentiful cache of water. Now washed and fluffed up prettily, my dog had established herself as a guest in the all-night galley that kept the men supplied with hot rissoles and mulsum. She had her snout in a bowl of delightfully rich broth and did not want to come home. She wagged her pert tail when she saw us. Nux did not believe in guilt.

'Oh you naughty girl; they've been spoiling you!' Albia was entranced.

None of Petro's cohort were likely to pass up the chance of showing a bright young woman around the
excubitorium,
their local outstation here in the Thirteenth District, so I had to wait with the dog while pumping engines sprayed water all over the yard and long ladders were rushed to imaginary blazes; then even the cells were opened up so Albia could look in wide-eyed at that evening's bunch of really stupid drunks who had thrown nuts at the watch.

While I waited, lolling in the doorway of Petro's office so I could keep an eye on Albia and prevent any malpractice, Petro took delight in telling me there had been no progress in the surreptitious search for Veleda. 'Your trail is cold, Falco.' I thanked him courteously.

The lads had led my foster-daughter into the depths of their equipment store, so I had to saunter over there. Of course they would be stupid to try anything on with her--but in their eyes, once presented with the opportunity, they would be stupid
not
to try. They were all ex-slaves, all with a hard attitude; they needed it to do their job. Left to themselves, they would have my teenager bemused on a pile of esparto mats in ten minutes, wooing her with a private demonstration of their ropes and fire axes--then luring her into other things.

Albia could look after herself. Still, best to avoid that situation. If the alarm sounded, we did not want half the duty fire response group to be doubled up in pain after a kneeing from a lass who was far more streetwise than she looked.

I gave the girl the wink that it was time to go. Always alert, she took the hint, thanked the men sweetly, and came with me.

We had crossed the yard, waving to Petronius, who saluted us satirically. As we approached the big double-gated exit, Fusculus came in. He was Petro's best officer, increasingly rotund, cheery and totally imperturbable.
'I0,
Fusculus! How goes it with the king of nipping and foisting?' Fusculus loved lore and cant. If a criminal activity lacked technical terms to describe it, he would invent some.

Now he squinted at me, unsure whether these were real variations he ought to know; his eyes showed suspicion, though he rallied fast. 'All posy-posy on the Via Derelicta, Falco.' While Albia stared in puzzlement, I let him chatter happily. 'Is that dog yours? She's a ferrikin!'

'Right up there with the champions of fragonage,' I agreed. I was so glad to have found Nux so easily, I had stopped being sour. The way my mission was going, to have found any missing person, even a lost pet, was a bonus.

'A woozIer,' nodded Fusculus approvingly. I think that was one of his coinages. But you never knew with this dictionary dabbler. Canine woozling could be traditional among totters' lurchers. Romulus might have owned a woozIer, queen among beasts around the antique shepherds' folds... No, probably not. I bet my Nux was scared stiff of wolves. '- I'm glad I've seen you, Falco.'

'I'm honoured to bring joy to you, my dear Fusculus.'

He went with the joke. 'It's a pleasure to be in the company of a civilised man. Top-pigeonhole in life's columbarium--' Eventually even Fusculus grew tired of playing weird man's bluff 'Dear gods, I do maunder on, don't I? What a wonk.' I raised my eyebrows as if in great surprise. His friendly face wrinkled with fun, then sobered. He was, despite the soft-sponge impression, a rather good vigiles officer. Astute and with an eye for detail. Good in a fight too. Petronius Longus knew how to pick them. 'I gather you're searching for somebody, Falco?'

'Apart from the lost dog?--Nasty but handsome barbarian lady. I believe, with a very bad headache.'

'Oh don't give up! You can work your charm on her.' Albia shot me a sharp sideways glance. Fusculus carried on blithely, as if unaware of the damage he had just done to my domestic reputation. He knew all right. 'But I don't mean the priestly pullet.'

'There's Justinus too; you know him. We work together. He's missing. My brother-in-law, the mild one.'

'Well, I'm glad it's not the vicious one.' This time Albia bridled; she seemed to have a latent admiration for Aelianus. Not all that latent sometimes. When they were together they tended to gang up like starlings.

'No, Aulus is in Greece. I've only one of them to worry about. He hasn't been seen for two days now.'

Fusculus now lowered his voice. 'I've just come from a recce. Heard word of a possible.'

I stiffened. 'Straight stuff?'

'Partially reliable. Seventh Cohort.'

I fumbled to recall the cohort delegations. 'Seventh--that's the Fourteenth district and... the Ninth?'

'Transtib and Circus Ham,' said Fusculus. 'What a hotchpotch--the immigrant quarter over the river, and all the public monuments around the Field of Mars. Includes,' he said, gently tapping his pug nose, 'the Saepta Julia.'

'Right! Justinus was last seen at the Saepta.'

'You have a fit then. The Seventh are indignant that a man was lifted from their patch. You know we're all taking strop from the bloody Praetorians? Pushing their way in all over the shop--' 'Hunting my barbarian.'

'So that's why they're at it!' He gave me a look. I didn't react. I was used to taking blame for other people's messes. 'Well, they hijacked a mark who could be Justinus two days ago, as you say, in the Saepta. The Seventh think the Guards must have been following him. They let him carryout his business and he seemed to be heading homeward. They jumped him just by the exit next to the Pantheon, and had him away like a flea up a barmaid's skirt.'

'Was he doing something the Palace grandees objected to?' 'Nothing at all, I heard.'

'No official explanation then?'

'Nobody asked them. Would you do it?'

I tried to look like a hero. 'If I suspected a miscarriage of justice, I might politely enquire.'

'Nuts, Falco! The Guards dragged him off, no questions asked. The Seventh keep a finger-man permanently at the Saepta, and he saw it all. Happened in the proverbial flash. Most people noticed nothing.

For the Guards,' admitted Fusculus grudgingly, 'it was professional... Mind you, your fellow dropped his arm-purse in the scuffle. Now I know who he was, I wonder if he dropped it non-accidentally.'

'A signal? Who has it?'

'The Seventh's nark. Name of Victor. You'll find him most days lurking in the Saepta,
not
looking inconspicuous... Or just ask anybody there to point to him. They all know Victor. As an undercover operative, he's rubbish. Bloody Seventh! Incompetent whosits.'

Fusculus was enjoying himself, insulting his rivals. I felt more benign towards them. The Seventh Cohort (Transtiberina and Circus Flaminius) might not meet the exclusive professional standards of the glorious Fourth (Aventine and Piscina Publica), but so far they were the only people who had given me a lead.

'Were all those words ones I need to learn to be a Roman?' Albia asked, as we walked home. She had waited a while before she spoke, aware that I was glumly lost in thought. The streets were dark and fairly quiet now; I was watching out for trouble, as I always did, but that only accounted for half of my preoccupied air.

'Definitely not, Albia. You don't want people thinking you are eccentric. '

There was a pause. 'Is Fusculus eccentric?'

'Not him. Rock-solid character.'

'What about you?'

'I'm a total grozzle.'

Another pause. 'Oh no, Marcus Didius. I'd say you're a woozIer!' Albia decided forcefully. '... So are they real words?'

'Words are real if other people think they understand their meaning. '

'What do those words mean then, Marcus Didius?'

'Albia, I have no idea.'

We walked along in silence for a while. The Aventine is packed with temples. We had come past the great dominating bulk of Diana on the Aventine, high on the main part of the hill, and were heading down via Minerva, Liberty and Juno the Queen. As we then jumped down the Stairs of Cassius with Flora, Luna and Ceres away on our right, we were almost on the Embankment, by the Probus Bridge. Nearly home. Before it was too late, Albia asked her real question: 'So will you have to ask the Praetorian Guard why they arrested Quintus?'

'I shall ask, certainly. But not the Guard.'

The girl waited. When she got tired of that she demanded, 'Ask who, then?'

'The man who gave them their orders. But I won't tell you who.

You don't need to know.'

For another short moment Albia was silent. She was a bright young woman, my foster-daughter from Britain. There were many things I had never explained or discussed with her, yet she had picked them up from fragments of conversation, almost from facts that Helena and I had left unsaid.

We walked maybe another five paces, sauntering to accommodate the pace of Nux, who had to sniff every inch of the pavement. Finally, Albia stated quietly,
'Anacrites!'

Then Nux stopped dead; she looked up at us both, with her ears right back, and growled faintly. Even my dog loathed to hear the name of the Chief Spy.

XIX

I suppose it is possible that someone, some well-meaning woman with an exceptionally soft heart, for instance, might wish that the Fates could provide Anacrites with a happy life. A freedman now, he must have been born in slavery--though to me, the concept of normal birth and Anacrites was a contradiction. I'd say he was dragged howling from the belly of a sea monster, one of those horrors and portents that are regularly catalogued in the
Daily Gazette
for the delighted terror of the squeamish. It was just too upsetting to think that around about the time when that maniac emperor Caligula was sleeping with his sisters, some poor little pasty-faced seamstress in the imperial household had been forced to endure birth pangs, only to find she had inflicted Anacrites on the suffering world. Now his mother had gone wherever old palace retainers go, remembered only perhaps by a bleak memorial slab. Jupiter knows who his father was. Such records are rarely kept for slaves.

He could have been happy. If contentment had been in his nature--instead of the restless, seething envy that kept him fidgeting--Anacrites could have relaxed and enjoyed his achievements. He now held a respected high office under an emperor who seemed likely to last; he was flourishing. People will shower presents on a Chief Spy (being bribed by members of the public is one way a spy can identify who has something to hide). He owned a villa on the Bay of Neapolis that I knew of; and probably more real estate elsewhere. I had once heard that he had a lavish place on the Palatine, an old republican mansion that came with his job, though he never invited anybody there. That might have to be handed back one day, but he must have invested personally in property in Rome. How much movable treasure he had salted away was anybody's guess. I was sure it existed. He had advised my mother on investing her savings, so he knew about banking--though he did not know enough, for he had nearly afflicted her with fatal losses when the Golden Horse Bank crashed so spectacularly two years ago. Ma had escaped disaster, although that was through her own nous and bloody-mindedness, not a result of tips from him; perversely, she still believed he was a financial marvel. Or so she said. I sometimes wondered if she saw through him after all.

Anyway. A good Roman has a generous nature, so I concede that he may have had a fan club. It did not include me.

What I knew of Anacrites was that he couldn't run a harvest picnic, yet some idiot had placed him in full charge of spying in Rome. He also meddled in global intelligence. He and I had once worked together successfully, on a tax-collecting exercise in connection with the Great Census. Apart from that, he had several times deliberately put me in a position where I was nearly killed. He had terrorised my sister. He had attached himself to Ma and clung on, like a repulsive parasitic leech with a mouthful of needle teeth. When Helena was being charitable, she said he was jealous of me for my talent and for the life I led; when she was honest, she admitted he was dangerous.

He also had a secret that could damn him. I kept his secret, so far avoiding blackmail. Sifting the dirt is informers' work--but we don't always sell our nuggets straight away. I was saving up for a real emergency. Now Anacrites had Justinus, but I would aim for a solution without cashing in my precious information. One day Anacrites and I were going head to head; I knew that as well as I knew I was right-handed. The fatal day had not yet come. When it did, I would need everything I had on him.

This left me with only one tactic: I would have to be nice to the bastard.

I took Albia home, dumped the dog, tickled the wife and kissed the children. Julia and Favonia fell on Nux with happy squeals, though they failed to acknowledge that their father had fulfilled his promise like a hero. i told Helena I would have to miss dinner, left Albia to scare her with the explanation, and went out again.

I stomped tetchily back to the Probus Bridge, made my way past the Trigeminal Portico to the Vicus Tuscus, and climbed up to the old palace that way. I ate a bad pancake
en route,
which gave me indigestion; I had gobbled it, irritated at having to abandon the delights of dinner at home. By the time I reached Anacrites' office, with its unnerving smells of his clerk's discarded lunch, ink, expensive hair lotion and old antiseptic ointments, I was so overwrought at the thought of exchanging pleasantries, I was ready to sock him as I came through the door.

He was out. That made me even more angry.

I managed to find Momus. He carried out exercises for the spy network, but was also an old contact of mine. I liked to think he admired me, and that he thought much less of the Chief Spy. He had once been a slave-overseer, and I did wonder if in his past life he had encountered Anacrites or members of his family; I had asked that once, making a joke of it, but you don't get palace freedmen to give away much on the subject of their previous existence. They all pretend slavery never happened. They can't, or won't, remember it. I don't really blame them.

'Momus! Still working in Anacrites' filthy unit? Still slogging it out for that cretin we all despise?'

'Still here, Falco.' He gave me a look, from bleary eyes, their eyelashes stuck together with seepage from some long-term infection. His ills probably had a sexual origin, a hangover from his perks when organising slaves. Momus was big-bellied and bald, a slapdash slob who rarely went to the baths. He wore a tunic that had not been laundered for weeks and hard boots for kicking people. These days it was an empty threat; he had grown too lackadaisical to make the effort. He still yearned to torture the helpless, so just amused himself imagining pain. 'If anyone else accused me of working for Anacrites, I'd grab them so hard I'd pop their eyes out...'

There were moments I pitied Anacrites. Not only was Claudius Laeta constantly plotting to subsume the intelligence service into his own spider's web the next time secretariats were reorganised (as they were on an annual basis), but here was Momus looking on jealously, always hoping to see a big Corinthian capital fall off a column and crush the Spy, so he could inherit his post. Some of Anacrites' own field agents were light on personal loyalty as well.

'Sorry!' I said.

'You will be! What are you after?'

'Who says I'm after something, Momus?'

'You're here,' he answered. 'Given how you hate him, that's a bloody big clue, Falco! Don't tell me--you want him to release that young purple stripe he's holding?'

'Quintus Camillus Justinus, a senator's son. Well guessed. Where's the bastard put him?'

'If! knew that,' said Momus, 'I wouldn't be able to tell you, Falco.'

I could possibly disprove that statement by handing over money; Momus followed life's simple rules. 'If you really don't know, I won't bother bribing you.'

'Keep your money.' Like many corrupt men, Momus was fair. 'Well then. His office is empty. I can't even thump that pointless grubby-toed clerk he has. Save me from boiling over with frustration--I know he has a fancy house; where can I find it?'

Momus leaned back and laughed gustily. I asked him what was funny, and he said the thought of me putting on a dinner-wreath and a pleasant face to go round for an evening drink and toasted nuts with Anacrites.