Time to Depart Read online

  * * *

  At the station house Petro’s young assistant, Porcius, was in deep trouble with a woman. Luckily for him she was extremely old and not worth creating a fuss about. It was another stolen-bedcover case; somebody was going around with a hook on a stick targeting ancient dames who were too bent to chase after a thief. Porcius was trying to write a report for this one; we could see he would be helpless for the rest of the morning unless rescued.

  ‘See the clerk,’ Petro told her curtly.

  ‘The clerk’s a dozy mule!’ She must have been here before. ‘This nice young man is looking after me.’

  Porcius was a new recruit. He was desperate to arrest as many wrongdoers as possible, but had no idea of how to dodge time-wasters. Petro was unimpressed. ‘This nice young man has more important things to do.’

  ‘See the clerk, please,’ muttered Porcius, looking embarrassed.

  Indoors we found a nasty scene: a large boulder was lying in the centre of the floor, along with the broken shutter it had been thrown through last night and the wreckage of a stool. Petro sighed, and said to me, ‘As you see, sometimes the locals chuck worse things at us than cabbages.’

  ‘They poked some brassica stalks through the cell air hole too,’ Porcius told him. ‘People round here do seem to think we’re short of greens.’

  ‘Well next time forget charitable deeds for grannies, and try to find out who hates the vigiles!’

  ‘That’s easy,’ grinned Fusculus, rolling the boulder towards the door. ‘Everyone does.’

  He roared for the foot patrol to stop counting their esparto mats in the firefighting equipment store and come to remove the debris from indoors.

  Trying to regain Petro’s approval, Porcius announced nervously, ‘One of the centurions had been sitting just where it landed, but luckily he’d just gone for a pee. It would have killed him otherwise.’

  Petronius, who had merely been frowning with annoyance, checked slightly. ‘Right. This looks bad. Fusculus, put the word around the whole cohort: keep alert. We could be in for a dangerous time.’

  Frowning, he turned into the small room he used for interrogations, only to find two of the foot patrol’s most recent prisoners. One of them was shouting and throwing himself about, nearly throttling himself with the giant ring chained around his neck. The other stayed sullenly silent, a middle-class fire offender who was pretending this was all a nightmare from which a smart lawyer would extract him, probably with compensation for insult and slander. (I could tell from Petro’s irritated expression the man was probably right.) With them, huddled on a bench, was the minute black slave from the Nonnius house.

  Petro fumed at the chaos. ‘Shut up!’ he bawled abruptly at the half-mad drunken man who was shouting; surprised, the fellow obeyed instantly. ‘Fusculus, start asking questions and see if we can let these prisoners go. Unless they’re hard nuts, we need the space. Porcius, get Fusculus to tell you what we know happened to Nonnius Albius, then I want you to take this little lad somewhere quiet and make friends with him. If you can deal with indignant grannies, you can handle terrified tots. Win his confidence, then find out what he saw when his master was attacked. He’s not arrested, but if he witnessed anything useful I’ll want him put somewhere very safe after he’s talked.’

  Since there was nowhere else private, Petro and I went out for a conference at the chophouse just across the street.

  * * *

  ‘So what do you think, Falco?’

  I chewed a stuffed vine leaf, trying not to think about its consistency and taste. This job promised an endless parade of lukewarm, stand-up food taken squashed against the cracked counters of unhygienic foodshops. Petro did not come from a family that provided lunch baskets. When we were in the legions, he was always the one who never hid spare marching bread in his tunic, though he soon learned to pinch mine. I spat out a rough bit. ‘It looks as if the Emporium robbery may have been organised by Nonnius – and that somebody else has punished him rather publicly for daring to think big.’

  We both considered that, eating gloomily.

  ‘Alternatively –’ I offered.

  Petro groaned. ‘Knowing you, I might have known the easy answer wasn’t enough. Alternatively?’

  ‘Nonnius had nothing to do with the raid. Some swine just thinks it would be convenient if the Emporium do was blamed on him to take the heat off them.’

  ‘Bit stupid,’ argued Petro. ‘So long as Nonnius was alive he was a suspect. Now when these others do a raid, they’ve no cover and I’ll be sure it’s them.’

  ‘If you ever find out who they are.’

  ‘I love a chirpy optimist.’

  ‘Helena thinks we should be looking at Lalage for the Emporium.’

  Petronius laughed dismissively, then fell silent. Helena Justina’s wild ideas had a way of turning themselves over in your head so they soon seemed completely rational. I myself had stopped even thinking they were wild. I had known her to be right too many times.

  Petro tried looking at me as if I were daft either to share information with my girlfriend, or to indulge her mad suggestions. Eventually this palled too. ‘Suppose that was right, Falco. Suppose Lalage did want to take over running the gangs. Why would she kill Nonnius?’

  ‘She hated him. She had scores to settle. He had leaned on her too heavily when he was collecting for Balbinus. And then he left her with the problem when the Lycian was murdered at Plato’s. Besides, if she is ambitious, maybe Nonnius guessed that and tried to apply pressure. He could have blackmailed her and demanded a cut. Since he’d already squealed once in court, he was a formidable threat; he only had to say he would inform on her too. She’d know he could very well mean it.’

  ‘True.’

  We were both uneasy. There was not enough to go on. We could only speculate. And although we were both good at making the facts fit in a situation, there was always the unexpected waiting to confound us. Like me, Petro had probably lost count of the times he had found out that the facts he had been working on for months were only marginal. The final story could be wildly different from any theories he had so carefully pieced together.

  ‘Want any more to eat?’

  I shook my head. ‘No thanks. I had to leave without even saying good morning to Helena. If nothing else turns up, I’ll be going home for lunch. Won’t you?’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  My question had been ironic. I knew Petro always ignored lunch. He went home for dinner with his children in the evening, and sometimes he slipped off if there was a definite household job to do, like mending a window. He enjoyed carpentry. Otherwise, Petronius Longus was the type whose domestic life ran smoothest when he stayed out part of the night with the patrols, then lingered at the station house most of the day on follow-up. This applied most of all when Arria Silvia was furious with him for some reason.

  I grinned. ‘Thought you might need to feed the cat again.’

  He refused to rise.

  * * *

  It was still too early for lunch. A wise man doesn’t stroll home halfway through the morning as if he has nothing else to do. He allows time for the cheese and olives to be bought and set out on the table, then he comes in looking as if he has made a special effort to fit in being with his family.

  We discussed what we could do. Other than plug away with routine questioning, the answer seemed to be, not much. ‘I really hate this part,’ fretted Petro. ‘Just sitting back, waiting for a tribe of rats to spring something.’

  ‘They’ll make a mistake in the end.’

  ‘And how many have to suffer in the meantime?’ He felt responsible.

  ‘We both know it will be as few as you can make it. Listen, Rubella wanted me to check up on the Balbinus background in case anything was relevant to what’s going on now.’ At my mention of Rubella, Petro scoffed, though in a fairly routine manner. He had no particular grouse. He just hated officers.

  He would hate Rubella rather more personally if he ever found out that
thanks to him I was spying on the cohort for suspected graft.

  I tried again. ‘What about the Balbinus men?’

  Petro answered this one quite calmly. ‘As far as I know, Little Icarus, the Miller and all the rest of the mob are still out of Rome. Lying low. I have a pet squealer who lets me know their movements. I can nose him out and check, but if they had been seen in the city he would almost certainly have come to sell me the information.’

  ‘When I interviewed Nonnius there was mention of the Balbinus family, which sounded interesting.’

  Again Petro favoured me with a short bark of laughter. ‘The wife’s a mean bitch. Flaccida.’

  ‘And there’s a daughter?’

  ‘The lovely Milvia! Their only child. She had education and culture lavished on her – a classic case of crooks with too much money trying to better themselves through their offspring.’

  ‘Brought up like a vestal. So did she go to the bad?’ I asked dryly. I had seen that happen.

  ‘Funnily enough, not apparently. Milvia turned out as innocent as rosebuds – if you believe her version. She claims she never knew what her papa did for a living. She’s been married off to an equestrian who had some money of his own – one Florius, son of a minor official. Florius never intended himself to be better than anyone. He goes to the races most of the time. I don’t think he’s ever been known to do anything else.’

  ‘So he’s not involved in criminal activities?’

  ‘Other than having more money to bet with than anyone deserves, no.’

  ‘There was a large dowry then.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Petro. ‘Balbinus kept the details obscure. Suffice it to say, Milvia and Florius live in style, apparently having little to do with each other but both content to stick it out in harness. This leads me to suppose there is cash which they want to keep their hands on.’

  ‘Fascinating. I might go and see these colourful folk.’

  ‘I thought you might.’

  Petronius would probably have come with me but just then a messenger from Rubella hurried up. Since Nonnius had been a judicial informer of some importance, his sudden death had caused questions from on high. Rubella wanted Petronius at the cohort headquarters to prepare a report.

  Petro growled. ‘This is how crimes go unsolved! Instead of asking painful questions of villains, I spend my time helping Rubella make up lies. Falco, if you’re wandering among the Balbinus set, you ought to have a witness with you. I can’t spare anyone just now. Wait until this afternoon and I’ll find someone.’

  ‘I don’t need a nanny.’

  ‘Take a witness!’ he growled. ‘With this bunch it’s policy.’

  ‘Is that why Fusculus made sure he came with me when I went to see Nonnius?’

  ‘Fusculus is a decent, well-trained agent.’

  Trained to interfere with me, apparently. Annoyed, I found the thought of cheese and olives reasserting itself. ‘Well if I have to wait for a minder, I’ll nip off home. Send whoever it is to Fountain Court, will you?’

  ‘You’re getting soft!’ he snorted.

  I wanted to explain that Helena was pregnant, but it seemed too soon after I had so firmly denied it. With yet more guilt depressing me, I left him to pacify his tribune while I sauntered off to see my girl.

  XXXII

  A small, serious figure greeted me as I turned into Fountain Court.

  ‘Uncle Marcus! May Mercury god of the crossroads ever watch over you!’

  Only Maia’s eldest boy, Marius, ever sounded off so formally. He was a good-looking, extremely solemn little person, eight years old and completely self-possessed.

  ‘Io, Marius! I was not expecting you until after afternoon school. Are you particularly fond of me, or just very short of money for pastries?’

  ‘I’ve organised a rota for you. Cornelius will be on guard duty this afternoon, then Ancus. You should pay me, and I’ll do the sharing out.’ Maia had made all her children excellent foremen. Both I and my rubbish were in safe hands. But his mind appeared to be somewhere else. ‘We have a crisis,’ he announced, as if I were a partner in disaster. Marius believed in the sanctity of personal relationships: I was family; I would help.

  The best help to offer was the sacred art of spotting trouble and bunking off the other way. ‘Well I’m very busy on official business. But I’m always available if you need advice.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m heading for a row,’ confessed Marius, walking with me towards the apartment. ‘I expect you would like me to tell you what has transpired.’

  ‘Frankly, Marius, one more problem and I’ll buckle.’

  ‘I rather hoped I could rely on you,’ he said gloomily. Short of bopping him on the head with a baton and sprinting for cover, I was trapped.

  ‘You’re a hard master! Have you ever thought of becoming a bailiff?’

  ‘No, I think I shall be a rhetoric teacher. I have the mind for it.’

  Had he not borne his father’s eyes (in a less bleary vision), I might have wondered whether Marius had been found under the parapet of a bridge. Still, maybe young sobersides would grow up and fall in love with a tinker’s by-blow, then run off to be a harp player.

  I doubted it. Full of calm assurance, Marius saw the pitfalls of eccentricity and had simply turned his back on them. Sad really. The mind he spoke of with such respect deserved a more colourful fate.

  We had reached the laundry. ‘I’m going up, Marius. If you’ve something to tell me, this is the moment.’

  ‘Tertulla’s disappeared again.’

  ‘Why fret? It happens all the time. Anyway, your grandma’s taken her in hand.’

  ‘It’s true. This time I’ll get the blame for it.’

  ‘Nobody could possibly blame you for Tertulla, Marius. She’s your cousin, not your sister, and she’s beyond help. You’re not responsible.’ I wondered if he knew he had been supposed to be named Marcus, after me. When his father was sent to register his birth, Famia had dropped into several wine bars on the way to the Censor’s Office, then he had misread the note Maia had sent him out with. This would have been bad enough once, but he had repeated his triumph when he registered his second son as Ancus instead of Aulus. When Maia gave birth to her daughters she dragged herself to the Censor’s with him and made sure things were done right.

  ‘Uncle Marcus, I think I’d better tell you what has happened.’ The sight of a child confiding his problems was too much. Marius must have been relying on this, the cunning brat.

  I sighed. ‘You ought to be at home having your dinner.’

  ‘I’m frightened to go.’

  He didn’t look very frightened, but it was unlike him to say it. ‘Walk upstairs with me then.’

  ‘Tertulla hasn’t run away. She’s too scared of Grandma. Grandma put me in charge of seeing her to school. It was really annoying. And then I was supposed to march her to lunch at her mother’s house –’

  ‘So she did go to school in the morning?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ scoffed Marius impatiently, scuttling after me around the third bend. ‘She skipped off as soon as we arrived, but she promised to meet us all outside after lessons.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘She never showed up. I think something bad has happened. I need you, Uncle Marcus. We’ll have to conduct a search.’

  ‘Tertulla’s a minx and she’s forgotten the time. She’ll turn up.’

  Marius shook his head. He had the same curls as me and Pa, yet somehow managed to make his look neat. I ought to ask him for hairdressing tips sometime. ‘Look, Uncle, I have an interest in this problem since I shall be blamed for losing her. If you agree to search, I’ll help you.’

  ‘I don’t agree!’ I told him cheerfully. We had reached the apartment; I led him indoors. ‘But I don’t agree with a future rhetoric teacher being made a scapegoat for one of Galla’s rascals either. Now here’s Helena –’

  ‘Oh good!’ exclaimed Marius, with no attempt to disguise his relief. ‘Some
body who will know what we should do!’

  Helena came in from the balcony. She was carrying the skip baby. I grinned approvingly, but it was my nephew who risked his neck. Maia must have been talking at home about our own impending family because as soon as Marius saw the baby he shrieked, ‘Oh goodness, Helena! Has Uncle Marcus brought you one in advance to practise on?’

  She was not pleased.

  XXXIII

  I did not wait for Petro’s promised agent to come with me to see the Balbinus relatives. My domestic cares were so pressing it seemed necessary to leave home as soon as I had swallowed lunch. I did take a witness, however.

  ‘I miss you, Marcus,’ Helena had complained.

  This was an aspect of living together that had always worried me. Born into a class where the women spent their days surrounded by scores of slaves and visited by flocks of friends, Helena was bound to feel isolated. Senators’ daughters were offered no other respectable daytime occupation than taking mint tea together, and though many preferred to forget being respectable and hung around gladiators, Helena was not that type. Living with me in a sixth-floor apartment must be frightening – especially when she often woke up to find I had rushed out without leaving a note of my plans. Some girls in this position might get too friendly with the janitor. Luckily Smaractus had never provided one. But if I wanted to keep her, I would have to produce some other option.

  ‘I miss you too.’ It sounded glib.

  ‘Oh yes? And that’s why you have deigned to come home?’

  ‘That, and I have to wait to be supplied with a witness.’ A thought struck me. ‘You could take notes and listen as well as some silly coot from the vigiles.’ She looked surprised. ‘Wear a plain dress and no necklaces. Bring a stylus, and don’t interrupt. I hate a secretary who talks smart.’

  So Helena came with me. She was not one for staying at home with the domestic cares either.

  It suited me to start investigating without one of Petro’s minders lurking at my elbow, breathing my air, then reporting everything I did straight back to him. It certainly suited me to be out with my lass – more like leisure than work.