A dying light in Corduba mdf-8 Page 7

  Petronius gave me a piercing stare; then he laughed weakly. 'You maniac! I thought you were serious…' He lost interest, which saved me having to disillusion him with the news that I meant what I said – and so did Helena. 'Listen, Falco, I've come up with some evidence for you: the Second must want to redeem their reputation after missing all that stuff in Valentinus' apartment. They went back to the crime scene this morning and did a hands and knees creep.'

  I joined him in chuckling at the thought of his luckless colleagues enduring stones in the kneecap and backache. 'Anything turn up?'

  'Could be. They want to know if we think this is relevant -'

  Petronius Longus placed a small item on his sawing bench. I blew the road dust off it, then sighed quietly. This was relevant enough to identify the attackers: it was a small golden arrow, as neat as a toy but dangerously sharp. On its tip was a rusty stain that was probably blood. Remembering the small leg wounds carried by both Anacrites and Valentinus, I guessed that both victims had been surprised by being shot in the calf from behind. The toy arrow would sting enough to bother them, then when they stooped to investigate they were rushed, grabbed, and run hard against a nearby wall.

  Helena Justina had come out behind us, unnoticed. 'Oh dear!' she exclaimed, ever one with the unwelcome insight. 'I suppose that belonged to your mysterious Spanish dancer. Don't tell me it's just been found in a compromising position at the scene of a crime?'

  Gloomily we confirmed it.

  'Ah, never mind, Marcus,' Helena then chivvied me kindly. 'Cheer up, my love! You ought to have lots of fun with this – it looks as though somebody is setting you up against a beautiful female spy!'

  Naturally I retorted that I was not in the mood for clichthough I have to admit my heart took an uneasy lurch.

  XII

  There was no chance of interviewing the girl from Hispalis. I didn't even know her name – or her alias. If she was sharp she would have left Rome. Smirking, Petronius Longus promised to place her description on his list of wanted suspects. He offered to subject her to a personal interrogation. I knew what that meant.

  I told him not to exert himself; I would probe her secrets myself. Petronius, who believed that men with pregnant wives were bound to be looking for extra-domestic exercise, twinkled wisely and promised to inform me the minute the beauteous Diana came his way. At this point Helena said coldly that she would take herself home.

  I went to see Quinctius Attractus.

  When a case involves a senator, I always start at the top. I don't mean this was a step towards clearing up uncertainties. Not at all. Interviewing a member of Rome's revered patrician order was likely to introduce pure chaos of the kind that is believed by some philosophers to comprise the outermost limits of the eternally whirling universe: a vortex of limitless and fathomless darkness. In short, political ignorance, commercial deceit, and blatant lies.

  Even provincials among you will deduce that M. Didius Falco, the intrepid informer, had posed questions to senators before.

  You'll spot this too: I went to see Quinctius Attractus to get any whirling vortex straight out of the way.

  Once I had managed to impress the doorkeeper with my rank – well, once I had slipped him half a denarius – I was allowed to step inside away from a sharp April wind that was darting through the city streets. Attractus lived in an imposing house, groaning with art torn from more ancient and more refined civilisations than our own. Egyptian turquoise and enamel vied for space with Thracian gold and Etruscan bronze. Pentellic marble crowded his corridors. Forests of plinths bore up porphyries and alabasters. Racks bowed beneath uncatalogued rows of vases and craters, against which lolled unmounted wall plaques and fabulous old armour which must have been plundered from many famous battlefields.

  Quinctius Attractus condescended to come to his public rooms to meet me. I remembered the heavy build and weathered country countenance from two nights ago; today I was being given the full urban look – the statesman putting an invisible peg on his nose so he could follow the old Roman tradition and be nobly at home to the unwashed.

  Our interview was hardly private. In every archway lurked a toga-twitcher just itching to dart out and pluck straight a pleat. They kept him perfect. His boot-thongs were aligned. His sparse curls gleamed, rigid with pomade. If a finger-ring slipped sideways a lithe slave nipped forwards to straighten it. Every time he walked three paces his purple-striped garments all had to be realigned on his wide shoulders and fat arms.

  If I hated this parade when he first came to receive me, I felt utter frustration once he started to talk. It was all condescension and empty guff. He was the type who liked to lean back slightly, gazing above his companion's head, while intoning nonsense. He reminded me of a barrister who had just lost a case, coming out into the Forum knowing he will have to face a tricky interview. I said I had come to discuss the Oil Producers' dinner – and he seemed to be expecting it.

  'The Society – oh, it's just a meeting place for friends -' 'Some of the friends met very nasty accidents afterwards, senator.'

  'Really? Well, Anacrites will vouch for us all -' 'Afraid not, sir. Anacrites has been badly hurt.' 'That so?' One of his flapping footmen found it necessary to rush up and straighten a thread of fringe on a heavily decorated tunic sleeve.

  'He was attacked the night of the dinner. He may not survive.'

  'I'm shocked.' Checking the fall of his toga, he looked as if he had just heard about a minor skirmish between locals in some remote area. Then he noticed me watching and his fleshy jowls set for a ritual senatorial platitude: 'Terrible. A sound man.'

  I swallowed it whole, then tried to fix the slithery senator to a firm base: 'Were you aware that Anacrites was the chief Spy?'

  'Oh certainly. Bound to. You can't have a man like that attending private functions unless everybody knows what his position is. Men would wonder. Men wouldn't know when it was safe to speak freely. Be a shambles.'

  'Oh? Does the Society of Baetican Olive Oil Producers often discuss sensitive issues, then?' He stared at my effrontery. I hadn't finished yet: 'You're telling me the chief of Intelligence was openly invited to join your group, in order to suborn him? I'm willing to bet you allowed Anacrites membership without the indignity of subscription fees!' A nice life, for a spy who was gregarious.

  'How formal is tnis?' Attractus demanded suddenly. I knew the type. He had assumed that his rank gave him immunity from questioning. Now I was being nasty, and he couldn't believe it was happening. 'You say you're from the Palace – do you have some kind of docket?'

  'I don't need one. My commission is from the highest quarters. Responsible people will co-operate.'

  Just as suddenly he changed attitude again: 'Ask away then!' he boomed – still not seriously expecting I would dare.

  'Thank you.' I controlled my temper. 'Senator, at the last assembly of the Society for the Olive Oil Producers of Baetica you dined in a private room with a mixed group, including several Baeticans. I need to identify your visitors, sir.' Our eyes met. 'For elimination purposes.'

  The old lie proved sufficient, as it usually does. 'Business acquaintances,' he guffed with an offhand air. 'See my secretary if you must have names.'

  'Thanks. I have the names; we were introduced,' I reminded him. 'I need to know more about them.'

  'I can vouch for them.' More vouching! I was used to the fine notion that the slightest trade connection made for complete blood-brotherhood. I knew how much faith to place in it too.

  'They were your guests that evening. Was there any special reason for entertaining those particular men that particular night?'

  'Routine hospitality. It is appropriate,' mouthed Quinctius sarcastically, 'that when senior men from Baetica visit Rome they should be made welcome.'

  'You have strong personal connections with that province?'

  'I own land there. I have a wide range of interests, in fact. My son has just been appointed quaestor to the province too.'

  'That's a
fine honour, sir. You must be proud of him.' I didn't mean the compliment, and he didn't bother acknowledging it. 'So you take the lead in encouraging local business interests in Rome? You're a proxenos.' The handy Greek term might impress some people, but not Attractus. I was referring to the useful arrangements all overseas traders make to have their interests represented on foreign soil by some local with influence – a local who, in the good old Greek tradition, expects them to grease his palm.

  'I do what I can.' I wondered what form that took. I also wondered what the Baeticans were expected to provide in return. Simple gifts like the rich produce of their country – or something more complex? Cash in hand, perhaps?

  'That's commendable, sir. Going back to the dinner, Anacrites was also present. And a couple of others, including myself.'

  'That may be so. There were spare couches. I had intended to take my son and a friend of his, but that kind of occasion can be too stiff for the young so they were excused.'

  'One guest was Camillus Aelianus, the son of Vespasian's friend Verus.'

  'Oh yes. Back from Corduba. Straightforward lad; knows what he's doing.' Quinctius was just the sort to approve of that pompous young bigot.

  'Perhaps you remember one other man. I need to identify what he was doing there – reclining on the right- hand end couch, opposite Anacrites – quiet fellow; hardly spoke. Did you know him?'

  'Never even noticed him.' Thirty years in politics made it impossible for me to tell whether Quinctius Attractus was honest. (After thirty years in politics, almost certainly he was not.) 'What's his significance?'

  'Nothing any more: the man is dead.' If he had anything to do with killing Valentinus, he was good; he showed complete indifference. 'And finally, may I ask if you knew the entertainers, sir? There was a girl who danced, with a pair of Libyan-style accompanists – I believe you paid tneir fee. Did you know them personally?'

  'Certainly not! I don't mingle with tarts and lyre- players.'

  I smiled. 'I meant, did you book them for the dinner specially, sir?'

  'No,' he said, still contemptuous. 'There are people to do that. I pay for the musicians; I don't need to know where they come from.'

  'Or know their names?'

  He growled. I thanked him for his patience. Still playing the big man in Baetica, he asked me to report any developments. I promised to keep him informed, though I had no intention of it. Then, since he had mentioned that I might, I went to see his secretary.

  Correspondence and record-keeping at the house of Quinctius Attractus was conducted by a typical Greek scribe in a tunic almost as neat as his master's. In a clean little office, he catalogued the senator's life in curious detail. A cynic might wonder whether this implied that the senator feared he might one day be called to account. If so, he must be very worried indeed. Any tribunal investigating Quinctius was going to expire under the weight of written evidence.

  'The name's Falco.' The scribe made no move to note me down but he looked as if he would later list me under 'Visitors: Uninvited, Canegory: Dubious'. 'I'm enquiring about the senator's guests at the last dinner for the oily Baeticans?'

  'You mean the Society of Olive Oil Producers?' he corrected humourlessly. 'I have details, certainly.'

  'His honour says you will tell me.'

  'I shall have to confirm that.'

  'You do so then.'

  I sat on a stool among racks of locked scroll boxes while the slave disappeared to check. Don't ask me how I know that the boxes were locked.

  When he came back his manner was even more pedantic, as if he had been told I was trouble. He unlocked a silver box and removed a document. I was not allowed to crane over his shoulder, but I could see the script. It was a perfect, neutral cursive hand that could not have changed since he first learned to copy by rote.

  He read out five names: 'Annuals Maximus, Licinius Rufius, Rufius Constans, Norbanus, Cyzacus.' Then he corrected himself: NoRufius Constans was not at the dinner. He is the grandson of Licinius. He had gone to the theatre, I understand, with my master's son.' That almost sounded as if he were reciting something somebody had drummed into him.

  'How old are these two lads?'

  Quinctius Quadratus is twenty-five. The Baetican boy looks younger.' Hardly adolescents then. The younger Quinctius would have just been elected to the Senate if he was to be a provincial quaestor as his father had boasted.

  'Is the senator a stern father? Was he annoyed by them bunking off to a play?'

  'Not at all. He encourages their friendship, and their independence. They are both promising young men.'

  I grinned. 'That fine phrase can mean they are promising to cause trouble!' The secretary gazed at me coldly. He had never been trained to gossip. I felt like a slug spotted taking a stroll across a particularly elegant dish of dressed salad. 'The Baetican visitors make an interesting list. We have an Annaeus – presumably from the same Corduban family as the famous Senecas?' I had picked that up from Laeta at the dinner. 'And who else? A couple of men from the provincial merchant class? What can you tell me?'

  'I cannot give personal information!' he cried.

  'I don't need to know who slept with a flute girl or the state of their impetigo! Why were they welcome guests of a Roman senator?'

  Looking distasteful the slave squeezed out: 'My muter is a very important figure in Baetica. The first of those I mentioned, Annaeus and Licinius, are large landholders in Corduba.' Those would be the favoured pair who had been dining either side of Attractus at the dinner. 'The last two are businessmen from further south, involved with transportation, I believe.'

  Norbanus and Cyzacus?' The two who kept their heads down, conversing among themselves. Lower-class – perhaps even ex-slaves. 'They are shippers?'

  'So I understand,' agreed the secretary, as if I was making him swear an oath to undertake physical torments and huge financial expense on behalf of an extremely bad- tempered god.

  'Thank you,' I answered heavily.

  'Is that all?'

  'I need to interview these men. Are they staying here?' 'No.'

  'Can you give me the address of their lodging in Rome?' 'They were staying here,' admitted the cautious Greek reluctantly. 'All of them left Rome very early today.'

  I raised an eyebrow gently. 'Really? How long had they been with you?'

  'Just a few days.' The secretary made an effort not to look uncomfortable.

  'How many is a few?'

  'About a week.'

  'Only a week? Isn't their decision rather sudden?'

  'I could not say.' I would have to ask the house steward if I wanted precise details of the Baeticans' original booking – but private informers are not given access to the domestic staff in a senator's house.

  'Is it possible to interview the senator's son?' 'Quinctius Quadratus left for Corduba as well.' Was that planned?'

  'Of course. He is taking up his new provincial post.'

  I could not fault the newly fledged quaestor – but how many provincials, especially men of status, would make a long sea trip to Rome then skip for home almost immediately, without fully enjoying the sights, exploring the possibilities for social advancement, and making sure they stayed away long enough to make those at home believe they had conquered Roman society?

  As tourists their behaviour was highly suspicious. They might as well have left behind a wall plaque telling me these gadfly Corduban businessmen were up to no good.

  XIII

  That night I took Helena to the refined Capena Gate district to dine at the large, slightly faded villa which had been her family home. It was time her mother had another chance to rage at her about the poor arrangements we were making for the baby's birth and upbringing. (Julia Justa had a well-rehearsed script on this subject.) And I wanted to see her father. I like to keep my senators in sets.

  As usual, before my official meeting I made sure that Helena's papa and I had conspired so our stories would match. I found Decimus Camillus Verus at the baths we both freque
nted. He was a tall, stooping figure with thinning, spiked hair, who already looked hunted even before I invited myself to dinner and explained that I now required him to play the heavy father to one of his rebellious sons.

  'This is imperial business. I need to interview Aelianus. I'm telling you in advance so you can make sure he'll be there!'

  'You overestimate my paternal authority, Marcus.'

  'You're a Stoic!' I grinned and explained the situation. Then I gave Camillus a stiff bout of swordplay to make him feel even more despondent, and we parted friends.

  His attitude to me, whom many in his place would have loathed, was open and amiable: 'I have no objection to you providing me with grandchildren, Marcus. A new generation is my one hope of getting someone on my side!'

  'Oh I'm with you, senator!' In fact we both knew his relationship with me (like mine with his daughter) was the main reason the illustrious Camillus had a hard time at home.

  Neither of the young Camillus brothers, Aelianus and Justinus, were at dinner. They were bright fellows in their early twenties brought up to have moderate habits – so naturally they were out on the town. As a sober citizen of thirty-three, approaching the grave honour of Roman fatherhood, I tried not to look as if I wished I were out there with them.

  'Is Justinus still keen on the theatre?' Their youngest rascal had taken up leering after actresses.

  'They both like to keep me worried!' Camillus senior reported drily. He kept his troubles close to his chest. 'Aelianus has promised to return in an hour.' Immediately I noticed his wife working out that he and I must have discussed this subject previously.

  'At least he knows where his home is!' Julia Justa had a tart version of Helena's sarcasm. She was a handsome, hard-done-by woman, like her daughter, with fierce intelligence and liquid brown eyes. Maybe Helena would end up like this. Helena herself stabbed at her bowl of shrimp dumplings, looking morose. She knew what was coming.