I hated that kind of hypocrisy. Helena said that in a province with a small social circle it was inevitable. She was justifying the system, though I could see she agreed with me. She had been brought up in a senatorial household, but since her father Camillus Verus had never sought public office, he had managed to avoid holding open house. Cash-starved and secluded, the Camilli kept their hospitality for family and friends.
"Life with your uncle and aunt may be comfortable," I said, "but I cant take to this constant diplomatic plate-pushing."
Helena smiled-then showed sudden alarm as we were interrupted by a distant child yelling, "Julia's got a bee!" We heard the sounds of other children scarpering. All but the teenagers ought to be in bed. I rose calmly and excused myself to investigate.
My elder daughter, deserted when the others ran off, was stark naked except for her little sandals as she crouched on her heels beside a pond. She had been in the pond at some stage. Her skin was cold and her dark curls were sticking together in wet clumps. I gulped, imagining the perils for a toddler who loved splashing about but who could not swim.
The bee, a large bumble, looked virtually dead. It was standing on the path, motionless, being stared at by my two-year-old from inches away. This was a fine clear night, with no need for lamps yet; I could see why the children had escaped from the nursery staff. I tried feeble remonstra-tions about water being off-limits. Julia pointed her tiny finger and said firmly, "Bee!"
"Yes, sweetheart. He's not feeling very well." I squatted down obediently and took a look. His pollen sacs were bulging; he was exhausted by the heat.
Julia waved her fist at the insect, while I tried to remove her gently from stinging range. "Poorly bee!" she shrieked.
Time to inculcate a sense of kindness in my child, who could be violent. I tried putting water on a folded leaf. The bee expressed some interest, yet it was too feeble to drink. I would have just left it here, for the gardeners to sweep up tomorrow; by then it would undoubtedly be dead. Julia leaned up against me happily, trusting me to rescue it from its predicament. I left her to hold the leaf gently near the bee's head, while I went back to the food tables. I looked around for Helena but she had vanished somewhere. I dipped an olive spoon in honey from the wine waiter's equipment bench, then returned to Julia.
As soon as I put the spoon near the bee, it responded. Julia and I Watched enthralled as its long black proboscis unraveled and dipped into the honey. I held the spoon steady with one hand, keeping Julia under control in my other arm. To be feeding a bee did feel rather wonderful. Visibly reviving right before our eyes, it began to shake its heavy wings. We sat back. The bee crawled about slowly, testing out its legs; it fluttered once or twice. Then it suddenly took off and zoomed away in powerful flight, high over the garden.
"He's gone home to his crib now. And you're going to yours!"
I picked up Julia and stood upright. As I turned toward the house, I noticed that Helena was now upstairs on the balcony. Someone was standing in the shadows with her, veiled and discreet: a woman. Julia and I waved to them.
My daughter insisted that I put her to bed. I managed to avoid storytelling; rescuing a bee was enough tonight, apparently. I had a quick look at Favonia, who was sound asleep. Then I rushed to find Helena. She was back at the party, now alone.
We spoke in low tones. "Did I see you with-"
"Amazonia."
The blind harpist had strayed too near, insistently serenading us. I gestured to the boy, who led him around to take him off elsewhere. Musicians have always irritated me. "Where is she?"
"Gone home."
"I would have spoken to her."
"She watched you being a good father," Helena murmured. "Maybe it disconcerted her."
For some reason I felt embarrassed. Informers are hard men; we don't generally go around rescuing weary bumblebees. We are famous for making women walk out on us and for expecting our children to be brought up as strangers. Still, doing it my way, I would never have some unknown fifteen-year-old who had quarreled with Mummy turning up on my doorstep with her luggage and her bad habits. Julia and Favonia would have their quarrels direct with me.
"Well? What did Chloris have to say?"
"She has given her statement," Helena said quietly. "Then I showed her the visitors. It was no good. She could not recognize the man who was arguing with Verovolcus at the bar."
So he was not Norbanus, not Popillius, not any of the entrepreneurs who had come to Londinium and approached the governor. While that fitted what I had said all along, that chief gangsters would keep a low profile, we now had no idea who they might be, nor where to look for them.
It seemed a quiet night, as Hilaris had said earlier. Too quiet.
XXXVI
I was called away. In a private office I found Lucius Petronius, wanting to see me.
"Ah! Reporting in?"
"Liaising, you big-headed bum."
"Master of charm, as usual."
"Shut up, Falco! Stop messing about-I've found a warehouse where I think that baker must have been attacked."
"Olympus! Out of all the hundreds-"
"We searched quite enough!" Petro said with feeling. "Firmus and the customs boys helped narrow it down. There's blood on the floor, and crudely hidden outside were bloody staves and even a belt."
"Damned careless! What was in the store?"
"Not a lot. Firmus and his assistants will now watch the place. People nearby say the warehouse has been in regular use-odd boxes being taken away by boat almost every day."
"Cash? There won't be much of that for a while, with Pyro and Splice in custody."
"Don't be so sure." Petronius was grim. "The gang has them covered already. I saw an argument at the Swan that was almost certainly about payoffs. I reckon the owner there was always lukewarm. Now he knows that the bagmen are in jail, he may have tried to dodge his payments."
"What happened?"
"Somebody reminded him about his installment plan. That pimp from the brothel, the Old Neighbour. I've been watching him. The Old Neighbour is part of the Jupiter empire, you know."
"How come?"
"When Zeus was courting Semele, his jealous wife Hera disguised herself as an old neighbor so she could advise the girl to question him about his true identity."
"Good thing it doesn't happen to everyone," I commented dryly. "I hate this mythical bosh. Shall we pull in the pimp?"
"I'm not keen, Falco. If he's put out of action too, we may not recognize the next replacement." Petro looked thoughtful. "He reminds me of someone. But I haven't placed him yet."
"He should be tailed-find out where he's sending the money."
"We know where it goes. First to a warehouse, then it's taken off by boat and shipped to Rome."
We stopped bickering and brooded. "I don't like this," I confessed.
"Wise boy."
"Listen-the governor's using his torturer. Amicus is taking his time with the hot pincers; it all seems too slow to me. You and I could shift things on much quicker with a little well-judged questioning."
"Let him play," Petronius soothed me. "We have enough to do… A lawyer came to inspect the corpse, by the way. He said you sent him."
"Popillius. He's here tonight. I had him down as a likely face for one of the gang. Or if he's innocent, what was done to Epaphroditus may make him back out. He's representing Pyro and Splice, he claims-or will be when the governor lets him talk to them."