Nemesis

So not only was he pinching our case from Petro and me, the unmitigated bastard wanted to pick our brains to help him solve it.

'Petronius Longus works the night shift,' I said curtly. 'He needs his mornings for sleep. You can have us at the start of the evening, Anacrites, or go begging.'

That would give us two time to liaise first.

'As you wish,' responded the spy; he managed to make out I was surly and unreasonable, while he was all sweetness and toleration.

I was burning with frustration, but just then the door of the room crashed open and in flew Albia. 'I heard there was a visitor. Oh!' She must have been hoping for Aelianus.

'This is Tiberius Claudius Anacrites, the Emperor's chief of intelligence,' Helena told her, using over-formality to rile him. 'You met him at Saturnalia.'

'Oh yes.' A friend of her parents: Albia lost interest.

'Why Falco,' the spy then exclaimed. 'Your foster-daughter is growing into a fine young lady!' This was the kind of indefinable threat he had taken to throwing at me. If I ever caught him so much as saying good morning to Albia unsupervised, I would truss him with poultry string and pay to have him cooked in a baker's oven. By the slow-roast method.

'Flavia Albia has led a sheltered life and is extremely shy.' Helena always supported the girl, though sometimes gently teased her. 'But she will be a delicate ornament to womanhood any day now.'

'Well,' Anacrites answered silkily, 'you must bring Flavia Albia with you – - oh how silly; I didn't mention this – - we have so much catching up to do! I absolutely insist you come to my house for dinner. The formal invitation will be here the minute I can make arrangements.'

I did not bother to decline. But King Mithridates of Pontus had the right idea: the only way I would eat at the spy's house was if I had first spent three months taking antidotes against all known poisons.

'I thought I might lash out on a Trojan hog,' Anacrites confided in Albia, as if they had been close friends for years. He was a man with poor social skills trying to sound big in front of a young girl he thought would be easily impressed; she of course stared at him as if he was crazy. Then she flounced off, slamming the door behind her so hard the pantiles on our roof must be in danger.

As soon as Anacrites had gone, Albia reappeared. 'What is a Trojan hog?'

Helena was dousing lamps as we made our way to bed. 'Exhibit cookery. Only a show-off would serve it. On the principle of the Trojan horse, it carries a secret cargo. A whole pig is cooked then slashed open suddenly at table, so the contents spew out everywhere; the guests think they are being bombarded with raw entrails. The innards are usually sausages.'

Albia considered. 'Sounds brilliant. We had better go to that!'

I groaned.

XXV

Petronius and I walked into the Palace next evening side by side. We were silent, our tread measured, both outwardly impassive. Anacrites had played this trick on us before. It didn't work then – trust him to repeat the same manoeuvre.

As we neared his office, one of the pair I called the Melitan Brothers came out. When the man drew level, we made space for him to pass us. Afterwards we both stopped, pivoted on our boot heels and stared after him. He managed to keep looking ahead all the way to the end of the corridor, but could not help glancing back from the corner. Petro and I just stood there, watching him. He nipped away out of sight, ducking his head anxiously.

We strode into Anacrites' room without knocking. As Petronius opened the door, he said loudly, 'Standards are slacker than ever. He looks too foreign to be scuttling about like a rat, so near the Emperor – - if I had a Palatine remit, I'd make him prove citizenship – or he'd find himself in a neck-collar.'

'Who's your runt?' I demanded of Anacrites. He had been lounging in his usual pose, with his boots – - a rather fine pair of russet calfskins – - on his desk. He swung rapidly upright, knocking over an inkwell, while his clerk sniggered.

'One of my men -' Petronius guffawed at that, while I winced, miming pity. Anacrites mopped ink, thoroughly flustered. 'Thank you, Phileros!' That was a hint for the clerk, a puffy, overweight Delian slave, to make himself scarce so the spy could talk to us confidentially.

I pretended to think it was an order to fetch refreshments. 'Mine's an almond tart, Petronius likes raisin cakes. No cinnamon.'

Petro smacked his chops. 'I'm ready for that! I'll just have mulsum with it, not warmed too much, double honey. Falco takes wine and water, served in two beakers if they run to it.'

'Hold the spice.' I steered Phileros on his way as if the rest of us needed to get on. The clerk left, and Petronius made a point of closing the door.

It was a small room, and now there were three of us filling it. Petro and I took over. He was a large character, with substantial thighs and shoulders; Anacrites began to feel cramped. If he looked directly at one of us, the other went out of eyeshot, probably making rude hand gestures. I seized the clerk's stool, shoving all his work aside, none too gently.

Then we sat still, with our hands clasped, like ten-year-old girls waiting for a story. 'You first!' ordered Petronius.

Anacrites was beaten. He abandoned any attempt to follow his own agenda. We were all supposed to be colleagues; he could not force us to play straight with him.

'I have read the scrolls -' he started. Petro and I glanced at each other, grimacing as if only a maniac ever read the case papers, let alone relied on them. 'Now I need you to sum up your findings.'

'Findings!' said Petronius to me. 'That's a sophisticated new concept.'

Anacrites was almost pleading with us to settle down.

Abruptly, we became fully professional. We had agreed in advance we would give him no excuse to say we had been uncooperative. I briskly set out that I had encountered Modestus' disappearance through his business deal with my father. I did not mention his nephew, Silanus. Why should I? He was neither a victim nor a suspect.

Petro described the discovery of the corpse and its identification from the letter Modestus was carrying. He spoke in a crisp voice, using vigiles vocabulary. He gave an account of our visit to the Claudii; how we had interviewed Probus; searched the area; found nothing.

'What were you planning next?' asked Anacrites.

'Since the next move is all yours, what do you think?' snapped Petro tetchily.

Anacrites ignored the question. 'Do you have any other leads?'

Petronius shrugged. 'No. We have to sit back and wait until another corpse turns up.'

Anacrites applied a sombre expression, which we dutifully mirrored.

'Look, you can leave this all to me now. I can handle it.' Time would show if that was right. He closed the meeting. 'I hope you two stalwarts don't feel I took your case away.' We refused to look sore.

'Oh, I have plenty to do chasing tunic-thieves at the baths,' sneered Petronius.

'Well, this isn't quite on that level…'

'Isn't it?'

Anacrites then brought in the ploy he'd tried on me last night: he mentioned his plans for a dinner party, inviting Petronius too. 'I had such a wonderful time when Falco and Helena entertained me at Saturnalia -' Saturnalia may be a time for patching up feuds, but believe me, I was pushed into that hideous arrangement. 'Such a glorious family atmosphere… Have you eaten with them at their house, Lucius Petronius?' Of course he had! He was my best friend, living with my best sister. 'I feel it's time I issued some invitations in return…'

Previously noncommittal, Petronius Longus straightened up. He looked the spy directly in his weird eyes, which were almost two-toned, one shifty grey, one browner – - and neither to be trusted. He stood up, placed both fists on the spy's table and leaned across, full of menace. 'I live with Maia Favonia,' my pal declared heavily. 'I know what you did to her. So no thanks!'