As far as I could tell, the spy failed to spot that my dog's prized new toy had once been his agent's strangling rope.
XLVI
Anacrites did not dare search Maia's apartment in person, though he sent his two ex-soldiers. They were very polite, especially when they found that only Marius (aged thirteen) and Ancus (ten) were in. They must have been warned to expect a termagant and possibly a large angry vigiles officer, so finding a scholarly boy and his very shy little brother caught them wrong-footed. My elder nephew wanted to be a rhetoric teacher; so, Marius practised legal disputation on them (the rights of a Roman householder) while they quickly peered about, found nothing, and fled.
Petronius heard about it later. He would have been furious, but by then something big had blown up. Something so big, that since no harm had been done at the apartment, he left the issue alone. He had noted it, though. He was adding it to the long list of outrages for which Anacrites would one day pay.
I was setting off to Helena at the villa when I received an intriguing invitation. I was to meet Petronius at a bar called the Leopard, one we never frequented. He suggested I bring my Camillus assistants. A cryptic note on his message warned us Play by Isca rules. Only I knew what that meant: it referred to a secret court-martial we once took part in. So, this was a meeting of high importance, to be kept from the authorities. Nothing that was said today at the Leopard would ever be acknowledged afterwards. No one could break faith. And for me, there was a subtle indication that somebody of status – - Anacrites? – - was about to be formally shafted.
Aelianus and Justinus were agog and turned up willingly at my house. We had a brief moment of tension when Albia stalked down to the hall while we were assembling. I overheard Aelianus plead with her, 'Won't you at least speak to me?'
To which Albia coldly answered, 'No!' She stormed out of the house, giving me a filthy look for my contact with Aulus. At least I knew this time she was not rushing to the Capena Gate to stalk him.
'You're an idiot!' said Quintus to his brother – who did not deny it.
When we arrived at the bar, Petronius was already there. He had a man with him. It was a large place. They were in a room at the back, which they had managed to keep to themselves. Money probably changed hands for that.
Brief introductions ensued. 'This is Silvius. He'll tell you himself what he does – insofar as he can say.'
The draughtboard and counters had been allocated to our room, a cover for us being there; we seemed like an illegal gambling consortium. While drinks were ordered, I sized up Silvius. He was lean, scornful, capable. Maybe early fifties. A semi-shaved grey head. One finger missing. Been around the houses – on good terms with the householders, maybe even better terms with their wives. I would not like him staying in my house. That did not mean I could not work with him – far from it.
'What are you thinking, Falco?' Petro asked, with a mild smile that meant he knew.
'Silvius is one of us.'
'Honoured,' said Silvius. He had an easy-going baritone voice that had ordered up plenty of flagons in its time. He had spent long nights in smoky bars, talking. Either he was a lyric poet, a speculative saucepan-seller – - or he traded information.
The drinks came. Sides arrived simultaneously in pottery dishes. There would be no need for the waiter to trouble us again.
I saw Silvius eyeing the two young Camilli. Petro must have given him the rundown on us all. They had left their pristine togas in the clothes press and were turned out professionally: neutral tunics, serviceable belts, worn-in boots, no flash metal buckles or tags on their laces. Neither went in for jewellery, though Aulus had a rather wide new gold wedding ring; Quintus was not wearing his, but I thought he had had it on when he escorted his wife to the spy's party. You could just about take these two down an alley in the Subura without causing a rush of pickpockets, though they still had to learn how to pass along the streets completely unnoticed. At least they looked nowadays as though they might see trouble coming. As they thickened up in their middle-to-late twenties, each looked as if he might be handy when that trouble reached him. Their hair was too long and their chins too cleanshaven, but if we were soon to have action, I knew they would enjoy making themselves more scruffy.
'They will do; they are fit,' I said in an undertone. Silvius heard it without comment. Both Camilli noticed the exchange. Neither flared up. They had learned to accept how you edged towards acceptance in new professional relationships. When work was dangerous, each man had to make his own judgements about people he would be dealing with. Aulus leaned back on the bench and subjected Silvius in turn to scrutiny.
We raised a quiet toast, then set our beakers down again as Petronius prepared to speak.
'Is this about our Modestus case?' Having been to the marshes with us, Quintus was over-keen and jumped in. I laid a finger to my lips. Good-natured, Quintus shrugged an apology.
Petro began slowly. 'Marcus Rubella, my tribune, introduced Silvius to me, but officially, Rubella never met Silvius – and nor have I. Officially we surrendered the case into the safe hands of the honest Praetorians, together with their intellectual comrade, Anacrites the spy. There's a poor interface with his organisation. We all let Anacrites play by himself.'
Aulus asked, keeping his voice level, 'Who are "we all"? The vigiles, the Praetorians, and whoever Silvius' people are?'
Petro gave a satirical growl. 'Here is how co-operation works, boys.' He branched into a lecture I had heard him give before: 'The Praetorian Guard provide the Emperor's security – hence the link with the intelligence outfit. Titus Caesar commands them, to keep them under control – though who will control Titus? They spend a lot of time nowadays arresting people whose faces Titus does not like. Upset Anacrites, and that could be us. The Urban Prefect is Rome's city manager. Duties include investigating major crime – note that. Then come the vigiles. Duties: sniffing out fires, apprehending street thieves, rounding up runaway slaves. When we catch minor criminals, we give them on-the-spot chastisement – - otherwise we parcel them up for the Urban Prefect, who charges them formally. So another point to note, Aelianus: we have good lines of communication with the Urbans. Very good.'
I leaned on one elbow and pointed one forefinger at Silvius. Silvius nodded. He belonged to the Urban Cohorts.
The Camilli watched this interchange. Justinus asked pointedly, 'The Guards and the Urbans live in the same camp. Are they not natural allies?'
'You might think so,' admitted Silvius. 'Though not for long. Not once your keen eyes observed how the Praetorians behave like gods, looking down on the Urbans as their poor relations – - while also thinking that the vigiles are puny ex-slaves, commanded by has-been officers.' Petronius spat out an olive stone. 'Pity the pathetic Urban who has bought the myth that it is easy to pass from one section to the other, merely on talent and merit,' Silvius continued in complaint. I wondered if that was what he had tried to do, and failed. 'No vigiles officer, I suspect, would even waste his time thinking it could happen.' Ah. Tell that to Marcus Rubella, whose dream was to rise on snowy wings to wear the Praetorian uniform.
'So you work in Rome,' Aulus pressed Silvius.
'Personally, no.'
We all raised our eyebrows – except for Petronius who calmly supped his drink and waited for Silvius to explain.