I cleared a space among the untidy documents, finding a stool hidden beneath the mess. 'It's a tricky situation, sir. The Praetorians were seen arresting your son, and my private information is that Anacrites – who is attached to the Guards, of course – is currently holding him. I take it no one has informed you? Well, that's illegal for starters. You have to decide whether you want to go straight to Vespasian, and make indignant protests. As the Emperor's old friend, as a member of the Senate, and just generally as the father of a free Roman citizen, you can demand an immediate audience.'
We were both silent. Decimus gazed at me. He was tall but stooped, his hair thinner and greyer than when I first knew him; both age and family troubles had taken their toll. 'I see you really want me to wait, Marcus.' He often looked as if he disagreed with my methods, but we rarely fought over it.
I had never shown him fake respect. I told him bluntly, 'I'd like to interview Anacrites first. Find out his game. If that fails, then we have the heavy option.' 'You think the man is dangerous.' 'I think I'd like to remove every hair on his body, using the slow singe method, then baste him with honey and leave him tied up by a hornets' nest.' It would be at a time of my choosing, however. 'He makes a bad enemy. Rationally, therefore, it would be best to extract Quintus without making Anacrites feel he has been publicly overruled. '
'Is Quintus being harmed?' His father tried not to be specific. In prison the risks were starvation, disease, buggery by fellow-prisoners, beating by the jailer, nibbling by rats, chafing of chains, fear, and professional torture.
I tried to ignore the thought that I could not find Anacrites tonight because he was in some dank cell, watching as inquisitors applied their painful techniques to Justinus. 'A senator's son? One to whom Vespasian once promised rapid social advancement? What do you think, sir?' 'I won't be happy until I have him home, Marcus.' 'Well, give me half a day. If I haven't got him back by noon, you go and raise havoc on the Palatine yourself' 'If you do get him back, I may raise havoc anyway!' That was how we left it. It was late now, and I could see that the senator was put out, so I did not even stay for a drink with him. I climbed back over the Aventine, this time making my way past my mother's apartment. To my surprise, she still had a light showing, so I went up. It was possible she was entertaining Aristagoras, a ninety year-old neighbour who had set his sights on her. If so, it was time the flirtatious old bastard tottered back to his own roost and let Ma go to bed.
I let myself in. Every Roman mother's boy is allowed to keep a latch-lifter to the place where he was brought up; every Roman mother hopes one day he will come home again.
Even with Ma's sight failing, everywhere was spotless. I moved gently through the door curtain, and straight into the kitchen. The usual frugal lamp was supplemented by a candelabrum Ma brought out for favoured visitors. Someone was sitting at the big table, with his back to me. He wore a subdued oyster-coloured tunic, decorated with grey and purple braid that must have cost more by the yard than most families had for their weekly food bill. Black hair was combed back on to his neck, where it curled in oily spikes as he hunched over a bowl from which rose wafts of Ma's delicious leek broth. There would be none for me, because the cauldron was already washed and upended on a workbench behind my mother. She herself was sitting with her hands folded on the table.
'Who's that?' squawked Ma, pretending she was unable to make out who had come in. 'Marcus! Is that you creeping about to frighten me?' Her guest turned around quickly. He was nervous. That was good. I stared into those pale eyes – noticing for the first time ever that while one was a watery grey as I remembered, the other was a light hazel. I let him worry for a moment, then smiled at him. I knew how to make it look sincere – and I knew that would cause him more anxiety. 'Fancy finding you here – Io, Anacrites!'
XXI
'Io, Falco!' 'I've been looking for you.' I sounded like a bailiff.
'I got your note…' So either the crazy workaholic had been to his office after I was there, or some frightened minion had hotfooted to him with my message. A mad thought struck that maybe he had been there all the time when I went to the Palace, hiding behind a pillar, secretly observing me. Now he had come here to worm out what I wanted before he approached me. What kind of inadequate asks your mother first? As if he knew what I was thinking, he coloured slightly. 'You've got more than my note.' I kept my tone light but ominous. 'Why don't you come in decently?' demanded Ma. That would stop me making the Spy squirm round to look at me over his shoulder. He was on a bench that was pulled tight under the table, so movement was hindered. I was standing, so I could dominate the bastard.
'I'm fine, Ma.' Anacrites was clutching his spoon like a toddler, tantalised by the half-eaten bowl of leeks. 'So you still come to visit my mother, Anacrites?'
'Anacrites is a good friend to a poor old woman.' Ma's usual note of reproof made me sound like a bad son. Since I would never overturn this myth, I did not bother trying. 'I only wish everyone took so much trouble…'
'Just bringing Saturnalia greetings,' he excused himself wanly. 'Why did you want to see me, Falco?'
'You need to do some quick talking, old mucker.' The endearment was fake. I kept smiling. He started to sweat. A severe blow to the head several years ago had left Anacrites with a permanently damaged skull and a tendency to panic at times of tension. He suffered headaches and a changed personality as well. And although I had brought him unconscious to my mother to be nursed back to life (which was how he knew her, and knew her well enough to get free broth), he could never trust me to maintain the insane generosity that had once saved him.
I came into the room and moved around the table. Anacrites tried to relax. 'I've taught you nothing; never sit with your back to the door.' He dropped his spoon. I bent and kissed my mother's cheek like a good boy. She glared at me suspiciously. 'Now then, Anacrites, what do you mean by arresting Camillus Justinus?' I demanded. 'You haven't!' cried Ma. I perked up as he took the arrows. 'What's he done? He's a lovely boy!' 'Some palace mistake,' I told her. Anacrites was glowering. 'State business,' he bluffed. 'State incompetence,' I snorted back. 'Young Camillus is a free Roman citizen. No one may lay hands on him.'
Anacrites was about to make his favourite boast, that he could do anything because he was the Chief Spy – but he paused. I was invoking the law. It was forbidden to imprison a citizen; being chained breached a free man's rights. Quintus had the right of direct appeal to Vespasian if he was manhandled, and for wrongful arrest he could claim massive compensation. Anacrites' official budget wouldn't cover that. 'This is an issue of the highest security.' His voice became haughty. 'When the barbarians threaten, sometimes liberties must be suspended.' He added insincerely, 'I don't like it any more than you do, Marcus.'
I had never allowed him to use my praenomen. Sitting in my mother's house with his sly snout in a foodbowl did not make him part of my family.