Petronius grinned to me. 'Sixth Cohort. We're in their jurisdiction. There are rules, you know, Falco.' In fact I knew he was not fond of the Sixth and would cheerfully implicate them in what was to follow, rather than his own cohort – just in case things went wrong. The men he had spoken to knew exactly who he was. Somehow he had persuaded the gullible Sixth to do him a favour.
Loud bangs on the door produced household slaves, whose protests that there was nothing wrong were brushed aside in the usual kindly vigiles manner – that is, the slaves were knocked to the ground, kicked into submission, and pinned down on suspicion of being arsonists. The Sixth then rushed inside to search the building, as fire-fighters were entitled to do whenever the alarm was sounded. The household slaves were now going nuts, perhaps because they realised this would entail the customary 'check on valuables'; they may have feared that afterwards there would not be quite so many valuables in their master's possession as he had owned when the fire started. The slaves knew Anacrites would blame them for any losses and they knew how spiteful he could be.
By now there really was a fire. Apparently when Petro's men kindled a damp pile of leaves for a false alarm, it led to shutters blazing and showers of sparks in roof spaces, all in a matter of minutes. Perhaps they had been over-enthusiastic, Petronius commented gravely. At any rate, Anacrites' house was now filled with thick smoke. Heavily equipped members of the Sixth Cohort were running around with the buckets, ropes and grapplers they always carried. With commendable speed, their siphon engine turned up in the street; any owner of property would be overjoyed to receive such a fast response to his emergency – a privilege few actually receive. But we were in the Palatine and Circus Maximus sector, where many buildings are state owned and even private houses tend to belong to men who know the Emperor personally. A cart laden with esparto mats also appeared – so laden it could hardly teeter along.
'It's almost as if the Sixth were expecting this fire!' I muttered. Petronius shot me a reproving look.
Then – was there a signal? – he grabbed my arm and ran towards the house. I followed as he dashed into the building. The smoke was real, choking us as we plunged down corridors. Ahead of us the vigiles had thrown open doors to check rooms for occupants. Coughing slaves were still being hustled out past us by members of the Sixth, who were shouting at them loudly and pushing them around; it was a tactic to subdue and confuse them. We ran on. Nobody interfered with us.
We passed through formal areas with subdued black and gold paint, a tiny courtyard with a bubbling fountain, then suddenly we were among decadent rooms in the interior, with frescos depicting intertwined couples and threesomes that would not be out of place in a brothel. We reached a narrow passageway where a vigilis was battering at a locked door while being harassed by two large baying dogs; the man kicked at them in annoyance, then hurled a hatchet at the door panels hard enough to split the wood and gain a purchase. Petronius picked up a small marble-topped table and bashed a bigger hole with that. Splintered panels soon gave way to shouldering.
The room contained a collection of the kind of art men keep in private salons with the door locked 'so as not to excite the slaves'. Thereby making secret pornography sessions more exciting for themselves.
There was less smoke in this part of the house. When we turned away in disgust from the art collection, we were able to see the young man who opened a door further down the corridor and looked out to investigate the commotion. It was Camillus Justinus.
At once, according to the vigiles' rules of duty, he was taken hold of roughly, knocked semi-conscious when he protested, then passed from hand to hand in a businesslike fashion as far as the exterior of the building where – in circumstances that were later vague – he vanished. Among many rumours that circulated later about the fire at the Chief Spy's house, I did hear that when the Sixth Cohort came to pack up their esparto mats for return to their patrol house, they discovered someone had filched the mat-cart. And it was said, no doubt mischievously, that towards the end of the incident, Anacrites turned up and was outraged to receive a report on the damage to his house from a man dressed as a five-foot carrot. The Sixth Cohort indignantly denied all knowledge of this vegetable.
Anacrites became so angry he ordered the carrot's arrest, but it made a quick getaway when everyone was busy confronting the arrival of a suspicious group of elderly men, thought to be of German nationality, who tried to break into the Spy's house at the back, even though the Spy was standing right there at the front. The tribune of the Sixth (an officer who had been drawn to the scene by an urgent report that a VIP was apoplectic) soothed things down, and passed off the Germans' assault as a stupid escapade carried out by overenthusiastic seasonal revellers. He ordered the be-whiskered Rhineland relics to be put in the lock-up until they sobered up. Unfortunately, when Anacrites went along next morning intending to interrogate them, someone had misunderstood the tribune's orders and released them without charge into the care of younger relatives who just happened to turn up offering to keep the old fellows out of further trouble. Sad really, everyone agreed. Ancient citizens with previously unspotted reputations for imperial service, letting themselves down by having one flagon too many… When Anacrites tried to find them, it was said they had all gone home to Germany for a late winter holiday.
And where was his prisoner? No idea who you are talking about, insisted the Sixth Cohort. We handed back all the slaves we found and made sure we got a receipt. Safe. Safe and hidden.
XXXV
Anacrites' pathetic brain must be churning like a waterwheel after a thunderstorm. His first jump on the night of the fire was obvious: it did not take him long to work out that any scam involving the vigiles must relate to me and my friend Petronius. Faster than we expected, he tracked down the Fourth Cohort's party, which by then was riotous. Marcus Rubella had somehow remained sober enough to curb his antagonistic instincts when Anacrites turned up, supported by some Praetorian Guards. After all, Rubella's known ambition was to join the Guards himself Though by now unable to speak, Rubella gravely waved them in to search the place as best they could. This would not be easy. Many of the Fourth Cohort were lying on the ground for a rest; some were upright but flopping over in all directions like weeds in the sun, others were standing rigid in their boots and offering to fight their own shadows. The Praetorians were impressed by these wild scenes; they soon forgot their orders and joined in the conviviality. I tipped Junia the wink to give them whatever they wanted.
'Anything but my body!' she giggled. I shivered at this fantastical thought.
Anacrites marched around on his own, staring at faces. Among the intoxicated this is not best practice. Several vigiles offered to floor him, furious at his attitude. Everyone he asked swore that Petronius and I had been there all night. He soon stopped asking; he was not stupid.