I thought Anacrites twitched. ‘Oh you were involved with that?’ It was disingenuous; he knew it, and looked shifty. ‘I pulled back the case from Laeta. He should never have been involved. In fact, I’m glad I’ve seen you tonight, Falco. I need a handover review. Shall we say mid-morning tomorrow at my office? Bring your vigiles friend.’

  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!’

  He strode out.

  ‘Oh dear! I was hoping to smooth over any unpleasantness, Falco!’ Anacrites was ghastly when he whined.

  ‘Not possible,’ I told him with a sneer, then I followed Petro from the room.

  Outside, Phileros was hanging about nervously with such an enormous tray of confectionery his stretched arms could hardly hold it. Petronius cared about the poor, since he so often had cause to arrest them. He had ascertained it was all paid for out of the spy’s petty cash, not the shabby clerk’s own pocket. So we swept up as many cakes as we could carry, and took them away with us.

  We gave them to a tramp, of course. Even if they were not dosed with aconite, to eat anything provided by Anacrites would have choked us.

  There was no chance we would allow Anacrites to have our case. Earlier in the day Petronius and I had agreed on the same system as the last time he tried muscling in. We would proceed as normal. We would simply keep out of the spy’s view. Once we solved the case, we would report to Laeta.

  According to Petro, he had Rubella’s support. I did not press for details.

  Although we had implied to Anacrites we had reached a dead end, we had plenty of ideas. Petronius had issued an all-cohorts notice to look out for the runaway slave called Syrus, the one who had worked for Modestus and Primilla then was passed on to the butcher by their nephew. Petro’s men visited the other cohorts to inspect any slaves they had found roaming. There was another alert too: for the missing woman, Livia Primilla, or more likely her body.

  It was too risky to have official warrants for Nobilis or any other Claudii; Anacrites was liable to hear about it. Nonetheless, efforts were being made to trace the couple who were supposed to work in Rome, using word of mouth among the vigiles. There was also a port watch for Nobilis, arranged through the Customs service and the vigiles outstation at Ostia. Meanwhile Petronius was having his clerk go through the official records of undesirables, looking for members of the family listed in Rome. If the two called Pius and Virtus had become astrologers or joined a weird religious cult, that could turn them up.

  Rubella would not permit Petronius to leave Rome again, so I was going back to Antium: I would be looking for the estranged wife of Claudius Nobilis, hoping to hear about life on the inside with the Pontine freedmen.

  First, came an assignment close to home. When I returned, Helena met me at the door.

  ‘Marcus, you have to do something and it must be now, while Petronius is at the station house. Your sister sent a message; she sounds upset –’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Maia needs to see you. She doesn’t want Lucius told, because he will be too angry. Maia had an unwelcome visitor. Anacrites went to see her.’

  Never mind Lucius Petronius. I was damned angry myself.

  XXVI

  My sister Maia Favonia had more locks on her door than most people. She had never recovered from coming home one day a couple of years ago to find everything in her home destroyed and a child’s doll nailed up where the knocker had been. Anacrites left no calling card. But he had been haunting her neighbourhood after she split from him; she knew who had given her the warning.

  I had moved her out the same night. I took her away with us on a trip to Britain and by the time she came back, she and Petronius Longus were lovers; her children, a bright bunch, had democratically elected that friendly vagabond as their stepfather. Maia took a new apartment, closer to Ma’s building. Petro moved in. The children preened. Everything settled down. Even so, Maia installed a tumbler lock and a set of large bolts, and she never opened the door after dark unless she knew who was outside. She had been fearless, happy and sociable. Terror left its marks. Maia would never get over what the spy had done.

  Petronius and I had sworn an oath together. One day we would exact retribution.

  They lived, as most city people did, in a modest apartment. One floor up, a communal well in the courtyard, a small set of rooms to arrange as they liked. Petro, who was handy with a hammer, had fixed the place up in shipshape style. Maia had always had her own casual glamour and, given her work for Pa at the Saepta, she furnished it with dash. Our mother’s house centred on its kitchen and a table where onions were always being chopped; Helena and I liked to relax in private in a room where we read together. Any house where Maia lived had a balcony as its heart. There she kept a trough of plants that could survive breezes and offhand treatment, plus battered lounging chairs with mounds of well-squashed cushions, between which was the bronze tripod where she served a constant supply of nuts and raisin cake.

  I wondered if Anacrites had been allowed into that insiders’ sanctum this time. He knew how things worked. The damage to Maia’s previous much-loved sun terrace, when he trashed her place, had been particularly vile.

  Helena had come with me tonight. Maia greeted her with a sniff. ‘Oh he’s brought a woman to worm out all the secrets, has he? You think I’ll be softened up by girls’ chat?’

  Helena gave an easy-going laugh. ‘I’ll sit with the children.’ We had glimpsed them, doing schoolwork in subdued silence: Maia’s four, who ranged from six to thirteen, plus Petronilla, Petro’s girl, who lived here most of the time now because her mother had a new boyfriend. Petronilla had condemned Silvia’s latest conquest as ‘a lump of mouldy dough’. She was eleven and already scathing. So far, Petro was still her hero, though he expected daddy’s little girl to begin disparaging him any day now.

  A shadow darkened Maia’s face. ‘Yes,’ she said urgently. ‘Yes, Helena. Do that.’ So the children knew Anacrites had been here, and they needed comfort.

  I was shepherded to the balcony. Maia closed the folding doors behind us. We sat together, in our usual positions.

  ‘Right. You had a visitation. Tell me.’

  Now we were private, I could see how badly Maia was shaken. ‘I don’t know what he wanted. Why now, Marcus?’

  ‘What did he say he wanted?’

  ‘Explaining is not his style, brother.’

  I lay back and breathed slowly. Around us were the noises of a domestic district at nightfall. Here on the Aventine, there was always a sense of being high above the city and slightly aside of the centre. Occasional sounds of traffic and trumpets came from a very great distance. Closer to, owls hooted from the gilded roof trees of very old temples. There were all the normal wafts of grilled fish and panfried garlic, the rumpus of angry women berating tipsy men, the weary wails of sick or unhappy children. But this was our hill, the hill where Maia and I grew up. It was a place of augury, foliage gods and slaves’ liberation. It was where Cacus the hideous caveman once lived and where the poets’ association traipsed about singing silly odes. For us the flavours were subtly distinct from every other Rome region.

  ‘Better start at the beginning,’ I told Maia in a quiet voice.

  ‘He came this morning.’

  ‘If I am to evaluate what this bastard is really up to,’ I said quietly, ‘then start right at the beginning.’

  Maia was silent. I gazed across at her. Normally you think of your sister as she was at eighteen. Tonight, by the flicker of a pottery lamp, every year was etched on her. I was thirty-six; Maia was two years younger. She had survived a wearisome marriage, births, the death of one daughter, a cruel widowhood and ensuing financial hardship, then a couple of crazy dalliances. There were at least a couple; I was her brother, what would I know? Her worst mistake was when she let Anacrites home in on her.

  ‘You never really told us: was it serious?’

  ‘Not for me.’ For once Maia was so unnerved she opened up. ‘I met him, you know, after he was hurt and you took him to Mother’s to recuperate.’ Maia was the kind of daughter who was always popping into Ma’s house to share a cabbage – keeping an eye on the old tyrant. ‘After Famia died, Anacrites turned up one day. He treated me respectfully – that was a change after Famia using me as a boot scraper for all those years …’

  ‘You liked him?’

  ‘Why not? He was well dressed, well spoken, well set up in an official position –’

  ‘Did he tell you about his work?’

  ‘He told me what it was. He never discussed details … I was ready,’ Maia admitted. ‘Ready for a fling.’

  I could not resist my next question. Be honest, legate, you would have begged to know too: ‘Good lover?’ Maia merely stared at me. I cleared my throat and played responsible. ‘You made it clear all along that you wanted nothing permanent?’

  ‘At first it could have gone anywhere.’ I controlled a shudder. ‘But I soon felt he was pressing too close. There was something about him,’ Maia mused. ‘Something just not right.’

  ‘He’s a creep. You felt it.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Instinct.’

  ‘I certainly see him as a creep now.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I never understood why you had anything to do with him, Maia.’

  ‘I told you. He comes over well when he wants. The man had had a terrible head injury, so I thought any oddness was because of the damage.’

  ‘Well, I like to be fair – only I knew Anacrites long before he had his skull bashed in by some bent Spanish oil producers. He was sinister from the start. I’ve always thought,’ I told Maia, ‘the head wound only made his character more visible. He’s a snake. Untrustworthy, obnoxious, poisonous.’

  Maia said nothing. I did not insist. I never wanted to push her into admitting she had been fooled.

  ‘We had nothing in common,’ she said in a depressed voice. ‘As soon as I told him there was no future, I felt so relieved it was over –’ So true. Women are not sentimentalists. I remembered how she had immediately begun flirting with Petronius, who happened to be available. ‘Anacrites would not believe that we were finished – then he turned vindictive. You know the rest, Marcus. Don’t make me go over it.’