‘Funny, that!’ observed Petro. ‘The whole thing stinks – though a stupid spy might fall for it.’

  He did need his rest and while he brooded, Petronius Longus fell asleep. I did not disturb him. I sat on there, letting him snore on the other daybed, while I continued thinking.

  Maia looked out once. She brought me some warmed honey mulsum, silently curling my fingers around the beaker, then roughing up my curls. After these sisterly attentions, she left us to it.

  XXXI

  It was time to look harder at Anacrites. Helena was right about how we could do that. Escorting my womenfolk to a soirée at his old-style Palatine mansion would not have been my choice, but his invitation had arrived and Rome is a city of civilised dining. Commerce and corruption of all kinds are furthered by social evenings of this type. I wanted to get close enough to him to work out why he wanted to be close to me.

  At my members-only gym, Glaucus’ at the back of the Temple of Castor and Pollux, I bathed and put myself in the safe hands of the sneery barber. First, I had Glaucus give me a fierce weapons practice, followed by a session with his most brutal masseur. When Glaucus asked if all this preparation meant I was off on another dangerous mission overseas, I told him where I was going that evening. His advice was to watch my footwork, watch what I was given to eat, but above all watch my back. He had met Anacrites. When the spy had applied to join the gym as a regular, Glaucus found he was so over-subscribed he could only put Anacrites on the very competitive waiting list … Anacrites was still there.

  ‘Say no when he passes you the mushrooms,’ Glaucus hinted. An old Roman allusion to poison. ‘Better still, here’s an idea. You got plenty of slaves off your old man when he died, didn’t you? Take one along as your taster. Be sensible, Falco. You’re paid up here until the end of the year – you don’t want to waste part of your subscription.’

  ‘I regard my slaves as family,’ I protested with a righteous air.

  ‘All the more reason to bump a few off!’ replied Glaucus. Nobody would know he had a good-looking wife he doted on and an athlete son who was his pride and joy.

  According to Helena it was more trying for a woman to get dressed when she wanted to look as if she had gone to no trouble than when she was trying to show vast respect to some possible patron in order to advance her husband (never applicable in my case) or to impress a man she was sizing up for passionate adultery (not applicable in Helena’s, I hoped – though if that was her intention there was not much I could do about it; she was far too devious). I lay on the bed watching proceedings, naked and hoping the scent of the masseur’s crocus oils would evaporate. His goo was useless for attracting women. Helena Justina had just wrinkled her nose in mild curiosity, as if I had come home with an arm missing and she was subconsciously wondering what was different about me. The hour which we could have filled with lovemaking went to trying on gowns, searching for girdles and picking through her jewel casket. When she was halfway through applying face paint, she rushed off to supervise Albia, who had decided that since her parents never took her anywhere, she would wear all the sparkle she possessed while there was an opportunity.

  ‘We need to look as though we know it’s not just borage tea and a pickled egg,’ I heard Helena telling her. Two room doors had been left open, to facilitate the shrieks as the only good gown in the chest was found to have had honey spilled down it and the clasp on each chosen necklace broke under frantic fingers. ‘But that we don’t think enough of Anacrites to bring out our best.’

  ‘And why is it we hate him?’ Albia asked with her fastidious curiosity. She tended to act as if all things done in Rome were crazy beyond belief to anyone born in the provinces.

  ‘No hatred. We treat him cautiously,’ Helena reproved her. ‘We find his jealousy of Falco a touch unhealthy.’

  ‘Oh – as in, he tried to have Falco splayed on a rock for carrion birds in Nabataea?’

  ‘Quite. Trying to arrange a long-distance execution was not acceptable etiquette.’

  ‘So will the spy try short-distance Falco-killing this evening?’ Albia sounded far too interested.

  ‘No, darling. Anacrites is too shrewd to try anything with you and me there. I’d poke his eyes out, while you rushed for a lawyer.’

  That was reassuring. I hauled myself upright and sorted out a tunic I was willing to wear.

  ‘Oh Marcus! You’re not going in that disaster. Wear your russet.’

  ‘Too smart.’

  I had always loathed the russet, which made me look like some praetor’s pimpled equerry. Naturally, that was what my stylists made me wear.

  At the Anacrites establishment, which he must have acquired with his Census earnings, the murderous watchdog had been sluiced with scented water and told to bark more quietly. That would be a bonus for the wealthy neighbours who were usually too scared to complain. The formidable gates had been oiled so they could be forced wide enough; Pa’s old six-bearer litter sailed us through. We were cleared by the bestubbled porter and passed into the custody of liveried greeting slaves.

  They were slick. So slick, Helena guessed Anacrites had hired professional party-planners. His house was busy with Lusitanians in matching snowy tunics. There were garlands in themed colours. A young lady facilitator in platform soles and a faux fur bustband picked out bijou little guest-gifts for us (I got dice, that would only land on three). At the spy’s back door must be a train of carts bringing the accoutrements of outside caterers – bronze buckets of fancy seafood from specialist suppliers, slightly worn table linen, and their own griddles. For Anacrites, this evening clearly meant much more than a comfortable supper among friends.

  I pinched Albia cheerfully. ‘Assume the Trojan hog is on!’

  The greeters whipped away our outer garments and shoes. A rumpus at the door announced further visitors. Since one of the voices was that of Camillus Aelianus – sounding a little weary perhaps – that boded ill. We had hardly reached the atrium and Albia already looked surly. Then I heard the hideous baritone of Minas of Karystos. He must have stiffened his resolve with cocktails before the party set out.

  Helena and I shuffled past the atrium pool, towing Albia. Tiny lamps like fireflies, the kind designers think sophisticated, twittered around the pool, many already going out. While the newcomers were shovelled into their dining sandals, we found our way through the murk and came upon our host reclining on a reading-couch, like a man who was trying to calm his nerves.

  He jumped up, wearing one of his slimfit tunics (great gods, the vain fool must have darts put in, to make him look trim). I was very put out that his was a brown shade rather close to mine. I’d half expected him to have a torc around his neck, but he had confined himself to matched gold cuffs on his upper arms. He exercised. He had enough muscle to show off, though his arms were oddly smooth, as if he had the hairs individually plucked.

  ‘You invited my brother!’ Helena barked at him. Anacrites had changed her from peacemaker to firebrand in one move. Even he looked startled.

  ‘Dear Helena Justina –’ Oh it was formal names tonight! ‘Since Lucius Petronius and Maia Favonia unfortunately had other commitments, I invited both your brothers.’ He made it sound as though he was doing her a favour, as if the noble Camilli were incapable of arranging a family party for themselves. What it really meant was that he only knew us. I was right: he had no friends. ‘I hoped you would approve,’ he whined.

  Fortunately the band struck up.

  He had three lyres and a light hand-drummer. They accompanied a short troupe of fairly good tumblers in almost new costumes, followed by a girl who sang brief Cretan shepherd songs after long explanations from a man in a shaggy goatskin cape. Ignoring this, we waved cheerily to Justinus and his wife Claudia, less cheerily to Aelianus, his new wife Hosidia and his tottering father-in-law. ‘Cretan was the best I could get at short notice to compliment Greeks,’ Anacrites whispered as he went to welcome the Camilli. As a host he seemed anxious, a new and surreal side to him.

  We watched Anacrites wonder whether he could – or should – kiss Claudia and Hosidia, or if he should, or could, embrace Helena’s brothers. (He had not hugged me. I’d like to see him try.) Minas, the bearded, exuberant law professor, threw himself upon Anacrites, whom he had never met, as if they had rowed the same oar in a galley for at least twenty years. Hosidia shrank against Aelianus, who nearly stepped back into the atrium pool. Claudia was too tall for the spy to kiss and she just shook hands with him briskly; the hem of her gown fell victim to the sting of the firefly lights but Hosidia considerately flapped out the sparks. Aulus and Quintus Camillus as one stayed at arm’s length from Anacrites. I noticed they both wore heavy new chalk-white togas, ready for electioneering. They introduced their womenfolk, who then clustered with my two so they could all admire each other’s outfits. Claudia, who had a warm heart, greeted Albia very fondly. Hosidia stood about looking supercilious. It was her natural expression, as far as I could tell.

  ‘Would you like us to speak Greek?’ Anacrites asked helpfully, in fluent administrative Greek.

  ‘Naturally I speak Latin,’ Hosidia answered – though she said it in Greek. That failed to solve anything; so we were headed for a bilingual evening – feasible, but distancing.

  Two pale, flat-chested girls in long white uniforms arrived with snack trays. The snacks were small but tasty; there was no obvious sign that house-slaves had nibbled them. Young boys with their hair oiled into silly points brought the first drinks, in garish decorated cups that the caterers probably supplied. Minas, who needed no cheering up, cheered up loudly. The women guests then demanded that Anacrites give them a tour of his house. Looking worried, he let himself be swept off; he had the expression of a man who knew he had left a pile of dirty loincloths on his bedroom floor and failed to close the cupboard containing his winged phallus lamps.

  This left Minas, the Camilli and me standing in a square, each holding a crayfish tail and asking one another what in Hades we were doing there.

  Justinus reminded me that we knew from a previous visit Anacrites kept obscene statues in a secret room. Minas brightened, hoping for a private view. ‘This should be a good night, Falco!’ he boomed. I saw Aulus, who had a keen idea of Minas’ liquid capacity, smile fixedly. ‘I am so looking forward to it!’ Minas confided to me, leaning close in a hideous aura of lunchtime wine and garlic. ‘This man must have very great influence, I think? He knows important people? The Emperor, perhaps? Anacrites can do us favours?’

  I nodded gravely. ‘Tiberius Claudius Anacrites would be proud to know you believe that, Minas.’

  XXXII

  We were called to dine.

  The old dining room was indoors and a touch cosy. The hired hands had decorated its three crushed-together stone couches with coverlets in some shiny fabric the colour of pomegranate juice. They must have misjudged what kind of bachelor Anacrites was. A single rose, suspended from the centre of the ceiling, made the traditional statement that anything we said would be in confidence.

  ‘Surely,’ Albia piped up, all wide-eyed innocence, ‘only an idiot would mention any secrets in a spy’s house?’

  ‘Now I remember your daughter!’ cried Minas, clapping me around the shoulders so hard I nearly lost my footing (he had only just remembered me, I reckoned). ‘This minx is too astute!’

  ‘Oh these days intrigue is the only game in town, Minas.’ Thanks to the bagginess of the russet tunic, a good wriggle helped me slide free of the Greek’s grip. ‘Anacrites loves people to come here and commit treason. He gets a thrill thinking they are his guests so he can’t arrest them.’

  Anacrites looked disorientated.

  We were nine at dinner, naturally. To break convention would be too daring for our host. He must have given much thought to his placements, but when the rest of us arrived in the triclinium, Helena was shifting people around to avert awkward situations: making sure I could grill Anacrites; putting Albia and Aelianus apart; not imposing the bombastic Minas on anyone shy …

  Minas thought he should take precedence, but this was Rome and he was foreign; he stood no chance. ‘Both brothers Camilli are standing for the Senate –’ Anacrites said, as he tried to guide them into his chosen places. They were talking about the races and failed to notice him.

  ‘They’ll be voted out,’ snapped their sister.

  ‘Oh thank you!’ they chorused half-heartedly. She just grabbed each one and shoved him where she wanted him. For would-be empire-governors, the duo submitted like wimps. Albia was chortling at this, until she was frogmarched to the end of the inferior couch. ‘Young girl’s prerogative,’ Helena soothed her. ‘You get the easy exit to the lavatory and you can reach the food trays for seconds.’

  Minas still took too much interest in which was the seat of honour. ‘The one on the right-hand corner of the middle couch, I think …?’ Fired up by some tourist guide to Roman etiquette, he was aiming his big belly in that direction.

  Helena shepherded me there. She pushed Minas to the other end. ‘With the best views of the garden and statuary if we were out of doors –’ Due to the deficiencies of Anacrites’ house, we were facing a dowdy corridor. ‘Marcus is the only person who has held a significant public post, Minas; he was Procurator of Juno’s Sacred Geese.’ If I was top man, and by virtue of supervising a flock of birds, that showed this dinner’s low status.

  Minas pouted. I grinned and to distract him I explained, ‘It’s a sad story, Minas. Government short-sightedness. I lost the job ignominiously, in a round of treasury cutbacks.’ I always wondered if Anacrites had had something to do with it. ‘Juno’s Geese and the Augurs’ Sacred Chickens were heartbroken to lose me. Their loyalty is touching, in fact. I go up on the Capitol regularly to see the clucks for old times’ sake; I shall never lose my sense of responsibility.’

  ‘You are fooling?’ Minas was only half right.

  ‘Forget convention. I think the best places are the centre of the couches –’ Still struggling to seat everyone, Helena steered Anacrites between Minas and me. Aelianus had to go at the top of the left-hand couch, talking across the corner to Minas, with Hosidia behind him; Justinus was opposite Hosidia with Claudia above him, adjacent to me across the other top corner. Albia was below Justinus. He was a good lad and would talk to her; she would probably hope to upset Aelianus by being friendly with his brother. At the far end of the left-hand couch, Helena was stuck with Hosidia. Good manners would have placed Helena next to me, but she had demoted herself in order to put the spy in my range. At least I could wink down the room at her.

  During the appetisers, our host led the conversation – as much as he could do, with Minas tipsily interrupting. We had seen him in action; as a symposium-crawler no one could touch him, even in Athens’ exhausting party whirl.

  The wine was better than good; Anacrites discussed it fluently. Perhaps he had taken himself to wine-buffery classes. At any rate, he served palatable mulsum with the appetisers, not too sweet, then a very fine Caecubian. One of the best wines in the Empire, that must have cost a packet. He also introduced us to an unfamiliar variety he had just acquired, from Pucinum; he was dying for us to ask where Pucinum was so he could show off, but nobody bothered. ‘What do you think, Falco? The Empress Livia always drank Pucinum wines, ascribing her long life to their medicinal qualities.’

  ‘Very nice – though the phrase “medicinal qualities” slightly puts me off!’

  ‘Well, it kept her going to eighty-three, outliving her contemporaries –’

  ‘I thought that was because she had poisoned them all …’

  I asked for a separate water cup and drank the wine sparingly. Anacrites knew me well enough to have seen me do it before. I had a curious sense that tonight he wanted to relax for once – yet now he was torn, in case loosening up gave me some advantage.

  While he continued to hold forth on vintages, I chatted to my other neighbour, Claudia Rufina. The three Camillus siblings were all lofty but Justinus had married a woman tall enough to look him in the eye; this Claudia now saw as necessary since he could be a rogue, an edgy character who needed constant watching. On a dining couch designed for our stumpy republican ancestors, she was having problems twisting herself to fit. But once she settled, Claudia gossiped with me on the current situation in the senator’s house. ‘Things are tense, Marcus.’

  Minas had emptied the Camillus wine cellar in about five days. The amiable senator declined to restock, so Minas got huffy. Then Camillus senior hit on the idea that Aelianus and his bride should live next door; he owned the adjacent house, where his brother had once lived. It was decreed that Minas must stay with the couple. ‘Julia Justa said, So nice for him to see a lot of his daughter, before he goes back to Greece … I don’t think the professor intends going back, Marcus!’

  ‘No; he is determined to be a big rissole in Rome.’

  ‘I would have thought,’ said Claudia, who was a kind-hearted girl, ‘the newly-weds might be given some time to themselves – especially as they don’t seem to have had much opportunity yet to get to know each other.’ That was ironic. Claudia and Quintus would probably stick out their marriage (she had an excellent olive oil fortune which encouraged him mightily), but they were experts at communication failure.

  ‘You presuppose, my dear, that either of them wants familiarity.’

  ‘You cynic!’

  ‘I’ve lived. Still, we must be hopeful … How are the lovebirds getting on?’

  Claudia lowered her voice. ‘They have separate bedrooms!’

  ‘How fashionable! Though not much fun.’

  ‘They will never have children.’ Claudia and Quintus had produced two small sons very quickly; she assumed everyone wanted the same. At home we joked that Quintus could get his wife pregnant just by kicking his boots under the bed.