‘This place always reeks of suspicion,’ Petro mumbled, keeping an eye on the mopper. Once she looked up and automatically he smiled at her. Like any healthy Roman male, he kept in practice as a flirt.

  I agreed. ‘To say they all plot is like saying slugs eat lettuce.’

  Laeta worked late. As a bureaucrat he genuinely believed his vital work required more than an ordinary business day, even from an expert like him. He kept us waiting. That was to make us impressed that he should find time for us. Petronius and I slouched on corridor benches below a high, elegant ceiling and remarked loudly that being so disorganised at his rank was pathetic. We made sure the usher heard. Enlivening the life of underlings is a ploy worth spending time on.

  Maia and Helena said we had never grown up. We could be mature – though kicking our heels in boredom brought out the worst in us.

  Finally Petronius was called in and I followed. When he saw me on his marble threshold, Laeta looked irritated. He was a middle-aged, middle ranker with an astute gaze. He was bursting to ask what I was doing there; he wondered whether somebody had failed to brief him on a policy issue – or, worse, had he been briefed but had forgotten it? He felt obliged to nod a greeting, but some unease showed.

  We shimmied across the doormat – a pleasing integral mosaic – and began our next role-play. It involved extravagant respect from Petronius, while I stared as if flattering a senior official had never occurred to me. Petro declared he was honoured to meet such an important man of whom (he said) he had heard much, all of it impressive. Laeta fended off a blush. Everyone must suck up to him, but he was unsure how to take it from us. Well, I said he was astute.

  Tiberius Claudius Laeta was a rising comet, experienced but still with a decade or two of conniving in him. His forenames indicated he had been a slave in the imperial house, freed under a previous emperor; from his age it would be Claudius. The imperial household had produced many senior bureaucrats, including my bugbear Anacrites, who had wormed his way up to be Chief Spy very quickly and, to me, quite unaccountably; he was the kind of light garbage that floats. Anacrites was younger than Laeta and had been freed by Nero – hardly a recommendation, to have that eye-rolling maniac think well of you.

  ‘You submitted a man’s petition, Watch Captain.’ Prepared for the meeting, he waved it at us.

  ‘Found in a murder victim’s baggage,’ Petro confirmed. ‘I assessed it as the dead man’s last words. Delivery seemed the decent thing.’

  ‘Yes, you explained –’ Laeta laid down the tablet abruptly, hoping to cut off bloody descriptions of the corpse. I made a grab to see what was written. Laeta was too refined to snatch the tablet back but watched jealously, like a man seeing his lover depart on an international journey.

  The complaint was as Petro had described. The handwriting was decent, the language civil service Greek. If the author was not a professional scribe, he had certainly had general clerical training. One aspect surprised me: a tone of familiarity. ‘Had this man written in before?’

  ‘One of our regulars.’ Laeta sounded weary.

  ‘Classic aggrieved citizen?’

  ‘Let’s say, detailed!’ Free Roman citizens have the right to petition the Emperor. That did not mean Vespasian personally read every scroll. He thought he did. So did those who made petition-writing their hobby. In truth, officials like Laeta censored out the batty ramblings of obsessives, at the same time as they were checking for unhinged threats against the Emperor’s person and simple-minded do-gooders offering religious advice.

  ‘Bit of a menace then?’ Petronius asked, more mildly than me.

  Laeta was too professional to insult a member of the public. His duty required him to be fair, to defend the high principle of equal access to the Emperor. ‘On the one side –’ elbows on the table, he turned back his left hand as if holding up a market weight, ‘– he has the right to campaign. And on the other –’ he balanced the hypothetical weight with his other hand, ‘– resources are limited, so we just cannot investigate every perceived problem.’

  Perceived said a lot. No wonder Laeta looked relaxed. He perceived he could ignore such stuff.

  ‘Did this fellow always make the same complaint?’ I asked.

  ‘Usually. He worried over law-and-order issues. He was agitated about a large tribe of petty criminals who should, in his opinion, be exterminated. The fact is,’ Laeta informed us smoothly, ‘all over the Empire, groups exist who arouse their neighbours’ prejudice, perhaps because they seem feckless or a little different. They live rough, they rebuff approaches from the community. People suspect them of stealing, of luring away women, insulting priests, depressing property values and having lewd habits. Drink and putting curses on cattle are a constant theme of complaints.’

  ‘Living next door to deadbeats can be a real problem,’ Petronius corrected him. He had no truck with social misfits. He didn’t believe curse tablets could make cows barren, but he did reckon that when people bestirred themselves to complain formally, the thefts and assaults they protested about were probably real. To him, Laeta’s bland remarks were official excuses for inaction.

  To be angry about neighbours’ bad behaviour would seem a crazy waste of time where we grew up. On the Aventine, there were too many persons of lewd habits to write petitions about it. Everyone drank, to take away the pain of existence. Nobody wore themselves out trying to have ethical standards. Even joining the army when we were eighteen was such a nod to the establishment it had made Petro and me objects of raucous derision.

  ‘Of course we take all such reports seriously,’ Laeta assured us. Tell that to the man who wrote in, I thought.

  ‘You rush to rootle out the villains?’ I teased him. ‘Their horrid shacks are upended by military-style machines, their filthy possessions tossed away, and the pilfering layabouts are made to take regular jobs in nasty occupations?’

  Laeta scowled. ‘We ask the district magistrate to make enquiries.’

  ‘And if your correspondent writes again – when he does, since he refuses to give up – you just send another soft request to the same magistrate who let everyone down the first time?’

  ‘Dispersed responsibility, Falco.’ Laeta let my jibes trickle off like river water from a cormorant.

  ‘Well, it’s hardly corrupt, but I’d define it as inept and complacent.’

  ‘Always yourself!’ smiled Laeta. ‘I do admire that, Falco … Sometimes these complaints die down,’ he said to Petronius, as if addressing the reasonable man in our pairing. ‘So much better if a situation is dealt with peacefully, and at the local level. Nevertheless, should there be a flare-up that the local authorities cannot handle, it will be tackled – tackled aggressively.’

  ‘This involves more than bad neighbours,’ Petronius assessed. He was glum. ‘Now a man has died. Tortured, killed, and his body deposited in a blasphemous way. He appears to have been coming to Rome to appeal to the Emperor personally. That, to me, places a moral duty on Rome to look into what happened – and to pursue the victim’s complaints.’

  ‘Quite.’ Laeta, too, became more subdued. He clasped his hands on the surface of his shining marble table. Mention of moral duties always casts a blight on bureaucrats. He admitted, in a frank way that from him was an apology, ‘It now appears the man’s petitions were justified.’

  *

  We had reached the crux of the meeting. Claudius Laeta half rose from his throne-like chair, so he could wriggle out of his toga. In palace code, this told us whatever was said next must be in confidence. Petronius Longus eagerly shrugged off his own formal robe. He and I moved closer to Laeta. We three were alone in the enormous room, but all of us dropped our voices.

  ‘What are we dealing with?’ The expert now, Petronius was terse, calm and impressive.

  ‘The misfit family are called the Claudii. Mean anything?’

  I had heard the name only recently so I pricked up my ears, though Petronius shook his head, asking, ‘Are they in Rome?’

  ‘They may set their sights on moving to the city,’ Laeta answered. ‘So far we are spared.’

  ‘Did your writer name names?’

  ‘Often. He mainly railed against a brutish wastrel called Claudius Nobilis.’

  ‘Anybody talked to him?’

  ‘I believe he is frequently the subject of enquiries. However …’ Petronius glanced my way as we waited. ‘It is a little delicate.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked bluntly.

  ‘These people are freedmen,’ Laeta said. ‘Not just anybody’s freedmen – they originally came from the imperial family.’

  Petronius chewed it over for a moment then clarified: ‘The current Emperor’s family name is Flavius. So not Vespasian’s familia?’

  ‘Yes and no.’ Laeta’s backside must be purpose-made for fence-sitting.

  I saw the problem all right. ‘All the imperial possessions passed over when Vespasian took the throne. Not just official buildings and mansions, but all the Julio-Claudians’ vast portfolio of palaces, villas and farms – together with, presumably, their battalions of slaves. Claudian freedmen might transfer their respect to the Flavians – if they thought there was anything in it for them. As there generally is, with imperial connections.’

  ‘The Flavians in turn must have been happy to accumulate powers of patronage – or not, in this case!’ joked Petro.

  Claudius Laeta had a chilly demeanour as we scoffed. ‘Most freedmen of the old imperial house transferred their allegiance to the new.’

  ‘And that’s why you are here!’ I told him, with a wicked smile.

  He cut me off. ‘We acknowledge an inherited problem. Someone tried to dump it in the past – unsuccessfully. Slaves should be freed as a reward for good service –’ Just what my father’s band all kept reminding me. ‘It is clear this clan were disposed of because they were perennial pests.’ Laeta sniffed. Slaves and ex-slaves are riddled with snobbery. ‘None ever held a useful position or trained in a specialism. When they were freed, none took decent work or tried to set up businesses. Their imperial past makes them arrogant; it is thought – both by themselves and others – to give them protection from the law.’

  ‘Wrong of course?’ I asked.

  ‘They exploit the belief, and people are afraid of them.’

  Petronius and I shared another glance. ‘So it will look bad,’ he suggested, ‘if moves are made against them on your orders, Laeta – but you find no evidence and can make no charges stick?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘So what’s the plan? I assume you asked me here because there is one?’

  Laeta powered into a summary: ‘Local initiatives have failed. Time and time again, in fact. I want to send expert examiners from Rome. Look at it with fresh eyes. We need a sophisticated approach, backed up by energetic action.’

  The usual plan, apparently. The one that usually fails.

  ‘You want them evicted?’ A shift behind his eyes told me – and Laeta, if Laeta was observant – Petronius Longus thought this was asking for trouble.

  ‘Only,’ Laeta insisted, ‘if the accusations are true. If these people are causing a very serious nuisance.’

  ‘Murder would be defined as “very serious”?’

  ‘Yes, murder would justify intervention from Rome. More than one murder certainly.’

  ‘What action has been taken so far?’

  ‘Your dead man was reported missing, by relatives I understand. Regional forces did visit the Claudii, since they were implicated …’

  ‘And the regionals buggered it!’ Petronius was frank, but Laeta looked unfazed. Well, he started life as a slave. He had heard crudity in many languages. As an official in Rome, he shared Petro’s sneer at the regions too.

  ‘Perhaps they were under-experienced … They found nothing. It means any new investigation has to be conducted with extra sensitivity. It would be a bad day if imperial freedmen – which the Claudii are, and that must never be forgotten – came to accuse the Emperor of harassment.’

  I asked, ‘Have they lawyered up?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Laeta clearly assumed they would. Social menaces are well versed in finding legal teams to defend them, and an imperial connection was attractive; it guaranteed the brief would attract notice.

  ‘Can they afford it?’

  ‘There are always lawyers, Petronius, who find it a challenge to take on the government.’

  ‘Pro bono? That really would be a glory of democracy,’ I scoffed.

  ‘It would be a pile-bursting pain in the arse!’ Laeta’s turn to be crude.

  ‘So you want the vigiles involved?’ Petronius Longus was torn between his yearning to pursue an intriguing case and his distaste for taking orders.

  Laeta flexed his fingers. He summed up the position in a careful intellectual way: ‘The Praetorians would look heavy-handed. The army is never used against Roman citizens in Italy. Yes, it seems right to use the vigiles. And since you have prior knowledge, Petronius Longus, you should lead the mission.’

  ‘Going out of Rome?’

  ‘Going to Latium.’

  ‘My tribune will need a docket.’

  ‘Your tribune will be comforted with all the honeyed instructions he requires.’

  ‘This is Marcus Rubella,’ Petronius warned, on the verge of smiling.

  ‘Ah, the wondrous Rubella!’ Laeta had met him. ‘Then I shall use my most impressive seal when I write to him.’

  ‘Better bump up his budget,’ I advised. ‘To help him calm down.’

  Laeta tinkled with laughter. ‘Oh Falco, there are limits!’

  Foreseeing a long summer away from his family, Petronius became grumpy. He could not refuse when the Palace commanded. If this had been his own idea, he would have been gagging for it; orders from a scroll-beetle were much less welcome. He tapped the dead man’s tablet with a heavy index finger. ‘So does the petition-writer have a name, Laeta?’ Claudius Laeta made a show of ruffling through other documents to check.

  I leaned towards him and offered helpfully, ‘He is called Julius Modestus – am I right?’ When Laeta confirmed it, I was not surprised.

  XIII

  Petronius shot me a dark look. He thought I had known all along. In fact, I had only just decided for sure the coincidences added up.

  To Laeta I breezed, ‘Lucius Petronius and I are already on this. We have been working together; I am just back from reconnaissance.’ Now it was Laeta’s turn to look annoyed with me; he thought I was angling for payment. He was right too. ‘If you are sending in headquarters assessors it makes sense to include me. I’ll do it for my usual rates.’

  ‘You’re too expensive, Falco.’

  ‘You can’t afford to peel manpower off the Fourth Cohort. Petronius and I have history as a team; he can’t tackle this alone – and if Vespasian wants to distance himself from these freedmen, he knows I’m his man.’

  To my surprise, Laeta reluctantly nodded. Probably he thought if this went wrong, he now had someone else to blame.

  ‘It’s more than neighbourhood annoyance,’ said Petronius, impatient with our negotiations. ‘The tomb death was not a singleton, an accident of tempers flaring; Modestus had been stalked, all the way to Rome. He was mutilated – the killer returned to the body for more of that after death.’

  I saw Laeta moisten dry lips. ‘I need to demonstrate we are dealing with more than one random murder.’ He was still worrying over the bureaucracy.

  ‘Modestus’ wife is also missing, most certainly dead too. Not even a body,’ said Petro. ‘The killer may have kept her corpse for –’

  ‘I see!’ Laeta must be squeamish.

  ‘Treats in the larder,’ explained Petro relentlessly. Laeta closed his eyes. Petro scowled sombrely, mentally dwelling on the circumstances.

  ‘Other murders are likely, going back over many years, Laeta,’ I weighed in. ‘Petronius reckons this killer will strike again, until he is captured and stopped.’

  ‘Ah, one of those!’ Laeta pretended to be a crime expert. ‘No one has ever suggested the Claudii are that bad.’

  ‘When such murderers are exposed, people are always surprised,’ I pointed out. ‘He kept to himself, but he never seemed violent. None of us had any idea – that’s how repeat killers get away with it. Only with hindsight does it all seem bloody obvious.’

  I was supposed to have the reputation for mischief, but it was Petro who asked, ‘You came up through the imperial household yourself, Laeta. Did you ever encounter these backwoodsmen? Were you slaves together?’

  Claudius Laeta battled a shudder. ‘No; absolutely not. Though it’s a small world. I am sure you could find palace staff who have met them in the past … But during their time in the imperial familia, these were merely low-grade rural slaves. It is said they worked originally at a villa beloved of the Emperor Augustus at Antium. Nero tore it down – how typical of the man – and rebuilt on a scale that he fancied was more glamorous. Probably at that time the Claudii were deemed superfluous. You know, there is a difference between rough country slaves, labouring anonymously in the fields as shepherds, mowers, tillers or harvesters, and those of us who are fortunate enough to be trained for duties close to emperors.’

  ‘Understood!’ Petronius could be a bastard. ‘So, they were batch field workers …’ He kept pushing. ‘Your paths never crossed?’

  ‘No.’ Laeta remained polite but cold. ‘You could ask Momus,’ he added off handedly to me. He managed to imply I had no scruples in my choice of personal contacts.

  Momus started life as a gruesome slave-overseer. Since he lacked both intellect and morals, he had been assigned to a palace audit section; according to him, his job description was to audit the spies. Interpreting that as an order to cut staff numbers, Momus strove to make Anacrites fall down a very deep well or float off a high parapet. I got on well with Momus. Laeta, who was more fastidious, regarded him as a major disease – but possibly useful.