A Dying Light In Corduba Part 4

'I thought you'd ask that,' Petro replied. We were already making headway on the long route back to the Esquiline.

The Second Cohort's guardhouse lies on the way out to the Tiburtina Gate, close to the old Embankment which carries the Julian Aqueduct. It is situated between the Gardens of Pallentian and the Gardens of Lamia and Maia. A bosky spot - much frequented by elderly grubby prost.i.tutes and persons trying to sell love potions and fake spells. We burrowed in our cloaks, walked quickly, and discussed the races loudly to rea.s.sure ourselves.

The Second Cohort were in charge of the Third and Fifth regions: some routine squalor, but also several large mansions with tricky owners who thought that the vigiles existed solely to protect them while they annoyed everyone else. The Second patrolled steep hills, run-down gardens, a big chunk of palace (Nero's Golden House) and a prestigious public building site (Vespasian's huge new amphitheatre). They faced some headaches, but were bearing up like Stoics. Their enquiry team were a group of relaxed layabouts whom we found sitting on a bench working out their night-s.h.i.+ft bonus pay. They had plenty of time to tell us about their interesting murder case, though perhaps less energy for actually solving it.

'Jo! He took a knock all right!'

'Bang on the k.n.o.b?' Petro was doing the talking. 'Cracked open like a nut.'

'Know who he is?'

'Bit of a mystery man. Want a look at him?'

'Maybe.' Petronius preferred not to be that kind of sightseer, until it was unavoidable. 'Can you show us the scene of the mugging?'

'Sure! Come and see the happy fellow first ...' Neither of us wanted to. Blood is bad enough. Spilt brains we avoid.

Luckily the Second Cohort turned out to be an outfit with caring methods. While they waited for someone to come forward and claim the victim, they had slung his body in a sheet between two laundry poles, in the shed where they normally kept their fire engine. The pumping machine had been dragged out to the street where it was being admired by a large group of elderly men and small boys. Indoors, the corpse lay in a dim light. He had been neatly arranged and had his head in a bucket to contain leakage. The scene was one of respectful privacy.

I did not enjoy looking at the body. I hate becoming introspective. Life's bad enough without upsetting yourself drawing filthy parallels.

I had seen him before. I had met him briefly. I had talked to him - too briefly, perhaps. He was the cheerful lad at the dinner last night, the one in the oatmeal tunic who kept his own council in a diffident manner while watching the dancer Attractus had hired. He and I had later shared a joke, one I could not even now remember, as he helped me round up some slaves to shoulder my amphora of fish- pickle.

The victim was about my own age, build and body- weight. Before some thug split his skull apart he had been intelligent and pleasant; I had had the impression he lived in the same world as me. Although Anacrites had pretended not to know who he was, I wondered if that had been a lie. An uneasy feeling warned me the dead man's presence at the dinner would turn out to be relevant. He left the Palatine at the same time as me. He must have been killed very soon afterwards. Whoever attacked him may well have followed us both from the Palace. He went off alone; I had been escorted by two hefty slaves with my amphora.

A nagging premonition suggested that had I also been unaccompanied, the body in the firefighters' shed could well have been mine.

IX

Petronius and I made a cursory survey of the corpse, trying to ignore the head damage. Once again we found no other significant wounds. But a stain on the sheet which was cradling the body made me lift his right leg. Behind the knee I discovered a torn flap of skin - little more than a scratch, though it had bled freely because of its location, and it must have stung when he acquired it.

'Petro, what do you make of that?'

'Snagged himself on something?'

'I don't know ... Anacrites also had a cut leg for some reason.'

'You're scavenging, Falco. It's nothing.'

'You're the expert!' That always worried him.

The Second Cohort had ascertained that the dead man's name was Valentinus. It had only taken a few moments of asking around locally. He had rented lodgings on the Esquiline, just ten strides from where somebody had battered him to death.

The neighbour who identified the body had told the Second that Valentinus had lived alone. His occupation was unknown. He had gone out and about at different hours and quite often received callers of various kinds. He went to the baths, but avoided temples. He had never been any trouble to his neighbours. He gave no signs of enjoying himself much, nor had he ever been arrested by the vigiles. Until the night he died, he had always taken care of himself.

The Second led us to his apartment, which they had previously searched. It was a two-room fourth-floor lease in a dark tenement. Its furnis.h.i.+ngs were spa.r.s.e but neat. The inner room held his bed, a couple of tunics dumped on a bench, his spare boots, and a few unrevealing personal items. The outer room contained a table, his smart red gloss food bowl, his winecup with a jocular message, his stylus and string-bound note tablet (clean of useful information), and a hook with his cloak and hat. Each room was lit by one high window, too far away to see out.

Petronius and I took a sombre look around while the Second Cohort members tried not to show that they resented us checking their work. We found nothing remarkable, nothing to identify the man or his occupation. Even so, to me the style of his living quarters was depressingly familiar.

Then, as we were all trooping out again, I stopped. Light from our lantern happened to fall on the doorpost outside the apartment. There, somebody some years ago had drawn a neat pictogram of a single human eye. I knew the faded symbol. It's a sign informers use.

Petro and I stared at each other. Looking more keenly for clues, I noticed that although the doorlock appeared innocuous its fine bronze lion-headed key, which the Second had taken from the body, showed that instead of the common pin-tumbler fastener that most people use, Valentinus had invested in a devious iron rotary lock, which would be difficult to pick or force without the proper key. Then, crouching near ground level, Petro spotted two tiny metal tacks, one knocked into the door itself, one in the frame. A cla.s.sic tell-tale: tied between the tacks had been a human hair. It had been broken, presumably when the Second first entered.

'No offence, lads, but we'd better think about this again,' said Petro, looking virtuous.

He and I went back inside. Quietly and carefully we searched the room afresh, as if Valentinus had been a pal of ours. This time the Second watched us in fascination while we took the place apart.

Under the bed, lashed to its frame, we found a sword capable of quick release by pulling one end of a knot.

Although the windows looked out of reach, if you dragged the table to one, or climbed on the upended bench below the other, you could stretch outside and discover that somebody had banged in a couple of useful hooks. One had an amphora of good Setinum red wine hung up to warm in the sunlight; the other, through which a lithe man might just wriggle, had a stout rope neatly rolled up but long enough to reach a balcony roof on the storey below. Under most of the floorboards lurked nothing of interest, though we did find some letters from his family (parents and a cousin, who lived a few miles from Rome). We discovered no money. Like me, Valentinus probably kept a bankbox in the Forum, with its access number stored securely in his head.

One floorboard in the bedroom actually had nails with false heads. It came up quite smoothly when you pulled it up by way of a knot, waggled your fingers underneath the wood and released a specially constructed bar that pivoted aside. Built under the board was a small, locked wooden compartment. Eventually I located the key, concealed in a hollow carved under the seat of the stool in the outer room. In his secret box the dead man had kept spare, succinct notes about his work. He was a neat, regular record-keeper. We already knew that: Valentinus' hat had been double lined; inside it Petronius had found expense sheets of a type I knew all too well.

Some work that the dead man did, probably from necessity, was just the kind of dreary intrigue I often had to carry out myself for private clients. The rest was different. Valentinus had been more than an informer, he was a spy. He was claiming for many hours spent on surveillance. And although there were no names for the people he had been recently watching, the latest entries on his claim sheet were all codenamed 'Corduba'. Corduba is the capital of Romanised Baetica.

We reckoned we knew who had commissioned this work. One of the expense claims from his hat had already been stamped and approved for payment. The stamp was a large oval, featuring two elephants with entwined trunks: Anacrites' chalcedony seal.

Petronius left me in the Forum. The task was mine now. Facing up to it with my usual compulsion and stamina, I went home to bed.

Next day, striking while some impetus was with me, I walked back to the Forum, up through the Cryptoporticus where the scoffing Praetorians knew me well enough to admit me after a few threats and jeers, then into the old Palace. I had no need of Claudius Laeta to advise me who to interview or to smooth the way. I possessed other contacts. Mine were probably no more reliable than the devious correspondence chief, but I was attached to them on the usual perverse grounds that make you trust men you have known for some time even when you suspect that they lie, cheat and steal.

Momus was a slave overseer. He looked as healthy as a side of condemned beef and as dangerous as an escaped gladiator on the run. His eyes were moist with some infection, his body was scarred, his face was a fascinating grey shade as if he had not been outside for the past decade. Being an overseer was something he no longer worked at very hard; he left the rituals of slave market, placement, whipping and bribe-taking to others.

Momus now held some nebulous position at the Palace; in effect, he was another spy. He did not work for Anacrites. He did not care for Anacrites either. But in a bureaucracy every employee has to have another officer who reports on him to his superiors. Anacrites was attached to the Praetorian Guard but worked directly to the Emperor, so he was judged by Vespasian himself when it came to matters of reprimand or reward. Both Anacrites and I believed Momus to be the nark who told the Emperor what he should think of the Chief Spy's work. That meant Anacrites despised and loathed him, but it made Momus a friend of mine.

I told him the Chief Spy had been seriously hurt. It was supposed to be a secret but Momus already knew. I guessed he had also heard that Anacrites was supposed to be hidden away at the Temple of Aesculapius on Tiber Island - but maybe he had not yet found out that the victim was really laid up on the Aventine with Ma.

'Something funny's going on, Momus.'

'What's new, Falco?'

'This attack is supposed to relate to intelligence work. n.o.body even knows what Anacrites was investigating. I'm trying to track down his agents, or records of what he's been involved with -'

'You'll have a job.' Momus enjoyed disheartening me. 'Anacrites is like an Athenian vote machine.'

'That's a bit subtle for me.'

'You know; it's a gadget to prevent n.o.bbling. When they used open jars fistfuls of votes used to go astray. So now the voters put b.a.l.l.s in the top of a closed box; they wiggle down inside and then the election results pop out at the bottom. No fraud - and no fun, either. Trust the b.l.o.o.d.y Greeks.'

'What's this to do with Anacrites?'

'People pile information into his brain and if he's in the right mood he farts out a report. In between, everything is locked up.'

'Well, it looks as if the next person he blows a report at could be Charon the ferryman.'

'Oh dear, poor Charon'' sneered Momus, with the cheery expression of a man who was just thinking that if Anacrites had sailed away on the decrepit punt to Hades, he might immediately apply for Anacrites' job. Some state employees love to hear about a colleague's premature demise.

'Charon's going to be busy,' I commented. 'Villains have been cracking spies' heads all over the Esquiline. There was also a pleasant lad who used to do surveillance work.'

'Do I know him, Falco?'

'Valentinus.'

Momus let out a snarl of disgust. 'Oh Jupiter! Dead? That's terrible. Valentinus who lived on the Esquiline? Oh no; he was cla.s.s, Falco. He must have been the best snuffler Anacrites used.'

'Well, he's not on the staff roll.'

'Better sense. He stayed freelance. Self-employed. I used him myself sometimes.'

'What for?'

'Oh ... tracking down runaways.' The alleged overseer looked vague. I reckoned whatever Momus used Valentinus for would give me a queasy stomach. I decided not to know.

'Was he good?'

'The best. Straight, fast, decent to deal with, and accurate.'

I sighed. More and more this sounded like a man I would have liked to share a drink with. I could have made friends with Valentinus last night at the dinner, if I had only realised. Then maybe if we had rolled out of the Palace together like cronies, events might have turned out differently for the freelance. Together we might have fought off his attackers. It could have saved his life.

Momus was eyeing me up. He knew I had an interest. 'You going to sort this out, Falco?'

'It looks like a murky fishpond. Reckon I stand a chance?'

'No. You're a clown.'

'Thanks, Momus.'

'My pleasure.'

'Don't enjoy yourself too much with the hard-hitting insults; I may prove you wrong.'

'Virgins might stay chaste!'

I sighed. 'Heard anything about any dirty goings-on in Baetica?'

'No. Baetica's all suns.h.i.+ne and fish-sauce.'

'Know anything about the Society of Olive Oil Producers, then?'

'Load of old belchers who meet in the bas.e.m.e.nt and plot how they can straighten out the world?'

'They didn't seem to be plotting last evening, just stuffing their faces. Oh, and most were trying to ignore a group of genuine Baetican visitors.'

'That's them!' grinned Momus. 'They pretend to love anything Hispanic - but only if it can be served on a dish.' I gathered that the Society was officially deemed innocuous. As usual, Momus knew more about it than a slave overseer should. 'Anacrites got himself voted into the club so he could keep an eye on them.'

Was political scheming likely?'

'Piddle! He just liked feeding at their well-filled manger.' 'Well, as anarchists they didn't look very adventurous.' 'Of course not,' scoffed Momus. 'I haven't noticed the world being straightened out, have you?'

There was not much else Momus could tell me about Anacrites or Valentinus - or at least nothing he was prepared to reveal. But with his knowledge of the unfree workforce he did know which usher had been running the dinner for the Society. While I was at the Palace I looked out this man and talked to him.

He was a lugubrious slave called Helva. Like most palace types he looked oriental in origin and gave the impression he misunderstood whatever was being said to him, probably on purpose. He had an official job, but was trying to improve himself by sucking up to men of status; the Baetican Society members obviously saw him as a soft touch to be sneered at and put upon.

'Helva, who did the organising for this exclusive club?' 'An informal committee.' Unhelpful: clearly he could see my status did not call for an ingratiating style.

'Who was on it?'

'Whoever bothered to turn up when I insisted someone tell me what was wanted.'

'Some names would help,' I suggested pleasantly.

'Oh, Laeta and his deputies, then Quinctius Attractus -'

'Is he an overweight senator who likes holding court?' 'He has interests in Baetica and he's the big mover in the Society.'

'Is he Spanish by origin?'

'Not the slightest. Old patrician family.'

'I should have known. I understood the Society's real links with Hispania are defunct and that members try to deter provincials from attending?'

'Most do. Attractus is more enlightened.'

'You mean, he sees the Society as his personal platform for glory and he likes to suggest he can work wonders in Rome for any visitors from Spain? Is that why he hogs a private room?'

'Well, unofficially. Other members annoy him by barging in.'

'They think he's someone to annoy, do they?'

It looked to me as if Attractus, and possibly his Baetican friends, had been under observation - probably by both Anacrites and his agent. Was Anacrites suspicious of something they were up to? Did Attractus or the Baetican group want to wipe him out as a result? It looked all too obvious if they were the attackers. They surely must realise questions would be asked. Or was Attractus so arrogant he thought the attacks could be got away with?

Needing to think about that, I went back to my original question. 'Who else organises events?'

'Anacrites 'Anacrites? He never struck me as a dinner party planner! What was his role?'

'Be reasonable, Falco! He's a spy. What do you think his role is? On rare occasions when he exerts himself, he causes upsets. He really enjoys carping about the guests other members bring. "If you knew what I knew, you wouldn't mix with so-and-so ..." All hints, of course; he never says why.'

'Master of the non-specific insult!'

'Then if ever I upset him he'll query the accounts for the previous party and accuse me of diddling them. The rest of the time he does nothing, or as little as possible.'