Nemesis

'Funny thing,' murmured Fusculus. 'That's what Petronius Longus decided.' He pretended to look impressed that we two could so swiftly come up with the same suggestion. 'Mind you, he always likes to be a wild man over theories. If seven people say a cabbage-seller did it, the mighty Longus will arrest the baker. He'll be right too. Clever bastard.'

Going on my way, when I reached the door I whipped back with a sudden last question. This was a trick to reserve for suspects, really, but Tiberius Fusculus was one person in the vigiles who appreciated stagecraft. 'Have you discounted a copycat?'

'Ah, Falco, there's always that delight to cause confusion!'

Petro had been going to bed when I arrived, but he stayed up to gossip. We went out to the balcony. He closed the folding door. That was how he did things. Through the slats I could see Maia waggling her fingers at us and sticking out her tongue. Ma would have listened secretly. Helena would have dragged the door straight open again and brought a stool for herself.

He gave me further details. The Seventh Cohort, all halfwits in Petro's opinion, had been first on the scene. The Via Triumphalis, which runs out of the city on the north-east side, was the Seventh's beat; they had jurisdiction over the Ninth and Fourteenth districts, including any burial ground just outside the boundary. They consulted the Fourth Cohort. They knew Petronius had the Modestus case, though they had been unaware of the Anacrites complication. The Fourth's tribune wanted to be a Praetorian Guard and spies were a Praetorian subdivision, so as it had a bearing on his own position Rubella stuck by the rules. He notified Anacrites of the new linked case so fast the hot wax seal burned the spy's fingers. Anacrites had allowed the Seventh to continue with routine enquiries. Either they lacked the taint of association with Petronius and me, or he just thought they were too stupid to get in his way.

'As they are,' said Petro.

'You're tired.'

'I'm right.'

'Of course. So what do you think? Fusculus says the new official view is that the Triumphalis death indicates random killings on any road near Rome. It's supposed to tell us the Modestus death was just a traveller's unlucky accident.'

'Yes, apparently that is a luminous truth.'

'Modestus getting topped on his way into Rome has no relation to the Claudii but is pure coincidence?'

'Wrong road, wrong time.' Petro paused, as Maia came out with a dish of stuffed vine leaves, checking up that we were not enjoying ourselves too much without her.

'He needs his rest, Marcus.'

'We've nearly finished.'

'I know you; you haven't even started.'

'Buzz off and let us get on then.' Petro's tone was affectionate. My sister put up with it.

I chomped a vine leaf. Home made. Wheatgrain and pine nut filling in a slightly tart dressing. Mint. Good, but I stayed gloomy. 'Spill, sunshine.'

Petro took a snack between one thumb and finger, but merely waved it as he talked. 'Marcus, here is my personal list of anomalies. First, why did the Modestus killers cut off his hands? I still think for revenge: those hands had repeatedly written angry letters to complain about the Claudii. Someone must have heard about Cicero – murdered for railing against Mark Antony. Cicero's hands, which wrote his polemics, were removed and stuck on spikes either side of the head up on the rostrum where he had made his speeches.'

'One hand.'

'Pedant.'

'The allusion seems too literary.'

'No, it's not. Everyone knows what happened to Cicero. Even I know!' boasted Petro. He had been to school, but whereas my adult hobbies were drinking and reading, his were drinking and drinking some more. 'Besides, what do you think Nobilis and Probus do all day at their miserable shacks? They sit down with a learned scroll to improve their minds, don't they?'

'Show me proof! But I go with revenge against the petitioner's hands. Next anomaly?'

'I had had our doctor, Scythax, take a look at the remains before we got Modestus cremated. Scythax thought he was probably still alive when his hands were removed. Nobilis may know about the death of Cicero; he intended Modestus would appreciate his fate.'

'Meanwhile, the courier's boy never wrote poison pen letters.'

'No, he couldn't read or write.' Trust Petro to have asked the question. 'His body may have been stretched out like Modestus, but his slashed belly is different. Scythax tends to be cautious forensically, but he reckons the Modestus killer cut open the corpse after death. I mean, he probably came back and did it several days later.'

I cringed. 'What was that for?'

'Who knows why? Reinforcing his power, maybe.' Petro munched his snack now, thinking about perversion and frowning. 'Anyway, the courier was opened up the same day he died. We can be sure, because he set off in the afternoon and was found at first light next day. He was practically warm.'

'The murder sounds hurried – that's untypical of repeat killers.' I could tell from the way Petronius had paced his narrative, there must be at least one more discrepancy. 'What else?'

'Whoever killed Modestus, from the detritus left nearby, I suspect more than one man was there. And they stayed around the crime scene for several days. After the killing, I mean. Possibly someone came back to slash Modestus open – but I say, the bastards never went away.'

'Jupiter! This happens?'

'With perverts. Of course, people who hold other theories will argue that around the Via Appia tombs there are plenty of comers and goers, squatters and campers, so how can we tell?'

'And how can you?'

'As well as the post mortem filleting job, we found seats that had been moved out of the tomb; discarded amphorae; obvious food evidence. There was human shit and it was the right vintage.'

I winced. 'Your job is charming.'

'My job is to get it right and not let bastards bamboozle me.'

'If the Modestus killers had wanted to play with the courier's boy like that, all they had to do was take him away from the road out of sight. Instead they placed him right beside the road-edge ditch, where he was bound to be spotted immediately.'

'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 soiree 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.'