Nemesis

'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.

Babies were still a painful subject with Helena and me. To stop Claudia detailing the wonders of their newest son, I turned back to Anacrites. Forcing Aulus to endure a bout of Minas, I grabbed our host's attention. 'So! Tell us all about the big secret mission. Where did you go? How long did you stay? How many barbarians tried to garrotte you? Do tell me some at least tried. And what were you doing abroad in the first place, acting as the Emperor's messenger-boy?'

'You're just jealous,' Anacrites replied coyly.

'Cobnuts! Now, I don't mind you playfully pretending it's a state secret – -just so long as you confess all.'

'It was nothing.' Everyone was now listening, so Anacrites had to answer. 'It seems that when his mistress Antonia Caenis was alive, Vespasian managed to discover for her that her ancestors came from Istria.' Minas looked puzzled yet again, so Anacrites explained that our affable old Emperor had lived much of his life with an influential freedwoman who filled a wife's place. 'Senators are forbidden to marry freedwomen. Apparently Caenis had not known her origins and I suppose it bothered her. Once Vespasian assumed power, he had access to the records. Someone finally looked up answers.'

'That's a romantic story,' Claudia said.

'It was true love.' Helena supplied the fact that Caenis had managed to visit her homeland for nostalgic reasons before she died. 'I met her; I liked her enormously. Did you know her, Anacrites?'

'I knew who she was, of course,' he said, in that careful way of his. From what I had seen, in a couple of meetings while she was alive, Antonia Caenis had more sense than to cosy up to the spy.

'I wondered if your backgrounds were similar?' Helena pressed. The spy, not deft with a spoon, concentrated on chasing a langoustine nibble around his foodbowl. I admired my sweetheart for many fine qualities, not least her ability to denude a silver comport of its most succulent seafood while seemingly engaged in chat. Helena served herself to three from the central table while he fumbled. If we had been seated together she might have passed one to me. 'So what were your duties in Istria, Anacrites?' Nobody else will have noticed, but Helena was aware of the way I was smiling down the room at her.

'Merely ceremonial. Falco would have been impatient with it.. .'I leaned on my elbow and glared at him sternly. Anacrites was just too good to show it made him uncomfortable. 'Vespasian endowed various public buildings, in honour of Caenis. An amphitheatre at Pola, for instance, needed restoration – -'

'He paid for it?'

'He loved her, Marcus,' Helena called reprovingly. 'Go on, Anacrites.'

'I was sent to represent him at the inauguration. So, Falco, it was nothing sinister!'

I laughed off this weak attempt to make me appear paranoid. 'My dear fellow, any time you have the chance to cut civic ribbons in a two-bit foreign town, you do it. I am surprised you could be spared for such matters.'

He flushed slightly. 'Pola is a major city, Colonia Pietas Iulia Pola Pollentia Herculanea. I was owed leave. I was honoured to go. It suited me too,' he let slip.

'Oh?' I was on it at once.

'I have connections there.'

'Connections?' I patted his shoulder. 'Can we be learning personal secrets?'

Anacrites shifted. 'It is very beautiful along the coast.'

'Full of pirates, lurking in the rocky creeks, according to my Uncle Fulvius. He watched their movements for the fleet,' I told the spy, trying to make him think this undercover work had been for some mysterious higher agency. Fulvius was in Egypt now, or I would never have mentioned it. No rose suspended from a ceiling was protection enough; had Fulvius still been engaged as a 'military corn factor' (a ridiculous myth, because no corn factor is ever what he seems) he would not have thanked me for interesting Anacrites. 'So what was the real draw, Anacrites?'

'Oh… an opportunity to get my hands on some Pucinum wine!' The man was indefatigably slippery.

To his obvious relief the servers cleared the starter tables and brought in the main course. While this was organised, the tumblers tumbled off for a break and a professional singer swanned up to delight us. He must be all the rage; I recognised this caroller from Laeta's office. Immediately I wondered if he was Laeta's plant, observing Anacrites at play. The thought kept me happy until the new foodbowls were laid.

Time for business. (Anything to avoid listening to this singer.) 'So Anacrites, how are you getting on with the Modestus killing?'

'Don't ask, Falco!'

'I just did. Now listen, happy host, I am your guest of honour. While I stretch out on my elbow here in the best place, the consul's spot, my every whim is yours to fulfil – so come clean! What's the situation?'

'There has been another death.' The spy had a wide-eyed honest look that made me want to screw bits off my bread roll and stuff him like a trigon ball. 'It bears similarities to the Modestus killing.. .'

'But?'

'Either it's some sad mimic – plenty of people knew what happened to Modestus; the vigiles may have said too much in public -' Oh yes, blame them, you bastard! 'Or I think it is a ploy, Falco – falsely implying that the killer works from Rome. Of course, I am not fooled so easily. Modestus had been tailed on his journey; he was deliberately targeted. This was different.'

'Interesting!' I was shocked. Was Anacrites really so shrewd? I almost wondered if he had a nark in the vigiles' patrol house who had eavesdropped on Petronius and me.

Aware of my surprise, he applied fake humility. 'What do you say, Falco? I'd like to hear your professional evaluation.'

'Oh you seem on top of things.'

'Thanks. Did you know about the second killing? Have you discussed it with Petronius?' He really wanted to know whether we were still monitoring his case.

'Yes, we heard about it.'

'And what was his verdict?'

'We think a crazed copycat killer knifed the poor courier… So are you still looking for those Claudii?'

'Of course.' It was the right thing to say. He was smooth as a wet rat sliding down a drain. Still, I never expected Anacrites to be totally incompetent, let alone appear corrupt. He was too good to show what he was up to.

He turned away, readjusting a pomegranate silk cushion so he could converse again with Minas. 'We don't want to talk about a murder over dinner, Falco.'

You could tell he rarely entertained. He had no idea that far from being squeamish, guests would be eager to hear about gore.

When the main course arrived, he had overdone things. There was no need. His caterers were first class; we would have been flattered by anything they cooked. A couple of roasts, a simple platter with a fine fish, a vegetable melange with one or two unusual ingredients, would have sufficed. But he had to over-impress. Although he had complimented Helena and me on the warm atmosphere of our Saturnalia gathering last December, Anacrites had failed to analyse it: good food, fresh ingredients not overcooked, a few carefully chosen herbs and spices, all served in a relaxed style with everybody mucking in.

Instead we had tired old Lucullan oysters – - 'I'm sorry, Falco; I know you were in Britain, but I could not get Rutupian!' After flamingo tongues and lobster in double sauces came the ridiculous climax. Albia squeaked and sat up on her couch in happy expectation: a major-domo clinked an amphora to call for attention, spare servers stood back expectantly, the tumblers' harpists (who must have finished their boozing break) rattled off dramatic arpeggios accompanying a drum roll. A pair of sweating waiters dragged in the Trojan hog. Though young, it was a big brute, presented on a trolley upright on its feet, wearing its hair and tusks. From the glaze on its cheeks and the delectable odours, it had slow-roasted most of the day. Fake grass, full of pastry rabbits, nestled around its trotters. A crown of gilded laurel topped it, wired on between the piggy's shining ears.