Nemesis

I spelled out the trouble: 'Got a function tonight, have you? Lucky you don't supervise in person or you'd be forced to cancel. Looks like you'll be stuck here answering five hundred questions about the status of your boy and girl helpers until the moon comes out. Any of them got form? Past arrests for pinching clients' pretty manicure boxes? Your women ever been on the vigiles' prostitute lists?' In the service industry that was inevitable. Waitresses were there to sleep with. 'And what about you, Heracleides – - what's your citizen status? Did you answer your summons for the Census? Got any imported artwork you never paid port duty on? Where did all this charming ivory come from – - would it be African?'

He tried to play tough. 'What do you want, Falco?'

'I want whichever of your staff picked up a fine cameo pendant at the spy's house. If they talk to me today, I can promise no comeback.'

'I wish I'd never taken that brief

'Think of this as structured learning. Now, show me your managerial expertise: kindly produce my witness.'

He liked the jargon. He disappeared to ask the group which of them was guilty. He wasn't long coming back. His minions must be curled up in the stable stalls downstairs.

'It's my chef. He's not available. I sent him on a meat-carving course. Sorry – you've had a wasted journey.'

'He slashed the Trojan hog with panache last night. He doesn't need extra training. You're lying. Let's make a little trip downstairs, shall we?'

We made the trip. I walked at my favourite pace, steady but purposeful. Heracleides stumbled more jerkily. That was because I was holding him up by the back of his tunic, so he had to walk on tiptoe. Draught mules watched thoughtfully as we appeared together in the stable.

'Call your chef

'He's not here, Falco.'

'Call him!'

'Nymphidias…'

'Too quiet.' I reinforced the request painfully. Heracleides yelled Nymphidias' name with much more urgency and the chef crawled out from behind a barrel. He was the man who stole the miniature painting yesterday, I knew. In view of his expertise with knives, I kept my distance.

I let go of the party-planner, shaking my fingers fastidiously. Heracleides fell headlong into some dirty straw, though of course I had not pushed him. I squared up to the chef. Not having his big carver with him, his bravado crumbled.

I extracted the facts fast. Yes, Nymphidias stole the cameo. He had found it in one of the small rooms down the corridor where I got lost earlier in the evening. In the room had been a narrow bed, a man's spare clothes, and a luggage pack. The jewel was in the pack, wrapped carefully in cloth. Everything else there had looked masculine.

I described the Melitans. The chef knew who I meant. They had both come into the kitchen at one point, asking for a meal. Nymphidias said it was a cheek – not in the party contract and they had demanded double portions too – - but he prepared some food in a slack moment, which he personally took to their quarters as an excuse to look around. They were in the room where I saw them sitting, not the same as where he found the cameo.

It started to look as if all kinds of agents slept at the spy's house, on occasions. He must be running a kind of runners' dormitory.

'You see anyone else apart from the two who were hungry?'

'No.'

'Nobody who stayed in the single room, where you found the jewel?'

'No.'

I did not believe it. 'There was someone else – I saw him myself.'

'Party guests came to use the washroom. So did the musicians. That singer was hanging about like a spare part – we run into him at a lot of das.'

'He's called Scorpus,' Heracleides put in, trying to seem helpful. 'Always takes an interest in how much money the hosts have, who their wives are sleeping with, and so on. Very persistent. It's all wrong; in our business you have to be discreet. These clients are high-status; they expect complete discretion.'

'So unprofessional,' I sympathised. 'He sings appallingly too. Whose nark is he? Who pays him?'

'You'll have to ask him.' Heracleides looked jealous, as though he thought Scorpus might receive more for information than he did.

'And who do you spy for?'

'No comment.'

'Oh him! I've met that shy boy "no comment" before! There are ways to make him less bashful – and they are not pleasant.'

I returned my attention to the chef. He said the spy's household staff had kept to themselves all evening, annoyed that outsiders had been hired. Apparently that was common. When Heracleides ran functions, he told his staff to make sure the house slaves did not spike drinks or spoil dishes. Anacrites dressed his slaves in green (how sickly; he would!); when they did wander about, they were easy to identify.

'So,' I enquired of Nymphidias, 'from its position and appearance, what did you think when you found this jewel?'

He sniffed. 'I thought whoever had it must have no right to it. It was hidden away too carefully. The rest of his stuff didn't look at all swank. The gem couldn't be his. So I might as well take it off him, mightn't I? Just the way,' he whined, with a new aggression in his tone, 'you've taken it off me.'

'The difference being,' I answered quietly, 'I shall hand it in to the vigiles, so they can find out who really owns it.'

Standing beside me, Heracleides laughed. 'Anacrites won't like that!'

He was right. But Anacrites would never know, until there was a good reason for Petronius and me to tell him.

Before I left, I took Heracleides out of hearing of his staff. 'One last question. Who is so keen to know what goes on in Anacrites' house?'

'I don't know what you mean, Falco.'

'Pig's pizzle. Anacrites is supposed to be the Chief Spy – - but more observers sneaked in last night than deluded fathers and clever slaves in a Greek farce. What if I float the name Claudius Laeta past you?'

'Never heard of him.'

'You're tiring me out. Anacrites may be simple-minded, but I can spot infiltrators. Admit it; you do the same as Scorpus. You get paid to poke around houses, on likely nights… Indiscretions happen at parties. People drink too much, there is unfortunate groping, you overhear talk of an illegal betting syndicate, someone says Domitian Caesar needs a good spank, someone else knows about the Praetor's nasty habit – '

Heracleides looked wide-eyed. 'What habit?'

I had started a rumour. Well, it was probably true. 'Educated guess… We can make a deal. You tell me about Laeta, and I'll make sure you will hear no more about your staffs pilfering last night?'

'Can't help you, honestly. Oh leave it alone, Falco – - we've got a good racket, and it's harmless. The hosts can all afford it. And we don't keep the stuff ourselves.'

'What racket's this?'

At once Heracleides regretted the slip. He soon drooped and confessed. 'We lift a few pretty things that look as if they may have sentimental value. We pass them to our principal. He goes along to the house a few days later. He tells them he has heard on his special grapevine about some property that belongs to them. He thinks he can get it all back, and will retrieve it as a special favour. Of course there is a premium to pay… You know.' I knew all right.

'So who is this?' It could not be Laeta. He had more class. Blackmail was his medium, not ransoming heirlooms.

'Someone I'm not prepared to mess with, Falco.' Well, the scam was almost irrelevant. I handled property-hostage hustles sometimes, but my present interest was in bigger things.

Heracleides seemed genuinely afraid. Joking initially, I finished up, 'That settles it. I shall have to assume that you work for Momus!'