There was less smoke in this part of the house. When we turned away in disgust from the art collection, we were able to see the young man who opened a door further down the corridor and looked out to investigate the commotion. It was Camillus Justinus.
At once, according to the vigiles' rules of duty, he was taken hold of roughly, knocked semi-conscious when he protested, then passed from hand to hand in a businesslike fashion as far as the exterior of the building where-in circumstances that were later vague-he vanished.
Among many rumours that circulated later about the fire at the Chief Spy's house, I did hear that when the Sixth Cohort came to pack up their esparto mats for return to their patrol house, they discovered someone had filched the mat-cart. And it was said, no doubt mischievously, that towards the end of the incident, Anacrites turned up and was outraged to receive a report on the damage to his house from a man dressed as a five-foot carrot. The Sixth Cohort indignantly denied all knowledge of this vegetable.
Anacrites became so angry he ordered the carrot's arrest, but it made a quick getaway when everyone was busy confronting the arrival of a suspicious group of elderly men, thought to be of German nationality, who tried to break into the Spy's house at the back, even though the Spy was standing right there at the front. The tribune of the Sixth (an officer who had been drawn to the scene by an urgent report that a VIP was apoplectic) soothed things down, and passed off the Germans' assault as a stupid escapade carried out by overenthusiastic seasonal revellers. He ordered the be-whiskered Rhineland relics to be put in the lock-up until they sobered up. Unfortunately, when Anacrites went along next morning intending to interrogate them, someone had misunderstood the tribune's orders and released them without charge into the care of younger relatives who just happened to turn up offering to keep the old fellows out of further trouble. Sad really, everyone agreed. Ancient citizens with previously unspotted reputations for imperial service, letting themselves down by having one flagon too many… When Anacrites tried to find them, it was said they had all gone home to Germany for a late winter holiday.
And where was his prisoner? No idea who you are talking about, insisted the Sixth Cohort. We handed back all the slaves we found and made sure we got a receipt.
Safe. Safe and hidden.
XXXV
Anacrites' pathetic brain must be churning like a waterwheel after a thunderstorm. His first jump on the night of the fire was obvious: it did not take him long to work out that any scam involving the vigiles must relate to me and my friend Petronius. Faster than we expected, he tracked down the Fourth Cohort's party, which by then was riotous. Marcus Rubella had somehow remained sober enough to curb his antagonistic instincts when Anacrites turned up, supported by some Praetorian Guards. After all, Rubella's known ambition was to join the Guards himself Though by now unable to speak, Rubella gravely waved them in to search the place as best they could. This would not be easy. Many of the Fourth Cohort were lying on the ground for a rest; some were upright but flopping over in all directions like weeds in the sun, others were standing rigid in their boots and offering to fight their own shadows. The Praetorians were impressed by these wild scenes; they soon forgot their orders and joined in the conviviality. I tipped Junia the wink to give them whatever they wanted.
'Anything but my body!' she giggled. I shivered at this fantastical thought.
Anacrites marched around on his own, staring at faces. Among the intoxicated this is not best practice. Several vigiles offered to floor him, furious at his attitude. Everyone he asked swore that Petronius and I had been there all night. He soon stopped asking; he was not stupid.
The atmosphere had deteriorated, to the bemusement of my brother-in-law Gaius Baebius, who never had any sense and who had turned up with his three-year-old son, aiming to wait around eating free pies until Junia needed an escort home. She had other ideas, insofar as her thinking processes still worked. Although Junia always claimed she never drank, she had reached a happy point where she saw no reason ever to leave the party (a situation Gaius may have foreseen, if he knew her better than I thought). I wanted her to leave. She was showing signs of becoming more belligerent than any of the woozy men around her, and it took the form of shouting out remarks about Anacrites and our mother which the Spy would consider slanderous. Ma would not be too pleased either. She was the important one. I wondered if killing your forty-year-old daughter would still count as infanticide.
Meanwhile some of the green boughs in the roof had been set on fire by the strings of lights. Little Marcus Baebius, who could hear none of the tumult so he was less frightened than he might have been, sat gazing around at the magical scene, and was the first to raise the alarm, delightedly pointing out to his father the flames in the dry pine boughs.
'I say!' exclaimed Gaius loudly. The vigiles' response was sillier than their fire-fighting manual orders. Of those who noticed, most took the traditional public service view that any action was the responsibility of somebody else. Some raised wine cups and cheered.
'A little child is in danger!' Junia screamed, wobbling on her feet. This only elicited guffaws of 'How many vigiles does it take to put out a fire?' To which the standard answer is: four hundred and ninety nine to give the orders and one to piss on the blaze. Then a spark landed on Rubella, so he finally weighed in. He rounded up a group to drag out the burning branches to the street where they would only bum down houses, not the warehouse that had been so expensively hired with cash from the entertainment kitty.
When people rushed outside to watch the bonfire, a space cleared and Anacrites stumbled upon Petronius and me. He squeezed his expensive tunic through a tightly knotted group that included the man dressed as a turnip, whose friends were holding him down and pouring cups of wine into him (through his topknot of leaves) as if it was some kind of dangerous dare. Barely aware of what they were up to, the furious Spy elbowed them aside. 'I'm looking for you two!' He got no sense out of us. We were far too drunk, sitting on a platform, with our arms around each other's necks, singing meaningless hymns, while Apollonius the waiter hopelessly begged us to go home.
Anacrites was then nearly knocked face down by the man dressed as a turnip. This crackpot was bumping the Spy from behind while his companions feebly tried to restrain him. His costume was sewn on a frame of heavy wooden hoops. The Spy was picking up bruises every time he got belted. We saw that Anacrites was about to remonstrate. 'We in the Fourth Cohort know how to give a turnip a good time!' burbled Petro, with an infectious burp; he collapsed into giggles.
Safely distracted, the Spy turned back, furious with us now. I raised my arm as if to make a declaration, forgot what I had intended, then lay down and pretended I'd passed out cold.
Anacrites let out a hiss of disgust. Fortunately the fighting turnip had been dragged away by friends. Doing his best to assemble the Praetorians he came with, Anacrites made a censorious exit. Reviving, we watched his departure with cold eyes. We now knew that where most people spend their evenings with a bowl of nuts while warming their feet on the dog, or at least warming their feet on the wife, he went into a secret room alone and gloated over a statue of a naked hermaphrodite displaying its wares as if fascinated by its own array of mixed organs. The disconcerting bisexual in his private cabinet was surrounded by shelves of vases; they were painted with scenes of group sex-thrusting lovers in action, piled up in triples and quadruples like limpets, while sinister bystanders watched these antics salaciously through half-open doors.