When Zazo and Lorenzo turned to leave they found themselves face to face with one of their rank counterparts among the Swiss Guards, Major Gerhardt Glauser, a small pissant of a man who had an unsupportable air of superiority. Whenever they talked about him Zazo rose on tiptoe as testimony to his belief that Glauser must have cheated to make the Guard’s minimum height requirement.
‘What’s this I hear about an incident last night?’ Glauser asked nasally.
‘There was a little problem. Zazo took care of it,’ Lorenzo said.
‘I heard it was more than a little problem. I heard that you killed a man.’
Zazo made a button-the-lips sign. ‘Active investigation, Glauser,’ he said. ‘Need to know.’
‘If it involved the Guards, my superiors would surely place the officer on leave pending an inquiry.’
‘Well, it doesn’t involve the Guards, does it?’ Zazo said, walking around him.
He and Lorenzo made their way briskly to the Operations Center at the Tribunal Palace and settled into their shared office to review schedules before their afternoon briefing with Inspector-General Loreti. After a while Lorenzo ambled over to Zazo’s desk. ‘I’m getting a coffee. Want one?’
Zazo nodded and Lorenzo stole a look at his computer screen.
‘What are you doing on the Interpol site?’ Lorenzo asked.
‘Don’t be nosy.’
‘Come on,’ Lorenzo insisted.
‘I got the bastard’s fingerprint card from the morgue. Leone’s such a genius that he probably hasn’t run the prints through Interpol. Also, you know the weird markings around his tail? I have to tell you in confidence that Elisabetta knows about an identical tattoo from a man who died a few years ago in Germany. I want Interpol to do a check of old phone records to see whether this fellow in Germany and our guy, Vani, ever exchanged calls.’
‘Christ,’ Lorenzo said. ‘If Inspector Loreti finds out you’re doing your own investigation of a Polizia case in the middle of a Conclave – well, you know what’ll happen.’
‘So don’t tell him,’ Zazo said. ‘Three sugars.’
Krek pulled the curtains in his office closed to get the afternoon sun out of his eyes. He sat back down and scanned his calendar. There were three more meetings scheduled. Then a dinner at a hotel in the city center with a Swede anxious to unload his construction company. Krek wanted to loosen his tie. He wanted a drink. He wanted a woman. All three would have to wait. He called his secretary. ‘Get me Mulej.’
The big man lumbered in, fingering his collar. ‘Have you decided what you want to do?’
‘Aldo failed us miserably. The nun’s still alive and the police have his body. This is as bad as it gets.’
‘We should use Hackel. He’s already in Rome.’
‘Hackel has a more important job. I don’t want him losing focus. No, send some men from here. Send them now. Finish this thing.’
FIFTEEN
Rome, AD 64
IT WAS MAY, the loveliest month, when the meadow grasses were tender and spring flowers were in full color. As the daylight waned and the breezes blew, the crowd of revelers swelled and jostled at the edge of the lake. It would be a long, exotic night, one that would be talked about for generations, a night of spectacle and danger.
It was Tigellinus’s doing. Gaius Ofonius Tigellinus was rich, flamboyant and powerful beyond measure. Officially he was Prefect of the Imperial Bodyguard but in practice, he was the Emperor’s chief fixer and procurer and tonight he had organized the party of the century. They were surrounded by woodland at the Campus Martius, the splendid villa built decades earlier by Agrippa, Augustus’s son-in-law. The center-piece of the property was the great artificial lake, the Stagnum Aggripae, fed by an elaborate aqueduct, the Aqua Virgo, and drained by a long canal into the Tiber.
Along all the banks of the 200-meter lake guests entertained themselves with wild abandon. There were taverns and brothels and dining halls that had been constructed just for the day. Exotic birds and wild beasts brought from far-flung corners of the empire were everywhere, some roaming freely, others, like tigers and cheetahs, tethered by chains with enough slack to let them snare drunkards with their teeth and claws. Whenever this happened, a swollen roar of amusement would draw hundreds more spectators to watch the hapless man or woman getting torn apart.
The coming darkness and flowing wine set in motion pure licentiousness. One brothel was populated with only noblewomen. In another, professional prostitutes cavorted openly and nakedly and spilled onto the grass. Promiscuous women of all sorts were available – noble and slave, matrons and virgins – and all were obliged to satisfy any request. Slaves had sex with their mistresses in front of their husbands, gladiators took daughters under the gaze of their fathers. All was allowed, nothing was forbidden. As night fell, the surrounding groves and buildings shone with lights and echoed with shouts and moans. There was pushing and shoving, brawls and stabbings. And the night was still young.
At the main pavilion a few dozen of the most important guests reclined on benches and couches. There were Senators, courtiers, diplomats, the richest merchants. Tigellinus sat in the front, the lake lapping only a meter from his sandals. For the night he had shed his heavy uniform as commander of the Imperial Guards for a toga but he’d been tempted to go even further, as some of the high-born guests had done, and wear only a belted tunic. Tigellinus was tall and stern with a heavy brow that made him look like a brawler. At his left, taciturn as always, sat the swarthy astrologer Balbilus. He was in his seventh decade of life but still looked powerful and fit, imperious and unapproachable. To his left sat another of the Emperor’s gray-haired toadies, the freedman Acinetus. He had been handpicked by the Emperor’s mother, Agrippina, to be one of her son Nero’s tutors during his nonage and later he carried out the Emperor’s ill-fated plan to drown her by sinking her royal boat. Finally Nero had to dispatch rather more overt assassins to finish the job. When confronted by sword-wielding men in her chambers, Agrippina cried for them to ‘Smite my womb’ – for bringing a son into the world who was detestable even by her own despicable standards.
Behind Nero, bored and drunk, the Emperor’s bejeweled wife Poppaea slouched low, holding her goblet out for one of her handmaidens to refill. Even though she had tired bloodshot eyes and a blotchy rash which her Greek doctor had been unable to remedy, she still had the fetching looks that had first placed her in favor.
Tigellinus leaned over and asked Balbilus, ‘Why so glum?’
‘You know why. For the second time we have achieved what we always wanted: one of us as Emperor. And this is what he gives us. Listen to the Senators grumbling! I fear a revolt, perhaps violence against him. And us. They killed Caligula. It can happen again. We may not get a third chance.’
Tigellinus snorted. ‘There was a comet two weeks ago when Nero was in Beneventum, was there not?’
‘Yes. A clear sign of danger.’
‘And you advised him to expunge the threat by purging certain elements in the aristocracy.’
‘And you, good Prefect, chose well in your slaughter.’
‘And that is precisely why you shouldn’t worry.’ Tigellinus whispered the rest. ‘He will fulfill all our desires. He knows his destiny. Yes, perhaps he’s gone a little mad – this kind of power has that effect – but he’s not so mad as to have lost his way. Let him be merry and indulge himself in his own way.’ He winked. ‘This is what he does. This is who he is.’