worked: knee deep in the same middenheap as me.
'Laeta, Titus is right. This needs to be kept quiet until we know what it's about. And you know how rumors fly at the Palace. The best solution is to put Anacrites somewhere else where he can die in peace when he decides to go; then we can choose whether or not to announce it in the
Laeta thought hard, but submitted himself to my plan. Telling him that I had a few ideas of my own to pursue, I waved him off.
I then examined the doorway where Anacrites had been found. It was easy to see where and how he had been hurt; I discovered an ugly clump of blood and hair on the house wall. It was below chest height; the spy must have been bent over for some reason, though he carried no marks of any blow that would have doubled him up. I looked around, covering some distance, but found nothing significant.
The wounded man had been propped in a chair long enough; I told the bearers to come along with him. I did walk them to Tiber Island where I unloaded Anacrites and dismissed the chair. Then, instead of depositing the sick man amongst the clapped-out abandoned slaves who were being cared for at the hospital, I hired another chair. I led this one further west along the riverbank in the shadow of the Aventine. Then I took the unconscious spy to a private apartment where I could be sure of his good treatment.
He might yet die of last night's wound, but no one would be allowed to help him into Hades by other means.
Though I was a man on a charitable mission, my greeting was not promising. I had dragged Anacrites up three flights of stairs. Even unconscious he made trouble, buckling me under his weight and tangling his lifeless hands in the handrail just when I had got a good rhythm going. By the time I arrived upstairs I had no breath to curse him. I used my shoulder to knock open the door, a worn item that had once been red, now a faded pink.
A furious old biddy accosted us. 'Who's that? Don't drag him in here. This is a peaceful neighborhood!'
'Hello, Mother.'
Her companion was less blunt and more witty. 'Jove, it's Falco! The little lost boy who needs a tablet round his neck to tell people where he lives! A tablet he can consult himself too, when he's sober enough to read it-'
'Shut up, Petro. I'm giving myself a hernia. Help me lie him down somewhere.'
'Don't tell me!' raged my mother. 'One of your friends has got himself in trouble and you expect me to look after him. It's time you grew up, Marcus. I'm an old woman. I deserve a rest.'
'You're an old woman who needs an interest in life. This is just the thing. He's not a drunk who fell under a cart, Ma. He's an official who has been cruelly attacked and until we discover the reason he has to be kept out of sight. I'd take him home but people may look for him there.'
'Take him home? That poor girl you live with doesn't want to be bothered with this!' I winked at the unconscious Anacrites; he had just found himself a refuge. The best in Rome.
Petronius Longus, my big grinning friend, had been lounging in my mother's kitchen with a handful of almonds while he regaled Ma with the now famous finish of my big night out. Seeing my burden his mood quietened, then when he helped me shove Anacrites on a bed and he glimpsed the damage to the spy's head, Petro's face set. I thought he was going to say something but he buttoned his lip.
Ma stood in the doorway, arms folded; a small, still energetic woman who had spent her life nurturing people who didn't deserve it. Olive black eyes flicked over the spy with flashes like signal torches announcing an international disaster. 'Well, this one won't be a lot of trouble. He's not going to be here long!'
'Do your best for the poor fellow, Ma.'
'Don't I know him?' Petronius mumbled in a low voice to me.
'Speak up!' snapped Ma. 'I'm not deaf and I'm not an idiot.'
Petronius was frightened of my mother. He replied meekly, 'It's Anacrites, the Chief Spy.'
'Well he looks like a nasty dumpling that should have been eaten up yesterday,' she sneered.
I shook my head. 'He's a spy; that's his natural attitude.'
'Well, I hope I'm not expected to work some miracle and save him.'
'Ma, spare us the quaint plebeian cheerfulness!'
'Who's going to pay for the funeral?'
'The Palace will. Just take him in while he's dying. Give him some peace from whoever is trying to get him.'
'Well; I can do that,' she conceded grumpily.
I come from a large feckless family, who rarely permit themselves to perform deeds of kindness. When they do, any sensible conscious man wants to run a fast marathon in the other direction. It gave me a grim pleasure to leave Anacrites there. I hoped he came round and got thoroughly lectured-and I hoped that when it happened I would be present to watch.
I had known Petronius Longus since we were both eighteen. I could tell he was holding back like a nervous bride. As soon as we could, we edged to the door, then bidding Ma a fast farewell we were out of the apartment like the naughty schoolboys she reckoned we both still were. Her derogatory cries followed us downstairs.
Petronius knew I realized there was something he was bursting to say. In his usual aggravating way he kept it to himself as long as possible. I clamped my teeth and pretended not to be wanting to knock him into the copper shop opposite for keeping me on tenterhooks.
'Falco, everyone's talking about a body the Second Cohort found this morning.' Petro was in the Fourth Cohort of vigiles, lording it over the Aventine. The Second were his counterparts who covered the Esquiline district.
'Whose body's that?'
'Looked like a street attack; happened last night. Man had his head stove in, in a remarkably violent manner.'
'Rammed against a wall, perhaps?'
Petro appraised my suggestion. 'Sounds as if it could have been.'
'Know anybody friendly in the Second?'
'I thought you'd ask that,' Petro replied. We were already making headway on the long route back to the Esquiline.
The Second Cohort's guardhouse lies on the way out to the Tiburtina Gate, close to the old Embankment which carries the Julian Aqueduct. It is situated between the Gardens of Pallentian and the Gardens of Lamia and Maia. A bosky spot-much frequented by elderly grubby prostitutes and persons trying to sell love potions and fake spells. We burrowed in our cloaks, walked quickly, and discussed the races loudly to reassure ourselves.
The Second Cohort were in charge of the Third and Fifth regions: some routine squalor, but also several large mansions with tricky owners who thought that the vigiles existed solely to protect them while they annoyed everyone else. The Second patrolled steep hills, run-down gardens, a big chunk of palace (Nero's Golden House) and a prestigious public building site (Vespasian's huge new amphitheatre). They faced some headaches, but were bearing up like Stoics. Their inquiry team were a group of relaxed layabouts whom we found sitting on a bench working out their night-shift bonus pay. They had plenty of time to tell us about their interesting murder case, though perhaps less energy for actually solving it.
'Io! He took a knock all right!'
'Bang on the knob?' Petro was doing the talking.
'Cracked open like a nut.'
'Know who he is?'
'Bit of a mystery man. Want a look at him?'
'Maybe.' Petronius preferred not to be that kind of sightseer, until it was unavoidable. 'Can you show us the
