XIV

I NEVER CARED for January and February. You might as well be in northern Europe. At least there people have fires in their huts to keep them warm and they don’t even try to go out on the streets, pretending to enjoy life.

In Rome it is a period of dark festivals. Their origins are lost in history, their purpose is deeply agricultural or to do with death. I tend to dodge rituals involving seeds, and I damn well hate being smeared with blood from sacrificial animals. This unhappy stuff continues until the Caristia—also hideously named the festival of the Dear Relative. People are supposed to renew family ties and resolve quarrels. Whatever deity thought that up should be locked in a cell with a ghastly brother he hates, while close kin who have offended his most cherished beliefs and stolen his chickens gather around to smile at him lovingly until he runs screaming mad.

Fortunately my family never knows what festival is what, so we don’t patch up our tiffs. Much healthier. Our grudges have the historical grandeur most families so sadly lack. Rome is a traditional city; what better way to pursue our national character than by maintaining age-old bitterness and storming out like royalty whenever too many have collected in the same room?

Among the offspring of the late Rubirius Metellus, there cannot have been much time for observing festivals. They were always too busy wondering who was being charged with a capital offense that week. If they visited temples, their prayers may well have been fervent, but I bet they went there heavily veiled. Even the ones who were not personally making a sacrifice that day would want to cover their faces to avoid being recognized. In particular, they needed to avoid Silius and Paccius, who must both now be owed money on a flamboyant scale.

Paccius Africanus, it was now rumored in the Forum, had made a killing with side bets on whether Rhoemetalces would die in the Curia. Yes, gambling is illegal in Rome. There must be a special dispensation for dispensers of the law. (Think of all those gaming boards scratched openly on the steps of the Basilica Julia.) No, I don’t know how Praccius got away with it. Shocking. I blame the authorities for turning a blind eye. (In fact, I blame the authorities for receiving hot tips from him.)

Cheered by his winnings, Paccius Africanus took up where Silius Italicus had left off. He charged Metellus Negrinus with bringing about his father’s death.

It was not yet public knowledge. I knew. I had been favored with an urgent request to visit Paccius to talk about the charge.

Unlike Silius, Paccius saw me at his own house. They were opposites in several ways. Silius had ordered me to see him, then did his arrogant best to be invisible. In contrast, Paccius treated me with every courtesy. He even sent a chair with liveried bearers. I was bringing the Camilli, but we decided against trying to squeeze in all three of us; they trudged behind. When we arrived, Paccius rushed out at once to greet us in the atrium. The atrium was grand. Black marble and a superb bronze nymph in the pool. He owned a smart home. Well, of course he would.

“Thank you so much for coming.” He was tidy, fastidious, looked older than his forty-odd years. His voice had a scratch in it, as if it had been overused. Close up, he had one of those lopsided faces that look as if two heads have been glued together down the middle by an inept sculptor; even his ears were different in size. “Ah, you have brought your assistants—I am so sorry; I failed to anticipate that. You must have walked—I would have sent directions—did you find us fairly easily? Can I offer refreshments? Do come in and make yourselves comfortable—”

This was the mean-eyed grouch who had implied I came from the gutter when he wanted to make an effect in court. I let his empty etiquette wash over me. But I noted the implication that in today’s enterprise, whatever that was, we were on the same side.

I shot the lads a warning glance. Justinus assessed a tapestry as if he had seen better. Aelianus sneered directly at Paccius; truly patrician, he loved an excuse to be boorish. Both had unsmiling faces. None of us wore togas, so Paccius, who had arrived formally dressed for some reason, felt obliged swiftly to shed his. We refused food and drink, so he had to wave away a clutch of slaves with silver trays who gathered in the room he took us to.

I was still wondering about the toga. He was at home. Nobody wears a toga at home. He must have come back from some formal event. What, and who with?

“I need your help, Falco.”

I let one corner of my mouth twitch into a surly smile. “An appeal for my skills always has charm, Paccius.”

“Shall I recite our fee scale?” Justinus pretended to joke.

“He wants us—so double the on-costs!” Aelianus croaked. We all laughed. What a merry business informing can be.

A man entered, not what I expected as a house guest. He was a stranger, but I recognized my type of operator. He wore a brown tunic, tight on the chest, no braid. A wide belt, fit for various purposes. His boots were solid, also functional. Over his arm he carried a thick dark cloak, its hood hanging down. It looked as if the fabric had been oiled, which you would do if you were constantly out in bad weather. He was ten years older than me, shorter than average, wide, muscular, huge calves. His hair was trimmed so short its color was indeterminate. His eyes moved restlessly around the room, taking us all in.

“This is Bratta,” introduced Paccius. “He works for me, as a runner.” Bratta was an informer, then. My type of informer. Silius used one too, he had told me. I never saw his. “We have a problem, Falco.”

I listened. Bratta watched me listening. His expression was faintly derisive. That could just be his normal face. Mine was no better. I must be looking suspicious of Paccius. The Camilli were quiet. I could trust them nowadays. Bratta stared at them suspiciously; I hid a smile.

“Let’s hear it, Paccius: what is your scenario?” If he was using Bratta, I could not see why he needed us.

“I am accusing Metellus Negrinus of killing his father. The motive is vengeance for his omission from his father’s will. The method still has to be dragged out of him.” Paccius leaned back. “You do not appear surprised?”

“Well, I thought you would have gone for the sister next—the one who keeps aloof. An easier target.” He did not respond to the snipe. “Do you know why the will cuts Negrinus out?”

Paccius paused only slightly. “No.” He was lying. I wondered why. “My problem is this: to begin proceedings we must produce Birdy before the praetor. It is vital that he attend, to agree the facts.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“We can’t find him.”

“What happens if he fails to appear?” asked Aelianus.

Paccius surveyed him indulgently. He could see I knew the reason, but he explained it patiently to my younger colleague. “The praetor then declares him to have gone into hiding.” With these legal vultures pursuing him, hiding seemed a reasonable course for poor Birdy. “His estates could be sold to meet the claim, if that were appropriate. With a capital charge it does not apply.”

“A capital charge can lead to the lions. You want Birdy in the arena?” I asked.

“Don’t feel sorry for him, Falco.”

“Why not? His father shamelessly used him as a medium for fixing contracts. His wife has left him when nine months pregnant. His sister was accused of killing their father—and he was cut out of the will.”

I was going to add something disparaging about his mother, Calpurnia, but for all I knew, Paccius was her lover.

“So you want me to trace the man?”

Paccius nodded. “You will be working with Bratta.” Neither Bratta nor I bothered to show how much we hated that. “It’s a real bummer, Falco. Simply getting an appointment with a praetor is a hard enough task. Negrinus has to cooperate.”

In getting himself charged? Why should he? His family had been targeted. It was a sordid game Paccius and Silius were playing; Negrinus had not agreed to join in. These vultures just marked him as their next victim.

“Tell me: why you, Paccius?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why you as the accuser?” I repeated patiently. “I thought the setup had Silius attacking the so-called killers. You were the faithful family adviser. You did it for the father, then you defended Juliana.”

“Obviously I am horrified that Rubiria Juliana was placed in difficulties due to the malfeasance of her brother!”

“Malfeasance, eh? I see.” I turned to Bratta. He was sitting quietly. Wondering what he thought of the case, I told him my opinion. “My first moves would be: check with the mother, the sister he was close to, the other sister, the ex-wife, and the supposedly close best friend—Licinius Lutea.”

Bratta showed his teeth. They were a sorry set. Too much bad food munched at cheap food stalls while he was watching people and places. The usual. He was one of us, all right. For the first time he spoke, in a voice less rough than his appearance had promised: “Done it. None of them have seen him.”

“So they say!”

“So they say.”

I had been thinking. Now I stood up. “Well, that’s about the limit of what I can offer.”

Paccius looked surprised. “Falco! You mean, you won’t take the job?”

“No thanks.” I gestured at Bratta. “You have a perfectly competent trace-man here who has done the groundwork. Bratta failed to find the fugitive. There’s not much left for me; I would be floundering messily. I recommend you just sit tight until Birdy reappears when he gets bored. I don’t have the time or the resources to potter about.”

The Camilli were ready to leave with me. Paccius looked astonished that I had turned down the fee. I thought he was about to argue, but then he shrugged. The informer Bratta gave me a nod. I decided there was grudging respect in it. Or maybe he thought me an idiot.

I stared at Paccius. “You want to be careful. It looks as if you and Silius Italicus have shared this out between you. He had first go, now it’s your turn.”

“That would be collaborating,” Paccius murmured. “That sort of behavior gets our trade a bad name, Falco.”

Too right it did.

We lads of Falco and Associates stood together in the street. Use of the Paccius litter had been a one-way sweetener. We were not offered transport home.

“So that’s it?” asked Aelianus. “We are out of the case? The Metellus affair does not concern us?” He spoke warily, as if he knew there was more on my mind than I had revealed.

I gazed up at the wintry sky. A star appeared briefly through featherings of pale cloud. Then it vanished. No others replaced it, and the cloud cover thickened as I looked. We would have a long, dark walk home. Still, at this time of year the street criminals liked to hibernate. Many would have stayed indoors beating up their women and children. Not that we could feel confident. Others would be on the prowl, using the darkness.

“There’s no future in this case,” I said. Justinus made a small mutter of dissent. He had doubts about my motives, like his brother. I started to walk. They followed me, their steps sluggish. I heard one of them kick at a curbstone, then yowl as he hurt his foot. They had wasted an evening. They were annoyed and dispirited.

After walking for a while, they calmed down.

“We don’t have much work,” said Justinus. “Marcus, I was sure you had decided that we would set out to find Birdy privately.”

“I thought of it.”

“But no?”

“It’s winter, no money in it—and I’ve grown up, Quintus.”

“I was with Quintus,” his brother confessed. “Waiting to hear you declare you would like to get to Birdy first!”

We all laughed gently.

So we marched through Rome as the winter night descended. Our steps were light and fast, keeping ahead of trouble. We stole a lantern from a portico, so wild shadows flickered around us. Ice was forming on silent fountains; there would be heavy frost by morning. At the Forum, the Camilli left me, peeling off toward the Capena Gate. I walked briskly down the Sacred Way, turned a corner after the empty Basilica, and went home to my wife.