XIV

I dread these places.

I prepared myself for a filthy Babylonian, muttering gibberish. To my relief, the smoky caboose for predictions must be elsewhere in the house; the neat slaveboy led me instead to a disturbingly handsome reception room. It had a gleaming black and white mosaic floor. The walls were painted black above a simply patterned dado; their panels were divided by stylised candelabra and featured tiny gold medallions—scallop shells and flower sprays. There were two long-backed chairs such as women use, either side of a low white marble table that must have weighed half a ton. Positioned on the table (rather obviously, I thought) were an astrolabe at one end and at the other an open scroll of planetary records. Opposite the door stood a set of shelves holding a score of very old Greek vases which an auctioneer I knew would have drooled over—all perfect, all a substantial size, all in the ancient geometric style whose repetitive rows of whorls, circles, and stylised antelopes must be the specialised choice of a collector with cool taste.

The antiques impressed me more than the atmosphere. Apart from a lingering scent of women’s perfume, as though the room had been recently vacated, there were no wafts of incense or drugs to lull the unwary visitor. No tinkling bells. No subtle intoxicating music. No deformed dwarves leaping out of hidden cabinets …

“Welcome. How can I help you?” The woman who had slipped in through the door curtain was perfectly clean and calm, and possessed a pleasant, cultured voice. She spoke her Latin with a better accent than me.

She looked about sixty. Her straight dark gown hung from two small silver niello shoulder-brooches, so her arms were bare, though hidden in spare folds of the material. Her hair was rather thin, mostly black yet with broad silver streaks. Her face lacked professional mystique, except for severely hooded eyes. The eyes were no special colour. It was the face of any businesswoman in the male world of Rome: accommodating, yet with an underlying stubborn strength and a trace, faint as snail tracks, of personal bitterness.

“You the astrologer?”

Her mouth was tight, as if she disapproved of me. “I am Tyche.”

“Greek for Fortune—very nice!”

“That sounds insulting.”

“I have several less nice names for people who pointlessly raise the hopes of those in despair.”

“Then I must remember,” Tyche commented, “not to raise yours!”

I was expecting to find myself the subject of some shrewd scrutiny. So I stared back openly. “I can see you are not a customer,” she commented, though I had said nothing. Of course pretending to read minds would be part of her trade apparatus.

“The name’s Falco—”

“I have no need to know your name.”

“Spare me the patter. Enigmatic piffle makes me grind my teeth.”

“Oh I see.” Her face relaxed into ruefulness. “The régime here disappoints you. You wanted to be frightened to death. You expected a cackling harridan casting dried entrails backwards into a bright green fire?—I stopped doing spells. The smoke ruins the decor … You had better tell me when you were born.”

“Why?”

“Everyone who comes on other business expects a free prophecy.”

“I don’t! March, if you must know.”

“Pisces or Aries?”

“Never quite sure. ‘On the cusp.’ ”

“You would be.”

“I was right; you do disapprove of me,” I growled.

“Don’t most people? Your eyes have witnessed too much you may not speak of among friends.”

“My feet have tramped too many uneven pavements on the trail of too many grasping girls who are conniving at death! Her name is Severina, by the way.”

“I know that,” said Tyche quietly.

“Oh?”

“Severina was a customer,” the astrologer explained, with mild reproof. “I needed her name and address to send my bill.”

That did surprise me. “What happened to crossing the palm with a silver denarius? I thought you people only did business on a strict cash basis?”

“Certainly not! I never handle money. I have three perfectly adequate accountants who look after my financial affairs.” This must be one fortune-teller who had moved up a long way from telling half-truths to shepherds’ girlfriends in hot little canvas booths. Tyche serviced the gilded-litter trade; I bet she charged for it too. “What do you want, Falco?”

“A seer ought to know. What did Severina Zotica want?” The woman gave me a long stare that was meant to start a shiver between my shoulder blades. It did. But my work was as much based on bluff as her own. “Was she buying horoscopes?” She assented in silence. “I need to know what you told her.”

“Professional secret!”

“Naturally I’ll pay the going rate for it—”

“The information is not for sale.”

“Everything is for sale! Tell me whose future she was putting a marker on.”

“I can’t possibly do that.”

“All right; let me tell you! Her story goes, she is about to be married and wants to reassure herself about her prospects afterwards. One horoscope was her own; that was to make it look good. And the other subject was—”

“Her future husband.”

Tyche smiled wryly, as if she realised the news was bound to be misinterpreted: some people believe that to possess another person’s horoscope gives you power over their soul.