XLVII

The address I had for Appius Priscillus turned out to be a gloomy fortress on the Esquiline. This made him a close neighbour of the Praetor Corvinus, inhabiting the area which had once been notorious for fevers but was now host to pestilence of a different kind: the rich.

The house reeked of money, though the owner displayed his wealth in a different way from the Hortensii with their flash parade of interior design and art treasures. Priscillus emphasised how much he possessed by the pains he took protecting it. His property had been stripped of any balconies or pergolas which could offer cover to a thief’s approach; its few upstairs windows were permanently barred. Private guards playing board games sat in a pillbox on one corner of the street, all of which was taken up with the sombre mansion where this grandmaster of real estate was supposed to live. His outer walls were painted black: a subtle hint of character.

Two white eyeballs, belonging to a big black African, squinted at me through a grille in a particularly solid black front door. The eyes let me in, but raced through the formalities with a speed designed to prevent anyone becoming too familiar with the layout. The entrance hall contained a brace of British hunting dogs (on chains), who were just fractionally friendlier than the leather-clad bodyguards; I counted at least five of those, patrolling the precincts with glittery daggers prominent in their handspan belts.

I was shunted into a side room where, before I could get bored and start writing my name on the wallplaster, a secretary stepped in with the clear intention of despatching me whence I came.

“May I see Appius Priscillus?”

“No. Priscillus greets his followers in the morning, but we keep a list. If you’re not on the list, there is no chance of dole. If you are a tenant, see the rent clerk. If you are seeking a loan see the loans clerk—”

“Where do I find the personal information clerk?”

He paused. His eyes said information was at a premium. “That’s possibly me.”

“The information I’m after is extremely sensitive. Priscillus may prefer to give it to me himself.”

“He’s not the sensitive type,” said his man.

Clearly Priscillus had not lashed out much on his secretarial services; this was no high-flown Greek who could speak and write five languages. He had an uninspiring north European face. The only indication that he acted as a scribe was the fact he had a split-nibbed reed pen stuck in the swag of brown cloth that he used as a belt, and ink all over him.

“My name is Didius Falco,” I said. He hadn’t thought it polite to ask me, but I thought it polite to say. “I would like you to inform Appius Priscillus that I have certain questions regarding events at the Hortensius house two nights ago. Clearing up these questions will be in his interests as much as mine.”

“What questions?”

“Confidential.”

“You can tell me.”

“Maybe—but I’m not going to.”

The secretary disappeared grumpily, without telling me I could sit down. In fact there were no stools or benches. The room contained only heavy coffers which were probably stuffed with money. Anyone who sat on the strongboxes would imprint himself with a vicious pattern of studs, bands, and bolts. I decided to keep my delicate posterior unmarked.

If I had been a barrister the court usher would barely have had time to set the waterclock to time my speech before my messenger returned. “He will not see you!” he informed me triumphantly.

I sighed. “So what’s to be done?”

“Nothing. You’re not wanted. Now you leave.”

“Let’s go through this again,” I said patiently. “My name is Marcus Didius Falco. I am investigating the poisoning of the freedman Hortensius Novus; also, incidentally, the murder of his cook—”

“So what?” jeered the secretary.

“So somebody has suggested to me that Appius Priscillus may be implicated in these deaths.” This accusation raised not a flicker. “It did seem to me,” I suggested, “in view of the serious charges, Priscillus might like a chance to vindicate himself—”

“If he did anything, you’d never prove it. If you could prove something, you would not be here.”

“That sounds persuasive—but it’s the rhetoric of a thug. Now tell Priscillus this: if he did it I will prove it. When I prove it I’ll be back.”

“I doubt it, Falco. Now I suggest you leave quickly of your own accord because if I ask the Phrygians to convey you outside, you may land rather heavily.”

“Give Priscillus the message,” I repeated, making my own way to the door. As I reached the smirking stylus-pusher I did a quick twirl and yanked his arm up his back at the very moment his vigilance relaxed. “Let’s give the message to him now, shall we? We can deliver the second part together—and try him out with the first, because I think he may not have heard it yet…” The fool started to bluster. “Stop fidgeting, or taking shorthand notes will be painful for a week or two—” I gave his arm a jerk to emphasise the point. “Don’t take me for an idiot—you never saw Priscillus. You were only gone long enough to scratch your lice.”

“He’s not here,” gasped the inkblot.

“Where is he then?”

“This is his business address. He has a house on the Quirinal and two others opposite the Salarian Gate; or he may be over the river at his new place on the Janiculan. But he only sees his private friends in his private homes.”

“So when do you expect him here again?”

“No way of telling—” Suddenly he squirmed free and let out a shout which attracted the attention of one of the bodyguards.

“Keep cool. I’m going—but give your master my message just as soon as he turns up.”

“Don’t worry! And when I do, Falco, you can expect to be hearing from him!”

I smiled. Some threats do lead to inconvenience. But mainly they evaporate.

As I crossed the hall, keeping half an eye on the Phrygian muscle, I noticed a sedan chair. Whatever Priscillus spent his takings on, it was not this conveyance: this was a stained brown leather veteran, so crumpled and grimy it was conspicuous. I had seen it before: at that housefire, the night Hortensius Novus died. Which meant that I had seen Priscillus too: leaping out of it.

Tough life, being a businessman. Hardly time to take a well-earned break after murdering your rival, before you had to be back out on the streets, greeting sobbing arson victims with a contract in your hand …

The presence of the chair probably meant Priscillus was here. But I left without further argument. I had hurt the scribe’s arm enough to ensure he would rush to his master to complain. My message would get there now.

I recognised something else unpleasant outside the street door: descending from his mule was the pustulent piece of aggravation I last saw attacking the old fruitseller in Abacus Street. I braced myself for a fight, but the bleary bug failed to remember me.

*   *   *

I amused myself that afternoon at the Temple of Saturn, going through the Censor’s register of citizens and their property, which was kept for safety at the Treasury. Appius Priscillus was a freedman of long-standing, attached to the Galerian voting tribe. We were long overdue for a full Roman census, but he should have featured somewhere in official documents. He had managed to hide his existence. I was not surprised.

I found myself more eager than usual to wander off home. This had less to do with the sour taste left by Priscillus than a certain smile I might encounter in my own den.

She was out. That was just about acceptable. I would have to let her stroll around loose occasionally. Sceptical types might think that I was holding her to ransom otherwise.

At home there was evidence that the morning had been lively. Severina had assured me her parrot was housetrained, but apparently this only meant that Chloe was trained to eat household effects. There were beakmarks scarring several doorframes, and a broken dish in the rubbish pail. Something, presumably not Helena, had attacked my office stool ferociously and bitten halfway through its leg. Now the parrot was missing too.

Helena had left me a list of the bird’s sayings, brightly annotated by herself:

Chloe’s a clever girl. (Doubtful. H.)

Manicure set.

Where’s my dinner?

Let’s go out to a party!

Eggs in a basket. (Is this rude? H.)

Three obscenities. (I refuse to write them. H.)

Chloe, Chloe, Chloe. Chloe’s a good girl.

Gone to Maia’s; taking your stupid bird.

The last line confused me until I realised it was a joke addressed to me in my sister’s spiked handwriting.

*   *   *

I dashed off to Maia’s in a state of annoyance; I had intended to censor news of Helena’s arrival. I should have known that after the fish supper my family would come poking round, on the lookout for scandal and leftovers.

Helena and my sister had settled themselves on Maia’s sun terrace. A wide variety of empty plates, bowls and mint-tea glasses littered the edge of the stone parapet and the rims of Maia’s great flowerpots. Neither Maia nor Helena roused themselves to suggest feeding me. They must have been nibbling most of the afternoon and were too well stuffed to budge.

Helena put up her cheek which I brushed with a kiss. Maia looked away. Our formality seemed to embarrass her more than a passionate clinch.

“Where’s the parrot?”

“Hiding,” said Maia. “It thought it was going to terrorise my children but they fought back. We had to cover it with a stewpot for its own protection.”

“I saw what that pest did at home,” I complained, still pecking round for crumbs like a forlorn sparrow. “I’ll get a cage.”

I managed to find a few lacklustre almonds at the bottom of a bowl. They tasted off. I should have known no titbit which had already been rejected by my lass and my youngest sister would provide much sustenance.

“I believe ‘two eggs in a basket’ is a reference to testicles,” I informed them, using clinical neutrality to indicate I saw them both as women of the world. “Though if ‘manicure set’ is a soldiering term its translation escapes me.” Maia pretended she knew, and she would tell Helena afterwards.

They let me sit down, threw me a few cushions, then condescended to hear about my day. I soon deduced Helena had told Maia all about my case. “I never managed to see Priscillus. But he seems what I thought—high rents and low motives. It’s beginning to look as if Severina may have a point.”

“Don’t you dare start feeling sorry for her,” my sister instructed. It seemed to me she and Helena had exchanged a knowing glance.

Their set reaction immediately made my own attitude to the fortune-hunter more sympathetic. “Why not? What if everyone has misjudged her? What if she really is just a home-loving girl, acting from the best of motives with regard to Hortensius Novus, and has simply had bad luck with everything she touches?” This fair-minded attitude surprised even me. I must be going soft.

My sister and my lady bestirred themselves to jangle their bracelets at me, then I was ordered to report on Severina Zotica in detail so they could systematically destroy her character. Maia, who had been a professional weaver, was particularly interested in her domestic handicrafts. “Does she really do it herself? How fast can she work? Was she using a pattern? When she changed colours did she have to think, or could she choose the next hank of wool automatically?”

“Oh I can’t remember.”

“Marcus, you’re useless!”

“I reckon she’s genuine. Isn’t this dutiful Penelope act more likely to mean she’s innocent? Sitting at a loom seems a nice quiet occupation—”

“Sitting at a loom quietly,” Maia rebuked me, “gives her plenty of time to scheme and plot.”

“Traditional life of a decent Roman matron. Augustus always insisted that the women of his household wove all his clothes at home.”

Helena laughed. “And his female relations all ended up a byword for debauchery!” She gazed at me, considering. “Are scratchy homespun tunics what you want?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I wouldn’t dare!

“Good. Tell us about all these trips to the library. What is she studying?”

“Geography.”

“That’s harmless—apparently,” Helena agreed, though she and Maia exchanged another silly glance. “Perhaps she is searching for a pleasant province where she can go into voluntary exile with her ill-gotten loot.”

“Doubt it. The only scroll I noticed had some references to Mauretania. Who wants to retire to a desert, overrun by plagues of elephants?”

“If she had taken out three volumes on taming parrots,” Maia giggled, “there might be some point. Are you attracted to this female?”

Helena was scrutinising me out of the corner of one eye, so to cause trouble I said, “She’s not bad, if you like redheads!”

Maia told me I was disgusting; then she instructed Helena Justina to take me (and my parrot) home.

Not long after we reached the apartment I discovered that my sister had taught the parrot to squawk, “Ooh! Marcus has been a naughty boy!”