VI

Informers are simple people. Given a dead body our response is to look for the killer—but we like the body first; it seems more logical.

“Lady, in good Roman society, mentioning a murder before it even happens is considered impolite.”

“You think I’m making this up!” Pollia rolled her magnificent eyes.

“It sounds so ridiculous, I’m taking you seriously! When people invent, they usually choose a story that’s plausible.”

“This is true, Falco.”

“Convince me.”

“The woman has had husbands before—three of them!”

“Oh we live in slack times. Nowadays five weddings is the minimum to count as reprehensible…”

“None of her previous husbands survived long—” Pollia insisted; I was still grinning evilly. “And each time she walked away from the funeral far wealthier!”

I let the grin evaporate. “Ah! Money lends this story of yours a genuine patina … Incidentally, what’s her name?”

Pollia shrugged (negligently revealing her beautiful white shoulders between the sparkling dress pins on her sleeves). “She calls herself Severina. I forget her other title.”

I made a note in my pocketbook with a stylus I kept handy. “Forename, Severina; cognomen unknown … Is she attractive?”

“Juno, how should I know? She must have something, to persuade four different men—men of substance—to marry her.”

I made another note, this time mentally: bright personality. (That could be difficult.) And possibly intelligent. (Even worse!)

“Does she make a secret of her past?”

“No.”

“Flaunts it?”

“No to that too. She just lets it be known as if having three short-lived husbands who happened to leave her everything were commonplace.”

“Clever.”

“Falco, I told you she was dangerous!” Things began to look intriguing (I was a man; I was normal: dangerous women always fascinated me).

“Pollia, let us be clear about what you want from me: I can investigate Severina, hoping to nail her with her past indiscretions—”

“You’ll find no evidence. There was a praetor’s enquiry after her third husband died,” Pollia complained. “Nothing came of it.”

“Praetors miss things. It may help us. Even gold-diggers are human; so they make mistakes. After three successes, people like this start believing themselves demigods; that’s when people like me can trap them. Tell me, is Hortensius Novus aware of her history?”

“We made him ask her about it. She had an answer for everything.”

“A professional bride would come prepared. I’ll try to frighten her off anyway. Sometimes finding themselves under scrutiny is enough—they scuttle away to prey on an easier mark. Have you considered offering her money?”

“If it will help. We have plenty.”

I grinned, thinking ahead to my bill. I had known rich people who hid their wealth with decent secrecy, and I had known men who owned immense estates but treated it quite matter-of-factly. The open vulgarity of Sabina Pollia’s boast made me realise that I had stepped into a brash new world. “I’ll find out her price then—”

“If she has one!”

“She will have! Bound to be less than Hortensius Novus imagines. Realising how small a value she sets on him has helped many an infatuated lover see his beloved with new eyes.”

“You are a cynic, Falco!”

“I’ve done a lot of work for men who thought they were in love.”

She was looking at me slyly through half-closed eyes. We were back on the suggestive tack again. “Falco, don’t you like women?”

“I love them!”

“Anyone in particular?”

“I’m very particular,” I retaliated rudely.

“Our information was different.” Their information was out of date. “I ask,” Pollia justified the question with outrageous wide-eyed innocence, “because I am wondering whether you will be safe from Severina’s wiles…”

“Severina will grant me complete immunity—the minute she learns that the Falco bankbox contains only my birth certificate, my discharge from the legions, and a few suffocated moths!”

I screwed the subject back to business, obtained a few more facts I needed (an address, the name of a praetor, and most importantly, agreement on my fee), then I took my leave.

*   *   *

As I skipped down the broad white marble entrance steps, frowning because they were so slippery (like the householders), I noticed a sedan chair which had just arrived.

There were six carriers in cobalt livery, huge, broad-shouldered, glossy black Numidians who could push across the Forum of the Romans from the Tabularium to the Hall of the Vestals without once losing step despite the crowds. The chair had gleaming woodwork inlaid with tortoiseshell, crimson curtains, a lacquered Gorgon on the door and silver finials on the poles. I pretended I had twisted my ankle, so I could hang about to inspect whoever would descend.

I was glad I waited.

I guessed it was Atilia.

She was a woman who wore a half-veil because it made her more attractive; above the veil’s embroidered edge glowed dark, solemn eyes of oriental origin. She and Pollia had access to a great deal of money, and evidently spent as much as they could on themselves. She jingled with expensive filigree jewellery. She wore so much gold that such a weight on one woman was certainly illegal. Her dress was that shade of amethyst where the rich tint really looks as if ground-up gemstones created the dye. As she came up the steps I saluted her in a pleasant manner and stood aside.

She removed the veil.

“Good morning!” It was the best I could manage; I was struggling for breath.

This one was as cool as the icecap on Mount Ida. If Sabina Pollia was a peach, the new apparition was a fruit of rich, dark mystery from some exotic province where I had not yet been.

“You must be the investigator.” Her expression was earnest, and highly intelligent. I was under no illusions; in the old Hortensius household she was probably a kitchenmaid—yet she had the gaze of an articulate eastern princess. If Cleopatra could raise a look like this, it explained why respectable Roman generals had queued up to throw away their reputations on the mudbanks of the Nile.

“I’m Didius Falco … Hortensia Atilia?” She nodded assent. “I’m glad of an opportunity to pay my respects—”

Her exquisite face grew sombre. A serious mood suited her; any mood would. “Forgive me for not attending your interview; I was taking my young son to school.” A devoted mother: wonderful. “Do you think you will be able to help us, Falco?”

“It’s too early to say. I hope so.”

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Don’t let me take up your time now…” Hortensia Atilia gave me her hand, with a formality which made me feel gauche. “Do come and see me, however, and let me know how your enquiries proceed.”

I smiled. A woman like that expects a man to smile; I imagine in most circumstances men try to avoid disappointing women like that. She smiled too, because she knew that sooner or later I would find an excuse to call. For women like that men always do.

*   *   *

Halfway down the hill I paused to survey their handsome views of Rome. Seen from the Pincian, the city lay bathed with a golden morning light. I loosened my belt, which was making my tunic feel damp against my waist, and cautiously steadied my racing breath while I took stock. Between them Pollia and Atilia had left me with a feeling, which I have to admit I was frankly enjoying, that I was lucky to get out of their house alive.

The omens were interesting: two glamorous clients whose vulgar lifestyle guaranteed to amuse me; a fortune-hunter whose past was so lively there must be a real chance to expose her where the official magistrate had failed (I love to prove a praetor wrong); plus a good fat fee—and all of this, with any luck, for doing nothing much …

A perfect case.