Lindsey Davis - Nemesis

'They were drinking; I was somewhere else, working,' I protested. 'Now I shall have to take them to the baths, have them home to dine, and sober them up for their trusting wives.'

'I don't expect trust comes into it!' reckoned Ma. The senators' sons looked shifty. Belated doubts about the dear little old lady filtered through their blearied brains.

Ma then described a cringe-making scene at her house earlier between Anacrites and Albia. 'He said "I always admire Junilla Tacita; you should come to her when you are troubled, dearie".' He cannot have called Albia 'dearie'; it was the word Ma used, to avoid truly accepting this outsider as a granddaughter. Albia saw Ma's reservations; she only came up here when Helena sent her. 'We all had a nice chat, then when your Albia was ready to go, he so kindly offered to see her home. Beautiful manners,' Ma insisted to the Camilli.

Aulus said in a solemn, lawyer's voice, 'You can tell a man's character by the way he treats young women.' He thought he was being satirical: big mistake, Aulus.

'You are the one who broke her poor little heart, are you?' asked Ma, with her crucifying sneer. 'Well, you would know all about character!'

I judged it time to leave.

Albia was safe at home. Anacrites had left her on the doorstep, merely sending in greetings to Helena; he probably knew this would only increase her anxiety – - and my wrath. Albia failed to see what the fuss was about.

She dined with us, despite Aulus being present. Nothing kept Albia from her food. So she overheard us relating our progress. Helena summed up: 'Virtus has been dealt with; let us not remember how. He said Pius had gone home to the Pontine Marshes. Perella believes Nobilis is back in Rome, though you have no leads, unless it was him Marcus saw at the spy's house. Now we know the "Melitans" are his brothers that does seem likely. You won't get in there a second time to look. Relations with Anacrites are deteriorating, and he will hardly invite us all to dinner again – '

With yelps of pain, her brothers and I pleaded to be excused if he did.

'I could go to his house!' piped up Albia. 'He is perfectly nice to me! He says I can go at any time.'

'Keep away from him,' snapped Helena. 'Have respect for yourself, Albia.'

'Don't listen when he makes out you're special!' I said crushingly, 'Saying he's never met anybody like you is a very old line, sweetheart. When a man – any man – who has a collection of obscene art invites a young girl to visit, there is only one reason. It's nothing to do with culture.'

'Is this from experience, Falco?' Albia asked, disingenuously. 'How did you meet Helena Justina?' murmured our little troublemaker.

'I worked for her father. He hired me. I met her. She hired me as well. I never invited her to my horrible hutch.' Helena turned up there of her own accord. That was how I knew enough about strong-minded girls to be afraid for Albia.

'Was it when you lived at Fountain Court? I've seen it! I went with Lentullus, hiding that cameo. Is that how you know how the art invitation works, Falco? Did you lure girls up to your garret, pretending your father was an auctioneer so you had curios to show them – - then when they had climbed all those stairs and found out there was nothing, it was too late and they were too weary to argue?'

'Certainly not,' Helena interrupted calmly. 'Marcus was such an innocent in those days, I had to show him what girls were for.'

Albia broke up in giggles. It was good to see her smile.

I topped up everybody's water cup while I tried to reassert the myth of a respectable past.

We agreed it was time to go after Claudius Pius. Assuming his brother had told Petro and me the truth, then Pius was visiting his wife, that fragile soul Byrta. It meant another trip into the marshes, though at least that would let me go over to Antium and liaise with Silvius, of the Urban Cohorts. Petronius had checked with Rubella, who still refused to release him from Rome, even to work with Silvius. So Justinus, with his experience on our first trip, won the ballot to come with me.

Next day at dawn, I was all packed and about to mount a mule outside my house, when Helena ran out after me. She told me anxiously that Albia was not in her room. Our conversation the day before had had unwelcome results. The girl had left a note – at least she was that sensible – - to say she was going to Anacrites' house 'to have a look around'. If she went last evening, he had kept her overnight.

'Don't worry,' Helena reassured me, though her voice was tense. 'You get off – I'll fetch her back somehow.' I wanted to stay, but I had five slaves chomping at the bit behind me and had made arrangements with Justinus to depart at first light. 'Leave it to me, Marcus. Don't fret. Take care, my love.'

'Always. You too. Sweetheart, I love you.'

'I love you too. Come home soon.'

As I rode through Rome in the thin air of a very early morning, on my way to collect Justinus at the Capena Gate, I thought about those words. How many people have said them as a talisman, but never saw their precious love again? I wondered if Livia Primilla, the elderly wife of Julius Modestus, had spoken the words when her husband rode to challenge the Claudii. If I failed to return from this journey, Helena Justina would come after me too. I should have told her not to do it, not without an army. But that would have meant planting the suggestion that her brother and I might be in serious danger.

At the Capena Gate, Aelianus emerged to wave us off. He was mildly jealous, though as an assistant he always enjoyed being left in charge. I mentioned what had happened to Albia. 'Aulus, it's not your affair. Obviously this is awkward for you, but could you check with Helena that everything is all right? Will you tell her I had a thought as I came through the Forum: if she goes to see the spy, take my mother.'

'Will he listen to your mother?'

'Mediation! Helena will know – - in a crisis with an enemy, it's a fine Roman tradition to send in an elderly woman, with a long black veil and a very stern lecture.'

Justinus suggested leaving behind Lentullus, who could bring us news later.

So Justinus and I, taking a handful of slaves as back-up, rode off once more to Latium. Thirty miles later, as near we could get discreetly, we camped overnight, not showing ourselves at any inns where landlords might give advance warning of our presence. We planned the traditional dawn raid.

At first light, with the promise of an unpleasantly hot late August day, we reached the end of the track. Here, we knew, three of the Claudius brothers lived when it suited them, in poverty and filth, with two skinny, subdued wives and innumerable wild children. We had already passed the shack where their brother Probus mouldered; we saw no sign of him, nor his ferocious dog, Fangs.

The woodlands were sultry. Fetid steam rose from depleted pools as the marshes dried out through the summer. It must have rained recently; there was a dank, unpleasant smell everywhere. Clouds of flies rose up from tangles of half-decayed undergrowth, skirling in our faces in predatory black curtains as we disturbed them. The insects were worse than we remembered, the going more difficult, the isolation drearier.

We rode up as quietly as possible. We all dismounted. With drawn swords, Justinus and I went straight to the hovel where Pius and his wife lived, while our slaves checked around the back. We banged the door, but there was no answer. The hutment which belonged to Nobilis looked as deserted as before. While we continued knocking, a man appeared in the doorway of the third hut. A woman's voice sounded behind him.

'What's that noise?' he shouted. It was the other 'Melitan'. I recognised him, and he recognised me – though he cannot have known quite how familiar he seemed. Anacrites had said the twins were not identical; maybe this one was half a digit taller, a few pounds heavier, but there was little in it.