Lindsey Davis - Nemesis

'We fell for it like automata.'

'So whose idea was that, Falco?'

'Be fair – both of us,' I pointed out. Petronius shrugged acknowledgement. 'The spy avoided looking for Pius until he thought we must have finished him off. Even Pius realised he was abandoned.

He gave up. He saw Anacrites was never going to rescue him, because Anacrites had planned it.'

'Pius could have told us,' said Petro.

'If he explained what was happening, it was as good as confessing his involvement in the murders. Afterwards, Anacrites probably told Virtus to stay "out of the way" in the marshes, so he never realised his twin had gone missing. We know he then instructed Nobilis to run for cover – just when Quintus and I were on our way to Latium, and might have run into him.'

Petronius cursed. 'I bet he knew all along we were working with Silvius and the Urbans. Jupiter, you don't think Silvius is some crony of his?'

'No. I think Silvius is straight. Concentrate on Anacrites,' I instructed.

'He jerked our string. We did everything he wanted. It is a compliment, really,' Petronius decided, with grim mirth. 'Marcus, a villain of unbelievable duplicity entrusted us with his schemes. We should feel proud he believes in us so much!'

'I am proud of the work. We put four criminals out of action, after they had preyed on a community for decades. That is what we do with our lives, Lucius, and it is commendable.'

Quintus and Aulus Camillus had been listening with tense expressions. I stood up. I paced the room a few times, before telling them. 'For Petronius and me, the work is not yet finished. I wanted you two to hear all this. Now I want you to go away and leave us to it. Preserve your knowledge of these facts, as curators of the truth. I need you to know, in case the rest goes wrong.'

'The rest?' demanded Quintus quickly.

'Don't do it!' muttered Aulus. 'Going after him is far too dangerous. Leave it, Falco. My father tried, but Titus spoke up for the spy. At the Palace they believe he is good at his job. The official decision has been made: Anacrites is too valuable to remove.'

'I expected that. Hence this council.'

I looked around the room: Helena; her brothers; my sister; our adopted daughter; Petronius; me. A close, closed circle, all of us touched in some way by the spy's past actions, all threatened by his future schemes.

'Helena?'

Helena glanced at Albia, then Maia. 'What do we all think?'

'Leave him – - and it will only grow worse,' prophesied Maia darkly.

'He claimed he can do anything he wants,' added Albia. 'I argued that he is accountable to the Emperor – but he told me emperors will come and go. He stays. He answers only to history.'

'Hubris!' Helena retorted, as if charging Anacrites in person. 'Self-centred aggrandisement – an insult to the gods. What will the gods do about it?' she then wondered. Her dark brown eyes inevitably sought mine.

'Send Nemesis to deal with him,' I answered.

There were two stages: the search and the action. I may have implied to my loved ones there would be one other element beforehand: mature consideration. But Petronius and I dispensed with that.

Our division of labour was simple. We both reconnoitred the chosen location for the deed, convinced ourselves no one would bother us there, surveyed escape routes. We identified a dump site. We knew it would work; I had used it once before. Petro was bringing swords and a crowbar for the manhole. I had to find the spy.

It was important that nobody noticed me looking. That ruled out knocking on the door at Anacrites' house, pretending to sell hot sausages; his staff knew who I was. Even worse would have been showing my face on the Palatine, asking the clerk in the office, Phileros, for details of his whereabouts, allowing the rheumy-eyed Momus to spot me, contacting that snake Laeta. They might all guess my role later; I could live with suspicion. But I must leave no trace of the process. There was no point conducting this kind of operation if it left new witnesses who could apply new pressure. We wanted clean air and a quiet life, with no further harassment.

I spent much of the day checking known haunts. That was depressing. Anacrites had pitiful taste in lunch bars. I watched Ma's house for an hour or so, but she was entertaining Aristagoras, her ninety-year-old smooch. Anacrites must be in his office, working his ordinary day. Arrive, work, plot, gloat, leave for bath and dinner.

At the eighth hour I made my way somewhere I had never been before, though I had heard of it, back in the days when Anacrites and I worked together on the Census. He had told me then it was his favourite and I had stored the information in an empty brain cell, for potential use one day. It was an expensive private bath house on the south end of the Circus, in a short sunny street near the Temple of Sol and Luna.

Nobody knew me. The cloakroom boy confirmed Anacrites was there. I said I was an off-duty investment consultant and the spy had agreed to see me about buying a dog-collar factory in Bithynia. Madness always pays off. They let me in straight away.

My quarry was at that moment not plying his strigil in a steam room; he had moved on and was secluded in a curtained room, experiencing – - though certainly not enjoying – - the attentions of a team of personal hygienists. I could have waited for him to emerge, but not waiting was so much more fun.

They had a security system, designed to put off the inquisitive: they simply told anyone to push off, if they insensitively noticed screaming. The bouncer was a plump dwarf in a short tight white tunic, who doubled as manicurist. She offered me a half-price cuticle tidy up, but I declined without regret.

'No time, precious. I am absolutely bursting to see my dear old friend in here – don't worry, he always lets me come and watch. We have no secrets!'

Well, until today he had had this one.

I whipped aside a sagging length of moth-eaten purple cloth that gave clients imagined privacy. I would not have put myself in this position without an oak door, five-tumbler barrel locks, armed guards and an attack dog.

There were a couple of couches, one occupied. I had found him, and he must be cursing me. Well, he would have been, if he had not had his teeth gritted in serious agony.

Four or five practitioners were frowning with concentration as they applied themselves to the spy's selected parts. He was splayed on his front at that moment, legs apart and feet towards me. I always realised he must depilate his arms and legs. Now I knew he boasted hideous fancy stuff under his tunic. When I burst in he was not wearing one. He was naked, apart from a light coating all over with very high quality almond oil.

The hair-removers had scythed off his torso rug and defoliated his buttock fur. Now they were subjecting him to the most painful part of their expensive duties. Anacrites had bought the whole deal. The specialists were giving him what is known in louche circles as a back, sac and crack. Or so I am told. You would never catch me having it.

He was probably dying for the agony to stop, but when I entered the room those attending to him did not pause. Their instructions were probably to keep going, just as long as the customer could stand it.

'It's Falco. No – don't move an inch!' I carolled cheerily. 'This is too good to miss! I have spent many hours imagining resourceful ways to torture you – but, Tiberius Claudius Anacrites, I never thought of hot pitch poured on your exposed genitals!'

Whoever did think of it, and persuaded him to have it done, deserved to be awarded a radiate diadem.

Anacrites let out a faint mortified cry. I assured him he could take his time, make a thorough job of it with the hot pitch peel, ensure every naughty stray hair was yanked out with the tweezers. I said I could not bear to watch, but I would wait for him outside, enjoying a glazed honeycake from one of the bath house's itinerant food tray men. 'I need to see you urgently. If you are still on the Modestus case, this is about Nobilis.'