Lindsey Davis - A dying light in Corduba

One floorboard in the bedroom actually had nails with false heads. It came up quite smoothly when you pulled it up by way of a knot, waggled your fingers underneath the wood and released a specially constructed bar that pivoted aside. Built under the board was a small, locked wooden compartment. Eventually I located the key, concealed in a hollow carved under the seat of the stool in the outer room. In his secret box the dead man had kept spare, succinct notes about his work. He was a neat, regular record-keeper. We already knew that: Valentinus' hat had been double lined; inside it Petronius had found expense sheets of a type I knew all too well.

Some work that the dead man did, probably from necessity, was just the kind of dreary intrigue I often had to carry out myself for private clients. The rest was different. Valentinus had been more than an informer, he was a spy. He was claiming for many hours spent on surveillance. And although there were no names for the people he had been recently watching, the latest entries on his claim sheet were all codenamed 'Corduba'. Corduba is the capital of Romanised Baetica.

We reckoned we knew who had commissioned this work. One of the expense claims from his hat had already been stamped and approved for payment. The stamp was a large oval, featuring two elephants with entwined trunks: Anacrites' chalcedony seal.

Petronius left me in the Forum. The task was mine now. Facing up to it with my usual compulsion and stamina, I went home to bed.

Next day, striking while some impetus was with me, I walked back to the Forum, up through the Cryptoporticus where the scoffing Praetorians knew me well enough to admit me after a few threats and jeers, then into the old Palace. I had no need of Claudius Laeta to advise me who to interview or to smooth the way. I possessed other contacts. Mine were probably no more reliable than the devious correspondence chief, but I was attached to them on the usual perverse grounds that make you trust men you have known for some time even when you suspect that they lie, cheat and steal.

Momus was a slave overseer. He looked as healthy as a side of condemned beef and as dangerous as an escaped gladiator on the run. His eyes were moist with some infection, his body was scarred, his face was a fascinating grey shade as if he had not been outside for the past decade. Being an overseer was something he no longer worked at very hard; he left the rituals of slave market, placement, whipping and bribe-taking to others.

Momus now held some nebulous position at the Palace; in effect, he was another spy. He did not work for Anacrites. He did not care for Anacrites either. But in a bureaucracy every employee has to have another officer who reports on him to his superiors. Anacrites was attached to the Praetorian Guard but worked directly to the Emperor, so he was judged by Vespasian himself when it came to matters of reprimand or reward. Both Anacrites and I believed Momus to be the nark who told the Emperor what he should think of the Chief Spy's work. That meant Anacrites despised and loathed him, but it made Momus a friend of mine.

I told him the Chief Spy had been seriously hurt. It was supposed to be a secret but Momus already knew. I guessed he had also heard that Anacrites was supposed to be hidden away at the Temple of Aesculapius on Tiber Island – but maybe he had not yet found out that the victim was really laid up on the Aventine with Ma.

'Something funny's going on, Momus.'

'What's new, Falco?'

'This attack is supposed to relate to intelligence work. Nobody even knows what Anacrites was investigating. I'm trying to track down his agents, or records of what he's been involved with -'

'You'll have a job.' Momus enjoyed disheartening me. 'Anacrites is like an Athenian vote machine.'

'That's a bit subtle for me.'

'You know; it's a gadget to prevent nobbling. When they used open jars fistfuls of votes used to go astray. So now the voters put balls in the top of a closed box; they wiggle down inside and then the election results pop out at the bottom. No fraud – and no fun, either. Trust the bloody Greeks.'

'What's this to do with Anacrites?'

'People pile information into his brain and if he's in the right mood he farts out a report. In between, everything is locked up.'

'Well, it looks as if the next person he blows a report at could be Charon the ferryman.'

'Oh dear, poor Charon'' sneered Momus, with the cheery expression of a man who was just thinking that if Anacrites had sailed away on the decrepit punt to Hades, he might immediately apply for Anacrites' job. Some state employees love to hear about a colleague's premature demise.

'Charon's going to be busy,' I commented. 'Villains have been cracking spies' heads all over the Esquiline. There was also a pleasant lad who used to do surveillance work.'

'Do I know him, Falco?'

'Valentinus.'

Momus let out a snarl of disgust. 'Oh Jupiter! Dead? That's terrible. Valentinus who lived on the Esquiline? Oh no; he was class, Falco. He must have been the best snuffler Anacrites used.'

'Well, he's not on the staff roll.'

'Better sense. He stayed freelance. Self-employed. I used him myself sometimes.'

'What for?'

'Oh… tracking down runaways.' The alleged overseer looked vague. I reckoned whatever Momus used Valentinus for would give me a queasy stomach. I decided not to know.

'Was he good?'

'The best. Straight, fast, decent to deal with, and accurate.'

I sighed. More and more this sounded like a man I would have liked to share a drink with. I could have made friends with Valentinus last night at the dinner, if I had only realised. Then maybe if we had rolled out of the Palace together like cronies, events might have turned out differently for the freelance. Together we might have fought off his attackers. It could have saved his life.

Momus was eyeing me up. He knew I had an interest. 'You going to sort this out, Falco?'

'It looks like a murky fishpond. Reckon I stand a chance?'

'No. You're a clown.'

'Thanks, Momus.'

'My pleasure.'

'Don't enjoy yourself too much with the hard-hitting insults; I may prove you wrong.'

'Virgins might stay chaste!'

I sighed. 'Heard anything about any dirty goings-on in Baetica?'

'No. Baetica's all sunshine and fish-sauce.'

'Know anything about the Society of Olive Oil Producers, then?'

'Load of old belchers who meet in the basement and plot how they can straighten out the world?'

'They didn't seem to be plotting last evening, just stuffing their faces. Oh, and most were trying to ignore a group of genuine Baetican visitors.'

'That's them!' grinned Momus. 'They pretend to love anything Hispanic – but only if it can be served on a dish.' I gathered that the Society was officially deemed innocuous. As usual, Momus knew more about it than a slave overseer should. 'Anacrites got himself voted into the club so he could keep an eye on them.'

Was political scheming likely?'

'Piddle! He just liked feeding at their well-filled manger.' 'Well, as anarchists they didn't look very adventurous.' 'Of course not,' scoffed Momus. 'I haven't noticed the world being straightened out, have you?'

There was not much else Momus could tell me about Anacrites or Valentinus – or at least nothing he was prepared to reveal. But with his knowledge of the unfree workforce he did know which usher had been running the dinner for the Society. While I was at the Palace I looked out this man and talked to him.

He was a lugubrious slave called Helva. Like most palace types he looked oriental in origin and gave the impression he misunderstood whatever was being said to him, probably on purpose. He had an official job, but was trying to improve himself by sucking up to men of status; the Baetican Society members obviously saw him as a soft touch to be sneered at and put upon.