Lindsey Davis - A dying light in Corduba

Helena Justina had come out behind us, unnoticed. 'Oh dear!' she exclaimed, ever one with the unwelcome insight. 'I suppose that belonged to your mysterious Spanish dancer. Don't tell me it's just been found in a compromising position at the scene of a crime?'

Gloomily we confirmed it.

'Ah, never mind, Marcus,' Helena then chivvied me kindly. 'Cheer up, my love! You ought to have lots of fun with this – it looks as though somebody is setting you up against a beautiful female spy!'

Naturally I retorted that I was not in the mood for clichthough I have to admit my heart took an uneasy lurch.

There was no chance of interviewing the girl from Hispalis. I didn't even know her name – or her alias. If she was sharp she would have left Rome. Smirking, Petronius Longus promised to place her description on his list of wanted suspects. He offered to subject her to a personal interrogation. I knew what that meant.

I told him not to exert himself; I would probe her secrets myself. Petronius, who believed that men with pregnant wives were bound to be looking for extra-domestic exercise, twinkled wisely and promised to inform me the minute the beauteous Diana came his way. At this point Helena said coldly that she would take herself home.

I went to see Quinctius Attractus.

When a case involves a senator, I always start at the top. I don't mean this was a step towards clearing up uncertainties. Not at all. Interviewing a member of Rome's revered patrician order was likely to introduce pure chaos of the kind that is believed by some philosophers to comprise the outermost limits of the eternally whirling universe: a vortex of limitless and fathomless darkness. In short, political ignorance, commercial deceit, and blatant lies.

Even provincials among you will deduce that M. Didius Falco, the intrepid informer, had posed questions to senators before.

You'll spot this too: I went to see Quinctius Attractus to get any whirling vortex straight out of the way.

Once I had managed to impress the doorkeeper with my rank – well, once I had slipped him half a denarius – I was allowed to step inside away from a sharp April wind that was darting through the city streets. Attractus lived in an imposing house, groaning with art torn from more ancient and more refined civilisations than our own. Egyptian turquoise and enamel vied for space with Thracian gold and Etruscan bronze. Pentellic marble crowded his corridors. Forests of plinths bore up porphyries and alabasters. Racks bowed beneath uncatalogued rows of vases and craters, against which lolled unmounted wall plaques and fabulous old armour which must have been plundered from many famous battlefields.

Quinctius Attractus condescended to come to his public rooms to meet me. I remembered the heavy build and weathered country countenance from two nights ago; today I was being given the full urban look – the statesman putting an invisible peg on his nose so he could follow the old Roman tradition and be nobly at home to the unwashed.

Our interview was hardly private. In every archway lurked a toga-twitcher just itching to dart out and pluck straight a pleat. They kept him perfect. His boot-thongs were aligned. His sparse curls gleamed, rigid with pomade. If a finger-ring slipped sideways a lithe slave nipped forwards to straighten it. Every time he walked three paces his purple-striped garments all had to be realigned on his wide shoulders and fat arms.

If I hated this parade when he first came to receive me, I felt utter frustration once he started to talk. It was all condescension and empty guff. He was the type who liked to lean back slightly, gazing above his companion's head, while intoning nonsense. He reminded me of a barrister who had just lost a case, coming out into the Forum knowing he will have to face a tricky interview. I said I had come to discuss the Oil Producers' dinner – and he seemed to be expecting it.

'The Society – oh, it's just a meeting place for friends -' 'Some of the friends met very nasty accidents afterwards, senator.'

'Really? Well, Anacrites will vouch for us all -' 'Afraid not, sir. Anacrites has been badly hurt.' 'That so?' One of his flapping footmen found it necessary to rush up and straighten a thread of fringe on a heavily decorated tunic sleeve.

'He was attacked the night of the dinner. He may not survive.'

'I'm shocked.' Checking the fall of his toga, he looked as if he had just heard about a minor skirmish between locals in some remote area. Then he noticed me watching and his fleshy jowls set for a ritual senatorial platitude: 'Terrible. A sound man.'

I swallowed it whole, then tried to fix the slithery senator to a firm base: 'Were you aware that Anacrites was the chief Spy?'

'Oh certainly. Bound to. You can't have a man like that attending private functions unless everybody knows what his position is. Men would wonder. Men wouldn't know when it was safe to speak freely. Be a shambles.'

'Oh? Does the Society of Baetican Olive Oil Producers often discuss sensitive issues, then?' He stared at my effrontery. I hadn't finished yet: 'You're telling me the chief of Intelligence was openly invited to join your group, in order to suborn him? I'm willing to bet you allowed Anacrites membership without the indignity of subscription fees!' A nice life, for a spy who was gregarious.

'How formal is tnis?' Attractus demanded suddenly. I knew the type. He had assumed that his rank gave him immunity from questioning. Now I was being nasty, and he couldn't believe it was happening. 'You say you're from the Palace – do you have some kind of docket?'

'I don't need one. My commission is from the highest quarters. Responsible people will co-operate.'

Just as suddenly he changed attitude again: 'Ask away then!' he boomed – still not seriously expecting I would dare.

'Thank you.' I controlled my temper. 'Senator, at the last assembly of the Society for the Olive Oil Producers of Baetica you dined in a private room with a mixed group, including several Baeticans. I need to identify your visitors, sir.' Our eyes met. 'For elimination purposes.'

The old lie proved sufficient, as it usually does. 'Business acquaintances,' he guffed with an offhand air. 'See my secretary if you must have names.'

'Thanks. I have the names; we were introduced,' I reminded him. 'I need to know more about them.'

'I can vouch for them.' More vouching! I was used to the fine notion that the slightest trade connection made for complete blood-brotherhood. I knew how much faith to place in it too.

'They were your guests that evening. Was there any special reason for entertaining those particular men that particular night?'

'Routine hospitality. It is appropriate,' mouthed Quinctius sarcastically, 'that when senior men from Baetica visit Rome they should be made welcome.'

'You have strong personal connections with that province?'

'I own land there. I have a wide range of interests, in fact. My son has just been appointed quaestor to the province too.'

'That's a fine honour, sir. You must be proud of him.' I didn't mean the compliment, and he didn't bother acknowledging it. 'So you take the lead in encouraging local business interests in Rome? You're a proxenos.' The handy Greek term might impress some people, but not Attractus. I was referring to the useful arrangements all overseas traders make to have their interests represented on foreign soil by some local with influence – a local who, in the good old Greek tradition, expects them to grease his palm.

'I do what I can.' I wondered what form that took. I also wondered what the Baeticans were expected to provide in return. Simple gifts like the rich produce of their country – or something more complex? Cash in hand, perhaps?

'That's commendable, sir. Going back to the dinner, Anacrites was also present. And a couple of others, including myself.'