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Chapters (65)
  1. COVER
  2. NEMESIS
  3. ROME AND LATIUM: SUMMER, AD 77
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
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  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
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  64. 61
  65. 62

Heracleides seemed genuinely afraid. Joking initially, I finished up, ‘That settles it. I shall have to assume that you work for Momus!’

Then the party-planner shuddered. ‘Yes, but he scares me! For heaven’s sake don’t tell the filthy bastard that I told you, Falco.’

Momus, as well as Laeta?—Now this was really getting complicated.

37

I managed to screw from the party-planner directions for finding the torch singer. It took me an hour to locate his block, and identify which attic he festered in. Scorpus was fast asleep on his bed. That’s the beauty of witnesses who work late nights. You can generally find them.

I sized him up before I woke him. He was chunky, though not athletic. He had a red face, a grey moustache, fairish hair receding badly. He looked like a tax lawyer. He probably played for them.

He slept in a disreputable loincloth; I threw a blanket over him. He woke up. He thought I wanted his money or his body, which he took in good part; then he saw that I was holding his lyre and he panicked. There was no need even to threaten him. It was such a good instrument it would have hurt even me if I had to smash it. He would talk. In great alarm he struggled to get up, but I pushed him back prone, using one foot. I did it gently. I didn’t want this aesthetic type to collapse with anxiety.

‘My name’s Falco. Didius Falco. I expect you know that. And you’re Scorpus, the disgusting highbrow singer of doleful dirges—’

‘I play in the respected Dorian mode!’

‘What I said. Minor keys and melancholia. If your listeners aren’t sad when you start, by the time you stop, the poor idiots will be suicidal.’

‘That’s harsh.’

‘Like life . . . Just lie there and co-operate. It won’t hurt. Well, not as much as refusing, trust me . . . We can save time, because I know the score. Whenever there is a gathering at an expensive private house, with hired-in food and entertainment, half the specialist artistes are collecting and selling information. You certainly do it. I want to know your paymaster, and anything you saw of interest last night at the Chief Spy’s house.’

He yawned insultingly. ‘Is that all!’

‘It’s enough. Let’s start with Claudius Laeta. Did he pay you to collect dirt on Anacrites—or have I got this the wrong way round: when you play for the great Laeta at the Palace is somebody else giving you kickbacks to observe him?’

‘Both.’