‘So sad for him.’ Claudius Laeta beamed, a disconcerting sight. ‘I hear the Emperor has posted dear Anacrites on a mission to Istria—insultingly straightforward and boringly diplomatic. Here, he could have been gaining praise by saving the Emperor from association with the menace of the Claudii—Anacrites will be livid!’

Laeta was smiling. Petronius Longus and I were smiling too. The job stank. But we were all united in a bond of happiness that we had a chance to snatch credit away from the Chief Spy.

Before we left, Laeta found it in himself to say to me, a little awkwardly, ‘I was so sorry to hear about your father and your child, Falco.’

He had left it too late in the conversation. It failed to come over as genuine. I brushed his condolences aside.

14

As we left, Petronius and I took a detour past the smelly hutch Momus normally occupied; there was no sign of him. I did not make enquiries. Momus was grisly; I preferred not to know about his leisure time. His room must have been shabby to start with, but he had let it grow squalid; in a palace full of slaves with buckets and sponges he had no need to endure this. Even Petronius, who saw the world’s worst in his work for the vigiles, raised an eyebrow at the rancid accommodation.

On the opposite side of a long corridor lay Anacrites’ office. Now we knew he was away, I opened the door and invited Petro inside. They had met a couple of times and Petro had a personal interest. Anacrites, who made a habit of hanging around my family, at one time took a shine to Maia. Maia saw through him; sensing he was dangerous, she backed out of whatever relationship they had. His response was to send men who trashed her home, terrifying Maia and her four young children. Even now, Anacrites could not see how that vicious action only proved she was right to drop him.

I would pay him back. He thought he had got away with it. He still hung around my mother as if she had adopted him, and he greeted me like an old, affectionate colleague. He would learn.

The good result had been Maia taking up with Petro soon afterwards. He knew her story. He, too, had not forgotten. Like me, he was determined to deal with Anacrites one day, one day at the right moment.

The spy’s room was cramped but at least clean. It had an almost medical smell; I had always noticed that, though never pinpointed the source. One of his staff must have endemic veruccas, or enduring the spy day in and day out had given someone migraines.

We strolled over and squinted sideways at the stuff on his table, deliberately shifting pens and styluses in subtle ways, to worry him when he came back. Everything had been laid out pedantically; he was bound to notice changes.