Three Hands in The Fountain mdf-9

by Lindsey Davis

  Helena Justina read all the way through in silence. Then she looked up and surveyed me with a stern gaze. 'You know why I'm doing this?'

  I looked meek, but made sure I demonstrated I could think too. 'You're wondering about what Lollius said.'

  Naturally Claudia and Justinus wanted to know who Lollius was and what he had pronounced upon. I told them, keeping it as tasteful as possible. Then while Claudia shuddered and Justinus looked grave Helena gave her opinion. 'There must be well over a hundred public holidays annually, and a good fifty formal festivals. But the festivals are spread throughout the year whereas your brother-in-law said there were special times for finding these women's remains. I think the connection is the Games. Lollius said they find bodies in April – well, there are the Megalensis Games for Cybele, the Games of Ceres, and then the Floral Games, all in that month. The next big concentration is in July…'

  'Which he also mentioned.'

  'Quite. That's when we have the Apolline Games starting the day before the Nones, and later the Games for the Victories of Caesar which last for a whole ten days.'

  'It all fits. Lollius maintains there is another bad time in the autumn.'

  'Well, September has the great Roman Games lasting fifteen days, and then at the beginning of next month are the Games in memory of Augustus followed at the end of October by the Games for the Victories of Sulla.'

  'And the Plebeian Games in November,' I reminded her. I had spotted them earlier when squinting over her shoulder. 'Trust a republican!'

  'Trust a plebeian,' I said.

  'But what does this mean?' demanded Claudia excitedly. She thought we had solved the whole case.

  Justinus threw back his neatly shorn head and regarded the smoke-stained moulded Plaster of the ceiling. 'It means that Marcus Didius has found himself an excellent excuse to spend much of the next two months enjoying himself in the sporting arenas of our great city – all the while calling it work.'

  But I shook my head sadly. 'I only work when somebody pays me, Quintus.'

  Helena shared my mood. 'Besides, there would be no point in Marcus hanging around the Circus when he still has no idea who or what he should be looking for.'

  That sounded like most of the surveillance work I ever did.

  XIX

  Petronius Longus was in an organising mood. His session with the Tiber boatmen had been as useless as I had prophesied, and he declared that we should abandon the pointless effort of wondering who was polluting the water supply. Petronius was going to sort out our business. (He was going to sort out me.) He would impose order. He would attract new work; he would plan our caseload; he would show me just how to generate wealth through blistering efficiency.

  He spent a lot of time composing charts, while I plodded around the city delivering court summonses. I brought in the meagre denarii, then Petro wrote them up in elaborate accounts systems. I was pleased to see him keeping out of trouble.

  Petronius seemed to be happy, though I was beginning to suspect he was covering something up even before I happened to pass by the vigiles' patrol house and was hailed by Fusculus. 'Here, Falco; can't you keep that chief of ours occupied? He keeps moping around here getting in the way.'

  'I thought he was either in our office causing havoc among my clients or out flirting.'

  'Oh, he does that too – he pops in to see his honeycake when he finally leaves us in peace.'

  'You're depressing me, Fusculus. No hope that he's dropped Milvia?'

  'Well, if he had done,' Fusculus told me cheerfully, 'your clients would be safe; we'd have him back here permanently.'

  'Don't flatter yourselves. Petronius loves the freelance life.'

  'Oh, sure!' Fusculus laughed at me. 'That's why he's constantly nagging Rubella for a reprieve.'

  'He doesn't get it, though. So how does Rubella know that Milvia is still live bait?'

  'How does Rubella know anything?' Fusculus had a theory, of course. He always did. 'Our trusty tribune stays in his lair and information flows through the atmosphere straight to him. He's supernatural.'

  'No, he's human,' I said despondently. I knew how Rubella worked, and it was strictly professional. He wanted to make his name as a vigiles officer then move up to the refined ranks of the Urban Cohorts, maybe even go on to serve in the Praetorian Guard. His priorities never changed; he was after the big criminals, whose capture would cause a flutter and win him promotion. 'I bet he's keeping a full-time watcher on Milvia and her exciting husband in case they revive the old gangs. Every time Petronius goes to the house he'll be logged.'

  Fusculus agreed in his usual comfortable way: 'You're right. It's no secret, though the surveillance is concentrating on the old hag. Rubella reckons if the gangs do get reconvened, it will be by Flaccida.'

  Milvia's mother. Still, Petro was no better off, because Cornella Flaccida lived with her daughter and son-in-law. She had been forced to move in with them when Petronius convicted her gangster husband, whose property had then been confiscated. One more reason to avoid tangling with the dainty piece, if Petro had had any sense. Milvia's father had been a nasty piece of work, but her mother was even more dangerous.

  'So when,' demanded Fusculus in his cheery way, 'can we expect you to have a quiet word with Balbina Milvia, pretty floret of the underworld, and persuade her to leave our cherished chief alone?'

  I groaned. 'Why do I always have to do the dirty work?' 'Why did you become an informer, Falco?'

  'Petronius is my oldest friend. I couldn't possibly go behind his back.'

  'Of course not.' Fusculus grinned.

  An hour later I was rapping on the huge bronze antelope knocker that summoned the door porter at the lavish home of Milvia and Florius.

  XX

  If I ever acquire slaves of my own, they will definitely not include a door porter. Who wants a lazy, bristle-chinned, rat-arsed piece of insolence littering up the hall and insulting polite visitors – assuming he can bring himself to let them in at all? In the quest for suspects an informer spends more time than most people testing out that despicable race, and I had learned to expect to lose my temper before I was admitted to any house of status.

  Milvia's establishment was worse than most, in fact. She kept not merely the usual snide youth who only wanted to get back to the game of Soldiers he was playing against the underchef, but a midget ex-gangster called Little Icarus whom I had last seen being pulverised by the vigiles in a battle royal in a notorious brothel, during which his close crony the Miller had had both feet cut off at the ankles by a rampaging magistrate's lictor who didn't care what he did with his ceremonial axe. little Icarus and the Miller were murderous thugs. If Milvia and Florius were pretending to be nice middle-class people they ought to employ different staff. Apparently they were no longer even pretending.

  Little Icarus was rude to me before he remembered who I was. Afterwards he looked outraged, and as if he was planning to butt me in the privates (as far up as he could reach). When he was installed as Milvia's Janus someone had stripped him of his weapons; maybe that was her mother's notion of house-training. The fact that a gangster's enforcer was the doorstop here said everything about what kind of house this was. The place looked pretty. There were standard roses in stone tubs flanking the door and good copies of Greek statues dotted around the interior atrium. But every time I came here the skin on the back of my neck crawled. I wished I had told somebody – anybody – that I was coming. By then it was too late; I had barged my way inside.

  Milvia seemed wildly excited to see me. It was not because of my charm.

  Not for the first time I found myself wondering whatever possessed Petro to involve himself with miniature puppets like this: all big trusting eyes and piping little voices, and probably just as deceitful under the heartfelt innocence as the bold, bad girls I once fell for myself. Balbina Milvia was a Priceless specimen. She had a coronet of dark ringlets held up by indecent wreaths of gold, a tightly trussed bosom peeking from swathes of rich gauze, tin
y feet in sparkly sandals – and an anklet, needless to say. Snake bracelets with real rubies for eyes gripped the pale skin of her delicate arms. Whole racks of filigree rings weighed down her minute fingers. Everything about her was so petite and glittery I felt like a blundering brute. But the truth was, the glitter covered dirt. Milvia could no longer pretend not to know that her finery was financed by theft, extortion, and organised gang violence. I knew it too. She gave me a bad, metallic taste in the mouth.

  The provocative bundle simpering so sweetly had been spawned by parents from Hades, too. Her father had been Balbinus Pius, a widescale, wholesale villain who had terrorised the Aventine for years. I wondered if chitterychattery Milvia realised – as she ordered mint tea and honeyed dates – that I was the man who had stabbed a sword into her father then left his dead body to be consumed in a raging house fire. Her mother must know. Cornella Flaccida knew everything. That was how she had managed to take over the criminal empire her husband had left behind. And don't suppose she wept too long after he vanished from society. The only surprise was that she never sent me a huge reward for killing him and putting her in charge.

  'How is your darling mama?' I asked Milvia.

  'As well as can be expected. She has been widowed, you know.'

  'That's tragic.'

  'She's heartbroken. I tell her the best way to endure it is to keep herself occupied.'

  'Oh, I'm sure she does that.' She would have to. Running criminal gangs efficiently demands time and boundless energy. 'You must be a great consolation to her, Milvia.'

  Milvia looked smug, and then slightly anxious as she noticed that my words and tone were not a matching set.

  I ignored the refreshments spread before me. When Milvia waved airily to dismiss her slaves I pretended to be nervous and shocked. I was neither. 'How is Florius?' The girl became vague. 'Still attending the races whenever he can? And I hear your devoted husband has an expanding business portfolio?' Florius (whose devotion was insipid) also fancied dipping his grubby equestrian toe into the murky pool of rack-rents, extortion and organised theft. In fact Milvia was surrounded by relatives with creative financial interests.

  'I am not sure what you mean, Marcus Didius?'

  'It's Falco. And I think you understand me very well.'

  That brought on a fine performance. The little lips pouted. The brows knit. The eyes were downcast petulantly. The skirts were smoothed, the bracelets adjusted, and the over-ornamented silver Sane bowls rearranged on their natty dolphin-handled tray. I watched the whole repertoire approvingly. 'I like a girl who gives her all.'

  'Pardon?'

  'The acting's good. You know how to rebuke a sucker until he feels he's a brute.'

  'What are you talking about, Falco?'

  Letting her wait for my answer, I leant back and surveyed her at long distance. Then I said coldly, 'I gather you have become very friendly with my friend Lucius Petronius?'

  'Oh!' She perked up, clearly thinking I was an intermediary. 'Has he sent you to see me?'

  'No – and if you know what's good for you you'll not mention to him that I came.'

  Balbina Milvia wrapped her glinting stole round her narrow shoulders protectively. She had perfected the attitude of the frightened fawn. 'Everyone shouts at me, and I'm sure I don't deserve it.'

  'Oh, you do, lady. You deserve to be upended over that ivory couch and spanked until you choke. There is a wronged wife on the Aventine who should be allowed to tear your eyes out, and three little girls who should be cheering while she does it.'

  'That's a horrid thing to say!' cried Milvia.

  'Don't worry about it. Just you enjoy the attention, and being bedded by a man who knows how, instead of by your limp radish of a husband, and don't you distress yourself with the consequences. You can afford to keep Petronius in the luxury he would like to discover – after he loses his job, and his wife, and his children, and most of his outraged and disappointed friends. Though do remember,' I concluded, 'that if you should be the cause of his losing everyone he treasures, it may be you he ends up cursing.'

  She was speechless. Milvia had been a spoiled child and an unsupervised wife. She commanded gross wealth and her father had governed the most feared street gangs in Rome. Nobody crossed her. Even her mother, who was a ferocious witch, treated Milvia with diffidence – perhaps scenting that this doe-eyed moppet was so spoiled she could turn truly filthy one day. Appalling behaviour was the one luxury Milvia had not yet indulged herself with. It was bound to come.

  'I don't blame you,' I said. 'I can see the attraction. It will take a strong will to close the door on him. But you're a very clever girl, and Petronius is an innocent when it comes to emotions. You are the one with the intelligence to see that in the end it's going nowhere. Let's hope you are the one with the courage to put things right.'

  She drew herself up. Like all Petro's women, she was not tall. He used to shelter them against his powerful chest like little lost lambs; for some reason the darlings accepted the refuge as promptly as he made it available.

  I wondered whether to tell Milvia about all the others, but that would only give her an opening to assume she was the one who was different. As they all did. And as none of them ever were, except Arria Silvia who had spiked him with a dowry (and a personality) that made sure of it.

  I watched the damsel work herself up to insult me. I was too calm. She was finding it hard work having a one-person quarrel. Some of the women I knew could have given her lessons, but under the finery this one was a dull girl of twenty who had been brought up away from the world. She owned everything she wanted, yet she knew nothing. Being rich, even now that she was married she was still kept indoors most of the time. Of course that explained Petronius: when women are locked up, trouble soon comes to them. In the good old Roman tradition Milvia's only source of excitement was her secret lover's visits.

  'You have no right to invade my house upsetting me! You can leave now, and don't come again!' The gold granulations in her hairdressing flashed as she tossed her head angrily.

  I raised one eyebrow. I must have looked weary, instead of impressed. She tossed her head again – a sure sign of her immaturity. An expert would have brought out some devious alternative effect.

  'Dazzling!' I mocked. 'I will leave – but only because I was intending to anyway.' And so I did. Then, of course, Milvia looked sorry that her drama was over.

  I had been lying when I had suggested she ought to be the one who ended the affair. If he wanted to do it, Petronius could easily crack down the fortress gates in her face. He had had enough practice.

  The only problem was that so many people were telling him to do it that they kept reviving his interest. My old friend Lucius Petronius Longus had always hated being told what to do.

  XXI

  Of course somebody told him I had been there. My bet was Milvia herself. For some reason the spectacle of his loyal friend selflessly trying to protect him from disaster did not fill Lucius Petronius with warmth towards the loyal friend. We had a blistering row.

  This made working together uncomfortable, though we persisted, since neither of us would concede that he was to blame and should withdraw from the partnership. I knew the quarrel wouldn't last. We were both too annoyed by people reminding us that they had told us it wouldn't work. Sooner or later we would make it up, to prove the doubters wrong.

  Anyway, Petro and I had been friends since we were eighteen. It would take more than a silly young woman to drive us apart.

  'You sound like his wife,' Helena scoffed.

  'No, I don't. His wife has told him to take a long hike to Mesopotamia, and then jump in the Euphrates with a sack over his head.'

  'Yes, I heard they had another amiable chat this week.' 'Silvia brought him a notice of divorce.'

  'Maia told me Petro threw it back at her.'

  'It's not essential she delivers it.' Informing the other party by notice was a polite gesture. Bitter women could always turn it into a drama. Especial
ly women with hefty dowries to be reclaimed. 'She drove him out and refuses to let him go home; that's enough evidence of her intention to separate. If they live apart much longer a notice will be superfluous.'

  Petronius and Silvia had left each other before. It normally lasted a day or two and ended when whoever had stayed away from the house went home to feed the cat. This time the split had begun months ago. They were well dug in now. They had in effect positioned palisades and surrounded themselves with triple ditches filled with stakes. Making a truce was going to be difficult.

  Undaunted by one failure, I forced myself to visit Arria Silvia. She too had heard that I had been to plead with Milvia. She sent me packing in double time.

  It was another wasted effort that just made the situation worse. At least since Petro refused to speak to me I was spared hearing what he thought of my taking a peace mission to his wife.

  It was now September. In fact Petro and I had had our quarrel on the first day of the month, the Kalends, which as Helena pointed out wryly was the festival of Jupiter the Thunderer. Apparently passers-by in Fountain Court who overheard Petro and me exchanging opinions had believed the god had come to stay on the Aventine.

  Three days later, also in honour of Jupiter Tonans, began the Roman Games.

  The two young Camillus brothers used their aristocratic influence – which meant they found a lot of sesterces – to acquire good tickets for the first day. There were always debenture-holders with reserved seats who passed them on to touts. Descendants of military heroes, who sold off their hereditary seats. Descendants of heroes tend to be mercenary – unlike the heroes of course. So Helena's brothers acquired seats, and they obligingly took us. For me, sitting down with a decent view made a change from squashing into the unreserved terraces.

  Young Claudia Rufina was being formally introduced to the Circus in Rome; watching scores of gladiators being sliced up while the Emperor snored discreetly in his gilded box and the best pickpockets in the world worked the crowds would show her what a civilised city her intended marriage had brought her to. A sweet girl, she tried her best to look overwhelmed by it all.