Three Hands in The Fountain mdf-9

by Lindsey Davis

  The dam was truly enormous, a massive embankment of core rubble, covered with fitted blocks and sealed with hydraulic lime and crushed rock to form an impenetrable, waterproof plaster. Very nice. Who could blame any emperor who had access to the world's finest engineers for using them to landscape his garden in this way? It was much better than a sunken pond with a lamprey and some green weed.

  A bridge high across the entire dam gave access to the villa and its glamorous amenities. Bolanus told us plenty of stories about the place's opulence, but we were in no mood to go sightseeing.

  Bolanus walked us out on to the bridge. By the time we got to the middle, I for one just longed to return to land. But if the height made the Consul sway, he showed no sign of it. 'We have come along with you, Bolanus, since we trust your expertise. Now convince us this visit to the dam has a salient point.'

  Bolanus paused. He gazed down the valley, a sturdy figure, unmoved by the importance of the ex-Consul grilling him. He waved an arm at the scenery: 'Isn't that marvellous?' Frontinus screwed his mouth up and nodded in silence. 'Right! I wanted another look,' said Bolanus. 'The Anio Novus aqueduct is needing a complete overhaul. It was never helped by being drawn off the river; we already knew from the bad quality of the original Anio Vetus that the channel would deliver too much mud. I reckon that could be improved dramatically if the Emperor could be persuaded to extend it right up here and draw the waters off the dam -'

  Frontinus had pulled out his note-tablet and was writing this down. I foresaw him encouraging Vespasian to restore the aqueduct. For the struggling treasury to find the enormous budget for an extension might take longer. Still, Julius Frontinus was only in his mid-forties. He was the type who would mull over a suggestion like this for years. In a few decades' time, I could well find myself smiling as the Daily Gazette saluted an Anio Novus extension, when I would remember standing here above Nero's lake while an engineer's assistant earnestly propounded his theories…

  This had nothing to do with the murders. I quietly mentioned that.

  I sensed that the dogged Bolanus had another of his long educational talks ready. I shifted unhappily, looking at the sky. It was blue, with the slight chilly tinge of approaching autumn. Far away, buzzards or kestrels wheeled. Bolanus, who had a weak eye, had been suffering from the glare and the breeze. Even so he had removed his hat, in case the wind lifted it and spun it over the dam and down the valley.

  'I've been thinking a lot about the Anio Novus.' Bolanus liked to drop in a vital point, then leave his audience tantalised.

  'Oh?' I said, in the cool tone of a man who knew he was being sneakily played with.

  'You asked me to consider how human hands and such could enter the water supply. From where they end up in Rome, I decided they must come via the four major systems that start above Tibur. That's the Claudia, Marcia, Anio Vetus and Anio Novus aqueducts. The Anio Vetus, the oldest of all, and the Marcia both run mainly underground. Another point: the Marca and Claudia are both fed by several springs, connected to the aqueducts by tunnels. But the Anio Vetus and Anio Novus are drawn direct from the river whose name they both bear '

  We gazed down at the damned river running far below us. 'Relevant?' prodded Frontinus.

  'I think so.'

  'You always believed the remains were first thrown into the river,' I said. 'You suggested that when we first talked.'

  'Good memory!' He beamed.

  A bad thought struck. 'You think they are thrown in here!'

  We glanced at one another, then once more looked down over the dam. I immediately saw problems; anyone up here on the bridge tossing things off the top would be visible for miles. The dam had a vertical face on its reservoir side, but a long sloped bank on the river side. Hurling limbs far enough to ensure they landed in the Anio would be impossible, and for the killer entailed a risk of throwing himself off with them. It would be particularly dangerous if there was more wind; even today, when the valley itself was full of birdsong and wild flowers, warm, humid and still, up here constant blusters threatened to make us lose our step.

  I explained my doubts. 'Picturesque thought – but think again!'

  Bolanus shrugged. 'Then you have to look at the river between here and the Via Valeria.'

  All I wanted was to walk very carefully back to the firm ground at the end of the dam.

  L

  My companions eagerly consigned to me the task of surveying the relevant estates. We lodged that night at Sublaqueum and I spent the rest of the afternoon ascertaining that most of the cultivated land at the head of the valley and on the lower slopes of Mount Livata now formed part of the huge Imperial estate. Any Emperor planning a pleasure park is wise to ensure that he will only be overlooked by the flatterers he brings along to help him enjoy his isolation. Gossipmongers are never off duty.

  Now the villa had passed to Vespasian. It lay almost deserted and could well remain so. Our new ruler and his two sons had a distaste for the flamboyant trappings of power which Nero revelled in. When they wanted to visit the Sabine Hills – as they frequently did, in fact – they went north: to Reate, Vespasian's birthplace, where the family owned several estates and spent their summers in old-fashioned peace and quiet, like clean-living country boys.

  None of the Imperial slaves who nowadays tended Nero's spread, or the ordinary folk in its associated village, would be able to afford to make a habit of visits to Rome for entertainment. We still needed to look for a private villa, owned by people with the leisure, the money, and the social inclination to honour the major festivals year after year.

  Next day we returned as far as the Via Valeria, looking out for that kind of estate. Frontinus and Bolanus went ahead to install us in overnight lodgings again, while I stopped to make enquiries at one private villa that looked sufficiently substantial.

  'Over to you. I did my share at Tibur,' Frontinus cheerfully informed me.

  'Yes, sir. What about you, Bolanus? Want to help out at an interview?'

  'No, Falco. I just contribute technical expertise.' Thanks, friends.

  This villa was owned by the Fulvius brothers, a jolly trio of bachelors. They were all in their forties, and happily admitted they liked going to Rome for the Games. I asked if their driver returned here after delivering them: oh no, because the Fulvii did not bother with an extra hand; they took it in turns to drive themselves. They were fat, curious, bursting with funny stories, and quite uninhibited. I quickly acquired a picture of a riotous group, merry on wine and squabbling gently, trundling up to Rome and back when the fancy took. They said they went often, though were not slavish attenders and sometimes missed a festival. Although none of them had ever married, they seemed too fun-loving (and too much in each other's pockets) for one of them to be a secret, brooding murderer of the kind I sought.

  'By the way – did you happen to go to the city for the last Ludi Romani?'

  'Actually, no.' Well, that absolved them from the murder of Asinia.

  When I pressed them, it turned out they had probably not been to Rome since the Apolline Games, which take place in July – and they confessed rather shamefacedly they meant the July of the previous year. So much for these men of the world. The jolly bachelors were positively home-loving.

  In the end I told the Fulvii the reason for my enquiries, and asked whether they knew of any of their neighbours who habitually travelled to Rome for festivals. Did they, for instance, on their own noisy journeys ever pass another local vehicle on the same errand? They said no. They glanced at one another afterwards, and looked as if they might be sharing a private joke of some kind, but I took them at their word.

  That could be a mistake. The Anio flowed right through their estate. They let me look round. Their grounds were Gill of huts, stables, animal pens, storage barns, and even a gazebo in the form of a mock-temple on the sunny riverbank, in any of which abducted females might be held, tortured, killed and hacked to bits. I was well aware that the Fulvii might look like happy, open-natured souls, yet cou
ld well harbour dark jealousies and indulge long-held hates through vicious acts.

  I was a Roman. I had a deep-seated suspicion of anyone who chose to live in the countryside.

  Moving on down the valley, I reached another private entrance, not far above where water was diverted from the river into the conduit of the Anio Novus. This estate looked subtly different from the flourishing groves of the Fulvii. There were olive trees, though as on so many hillsides these looked as if nobody owned them; it rarely means they are abandoned in fact. The owner here probably turned up to harvest them. Still, the trees had a tangled, unpruned look which would have made my olive-growing friends in Baetica eye them askance. Too much vegetation grew around the trunks. Tame rabbits sat and looked at me instead of scampering for their lives.

  I nearly rode on, but duty compelled me to turn off and investigate. I followed an overgrown track, buried in a tangled wood. Before I had gone any distance I met a man. He was standing by a pile of logs at the side of the track, doing nothing in particular. If he had had an axe or any other sharp tool with him I might have felt nervous, but he was just looking as if he hoped nobody would come along and ask him to do any work. Since this was private land I had to stop.

  'Hello!'

  His answer was a fathomless country stare. He was a slave, probably: tanned and sturdy from outdoor work. Hair unstyled, several teeth missing, coarse skin. Age indeterminate, but fifty maybe. Neither over-tall nor dwarfish. Badly dressed rather than ugly. Wearing a rough brown tunic, belt and boots. Hardly a god, yet no worse than scores of thousands of other lowborns who cluttered up the Empire, reminding the rest of us just how fortunate we were to have schooling, character, and the energy to look out for ourselves.

  'I was just riding to the house. Can you tell me who lives here?'

  'The old man.' A reluctant country voice came from a wide-cheeked, not-exactly-hostile face. He was answering, though. Since I had not introduced myself, that was more than I would have expected in Rome. He was probably under orders to discourage strangers who might be livestock thieves. I put aside my prejudice.

  'You work for him?'

  'That's my task in life.' I had met the type before. He blamed the world for all his misfortunes. A slave his age might have expected to gain his freedom one way or another. Maybe he lacked the opportunity to earn his price through fiddling, or to demonstrate the right kind of loyalty. He certainly lacked the cheek and charm of most sophisticated slaves in Rome.

  'I need to know if anyone from here ever goes to Rome for the Circus Maximus Games?'

  'Not the old man. He's eighty-six!'

  We laughed a little. That explained the faint air of neglect on the estate. 'Does he treat you well?'

  'Couldn't ask for better.' With the joke, the slave had become more approachable.

  'What's his name?'

  'Rosius Grams.'

  'Does he live here alone?'

  'He does.'

  'No relatives?'

  'Up in Rome.'

  'Can I go and see him?' The slave shrugged agreement. I gathered I might not gain much from the experience, but I had been wrong in my judgement earlier; there was no opposition to my request. 'Thanks – and what's your name?'

  He gazed at me with the slight trace of arrogance some people show: as if they expect everybody to know who they are. 'Thurius.'

  I nodded, and rode on.

  Rosius Grams was sitting in a long chair under a portico, lost in dreams of events sixty years ago. It was obvious that this was how he spent hours every day. He was covered with a rug, but I could see a shrunken, hook-shouldered figure, white-haired and watery-eyed. He seemed well cared for and, considering his age, pretty fit. But he was not exactly ready to take seven turns around a running stadium. He certainly was no murderer.

  A housekeeper had let me in and left me to talk to him unsupervised. I asked him a few simple questions, which he answered with an air of great courtesy. He looked to me as if he were pretending to be dafter than he was, but most old men enjoy doing that for their private amusement. I was looking forward to doing it myself one day.

  I told him, by way of conversation, that I had come here from Tibur.

  'Did you see my daughter?'

  'I thought your family were in Rome, sir?'

  'Oh…' The poor old stick looked confused. 'Yes, that may be so. Yes, yes; I do have a daughter in Rome -'

  'When did you last see your daughter, sir?' I deduced he had been abandoned out here for so long he had forgotten what family he had.

  'Oh… I saw her not long ago,' he assured me, though somehow it sounded as if it happened a long time back. He was so vague it could just as well have been two days ago. As a witness, the old chap managed to seem wickedly unreliable. His deep-set eyes suggested that he knew it too, and didn't care if he misled me.

  'You don't visit Rome a lot, nowadays?'

  'Do you know, I'm eighty-six!'

  'That's wonderful!' I assured him. He had already told me twice.

  He seemed eager for company, though he had little of interest to say to anyone. I managed to extricate myself fairly gently. Something about Rosius Grams suggested he could well be up to mischief, but once I knew he could not be the murderer I needed to be on my way.

  I cantered back to the road, this time seeing nobody along the track.

  LI

  The place where we would be staying lay near the various springs which fed the Aqua Marcia. Bolanus had suggested their underground position would make access for the killer both difficult and unlikely. That was not how the dismembered hands entered the supply.

  But Bolanus reckoned he could provide our answer. He and Frontinus were waiting for me as arranged, at the forty-second milestone: beside a large mud reservoir where the Anio Novus began. The valley was full of birdsong. It was a bright country afternoon, in grim contrast to the dark conversations we were about to hold.

  A dam with a sluice in the bed of the river helped steer part of the current into this basin. It formed a huge settling tank which filtered out impurities before the start of the aqueduct. Now for the first time in years it had been drained and cleaned out. Banks of dredged-up mud were drying all around it. Slow-moving public slaves were unloading their breakfast from a donkey, leaving their tools in his pack: a typical scene. The donkey turned his head suddenly and grabbed a bit to eat himself; he knew how to get the better of the water board.

  'With aqueducts,' Bolanus explained to us, 'it's difficult and unnecessary to design a filtration system along the whole run. We tend to make a big effort at the start, then have extra tanks at the end, just before distribution starts. But that means anything which gets past the first filter can go all the way to Rome.'

  'Arriving as little as a day later,' I reminded him, remembering what he had told me in an earlier discussion.

  'My star pupil! Anyway, as soon as I came up here I could see we had problems. This basin had never been cleared since Caligula inaugurated the channel. You can imagine what we found in the mud.'

  'That was when you uncovered more remains?' Frontinus prompted.

  Bolanus looked sick. 'I found a leg.'

  'Was that all?' Frontinus and I exchanged a glance. The message that had reached us previously had implied limbs of all sorts and sizes.

  'That was enough for me! It was horrendously decayed; we had to bury it.' Bolanus, who had seemed so sanguine, had become appalled now he had actually seen the gruesome relics involved. 'I can't describe what it was like clearing out the mud. There were a few loose bones we could not identify.'

  A foreman produced them for us. Workmen like to keep a jar of interesting finds. All the better if it includes parts of old skeletons.

  'I'll ask somebody who hunts,' suggested Frontinus, ever practical, as he fearlessly handled the pieces of knuckle and leg bone. 'But even if we decide they are human, they won't help identification.'

  'No, but these might.' Bolanus himself was unpacking his knapsack.

  He prod
uced a small fold of material; it looked like a napkin from one of his excellent lunch hampers. Carefully unfolding it, he revealed a gold earring. It was of good workmanship, crescent-shaped and covered with handsome granulation, with five dangling chains, each ending in a fine gold ball. Bolanus held it up between his fingers in silence, as if to imagine it hanging gracefully on a female ear.

  Accompanying the earring was a string of jewellery, probably part of a longer necklace, since there was no clasp. Bright blue glass beads – lapis, or something very similar – had metal caps which joined them to small squares of delicate patterns cut from sheet gold.

  'It's very unusual to find items like this up here,' Bolanus said. 'In the sewers, yes. They could have been lost in the street or anything. Coins and all kinds of gems turn up there – one work gang even discovered half a silver dinner service once.'

  'It looks as though somebody threw them into the water to get rid of them,' I said. 'What girl goes tripping along a remote riverbank in her big city finery?' My companions were silent, leaving it to me to comment on girls.

  Depressed by the conversation, Frontinus walked back towards the river. 'Should I have the bed of the Anio dragged?' he asked glumly as I followed him, sharing his low mood. 'I could send my allocation of public slaves; may as well use them for something.'

  'In due course, maybe. But for now we should avoid any obvious official activity. Everything should look normal. We don't want to scare off the killer. We need to lure him out – and then grab him.'

  'Before he kills again,' Frontinus sighed. 'I don't like this, Falco. We must be close to him now – but it could go badly wrong.'

  Bolanus had joined us. For a moment we all watched the water rushing into a diversion pipe that currently fed the aqueduct. I turned round and scanned the woods, almost as if I suspected the killer might be lurking up there watching us.