Three Hands in The Fountain mdf-9

by Lindsey Davis

  'I never really went to sleep. I just dozed, worrying about you out there.'

  'Nothing happened.'

  'No,' said Helena quietly. 'But if you had seen him, you would have gone after him. I was worried about that.'

  'I can take care of myself.'

  She nestled closer, saying nothing. I lay silent myself, worrying about leaving her every night, knowing that when she thought I was doing something dangerous she stayed awake for hours, opening her eyes at every sound and sometimes even jumping up to look out down the street for my return.

  With me home in her arms, Helena slipped into a doze. The baby was awake, briefly clean, charming, kicking her feet contentedly, hardly a dribble in sight. I caught her looking up at me as if she was deliberately testing her audience. She had Helena's eyes. If we could bring her safely through the dangerous childhood years, when so many lost their hold on life, then one day she would have Helena's spirit too. She would be off out there, freeborn in her own city, probably half the time without telling us where she had gone.

  Women should take care. The sensible ones knew that. But Rome had to allow them to forget sometimes. Being truly free meant enjoying life without the risk of coming to harm.

  Sometimes I hated my work. Not today.

  Julius Frontinus came for a conference that afternoon. I loved him for his blunt approach, but the constant fear that his honour would walk in did cramp my style. Still, he had had the courtesy to let his night-patrol take their rest first.

  I stepped out to the porch and whistled across to Petronius. There was no response, but almost immediately he came loping up the street. I signalled; he joined us. We all sat together, accompanied by the quiet sound of Julia Junilla's cradle as Helena gently worked the rocker with her foot.

  We spoke in subdued voices. Petro and I reported on our negative results last night.

  'I have seen the Prefect of Vigiles this morning.' Frontinus could be relied on to chivvy and chase. 'He had a round-up from his officers. They caught various minor offenders who might have got away with it if we had not had the Circus surrounded and the city gates watched, but nobody who seems implicated in our quest.'

  'Have any women been reported missing this morning?' I asked. I sounded hoarse, not wanting to hear the answer.

  'Not so far.' Frontinus was subdued too. 'We should be glad.' We were, of course, although having nothing further to go on gave us no material help.

  'At least we didn't miss someone being snatched.'

  'You have nothing to reproach yourselves with,' said Helena. Seated in her round-backed wicker chair she seemed slightly apart from the conference, but it was understood she was listening in: In my household debates were full-family affairs.

  Helena knew what I was thinking. I had once cursed myself bitterly when a young girl was murdered and I had felt I could have prevented it. That was in the past, but I still sometimes tortured myself turning over whether I should have acted differently. I still hated the killer for leaving me with his crime on my own conscience.

  I had been brooding too much recently about Helena's dead uncle, the man whose corpse Vespasian had had me dispose of in the Great Sewer. It was his daughter, Helena's young cousin, who had been killed. Sosia. She had been sixteen: bright, beautiful, inquisitive, blameless and fearless – and I had been half in love with her. Ever since then, I had never quite trusted my ability to protect women.

  'I had a message from the man we sent to the Porta Metrovia stables,' said Petro, interrupting my thoughts. 'Apparently Damon, the driver we're suspicious about, has been staying there full time. It's exactly what he is supposed to do. He goes to the chop-house next door, buys himself a drink, and makes it last for hours. He does try to chat up the waitress, but she isn't having it.'

  'And he was there all night?' asked Frontinus, yearning to hear something which would implicate the driver. 'All night,' Petro gloomily confirmed.

  'So that exonerates Damon?'

  'Only for last night.'

  'Damon should not be your killer,' Helena reminded us quietly. 'Damon is said to remain at the Porta Metrovia in case his mistress requires her carriage. Whoever killed Asinia abducted her in Rome yet threw her hand into the Anio within a matter of days – and then he drove back here to dispose of her head and torso at the end of the Games. If he follows the same pattern during these Games, maybe the vigiles can catch him among the traffic through the Tiburtina Gate – though at a fatal price for some poor woman, I'm afraid.'

  'Only commercial traffic left last night,' Frontinus assured her. He must have really dragged details out of the Prefect of Vigiles.

  'Can't the killer be a commercial driver of some sort – one who just happens to come from Tibur?'

  'He's a private driver. He is delivering somebody for the festivals, then fetching them home again afterwards,' I said, convinced of it. 'That's why he makes two trips.'

  'But not Aurelia Maesia, apparently,' Petro added with a grunt.

  'No. Helena's right. We're letting ourselves be distracted by Aurelia and Damon. We're too desperate; if we aren't careful we'll miss something.'

  'This morning when I was waiting for you to wake up,' Helena said, 'I had a thought. I knew from the quiet way you came in that nothing could have happened last night. Yet it was the opening of the Games, and you had been certain that that would be when he struck.'

  'So, my love?'

  'I wondered what was different. I was thinking about the black day. Some people might, as you say, travel to Rome early for these Games, to avoid a bad luck day. Last month the Ludi Romani started three days after the Kalends not two, so it didn't arise. That time the killer struck on the opening day of the Games, and you're assuming that's significant. But suppose whoever he brings is not particularly bothered about the grand parade? If they didn't want to travel on a bad luck day, they might just come up a day later.'

  'You mean, he's not here yet!'

  'Well, it's a thought. While you were all outside the Circus waiting for an attack last night, he might just have been arriving in Rome.'

  I glanced at Petronius, who nodded glumly. 'It's all to do again tonight, Petro.'

  'I wasn't intending to relax.'

  I meant to say we ought to look through the lists of vehicles that came in last night from Tibur, but the conversation sheered off in a slightly different direction. 'We need a strategy in case the killer does strike,' Julius Frontinus put in. 'Of course we all hope he will be observed just before or during an abduction. But let's be realistic; that would take a great deal of luck. If we miss it, and if he sets off with his victim, there may have to be a pursuit.'

  'If he leaves the city boundary, the vigiles have no jurisdiction.'

  Frontinus gave me a look. 'It's up to you two then. You won't lack support. I have made some arrangements. The crimes are being committed in Rome, so if a pursuit is needed men can be allocated from the Urban Cohorts -'

  Petronius, who loathed the Urbans, muffled a groan. 'I have a whole cohort on the alert at the Praetorian Camp, with a fleet of horses saddled up. The magistrate who will hear the case if it comes to court will have to provide a chit for the Urban Prefect. It's all set up, but we need a name for the arrest warrant -'

  'Which magistrate?' asked Petro.

  'One called Marponius. Have you come across him?'

  'We know Marponius.' Petro loathed him too. He glanced at me. If we had a chance to apprehend the killer, we would do it ourselves, in Rome or out of the city – then politely request a warrant afterwards.

  'I want this all carried out correctly,' Frontinus warned, sensing our rebellion.

  'Of course,' we assured him.

  Helena Justina bent over the cradle so the ex-Consul could not see her smile.

  After Frontinus had gone, Petronius told me where he had been earlier. 'Up the Via Lata – halfway to the Altar of Peace. Very smart. Very select. Big houses with big money living in them, all the way out along the Via Flaminia.'

  'What
took you out there?'

  'Checking that Aurelia Maesia really was there with her sister.'

  'I thought we were now regarding the Damon line of enquiry as defunct?'

  'Nobody had told me then! Dear gods, working in the vigiles has its problems, but nothing like the frustrations of working outside them. Look!' He chopped the side of his hand on the table. 'Lying low isn't working -'

  'So you wanted to put pressure on?'

  'Pressure's what I believe in, Falco.'

  I knew he did. But I believed in lying low.

  'Well, was old Aurelia there?'

  'Both sisters were. Grata is even more short-sighted and decrepit than Maesia, but apparently that doesn't stop them both wobbling off to their seats at the Games every day. In the evening they have friends in to dinner. They can't go out; there's a father who also comes for the family party and he's too feeble to take elsewhere. Jupiter knows how old he is!" 'Did you see him?'

  'No, the poor duck was asleep.'

  'Lucky him!' I was feeling rough. And there were nine days of the Augustales to go yet.

  In the early evening I Pulled on my best working boots. I wore wrist straps, which I rarely bothered with, and two thick tunics. I had a cloak, my knife in one boot, a purse for bribes. I bathed and lightly exercised, then had a shave to fill in an hour and warm me up cursing the barber's clumsiness.

  Petronius would be wasting time in tedious confabulations with his colleagues in the vigiles. I let him go on ahead to get it over with. With nothing better to do myself, I walked over by way of the Via Appia to the Porta Metrovia. I wanted to meet Damon. The indications were that he was not our killer, but he might know something useful about his fellow drivers from the Tibur area. I had decided it was time to question Damon directly.

  The stables where Aurelia Maesia kept her carriage while she visited her sister were the usual crowded hovels with large rats sitting up and grinning in the mangers while thin cats ran away in fear. Donkeys, mules and horses risked hoof rot while dowdy grooms committed sodomy on unturned straw. There were conveyances for hire at inflated prices, and relays of better-quality horses acquired at public expense for use by the Imperial post. Graffiti advertised a farrier-cum-blacksmith, but his anvil looked cold and his booth lay empty. Next door stood an off-putting tavern with rooms for rent, waitresses who could probably be hired to complete your suite, and a drinks list that proved price regulation was an ancient myth.

  I could find neither Damon the gingery driver nor the member of the vigiles who had been assigned to watch and tail him. A waitress whose scowl declared she had reason to remember told me they had both gone out.

  LVII

  Had all been normal, I was originally intending to call on Marina; I still had a question I wanted to ask her. Now there was no time to stop off at the Street of Honour and Virtue, not even to play the good uncle and visit my niece. Instead I strode quickly to the Temple of the Sun and Moon. There, as arranged, I met Petro and apprised him of the new development. Frontinus had given us use of the public slaves attached to the enquiry; in a trice we had them scampering in all directions, passing on the word to the vigiles that everyone should watch out for the red-haired Celtic-looking man with the gammy leg. It sounded like a joke; we knew it could be deadly serious.

  'Has he taken the carriage?'

  'No, but that's an eye-catching number. It's so big and so flash that he would risk being identified if it were seen near where a woman disappeared. He may go out on foot to grab the girls, then take them back to the stable.'

  'If it's him,' Petro dutifully reminded me. But once someone under surveillance does something he isn't supposed to, it's easy to allocate to him the role of the villain you're searching for. Petro was forcing himself not to grow too excited. 'Let's not be led astray on this.'

  'No. At least it looks as if the tail has stuck with him.'

  'He'll get a bonus!' Petro should know that was doubtful in public service. But the man would do a good job. 'Damon doesn't fit!' Petro muttered, but he had a dark look as if he were wondering whether we had somehow missed something vital and Damon was, after all, the man we sought.

  All we could do was wait and continue as normal. We were still swapping venues to keep us alert on watch. It was Petro's turn for the Street of the Three Altars, while tonight I took the Temple of the Sun and Moon. He thumped his shoulder in the old legionary salute, then walked off and left me.

  It soon grew dark. Above the Circus I could see a faint glow from the thousands of lamps and torches that were lighting the evening spectacles. This time of year the shows could be even more magical than in summer.

  Lindsey Davis

  Three Hands in The Fountain

  It was quieter, much less raucous than the long September evenings of the Roman Games. The Augustales, being closely linked to the Imperial court, tended to be subdued in periods when the court was acting respectably as it was under Vespasian. The applause from the stadium was polite. The musicians were playing at a measured, almost boring pace, allowing them time to slide up to the right pitch when they squeezed out their notes. I almost preferred them playing flat.

  'Uncle Marcus!'

  A muffled cry made me start. A long, tightly wrapped cloak did its best to hide my most disreputable nephew, although beneath the hem of the sinister disguise his dirty big feet in their outsize boots were unmistakable to associates.

  'Jupiter! It's Gaius-' He was slinking along the dark Temple portico, pressing himself against the pillars and adopting a low crouch, with only his eyes showing.

  'Is this where you're watching for that man?'

  'Come away from there, Gaius. Don't think you look invisible; you're just attracting attention to yourself.'

  'I want to help you.'

  Since there seemed no harm in it, I described Damon and said if Gaius saw him he was to run for me or one of the vigiles. He should be safe. As far as we knew the aqueduct killer had no taste for lads. Anyway, if he smelt our unwashed Gaius he would soon have second thoughts.

  I begged my nephew when he grew tired of surveillance to go home and look after Helena for me. She would keep him out of trouble. After a few whines about unfairness he crept off, still stalking shadows. Groaning, I watched him start to walk with an exaggerated stride, practising giant steps. A child at heart, he was now playing the old game of stepping on cracks in the pavement in case a bear ate him. I could have told him, it was avoiding the cracks that mattered.

  It was to be a night of irritations, apparently. I had hardly freed myself from Gaius when a new scourge sidled out of the shadows. 'What's this, Falco?'

  'Anacrites! In the name of the gods, will you lose yourself, please?'

  'On observation?'

  'Shut up!'

  He squatted down on the temple steps, like a layabout watching the crowds. He was too old and too swankily styled to pass muster for an off-duty altar boy. But he had the gall to say, 'You really stand out up here on your own, Falco.'

  'If idiots like you would just leave me alone I could lounge against a pillar with a fistful of cold rissole looking like a lad who's waiting for a friend.'

  'You're in the wrong gear,' he pointed out. 'I could spot you as a plant from half a street away. You look ready for action. So what's moving tonight?'

  'If you're staying at this temple, then I'm moving!' He stood up slowly. 'I could help, you know.'

  If we lost the killer because I turned down his offer, nobody in officialdom would accept the simple plea that I considered him an idiot. Anacrites was the Chief Spy. He was on sick leave, reallocated to light duties at the water board, but ultimately he worked for the establishment, just like me.

  All the same, if Anacrites caught the killer because I passed him a clue, then Petronius Longus would strangle me. I could cope with that, but not the other things Petro would do to me first.

  'We're still on general watch: any man who looks at women suspiciously. Especially if he has transport.'

  'I'l
l keep my eyes open.'

  'Thanks, Anacrites.' I managed to say it without bile rising.

  To my relief he moved off, though he was heading on a course that would bring him to the Street of the Three Altars and Petro. Well, Petro could handle Anacrites.

  At least I thought he could. However, unknown to me, my stalwart partner was no longer there.

  It was a dreary night. It seemed more tedious than usual. At regular intervals the applause rippled skywards from the Circus. Bursts of ear-splitting music from the cornu bands disturbed my weary reverie. A slow trickle of exiting ticket-holders began early.

  The crowds started to disperse more quickly than they had after the Ludi Romani, as if people sensed the approaching chill of autumn evenings, though in fact a warm and sunny day was ending in a perfect late summer night. I served my watch beneath swarms of bats, and then under the stars.

  Enjoying the night too, the crowds slowed up again. Men suddenly discovered a need for one more drink in a bar. Women lingered, chatting, though eventually they flung their bright stoles around them – for effect rather than necessity on this balmy night – shook out the creases from their clinging skirts and strolled off amid plenty of chaperons. The Augustales were very restrained Games. Too respectable for the hardcore rabble. Too staid for the keenest race-goers. Lacking the pagan edge of longer-established series whose histories of spilt blood went back for centuries. Honouring a man-made, self-made god lacked the gut attraction of the old Games that had been inaugurated under more ancient, more mysterious deities.

  Strange rites had been enacted, however, for instance a visit to the second-day events by five pistachio-chewing, mulsum-swigging, parasol-wielding, late-staying, man-baiting members of the Braidmakers' Old Girls. Their leader was the loudest, crudest, brightest, boldest wench that I had seen all night. She was, of course, Marina: the fast, fickle mother of my favourite niece.

  'Oh, Juno – it's Falco, girls!' How could anyone so beautiful in repose become so raucous when she spoke? Easily, in Marina's case. Just as well, perhaps. Armed with breeding and refinement too, she would have been desperately dangerous. 'Let's chase him around the Temple and see who can rip his tunic off!'