Three Hands in The Fountain mdf-9

by Lindsey Davis

  In despair, I heard myself pouring out my troubles to the Praetorian duty watch. These big lads in shiny breastplates were a soft touch for a heartbreaking tale. Ever keen to put one over on the Urbans, whom they regarded as inferior barrack companions, they led me to the prepared horses, and wittily suggested that they should look the other way while I snuck off with one. I thanked them, pointed out that the horses were in fact mules, then chose the best.

  First light was blossoming above the Seven Hills as I spent half an hour kick-starting my stubborn mount, then galloped out of Rome on the Via Tiburtina, chasing after a killer who might not even have come this way.

  LX

  It was twenty miles, and probably more than that, from Rome to Tibur. As I rode out in the cold, grey early morning there was ample time for thinking. Most of my thoughts were bad. The easiest to bear was that I had totally misjudged events, and was making a pointless journey. Claudia would turn up; she might be safely at home already. If she had actually been abducted, Petronius Longus or somebody else might have seen it and arrested the man; while I was looking for Petro on the streets he could have been sequestered in some patrol house, applying hooks to the killer's anatomy. Or the vehicle searches that I had ordered might discover the girl before she came to harm. Her abductor might be arrested at the city gates. My last hope was that even if she was now on her way to Tibur, helpless and terrified – assuming she was still alive – I might manage to overtake her kidnapper..

  I would find her. Nothing would stop me. But she was probably already dead. In view of what she might have had to endure first, I almost prayed that by now she was.

  For the first few hours I saw nobody. I travelled out on the empty Campagna, the only traveller on the road. It was far too early even for the farmers to have woken. Now the mule had settled into his rhythm, the music of his galloping hooves soothed my panic. I tried not to think directly about Claudia, so instead I remembered Sosia.

  Hers was another death I could have and should have prevented. She had grown up with Helena's family, another young girl they cherished, for whose terrible loss they would always blame me. We never spoke of it, but none of us would ever forget. Sosia and Helena had been very close. At first Helena had blamed me bitterly for her young cousin's death, though she had allowed herself to forgive me. How could I expect her to overlook the same fault a second time? Aelianus would by now have told her that Claudia had gone missing: every moment that passed on my solitary journey was a moment Helena would spend at home fretting over the dark fate of her young friend, losing faith in me and worrying about me at the same time. I had lost faith in myself before I left the Tiburtina Gate.

  It grew light. I was riding into the sun. It shone low over the Sabine Hills, somewhere perhaps lighting a hovel where scores of poor women had been tortured, killed, and cut up. The tricky light made me more weary than I was already. Squinting into the glare sapped my fading concentration. It made me irritable and heartsick. I had spent too many hours riding against time on filthy quests to free the world of villains. Worse villains only arose to take their places. Fouler in their habits, more vindictive in their attitudes.

  The people in the farmhouses were beginning to stir. I began to meet country carts. Most were coming the wrong way, towards Rome. Those I passed heading east delayed me frustratingly while I searched them. Angry at these hold-ups, which I dared not omit, I grew sick of cabbage nets and turnips, damson punnets and leaky skins of wine. Toothless old men who smelled of garlic held me up as they slowly pulled coverings aside. Excited youths with untrustworthy eyes stared ghoulishly. I asked them all if they had been passed by another vehicle; those who denied it sounded as if they were lying, those who thought they might have been were only saying what I obviously wanted to hear.

  I hated the Campagna. I hated the dreamers and dawdlers who lived on it. I hated myself. Why did I do this? I wanted to be a poet, working in some peaceful library, cut off from the midden of humanity, absorbed in my own unreal world of the mind. (Supported financially by a millionaire patron in love with the arts. Falco? No chance!)

  Midday found me well on, in fact already at Aquae Albulae. There my initial spurt ended. The mule was tiring rapidly. I too was stiff and half dead. I had been up all night. I desperately needed rest, and just had to hope the killer would pause on the road too. He couldn't know I was following.

  I stabled the beast and plunged into the warm sulphur baths. I went to sleep. Someone pulled me out before I drowned; I snatched a couple of hours dead to the world on the masseur's slab, face down under a towel, with flies dancing themselves silly all over my exposed parts. Badly bitten and groggy, I came to, bought food and drink, and tried to swap my mule at a tiny mansio where they kept a relay for the official couriers.

  'My journey's vital – for the state – but I came away too fast to collect a pass. I've found this in my purse, though -' The man in charge took the token I offered without curiosity. Aquae Albulae was a relaxed hole. 'Afraid it's time-expired.'

  He shrugged, tossing it into a bowl. 'Oh dear, I'll have to say to the auditors "Which of the evil blighters slipped me that, then?" and look thick.'

  'Also, it's made out to the Governor of Baetica,' I confessed.

  'Nice fellow, I'm sure. That grey's a good horse.' 'Thanks! I hope my reinforcements will come through here soon. Tell them Falco says gee up, will you?'

  I ate on the hoof.

  Seven fast Roman miles later I was entering Tibur on the grey.

  Now I was in the kind of quandary only I could impose on myself: I had come to catch a man I didn't know, who lived I knew not where, and who at that very moment might be doing the gods knew what to Claudia. In the absence of other bright ideas, I followed my only hunch. Even though all the latest evidence said it was the wrong tack, I turned past the sanctuary of Hercules Victor and took myself to Aurelia Maesia's house.

  Time was running out. It must be mid-afternoon. Neither a horseman nor a driver could travel any distance in the dark. If I had to stop later, so would he. And he had a victim for company. Alive or dead. Perhaps alive now – but not for much longer once he stopped travelling.

  Would he feed her? Would she be able to attend to her other needs? How could it happen, without his risking discovery? He must have her trussed up, silenced and out of sight. She had been with him for a night and almost a day now. Even if I managed to rescue her, she would never be the same again.

  As I approached Aurelia Maesia's villa, I could only hope this would be where I found him. But by then, I was resigned to the fact that I had probably come to the wrong place.

  LXI

  It was perfectly clear that Aurelia Maesia was not expected home for days. The slaves were all out on a terrace, sunning themselves. Garden tools leant neatly against a statue. No work was being done. They had borrowed the best lounging chairs and were sprawled in them, so lethargic they could not bring themselves to scramble to their feet even when I appeared. Anyway, if they moved too fast they might have knocked their drinks over.

  'Where's Damon?'

  'Enjoying himself in Rome.'

  'The bastard!' snarled the cook (his official ladyfriend). 'When he goes up to Rome, does he ever drive back in the carriage on his own?'

  'Is it likely?' cackled the cook, adding routinely, 'That bastard.'

  I was perfectly happy to abuse Damon, but I needed fast answers. Spotting the lad, Titus, I signalled that I would like a word with him and we two moved off.

  'Aren't you Gaius the fountain-mender?'

  I winked. 'I was working under cover; I expect you realised.' He said nothing. If he felt too betrayed by the deception he would refuse to co-operate. I gave him no time to start feeling annoyed: 'Now's your chance to help in a desperate situation. Listen, Titus: bad things have been going on and I'm trying to catch the villain.'

  His eyes were wide. 'Are you talking about Damon?'

  'I thought I might be. But I'm starting to get a new idea – tell me: Aurelia Mae
sia visits her sister. Her name is Aurelia Grata, yes?' Titus nodded. Aurelia Grata… Somewhere in the murk of the Falco consciousness a memory had stirred. 'And at the sister's house their old father joins them?'

  'Yes.'

  A bell was now ringing loudly in my tired brain. Echoes then sounded from several directions: 'His name wouldn't be Rosius Gratus?'

  'That's right.'

  'Lives up on the road to Sublaqueum?'

  'Yes.'

  I breathed gently. No point rushing this. 'And he travels to Rome too, when his daughter from Tibur is going up for festivals – so does your mistress take him with her?'

  'No. The old girl can't stand being penned up with him in the carriage. They get on, but it's best if they don't see too much of each other. That's why he continues to live on his own estate. He likes his drive to Rome in any case. He's a bit of a racer, actually.'

  'What's his conveyance?'

  'A cisium.'

  'What – an old man in a topless two-wheeler, out in all weathers?'

  'It's what he's always used.' I could hear Marina saying Oh, he clings on manfully.

  'Does he go to the Circus with the women?'

  'No, he sleeps all day and only wakes up for his dinner.'

  'But is Rosius Gratus still a man of the world in other ways?'

  Titus blushed. 'Afraid so.'

  I raised my eyebrows and grinned. 'He sees a woman?'

  'Always has done. It's supposed to be his big secret but we all have a laugh over it. How did you know?'

  'Somebody who lives in the same street mentioned it. Well, that's another reason for not travelling with his daughter. Old Rosius surely doesn't drive himself?'

  'Someone takes him.'

  'And this someone brings home the cisium while the old fellow stays with his daughters, then drives back to fetch the old fellow at the end of the festival?'

  'Probably. The old fellow wouldn't need the cisium; I told you, he just nods off on a couch all day. Am I helping?' asked the boy earnestly.

  'Very much, Titus. You've told me what I should have worked out for myself days ago. The problem was, I listened to someone I shouldn't have.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Somebody told me Rosins Gratus never goes to Rome.'

  'That's ridiculous.'

  'People tell lies, Titus.' As I turned to find my horse I gazed at him gently. 'You'll learn to look out for it. Take my advice: be especially careful of men who are standing around doing nothing, by the side of a track in a wood.' I swung into the saddle. It was an effort. 'This driver of the cisium – would his name be Thurius?'

  'That's him.'

  I should have known.

  Titus wanted to give me directions, but there was no need: I had to ride up the Via Valeria to the point where the aqueducts were taken from the River Anio, then turn off along the road to Sublaqueum. I had to do it, moreover, not in the whole day it would normally take for such a journey but in the few hours before dark.

  I left a message with young Titus in case helpers ever followed me. I had no hope of support now. There was no time for them to get here. I was in this alone.

  The Imperial post couriers can ride fifty miles in a day if they change horses, and so could I. Being already in possession of a cursus publicus mount helped me bluff. I managed to swap the grey for a stocky chestnut with a blaze at a relay station just before the road to Horace's Farm. Another lost opportunity to visit the Bandusian Spring. I didn't care now. I had gone right off water.

  The light was growing murky. I passed the aqueduct sources at the thirty-fifth and thirty-eighth milestones. On I galloped down the Sublaqueum road for four more miles until I came to the large mud reservoir. I stopped, looking for Bolanus. One of his public slaves soon appeared.

  'Bolanus saw a cart drive by earlier. He went after it on a donkey.'

  'Alone?'

  'We've finished cleaning the basin. There was only him and me and a dragnet. He told me to wait here and warn you if you came.'

  'I know where he's gone. Stay here in case help follows me; give them directions to the Rosins Gratus estate, will you?'

  Upstream of the sluice that directed water into the basin, I could see the dragnet they had roped up across the river. Chilled, I prayed they had not caught anything today. I rode on, spurred by desperation. Now Bolanus had put himself in danger too. With his stiff back and his dim eye he would be no match for a vicious killer.

  At the Rosius Gratus estate I slowed my mare to a canter. On the track to the house I saw nobody. The villa buildings lay silent; no slaves making their own entertainment here. My previous visit had given me the impression there was only a small staff. The housekeeper was here, anyway, because she had heard the horse and came out to investigate.

  'Name's Falco. I was here the other day. I need a word with Thurius – is he back from Rome?' She nodded. 'What's he doing?'

  'No idea. I don't keep track of that one.' She sounded disapproving. It all fitted.

  'Where shall I look for him?'

  'He should be in the stable, but if not you'll be hard put to find him. He goes off into the woods somewhere.' She looked curious, but was preoccupied with her work and let me go by myself.

  'Thanks. If you see him first, don't mention me; I want to give him a surprise.'

  'All right.' Obviously they left Thurius to his own devices. That was probably because they found him awkward to deal with. It was all as I expected: a loner; odd habits; unpopular. 'You look all in, Falco.'

  'Long day.' And I knew it was not finished yet.

  I tried the stable first.

  I failed to find the driver, or Bolanus, but I did come across the cisium. Its two horses, still steaming, had been watered and fed. I stabled my own alongside them.

  I walked around the elderly vehicle. As everyone had said, it was a high-based simple spin-along. Two big iron-bound wheels and a seat with space for two passengers. Under the seat was built a box, fastened by a strong padlock so that if the cisium was parked its luggage could be safely left. It was locked now.

  I banged gently on the box. Nothing. With relief I noticed that what looked like crude air holes had been driven through the planks. I looked around for the key. No luck. Naturally. I had not expected this to be easy.

  This was a stable; there had to be tools. I wasted a few seconds doing one of the pointless things you do; trying to pick the lock with a nail. Ridiculous. I was too tired to think straight. A lock that could be undone that way would be useless. I needed something stronger. Keeping an eye out for Thurius, I went and searched the outbuildings until I found a store. As at most remote villas, it was well-equipped. A crowbar partially bent the hooks of the lock, weakening the metal, then I struck it off with one furious blow of a hammer. Sweat poured off me: not from exertion but from sheer anxiety.

  I stood still, listening. Nothing moved here or at the house. I braced myself and flung open the box.

  There were several filthy smells, human in origin. But apart from some sacking, the source of these odours, there was nothing inside.

  LXII

  I would have to search the woods.

  I wanted to shout her name: Claudia! If she could hear my voice it might give her strength to hang on.

  It had grown too dark. I went to the house, begging a lantern. I knew I needed help. I asked the housekeeper to summon the other slaves who worked there. There were not enough of them, yet quite quickly – as though they had been waiting for something to happen – a motley crew of short- legged, shambling, shifty labourers assembled and stared at me.

  'Look, you don't know me but my name is Falco and I am working for the government. I have to find Thurius. I believe he has kidnapped a young girl, and he intends to kill her.'

  I noticed a few exchanged glances. Nobody had ever voiced suspicions, presumably, yet they were none of them surprised. I fought down my anger. They could have saved who could say how many women and girls. Well, at least they could help me try to rescue C
laudia now.

  'If you think you see him, don't approach. Just yell loudly for the rest of us.'

  They did not need telling twice.

  We patrolled the woods from dusk until it grew too dark to carry on even with torches. We called. We searched cattle byres and woodstacks. We thwacked bushes with branches, startling wildlife who had lived in the coppices undisturbed for years. We set up flares along the track and in clearings. A loose donkey did wander out of a thicket to greet us; it must be the one that Bolanus had used, though there was no sign of him. Thurius never showed himself and we never flushed him out, but he must have been there, and he must have realised we were after him.

  My lack of stealth was deliberate. It was my last hope of deterring him from touching the girl.

  I kept them at it all night. Wherever he was sheltering, I had to pin him down as long as it was dark. We kept the racket up, moving from place to place until eventually the first rays of light began to slide across the placidly running waters of the Anio. Then I passed the word that everyone was to sit tight, stop calling out, and keep absolutely still while we watched for Thurius to emerge from his hiding place.

  I had spent much of the night near the river. Something drew me there and held me. I had snatched some rest, crouching down on my heels with my back to a tree bole, while my brain raced and continued listening. Now I was awake, as much as a man can be who has not seen a bed for two nights.

  As the first light crept over the hills, I walked to the riverbank quietly and washed my face The water was cold. So was the air, much chillier up in these hills than back in Rome. It was so early that sound carried a vast distance. I let the water from my cupped hands ripple back into the river as gently as possible, making no more noise than the splashing of a mountain trout.