Three Hands in The Fountain mdf-9

by Lindsey Davis

  Against a stone in the water something bright just showed in the early light. I bent down and stared. It was an earring. Not a pair to the one Bolanus had shown me; that would be too great a coincidence. This was a simple hoop, probably not even gold. There was a socket for a pendant bead, but that was missing. I dipped my fist into the cold river for it, then turned back to land, pausing to shake off the water and shove the jewellery into my purse. Standing there in the Anio I suddenly felt exposed. The killer must be very close. If he knew I was here, he could even be watching me.

  I clambered up the bank, making more noise than I intended. Then I noticed something. Under some low-growing trees stood a small shack. In last night's darkness I had missed it. There was nothing much to it, just sagging walls and a hump-shouldered roof. Rank, flowerless vegetation snuggled up to its lichen-covered boards, but in the briars round about there were glistening blackberries among huge, rampaging spiders' webs.

  All around me was silence, apart from the gentle lapping of the river at my back. I felt like a mythical hero who had finally reached the Oracle, though what was likely to greet me would be neither a hag-born hermit nor a golden sphinx. There was a well-trodden path along the riverbank, but I approached through the undergrowth directly from where I stood. One great web blocked my way. I pushed it aside with a stick, courteously allowing the fat spider time to scuttle off into the weeds. All the time my eyes were on the closed door of the shack.

  When I reached it the door seemed to be jammed. It opened inwards. There was no lock, but although the top edge gaped a few inches when I leant on it, the bottom stuck. I was trying to be quiet but in the end I forced it open a crack with a mighty shove. Inside something must be lying right up against the door; it was still too dark to make out much, though as I leaned close I was struck by old and disturbing smells. This place must be a fishing hut. It smelt as if pigs had been kept in it but on the Rosius Gratus estate there were no pigs. Just as well, or disposing of bodies would have been easy, and there would have been no long trail of evidence to bring me here from Rome.

  Whatever was impeding my progress would have to be moved bodily before I could enter. It felt like the dead weight of a filled wheatsack – or a body. But it was heavier than the body of a young girl. I looked around to see if I could break into the but some other way. Then I heard a twig snap.

  I spun round. A man was standing fifty strides away.

  I had only a glimpse before he plunged back into the thicket from which he must have emerged seconds earlier, clearly not knowing I was there. If it was anyone but Thurius he had no need to flee. I yelled and forced my tired limbs to race after him.

  He must be better rested than me, but he might not be as fit. I hoped the slaves from the house would help to cut off his escape, but I was disappointed; they must all have sneaked home for their breakfast, ignoring my orders to sit tight. No one answered my cry, and as we crashed through the wood no one rose in our path to intercept.

  Everything went quiet. I had lost him somewhere. 'Thurius! The game's up. Show yourself and make an end to this!'

  No answer. I could hardly blame him. I was a stranger and he knew every inch of ground. He must be sure he could get away.

  He had set off ahead of me working his way towards the track that led off the estate. I thought I heard hoofbeats. I was stricken with visions of Thurius fleeing on horseback all the way to Sublaqueum.

  There was no hope of shelter at the house. He would realise his fellow slaves would want to establish their own innocence and pay him back for fooling them. Those who had let themselves ignore his strange behaviour over the years would be quick to denounce him now – and if they turned to violence, it wouldn't be the first time a newly discovered killer was bludgeoned to death by the people he had lived among.

  I crept through the bushes, aiming for the track. I was watching a pile of long logs, Which could hide a prone man behind them. As I edged nearer, Thurius exploded from the undergrowth almost on top of me.

  I jumped up, giving him a mighty shock. He had just made a break for freedom, not realising I had worked so near. Before I could throw myself at him, I saw it would be too dangerous: he was now carrying a long axe.

  He looked as surprised as me for a moment, but then he recovered angrily. Pulling up short, he growled and swung his weapon.

  'Give up, Thurius!'

  The blade sliced low, threatening my knees. I moved towards a tree, hoping to trap him into embedding the axeblade in its trunk. He snorted and made another wide, controlled sweep, this time at head level. The little knife I kept in my boot would be no match for this. I didn't even reach for it.

  He looked as I remembered: nothing special. Unkempt, badly dressed, missing teeth: a typical rural slave. No more crazed than most passers-by on the streets of Rome. You would avoid knocking into him by accident, but you wouldn't look at him twice. If I was out late at night, and he made the offer casually, I might even accept a lift from him.

  'I'm not alone. The Urban Cohorts are riding hard behind. Give yourself up.'

  His only reply was another aggressive swipe of the axe, cutting off fine branches above my head. Immediately he followed up with a lower stroke the other way. In the army I had been taught to take on Celts wielding long broadswords this way – but as a soldier I had been armoured, with weapons of my own, not to mention ranks of snarling colleagues forming impenetrable blocks on either side.

  I stepped towards him. Light flashed; he whirled the axe again. I leapt like a Cretan dancer, heels to buttocks, saving my legs. Grabbing at a branch, I landed safe then put a tree between us. I managed to crack off the branch partially, but a long green strand of bark peeled back and caught fast. Useless.

  Dear gods, this was a town boy's nightmare: I wanted to be walking decent pavements where the criminals followed proper rules of misconduct and where I could drop into a winebar when the pace grew hot. Here I was, facing a desperate axeman in a misty wood, starved, exhausted, deserted by my only helpers, and now risking amputation of my lower limbs. As a way of earning a salary it stank.

  I dragged at the branch and this time it broke free. The stem was thick enough to make the axe bite if he hit it. Better still, the far end divided into a mass of twiggy branches, which were still in leaf. As Thurius made his next swing, I dodged the glinting blade. Then I jumped at him, thrusting the great bunch of long twigs full in his face. He started back, stumbled, lost ground. I pressed on, dashing my branch again at his eyes. He turned and ran. I followed but the branch caught in the undergrowth and I lost hold of it. I let it go and kept running.

  Thurius was pounding hard, still towards the track. I veered off to one side, putting myself between him and escape from the estate. Smashing down bushes, we struggled on. A fox broke cover suddenly and scampered away. A jay lumbered off with its strange laboured flight and a harsh cry. Once again I fancied I heard hoofbeats, this time much closer. Breathing hurt. Sweat was pouring off me. My aching legs could hardly keep going. Even so, as Thurius reached the track I was gaining; then my foot skidded on a clump of fungi and dropped into a hole, making me pull up with a cry of anguish. I managed to stay upright, but my boot turned over under me. I hopped free of the squashed and slimy toadstool stems, slipped again, then stepped wincingly after Thurius. He stopped and glanced back, then set off down the track.

  Ignoring the pain in my ankle I began to hop with what had to be one final sprint. A twisted ankle rights itself; though it prefers time to settle. I had no time. My strength would give out at any moment. But I would catch him first if I could.

  I heard a horse whinny. My heart sank, imagining he had a tethered mount somewhere. Then Thurius threw out his arms. Horse and rider had crashed out of the wood on the far side, and were galloping straight at him.

  He couldn't stop. He stumbled and lost the axe. The horse reared over him, but was reined back. Thurius staggered, still keeping upright, still determined to escape. He feinted with one arm at the horse, ducked its hoo
ves, and hurled himself down the track again. I had kept running. I crashed past the horse, glimpsing a familiar rider, who dragged it sideways to give me space. Then I caught up and launched myself on to Thurius.

  I flung him down, face first in the leafmould. I was so angry that once I made contact he stood no chance. I fell on his back, making sure I landed heavily. I pinioned his arms and clung on, commanding him to give up. He wrenched sideways, still thrashing. I pulled him up bodily and smashed him face down again. By then the horseman had dismounted and come rushing up. Next minute, my furious helper was booting Thurius in the ribs as if he meant to finish him.

  'Steady!' I yelled, leaning out of the way of the flying boots. It stopped both of them. Thurius finally capsized with his face in the ruts of the track.

  Still astride my captive, I started controlling my breathing. 'Nice action,' I gasped, looking up at the other man.

  'Basic training,' he answered.

  'Oh, you never lose it.' I managed to grin, though extra exertion was a trial. 'I don't suppose you would consider throwing up the governorship of Britain and entering into a formal partnership with me?'

  Julius Frontinus – soldier, magistrate, administrator, author and future expert on the water supply – smiled modestly. A look of genuine yearning crossed his face. 'That might be one of history's great "What if?" questions, Falco.'

  Then I accepted a hand up, while the ex-Consul held down our captive by planting one of his feet on the villain's neck.

  That was fine. We felt like heroes. But we now had to try to find Claudia.

  LXIII

  Thurius was refusing to talk. I had a feeling that he always would. Some want to boast; some go to their fate still denying everything. Thurius was plainly the silent type.

  Unwilling to let him out of sight, I lashed his hands behind him with my belt before we threw him across the Consul's horse. I explained about finding the hut by the river. We took Thurius with us while we trekked back to it. This time I thought I knew what we were going to find.

  To my surprise, as we approached the shack I saw the door was standing open. Outside, crouching on the ground, was Bolanus, with bruises all over him, shaking his head. Hearing our approach he staggered upright. I rushed to support him.

  'In there-' He was swaying and woozy. 'I followed him – saw him take her in – I yelled: he ran out and set on me – then we heard you in the woods. I drove him off, but I was passing out. I could still hear you away in the woods. I got inside and collapsed against the door. I knew I just had to keep him out -'

  'You were there all night? Dear gods, sit down -'

  Bolanus only gestured despairingly towards the hut. Frontinus and I glanced at each other, then at the shack.

  The three of us approached the battered doorway. Fresh air had not dispersed the musty smell. In the light of day the full horror of the place hit us: the dark floor, clearly stained with old congealed blood. The cleaver hung up on a nail: sharp, clean, its handle ebonised with age and use. The row of butcher's knives. The discoloured bucket. The sacks piled neatly, ready for the next gruesome adventure. The coiled ropes. And the latest victim.

  When I saw the low bench where he had dumped her, a despairing cry strangled itself in my throat. Trussed up there lay a shape, human in size and form, covered with cloth and motionless. We had found her at last. I had to turn away.

  Frontinus pushed past me and went in.

  'I know her.' I was rooted to the spot. Bolanus gave me a horrified look, then touched my arm and followed the Consul.

  They brought the body out. Gently they laid the woman on the damp ground, turning her away from us to give them access to her arms, which had been bound behind her back. Frontinus asked for a knife, and I passed him mine. Careful and meticulous, he edged the point under the cords and worked the blade up until the bindings sheared through. He freed her arms, legs and body. I bestirred myself and helped him as he turned her carefully on to her back and set about removing the gag from around her face.

  We lifted away part of the filthy cloth that covered her mouth. Exposing her to the fresh breezes of the Sabine Hills, I forced myself to look.

  My stomach lurched. Harsh blonde locks, besmirched face paint clogged on sagging skin, a trashily expensive necklace with thick ropes of gold and monstrous gobbets of polished bloodstone – my brain could hardly take it in. I realised this was not Claudia.

  'She's alive!' exclaimed Frontinus, checking her haggard neck for a pulse.

  Then she opened her eyes and groaned. As she blinked in pain at the daylight, I accepted the amazing truth: we had rescued Cornella Flaccida.

  It took us a long time to bring her round properly, but once she could see us she looked set to harangue us and she wanted to be up and flying at Thurius. He was fortunate that after her two-day ordeal locked in the cisium she could only lie helpless, crying out in agony while we tried to massage the blood back into her limbs. The cisium was wide enough for her to have been stretched out straight, and the ropes had not cut off her circulation completely, or she could never have survived. As feeling returned she was racked with pain.

  It would be a day or so before she could stand or walk. It seemed as if nothing sexual had been done to her, but she had been expecting it. That must have been terrible enough.

  Before she really knew where she was, she was croaking angrily. In view of what I had been afraid of finding, any noise from her was welcome. And after being tied up for two days, bounced along for forty miles in a dark confined space, dehydrated and starved, motion sick and forced to soil herself, while all the time expecting the fate of the women who had previously been dismembered by Thurius, even Flaccida was entitled to be furious. She must have thought she would never be missed, and if missed never traced: she was sharp enough to have noticed that Rubella had called off his surveillance. Her family had no idea where she had gone to live. Her beaten-up slaves could hardly be expected to report her disappearance; they would be glad to find themselves left in peace. Like so many others before her she would have vanished from Rome without trace. Once the narrowness of her escape hit home, she fell silent and subsided into deep shock.

  Discovering Flaccida here did not solve the mystery of what had happened to Aelianus' betrothed, but it left some hope that young Claudia's fate that night might have been less dreadful.

  'What now?' asked Frontinus. He had told me briefly how Aelianus had found him, dressed for action and with a fierce horse ready saddled at his house. He had sent Aelianus to sort out the warrant with the judge Marponius, while he himself, ever practical, hurtled after me on the Tiburtina road. 'The Urban Cohorts and my own staff should be here very soon. A conveyance can be found for the woman once she has had a chance to recover somewhat – but I'd like to get this bastard on his way to the judge in double quick time.'

  It suited me. I wanted to go home.

  As for Thurius, I had already thought up a way to take him back. A way that was secure for us, unpleasant for him, and highly appropriate. I took very great care not to kill him: I wrapped him in the most disgusting old cloths I could find, head and all. I tied him up just enough to make him suffer, but not enough to cut off his circulation and finish him. Then I locked him in the box of his master's cisium. Frontinus and I drove it back to Rome. We took two days to do it and throughout the journey we left Thurius incarcerated in the box.

  LXIV

  Home.

  Helena Justina had not heard me come in. When the baby started crying and the dog started whining, she tried to rouse herself, lifting her head from her arms where she sat dismally at the table. I could tell her condition was desperate. She had been reading my poetry.

  'Don't move,' I said. 'I've got Julia and Nux has got me.' The dog had attached herself to my leg, gripping my knee with both paws even while I crossed the room. It was presumably affectionate, though a burglar might have checked in his stride.

  'Giving you the hero's welcome!'

  I winced, as Julia really put
her heart into it. Nux began to bound up and down in crazy circles all around me. 'This never happened to Odysseus.'

  Then I was holding the pair of them, one arm round each, while they both cried all over my disgustingly filthy tunic. I should have washed first, but I had an urgent need to hold these two very tightly. 'I ought to get clean – but I wanted to come home first.' Now I was here, it would be hard to get out again. I was too tired in any case.

  Helena murmured something incoherent and clung to me for a considerable period given just how badly I stank; then she leaned back a little, courteously disguising her relief at putting a space between herself and the stubbly dark-eyed wreck she was in love with.

  For a long time she simply gazed at me. I could endure that.

  'Some women think heroes are wonderful,' Helena mused. 'Rather a trial around the house, if you ask me. I find the worst thing is how often they go missing. You can never tell when you need to ask for their laundry back, or whether this would be the day to start buying their favourite fruit again.'

  I smiled inanely at her, while peace crept over me like insidious wine. Nux, who had galloped from the room, now scrabbled back, tail end first, towing her much-chewed basket as a welcome home gift.

  In fairness to Helena, I had to tell her what had happened, in a brief form at least. Helena Justina spared me the effort of finding the words and worked it out for herself: 'You caught the killer. You had to fight him -' She was fingering a bruise on my cheekbone. A nerve flinched under her touch, but despite the pain I leaned against her hand. 'You're exhausted. Had he taken another woman?'

  'Yes.'

  'It wasn't Claudia.'

  'I know. So has Claudia turned up?'

  'No, but someone is here who knows what happened to her.'

  'Your brother?'

  'No, Aulus went home in disgust. Gaius!'

  Some moments after she called him, my rascallion nephew shuffled in looking strangely shy. For once he was cleaner than me. In fact he looked as if Helena must have kept him here, feeding him up and encouraging unfamiliar habits of hygiene, for most of the time I had been away.