Three Hands in the Fountain Read online

  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 chittery-chattery 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 tisane 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. Especially 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.

  Smuggling in cushions and large handkerchiefs which we could use as hats (illegal measures once, though tolerated now if you kept them discreet), we sat through the parade and the chariot race, then bunked off for lunch while the inferior gladiators were being booed, and returned to stay until dark. Helena remained at home with Julia after lunch, but rejoined us for the final hour or two. Being pleasant became too much of a strain for Aelianus and he left in the late afternoon, but his shy betrothed stuck it out to the finish with Helena, Justinus and me. We slipped away during the final fight, to avoid the traffic jams and the pimps who mobbed the gates at the close.

  Aelianus looked perturbed that his Spanish bride was so keen on circuses. He must have feared that he would find it hard to disappear from home for the traditional masculine debauch on public holidays if his noble lady always wanted to come too. While you’re holding a parasol and passing the salted nuts it’s hard even to get drunk and tell filthy stories; coarser male behaviour would be quite ruled out. Claudia Rufina did enjoy herself, and not just because Justinus and I encouraged Aelianus to slink away early. She was eager to be part of my enquiry. I was not simply relaxing at the Circus; I was looking out for something suspicious in connection with the aqueduct murders. Nothing happened, of course.

  The Roman Games last for fifteen days, four of them comprising theatrical performances. Aelianus never regained interest. For one thing he had treated us to the tickets for the opening ceremony (playing the generous bridegroom), so his purse was now rather light. Having to ask his brother or me to stand him his mulsum every time he wanted a beaker from a passing drinks-seller was bound to pall. By the third day it had become routine for Aelianus to escape with Helena when she went home to feed the baby. From time to time I would leave Claudia bantering with Justinus while I moved around the Circus looking for anything untoward. With a daily changing audience of a quarter of a million people, the chances of spotting an abduction in process were slim.

  It did happen. I missed it. At some point early in the Games a woman was lured to an ugly fate. Then on the fourth day a new victim’s hand was discovered in the Aqua Claudia and the news caused a riot.

  As I returned to rejoin Claudia Rufina and Justinus after having lunch at home with Helena, I noticed large numbers of people rushing in one direction. I had come down from the Aventine on the Clivus Publicus. I was expecting to meet crowds, but these were clearly not heading into the Circus Maximus. No one could be bothered to tell me where they were going. It was either a very good dog fight, an executor’s sale with astonishing bargains, or a public riot. So naturally I raced along with them. I ignore snapping dogs, but I always jump at a chance to acquire a cheap set of stockpots, or to watch the public throwing rocks at a magistrate’s house.

  From the starting-gate end of the Circus the throng pushed and shoved through the Cattle Market Forum, past the Porta Carmentalis, around the curve of the Capitol, and into the main Forum, which lay strangely peaceful because of the Games. Yet even on public holidays the Forum of the Romans was never entirely empty. Tourists, killjoys, work-hogs, latecomers heading back to the show and slaves who had no tickets or no time off were always passing to and fro. Those who did not realise they were in the middle of an incident had their feet trampled, then were buffeted again as they stood around complaining. Suddenly panic exploded. Litters tumbled over. Off-duty lawyers (with their keen noses) hid in the Basilica Julia, which was untenanted and echoing. The moneylenders, who never closed their stalls, slammed their chests shut so fast some of them nipped their fat fingers in the lids.

  By now a certain element had turned themselves into an audience, sitting on the steps of monuments watching the fun. Others co-ordinated their efforts, raising chants of denigration against the Curator of the Aqueducts. Nothing too politically abstruse. Just sophisticated insults like ‘He’s a useless bastard!’ and ‘The man must go!’

  I jumped up into the portico of the Temple of Castor, a favourite watching post of mine. This gave me a fine view of the mob who were listening to orations under the Arch of Augustus; there various hotheads waved their arms as if they were trying to lose a few pounds while they declaimed against the government in a manner that could land them in jail being beaten up by unwashed guards – another offence against their liberty to roar about. Some of them wanted to be philosophers – all long hair, bare feet and hairy blankets – which in Rome was a sure way to be regarded as dangerous. But I also noticed cautious souls who had taken care to come out girded with water gourds and satchels of lunch.

  Meanwhile groups of pale, sad women in mourning garments solemnly laid floral offerings at the Basin of Juturna – the sacred spring where Castor and Pollux were supposed to have watered their horses. Invalids rashly taking the nasty-tasting liquor for their ailments fell back nervously as these middle-class matrons deposited their wilting blooms, amid much wailing, then took hands and circled in a dreamy fashion. They weaved their way over to the House of the Vestals. Most of the Virgins would be in their seats of honour at the Circus, but there was bound to be one on duty to attend the sacred flame. She would be used to receiving deputations of well-meaning dames who brought tasteful gifts and earnest prayers but not too much sense.

  On the opposite side of the Sacred Way, near the old Rostrum and the Temple of Janus, is the ancient Shrine of Venus Claocina, the Purifier. This too had its posse of clamouring protesters. Venus definitely needed to gird her beauteous thighs for action.

  From a fellow observer I heard that the new hand had been found yesterday in the Claudian Aqueduct, one of the newest, which poured into a collection system near the great Temple of Claudius opposite the end of the Palatine. That explained these scenes in the Forum. The citizens of Rome had finally realised that their water contained suspicious fragments that might be poisoning them. Physicians and apothecaries were being besieged by patients with as many kinds of nausea as a sick Nile crocodile.

  The crowd was more noisy than violent. That would not stop the authorities cracking down heavily. The vigiles would have known how to move people on with a few shoves and curses, but some idiot had called up the Urb
an Cohorts. These happy fellows assisted the Urban Prefect. Their job description is ‘keeping down the servile element, and curbing insolence’; to do it they are armed with a sword and a knife each, and they don’t mind where they stick them.

  Barracked with the Praetorian Guard, the Urbans are equally arrogant. They love any peaceful demonstration they can mishandle until it turns into a bloody riot. It justifies their existence. As soon as I glimpsed them marching up in ugly phalanxes, I hopped down the back of the Temple on to the Via Nova and strolled off up the Vicus Tuscus. I managed to leave the troublespot without having my head split open. Others cannot have been so fortunate.

  Since I was near to Glaucus’ baths, I swerved inside and stayed there in the deserted gymnasium shifting weights and battering a practice sword against a post until the danger had passed. It would take more than the Urbans to get past Glaucus; when he said ‘Entry by invitation only’ it stuck.

  The streets were quiet again when I emerged. There was not too much blood on the pavements.

  Abandoning the Games, I headed back to the office in the faint hope of finding Petronius. As I sauntered along Fountain Court I could see something was up. This was too much excitement for one day. I backtracked immediately to the barber’s; it was illegally open, since men like to look smart on public holidays in the hope that some floozy will fall for them, and anyway the barber in our street usually had no idea of the calendar. I ordered myself a leisurely trim, and surveyed the scene cautiously.

  ‘We’re having a visitation,’ sneered the barber, who harboured little respect for authority. His name was Apius. He was fat, florid, and had the worst head of hair between here and Rhegium. Thin, greasy strands were strung over a flaking scalp. He hardly ever shaved himself either.

  He too had noticed the highly unusual presence of some tired lictors. Desperate for shade, they were flopping under the portico outside Lenia’s laundry. Women brazenly stopped to stare at them, probably making coarse jokes. Children crept up giggling, then dared one another to risk their little fingers against the ceremonial axe blades that lurked in the bundles of rods that the lictors had let fall. Lictors are freed slaves or destitute citizens: rough, but willing to rehabilitate themselves through work.