Petronius Longus was in an organising mood. His session with the Tiber boatmen had been as useless as I had prophesied, and he declared that we should abandon the pointless effort of wondering who was polluting the water supply. Petronius was going to sort out our business. (He was going to sort out me.) He would impose order. He would attract new work; he would plan our caseload; he would show me just how to generate wealth through blistering efficiency.
He spent a lot of time composing charts, while I plodded around the city delivering, court summonses. I brought in the meagre denarii, then Petro wrote them up in elaborate accounts systems. I was pleased to see him keeping out, of trouble.
Petronius seemed to be happy, though I was beginning to suspect he was covering something up even before I happened to pass by the vigiles' patrol: house and was hailed by Fusculus. 'Here, Falco; can't you keep that chief of ours occupied? He keeps moping around here getting in the way.'
`I thought he was either in our office causing havoc among my clients or out flirting.'
`Oh, he does that too – he pops in to see his honeycake when he finally leaves us in peace.'
`You're depressing me, Fusculus. No hope that he's dropped Milvia?'
`Well, if he had, done,' Fusculus told me cheerfully, `your clients would be safe; we'd have him back here permanently.'
`Don't flatter yourselves. Petronius loves the freelance life.'
`Oh, sure!' Fusculus laughed at me. `That's why he's' constantly nagging; Rubella for a reprieve.' `He doesn't get it, though. So how does Rubella, know that.
An hour later I was rapping on the huge bronze antelope knocker that summoned the door porter at the lavish home of Milvia and Florius.
Milvia is still live bait?'
`How does Rubella know anything?' Fusculus had a theory, of course. He always did. `Our trusty tribune stays in his lair and information flows through the atmosphere straight to him. He's supernatural.'
`No, he's human,' I said despondently. I knew how Rubella worked, and it was strictly professional. He wanted to make his name as a vigiles officer then move up to the refined ranks of the Urban Cohorts, maybe even go on to serve in the Praetorian Guard. His priorities never changed; he was after the big, criminals, whose capture would cause a flutter and win him promotion. `I bet he's keeping a full-time watcher on Milvia, and her exciting husband in case they revive the old gangs. Every time Petronius goes to the house he'll be logged.' -
Fusculus agreed in his usual comfortable way: `You're right. It's no secret, though the surveillance is concentrating on the old hag. Rubella reckons if the gangs do get reconvened, it will be by Flaccida.'
Milvia's mother. Still, Petro was no better off, because Cornella Flaccida lived with her daughter and son-in-law. She had been forced to move in with them when Petronius convicted her gangster husband, whose property had then been confiscated. One more reason to avoid tangling with the dainty piece, if Petro had had any sense. Milvia's father had been a nasty piece of work, but her mother was even more dangerous.
`So when,' demanded Fusculus in his cheery way, `can we expect you to have, a quiet word with Balbina Milvia, pretty floret of the underworld, and persuade her to leave our cherished chief alone?'
I groaned: `Why; do I always have to do the dirty work?' `Why did you become an informer, Falco?'
`Petronius is my oldest friend. I couldn't possibly go behind his back.'
`Of course not.' Fusculus grinned.
If I ever acquire slaves of my own, they will definitely not include a door porter. Who wants a lazy, bristle-chinned, rat-arsed piece of insolence littering up the hall and insulting polite visitors – assuming he can bring himself to let them in at all? In the quest for suspects an informer spends more time than most people testing out that despicable race, and I had learned to expect to lose my temper before I was admitted to any house of status.
Milvia's establishment was worse than most in fact. She kept not merely the usual snide youth who only wanted to get back to the game of Soldiers he was playing against the underchef, but a midget ex-gangster called Little Icarus whom I had last seen being pulverised, by the vigiles in a battle royal in a notorious brothel, during which his close crony, the Miller had had both feet cut off at the ankles by a rampaging magistrate's lictor who, didn't care' what he did with his ceremonial axe. Little Icarus and the Miller were murderous thugs. If Milvia and Florius were pretending to be nice middle-class people they ought to employ different staff. Apparently they were no longer even pretending:
Little Icarus was rude to me before he remembered who I was. Afterwards he looked outraged, and as if he was planning to butt me in the privates (as far up as he could reach). When he was installed as Milvia's Janus someone had stripped him of his weapons; maybe that was her mother's notion of house-training. The fact that a gangster's enforcer was the doorstop here said everything about what kind of house this was. The place looked pretty. There were standard roses in stone tubs flanking the door and good copies of Greek statues dotted around the interior atrium. But every time I came here the skin on the back of my neck crawled. I wished I had told somebody – anybody – that I was coming. By then it was too late; I had barged my way inside.
Milvia seemed wildly excited to see me. It was, not because f my charm
Not for the first time I found myself wondering, whatever possessed Petro to involve himself with miniature puppets like this: all big trusting eyes and piping little voices, and probably just as deceitful under the heartfelt innocence as the bold, bad girls I once fell for myself. Balbina Milvia was a priceless specimen. She had a coronet of dark ringlets held up by indecent wreaths of gold, a tightly trussed bosom peeking from swathes of rich gauze, tiny feet in sparkly sandals – and an anklet, needless to say. Snake bracelets with real rubies for eyes gripped the pale skin of her delicate arms. Whole racks of filigree rings weighed down her minute fingers. Everything about her was so petite and glittery I felt like a blundering brute. But the truth was, the glitter covered dirt. Milvia could no longer: pretend not to know that her finery; was financed by theft, extortion, and organised gang violence. I knew it too. She gave me a bad,; metallic taste in the mouth.
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 hadd 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.
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.'
`Mafia 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 endedwhen 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 l 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 blanket
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 nervous, as these middle-class matrons: deposited their wilting blooms amid much, wailing, then took hands and circled it 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 o: 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. Thai 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 Urban 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.
`Who rates six?' I asked Apius. The barber always talked as if he knew everything, though I had yet to hear him answer a straight question accurately.
`Someone who wants to be announced a long way ahead of himself.' Lictors traditionally walk in single file in front of the personage they escort.
Six was an unusual number. Two was a praetor or other high official. Twelve meant the Emperor, though he would be escorted by the Praetorians too. I knew Vespasian would be chained to his box at the Circus today.
`A consul,' decided Apius. He knew nothing.' Consuls also had twelve.
`Why would a consul be visiting Lenia?'
`To complain about dirty marks when she returned his smalls?'
`Or a dull finish to the nap of his best toga? Jupiter, Apius – it's the Ludi Romani and the laundry's closed!' You're useless. I'll pay you tomorrow for the haircut. It offends me to part with money during a festival. I'm off to see what's going on.'
Everyone believes a barber is the source of all gossip. Not ours. And Apius was typical. The myth about barbers being up to date with scandal has as much truth as that tale foreigners are always being spun about Romans socialising in the public latrines. Excuse me! When you're straining your heart out after last night's rather runny rabbit-in-its-own-gravy, the last thing you want is some friendly fellow with an inane grin popping up to ask your opinion of this week's Senate decree about freemen co-habiting with slaves. If anyone tried it with me, I'd ram him somewhere tender with a well-used gutter sponge.
These elevated thoughts entertained me as I walked along Fountain Court. At the laundry the lictors told me they were escorting an ex-consul, one, who had served earlier in the year but, had stood down to give some other big bean a chance. He was over the road visiting someone called Falco, apparently.
That put me in a happy mood. If there's one thing, I hate more than high officials burdened with office, it's officials who have just shed the burden and who are looking for trouble they can cause. I bounced indoors, all set to try to insult him, bearing in mind that if he was still in his named year as consul I was about to be rude to the most revered and, highest ranking ex-magistrate in Rome.