Three Hands in The Fountain

XIX

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 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.

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.