Three Hands in The Fountain

XXIX

Cornella Flaccida had all the grace of a flying rhinoceros: big hands, fat feet, an irretrievably immodest mien. She was nicely decked out, though. On the features of a bitter hag had been painted a mask of a fresh-faced maiden, newly risen from the foam of Paphos in a rainbow of scintillating spray. On a body that had indulged in long evenings of gorging wine-soaked heron wings were hung translucent silks from Cos and fabulous collars of granular gold filigree, all so light they fluttered and tinkled and assaulted the startled senses of tired men. The feet that stumped towards us wore pretty tinselled bootees. A devastating waft of balsam punched us in the throat.

Considering that when Balbinus Pius had been put away by Petronius all the gangster's property had been transferred to the state, it was amazing so much money could still be spent on his ferocious relict. On the other hand, Balbinus was a hard nut. He had made sure a good proportion of his worldly effects had been cunningly dumped out of official reach. Much of it had been placed in trust for Flaccida by calling it part of the dowry of her nifty offspring Milvia.

Mama was living with her daughter now: her own mansions had all been confiscated, so the two were thrust together in the far-from-dowdy abode of Milvia's husband Florius. All the vigiles cohorts were running books on how long the three could put up with each other. So far they were clasping hands as stickily as bee-keepers in the honeycomb season: it was the only way they could hang on to the cash. An accountant from the Treasury of Saturn checked the health of Milvia's marriage daily, because if she divorced Florius and her dowry reverted to her family, then the Emperor wanted it. This was one case where the encouragement-of-matrimony laws did not apply.

Since our new Emperor Vespasian had made a platform of supporting the quaint old-fashioned virtues of family life, it will be seen that if the amount of money he stood to grab on Milvia's divorce could persuade him to muffle his quaint old-fashioned conscience, then it must be very large indeed. Well, that's the joy of organised crime for you. It's astonishing more people don't take it up.

No; actually, there was a reason why other people stayed honest: setting up as a rival to Cornelia Flaccida was just too frightening. Who wants to be parboiled, roasted, skewered through every orifice, and served up trussed in a three-cheese glaze with their internal organs lightly sauteed as a separate piquant relish?

Of course I made that up. Flaccida would have said that as a punishment it was far too refined.

'Don't you damn well run away from me!' she yelled.

Petro and I were not running anywhere; we had not been given time even to think of it.

'Madam!' I exclaimed. Neutrality was a dubious refuge. 'Don't play about with me!' she snarled.

'What a repulsive suggestion.'

'Shut up, Falco.' Petro thought I wasn't helping. I shut up. Normally he was big enough to look after himself. The hard-bitten Flaccida might be more than he could deal with, though, so I stuck around loyally. Anyway, I wanted to see the fun.

I noticed Helena coming out on to our porch. My dog Nux nosed eagerly after her, sensing the master's return. Helena bent and clutched her collar nervously. She must be able to tell that our visitor was a woman who probably bit off watchdogs' heads as a party piece.

'Haven't I met you two grimeballs before?' Milvia's mother cannot have forgotten Petronius Longus, the enquiry chief who convicted her husband. Meeting her again face to face, I decided I preferred that she should not realise I was the hero with the social conscience who had actually widowed her.

'Charming that our vibrant personalities made such an impression,' I gurgled.

'Tell your clown to keep out of it,' Flaccida ordered Petro. He just smiled and let her run.

The dame tilted back her fading blonde coiffure, and surveyed him as if he were a flea she had caught in her underwear. He gazed back, completely calm as usual. Big, solid, full of understated presence: any mother should have envied her daughter's choice of him for a lover. Petronius Longus reeked of the controlled assurance women go for. The gods know, I had seen enough of them rush at him. What he lacked in looks he made up in size and obvious character, and these days he wore wicked haircuts too.

'You've got a nerve!'

'Spare me, Flaccida. You're embarrassing yourself.'

'I'll embarrass you! After everything you've done to my family -'

'After everything your family has done to Rome – and is probably doing still – I'm surprised you haven't felt obliged to move to one of the remote provinces.'

'You destroyed us, then you had to seduce my little daughter too.'

'Your daughter's not so little.' And she doesn't take much seducing, Petronius implied. He was too courteous to insult her, though, even in his own defence.

'Leave Milvia alone!' It came out in a low hard growl, like the raw noise of a lioness threatening her prey. 'Your superiors in the vigiles would like to hear about you visiting my Milvia.'

'My superiors know.' His superiors, however, would not take kindly to angry visits to the tribune's office by the termagant Cornella Flaccida. This stinging hornet could cause Petro's dismissal.

'Florius hasn't heard about it yet.'

'Oh, I'm terrified.'

'You'd better be!' yelled Flaccida. 'I've still got friends. I don't want you showing your face at our house – and I promise you, Milvia's not coming to see you either!'

She turned away. At that moment Helena Justina lost her hold on Nux, who tore down from our apartment, a shaggy bundle of grey and brown fur, with her ears back and her sharp teeth bared. Nux was small and smelly, with a canine distaste for domestic upsets. As Flaccida stepped back into her litter, the dog raced straight for her, seized the embroidered hem of her expensive gown, and then backed away on her strong legs. There seemed to be diggers and boar-hunters somewhere in Nux's lineage. Flaccida slammed the litter door for her own safety. We heard a satisfying wrench of expensive material. Shrieking abuse, the dame ordered her bearers to be off, while my stubborn hound gripped her skirt hem until it tore free.

'Good dog!' cried Petronius and I. Nux wagged her tail proudly as she worried half a yard of Coan gown as if it were a dead rat.

Petro and I exchanged a private glance, not quite looking up at Helena. Then we gave each other a grave public salute. He went up to the old apartment, bouncing on his heels like a chirpy dissident. I went home, looking like a good boy.

My darling's eyes were warm and friendly, and richly brown as the meat sauces at Imperial banquets. Her smile was dangerous. I kissed her anyway. A man should not be intimidated on his own doorstep. The kiss, though, was formally on the cheek.

'Marcus! What was all that about?'

'Just a homecomer's greeting -'

'Fool! The fright who left her flounce behind? Didn't recognise Cornella Flaccida?' Helena had once helped me interview the woman.

'At a guess, somebody has upset Balbina Milvia, and she's gone crying home to Mother. Mother came dashing to scold the delinquent lover. Poor Mother must be very alarmed indeed to discover that a member of the vigiles has easy access to her household. She must be wetting herself at the thought of him winding his way into Milvia's confidence.'

'Do you think she spanked Milvia?'

'It would be the first time. Milvia was brought up a spoiled princess.'

'Yes, I gathered that,' replied Helena, rather laconically.

'Oh?' I asked, feigning mild curiosity. 'Can it be that the princess has just had a hard time from more than her scraggy bag of a parent?'

'It is a possibility,' Helena conceded.

'I wonder who that might be?'

'Someone she met when she was out riding in her nice litter maybe?' Helena returned my formal kiss on the cheek, greeting me like a demure matron after my afternoon away. She smelt of rosemary hairwash and attar of roses. Everything about her was soft and clean and begging to be intimately fondled. I could feel myself going twittery. 'Maybe that will teach Milvia to stay at home plying her loom,' she said.

'As you do?' I walked her indoors, getting both arms round her. Nux scampered after us, alert to canoodling she could bark at.

'As I do, Marcus Didius.'

Helena Justina did not possess a loom. Our apartment was so tiny we did not have much room for it. If she had asked she could have had one. Obviously I would encourage traditional virtuous pursuits. But Helena Justina hated long, repetitive tasks.

She stayed indoors and worked in wool? Like most Romans I was forced to admit, no; not my devoted turtledove.

At least I knew how mine behaved, even when I was away from home. Well, so I told myself.