Three Hands in The Fountain

XXXIII

Petronius and I planned to spend every evening of the remaining Ludi Romani outside the Circus Maximus. We might have been near the killer all the time. He could have passed so close his clothes brushed ours, and we would not have known.

We needed to find out more. We were working with too little information. It was beginning to look as though only when another woman was murdered would we stand any chance of uncovering more clues. We could not wish that on anyone. It remained unspoken, but both Petro and I wanted Asinia – whose name and sweet nature we had learned – to be the last to suffer.

The day after we started the surveillance, the young Camilli were all struck down with the after-effects of an underdone grilled chicken; unable to visit the Circus they sent a slave to offer their tickets to Helena and me. Somehow, even at short notice, she fixed up young Gaius to sit with the baby for a few hours. It was a welcome chance to go out together on our own. Well, on our own apart from a quarter of a million noisy companions.

Helena Justina was not the world's keenest chariot race follower. I was happy, because the Blues were doing well that day. While I squirmed in my seat, yelled at their drivers' incompetence or screamed at their successes, and munched too many figs during the tense moments, Helena sat patiently letting her mind roam elsewhere. When I leapt to my feet cheering, she picked up my cushion and placed it ready for when my backside hit the bench again. Nice girl. You could take her anywhere. She knew how to let you know that only an idiot would be enjoying this, but she did not openly complain.

While I relaxed, she attempted to solve the case for me. Helena understood that we were looking for somebody about whom we could only put together the sketchiest of details. During a quiet interval she produced a summary:

'The nature of the crime, especially what Lollius told you about the mutilations that are carried out, indicates you are looking for a man.

'The killer could be anyone, senator or slave. The one thing about him that you can safely deduce is that he does not look suspicious. If he did, the dead women would never have gone with him.

'You know something about his age: these deaths go back years. Unless he started in his cradle, he must be middle-aged or older.

'You and Petro both think he's a loner. If he was working with someone else, then after all this time one or other would either have made a mistake or let slip part of the story. That's human nature. The more people involved, the greater the chance of one getting drunk, or being spied on by his wife, or attracting notice from the vigiles on an unrelated charge. Shared knowledge spills out more easily. So you reckon it's one person.

'You think he finds it hard to make social contact. The nature of the crime suggests its motive is sexual gratification, excitement through revenge.

'If Bolanus is right that he lives outside Rome – which you are still considering – then he is someone with access to transport. So women like Asinia are being abducted near the Circus then taken elsewhere – whether they are still alive or already dead by then we don't know.

'He can use a knife. He must be fit. Overpowering people, butchering them, and carrying their bodies, takes physical strength.

'He lives somewhere he can be secretive. Or at least he has access to a bolthole. He has privacy for killing, and whatever else he does. He can store bodies while he starts disposing of them. He can wash himself and his bloodstained clothes without being noticed.

'It does sound quite detailed,' Helena mused as she completed the picture for me. 'But it isn't enough, Marcus. Most urgently you need to know what he looks like. Someone must be able to describe him, though they obviously don't realise who he is. He can't be successful every time. He must sometimes have approached women who ignored him or told him to get lost. There may even be a girl somewhere he has tried to grab, who got away from him.'

I shook my head. 'No one has come forward. Even Petro's famous advertisement in the Forum failed to produce any witnesses.'

'Too scared?'

'More likely it's never even occurred to them that the pest they escaped from might be the aqueduct killer.'

'She would report him,' Helena decided. 'Men who shoo away muggers just snort and say "Ha! Let him give someone else a shock!" but women worry about leaving dangers for others like themselves.'

'Women have a lot of imagination,' I said darkly. For some reason she smiled.

I found myself glancing round the Circus at the audience nearby. I didn't see an obvious killer. But I did notice my old tentmate, Lucius Petronius. He was only a few rows behind us, talking gravely to his female companion about the race that was about to start. If I knew him, he was explaining that the Greens were disasters who couldn't steer a chariot straight even if they had the whole Field of Mars to do it in, whereas the Blues were a stylish, streamlined outfit who would wipe the floor with everybody else.

I nudged Helena, and we smiled together. But we were saddened too. We were watching what was likely to become a much rarer spectacle: Petronius enjoying the company of his seven-year-old daughter.

At his side Petronilla listened gravely. Since I last saw her she had stopped looking babyish and become a real little girl. She seemed quieter than I remembered her; I found that worrying. She had brown hair, neatly tied in a topknot, and solemn, almost sad brown eyes.

They were both eating pancakes. Petronilla had managed quite nicely, for she had inherited her mother's daintiness. Her father had a sticky chin and honey sauce down his tunic front. Petronilla noticed this. She soon cleaned him up with her handkerchief.

Petronius submitted like a hero. When his daughter sat back he slung an arm around her while she snuggled up against him. He was staring at the arena with a set expression; I was no longer sure he was watching the race.