Three Hands in The Fountain

XXXVI

As the days passed and the clues diminished, we were gearing ourselves for a last night on surveillance outside the Circus Maximus when the Games ended. Frontinus and the Prefect of the Vigiles were making it an official exercise. Every spare man was to be drawn from the watch cohorts.

I spent some time at home during that day. Helena needed rest, and I needed to be with her. Working night shifts all week helped me avoid being wakened when the baby cried, but it left Helena with all the duties when she was already exhausted. I knew she was feeling demoralised. Julia had discovered that she could rack our nerves to breaking point by wailing for long periods, though if either of her grandmothers came over to see Helena the dear child stopped as soon as they picked her up. Helena was tired of being glared at as if she were either not trying or plainly incompetent.

Helena had slept all afternoon. I kept Julia quiet by a method Petro had revealed to me. It involved the baby and me snoozing in the porch together with a cup of honeyed wine, not all of which went into Papa.

The only real interruption was a visit from that latrine-wall lizard Anacrites.

'What do you want? And keep your voice down. If you wake the baby she'll wake Helena, and if you cause that to happen I'll wring your grimy neck.'

There was no reason to suggest he failed to wash; Anacrites had always looked almost too sleek. His clothes were faintly dandified. His haircuts were suspiciously neat. He fancied himself as a looker. The only truly filthy thing about him was his character.

'How did you get yourself hitched up to a consul, Falco?' 'A good reputation and impeccable contacts.'

'That must have cost a lot to fix. Can I sit down?' 'Still poorly? Have a step.'

I myself had carried out a wicker chair, in which I was sprawled with one arm around the sleeping baby. Nux, lying at my feet, filled up the rest of the tiny landing outside my apartment. Anacrites could neither step round me to go indoors and fetch out a stool, nor even reach the shade. He had to drape himself in the baking heat on the dusty stone stairs. I'm not a complete bastard. I was not trying to give the invalid another headache, just turning him into a sun-dried raisin to encourage him to leave.

I tipped my cup at him and drained it. As there was only one, he could only nod in response. Even this hint failed to work.

'Your game of draughts with Frontinus is getting in my way, Falco.'

'Oh, I am sorry!'

'There's no need to pretend.'

'Irony, dear fellow.'

'Crap, Falco! Why don't we join forces?'

I knew what that meant. He was as thoroughly stuck as Petronius and me. 'You want to link up, pinch any ideas we have, and claim all the credit yourself?'

'Don't be harsh.'

'I've seen you at work before.'

'I just think we are duplicating our efforts.'

'Well, maybe that gives us twice as much chance of success.' I too could sound so reasonable it made the other party squirm.

Anacrites darted to a new subject. 'So what's this rumble you've got going on tonight?' His ears were well pricked, apparently. Though with all the vigiles cohorts being stretched to breaking point in order to supply us with our troops at the Circus, word was bound to filter out to any half-trained spy.

'Just some anti-vandalism measure Frontinus dreamed up.'

'How's that? He's ex-officio, apart from the water deaths enquiry.'

'Oh, is he? I wouldn't know; I don't take much interest in politics – too murky for a simple Aventine lad. I leave all that unscrupulous stuff to suave types with Palace upbringings.' He knew I was being disingenuous – and insulting him with his inferior social status. I had never bothered to find out, but Anacrites was bound to be an ex-Imperial slave; all Palace officials were nowadays.

Unable to settle, he changed tack. 'Your mother's been complaining that you never come and visit her.'

'Tell her to get a new lodger then.'

'She wants to see more of the baby,' he lied.

'Don't tell me what my mother wants.' When Ma wanted to see the baby she did what she had always done. She swanned over to my apartment, walked in as if she owned it, and made a nuisance of herself.

'You ought to look after her,' claimed Anacrites, who knew how to throw a low punch.

'Oh, go away, Anacrites.'

He left. I rearranged the baby and myself more comfortably. Nux looked up with one eye open, then thumped her tail.

My afternoon was now ruined. I spent the rest of it wondering what the bastard was up to. I told myself he was only jealous, but that made it worse. Being envied by Anacrites meant I was a man in jeopardy.

Petro came over to our apartment for a light meal in the early evening. I winked and thanked him for his childcare tip, then we pecked at a meat pie bought from Cassius. He always oversalted them, but we were too keyed up to be hungry in any case.

'What's up?' demanded Petro, noticing that Helena seemed especially quiet. I had not needed to ask her.

'I worry when Marcus goes out on the trail of a murderer.' 'I thought it was because we were off observing prostitutes.'

'Marcus has better taste.'

Petronius looked as if he was planning to recite scurrilous stories; then he decided not to upset my domestic harmony.

'It's not only the prostitutes we have to watch,' he commented gloomily. It was like him to have been brooding on the coming night's events. 'I've been thinking about how many different people could be involved if these killings are linked to festivals.'

'Anyone involved with transport, you mean?' said Helena, who still stuck with the theory that the killer drove in from outside Rome.

'Yes; or the ticket-sellers on the gates -' 'Programme-sellers.' I joined in the game. 'Garland girls, gambling agents, ticket touts, food and drink pedlars.' 'Parasol and souvenir stallholders,' Petro contributed. 'Aediles and ushers.' 'Arena sweepers.'

'All the charioteers and gladiators, their stable hands and trainers, the actors, the clowns, the musicians,' chimed in Helena. 'The Circus employees who open the starting gates and turn the markers for the laps. The slaves who manoeuvre the water organ.'

'The snobby chamberlain who opens the gate at the back of the Imperial box when the Emperor wants to slip out for a pee-,'

'Thank you, Marcus! All the audience from the Emperor down, not forgetting the Praetorian Guard -'

'Stop, stop!' cried Petronius. 'I know it's true, but you jolly pair are depressing me.'

'That's the trouble with the vigiles,' I told Helena ruefully. 'No staying power.'

'It was your idea,' she reminded him. 'Some of us think the deaths only occur at festivals because the murderer is a visitor from elsewhere.'

Nevertheless, when it was time for us to leave for our evening patrol. Petro had the tact to walk off ahead of me so I could hold Helena tight for a moment. I kissed her tenderly while she begged me to take care.

It was another warm night. The area around the Circus Maximus was dreary with litter and bad smells. After two weeks of festivity the street-cleaners had given up. The audience must have been played out too, because some were starting to leave almost as soon as we arrived, which was well before the trumpets that signalled the closing ceremonial

Petronius was taking the Street of the Three Altars tonight. We reckoned that swapping kept us fresh. I clapped his shoulder and walked on, towards the Temple of Sol and Luna. At the end of the street I glanced back; it took me a moment to find him. Despite his size Petro could blend in. His brown-clad, brown-headed figure merged into the crowds as he sauntered nonchalantly under a portico looking like a man who had every right to be there, doing nothing much and paying attention to nobody.

I knew he would have noticed all the female passers-by, filing the lookers in his 'noteworthy' pigeonhole, yet remembering the discards too. He would spot the lurkers and loungers. He would wince because there were too many children out so late, scowl at the yobbish louts, groan at the senseless girls. If an unprotected woman or a pervert came near Petro, he would mark them. If anyone was too closely watched, or shadowed, or bothered, let alone openly assaulted, the heavy hand of Petronius Longus would descend out of nowhere and collar the criminal.

I passed members of the vigiles both obvious and well disguised. Their Prefect had given Frontinus a good response and the district had been decently packed with men. But, like us, they had no idea who they were really looking for.

I turned into the Street of the Public Fishpond. My heart was pounding. This was the night. I was suddenly sure he would be here.

By now there was a slow but constant exodus from the stadium. People were walking lazily, tired out by fifteen days of Games, tired of excitement and yelling themselves hoarse, tired of commercial food and cheap sticky wine, ready for normal daily life again.

Mid-September. The weather would become cooler soon. The long hot summer must be reaching its end. Two weeks would see the traditional finish of the fighting season. October brought the end of the school holidays; after three and a half months, it would be a relief to some (including schoolteachers, by now desperate to earn new fees). October would also bring fresh festivals, but we were not there yet. There was still tonight, one last chance to make these Games memorable, a few final hours left for simple pleasure or outright debauchery.

Inside the Circus I could hear the cornu band going at it now: the huge, almost circular brass horns, supported on the players' shoulders by cross-bars, their different notes blown with sheer puff. Or missed, frequently. Especially after a long day of events.

I decided there was one class of suspect we could discount: no cornu player would have the strength to overpower a woman after blowing his heart out with the band.

Limp applause down the length of the valley finally ended the Ludi Romani for another year.

By that time those of the audience who had been glad to see the Games over were long gone. The remainder were now shuffling from the Circus, chivvied by the ushers who wanted to close the gates, yet reluctant to depart. Outside, groups were standing about. Young people were hoping for more excitement. Visitors were saying farewell to friends they only saw during festivals. Youths catcalled after giggling girls. Musicians stood around in case somebody offered to buy them a drink. Snack-sellers slowly packed up. Gypsy-eyed pedlars from the Transtiberina drifted from group to group still trying to force last-minute sales of shoddy trinkets. A dwarf, hung all around his waist with cheap cushions, waddled off towards the Temple of Mercury.

Deep in the shadow of the stadium hovered the working women. Skirts hitched, legs flashing, tottering on high cork heels, goggling through soot-rimmed lashes, they showed themselves in ones or twos. False hair, or real hair endlessly mistreated until it looked false, towered above their chalked faces, each mask-like visage slashed with lips dyed the colour of pig's liver. Men regularly went up to them. They exchanged a few words then quietly disappeared into the darker gloom, reconvening not long afterwards for another businesslike encounter.

Behind me, up in the darkness of the Temple entrance, I could hear noises that suggested commerce went on there too. Or perhaps the fun was not being paid for, and some youth had struck lucky with one of the bad, loud girls marauding among their sassy friends hours after their mothers had told them to be home. I might have cheered it once. I was a father now.

The whole scene was sordid. From the drunks lolling against closed shops offering horrible overtures to scared passers-by, to the squashed melon pieces in the gutter, their innards as red as bright fresh blood. From the sneak thieves skulking off home looking pleased with themselves to the smell of urine in the alleys, where antisocial deadbeats couldn't wait. It was growing worse. The few lamps that were now hung outside open lock-ups or in overhead apartment windows only made the spaces between them even darker and more dangerous. A couple of chairs lurched by, their horn lanterns swinging on hooks. Someone was singing an obscene song that I remembered from the legions.

Two men clung together on the back of one donkey, both so drunk they hardly knew where they were; their grey-coated mount was trotting off down the Via Piscinae Publicae with them, choosing the route for himself. Perhaps he knew of a jolly winebar under the Servian Walls, down by the Raudusculana Gate. I was in two minds to follow him.

There were so many people who looked up to no good it was difficult to choose which to watch. In every direction women were being brazenly foolish while sinister men eyed them hopefully. I hated having to stand here looking like part of all this. My nerves were so wound up I almost felt anyone who put themselves amidst this ghastly scene deserved all they got.

The exodus continued for a couple of hours. In the end my mind was so benumbed it started wandering. I suddenly came to; I realised that for the past ten minutes I had been staring fixedly in front of me, perfecting my plan to hire a hall and give a public recital of my poetry. (This was a dream I had been nurturing for some time now; so far I had been gently dissuaded by the good advice of my close friends, especially those who had read my odes and eclogues.) I returned to real life with a guilty start.

Outside the nearby gate of the Circus a young girl was standing all by herself. She was dressed in white, with a glint of gold embroidery on the hem of her stole. Her skin was delicate, her hair neatly dressed. Jewellery that only an heiress could afford was innocently on display. She was gazing around as if she was part of an untouchable procession of Vestals in broad daylight. She had been brought up to believe she would always be treated with respect – yet some idiot had dumped her here. Even if you didn't know her she looked glaringly out of place. And I did know her. She was Claudia Rufina, the shy young creature Helena and I had brought from Spain. As she stood there alone, all kinds of bad characters were poised to move in on her.