Three Hands in The Fountain

L

My companions eagerly consigned to me the task of surveying the relevant estates. We lodged that night at Sublaqueum and I spent the rest of the afternoon ascertaining that most of the cultivated land at the head of the valley and on the lower slopes of Mount Livata now formed part of the huge Imperial estate. Any Emperor planning a pleasure park is wise to ensure that he will only be overlooked by the flatterers he brings along to help him enjoy his isolation. Gossipmongers are never off duty.

Now the villa had passed to Vespasian. It lay almost deserted and could well remain so. Our new ruler and his two sons had a distaste for the flamboyant trappings of power which Nero revelled in. When they wanted to visit the Sabine Hills – as they frequently did, in fact – they went north: to Reate, Vespasian's birthplace, where the family owned several estates and spent their summers in old-fashioned peace and quiet, like clean-living country boys.

None of the Imperial slaves who nowadays tended Nero's spread, or the ordinary folk in its associated village, would be able to afford to make a habit of visits to Rome for entertainment. We still needed to look for a private villa, owned by people with the leisure, the money, and the social inclination to honour the major festivals year after year.

Next day we returned as far as the Via Valeria, looking out for that kind of estate. Frontinus and Bolanus went ahead to install us in overnight lodgings again, while I stopped to make enquiries at one private villa that looked sufficiently substantial.

'Over to you. I did my share at Tibur,' Frontinus cheerfully informed me.

'Yes, sir. What about you, Bolanus? Want to help out at an interview?'

'No, Falco. I just contribute technical expertise.' Thanks, friends.

This villa was owned by the Fulvius brothers, a jolly trio of bachelors. They were all in their forties, and happily admitted they liked going to Rome for the Games. I asked if their driver returned here after delivering them: oh no, because the Fulvii did not bother with an extra hand; they took it in turns to drive themselves. They were fat, curious, bursting with funny stories, and quite uninhibited. I quickly acquired a picture of a riotous group, merry on wine and squabbling gently, trundling up to Rome and back when the fancy took. They said they went often, though were not slavish attenders and sometimes missed a festival. Although none of them had ever married, they seemed too fun-loving (and too much in each other's pockets) for one of them to be a secret, brooding murderer of the kind I sought.

'By the way – did you happen to go to the city for the last Ludi Romani?'

'Actually, no.' Well, that absolved them from the murder of Asinia.

When I pressed them, it turned out they had probably not been to Rome since the Apolline Games, which take place in July – and they confessed rather shamefacedly they meant the July of the previous year. So much for these men of the world. The jolly bachelors were positively home-loving.

In the end I told the Fulvii the reason for my enquiries, and asked whether they knew of any of their neighbours who habitually travelled to Rome for festivals. Did they, for instance, on their own noisy journeys ever pass another local vehicle on the same errand? They said no. They glanced at one another afterwards, and looked as if they might be sharing a private joke of some kind, but I took them at their word.

That could be a mistake. The Anio flowed right through their estate. They let me look round. Their grounds were Gill of huts, stables, animal pens, storage barns, and even a gazebo in the form of a mock-temple on the sunny riverbank, in any of which abducted females might be held, tortured, killed and hacked to bits. I was well aware that the Fulvii might look like happy, open-natured souls, yet could well harbour dark jealousies and indulge long-held hates through vicious acts.

I was a Roman. I had a deep-seated suspicion of anyone who chose to live in the countryside.

Moving on down the valley, I reached another private entrance, not far above where water was diverted from the river into the conduit of the Anio Novus. This estate looked subtly different from the flourishing groves of the Fulvii. There were olive trees, though as on so many hillsides these looked as if nobody owned them; it rarely means they are abandoned in fact. The owner here probably turned up to harvest them. Still, the trees had a tangled, unpruned look which would have made my olive-growing friends in Baetica eye them askance. Too much vegetation grew around the trunks. Tame rabbits sat and looked at me instead of scampering for their lives.

I nearly rode on, but duty compelled me to turn off and investigate. I followed an overgrown track, buried in a tangled wood. Before I had gone any distance I met a man. He was standing by a pile of logs at the side of the track, doing nothing in particular. If he had had an axe or any other sharp tool with him I might have felt nervous, but he was just looking as if he hoped nobody would come along and ask him to do any work. Since this was private land I had to stop.

'Hello!'

His answer was a fathomless country stare. He was a slave, probably: tanned and sturdy from outdoor work. Hair unstyled, several teeth missing, coarse skin. Age indeterminate, but fifty maybe. Neither over-tall nor dwarfish. Badly dressed rather than ugly. Wearing a rough brown tunic, belt and boots. Hardly a god, yet no worse than scores of thousands of other lowborns who cluttered up the Empire, reminding the rest of us just how fortunate we were to have schooling, character, and the energy to look out for ourselves.

'I was just riding to the house. Can you tell me who lives here?'

'The old man.' A reluctant country voice came from a wide-cheeked, not-exactly-hostile face. He was answering, though. Since I had not introduced myself, that was more than I would have expected in Rome. He was probably under orders to discourage strangers who might be livestock thieves. I put aside my prejudice.

'You work for him?'

'That's my task in life.' I had met the type before. He blamed the world for all his misfortunes. A slave his age might have expected to gain his freedom one way or another. Maybe he lacked the opportunity to earn his price through fiddling, or to demonstrate the right kind of loyalty. He certainly lacked the cheek and charm of most sophisticated slaves in Rome.

'I need to know if anyone from here ever goes to Rome for the Circus Maximus Games?'

'Not the old man. He's eighty-six!'

We laughed a little. That explained the faint air of neglect on the estate. 'Does he treat you well?'

'Couldn't ask for better.' With the joke, the slave had become more approachable.

'What's his name?'

'Rosius Grams.'

'Does he live here alone?'

'He does.'

'No relatives?'

'Up in Rome.'

'Can I go and see him?' The slave shrugged agreement. I gathered I might not gain much from the experience, but I had been wrong in my judgement earlier; there was no opposition to my request. 'Thanks – and what's your name?'

He gazed at me with the slight trace of arrogance some people show: as if they expect everybody to know who they are. 'Thurius.'

I nodded, and rode on.

Rosius Grams was sitting in a long chair under a portico, lost in dreams of events sixty years ago. It was obvious that this was how he spent hours every day. He was covered with a rug, but I could see a shrunken, hook-shouldered figure, white-haired and watery-eyed. He seemed well cared for and, considering his age, pretty fit. But he was not exactly ready to take seven turns around a running stadium. He certainly was no murderer.

A housekeeper had let me in and left me to talk to him unsupervised. I asked him a few simple questions, which he answered with an air of great courtesy. He looked to me as if he were pretending to be dafter than he was, but most old men enjoy doing that for their private amusement. I was looking forward to doing it myself one day.

I told him, by way of conversation, that I had come here from Tibur.

'Did you see my daughter?'

'I thought your family were in Rome, sir?'

'Oh…' The poor old stick looked confused. 'Yes, that may be so. Yes, yes; I do have a daughter in Rome -'

'When did you last see your daughter, sir?' I deduced he had been abandoned out here for so long he had forgotten what family he had.

'Oh… I saw her not long ago,' he assured me, though somehow it sounded as if it happened a long time back. He was so vague it could just as well have been two days ago. As a witness, the old chap managed to seem wickedly unreliable. His deep-set eyes suggested that he knew it too, and didn't care if he misled me.

'You don't visit Rome a lot, nowadays?'

'Do you know, I'm eighty-six!'

'That's wonderful!' I assured him. He had already told me twice.

He seemed eager for company, though he had little of interest to say to anyone. I managed to extricate myself fairly gently. Something about Rosius Grams suggested he could well be up to mischief, but once I knew he could not be the murderer I needed to be on my way.

I cantered back to the road, this time seeing nobody along the track.