Three Hands in The Fountain

LIX

Everything was still against me.

As I set off, all the battered wine wagons and marble carts in Rome were struggling to leave the city before dawn. After the Games ended the private hire transport had taken off the audience and then dispersed. I had to walk. From the Circus to the Praetorian Camp is a damned long way.

By the Gardens of Maecenas I shoved a drunk off a donkey, commandeering it for the Empire. The drunk didn't care. He was out of it. The donkey put up a fight, but I was in a hard mood. I kicked him into action and cajoled him the rest of the way to the Porta Tiburtina with a stick I found; there I fell off just as the vigiles were preparing to disperse.

'Hold it! Urgent – have any private vehicles left this way tonight?'

'Oh, shit, Falco. It's been a heavy night; there's been hundreds.'

'Got the list?'

'We thought we were finished; we've already sent it off to the Prefect.'

'Help me out, lads – a big four-horse carriage, or a sit-up-and-beg?'

'Could well have been, but don't ask us!'

'Jupiter – you're a disgrace to public office! Is this why I paid my census tax?'

'Give over – who coughs up the tax?'

'Not enough people to pay for an efficient watch, apparently. Stop here. Don't argue – the creep has snatched a young girl who was to marry a senator. We've got to find her. Search everything that comes this way and try to get word to the other city gates -'

I hauled my stolen donkey back into service. We went under the arcade of the Anio Vetus, then rode parallel to the huge triple mass of the Aqua Marcia, carrying both the Tepula and the Julia above it. Unplanned originally, the newer channels were not even centred; the arches had had to be reinforced, but even so the top cover of the Marcia was cracking due to the uneven distribution of weight… Thanks to Bolanus, I knew these details intimately. I also knew what might be floating down in their waters soon.

I forced the donkey to the Praetorian Camp. As always it was a bad experience. The camp itself is a monstrous spread in the shadow of the Servian Walls, mirrored by an even more gigantic parade ground that takes up most of the space between the Viminal and Colline gates; the troops inside are bastards to a man.

It was fairly quiet for once. So quiet I had the odd experience of hearing the beasts roaring in the Imperial menagerie just outside the city. From a clubroom nearby my ears were assailed by the distinctive noise of Guardsmen finishing off their routine fifteen flagons a night. The set of bullies on the gate must have been halfway there too, but they carried it well. The wine made them slow to respond to an emergency, but infused them with a certain wild flair once they got the hang of things. A kind soul patted my donkey, who responded by biting him. The burly Guardsman was so tough – or so tipsy – he never felt a thing.

The centurion of the Urbans who had been instructed to stay on alert to help us was a neat, mild soul who had turned in for an early night. Nice to think of the hard-baked and notorious city guardians having a quiet read in their tidy bunks then blowing out their lamps while the city rampaged, untroubled by their attentions. After an agonising wait, he turned up in a long Greek nightshirt just to tell me that without a judge's warrant he was going back to bed. I advised him to check how much pension he had collected in the regimental savings bank, because for exile in further Armenia it might not be enough. He sniffed, and left.

In despair, I heard myself pouring out my troubles to the Praetorian duty watch. These big lads in shiny breastplates were a soft touch for a heartbreaking tale. Ever keen to put one over on the Urbans, whom they regarded as inferior barrack companions, they led me to the prepared horses, and wittily suggested that they should look the other way while I snuck off with one. I thanked them, pointed out that the horses were in fact mules, then chose the best.

First light was blossoming above the Seven Hills as I spent half an hour kick-starting my stubborn mount, then galloped out of Rome on the Via Tiburtina, chasing after a killer who might not even have come this way.