Time To Depart

XXIX

MARTINUS MADE A loop of his neckscarf. He bent over the victim and pulled it up an arm, then dragged at the corpse until one shoulder twisted and the body turned over. The metal pot scraped piercingly on grit. There was less blood on the front of the tunic, but a great deal of dirt, as if the body had been dragged about face down. The pot stayed in place, wedged on by a cloak shoved inside. If the man had not been dead when they covered his head, he must have been suffocating while they tortured him.

Petronius strode over to the vigiles. `How did you find him?'

`On our last round,' said their leader, stressing that it was now time they went off duty. `We came upon him just where he is.'

`Had you been around here earlier?'

`When our shift started. He wasn't here then. We hadn't been back during the night. We check the temples for vagrants, but apart from that we don't get much to do in the Boarium. The smell of dead meat puts off courting couples.'

`Dear, dear!' Petronius tutted to me. `Lovers are becoming so fastidious…'

The patrolman gave him a sideways look, then continued sombrely: `There's nothing to pinch, and nothing to go up in smoke. So if there's no one about we forget it. We've got plenty of worse trouble spots.'

`This is the Eleventh region. What made you come for me?'

`The pot.'

`The pot?'

'A list was circulated to all the cohorts yesterday: things to watch for from that robbery. Anything we spotted being disposed of, you were the special contact name.' The patrolman grinned slightly. He had very stained teeth. `Nobody mentioned that the funeral urns might be full!'

Petro's face set. He rarely joked about murder. `You're referring to the Emporium losses? Was a pot like this on the list?'

The man Petro was talking to stared at him pityingly. `I seem to remember "Etruscan bronze vessels: set comprising jugs, ladle, suspension hooks, and double-handled wine bowl, sir!'

`Right!' said Petronius, managing to sound crisp. `Well spotted, lads.'

He came back to us. We had been standing in silence, listening in. He checked with Martinus in a low voice, `Was stuff like this on our list?'

Martinus shrugged. `Could be. I only drew up the list. You know how many items were on it. I didn't know I was meant to learn it off by heart.' Sensing his chief's disapproval, he had second thoughts. `Maybe. Could well have been.'

Petro turned to me. `You're the antiques expert, Falco. Is this Etruscan?'

He really needed Pa to discuss bronzes. I walked to the top of the corpse's head and viewed the item more or less the right way up. It was a large, open-topped bowl, with two handles as the patrolman said, each fixed with two attachment plates and cast with satyrs' heads in relief. Handsome. Probably robbed from a tomb. My father would adore it; my mother would call it `too good to use'.

`It looks extremely ancient. One thing I do know,' I conceded. `This is a highly valuable pot. I personally would not stuff even my favourite granny into it.'

Petronius looked at me. `Who would abandon something like that, Falco?'

`Someone who knew what it was worth. Upending our friend in the pot was a statement: we killed him because of the robbery – and here's an item to prove the point.'

`What point?' asked Fusculus.

Petro supplied it: `We're the big boys now.'

Martinus pondered, `So who's the man who wasn't quite big enough? The man in the pot?'

I poked at the handsome crater, attempting to remove it with the toe of my boot. No luck. Like a naughty child egged on by an even naughtier brother, this corpse had ended up completely stuck. I had been jammed in a pot myself once. Remembering could still raise panic. I had had to be worked loose using cold water and olive oil. I could still hear my ma soothing me quietly-while she eased my ears out – and feel the great whack she had given me as soon as I was free.

At least with a dead man there was no need to mess about being gentle on the ears.

I squatted on my haunches, grabbed the two handles and twisted off the vase. I threw it aside, letting it ding heavily across the blood-soaked pavings. My father would have yelled in horror, and no doubt the owner would complain loudly about the dents I had caused. But I felt no twinge of conscience. It had been used in the torture of a human being. Its beauty was soiled. Its price had slumped.

The idea of touching the corpse made us all recoil. Gingerly I tugged away the cloak from around the dead man's head.

In fact, apart from discoloration, the face was unmarked. We recognised him instantly. If he had been wearing his boots instead of being barefoot, I would probably have known him earlier. It was Nonnius Albius.