We stepped away. The berserk Fangs was now straining to drag his chain free of the big tree to which its other end was fixed. He so much wanted to kill us, he seemed likely to strangle himself. We would have no qualms about letting him. Thwarted, he started hurling himself at the tree.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot he was there. We don’t see many people and he gets excitable. Quiet, boy!’

  There was no way the dog could be silenced, until the owner lobbed half an old amphora at him. It missed. The weighty crock could well have cracked the canine skull. Fangs seemed to know about this wine-jar trick. Immediately he piped down and slunk to the base of the tree where he just sat, bored and whining.

  We all stood in the clearing and went through introductory formalities.

  ‘I am Probus, one of the Claudii,’ said the man from the shack. ‘I expect you have heard of us.’ He folded his arms and stared, not openly hostile yet proud of their notoriety.

  ‘One of the brothers?’ asked Petronius, not denying we had been told about these people.

  ‘That I am.’

  ‘Are you the family spokesman?’

  ‘Can be.’

  ‘Do any of the rest live around here?’

  ‘Several.’

  ‘Give me some names?’ Petro appeared quite patient, though I thought he wanted to kick this swamp slug in the throat. In Rome he would have had the bastard up against a wall; the problem here was lack of walls. Nobody wanted to go near the tree where Fangs was chained. Pushing a suspect hard up against the shack would most likely cause the whole wreck to keel over.

  ‘Names?’ Probus gave Petro a slow look, then wiped his nose on where his sleeve would be if he had sleeves. His arm was hairy enough, and muscular. He slouched like a wimp, but I bet he fought dirty. ‘Names, eh?’ He was medium height, well built in a slovenly way, with his belt drooping to groin level and a small paunch hanging over it. ‘Everyone around here knows who we are.’

  ‘I come from Rome,’ Petronius told him again in a mild tone. ‘SPQR. I’d like to hear some details.’

  ‘I’m very busy,’ Probus boasted. ‘No time to draw a family tree.’

  ‘And there are a lot of you, I gather.’ Petronius still sounded friendly. I was waiting for him to explode. A cloud of midges began to swirl in front of my face and I biffed at them in irritation. ‘Did I hear of twenty siblings?’

  ‘Justus was the eldest –’ Probus counted on his filthy fingers. He had on a silly face, playing clever bastards. I felt my attitude harden. This could be the swine who had tortured a man for remonstrating about a trespass, beat him, cut off his extremities and left him to moulder. The gods only knew what had been done afterwards to the missing wife. That probably happened close to here.

  ‘Go on,’ Petro encouraged him, far too politely.

  ‘Justus dropped dead last year – according to you lot, he probably died of a bad conscience. Then two girls, me, Felix – Felix, the happy and fortunate – and a clever little sod too; well we lost him early, naturally … another sister, the twins Virtus and Pius, and Era, then triplets who all died at birth, Providentia, Nobilis – he’s the one you people usually blame, every time an apple falls from a tree and the owner squeals, Those Claudii stole it! –’

  I had had enough. Probus continued his long list, but his sly, teasing attitude was more than I could take. Every name made me angrier. ‘Let’s stop messing about!’ Petronius snatched at my arm but I shook him off. ‘Probus, you know why we have come. A body was found; it was not pretty. Stop lying and admit that Modestus and his wife came here to complain.’

  I strode forward. The thug stepped back in mock alarm. ‘Oh they came!’ he delighted in telling me. His black teeth showed in a gleeful grin. ‘And they’re not here now – however many of you cocky Romans barge about looking for them!’

  That was all he said, because I socked him. I hit him low and hard, then as he doubled up, I struck again. If I had been alone with him, I would have carried on for half an hour. I felt so much aggression, I startled myself.

  ‘Falco!’

  Petro and one of the others dragged me off. ‘Don’t make me wish I hadn’t let you come,’ muttered Lucius Petronius, eye to eye with me and speaking low.

  I wrenched free and stumbled away from him. Then I left him to deal with it. I walked off stiffly into the forest by myself.

  XX

  I strode through the woods in a straight line. No point getting lost. When I came upon a path, I poked a stick in the ground, upright, to show me where to turn on my way back. I had no plan. I was not following the precept that sometimes on a bogged-down investigation, striking out blind can lead you to a clue. I was just overwrought.

  I had calmed down by the time I came across more marsh-dwellers.

  I walked into a similar campsite, just as poor as the last, just as untidy, just as unedifying. It had scenic advantages, however. It looked out on fields, for one thing. They were not bad fields either, my country background told me that, though their boundary fences were in a bad state.

  Three horrible hutments, arranged in a rough triangle, formed a kind of shabby hamlet, not one to feature in a tourists’ guidebook. What distinguished these from Probus’ lair was that each had a couple of beaten-up chairs outside for admiring the view or making it easier to shout abuse at the sky. Each had a washing line. No man who cultivates a reputation as a dangerous long-term pest pegs out his smalls. So a couple of the Claudius women were in view, one slowly hanging up limp garments, another seated in a dispirited pose on the steps of what was probably her home. Her cowed demeanour suggested she was not allowed to use the chairs. On a nearby patch of ground, some tousled children were kicking a bucket about; I counted four though from the racket there could be others.

  The girl with the laundry had the thin body of a child of fourteen and the face of someone two or three decades older. Pain lurked in her eyes. It would stay there. She had seen things she would never forget but she was never going to share them. Her drab dress was short, shapeless, frayed, a grey piece of rag that looked older than she was. Nonetheless, she wore a string of crude stone beads and even a bangle that could pass for gold for a pawnbroker who was ninety and short-sighted. Some man who wanted to signify she had a lot to be grateful for had given her those. She should have thrown them back and got free of him.

  Surprisingly, the women did not take offence that I had stepped out of the undergrowth. It did not mean they would be helpful.

  ‘The name’s Falco. I’m looking for Nobilis.’ No surprise at that, it seemed. ‘I think I took a wrong turn. You’re …?’

  ‘Plotia,’ said the one with laundry. ‘You want Nobilis?’ She nodded to the centre shack. I had the impression it was empty. ‘Gone away.’

  ‘Beach holiday at Baiae?’

  ‘Gone to visit his grandma.’

  ‘Is that a joke? I hear he’s a tough nut.’ Plotia just stared.

  I walked closer. After the incident with Fangs, I looked around, in case there were other guard-dogs. Reading my thoughts, Plotia said, ‘We never have animals.’ Her gaze flickered; she stated sombrely, ‘Well not for long.’

  I swallowed. Petronius once told me that pathological murderers tend to start their killing sprees while they are children. Find a man who takes prostitutes off the streets as a personal vocation, and he’ll probably have a set of neat jars with his childhood collection of dissected rats. I had suggested all boys are curious about dead animals. Petro said most just pick them out of the gutter; we don’t trap them on purpose and deconstruct them. Most of us don’t eviscerate our own pets.

  ‘What is your connection to the Claudii?’ I asked the women.

  ‘I’m married to Virtus.’ It was still Plotia answering. ‘Byrta belongs to Pius.’ Belongs to was a term that would have delighted our ancestors; my Helena would disdain it. [Note to scribe: delete that ‘my’. I don’t want my balls pickled.]

  Before I could ask, Plotia added, ‘Both not here. Pius and Virtus work up in Rome.’

  That was news. Petronius would be sure it was not good news.

  ‘I’m from Rome.’ I played friendly. ‘What do your men do there?’

  Plotia just shrugged. A Roman wife may be her husband’s closest confidante in theory, but not around here. I guessed marriage was a one-sided contract among the Claudii. Wives had to take foul language, thrashing and forced sex, if I was any judge. Then they bore endless children, who were battered and buggered too. They would all learn to keep their heads down, to judge carefully from bad moods what it was safe to say or do, and never to ask questions. They were bound to have been ordered not to talk to strangers.

  Many a slave knew that existence. Maybe it was how the Claudius men had learned to impose themselves on weaker souls.

  ‘Nobilis have a wife?’ I asked.

  ‘She left.’ At the mention of escape, Plotia looked jealous. Even Byrta perked up. From her perch she was listening to everything. ‘He never recovered.’

  ‘I bet there was all Hades of a row.’ Plotia laughed briefly. ‘Still, she got away from him?’ Neither woman reacted to the way I phrased it. ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘No idea.’ That meant not allowed to tell. ‘Nobilis knows. Antium, I think. She set up with someone else, so Nobilis stopped that –’

  ‘Really! How?’

  ‘The usual way!’ Plotia said scornfully. ‘The girl took refuge with her father afterwards, I heard.’

  ‘What’s her father’s name – and her name?’

  Plotia and Byrta glanced at each other. This information must be on the banned list. Nonetheless Plotia told me the father was a baker called Vexus. The wife was Demetria.

  ‘Does Nobilis now accept her going?’

  ‘Yes – if “accept” means constantly saying he’ll get the girl one day.’

  I sighed. ‘When did they split?’

  ‘Three years ago.’ And it still rankled with the husband? Demetria must be a brave soul to break free of that control. Or was she so badly crushed that anything was better than life with Nobilis?

  ‘If that’s his house, can I have a look round?’

  ‘He won’t like it,’ Plotia said flatly. Strangely, she then made no objection. It might be part of the Claudian plan to appear helpful whenever they were directly confronted. I took my chance and went to the door. It was unlocked – almost a jeering invitation to search. Even at that point, entering the house Nobilis lived in sent a shiver down my spine.

  I wondered if the posse from Antium had searched here. It must have done them no more good than it did me. The freedman’s house was crammed with stuff with an obsessive neatness. The collection of rubbish looked as if Nobilis had lined it up in rows, just waiting to upset enquirers by failing to provide clues.

  Plotia came to the door behind me. She was gazing around as if she too had never stepped inside before. ‘He keeps everything. He’s got stuff that goes back decades.’

  That was true, but if Nobilis killed Modestus, he had not kept the statue-seller’s lapis lazuli signet ring. There were no locks of hair from victims, no lovingly cared for boxes of different girls’ underwear. I found no old calendars with scored marks to signify killing days. No bloodstained weapons. No ropes with cut ends that could be matched to ligatures around dead men’s necks.

  I had been an informer long enough to expect disappointment.

  I searched until I had had enough, then I came back outside.

  ‘Find anything?’ called Plotia, now squatting alongside her sister-in-law, with the early evening sun on her face.

  ‘No. Does Nobilis have anywhere else he hangs out? Some special annexe, where he plays boys’ games alone?’

  Both women merely gave me odd looks.

  This place was a shack to me, but maybe it had a subsidiary hovel, some even more secret hideaway where Nobilis committed his worst deeds. If so, either he kept it from his relatives or they were playing dumb. ‘Just one last thing – did either of you see the quarrel with a neighbour called Modestus?’ Both Plotia and Byrta shook their heads, rather too quickly. ‘You know who I mean?’ I insisted. ‘He disappeared after a bust-up here, then his wife came to look for him and now she’s missing too.’ When the women continued to blank me, I said in a sombre voice, ‘Modestus is dead. Murdered – on a journey to petition the Emperor. This isn’t going away, so you may as well tell me. You still deny seeing the argument?’

  ‘Probus and Nobilis talked to the old man.’ For the first time Byrta found her voice. She had a common country accent and her attitude was the wrong side of aggressive. ‘It did get heated – Modestus was an idiot, and pushy with it. Our lads never did anything to him. He just went away.’

  ‘You sure of that?’ I don’t know why I bothered asking. I included Plotia in the question; she was keeping quiet now. She looked away and I knew she was not going to help me. ‘Nobilis and Probus were the ones Modestus argued with?’

  ‘They never touched him,’ repeated the pale, thin woman as if this was a religious chant and if she said a word wrong, some sacrifice would be invalidated.

  ‘That right? I’ll be off then.’

  ‘We’ll tell the boys you came!’ Plotia mocked my wasted effort.

  ‘Don’t do that, please. If there’s talking to do, I’d rather do it myself.’

  Then, Plotia and I shared a brief glance. It was possible I had made a connection with at least one of these drear, isolated women – some bond that might help our investigation later.

  More likely, she was just thinking I was an idiot.

  XXI

  I met my companions as I walked back through the woods.

  ‘Next time you want to play good officer/bad officer,’ Petro rebuked me mildly, ‘let’s agree it in advance, shall we? You know I hate always being the nice fellow. When is it my turn to put the boot in?’

  I asked if his being sweet to Probus had achieved anything; he growled, ‘Guess!’

  ‘I wish I’d hit him harder, then.’

  ‘Yes, if it helped whatever’s eating you!’ He knew what that was. Petronius was a loyal, affectionate family man. He knew I had grief I had not yet dealt with, and I was guilty about leaving home.

  He smacked me on the shoulder, then we walked side by side. The others watched us warily, letting Petro play nurse. I outlined what the women had told me, not that it moved us forward.

  The others had been carrying out sweeps, searching the woods in wide circles, looking for bodies. We went back along the path, passing the three hutments. Justinus stayed there to search the two women’s homes with Auctus, one of the vigiles. The rest of us moved forward.

  Looking for a good spot to camp because there was no chance we could return to Satricum that night, we were heading for what seemed to be more open country. Justinus and Auctus caught us up, having also had a fruitless search at the shacks. We kept moving along the boundary fence, distancing ourselves from where the Claudii lived. We found a place where the fence had been broken down and rebuilt; a notice had been erected on the far side, warning off trespassers in the name of Julius Modestus. Despite its fierce semi-legal language, only a short way further on we came upon another boundary breach. A group of wild-looking cattle which probably belonged to the Claudii stood on the Modestus land, eyeing us inquisitively.

  No one said anything, but we kept going, rather than pitch camp too close to the big-horned beef.

  We had a tent, but the ground was too wet and spongy for pegs to grip so we just hung an awning off the side of Nero’s cart. As dusk drew in, I fetched out the ointment Helena had provided. This time there was no grumbling. As insects bothered us incessantly, we all dipped our fingers in the pot and slathered it on. Everyone tugged down their tunic cuffs and tightened their neck-scarves.

  We lit a fire, which may have kept off some of the wildlife, though there was still plenty. We ate a nearly silent supper, not even discussing our plans for tomorrow, because we had none. Any chance of sleep was finished off by hundreds of croaking frogs. Then cattle turned up too, splashing, huffing and coughing, sounding enormous as they do in the dark. The vigiles jumped up from time to time, to shoo beasts away. Groaning, we tossed and turned all night, between bouts of miserable scratching.

  At first light, people made a move stiffly. Basic ablutions were tackled. Lentullus, a shy soul, went off by himself. Soon a frightened shout alerted us: the Claudius cattle had found him in mid-pee. Although he was country-born, he was no match for these mad-eyed, jittery bullocks and heifers, who were galloping around trying to herd him against the fence. His bad leg had stopped him escaping fast enough.

  ‘Typical Lentullus!’ muttered Justinus, as we all set off to rescue him. It took a while. We had to drive the cattle to the far side of the boundary fence, then we clambered over it and left them safely out of reach. Behind us, they lowed hoarsely in frustration.

  When we made it back to camp, we found a disaster. Straight away we saw that our ox was missing.

  ‘Was he loose?’

  ‘He was not!’ Rectus was quick to clear himself of blame. ‘I had him hitched to the cart.’

  The cart was still there, along with some of our kit, though it was strewn around. The vigiles’ two mules, who were almost uncatchable, stood under a tree looking on.

  ‘How could strangers get Nero to go with them?’

  ‘A bucket of feed would have him trotting off without a murmur.’

  We searched around, following deep, water-filled hoofprints, but the trail lost itself in the maquis. Now we were stuck: miles from anywhere in a dangerous marsh that was inhabited by criminals of every type, knowing somebody must have been watching us – and they had stolen our ox.

  XXII

  We did keep searching as long as it was feasible. Several more days passed, but we lost heart now we were walking and carrying all our kit. We still had our mules, though once we lost Nero, Corex and Basiliscus had odd looks in their eyes as if they wished they had bolted; Corex had never been a group player anyway. We had to abandon the cart, another expensive loss for the Petronius brothers. Our task came to seem pointless. Nothing that bore any relation to a crime scene turned up. Looking for corpses in that sodden, scratchy, empty area was hopeless. The marshes were endless, horrible, ominous. Without a definite lead, we could wear ourselves out until the flies and disease finished us, yet achieve nothing. Depressed beyond bearing, we took a vote and agreed to give up. We had done our best. We had done more than anybody else had ever bothered to do.