That was when she came straight out and said Costus wanted her to beg for money. I could hardly complain. As Helena sniggered afterwards, offering facts for a cash reward was what I did as an informer.

  I replied that when I made the offer, facts did exist.

  There was one outcome. I asked Costus if he had been there when the man from Rome that Thamyris mentioned had turned up. According to Costus, it was a couple of days before. The description he gave of peculiar eyes, greased hair and smooth-talking sounded suspiciously familiar; it could almost be Anacrites himself.

  ‘Did you hear what was said?’

  ‘He took Thamyris out of earshot.’

  ‘So you’ve no idea what he wanted?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Costus seemed surprised anyone should think his employer would keep a city man’s secret. ‘He ordered the boss that if anyone came asking about Nobilis or the other Claudii, he was to say nothing.’

  ‘Did he reinforce that order?’

  Costus laughed bitterly. ‘One or two suggestions. Just in case we forgot. Like – he’d close down the business, crucify Thamyris, sell his wife into a brothel, send us as slaves to the galleys and cut off our goolies first. Do you think he can do it?’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s the regular tactic used by the Praetorian Guards.’

  XXIX

  On the journey home, Helena and I discussed the situation. Costus’ story confirmed all the rumours about the Claudii having protection. Whoever was looking after their interests must be powerful, if they used the intelligence network to do their dirty work. Anacrites had not dared threaten Petro and me; even he was not that stupid. But he had no scruples about intimidating members of the public. He assumed we would never find out. For us, this signalled ulterior motives. He would know that if we once became intrigued, we would latch on to him like rat-dogs.

  He had slipped up. I for one would not rest now until I uncovered his real interest – and Petronius was the same. I was all set to tear into the spy’s office and threaten him with the same punishments he offered Thamyris – especially the part about castration. Maia must have the old veterinarian tools her dead husband used when he looked after the Greens’ chariot horses; she would happily loan me his equine nut-crusher.

  Helena urged me to play clever. ‘Don’t alert him, Marcus. Let’s carry on as normal, pretend his agent wasn’t spotted. I suggest when we get home, we see if he has invited us to dinner as he threatened. If he has, we should go along to his house, and sniff the air before you tackle him outright.’

  ‘I would rather sniff a heifer’s bum, after a week’s diarrhoea.’

  ‘Your rhetoric is so refined! … Listen to your wife’s good advice.’ Helena shook her finger warningly: ‘Find out just whose fixer Anacrites is. Who wants him to protect these marsh-men’s interests?’

  ‘You are right, as ever.’ It was time to address the point. ‘It must all be to do with these Claudii having an imperial background,’ I told Helena. ‘I sensed that Laeta and Momus know what’s going on. Some old influence has carried over … I don’t believe it’s the Emperor.’ Vespasian had a few close cronies; his cabinet of private advisers were men like Helena’s own father who had known him for years, long before he counted. He had never been regarded as someone who protected favourites.

  ‘Nor Titus,’ Helena decided. She and Titus viewed each other with admiration – more admiration than I liked. Still that just meant Titus Caesar was a fine judge of womanhood. Like his father, he was basically straight.

  Helena was still ticking off candidates: ‘Domitian’s more questionable.’ I had a feud with Domitian. He didn’t scare me, but if he was in on this it was best to know. ‘Of the great and powerful at the Palace,’ Helena concluded, ‘there would only be Claudius Laeta. He would not have invited you and Petro to investigate Modestus, if his interests lay in a cover-up.’

  ‘Give the man credit – he knows we’re too good!’ I grinned at her.

  ‘Laeta does not take stupid risks,’ she corrected me coolly. Helena had a wonderful sense of humour, though little tolerance for silly beggars’ backchat. ‘He doesn’t play with knives for a cheap thrill. He sees his role as protecting the administration, so the Empire can run smoothly.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘It could be some consul or ex-consul who has never crossed our path.’

  ‘Most of them!’ We kept out of general politics.

  ‘I can ask my father. Not that he tends to know strong-arm thugs. His friends in the Curia are benign. Men who read Plato over their lunch, philanthropists who think a commission should look into health issues among the urban poor.’

  I said the Claudii were a health threat in Latium.

  Helena was still considering the argument. While I ducked out if there were too many alternatives, she liked to be thorough, with no feeble ‘decide that later’ topics; she worked through every point. She would say I was a typical man; I thought her a highly unusual woman.

  ‘We ought to consider, Marcus, not just who this person of influence is, but why he supports the freedmen. It’s been a long while since mighty men in Rome aligned themselves with criminal gangs.’

  ‘People like Clodius and his terrorists? He provided himself with brutal enforcers; everyone was scared of them and together with his very patrician name, it gave him enormous power … Nothing like that happens in the city now.’

  ‘It cannot be about anything the Claudii offer to their protector,’ Helena said. ‘He may be ambitious, but he must be able to manage his career without their help. So why does he bother? What hold do they have over him?’

  She was right and I agreed: ‘What’s he scared of? A bunch of second-rate ex-slaves, living out in a marsh, miles from civilisation, selling scrap and beating up their wives? I can’t see how they have any influence with anyone who carries serious weight in Rome. And he must have weight. It takes a real someone to make Anacrites jump.’

  ‘Could it be simpler?’ Helena suggested. ‘Could they be under the protection of Anacrites himself?’

  We both laughed and agreed that was totally unlikely.

  Back in Rome, it emerged that the visitor who had threatened Thamyris could not have been Anacrites. The man who went to Antium must have been an agent. Petronius confirmed that the spy had been in Rome. The vigiles had seen him.

  Things had moved on. While Helena and I were away, the Seventh Cohort had been called out to the necropolis on the Via Triumphalis. This burial ground was across the river, north of the city, unlike where Modestus was discovered. Passers-by had alerted a caretaker to what looked like a shallow grave, dug without permission close to the road. In it was a fresh, mutilated corpse.

  XXX

  Julia and Favonia had been playing quietly on the floor with their pottery animals. As soon as we walked in, they remembered they had been abandoned by us, their callous parents. They jumped up, grew red in the face and ran away screaming loudly, real tears streaming down their faces. It was a classic scam.

  Helena Justina gave me a quizzical look. ‘Maybe two is enough?’

  ‘Agreed!’

  Albia, too, refused to welcome our return but stalked off like an offended dog. That gave Nux the same idea, even though she had been on the trip with us.

  The message from Petronius about the new murder was irresistible. I changed my tunic and boots, then washed my face. I thought about a comb-through but settled for the windswept look. Being back in Rome had fired me up enough; being neat would be too much excitement. Sometimes I needed to remember when I lived in Fountain Court and was a rough rascal.

  At mid-morning I set out from home, with a knife down my boot and just enough money in my purse to cover emergencies. My mind was clear and my step spry. However, I had the faint edgy feeling of a man who needs to reimpose himself on his customary surroundings. Adultery and cart-crashes could have occurred without me knowing it. I might have missed the crucial capture of that balcony thief from the Street of the Armilustrium. Old Lupus could have gone on his long-promised cruise of the Mediterranean – for all I knew, taking that pudgy waitress from the Venus Scallop, instead of his miserable wife, the one with pigtails who was always cadging off Brutus from the fish stall. Once I reached Maia’s, she would fill me in on these essentials, but first my way took me to the Fourth Cohort’s station house.

  Petronius had finished the night shift and gone home. Fusculus was there and gave me the story.

  ‘Same modus as before?’

  ‘Apparently. Body found at the necropolis – though not in a tomb this time. There’s a difference from the Appia and Latina sites, where you find patrician surnames and bloody big mausoleums. The Via Triumphalis is a big burial ground with a mixed clientele, slaves to middle rank. Its burials are mixed, everything from old skeletons popping out of shallow graves to grey stone urns with nice pointy lids or half a broken amphora lying on its side to hold the deceased’s ashes.’

  ‘About our level!’ I said, grinning.

  ‘Not as fancy as that inscription your papa fixed up for himself, Falco! No This is my memorial which may never be sold, with a frontage of a thousand feet; no pretty Etruscan funeral altar, with dear little wings on it.’

  I was not yet ready for jokes. I could satirise losing Pa, but thinking about my tiny son demanded respect. ‘Fusculus – that’s a large cemetery with a litter of confusing graves. Why did this corpse attract attention?’

  ‘You know some crazy killers want to yell out, Look at me; I’ve done what I wanted and you can’t catch me! Petronius reckons the dead man was placed near the road specially, so someone would notice.’

  ‘Did you see the body?’

  ‘That was indeed my privilege.’

  ‘Modestus was middle-aged. Someone similar?’

  ‘No, this one’s young. Slight build – easy to overcome.’

  ‘How was he set out?’

  ‘Obviously ritual. Face down, arms outstretched sideways like a crucified slave. Well, when I say full length, Falco, that is excluding both his hands which, having been hacked off, were placed very neatly either side of his head. Same groundplan as Modestus. And like Modestus, when the Seventh rolled him over, they found him sawn open from his gullet to his privates.’

  ‘Any other mutilation?’

  ‘That was enough!’

  ‘As vindictive as the Modestus killing?’

  Fusculus gave that thought. ‘Maybe not. He had been thumped, but probably during initial attempts to subdue him.’

  ‘Then apart from the fact he lost his hopes in life, you could say he did not suffer?’

  ‘So nicely put! His clothes were there. Shoes, neckerchief – and bright new wedding ring still on his severed hand. Mind, I don’t think anyone would try selling what was left of his tunic in the flea market – not after he was slit open.’

  ‘Ring left behind – so theft not a motive?’

  ‘No money on him, so maybe. His donkey’s missing, but anyone could have pinched that from the roadside if the killer left it.’

  ‘And do we know who he is?’

  ‘We do, in fact!’ Fusculus left me waiting. It was the end of the night and he soon lost interest in teasing. ‘… A carter reported his courier missing. Young fellow. Just got married, so the bride started jumping as soon as he failed to report for his dinner. Her very first attempt at seafood patties – now he’ll never know how terrible they were … He’d been sent out with a parcel – the Seventh haven’t found the parcel, but it was in his donkey pannier. That caring citizen, his master, reported him gone because he thought the lad had simply scarpered with the goods.’

  ‘So this parcel-boy was heading out of Rome, not coming into town? And not on the Pontine Marshes side?’

  ‘No. So the Seventh were assuming it’s the same killer, because of the method, but those on high say different.’

  ‘Not the Claudii? That’s the Anacrites verdict?’ I was angry. ‘Tiberius, my lad – this points us in the other direction much too obviously!’

  ‘Funny thing,’ murmured Fusculus. ‘That’s what Petronius Longus decided.’ He pretended to look impressed that we two could so swiftly come up with the same suggestion. ‘Mind you, he always likes to be a wild man over theories. If seven people say a cabbage-seller did it, the mighty Longus will arrest the baker. He’ll be right too. Clever bastard.’

  Going on my way, when I reached the door I whipped back with a sudden last question. This was a trick to reserve for suspects, really, but Tiberius Fusculus was one person in the vigiles who appreciated stagecraft. ‘Have you discounted a copycat?’

  ‘Ah, Falco, there’s always that delight to cause confusion!’

  Petro had been going to bed when I arrived, but he stayed up to gossip. We went out to the balcony. He closed the folding door. That was how he did things. Through the slats I could see Maia waggling her fingers at us and sticking out her tongue. Ma would have listened secretly. Helena would have dragged the door straight open again and brought a stool for herself.

  He gave me further details. The Seventh Cohort, all halfwits in Petro’s opinion, had been first on the scene. The Via Triumphalis, which runs out of the city on the north-east side, was the Seventh’s beat; they had jurisdiction over the Ninth and Fourteenth districts, including any burial ground just outside the boundary. They consulted the Fourth Cohort. They knew Petronius had the Modestus case, though they had been unaware of the Anacrites complication. The Fourth’s tribune wanted to be a Praetorian Guard and spies were a Praetorian subdivision, so as it had a bearing on his own position Rubella stuck by the rules. He notified Anacrites of the new linked case so fast the hot wax seal burned the spy’s fingers. Anacrites had allowed the Seventh to continue with routine enquiries. Either they lacked the taint of association with Petronius and me, or he just thought they were too stupid to get in his way.

  ‘As they are,’ said Petro.

  ‘You’re tired.’

  ‘I’m right.’

  ‘Of course. So what do you think? Fusculus says the new official view is that the Triumphalis death indicates random killings on any road near Rome. It’s supposed to tell us the Modestus death was just a traveller’s unlucky accident.’

  ‘Yes, apparently that is a luminous truth.’

  ‘Modestus getting topped on his way into Rome has no relation to the Claudii but is pure coincidence?’

  ‘Wrong road, wrong time.’ Petro paused, as Maia came out with a dish of stuffed vine leaves, checking up that we were not enjoying ourselves too much without her.

  ‘He needs his rest, Marcus.’

  ‘We’ve nearly finished.’

  ‘I know you; you haven’t even started.’

  ‘Buzz off and let us get on then.’ Petro’s tone was affectionate. My sister put up with it.

  I chomped a vine leaf. Home made. Wheatgrain and pine nut filling in a slightly tart dressing. Mint. Good, but I stayed gloomy. ‘Spill, sunshine.’

  Petro took a snack between one thumb and finger, but merely waved it as he talked. ‘Marcus, here is my personal list of anomalies. First, why did the Modestus killers cut off his hands? I still think for revenge: those hands had repeatedly written angry letters to complain about the Claudii. Someone must have heard about Cicero – murdered for railing against Mark Antony. Cicero’s hands, which wrote his polemics, were removed and stuck on spikes either side of the head up on the rostrum where he had made his speeches.’

  ‘One hand.’

  ‘Pedant.’

  ‘The allusion seems too literary.’

  ‘No, it’s not. Everyone knows what happened to Cicero. Even I know!’ boasted Petro. He had been to school, but whereas my adult hobbies were drinking and reading, his were drinking and drinking some more. ‘Besides, what do you think Nobilis and Probus do all day at their miserable shacks? They sit down with a learned scroll to improve their minds, don’t they?’

  ‘Show me proof! But I go with revenge against the petitioner’s hands. Next anomaly?’

  ‘I had had our doctor, Scythax, take a look at the remains before we got Modestus cremated. Scythax thought he was probably still alive when his hands were removed. Nobilis may know about the death of Cicero; he intended Modestus would appreciate his fate.’

  ‘Meanwhile, the courier’s boy never wrote poison pen letters.’

  ‘No, he couldn’t read or write.’ Trust Petro to have asked the question. ‘His body may have been stretched out like Modestus, but his slashed belly is different. Scythax tends to be cautious forensically, but he reckons the Modestus killer cut open the corpse after death. I mean, he probably came back and did it several days later.’

  I cringed. ‘What was that for?’

  ‘Who knows why? Reinforcing his power, maybe.’ Petro munched his snack now, thinking about perversion and frowning. ‘Anyway, the courier was opened up the same day he died. We can be sure, because he set off in the afternoon and was found at first light next day. He was practically warm.’

  ‘The murder sounds hurried – that’s untypical of repeat killers.’ I could tell from the way Petronius had paced his narrative, there must be at least one more discrepancy. ‘What else?’

  ‘Whoever killed Modestus, from the detritus left nearby, I suspect more than one man was there. And they stayed around the crime scene for several days. After the killing, I mean. Possibly someone came back to slash Modestus open – but I say, the bastards never went away.’

  ‘Jupiter! This happens?’

  ‘With perverts. Of course, people who hold other theories will argue that around the Via Appia tombs there are plenty of comers and goers, squatters and campers, so how can we tell?’

  ‘And how can you?’

  ‘As well as the post mortem filleting job, we found seats that had been moved out of the tomb; discarded amphorae; obvious food evidence. There was human shit and it was the right vintage.’

  I winced. ‘Your job is charming.’

  ‘My job is to get it right and not let bastards bamboozle me.’

  ‘If the Modestus killers had wanted to play with the courier’s boy like that, all they had to do was take him away from the road out of sight. Instead they placed him right beside the road-edge ditch, where he was bound to be spotted immediately.’