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.
XXX
Petronius took charge in his quiet, resigned way.
‘Martinus, you’re the king of the stolen-property list. Take the nice Etruscan wine bowl to its owner to identify. Maybe you should wash off the blood a bit first. I need sensible answers. Don’t give him a chance to get hysterical.’
‘I’ll have to go to the station house and look up who owns it.’ Martinus could be bone idle.
‘I don’t care how you set about the job,’ Petro said, restraining himself.
‘What if the man wants his bowl back?’ asked Fusculus, to calm things.
Petro shrugged. ‘Suits me. I can’t see us needing to use it as evidence. If it could answer questions I’d put it on a stool and start wheedling, but I reckon the pot’s a hostile witness…’
He fell silent, though at first he pretended not to notice that a new group of figures were marching into the square. Fusculus groaned quietly. I recognised Tibullinus, the centurion from the Sixth Cohort whom I had not much taken to. He must have been told about the body. He and his sidekick, Arica, came briskly across, flanked by a small honour guard. They folded their arms and stood watching us with a cocky air.
Petro forced himself to look up and gave Tibullinus a brief nod. ‘Your patch, but it’s one for us – direct bearing on the post-Balbinus enquiry. The pot comes from the Emporium haul, and the victim was my chief suspect.’
‘Looks like poor old Nonnius,’ Tibullinus remarked to Arica. Arica tutted in mock-tragic style. Making a deliberate survey of all his wounds, they sucked their teeth; then they grinned. Tibullinus viciously kicked an arm straight. They had a callousness that the men of the Fourth lacked. While Petro’s group had no tolerance for a gangster’s enforcer while he was alive, they still showed grim respect for his mangled body.
Then I overheard Martinus say openly to Arica, ‘Some people are going to be grieving that they’ve lost their paymaster!’ It was a jibe, though I could not tell from his tone whether his feelings were jealous or reproving.
Arica and Tibullinus barely glanced at one another. It was Petro who seemed angry, and who brushed the comment aside. ‘I assume you’re happy for me to take this one on.’ His colleagues made a theatrical show of standing aside for him. It may have been accidental, but Petronius then virtually turned his back on them. He gave orders in a low voice: ‘Fusculus, get some help and shift the remains. I don’t want the whole city talking about this. If it’s meant to cause public comment, I’m going to disappoint them. Whip it out of sight. Nab one of the hurdles and carry him to the station house for the time being. Maybe Scythax could take a look. He might be able to tell us something about what went on – though it’s fairly obvious.’
Petro seemed too tense for comfort. I noticed the Sixth, having made their presence known like generals on a battlefield, were now melting from the scene. Petro started relaxing as soon as they left.
‘Who’s Scythax?’ I put in.
‘A medico attached to our patrols.’ The vigiles always had doctors on the squad; they looked after the patrolmen, whose work led to frequent injuries, and when there were bad fires or building collapses they tended civilian victims at the scene. ‘Falco, I think you and I should go to the victim’s home. Martinus, if you are going to the station house, send a detachment to meet us at the Nonnius place. I’ll have to search it, and probably guard it afterwards. Mind you, Rubella won’t be happy to allow us the men…’
Mention of Rubella made me go quiet.
* * *
On the way to the Capena Gate we bought bread rolls and munched as we walked. Luckily sight of a corpse always stopped Petro wanting to talk. He must have assumed I was reacting the same
way.
We strolled the length of the Circus on the north side, then around its end under the Appian and Marcian aqueducts. As we emerged from their shadow, shopkeepers were unlocking their booths and washing the pavements. There were some decent residential streets but they were interspersed with rougher ones. Interestingly, it was an area of mixed jurisdiction by the vigiles. The First region, which we were just entering, was looked after by the Fifth Cohort, yet we were quite near to the Twelfth region, which as part of the Aventine came under the Fourth. We were also very close to the much seedier quarter where Plato’s Academy lurked. That was in the Circus Maximus region, the Eleventh, and like the Forum Boarium it was prowled by the Sixth Cohort.
‘Petro, does the fact that three different groups of vigiles are responsible for this triangle have any bearing on the crime that’s rife?’
‘Probably,’ he said. I could not tell him that according to Rubella criminality occurred amongst the vigiles themselves.
‘Do you work closely together?’
‘Not if we can help it.’
‘Any reason?’ I was hoping there would be one.
‘I’ve enough to do without wasting effort on “inter-cohort co-operation”!’ Petro sneered.
‘Strikes me the cohorts all have different characters?’
‘Right. The Fifth are dull, the Sixth are bastards, and as you know, we in the Fourth are unsung heroes with a mature and efficient approach!’
I just hoped I could show that that was the truth.
I took a deep breath. ‘Are Tibullinus and Arica on the take?’
‘Probably,’ said Petro shortly. Something in his manner made me reluctant to ask more.
* * *
As we neared the street we wanted, a familiar figure hailed me.
‘Marcus!’
‘Quintus! I heard you were back from Germany. Oh this is good. Petro, let me introduce you to Camillus Justinus.’
Justinus was Helena’s younger brother, a slight, boyish lad of twenty-odd. Today he was in civilian dress – a pristine white tunic and rather casually draped toga. The last time I saw him he had been in tribunal uniform, in the army on the Rhine. I myself had been there on a mission for Vespasian, one Justinus had joined in, acquitting himself bravely. I knew he had been recalled and was now expected to work through the stages of upper-class civilian life, probably ending in the Senate when he reached twenty-five. Despite that, I liked him. We embraced like brothers, and I chaffed him about his position.
‘That’s right. I’ve been brought back home to be a good boy, and to start planning to cadge votes.’
‘Don’t worry. The Senate’s a doddle. All you have to do is learn to say, “Gods, what a stench!” every time you appear in a crowd, while keeping your teeth bared in a friendly smile in case any of the plebs can lip-read.’
‘Well, it’s a few years away yet…’ Justinus sighed. ‘I was hoping to see you. I think I’m in love with an actress.’
Petro and I turned to one another and groaned.
‘Why do the young always have to make the old mistakes?’ I asked. Petro shook his head sadly. Petro and I had been friends with a few stage performers in our day, but now we had responsibilities. (We were too old, too cynical, and too careful with our cash.)
‘I think you may know her –’ Justinus tried.
‘Very probably!’ exclaimed Petronius, as if it was nothing to be proud of. Since getting married, he had turned highly self-righteous. I suspected it was a deliberate pose. He hadn’t really changed.
‘Quintus, don’t ask me any favours to do with entertainers! I’m in enough trouble with your family.’
Justinus slipped into his infectious grin. ‘That’s true – and heading for more! If I see you I am to invite you and Helena to dinner on her birthday. Tomorrow,’ he spelt out annoyingly. That reminded me about my lost birthday present problem, and I cursed to myself. ‘What you don’t know’, continued Helena’s favourite brother, ‘is that someone else has come home from abroad. Somebody who doesn’t take kindly to having his sister living with an informer, and who keeps describing in tortuous detail what he would like to do to you.’
‘Aelianus?’
‘Aelianus.’ The other brother, whom I had never met but already disliked. His views on me were plain too; he had written them to his sister with great acrimony. The distress he had caused Helena was more than I could think about.
‘Looks as if we’re heading for a wonderful evening!’ I commented.
Quintus Camillus Justinus, an odd soul who happened to believe I was quite good for his sister, gave me a formal salute. ‘You can, of course, rely on my unstinted support, Marcus Didius!’
‘Oh thanks!’ I said.
He would make a good politician: it was a blatant bribe. So now I had to find time to introduce a senator’s son to an actress, then watch him ruin his previously immaculate reputation in a scandalous love affair. No doubt afterwards I would be expected to help this young man tour the city trying to win votes.
* * *
Petronius and I were admitted to the Nonnius house by the porter as soon as we shouted our arrival. He seemed relieved that we had turned up to take charge. He came out to greet us carrying a temporary screen and watched us examine the front door, which had been battered open last night so efficiently that little of it now remained. ‘They came in a cart with a ram on it. A pointed tree trunk mounted on a frame. They pulled it back on a sling, then let go – it crashed right through.’
Petro and I winced. This was real siege warfare. No house in Rome would be safe from such artillery – and only a daring gang would risk taking that kind of illegal weapon openly through the streets.
The house was silent now. Nonnius had been unmarried and had no known relatives. With him gone, domestic management would come to a full stop.
We walked about unhindered, finding few of the slaves who had been in evidence the last time I visited. Maybe some had run away, either eager to be free or simply terrified. In strict law, when a man was murdered, his slaves were subjected to statutory torture to make them identify his murderer. Any who had denied him assistance would be punished severely. If he was murdered in his own house, his slaves were bound to be the first suspects.
The porter was the most helpful. He freely confessed that strange men had come to the house after dark, had broken down the door suddenly and violently, and rushed past him. He had hidden in his cubicle. Sometime later the men had left. A long time after that he had ventured out. He learned from the others that Nonnius had been dragged away.
None of the other slaves would admit to having seen what was done to their master. At last we found the little Negro who had been his personal attendant; the child was still hiding under a bedroom couch, crazy with fear. He must know the truth, but we got nothing from him but whimpering. Some of the cohort had turned up by then, brought here by Fusculus. Petronius, not unkindly, put the child in the charge of one of them and ordered him to be brought to the station house.
‘Put a blanket or something around him!’ Petro’s lip curled in distaste at the little black boy’s fluttery skirt and bare, gilded chest. ‘Try and convince him we’re not going to beat him up.’
‘Growing soft, chief?’
‘He’s palpitating like a run-down leveret. We’ll get nothing if he drops dead on us … Now let’s do a regular search.’
We drew some conclusions from the search. Nonnius had been in bed. Boots were in the bedroom, thrown in different directions, and tunics lay on a stool. The bed stood askew, as if it had been jerked violently; its coverlet had fallen half on the floor. We reckoned he had been surprised and snatched while asleep, or at least only partly awake. Whether he was alive or dead when they took him from the house was debatable, though Petronius decided on him being still alive. There was only a small amount of blood on the bedclothes and the floor – not enough to have been caused by the mass of wounds we had seen on the body.
We should probably only ever
find out where they had taken him if somebody confessed. We might never know. What had happened to him in the hour or so that followed his abduction we could all imagine clearly. Most of us preferred not to think about it.
XXXI
As we were leaving the Nonnius mansion someone else made the mistake of trying to arrive. We were keyed up in investigating mode, and surrounded him. He was a lean fellow in a smart white tunic, carrying a leather satchel.
‘May we look in the bag, sir?’ The man handed it over to Fusculus with a rather dry expression. It was full of tweezers, spatulas and stoneware medicine jars. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Alexander. I am the householder’s doctor.’
We relaxed, but our humour was harsh. ‘Well he won’t need you now!’
‘The patient has suffered a fatal dose of being beaten up.’
‘Terminal knife wounds.’
‘Irreversible death.’
‘I see,’ commented the doctor, no doubt thinking of his lost fees.
Petronius, who had not spoken to him before this, said, ‘I respect your relationship with your patient, but you will understand my enquiries are very serious. Did Nonnius say anything to you in confidence that might tell us who may have done this?’ To judge from his careful phrasing, Petro had had trouble extracting information from doctors.
‘I don’t believe he did.’
‘Well you are free to go then.’
‘Thank you.’
Something about the man’s manner was oddly restrained. He seemed hardly surprised to have lost his patient in this appalling way. Perhaps that was because he knew what line of business Nonnius had been in. Or perhaps there was another cause.
‘There was something peculiar there,’ I suggested, as we all walked back to the patrol house.
‘He’s a doctor,’ Petro assured me calmly. ‘They’re always peculiar.’
If I had not known him better I might have thought something in Petro’s own manner seemed oddly restrained too. In view of my special investigation for Titus, I wanted Petronius to behave in ways I understood.
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