'I'll tell you what I think happens,' said Bolanus in a sombre voice. Then he paused.
He was upset. The isolated spot had worked on him; in his imagination he was sharing the last moments of the women who had been brought so far from home to a terrible fate, possibly killed, mutilated and dismembered very near to where we stood.
I helped him out. 'The killer lives somewhere locally. He abducts his victims in Rome, probably because he is not known there and he hopes he won't be traced. Then he brings them forty miles back here.'
Bolanus found his voice again. 'After he has finished whatever he does to these girls, he drives back to Rome to dispose of their heads and torsos in the river and the Cloaca – probably to minimise the chance of anything pointing to him locally. But first he cuts off their limbs and throws them into the river -'
'Why doesn't he just throw all the parts into the Anio, or else take everything to Rome?' Frontinus asked.
'I imagine,' I said slowly, 'he wants the large pieces as far away as possible because they look like identifiable human remains for longer. So he takes them back to Rome – but while he's disposing of them in the sewer or the river he's vulnerable. He wants just a couple of large parcels which will sink out of sight quickly if he's being observed. But he thinks he's safe chucking the smaller limbs away here because they will quickly deteriorate beyond being recognised. Thrown into the stream, they could be eaten by carrion birds or animals, either here in the hills or down on the Campagna. And anything that went over the cascade at Tibur would be well smashed up.'
'Right, Falco,' said Bolanus. 'I don't think he ever intends that they should turn up in the water supply in Rome. But sometimes smaller and lighter parts – hands, for instance – find their way into the Novus basin, and then on into the channel. The killer may still be unaware that this happens. If they happen to float out of the filtration system, the body parts will travel on to Rome. At the end of the run, two aqueducts join on one arcade; the Novus is carried above the Aqua Claudia, with switching shafts. And the Claudia also has an interchange with the Marcia, as I showed you both -'
Frontinus and I nodded, remembering how we saw the torrent crashing from one aqueduct to the other.
'So we can see how these small relics might move around once they reach Rome. The only puzzle,' said Bolanus slowly, 'is the first hand, the one that Falco found, which was supposed to have been pulled out on the Aventine, in a castellum of the Aqua Appia.'
It seemed a long time ago that Petro and I had shared a drink in Tailors' Lane. 'Are there no links between the Aqua Appia and any of the Tibur channels?' I asked.
'There are possibilities. The Appia source isn't underground; it starts at a reservoir in some ancient quarries on the Via Collatina.'
'So anyone could have driven past one day and thrown in a package?'
Bolanus didn't like it. 'More likely your public fountain has two jets, drawn from different aqueducts. It enables us to maintain a supply by a swap if needs be. It's true the Appia serves the Aventine; the terminus is by the Temple of Luna. But there could be a second feed from the Aqua Claudia -'
'So it all fits,' Frontinus interrupted. 'And it all starts here.'
'But who is this bastard?' fretted Bolanus, for whom the hunt was starting to be personal.
'All I found back along the road,' I reported, 'was a trio of cheerful brothers who – apparently – have not been to Rome for ages, with a few slaves, plus an old man who looks too feeble to go anywhere.'
'So what do you suggest?' asked the Consul. 'We know what the bastard does, and we know he does some of it here. Unless we act, at the next festival he will be here doing it again.'
'If we were very cold-blooded,' I answered him slowly, 'when the Augustan Games start' – they were only a week away – 'we would station your public slaves behind trees all the way up this valley from here to Sublaqueum, telling them to make themselves look like twigs until they spot someone chucking something suspicious out into the Anio.'
'But to do that and catch him in the act -'
'- a woman has to die first.'
Frontinus took a deep breath. 'We shall do it if we have to.' Pragmatic to the end, it seemed.
I smiled. 'But if we can, I want to catch him earlier.'
'Good, Falco!'
'We have a few leads. Before the Augustales begin, I want us to be set up for trapping him in Rome. We haven't much time. I'll stay at Tibur for one more day, and give our suspects list a final look-over. I want to be quite sure we haven't missed anything. We know the killer is prepared to travel long distances. Maybe he actually lives at Tibur but comes up into the hills when he starts butchering the bodies.'
So it was back to Tibur. As we moved away from the sunny riverbank a startled kingfisher swooped away in a brilliant flash of colour. Behind us a dragonfly hovered in stunning livery above the sparkling and seemingly clear waters of the contaminated Anio.
LII
For discovering our festival-visitor, Tibur itself still seemed the best base. Back along the Via Valeria we saw little to interest us. There were one or two grand country homes, their porticos bearing the names of famous men, although most lay deserted and some of the names were so illustrious that even the high-ranking Frontinus blenched at the thought of politely suggesting that the current generation might be involved in a long and extremely sordid series of murders. In between, the farm-owners geared their trips to Rome to markets rather than festivals. The absentee landlords, of whom there were plenty, ruled themselves out by their very absence as they do from most responsibilities.
Back in Tibur my own reception was mixed. Julia Junilla was crying when I arrived at the nettle patch farm. 'Dear, dear – come to Father!' As I picked her up, mere tears turned to lusty, red-in-the-face screams.
'She is wondering who this stranger is,' Helena suggested mildly, above the row.
I could take a hint. 'And what are you thinking, my darling?'
'Oh, I remember all too well.'
The baby must have remembered too, because she suddenly welcomed me with a very squelchy burp.
Lucius Petronius, my beaten-up partner, was looking better. His bruises were fading. By lamplight he just looked as if he hadn't washed his face for a week. He could now move about more freely too, when he bothered to exert himself 'So how was seeking suspects in Sublaqueum?'
'Oh, just how I like it – all gazing at idyllic scenery and thinking poetic thoughts.'
'Find anything?'
'Charming people who never go anywhere. Clean-living country types who lead blameless lives and who tell me oh, no, they entertain no suspicions that any of their pleasant neighbours may be cutting up female flesh in some grim little but in the woods.'
He stretched his big frame. I could tell that our convalescent boy was started to feel bored. 'So what now?'
'Back to Rome, fairly urgently. But I'm quickly going to double-check some of the fancy villas Julius Frontinus went to earlier.'
'I thought you sent him to the ones that would refuse you access?'
'I'm going disguised as an itinerant handyman – the type I know every one of them will welcome with open arms.'
He raised an eyebrow sceptically. 'Does that type exist?'
'Every fine home in the Empire has at least one fountain that won't work. I shall offer to fix it for them -' I grinned at him. 'And you can come along as my terrible apprentice if you want.' Petronius accepted readily, though he did try to convince me his natural position was as the fountain- fixer's manager instead. I said since he looked like a roughneck fresh from a tavern fight he had to play the tool-carrying role. 'Next door's kitchen maid not up to much then?'
'Too young,' he smirked. 'Too bloody dangerous. Besides,' he admitted, 'she smells of garlic and she's dafter than a painter's brush.'
Every investigation should include an interlude where the trusty informer puts on a dirty one-sleeved tunic, slicks his hair back with salad oil, and sets off to knock on doors. I had done it bef
ore. Petronius, used to imposing his requests for information by means of a cudgel and a threat of imprisonment, had to learn a few tricks – mainly how to keep quiet. Still, his Auntie Sedina assured him he was perfect at looking gormless (the first requirement in a tradesman). Helena put us through a rehearsal, at which she made various sound suggestions, such as 'Pick your nose with more conviction!' and 'Don't forget to suck your teeth and murmur, "Ooh! This looks like a tricky one; I think you've got a problem here.. ."'
The way it worked was this: dressed in scruffy togs and carrying a large bag which contained various heavy chunks of equipment we had collected from the farm outbuildings, Petro and I sauntered past the elegant gates of the opulent homesteads we wanted to investigate. We were always eating a melon. As the fierce guards came out to glare at us walking by, we greeted them cheerfully and offered them a slice of fruit. After passing the time of day for a few moments we usually persuaded our new friends, with melon juice still running down their chins, to let us in. We heaved our bag up the drive, and very respectfully informed the suspicious house steward that this was his big chance to surprise the owner by renovating the fountain that had failed to work for years. Most let us try, since they had nothing to lose. While we applied our ingenuity they naturally stayed there watching, just in case we were burglars after the drinking cups. That gave us the chance to engage them in chat, and once we had the fountain flowing again (which we usually achieved, I'm proud to say) they were so grateful they were ready to tell us anything.
Well, all right; some of them told us to get lost.
There was one particular house which Petro and I both viewed with suspicion. While I was away he had been examining Helena's lists and formulating theories (the kitchen maid must have been an absolute disaster close to). He shared my feeling that we ought to re-investigate the villa owned by Aurelia Maesia. Though female, her pattern of travelling to Rome most resembled what we were looking for.
She lived in Tibur itself. Her house was on the western side, near the Hercules Victor complex. This noteworthy sanctuary was the most important in Tibur, set on the steep hill above the lower reaches of the Anio as it travelled past the town. Massive stonework supported old arcades whereupon sat a large piazza, surrounded by double-height colonnades which had been left open on one side to give a dramatic view down the valley. In the centre of the temenos the temple to the demigod was approached by a high flight of steps; immediately below it lay a small theatre. A market filled the colonnades, so the area hummed. They had an oracle too.
'Why don't we just consult the oracle?' Petro growled. 'Why waste effort dressing up as layabouts and getting drenched to the armpits when we can just pay a fee and be told the answer?'
'Oracles can only deal with simple stuff. "What is the Meaning of Life?" And "How can I get the better of my mother-in-law?" You aren't expected to tax them with technical complexities such as "Please name this bastard who kidnaps and kills for fun". That calls for sophisticated powers of deduction.'
'And idiots like you and me who don't know when to turn a bad job down.'
'That's right. Oracles are whimsical. They tease and mislead. You and I stick in there with jaws like sheep tics and produce an unrebuttable result.'
'Well then,' chaffed Perro. 'Let's go and make ourselves a pest.'
Like most women's houses which ought to be impossible for dubious men to enter, Aurelia Maesia's well-trimmed grounds were simplicity itself to penetrate. There may have been a porter and steward at the house but we were admitted by a female cook who took us straight to the lady herself.
She must have been sixty. She was dressed in a stately manner, with gold pendant earrings set with amber and dangling pearls. She had a fleshy face, about to droop and go more gaunt; her skin was meshed with a web of fine lines. I put her down as pleasant but dull. The moment we met her I knew she was not our murderer, but that did not preclude her driver or anyone else with whom she habitually shared her carriage on her trips to Rome.
She had been writing a letter, with difficulty since she was not using a scribe and her eyesight was clearly very poor. As we shuffled in, she looked up rather nervously. We went through the routine and, our cover accepted, were led to a dry fountain in a licheny courtyard. It was ancient, but elegant. Sparrows hopped hopefully in the two tiered bowls, watching our approach with cheeping curiosity. A lad had been put in charge of us.
'I'm Gaius.' I set our bag down carefully, to avoid revealing that most of its supposedly technical contents were just farmyard junk. Extracting a blunt stick, I began scratching off lichen boldly. Petro stood in the background, staring at the sky in an aimless manner.
'Who's he?' asked the lad, still checking our credentials. 'He's Gaius too.'
'Oh! How do I tell which is which?'
'I'm the clever one.'
When Petro took a turn at the introductions, he always called us 'Titus', saying 'like the Emperor's son'; it gave him a childish pleasure to assume Imperial trapping when we were playing at louts.
'And you are?'
'Titus,' said the lad.
Petronius gave him a lazy grin. 'Like the Emperor's son!'
Young Titus had apparently heard that one before.
'Seems a nice lady, Aurelia what's-her-name,' I offered, after some time cleaning the weathered stone. 'Lives here, does she? I only ask because a lot of our clients in this area only come down on holiday.'
'Lived here for years,' said Titus.
'Still, I expect she goes to Rome sometimes?'
'Quite often really.'
Petronius had a finger up his nose. Titus almost copied him, then fell shy of it. I looked up and addressed Petronius: 'Listen, our Gaius – look around and see if you can find me a little stone or a bit of chipped tile from somewhere -'
'Why do I always have to go?'
'You're the fetcher, that's why.'
Petro managed to look as if he had no idea what I wanted, wandering off aimlessly while I kept Titus trapped in tedious chat.
'Bit of a trip for your mistress, Rome? I don't mean to be rude, but she doesn't look in her prime.' To the lad she must have seemed a real antique. 'Still, she obviously has the money to be comfortable. Now you and I, if we went, we'd be banging about on some old cart – but a lady now -'
'She goes in her own carriage.'
'Some charioteer takes her?'
'Damon.'
'That's a nice Greek name.'
'He drives her up and brings her back again. She stays with her sister; they make a family party up at festivals. It's regular.'
'That's nice.'
'Wonderful!' he chortled; obviously his idea of entertainment involved far more thrills than two sixty-year-old women were expected to devise. He was about fourteen, and yearning to make a disgrace of himself. 'They go to the Games and natter all through it, and never have any idea who won the fights or the races. They just want to see who else is there in the audience.'
'Still -' I was poking at the jets with my wire. 'The ladies like to go shopping. Plenty of that in Rome.'
'Oh, she brings stuff back. The coach is always full of it.'
'This Damon who does the driving, he has a nice job. I bet you'd like to take over from him.'
'No chance, mate! Damon would never let anybody else do that.'
'Keen is he?'
'He lives with the cook. He grabs every chance to get away from her.'
Petronius came strolling back, having apparently forgotten what I sent him for.
In the course of pretending to hack dirt and vegetation off the fountain, I had discovered what I was looking for. Aurelia Maesia's villa had a domestic water pipe from the Tibur aqueduct and her fountain was supplied by a secondary pipe, though its water could be cut off with a tap. (This was a rarity since most people want spare water to sluice out the latrine.) I guessed someone had turned off the tap and forgotten they had done so. The tap was the usual big cast bronze affair, with a square loop on top which would be worked by a speci
al removable key.
'Do me a favour, Titus: run and ask whoever keeps it to give us a lend of the key. Then I'll show you something.'
While the lad scampered off, Petro said quietly, 'There's a stable containing the carriage. It's a raeda. Damned great four-wheeled effort, covered in bronze flashings. The fellow who must be the driver was lying asleep on a bale: ginger hair, filthy beard, twisted leg – and he's only half my height.'
'Easy to spot.'
'Proverbial.'
Damon's his name,' I said.
'Sounds like a bloody Greek shepherd.'
'A real Arcadian. I wonder if he owns a dirty great sheepshearing knife?'
Young Titus rushed back to us, to say nobody had the key for the tap. I shrugged. In our bag was a length of iron bar I could use, taking care not to bend it. I hate to have to leave an iron bar behind. Apart from the fact you can use them to break heads, what do you do the next time you want to operate some inept householder's tap for them?
The tap was stiff and hard to turn, as I knew it would be. I could feel the water-hammer setting up immediately. It was banging all the way back through the house; that was probably why they had turned off the tap in the first place. A pity, because just as soon as it was turned back on the fountain glugged into life. It was attractive and musical, though not very level.
'Cool' said Titus. 'That's it then!'
'Give us a chance, boy…'
'Perfectionist,' Petro told the lad, nodding sagely.
'See, it's all slopping to one side. Give us that stone you found,' our Gaius was wedging the upper tier, so the water flowed more evenly. 'Now young Titus, this is our Gaius and me: we use a stone to set you right. Other people poke in a bit of stick, and that's deliberate. Eventually it rots away, so they have to be called in again. But Gaius and me, when we mend a fountain, that's the last you ever see of us.'
Titus nodded, easily impressed by trade secrets. He was a bright lad. I could see him thinking he could make use of this expertise himself.
I was packing up our toolbag. 'So why's this Damon so fond of going up to Rome then?'
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