Lindsey Davis - Three Hands in The Fountain

'Not much.'

Helena's mother had never liked me – which proved there was nothing wrong with her judgement. Helena Justina's first marriage had been suggested for his own sticky reasons by her uncle (the one I shoved in the sewer later), and at the time even Julia Justa would have found the match hard to oppose. Helena herself had tolerated Pertinax as long as she could, then without consultation had issued a notice of divorce. The husband's family tried to arrange a reconciliation. By then she had met me. That was the end of it.

'Before her grandparents arrive, we'd better talk to Claudia,' I said. Since we had brought the girl here, we were both feeling responsible.

'I had a few words while you were hiding with my father in his study. And by the way,' demanded Helena warmly, 'what exactly were you two up to?'

'Nothing, my darling. I was just letting him complain some more about the Census.'

In fact, I had been testing an idea on Camillus Verus. His mentioning the Census had suggested a way that I might earn some money. I won't say I was exerting my authority by not telling Helena about it, but it would amuse me to see how long it took her to winkle out the details from her father or me. Helena and I had no secrets. But some schemes are men's work. Or so we like to tell ourselves.

Glaucus, my trainer, was as sharp as a kitten's claw. A short, wide-shouldered Cilician freedman, he ran a bath-house two streets behind the Temple of Castor. It had a select gymnasium attached for people like me who had life-and-death reasons for keeping their bodies in trim. A library and pastry shop amused other clients – the discreet middle class who could afford to pay for his overheads and whose moderate habits never disrupted the hushed atmosphere. Glaucus only offered membership by personal introduction.

He knew his regulars better than they knew themselves. Probably none of us were at all close to him. After twenty years of listening to other people revealing their secrets while he worked on their muscle tone, he knew how to avoid that trap. But he could tease out embarrassing information as smoothly as a thrush emptying a snail shell.

I had his measure. When he started the extraction process, I grinned and told him, 'Just stick with asking if I'm planning any holidays this year.'

'You're overweight and ridiculously tanned; you're so relaxed I'm surprised you don't fall over; I can tell you've been lying around on a farm somewhere, Falco.'

'Yes, it was hideously rural. All work, I assure you.' 'I hear you're a father now.'

'True.'

'I gather you've finally been forced to rethink your slack attitude to work. You've taken a big leap forward and you're in business with Petronius Longus.'

'You do keep your ears open.'

'I stay in touch. And before you ask,' Glaucus told me crisply, 'the water in this bath-house is drawn from the Aqua Marcia. It has the best reputation for coldness and quality – I don't want to hear any ugly rumours that you two schemers might be looking into nasty things in the reservoir!'

'Just a hobby. I'm surprised even you knew anything about it. Petro and I are advertising for divorce and inheritance jobs.'

'Don't try to bluff me, Falco. I'm the man who knows your left leg's weak from when you broke it three years ago. Your old fractured ribs still ache if the wind is northwesterly, you like to fight with a dagger but your wrestling's adequate, your feet are good, your right shoulder's vulnerable, you can throw a punch but you aim too low and you have absolutely no conscience about kicking your opponent in the balls -'

'I sound a complete wreck. Any other tantalising personal details?'

'You eat too many street-caupona rissoles and you hate redheads.'

'Spare me the canny Cilician peasant act.'

'Just let's say, I know what you and Petronius are up to.' 'Petro and I are merely harmless eccentrics. Are you suspicious of us?'

'Does a donkey shit? I've heard exactly what you're advertising,' Glaucus informed me sourly. 'Every client today has been full of it: Falco Partner are offering a fat reward for any information relating to dismembered body parts found in the aqueducts.'

The word 'reward' acted on me faster than a laxative. Weak left leg or not, I was out of his discreet establishment in the time it took to fling on my clothes. But when I raced up to the apartment in Fountain Court intent on ordering Petronius to retract his dangerous new poster, it was too late. Somebody was there before me, proffering another corpse's hand.

'Listen, you idiot, – if you're doling out rewards in the name of my business, you'd better put up your own collateral!' 'Settle down, Falco.'

'Show me the colour of your denarii.'

'Just shut up, will you? I'm interviewing a visitor.'

His visitor was exactly the kind of unprepossessing lowlife I would expect to come crawling up here looking for a bribe. Petronius had no idea. For a man who had spent seven years apprehending villains he remained curiously innocent. Unless I stopped him, he would ruin me.

'What's this then?' demanded the interviewee. 'What's gone wrong about the money?'

'Nothing,' said Petro.

'Everything,' said I.

'I heard you was giving rewards,' he complained accusingly.

'Depends what for.' I was hopping mad, yet experience had taught me to stand by any promise that had lured a hopeful here. Nobody climbs six flights of stairs to see an informer unless they are either in desperate trouble or believe that what they know is worth hard cash.

I glared at Petro's catch. He was a foot shorter than average, malnourished and filthy. His tunic was threadbare, a mucky brown garment that hung on his shoulders by a few rags of wool. His eyebrows met in the middle. Wiry black stubble ran from his jutting chin right up his cheekbones to the bags under his eyes. His ancestors may have been high kings of Cappadocia, but without doubt this man was a public slave.

On his feet, which looked as flat as bread-shovels, he was wearing rough clogs. They had thick soles but they had not kept him dry; his felt leggings were black and had oozed water everywhere. A trail of puddles marked his path through our door, and a dark little pond was slowly gathering around the spot where he had come to rest.

'What's your name?' asked Petronius haughtily, trying to reassert his authority. I leant on the table with my thumbs in my belt. I was annoyed. The informant didn't need to be told about it, but Petronius would pick it up from my stance.

'I said, what's your name?'

'Why do you need to know?'

Petro scowled. 'Why do you need to keep it a secret?' 'I've nothing to hide.'

'That's commendable! I'm Petronius Longus; he's Falco.' 'Cordus,' admitted the applicant grudgingly.

'And you're a public slave, working for the Curator of Aqueducts?'

'How did you know that?'

I saw Petro control himself. 'Given what you brought me, it fits.' We all looked at the new hand. We looked away again rapidly. 'What family do you work in?' asked Petro, to avoid discussing the relic.

'The state.' The water board used two groups of public slaves, one derived from the original organisation set up by Agrippa and now in full state control, the other established by Claudius and still part of the household of the Emperor. There was no rationale in perpetuating these two 'families'. They ought to be part of the same workforce. It was a classic bureaucratic mess with the usual openings for corruption. The inefficiency was worsened by the fact that nowadays major work programmes were carried out by private contractors instead of direct slave labour anyway. No wonder the Aqua Appia always leaked.

'What's your job, Cordus?'

'Masonry. Vennus is my foreman. He doesn't know I found that