Lindsey Davis - Three Hands in The Fountain

He was lazy, deceitful, and brutal – quite civilised by my brothers-in-law's standards. I despised him more than any of the others except Gaius Baebius the puffed-up customs clerk. Lollius was ugly, too, yet so cocky that he somehow convinced women he was vitally attractive. Galla fell for it – every time he came back to her from the others. His success with tavern trollops was just unbelievable. Galla and he regularly tried to make an effort with their marriage, saying they were embarking on that defeatist course for the children's sake. Most of the children ran away to my mother's house when it happened. Almost as soon as the pitiful pair were supposedly together again Lollius would be playing pop the bunny down the hole with some new fifteen-year-old flower-seller; inevitably Galla would hear the news from a kind neighbour, and he would stagger home one night in the small hours to find the door locked. This always seemed to surprise him.

'Where's Gaius?' shouted Galla as I entered their sordid home and tried to clean my boot where I had stepped in a bowl of puppies' gruel left in the hall.

'How should I know? Your unwashed, undisciplined little rag-picker isn't my affair.'

'He was coming to see you.'

'That must have been two days ago.'

'Oh, was it?' No wonder young Gaius ran wild. Galla was a hopeless mother. 'What are you going to do about Larius?'

'Nothing, Galla. Don't keep asking me. Larius is doing what he wants, and if that happens to be painting walls miles from Rome I don't blame him. Where's Lollius?' I roared, since I had not actually encountered Galla face to face and was still uncertain which room she was bawling from.

'Who cares? He's asleep.' At least he was in.

I tracked down the unprepossessing blackguard and dragged him out from under a grimy bolster where he was snoring with his arm round an empty flagon. This was the boatman's idea of uxorious devotion. Galla sounded off at him as soon as she heard him grumbling, so Lollius winked at me and we sauntered from the house without calling out that we were going. Galla would be used to it.

I walked my brother-in-law towards the Forum Boarium. He was probably drunk, but always had a serious limp that made him walk with a lurch, so I had the distasteful task of holding him upright. He looked as if he smelt, though I tried to avoid snuggling up close enough to find out.

We were on the stone-clad side of the Tiber, what they call the Marbled Bank, a good way past the wharves that surround the Emporium but before the elegant theatres and Porticoes and the great bend in the river that encompasses the Campus Martius. After the Sublician Bridge we steered round the Arch of Lentulus, and the Market Inspector's office, and ended up looking out over the water near the ancient Temple of Portunus, immediately above the exit arch of the Great Sewer. A nice smelly place if I had thrown Lollius off the embankment. Something I should have done. Rome, and Galla's children, deserved it.

'What do you want, young Marcus?'

'It's Falco to you. Show some respect for the head of the family.' He took it that I was joking. Being head of our family was an unenforceable honour. Unendurable, too; a punishment I had been give by the Fates out of malice. My father, the auctioneer and fillollicking finangler Didius Geminus, ought to carry out the prescribed duties, but he had fled from home many years back. He was callous, but shrewd.

Lollius and I stared gloomily towards the Aemilian Bridge. 'Tell me about what you find in the river, Lollius.'

'Shit.'

'Is that a considered answer, or a general curse?' 'Both.'

'I want to hear about dismembered bodies.'

'More fool you.'

I fixed him sternly. It did no good.

When I forced myself to survey him I was looking at a miserable specimen. Lollius appeared to be about fifty, though he could have been any age. He was shorter and stouter than me, in such bad condition that things looked cheerful for his heirs. His face had been ugly even before he lost most of his teeth and had one of his eyes permanently closed by Galla's hitting him with a solid-bottomed pancake pan. His eyes had been too close together to start with, his ears were lopsided, his nose had a twist that made him snuffle and he had no neck. A traditional waterman's woollen cap covered his lank hair. Several layers of tunics completed the dreary ensemble; when he had spilt enough wine down himself he just pulled a new one on top.

So was there nothing to recommend him? Well, he could row a skiff. He could swim. He could curse, fight and fornicate. He was a potent husband, though a disloyal father. He made regular earnings, then persistently lied about them to my sister, and never handed over anything for the upkeep of his family: a classic. True metal from the traditional Roman mould. Surely overdue to be elected to a priesthood or a tribunate.

I looked back at the river again. It wasn't much. Brown and gurgling fitfully as usual. Sometimes it floods; the rest of the time the fabled. Tiber is a mediocre stream. I had stayed in smaller cities whose waterways were more impressive. But Rome had been built on this spot not just because of the fabled Seven Hills. This was the prime position in central Italy. To our right at Tiber Island had been the first bridgeable position above the sea, a decent one-day stage from the coast. It had probably seemed a sensible location to the kind of slow-witted shepherds who thought they were clever fortifying a floodplain and placing their Forum in a stagnant marsh.

Nowadays the narrow, silting river was a grave disadvantage. Rome was importing fabulous quantities of goods from all over the world. Every amphora and bale had to be dragged along the highroad in carts or on muleback, or carried up by barges to the Emporium. The new harbour at Ostia had had to be rebuilt but was still unsatisfactory. So as well as the barges there was plenty of small boat traffic, and that enabled the existence of parasites like Lollius.

He was the last person I wanted to see credited with assisting any enquiry I took part in. However, Petro and I were stuck for useful information. If we were to vie with Anacrites even my brother-in-law had to be tackled. 'Lollius, either shut your trap about finding things, or tell me what in the name of the gods they are.'

He gave me his most unreliable squint, bleary and sly. 'Oh, you mean the festival fancies!'

I knew at once that the bastard had just told me something significant.

'We call them that,' he gloated. Slow to grasp a point himself, he assumed I was just as dim. 'Festival fancies… he repeated lovingly.

'What exactly are we talking about, Lollius?'

He drew two lines on his own body with his index fingers, one across his filthy neck and one at the top of his fat legs. 'You know -'

'Torsos? Limbless?'

I was no longer feeling chatty, but my brother-in-law looked eager. To forestall more horrible details I asked: 'I suppose the heads are missing too?'

'Of course. Anything that can be chopped off.' Lollius flashed what remained of his stumpy teeth in an evil grin. 'Including the melons.' He drew circles on his chest then sliced down with the flat of his hand as if cutting off breasts. At the same time he made a revolting squelching sound through his gums.

'I gather they are women?' His mime had been graphic, but I had learned to make sure of everything.

'Well, they were once. Slaves or flighty-girls presumably.' 'What makes you think that?'

'Nobody ever comes looking for them. Who else could they be? All right, slaves might be valuable. So they're all good-time girls – ones who had a really bad time.' He shrugged off-handedly. I deplored his attitude, though he was probably right.

'I've never heard anything about these limbless lasses.' 'You must move in the wrong circles, Falco.'