Lindsey Davis - Three Hands in The Fountain

'I heard you were in business with Falco nowadays?' For a pleasant man, Fusculus seemed to be in a starchy mood. I was not surprised. Informers have a black name amongst most Romans, but we are particularly reviled by the vigiles. The cohorts keep lists with our names on so they can knock on our doors halfway through dinner and drag us off for questioning about nothing in particular. State servants always hate people who are paid by results.

'I'm just helping him out informally. Why – do you miss me?' Petro asked.

'No, I'm just wondering when I can apply for your post.' It was said in jest, but the fact was, unless Petronius Longus sorted out his private life rather quickly the joke would become fact. Warning him, though, would only make it worse. Petronius had a stubborn side. He had always had a tendency to rebel against authority. It was why we were friends.

The Fourth kept a gruesome museum which they showed to the populace for half a denarius a throw, in order to raise cash for the widows of cohort members. We left the hand for the museum, and told ourselves it was no longer our problem.

Petronius and I then walked via the Circus Maximus to the Forum, where we had an appointment with a wall.

If I had had any sense, I would have ended the partnership while we were standing in front of the wall. I would have told Petro that although I was grateful for his offer, the best way for us to preserve our friendship would be if I just let him doss at my apartment. I would work with someone else. Even if that meant pairing up with Anacrites.

The omens were bad from the very start. My normal method of advertising my services was to march up to the foot of the Capitol, quickly clean off someone else's poster from the best position on the Tabularium, then scrawl up a few swift strokes of chalk, writing whatever jocular message came into my head. Petronius Longus approached life more seriously. He had written out a text. He had worked up several versions (I could see the evidence in his note tablets) and he intended to inscribe his favourite in meticulous lettering, surrounded by a sleek key border drawn in variously hatched patterns.

'No point making it pretty.'

'Don't be so casual, Falco.'

'The aediles will wash it off again.'

'We need to get it right.'

'No, we need to avoid getting spotted doing it.' Chalking graffiti on national monuments may not be a crime in the Twelve Tables, but it can lead to a right thrashing.

'I'll do this.'

'I can write my name and mention divorce and stolen art recovery.'

'We're not dabbling with art.'

'It's my speciality.'

'That's why you never earn anything.'

It could be true. People who had lost their treasures were slow to pay out more money. Besides, the ones who lost art were often the mean sort. That was why it had not been protected by decent locks and alert watchmen in the first place.

'All right, Pythagoras, what's your philosophy? What stunning list of services will you claim we perform?'

'I'm not quoting examples. We need to tantalise. We should hint we cover everything. When the clients come we can weed out the duds and pass them on to some hack at the Saepta Julia. We're going to be Didius Falco Partner -'

'Oh, you're staying anonymous?'

'I have to.'

'So you still want your job back?'

'There was never any suggestion of giving up my job.' 'Just checking. Don't work with me if you despise my life.'

'Shut up a minute. Falco Partner: a select service for discerning clients.'

'Sounds like a cheap brothel.'

'Have faith, lad.'

'Or an overpriced shoemaker. Falco Partner: try our triple-stitched calfskin slipperettes. As morn by all decadent layabouts, sheer luxury at the arena and the perfect lounging shoes for orgies -'

'You're a dog, Falco.'

'Subtlety is fine, but unless you give some delicate hint that we carry out enquiries, and that we rather like to be paid for it, we'll get no work.'

'Listen – Partners' personal attention may be possible in certain instances. That implies we are a sound organisation with a large staff who look after the riffraff; we can flatter each punter into believing he gets special terms – for which he naturally pays a premium.'

'You have an exotic view of the freelance world.' He was revelling in it. 'Listen, scribe, you still haven't said -'

'Yes I have. It's in my draft. Specialist enquiries. Then in small letters at the bottom I'll put: No charge for preliminary consultation. That lures them in, thinking they'll get something for nothing, but hints at our steep fee for the rest.'

'My fees have always been reasonable.'

'So who's the fool? Half the time you let yourself bebamboozled into doing the work for nothing. You're soft, Falco.'

'Not any longer, apparently.'

'Give me some room here. Don't stand in my way.' 'You're taking charge,' I accused him. 'It's my business, but you're pushing in.'

'That's what a Partner is for,' grinned Petro.

I told him I had another appointment somewhere else. 'Push off then,' he murmured, completely absorbed in his task.

For my next appointment a formal escort had been provided: my girlfriend, the baby, and Nux the dog.

I was late. They were sitting on the steps of the Temple of Saturn. It was a very public place, at the north end of the Forum on the Palatine side. They were all hot. The baby wanted feeding, the dog was barking at everybody who passed, and Helena Justina had applied her extra-patient face. I was in for it.

'Sorry. I called at the Basilica to put the word around the banisters that I was back in town. It may bring in the odd subpoena delivery.'

Helena thought I had been at a wineshop. 'Don't worry,' she said. 'I realise that registering your firstborn child takes a low priority in your busy life.'

I patted the dog, kissed Helena's warm cheek, and tickled the baby. This overheated, irritable little group was my family. All of them had grasped that my role as the head of their household was to keep them waiting in uncomfortable locations while I pottered around Rome enjoying myself.

Luckily Helena, their tribune of the people, was saving up her comments until she had a complete set to blast me with. She was a tall, well-rounded, dark-haired dream with rich brown eyes whose most tender expression could melt me like a honeycake left on a sunny window sill. Even the scathing glance I was meeting now rattled my calm. A fiery tussle with Helena was the best fun I knew, outside of bedding her.

The Temple of Saturn lies between the Tabularium and the Basilica Julia. I had guessed Helena Justina would be waiting at the Temple, so when I left Petro I had dodged round the back on the Via Nova to avoid being seen. I hate barristers, but their work might make the difference between survival and going under. Frankly, my financial situation was desperate. I said nothing, so as not to worry Helena; she squinted at me suspiciously.

I tried to climb into my toga in public view, while Nux leapt at the cumbersome folds of woollen cloth, thinking this was a game I had organised just for her. Helena made no attempt to help.

'I do not need to see the child,' sighed the Censor's clerk. He was a government slave, and his lot was gloomy. Faced with a constant stream of the public through his office he had a continual cold. His tunic had first belonged to a much larger man, and he had been dealt a rough throw of the dice by whoever shaved his beard. His eyes had a Parthian squint about them, which in Rome cannot have won him many friends.

'Or the mother, I suppose?' snorted Helena.

'Some like to come.' He could be tactful, if it helped avoid verbal abuse.

I placed Julia Junilla on his desk, where she kicked her legs and gurgled. She knew how to please the crowd. She was three months old now, and in my opinion starting to look pretty cute. She had lost the squashed, shut-eyed, unformed look with which the newborn frighten first-time parents. When she stopped dribbling she was only one stage away from adorable.