Lindsey Davis - Three Hands in The Fountain

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 before. 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!'