Lindsey Davis - Three Hands in The Fountain

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 special 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?'

The lad looked round in all directions to make sure he wasn't overheard.

'After the women, isn't he?' replied Titus, showing off with special knowledge of his own.

But we knew we were probably not looking for a ladies' man. Especially not a married one, or the rural slave equivalent. Petronius Longus agreed with me: Damon wanted to get away from the cook because she knew he couldn't drive a straight marital course, so she nagged him. I gave Petro a look. This was a situation he knew all about. He accepted the look with a filthy scowl, and we gave up mending fountains for the day.

We gave up in Tibur altogether, in fact, since time was against us. The next morning we packed up and started back to Rome. It seemed as if we had made no progress, though I felt sure we had improved on our background information to the point where if the killer made a move he would be lucky not to give himself away. And, although Damon was not an ideal suspect, he might just fit the bill. I had acquired a farm too. It would be the bane of my life, but now I could call myself a man of property.

The first person we saw when we struggled home to the Aventine was my nephew, the real Gaius. He was in a fine bate. 'Well, you've really let me down!' he raged. Gaius could lather himself up like a dying horse. I had no idea what he was on about. 'You're a fine friend, Uncle Marcus -'

Helena had gone indoors to feed the baby while I was still unpacking the donkey that had brought our luggage. 'Calm down and stop yelling. Hold this -'

'I'm not doing your dirty work!'

'Suit yourself.'

He calmed down, seeing me unmoved. He had the family trait of never wasting effort, so subsided into a typical dark, Didius sulk. He looked like my father; I hardened my heart. 'I've got a lot to do here, Gaius: if you shut up and help, I'll hear your complaint afterwards. If not, trot off and annoy someone else.'

Reluctantly Gaius stood still while I loaded him up with baggage until he could hardly stagger up the steps to our apartment. Under the strut and bluster lurked a good little worker. Not for the first time I realised I would have to do something about him, and soon. Thinking about my Tibur nettle patch suggested a possible answer. What he needed was to be plucked from the wild streetlife he led. Maybe I could send him to the family farm. Great-Auntie Phoebe had a long history of mollifying daft young boys, and I could trust Gaius to stand up staunchly to the vagaries of my Peculiar uncles, Fabius and Junius. I said nothing at this stage. His mother, my ridiculous sister Galla, would have to be allowed to vent her disgust at any sensible plan I put up. Then there was Lollius, of course; well, I looked forward to running rings around Lollius.

As I followed Gaius into the house I sighed. I had only been home five minutes, yet the burdens of domesticity already had me feeling cornered.