Lindsey Davis - Three Hands in The Fountain

It grew light. I was riding into the sun. It shone low over the Sabine Hills, somewhere perhaps lighting a hovel where scores of poor women had been tortured, killed, and cut up. The tricky light made me more weary than I was already. Squinting into the glare sapped my fading concentration. It made me irritable and heartsick. I had spent too many hours riding against time on filthy quests to free the world of villains. Worse villains only arose to take their places. Fouler in their habits, more vindictive in their attitudes.

The people in the farmhouses were beginning to stir. I began to meet country carts. Most were coming the wrong way, towards Rome. Those I passed heading east delayed me frustratingly while I searched them. Angry at these hold-ups, which I dared not omit, I grew sick of cabbage nets and turnips, damson punnets and leaky skins of wine. Toothless old men who smelled of garlic held me up as they slowly pulled coverings aside. Excited youths with untrustworthy eyes stared ghoulishly. I asked them all if they had been passed by another vehicle; those who denied it sounded as if they were lying, those who thought they might have been were only saying what I obviously wanted to hear.

I hated the Campagna. I hated the dreamers and dawdlers who lived on it. I hated myself. Why did I do this? I wanted to be a poet, working in some peaceful library, cut off from the midden of humanity, absorbed in my own unreal world of the mind. (Supported financially by a millionaire patron in love with the arts. Falco? No chance!)

Midday found me well on, in fact already at Aquae Albulae. There my initial spurt ended. The mule was tiring rapidly. I too was stiff and half dead. I had been up all night. I desperately needed rest, and just had to hope the killer would pause on the road too. He couldn't know I was following.

I stabled the beast and plunged into the warm sulphur baths. I went to sleep. Someone pulled me out before I drowned; I snatched a couple of hours dead to the world on the masseur's slab, face down under a towel, with flies dancing themselves silly all over my exposed parts. Badly bitten and groggy, I came to, bought food and drink, and tried to swap my mule at a tiny mansio where they kept a relay for the official couriers.

'My journey's vital – for the state – but I came away too fast to collect a pass. I've found this in my purse, though -' The man in charge took the token I offered without curiosity. Aquae Albulae was a relaxed hole. 'Afraid it's time-expired.'

He shrugged, tossing it into a bowl. 'Oh dear, I'll have to say to the auditors "Which of the evil blighters slipped me that, then?" and look thick.'

'Also, it's made out to the Governor of Baetica,' I confessed.

'Nice fellow, I'm sure. That grey's a good horse.' 'Thanks! I hope my reinforcements will come through here soon. Tell them Falco says gee up, will you?'

I ate on the hoof.

Seven fast Roman miles later I was entering Tibur on the grey.

Now I was in the kind of quandary only I could impose on myself: I had come to catch a man I didn't know, who lived I knew not where, and who at that very moment might be doing the gods knew what to Claudia. In the absence of other bright ideas, I followed my only hunch. Even though all the latest evidence said it was the wrong tack, I turned past the sanctuary of Hercules Victor and took myself to Aurelia Maesia's house.

Time was running out. It must be mid-afternoon. Neither a horseman nor a driver could travel any distance in the dark. If I had to stop later, so would he. And he had a victim for company. Alive or dead. Perhaps alive now – but not for much longer once he stopped travelling.

Would he feed her? Would she be able to attend to her other needs? How could it happen, without his risking discovery? He must have her trussed up, silenced and out of sight. She had been with him for a night and almost a day now. Even if I managed to rescue her, she would never be the same again.

As I approached Aurelia Maesia's villa, I could only hope this would be where I found him. But by then, I was resigned to the fact that I had probably come to the wrong place.

It was perfectly clear that Aurelia Maesia was not expected home for days. The slaves were all out on a terrace, sunning themselves. Garden tools leant neatly against a statue. No work was being done. They had borrowed the best lounging chairs and were sprawled in them, so lethargic they could not bring themselves to scramble to their feet even when I appeared. Anyway, if they moved too fast they might have knocked their drinks over.

'Where's Damon?'

'Enjoying himself in Rome.'

'The bastard!' snarled the cook (his official ladyfriend). 'When he goes up to Rome, does he ever drive back in the carriage on his own?'

'Is it likely?' cackled the cook, adding routinely, 'That bastard.'

I was perfectly happy to abuse Damon, but I needed fast answers. Spotting the lad, Titus, I signalled that I would like a word with him and we two moved off.

'Aren't you Gaius the fountain-mender?'

I winked. 'I was working under cover; I expect you realised.' He said nothing. If he felt too betrayed by the deception he would refuse to co-operate. I gave him no time to start feeling annoyed: 'Now's your chance to help in a desperate situation. Listen, Titus: bad things have been going on and I'm trying to catch the villain.'

His eyes were wide. 'Are you talking about Damon?'

'I thought I might be. But I'm starting to get a new idea – tell me: Aurelia Maesia visits her sister. Her name is Aurelia Grata, yes?' Titus nodded. Aurelia Grata… Somewhere in the murk of the Falco consciousness a memory had stirred. 'And at the sister's house their old father joins them?'

'Yes.'

A bell was now ringing loudly in my tired brain. Echoes then sounded from several directions: 'His name wouldn't be Rosius Gratus?'

'That's right.'

'Lives up on the road to Sublaqueum?'

'Yes.'

I breathed gently. No point rushing this. 'And he travels to Rome too, when his daughter from Tibur is going up for festivals – so does your mistress take him with her?'

'No. The old girl can't stand being penned up with him in the carriage. They get on, but it's best if they don't see too much of each other. That's why he continues to live on his own estate. He likes his drive to Rome in any case. He's a bit of a racer, actually.'

'What's his conveyance?'

'A cisium.'

'What – an old man in a topless two-wheeler, out in all weathers?'

'It's what he's always used.' I could hear Marina saying Oh, he clings on manfully.

'Does he go to the Circus with the women?'

'No, he sleeps all day and only wakes up for his dinner.'

'But is Rosius Gratus still a man of the world in other ways?'

Titus blushed. 'Afraid so.'

I raised my eyebrows and grinned. 'He sees a woman?'

'Always has done. It's supposed to be his big secret but we all have a laugh over it. How did you know?'

'Somebody who lives in the same street mentioned it. Well, that's another reason for not travelling with his daughter. Old Rosius surely doesn't drive himself?'

'Someone takes him.'

'And this someone brings home the cisium while the old fellow stays with his daughters, then drives back to fetch the old fellow at the end of the festival?'

'Probably. The old fellow wouldn't need the cisium; I told you, he just nods off on a couch all day. Am I helping?' asked the boy earnestly.

'Very much, Titus. You've told me what I should have worked out for myself days ago. The problem was, I listened to someone I shouldn't have.'

'What do you mean?'

'Somebody told me Rosins Gratus never goes to Rome.'

'That's ridiculous.'

'People tell lies, Titus.' As I turned to find my horse I gazed at him gently. 'You'll learn to look out for it. Take my advice: be especially careful of men who are standing around doing nothing, by the side of a track in a wood.' I swung into the saddle. It was an effort. 'This driver of the cisium – would his name be Thurius?'