Lindsey Davis - Three Hands in The Fountain

'Exactly. Listen, Falco,' Brixius explained cheerfully, 'if something looks stinky, any clerk with all his acorns just writes it up as if he hadn't noticed. That way, if there ever are nasty repercussions he can always claim it smelt perfectly sweet at the time.'

'What I'm trying to ascertain,' I ploughed on, realising it was hopeless, 'is whether if anyone goes missing in Rome, you might hold any useful information here?'

'No,' said Brixius.

'No,' agreed Silvius.

'The register of deaths is a revered tradition,' Brixius went on. 'There has never been any suggestion that it might actually serve useful purposes.'

'Fair enough.' I was getting nowhere. Well, I was used to that.

Helena asked Brixius to hand the baby back, and we went home.

I knew Helena was remembering her dead uncle. I needed to avoid awkward questions in view of what I had done with him. I produced the excuse that I ought to check up on Petronius Longus. Since I would only be across the street it sounded harmless and she agreed.

My old apartment, the one I was now lending to Petro, was on the sixth floor of a truly unpleasant tenement. This block of gloomy rentals jutted like a bad tooth over Fountain Court, blotting out the light as effectively as it was blotting out its tenants' hope of happiness. The ground-level space was taken up by a laundry run by Lenia, who had married the landlord Smaractus. We had all warned her not to do it, and sure enough within a week she had been asking me whether I thought she should divorce him.

Most of that week she had been sleeping alone. Her unsavoury beloved had been accused of arson and incarcerated by the vigiles following an accident with the wedding torches, which had set ablaze the nuptial bed. Everyone thought it was hilarious – except Smaractus, who had been badly singed. Once the vigiles released him he turned nasty, a facet of his character which Lenia claimed had come as a complete surprise to her. Those of us who had been paying him rent for years knew differently.

They were still married. It had taken Lenia years to decide to share her fortune with him, and it was likely to be just as long before she gave him the shove. Until then her old friends were stuck with having to listen to endless debates on the subject.

Ropes of damp linen hung across the entrance, allowing me to skip lightly past and up the stairs before Lenia noticed me. But Nux, that frowsty bundle, scampered straight in, barking madly. There were outraged yells from the tub-treaders and carding girls, then Nux raced back out again, trailing somebody's toga and pursued by Lenia herself.

She was a wild-eyed, snaggle-haired fury who carried too much weight but was otherwise pretty muscular from her trade. Her hands and feet were swollen and red from being in warm water all day; her hair made a flamboyant pretence of being red too. Gasping a little, she roared obscenities after my hound, who hared off across the road.

Lenia picked up the toga. She shook it lethargically, trying not to notice the dirt it had just acquired. 'Oh, you're back, Falco.'

'Hello, you old bag of malice. How's the dirty clothes business?'

'Stinking as usual.' She had a voice that could have carried halfway to the Palatine, with all the sweetness of a one-note trumpet giving the orders in a legionary parade. Did you tell that bastard Petronius he could doss upstairs?'

'I said he could. We're working together now.'

'Your mother was here with that pet snake of hers. According to her you'll be working for him.'

'Lenia, I haven't done what my mother told me for at least twenty years.'

'Big talk, Falco!'

'I work for myself – and with persons I select on the basis of their skill, application, and amiable habits.'

'Your ma says Anacrites will keep you up to the mark.' 'And I say he can wind himself on to a catapult and wang himself over the Tiber.'

Lenia laughed. Her mirth contained a mocking note. She knew the hold Ma had over me – or thought she did.

I arrived upstairs out of breath, out of practice for the climb. Petronius seemed surprised it was only me. For some reason he supposed that having drawn up a strikingly attractive advertisement in the Forum he would be inundated with sophisticated clients all seeking his help with intriguing legal claims. Of course none had come.

'Did you put our address?'

'Don't make me weep, Falco.'

'Well, did you?'

'Yes.' A vague look crossed his face.

The apartment looked smaller and shabbier than ever. There were two rooms, one for sleep and one for everything else, plus a balcony. That had what Smaractus described as a river view. It was true, if you were prepared to sit in a permanent twist on its wonky ledge. There was room to perch on a bench out there with a girlfriend, but it was wise not to wriggle about too much in case the brackets holding up the balcony sheared off.

The only things I had thought worth taking away when Helena and I moved across the street were my bed, an antique tripod table Helena had once bought for me, and our collection of kitchenware (not exactly imperial equipment). That meant there was now nothing to sleep on, but Petro had created a neat floor-level nest for himself with some sort of bedding roll he had probably kept from our army days. A few clothes were hung on the hooks I had knocked in when I lived there. A stool was set pedantically with his personal toilet things: comb, toothpick, and strigil and oilflask for the baths.

In the outer room nothing much had altered. There was a table, a bench, a small brick cooking range, a couple of lamps, and a bucket for slops. On the griddle sat an extremely well-scoured mess tin that I failed to recognise. On the table were ranged a redware bowl with matching beaker, a spoon and a knife. More organised than I had ever been, Petronius had already bought in a loaf, eggs, dried beans, salt, pine nuts, olives, a lettuce, and a small collection of sesame cakes. He had a sweet tooth.

'Come in. Well, Marcus, my boy; this is like old times.' My heart sank. Of course I was nostalgic for the old days of freedom, of women, drink, and careless irresponsibility… Nostalgia was pleasant, but that was all. People move on. If Petronius wanted to regress to being a lad again, he was on his own. I had learned to enjoy clean bedding and regular meals.

'You know how to camp out.' I wondered how soon the novelty would fade.

'It's not necessary to live in squalor as you did.'

'My way of life as a bachelor was perfectly respectable.' It had had to be. I had spent much of the time trying to lure women into the apartment with fake tales of its fantastic amenities. They all knew I was lying, but the spell I spun made them expect certain standards. Anyway, they had all heard that even after I left home my mother took care of me. 'Ma put the fear of all Hades into the roaches. And Helena kept us very smart once she moved in.'

'I had to sweep under the cooking bench.'

'Don't be an old biddy. Nobody sweeps under there.'

Petronius Longus stretched his tall frame. He hit the ceiling and swore briefly. I warned him that if he had been in the bedroom he would have gone through the roof tiles, possibly dislodging some and killing people in the street, causing their relatives to sue him. Before he could start criticising my choice of apartment, I said, 'I can see one startling omission from the bijou housekeeping: no amphorae.'

A black look darkened Petro's face. I realised all his wine must be back at the house Silvia still occupied. She would know what depriving him of it meant to him. If their dispute remained acrimonious Petronius could have seen the last of his wonderful ten-year collection. He looked sick.

Luckily there was still an old half-amphora of mine hidden under the floorboards. I pulled it out quickly and sat him out on the balcony in the evening sun to apply himself to forgetting his tragedy.