Festus. He disappeared several years ago.'
'That sounds a dud line.'
'Yes, leave that to me, if you like. I specialise in hopeless clues: Apart from him, there was a centurion called Laurentius recently in Rome, asking the same questions as Censorinus.'
Petro nodded. 'I'll take that on. It fits the form. I managed to prod your ma into remembering that Censorinus did go out a couple of evenings, saying he was seeing a friend.'
'Ma never told me!'
'You have to ask the right questions,' Petro replied smugly. 'Leave this to the professionals, eh Falco?'
'Professional bollockers! Who was the friend?'
'Your ma didn't know. He was only mentioned casually. This Laurentius is a good candidate, though. They could have deliberately planted Censorinus with your mother to harass the family, while the other man stayed elsewhere and pursued other issues.' Petro leaned back on his stool, flexing his shoulders as if he too was feeling the effects of the damp morning. He was a big, muscular character who hated drizzly weather. Except when he went home to play with his children, he needed to be out of doors; it was one reason he liked his job. 'Did you spot that Campania mansio bill?'
His eyes were half veiled, hiding any impression of collusion over me inspecting the dead man's kit at the caupona.
'I saw it,' I confirmed, also keeping my expression bland.
'Looked to me as if it was a reckoning for two.'
'I didn't notice that.'
'It was not specific, but at country prices I'd say it covered hay for two horses or mules, and more than one bed.' His voice dropped. 'Wasn't it for some place near your grandfather's farm?'
'Near enough. I would go out there, but it would be breaking my bail.'
'Why not?' Petro grinned at me suddenly. 'After all, you went to Ostia!'
How in Hades did he know? 'Are you following me, you bastard?'
He refused to say. 'Thanks for the name of Laurentius. I'll make enquiries among the military authorities, though if he was just in Rome on leave his presence may not have been registered officially.'
'If he was here with Censorinus, pretending to be innocents on holiday,' I pointed out, 'he ought to have come forward the minute he heard about the murder.'
'True,' Petro agreed. 'Suspicious, otherwise. If I have to, I'll write and query him with the Fifteenth, but that will take weeks.'
'Months, more likely. If his nose is clean with them, they won't necessarily answer a civil enquiry at all.'
'And if his nose is not clean with them,' Petro answered with gentle cynicism, 'they will disown him quietly, and still not answer me.' Soldiers only had to answer to military law. Petronius could certainly ask a centurion questions, and if Laurentius was shown to have killed Censorinus, Petro could report it formally-but if the murder had been committed by a fellow legionary, then the legions would deal with the culprit. (That meant the legions would hush it up.) For Marponius and Petro this new angle could be frustrating. 'There are better ways to proceed. My men can start checking the lodging-houses here; that's more likely to produce results. If Laurentius is implicated, it may be too late to stop him leaving Italy, but I'll have somebody watching at Ostia. If he's spotted, I can ask him politely to return to Rome and talk to me-'
'He won't come.'
'Does it matter? If he refuses, he looks guilty and you're cleared. By virtue of his non-co-operation, I can oppose any charges against you. Marponius would have to go along with it. So what are your plans, reprieved suspect?'
'I'm going out with my damned father for an educational talk on art.'
'Enjoy yourself,' smiled Petronius.
Relations between us had improved drastically. If I had known it would be so easy to retrieve our long- standing friendship. I would have invented a name for a suspect days ago and given him someone else to chase around after.
'To save you having to tail me,' I replied with my customary courtesy, 'I'm picking up Pa from the Saepta now, then spending the rest of the morning at some big house in the Seventh Sector, after which-if my parent sticks to his usual rigid habits-we'll be returning to the Saepta prompt at noon so he can devour whatever the redhead has stuffed into his lunch-satchel.'
'This is all very filial! When did you ever spend so much time in the company of Geminus?'
I grinned reluctantly. 'Since he decided he needed protection-and stupidly hired me.'
'Such a pleasure,' chuckled Petronius, 'to see the Didius family sticking together at last!'
I told him what I thought of him, without rancour, then I left.
XLII
Aulus Cassius Carus and his wife Ummidia Servia lived in a house whose exterior unobtrusiveness told its own tale of wealth. It was one of the few big houses built by individuals after the great fire in Nero's time; it had then managed to escape both looters and arsonists during the civil war following Nero's death. This house had been commissioned by people who flourished in hard times, and who had somehow avoided offending a half-mad emperor whose favourite subjects for execution had been anybody else who dared to proclaim artistic good taste.
Carus and Servia proved an unlikely moral: it was possible to be both Roman and discreet.
In a city where so many thousands were crammed into high-rising tenements, it always surprised me how many other folk managed to acquire large plots of land and live there in stately private homes, often virtually unknown to the general public. These two not only managed it, but did so in the classic Roman style, with blank walls apparently guarding them, yet an atmosphere of making their home available formally to anyone who produced a legitimate reason for entering. After a few words with their porter, Father and I established our business, and what had appeared from the outside to be a very private house opened all its public rooms to us.
A slave went off carrying our request for an audience. While we waited for a reaction we were left free to wander.
I had assumed my toga, but was otherwise my happy self.
'You might have combed your hair!' whispered Geminus. He eyed the toga; that had belonged to Festus, so it passed muster.
'I only comb my hair for the Emperor, or women who are very beautiful.'
'Dear gods, what have I brought up?'
'You didn't! But I'm a good boy, who won't ingratiate himself with thugs who kick his ancient pa in the ribs!'
'Don't cause trouble, or we'll get nowhere.'
'I know how to behave!' I sneered, subtly implying I might not draw upon the knowledge.
'No one,' decreed Didius Geminus, 'who wears a coloured tunic with his toga knows how to behave!'
So much for my indigo number.
We had passed a senatorial statue, presumably not ancestral, since our hosts were only middle rank. Also in the atrium were a couple of loyal portrait heads of the Claudian emperors, their clean-cut boyish looks at odds with the gruff and rugged features of Vespasian who ruled Rome today. The first general collection was out of doors in a peristyle garden just beyond the atrium. In March the effect was bare horticulturally, though the art showed up well. There were various columnar herms, among a rather twee gathering of hounds and hinds, winged cupids, dolphins, Pan among the reeds, and so forth. They had the inevitable Priapus (fully formed, unlike the vandalised creature at Father's warehouse), plus a gross Silenus sprawled on his back while a fountain trickled uncertainly from his wineskin. These were ordinary pieces. As a plant lover, I took more interest in the Eastern crocuses and hyacinths that were enlivening the garden.
My father, who had been here before, led me with a firm step to the art gallery. At this point I began to feel
