I had to cross the Forum, negotiate the Palatine, and climb the Aventine. I walked steadily, keeping away from doorways and glancing down any alleys that I passed. I stuck to streets I knew. Where there was space for more than one person I went straight up the centre of the road. When I heard anybody who must realise I was there I made sure my tread was confident. If the other person did not appear to have noticed me, I kept quiet.
I had a lot to think about. Domestic events alone were enough to take up all my energy: a pregnant girlfriend who still had to decide how she wanted to react; her family; my family. Then there were the hours of work I needed to put in on the new first-floor apartment; my friend Lenia's wedding, in which I was expected to participate as a convivial priest; and now the baby I had discovered in my skip. Just sorting out the foundling might take a week – a week I didn't have to spare for him.
Somehow, too, I had to find a replacement birthday gift for Helena. I was short of cash (partly because I had spent so much on the now stolen original). There was an obvious solution, but it was one that niggled me: I would have to ask Pa to find me a tasteful antique in his warehouse, one he was prepared to let me buy at cost. For Helena he would probably do it – and for Helena, so would I without quibbling – but the process would be horrible. I felt tense just imagining what I would have to go through in the bargain with Pa.
And now Titus had asked me to break faith with Petronius. I hated this. I was also angry that I was supposed to be on my own with it. The only person who would know anything about my filthy task was the tribune Marcus Rubella, and he was not the type I chose for consoling little chats. But even if I wanted it, seeking him out was impossible. If I tried nipping into the tribune's office to mull over my findings, all sorts of rumours would immediately start.
Luckily I could talk to Helena. Although Titus had forbidden me to tell anyone about this, one exception could not be overruled. Whatever the jokes about keeping wives in ignorance, a Roman expected his domestic partner to bear his children, keep the store-cupboard keys, quarrel with his mother, and, if required, to share his confidence. The fact that Brutus failed to confess to Portia what he was planning on the Ides of March just shows you why Brutus ended up as dead mutton at Philippi.
Helena and I had always shared thoughts. She told me about feelings nobody would imagine – she had. I rarely told her my feelings, because she guessed them anyway. I discussed my work. Openness was our pact. Neither Titus nor Vespasian could interfere with that.
I had plenty of company on the streets that night. A couple of times I noticed groups of dubious characters huddled around the folding doors of lockup shops. Once there were scuffles above me as climbers scaled balconies on their way to upstairs burglaries. A woman called out, offering her services in a voice that reeked of dishonesty; having passed by in silence, I spotted her male accomplice in the next lane, hanging about waiting for her to bring a client for him to beat up and rob. A shadowy figure slipped from the back of a moving delivery cart, carrying a bundle. Slaves escorting a rich man's litter were sporting ripped tunics and black eyes, having been mugged despite their sticks and lanterns.
All normal. Rome was itself. No livelier than usual. Eventually I heard the tramp of the vigiles' foot patrol; someone in the shadows laughed at the sound dismissively.
There were still lamps in the laundry. The slurred voices of Lenia and Smaractus were arguing dismally: all normal there, too. I reached in through a shutter to steal a light, then called goodnight, scaring the pair witless. They were too drunk to do much. Lenia cursed, but I was already heading up the stairs before they could try to lure me indoors to ramble about their wedding plans. I was not in the mood for a long wrangle about what colour sheep to sacrifice. I was not in the mood for Smaractus: end of tale.
The lamp helped me avoid obstacles. Smaractus ought to have provided light if he wasn't intending to keep the stairs clear of toys and rubbish. As I mounted the stairs, my useless, sestercius grubbing, dupondius pinching landlord became the focus of my entire catalogue of frustrations and anxieties. If he had appeared in person, I would have knocked his head off…
Movement in a corner attracted my eye. I reached for my knife, then decided a rat was about to tear out past me and got ready to boot it. The shuffle subsided; it was probably the mongrel Lenia called Nux. The scrawny bundle of misplaced hopefulness whimpered once, but I carried on upstairs.
When I reached home, I saw that Helena Justina must be in bed. A dim taper provided a glow by which I found the skip baby in a basket that looked as if it came from Ennianus across the road. Helena had tucked the child up safely; somehow she must have fed him too, for he was placid, though whimpering slightly. I picked him up and took him out to the balcony to say goodnight to Rome. He smelt clean now, and slightly milky. He had a little burp on my shoulder; I joined in with a nicely controlled belch, showing him how to do it properly.
After I put him back I noticed a bowl of cold fish and lettuce left on the table for me. I ate, pouring myself a cup of water. I blew out his taper to save the baby from fire, then found my way in darkness to my own bed.
Helena must have been asleep, but she stirred as I crawled in beside her. Somehow she realised how deeply disturbed my talk with Titus had made me. She held me while I told her the story, and calmed me down as I started to rant.
`Why do I always have to get the filthy jobs?'
`You're an informer. Finding unpleasant information is what you do.'
`Maybe I'm tired of being despised. I'm tired of being a fool to myself. Maybe I should change my work.'
`To do what?' Helena murmured, in a reasonable tone. `Do you see yourself selling purses or plucking ducks?'
`I hate women who reprove me with their sensible attitude when I'm trying to curse madly!'
`I know you do. I love you even when you hate me. Go to sleep,' she said, wrapping herself around me so I could no longer jump about in the bed. I sighed, submitting to her good sense. About three breaths later I dropped off into a heavy slumber. In my dreams I knew that Helena Justina was lying awake, worrying for me over what I had to do.
By that time the first victim would already have been tortured and murdered, and his body dumped.
XXVIII
PETRO'S WHISTLE WOKE me from the street. Within the apartment it was still dark.
We had been friends so long he could rouse me even from outside and six flights down. I knew it was him. When I dragged myself to the balcony parapet and looked over, he was standing below with one of the foot patrol. I could tell from the top of his head that he was cursing me for taking so long to appear. I whistled back and he glanced up. He waved urgently. I didn't stop to shout questions, but ran down to him, pulling on clothes as I went.
`Morning, Petro. No problem with your cat, I hope?'
He growled. `Stollicus was right, Falco! You're an irritating, insolent, dozy dog.'
`Stollicus just misunderstood my charm. What's up?'
`Body in the Forum Boarium. Sounds like problems.'
I let my curiosity ride. In the time it had taken me to come downstairs, Petro and the foot patroller had already strolled impatiently halfway along the lane. The three of us walked briskly to the end of Fountain Court, then hurried downhill, picking up Fusculus from his house. Petro must have banged on his door on the way to collect me and he was waiting for us, rotund and unreasonably bright for the time of day.
`Morning, chief. How's the cat?'
`Fusculus, I'm not in the mood.'
Neither Fusculus nor the vigilis who was with us grinned. Petro's men knew how to irritate a senior officer without needing to smirk.
At the end of the Clivus Publicus we saw Martinus emerging from his tenement, summoned by another member of the vigiles. `Don't ask about the cat,' warned Fusculus. Martinus lifted a wry eyebrow in a significant fashion and said nothing in a way that drove Petro mad. Martinus was allowed a grin, since he had had to forgo the joke. Petronius, who had the longest legs amongst us, lengthened his stride so the rest of us were forced to step out.
