myself once. Remembering could still raise panic. I had had to be worked loose using cold water and olive oil. I could still hear my ma soothing me quietly-while she eased my ears out – and feel the great whack she had given me as soon as I was free.
At least with a dead man there was no need to mess about being gentle on the ears.
I squatted on my haunches, grabbed the two handles and twisted off the vase. I threw it aside, letting it ding heavily across the blood-soaked pavings. My father would have yelled in horror, and no doubt the owner would complain loudly about the dents I had caused. But I felt no twinge of conscience. It had been used in the torture of a human being. Its beauty was soiled. Its price had slumped.
The idea of touching the corpse made us all recoil. Gingerly I tugged away the cloak from around the dead man's head.
In fact, apart from discoloration, the face was unmarked. We recognised him instantly. If he had been wearing his boots instead of being barefoot, I would probably have known him earlier. It was Nonnius Albius.
XXX
PETRONIUS TOOK CHARGE in his quiet, resigned way.
`Martinus, you're the king of the stolen-property list. Take the nice Etruscan wine bowl to its owner to identify. Maybe you should wash off the blood a bit first. I need sensible answers. Don't give him a chance to get hysterical.'
`I'll have to go to the station house and look up who owns it.' Martinus could be bone idle.
`I don't care how you set about the job,' Petro said, restraining himself.
`What if the man wants his bowl back?' asked Fusculus, to calm things.
Petro shrugged. `Suits me. I can't see us needing to use it as evidence. If it could answer questions I'd put it on a stool and start wheedling, but I reckon the pot's a hostile witness…'
He fell silent, though at first he pretended not to notice that a new group of figures were marching into the square. Fusculus groaned quietly. I recognised Tibullinus, the centurion from the Sixth Cohort whom I had not much taken to. He must have been told about the body. He and his sidekick, Arica, came briskly across, flanked by a small honour guard. They folded their arms and stood watching us with a cocky air.
Petro forced himself to look up and gave Tibullinus a brief nod. `Your patch, but it's one for us – direct bearing on the post-Balbinus enquiry. The pot comes from the Emporium haul, and the victim was my chief suspect.'
`Looks like poor old Nonnius,' Tibullinus remarked to Arica. Arica tutted in mock-tragic style. Making a deliberate survey of all his wounds, they sucked their teeth; then they grinned. Tibullinus viciously kicked an arm straight. They had a callousness that the men of the Fourth lacked. While Petro's group had no tolerance for a gangster's enforcer while he was alive, they still showed grim respect for his mangled body.
Then I overheard Martinus say openly to Arica, `Some people are going to be grieving that they've lost their paymaster!' It was a jibe, though I could not tell from his tone whether his feelings were jealous or reproving.
Arica and Tibullinus barely glanced at one another. It was Petro who seemed angry, and who brushed the comment aside. `I assume you're happy for me to take this one on.' His colleagues made a theatrical show of standing aside for him. It may have been accidental, but Petronius then virtually turned his back on them. He gave orders in a low voice: `Fusculus, get some help and shift the remains. I don't want the whole city talking about this. If it's meant to cause public comment, I'm going to disappoint them. Whip it out of sight. Nab one of the hurdles and carry him to the station house for the time being. Maybe Scythax could take a look. He might be able to tell us something about what went on – though it's fairly obvious.'
Petro seemed too tense for comfort. I noticed the Sixth, having made their presence known like generals on a battlefield, were now melting from the scene. Petro started relaxing as soon as they left.
`Who's Scythax?' I put in.
`A medico attached to our patrols.' The vigiles always had doctors on the squad; they looked after the patrolmen, whose work led to frequent injuries, and when there were bad fires or building collapses they tended civilian victims at the scene. `Falco, I think you and I should go to the victim's home. Martinus, if you are going to the station house, send a detachment to meet us at the Nonnius place. I'll have to search it, and probably guard it afterwards. Mind you, Rubella won't be happy to allow us the men…'
Mention of Rubella made me go quiet.
On the way to the Capena Gate we bought bread rolls and munched as we walked. Luckily sight of a corpse always stopped Petro wanting to talk. He must have assumed I was reacting the same way.
We strolled the length of the Circus on the north side, then around its end under the Appian and Marcian aqueducts. As we emerged from their shadow, shopkeepers were unlocking their booths and washing the pavements. There were some decent residential streets but they were interspersed with rougher ones. Interestingly, it was an area of mixed jurisdiction by the vigiles. The First region, which we were just entering, was looked after by the Fifth Cohort, yet we were quite near to the Twelfth region, which as part of the Aventine came under the Fourth. We were also very close to the much seedier quarter where Plato's Academy lurked. That was in the Circus Maximus region, the Eleventh, and like the Forum Boarium it was prowled by the Sixth Cohort.
`Petro, does the fact that three different groups of vigiles are responsible for this triangle have any bearing on the crime that's rife?'
`Probably,' he said. I could not tell him that according to Rubella criminality occurred amongst the vigiles themselves. `Do you work closely together?'
`Not if we can help it.'
`Any reason?' I was hoping there would be one.
`I've enough to do without wasting effort on 'inter-cohort cooperation'!' Petro sneered.
`Strikes me the cohorts all have different characters?'
`Right. The Fifth are dull, the Sixth are bastards, and as you know, we in the Fourth are unsung heroes with a mature and efficient approach!'
I just hoped I could show that that was the truth.
I took a deep breath. `Are Tibullinus and Arica on the take?' `Probably,' said Petro shortly. Something in his manner made me reluctant to ask more.
As we neared the street we wanted, a familiar figure hailed me. `Marcus!'
'Quintus! I heard you were back from Germany. Oh this is good, Petro, let me introduce you to Camillus Justinus.'
Justinus was Helena's younger brother, a slight, boyish lad of twenty-odd. Today he was in civilian dress – a pristine white tunic and rather casually draped toga. The last time I saw him he had been in tribunal uniform, in the army on the Rhine. I myself had been there on a mission for Vespasian, one Justinus had joined in, acquitting himself bravely. I knew he had been recalled and was now expected to work through the stages of upper-class civilian life, probably ending in the Senate when he reached twenty-five. Despite that, I liked him. We embraced like brothers, and I chaffed him about his position.
`That's right. I've been brought back home to be a good boy, and to start planning to cadge votes.'
`Don't worry. The Senate's a doddle. All you have to do is learn to say, 'Gods, what a stench!' every time you appear in a crowd, while keeping your teeth bared in a friendly smile in case any of the plebs can lip-read.'
`Well, it's a few years away yet…' Justinus sighed. `I was hoping to see you. I think I'm in love with an actress.'
Petro and I turned to one another and groaned.
`Why do the young always have to make the old mistakes?' I asked. Petro shook his head sadly. Petro and I had been friends with a few stage performers in our day, but now we had responsibilities. (We were too old, too cynical, and too careful with our cash.)
`I think you may know her -' Justinus tried.
`Very probably!' exclaimed Petronius, as if it was nothing to be proud of. Since getting married, he had turned
