foot, making a wedge with mine. We trapped the head, and I captured it as, if we were playing some ghastly game of ball. Unwilling even to hold the weight, directly with a supporting hand underneath, I held on to the four corners of my garment, letting the water stream off as I stood up. I kept the tunic and its contents at arm's length.
`Dear gods, how does he manage it? I thought 'I was tough. How can the killer bring himself to handle the body parts once, let alone repeatedly?'
`This is a filthy job.' For once Anacrites and I spoke the same language. We were talking in low voices while he held the lights and with his free hand helped me knot the corners of my tunic to make a secure bundle.
I agreed with him. `I have nightmares that just by being involved in scenes like this some of the filth might rub off on me.'
`You could leave it to the vigiles.'
`The vigiles have been ducking out of things for years. It's time someone stopped this man.' I gave Anacrites a rueful grin. `I could have left it to you!'
Holding up the torches, he returned the wry look. `That wouldn't be you, Falco. You do have to interfere.'
For once the comment was dispassionate. Then I felt horrified… If we shared many more foul tasks and philosophical interludes, we might end up on friendly terms.
We waded back to the ladder. There we waited for the gang leader. Martinus' lad was sent up first with the torches. I went next. I had threaded my belt through the knots on the bundle and made the belt into a shoulder loop, in order to leave me two free hands. On a bowing ladder with narrow treads, in wet footwear, going up was even worse than coming down.
When I climbed out like a mole into the glare, of the sunlight Martinus dragged me upright. I was telling him what had happened while Anacrites came clambering out behind me. I moved to give him room. That was when I realised the Chief Spy was quite professional; as he emerged in his turn he looked round rapidly at the faces in the ogling crowds. I knew why; I had done it myself. He was wondering whether the killer was there: whether the man had dumped remains in different places specifically in order to taunt us, and whether he was hanging about now to watch their discovery. Seeing Anacrites checking like that was a curious relevation.
Shortly afterwards I discovered something else. When you have walked through a sewer, you have to pull off your own boots.
FORTY TWO
Martinus took charge of the head. It would be reunited with the torso at the station house. Then the formalities would be set in motion so Cicurrus could hold a funeral for his wife.
For the first and probably the only time ever, Anacrites and I went to a bath-house together. We were both extremely thorough with the strigil. Nevertheless, I did not offer to help him scrape his back.
I had taken him as my guest to the baths attached to Glaucus' gym, only a few steps from the Forum. A mistake. Soon Anacrites was glancing around as if he were thinking how civilised it was here and that he might apply for a subscription. I let him leave by himself to go back to whatever he wasted his time on at the Curator's office, while I stayed behind to warn Glaucus that the Chief Spy was not the type he wanted to patronise his esteemed premises.
`I could see that,' sniffed- Glaucus. When I admitted whom exactly I had brought today, he gave me a disgusted look. Glaucus liked to avoid trouble. His way of doing it was to bar people who habitually caused it. He only let me in because he viewed me as a harmless amateur. Professionals are paid for their work; he knew I rarely was.
I enquired if Glaucus had a free period for a spot of wrestling practice. He snorted. 1 took it as a negative, and I knew why too.
I strolled out down the steps, between the pastry shop and the small library which were provided for patrons', extra delight. Glaucus ran a luxurious establishment. You could not only exercise and bathe, but borrow some odes to rekindle a flagging love affair and then stick your teeth together with glazed raisin dumplings that were fiendishly delicious.
Today I had no time for reading and I was in no mood for sweetmeats. I was oiled and scraped in every pore yet still uneasy with the results. I had been in filthy locations before, but something about descending into sewers to find hacked up human remains left me shuddering. It would have been bad enough even without remembering that I myself had once dropped a man's decayed carcase through a manhole. A couple of years and plenty of heavy rainstorms should have ensured there was no chance I would stumble across unwelcome ghosts. But down there in the Cloaca Maxima I had almost been glad of Anacrites’ irritating, presence to prevent me dwelling on the past.
It was over. There was no need for Helena, ever to find out, I was still unsure how she would react to hearing that her missing uncle Publius had been left lying dead until he was positively fermenting, then shoved in the Cloaca, and shoved there by me… By now I thought I was safe. I had convinced myself I would never have to face her with the truth.
Even so, I must have been brooding. Here at Glaucus' gym I was on home ground. Informers learn that home is where you should never relax. Places where you are known are where bad characters come to find you. And when I noticed the group who were waiting outside for me today, I had already walked past them and given them time to emerge from the doorway of the pastry shop so they were above me on the steps.
I heard the clatter of boots.
I didn't stop. Instead of turning to see who was behind me, I took three running skips then a giant leap down the rest of the steps to pavement level. Then I turned.
There was a large group. I didn't count them. About four or five from the pastry shop, followed by more streaming out of the library. I would have yelled for help, but out of the corner of my eye I noticed the pastry shop proprietor beetling off into the gymnasium.
`Stop right there!' It was worth a try. They did pause slightly.
`You Falco?'
`Certainly not.'
`He's lying.'
'Don't insult me. I'm Gambaronius Philodendronicus, a well-known gauze-pleater of these parts.'
`It's Falco!' Spot on.
This was clearly no genteel outing of philosophy students. These were rough. Street-stroppy. Unfamiliar faces with fighters' eyes, shedding menace like dandruff. I was stuck. I could run; they would catch me. I could make a stand; that was even more stupid. No weapons were visible, but they probably had them concealed under those dark clothes. They were built like men who could do a lot of harm without any help from equipment.
`What do you want?'
`You, if you're Falco.'
`Who sent you?'
`Florius.' They were smiling. It, wasn't pretty, or cheerful.
`Then you've' got the wrong man; you want Petronius Longus.' Naming him was my only chance. He was bigger than me, and there was a faint hope I could somehow warn him.
`We've seen Petronius already,' they sniggered. I went cold. After his night on watch at the Circus he would have been asleep alone at the office. When Petronius was dog-tired he slept like a stone. In the army we used to joke that wild bears could cat him from the feet up and he wouldn't notice until they were tickling him behind the ears.
I knew what kind of punishment squad this was. I had once seen a man who had been beaten up on the orders of Milvia's mother. He was dead when he was discovered. He must have hoped for an end to it long before he actually passed out. These heavies worked for that family; I had no reason to think Milvia's husband was any more scrupulous than her mother. Desperately I tried not to imagine Petro enduring an assault like that.
