of obnoxious types. Her walk was quietly purposeful, and although she looked briefly into every shop and food place, she never met anyone's eye. With her head and body wrapped in a long veil, she had disguised her private style and became unremarkable. One man did lean over a rail and say something to her as she passed-some mutt who on principle had a try at anything in a stola-but as my fists balled, that chancer was treated to such a savage look he shrank back. He certainly knew he had encountered proud Roman womanhood.
Mind you, my sister's self-possessed disdain could itself attract attention. One of the men with Splice and Pyro stood up. At once Pyro spoke to him and he sat down again. Maia had by then gone past the Ganymede.
Nice thought: that the enforcers had a noble regard for women! But they just left women alone to avoid attracting the wrong public notice. Gangs who work through fear understand, if they are efficient, that normal life should be allowed to flow through the streets unhindered. Some even go so far as to batter a known rapist or threaten an adolescent burglar, as a sign that they represent order, men who will protect their own. This implies they are the only force of order. Then the people they are threatening feel they have nowhere to turn for help.
They had finished their lunch. They stood up and left. As far as I saw, there was no attempt to offer them a bill. Neither of them left money anyway.
I followed them around for the early part of the afternoon. From place to place they went like election candidates, often not even speaking to people, just making their presence felt. They did not appear to be collecting. That would be better done after dusk. More worrying, and the wine bars would have more cash in the float.
Soon they returned to the Ganymede and this time went indoors, no doubt for a good Roman siesta. I gave up. I was ready for home. My feet were taking special care to remind me how many hours I had been out walking. When I saw a small bathhouse, the feet headed that way on their own. I stopped them when I spotted Petronius Longus already on the porch.
I was desperate to talk to him. I wanted to discuss the gangsters, and I had to tell him of his children's deaths. But I took his warning to heart.
So far he had not noticed me. I stood still, in what passed for a colonnade-hardly what Rome would know as a grand arcade. Petro made no move to enter the baths, but stood talking to a ticket man who had come out for air. They seemed to know each other. They looked up at the sky as if discussing whether the heat wave would persist. When new customers drew the gateman indoors, Petronius settled down on a small bench outside as if he were a fixture at the baths.
This street had a slight curve and was so narrow that by crossing over to the other pavement I could walk up close, keeping tight against the wall, without Petro seeing me. His back was slightly turned in any case. A neat bank of cut furnace logs, nearly four feet high, was stacked- blocking the pavement of course-on the bathhouse boundary. This made the road almost impassable but formed a tiny free area outside the premises next door. The baths were unnamed, but the neighboring hovel had a painted sign with red Roman lettering, calling itself the Old Neighbour. I passed the open door and saw a dark interior whose purpose was undetectable. It looked more like a private house than a commercial property, despite the sign.
Whatever it was, it offered me a handy broken stool on which to lower my tired body only a few feet from Petronius; now I could try to attract his attention. It would have been ideal, but just as I dropped out of sight preparing to cough loudly, I saw my damned little sister again, approaching from the other direction. She stopped dead just as I had done. Then, being Maia, she threw back her stole and marched straight up to Petronius, who must have seen her coming. I huddled up to the furnace logs. If this was a romantic assignation, I now had no way to leave without giving away my presence.
But my sister's manner had already told me that Petronius was not expecting her. Maia had had to brace herself to come and speak to him, and I knew why.
XXII
Lucius Petronius!'
'Maia Favonia.'
'You want to tell me to get lost?'
'Would it work?' Petro asked dryly. Maia was standing, facing my way I had to keep down low. Luckily she was not tall. 'Maia, you are not safe here.'
'Why; what are you doing?' That was my sister all over: crisp, blunt, brazenly curious. Part of it came from motherhood, though she had always been direct.
'I'm working.'
'Oh, but surely the vigiles have no jurisdiction in the provinces!'
'Exactly!' Petro broke in harshly. 'Shut up. I'm out of bounds. Nobody must know.'
Maia lowered her voice, but she would not let go. 'So were you sent here?'
'Don't ask.' His mission was official. Well, the bastard kept that quiet! I heard my own intake of breath, more angry than surprised.
'Well, I'm not interested in that. I have to talk to you.'
Then Petronius changed his tone. He spoke quickly, in a low, painful voice: 'It's all right. You don't have to tell me. I know about the girls.'
I was so close I could sense Maia's tension. That was nothing to the emotion I could sense in Petronius. Somebody local came walking up the road. 'Sit down,' muttered Petro, clearly thinking that by standing in front of him, agitated, Maia was attracting attention. I thought I heard the bench legs scrape. She had done as he said.
After the man had passed, Maia asked, 'How long have you known?' The acoustic had changed. I had to strain to catch what she said. She was more obviously upset, now that it was out in the open. 'Did a letter reach you?'
'No, I was told.'
'Marcus found you?'
'I did see him earlier.' Petronius was talking in staccato sentences. 'I didn't give him a chance. I suppose that's why he's been searching for me.'
'We all are! So who did tell you?'
Petro made a small sound, almost laughter. 'Two little boys.'
'Oh no! Not mine, you mean?' Maia was angry and mortified. I felt no surprise. Her children had been fretting over where their hero was; they knew about the tragedy; they were an outgoing group who readily took independent action. Petronius stayed silent. Maia finally said ruefully, 'So much for telling them not to bother you… Oh, I am so sorry!'
'They caught me right out…' Petronius sounded remote as he began to talk, in the way of the bereaved, needing to recite how he had learned his dreadful news. 'I had already spotted Marius. He was sitting on a curbstone, looking depressed. Ancus must have wandered away from him and he saw me-'
'Ancus? Ancus told you?'
Petro's voice softened, though not much. 'Before I could growl at him to scarper, he ran up. I just thought he was pleased to see me. So when he climbed up on the bench, I put an arm around him. He stood here and whispered in my ear.'
Maia choked slightly. I was stricken myself. Ancus was only six. And Petronius would have had no idea what was coming. 'You were never supposed to hear this from children.'
'What difference does that make?' Petronius rasped. 'Two of my girls are gone! I had to know.'
Maia let his outburst quieten. She, like me, must have been worried what young Ancus had blurted out, because she made sure Petronius was given the details properly 'This is it, then. You have lost two; we were not told which, stupidly. People are trying to find out for you. Chicken pox. My guess is that it happened shortly after you left Italy. The letter didn't say.'
'I must have caught it myself when I said good-bye to them. I infected yours,' admitted Petronius. 'I blame myself…'
