Three Hands In The Fountain

I shook my head. `Executors can decide to, open the will whenever it seems reasonable.'

`What if they make a mistake, Marcus?'

'If a false report of a death is made to the censors deliberately,' I said, `or if a will is knowingly opened before time, that's a serious offence: theft and probably conspiracy, in the case of the will. A genuine mistake would be viewed leniently, I imagine. What would you do, lads, if a person you had listed as dead turned up unexpectedly after all?'

Silvius and Brixius shrugged, saying it would be a matter for their superiors. They regarded their superiors as idiots, of course.

I was not interested in mistakes. `When people come to register, they don't have to prove the death?'

'Nobody, has to prove it, Falco. They make a solemn declaration; it's their duty to tell the truth.'

`Oh honesty's a duty!'

Silvius and Brixius tutted at my irony.

`There doesn't have to be a body?' Helena was particularly curious because her father's younger brother, who was certainly dead but had been given no funeral as his body had disappeared.

Trying not to remember that I personally had dropped the rotting cadaver of Helena's treacherous uncle down a sewer to avoid complications for the Emperor, I said, `There could be many reasons for not having a body. War, loss at sea That was what had been given out by the family about Helena's Uncle Publius.

`Vanishing among the barbarians,' trilled Silvius.

`Running off with the baker, supplied Brixius, who was more cynical.

`Well, that's the kind of case I'm talking about,' I said. `Someone who disappears for no known reason, They may be an eloping adulterer or they may have been abducted and murdered.'

`Sometimes people deliberately choose to vanish,', said Brixius. `The pressure of their lives becomes intolerable, and they flit. They may come home one day – or never.'

`So what if a relative actually admits to you that someone is not stiffening on a bier but only missing?'

`If they really believe the person is dead they should just report that.'

`Why? What do you do to them otherwise?' smiled Helena.

He grinned. `We have ways of making life extremely difficult! But if the circumstances seem reasonable, we issue a certificate in the normal way.'

`Normal?' I queried. `What – no little stars in the margin? No funny-coloured ink? No listing in a special scroll?'

`Ooh!' shrieked Silvius. `Falco wants a squint at our special scroll!'

Brixius leaned back on one elbow, surveying me playfully. `What special scroll would that be, Falco?'

`The one where you list dubious reports that may pop up as trouble later.'

`Why, that's a good idea. I might put that forward as a staff suggestion and get the Censors to instigate the system by edict.'

`We have enough systems,' groaned Silvius.

`Exactly. Listen, Falco,' Brixius explained cheerfully, `if something looks stinky, any clerk with all his acorns just writes it up as if he hadn't noticed. That way, if there ever are nasty repercussions he can always claim it smelt perfectly sweet at the time.'

`What I'm trying to ascertain,' I ploughed on, realising it was hopeless, is whether if anyone goes missing in Rome, you might hold any useful information here?'

'No,' said Brixius:

`No,' agreed Silvius.

`The register of deaths is a revered tradition,' Brixius

went on, `There has never been any suggestion that it might actually serve useful purposes.'

`Fair enough.' I was, getting nowhere. Well, I was used to that:

Helena asked Brixius to hand the baby back, and we went home.

SEVEN

I knew Helena was remembering her dead uncle. I needed to avoid awkward questions in view of what I had done with him. I produced the excuse that I ought to check up on Petronius Longus. Since I would only be across the street it sounded harmless and she agreed.

My old apartment, the one I was now lending to Petro, was on the sixth floor of a truly unpleasant tenement. This block of gloomy rentals jutted like a bad tooth over Fountain Court, blotting out the light as effectively as it was blotting out its tenants' hope of happiness. The ground-level space was taken up by a laundry. run by Lenia, who had married the landlord Smaractus. We had all warned her not to do it, and sure enough within a week she had been asking me whether I thought she should divorce him.

Most of that week she had been sleeping, alone. Her unsavoury beloved had been accused of arson and incarcerated by the vigiles following an accident with the wedding torches, which had set ablaze the nuptial bed. Everyone thought it was hilarious – except Smaractus, who had been badly singed. Once the vigiles released him he turned nasty, a facet of his character which Lenia claimed had come as a complete surprise to her. Those of us who had been paying him rent for years knew differently.