Three Hands In The Fountain

Gaius complained that we were squashing the baby, so he carefully took charge and carried her off to play with her in another' room. Responding to his gruff authority, Julia stopped crying immediately.

I sat for a moment, staring round the simple apartment that I called home. It looked unusually clean and neat. On the table, as well as the battered scroll of my over-written odes which Helena had been reading to console herself, lay my favourite cup and bowl, set very precisely opposite my habitual stool as if their readiness would ensure my return. Near them was a document which I could see was the deed of sale for the farm at Tibur which I had promised to buy; she had been organising the purchaser Flipping off the top of the inkwell I seized the pen, dipped it quickly and scrawled my signature.

`You haven't read that,' Helena remonstrated quietly.

`No, but you have.'

`Falco, you trust people too easily.'

`Is that right?'

`I'll make you read it tomorrow.'

`That's why I trust you,' I smiled.

Another disaster was about to make itself manifest. Helena went across to the laundry for a pail of water so I could wash before I fell into bed. She must have spoken to Petronius. When he galloped across to see me he already knew I had solved the case, and had come home in glory with Thurius. This was going to be difficult.

`Well, where were you when you were needed?' I chaffed him, tackling the issue before he could take the initiative.

`Trailing through half the low winebars in the Suburra while a useless fool called Damon tried unsuccessfully to pull a sharp bird in a; red dress who ran bloody rings around him.' She kept him out drinking till all hours, then when Damon went for his tenth leak of the night, she skipped. Then I had to follow the besotted idiot while he went back to all the bars they had visited earlier, trying to find where he had dropped his purse – though of course, really the girl had made off with it -'

`Useless.' I was in no mood for elaborate inquests.

Petro gave me a long stare.

I knew what this was. I held up my hand wearily. `Lucius Petronius, you have something you are burning to tell me' `When you're fit.'

`I'm fit now. Your life needs a new turn. You are itching for your real job – lured no doubt by the thrill of dull routine and time-consuming reports for superiors, the complaining hatred of the public and the pitiful, though regular, salary -'

`Something like that.'

`There's more? Oh; I think I can guess. You are planning a joyful return to your wife.' If I had been less tired, I would have been more careful. `Now steady, old friend.'

`You've been nagging me to do it, so I'm telling you first;' `I deduce you haven't told Silvia?'

`Not yet, no.'

'So, I'm supposed: to be honoured, Have you even seen Silvia recently?'

A suspicious expression; appeared on his face, `You're telling me something.'

I should have lied. In fact I should never have started this. He was my friend, and I, knew just how short his temper could be. But I was too exhausted to be subtle or careful. `I did hear that Arria Silvia had been seen out with another man.'

Petronius Longus said nothing immediately. `Forget it,' I mumbled.

His voice was low: his temper high. `Who told you this?' `Maia. It's probably gossip -'

`How long have you known about this, Falco?'

'No time -'

He was on his feet.

I had been friends with Petronius Longus for many years. We had shared tragedy, wine, and bad behaviour in almost equal measure. He knew things about me nobody else was ever likely to discover, and I realised exactly what he wanted to, say. `Petro, you helped me with my stinking work, you, endured, my slapdash methods and my lousy old apartment; you put up with being criticised over breakfast, and now you've watched me collar Thurius and take the credit for the job. To cap all that I've just told you your wife's slumming, at the very moment when you humbled your pride and decided you were going back to her. Well, there you are: you want to end our partnership, and I've just handed you an excuse for a major quarrel.'

I was too tired to find the energy to argue. Petro gazed at me for a moment, then I heard him breathe in and out quietly. Half a smile creased his face, though he said nothing.

He walked out of our apartment at his normal steady pace, and I heard him thump down the outer steps with scornful finality.

After a moment there were sounds of Helena returning. The pail crashed against the outdoor banister as it always did when she lugged it home full, and she muttered to herself. Then her voice called out sharply as if warning a visitor not to come up, apparently without effect, because feet pattered eagerly up our steps and a head I knew thrust itself round the door. Slick hair, pale eyes, and an insufferable sympathetic air. The familiar unwelcome body followed. It was my old antagonist: Anacrites.