Three Hands In The Fountain

Still, I did consider possibilities. Petro started getting angry and treated the whole business as if it smelt; he just wanted to go for a drink. But I always like to take the historical view: the water supply was a vital state concern, and had been for centuries. Its bureaucracy: was an elaborate mycellum whose black tentacles crept right to the top. As with everything else in Rome that he could possibly stick his nose into, the Emperor Augustus had devised extra procedures – ostensibly to provide clear supervision, but mainly to keep him informed.

I knew there was a Board of Commission for the aqueducts which comprised three senators of consular rank. While carrying out his duties each was entitled to be preceded by two lictors. Each was also accompanied by an impressive train containing three slaves, to carry his handkerchief, a secretary, and an architect, plus a large staff of more nebulous officials. Rations and pay for the staff were provided from public funds, and the commissioners could draw stationery and other, useful supplies, a proportion of which they no doubt took home for their private use in the traditional manner.

These worthy old codgers clearly held seniority over the Curator. Luring just one of them into taking an interest in our story could have acted as a fulcrum under the Curator's arse. Unfortunately for us, the three consular commissioners simultaneously held other interesting public posts, such as governorships of foreign provinces. The practice was feasible because the Commission only met formally to inspect the aqueducts for three months of the year – and August was not one of them.

We were stuck. That was not unusual. I agreed that Petronius had been right all along. We consoled our injured feelings in the traditional way: having lunch in a bar.

Reeling slightly, Petronius Longus later led me to the best place he knew for sleeping it off, his old patrol house. There was no sign of Fusculus today.

`Time off to visit his auntie, chief,' said Sergius.

Sergius was the Fourth Cohort's punishment officer – tall, perfectly built, permanently flexed for action, and stupendously handsome. Flicking the whip gently, he was sitting on the bench outside, killing ants. His aim was murderous. Muscles rippled aggressively through gaps, in his brown tunic. A wide belt was buckled tightly on a flat stomach, emphasising his narrow waist and well-formed chest. Sergius looked after himself. He could look after trouble too. No neighbourhood troublemaker whom Sergius looked after bothered to repeat his crime. At least his long tanned face, dagger-straight nose and flashing teeth made an aesthetic memory for villains as they fainted under the caress of his whip. To be beaten up by Sergius was to partake, in a high-class art form:

`What auntie?' scoffed Petro,

`The one he goes to see when he needs a day off.' The vigiles were all experts in acquiring a maddening toothache or having to attend the funeral of a close relative they had doted on. Their work was hard, ill paid and dangerous. Inventing excuses to bunk off was a necessary relief.

`He'll be sorry he was out.' Unwrapping it with a flourish, I flipped the new hand on to the bench alongside Sergius. `We brought him another piece of black pudding.'

`Urgh! Sliced a bit thick, isn't it?' Sergius didn't move.,

My theory was that he lacked any emotion. Still, he understood what stirred the rest of us. `After the last treat you brought him, Fusculus took a religious vow never to touch meat; he only eats cabbage and rosehip custard now. What caupona served this up to you?' Somehow Sergius could tell. we had just been at lunch. `You ought to report the place to the aediles as a danger to health.'

`A public slave pulled the hand out of the Aqua Marcia.'

`Probably a ploy by the guild of wine producers,' Sergius chortled. `Trying to convince everyone to stop drinking water.'

`They've convinced us,' I warbled.

`That's obvious, Falco.'

`Where's the last hand?' demanded Petro. `We want to see if we've got a pair.'

Sergius sent a clerk to fetch the hand from the museum, where it had apparently been a great attraction. When it came, he himself placed it on the bench side by side with the new one, as if laying out a pair of new cold-weather mittens. He had to fiddle with the loose thumb on the second one, making sure it was the correct way round. `Two rights.'

`Hard to tell.' Petronius kept well away. He was conscious

that the new one was in a poor state. After all, he had spent a night in the same apartment with it; the experience was bothering him.

"There's a lot missing, but this is how the thumb goes, and they're both palm up. I tell you, these are both rights.' Sergius stuck by his point, but he never-warmed up in an argument. Mostly he never needed to. People eyed up his whip and then gave him the benefit.

Petronius accepted it gloomily. `So there' are two different bodies.'

`Same killer?'

`Might be coincidence.'