Three Hands In The Fountain

A lamp stood on the ground, placed there while Marina attended to her companion: By its wavering light I could see my brother's exotic; girlfriend: translucent skin, breathtakingly regular features, and the remote beauty of a temple statue: Only when she spoke did the mystique fade; she had the voice of a winkle-seller. Even then, she had just to roll those huge eyes a few times and I remembered all too clearly the jealous throb that used to drive me wild when Festus was bedding her. Then Festus died and I had to pay Marina's bills. That helped keep me chaste.

`If you weren't at the Games, what coven have you witches been casting spells at?'

`We ladies,' Marina enunciated pompously, although she did seem a great deal more sober than whoever was vomiting against the Temple, `have been at the monthly reunion of the Braidmakers' Old Girls.'

There had once been a rumour that Marina worked in the field of tunic decoration, though she was doing her best to disprove it. The only thing she reckoned to twist nowadays, was me. `Isn't this late to be leaving a party, girl?'

`No, it's quite early for the Braidmakers.' She let out a, disreputable giggle.' An answering hiccup came faintly from, the bent beanpole.

`Dawn daisies, eh? I suppose when you finished; disporting., yourself among the pensioned-off tassel-knotters, you came home by way of a tipple at the Four Fish?'

`As I recollect, it was the Old Grey Dove, Marcus Didius.'

'And the Oystershell?'

`Then probably the Venus of Cos. It was bloody Venus who did for this one -'

Marina applied more tender nurture to her friend – an act which consisted of jerking her upright and forcing her head back, with a dangerous click of the neck. `Well, keep your voice lower,' I muttered. `You'll have the Vestals scampering out here in their nightclothes to investigate.'

`Forget it! They're too busy screwing the Pontifex Maximus around the sacred hearth.'

If I was to be hauled before a judge on a treason trial, I would rather choose the infamy for myself. It seemed high time to leave. `Can you get home all right?'

`Course we can.'

`What about this petal?'

`I'll drop her off. Don't worry about us,' Marina soothed me kindly. `We're used to it.'

I could believe that.

Supporting one another, they tottered off down the Sacred Way. I had warned Marina again to take care because the aqueduct snatcher might be working her neighbourhood: She, quite reasonably, had then enquired whether I really thought any pervert would pluck up the courage to attack two of the Braidmakers' Old Girls after their monthly night out? A ridiculous idea, of course.

I could still hear them singing and laughing all the way to the end of the Forum. I myself walked unobtrusively down towards the Tabularium, veering left round the Capitol and out through the River Gate near the Theatre of Marcellus, opposite the end of Tiber Island. I took myself along the embankment past the Aemilian and Sublician bridges. In the Forum Boarium I met a patrol of vigiles, headed by Martinus, Petro's old deputy. They were looking out for whoever I was looking out for. None of us thought we would find him. We exchanged a few quiet words, then I pressed on to the Aventine.

Only as I climbed up towards the Temple of Ceres did I remember that I had meant to ask Marina whatever she thought she was doing when she called out to a strange driver. It was an odd reversal of the scene I presumed might have happened with Asinia: the woman's brash approach and the man's nervousness; then her mockery as he quickly skulked away. I dismissed it as unimportant. For the encounter to connect with my enquiry would be too much of a coincidence.

Even so, something had, happened down there in the Forum. Something all too relevant.

FORTY

It began as an ordinary, bright Roman morning. I woke late, alone in bed, sluggish. Sunlight streaked the wall opposite the closed shutter. I could hear Helena's voice, talking to someone, male, unfamiliar.

Before she called me I struggled into a clean tunic and rinsed my teeth, groaning. This was why informers liked to be solitary men. I had gone to bed sober, yet today I felt like death.

I had a dim recollection of returning in the dark last night. I had heard Julia crying fretfully. Either Helena was too exhausted to waken, or she was trying out a plan we had halfheartedly discussed of leaving the baby sometimes to cry herself back to sleep. Helena had certainly moved the cradle out of our bedroom. Trust me to disrupt the plan: at Julia's heartrending wail I forgot what was agreed and went to her; I managed to walk about with her quietly, avoiding disturbing Helena, until eventually the baby dozed off. I put her back down in the cradle successfully. Then Helena burst in, woken up and terrified by the silence… Ah, well.