Petronius surveyed the slave with his friendly look. `I suppose,' he suggested, `if you find anything of this nature, the rule is you have to keep it quiet to avoid upsetting public confidence?'

`That's it!' agreed Cordus excitedly.

`How many, castoff bits of corpse have you found before?' I asked. Now a second person was starting to take an interest he cheered up. Maybe we liked his offering after all. It might increase what we paid him.

`Well, not me myself, legate. But you'd be surprised. All sorts of things turn up in the water, and I've heard of plenty.'

`Any handless bodies?'

`Arms and. legs, legate.' It was hearsay, I reckoned. I could tell Petro agreed.

`Ever seen any of them?'

`No, but a mate of mine has.' Everyone in Rome has a mate whose life is much more interesting than his own. Funny; you never get to meet the mate.

`The hand is your own first big discovery?' I made it sound like something to be proud of.

`Yes, sir.'

I glanced openly at Petronius. He folded his arms. So did I. We pretended to be holding a silent conference. Really we were both as gloomy as sin.

`Cordus,' I ventured, `do you know if the waters of the Aqua Appia and the Aqua Marcia originate in the same place?'

`Not me, legate. Don't ask me nothing about the aqueducts. I'm just a mutt who works in the wet, chipping off clink. I don't know nothing technical.'

I grinned at him. `That's a pity! I was hoping you could spare us having to talk to some long-winded hydraulic surveyor.'

He looked crestfallen.

He was probably a villain but he had convinced us he meant well. We knew how hard life was for public slaves' so Petro and I both dug in our pockets and, arm-purses. Between us we managed to find him three quarters of a denarius, all in smalls. Cordus seemed delighted. Half an hour in our den above Fountain Court had warned him that the best he could expect from a pair of duds like us might be a kick on the backside and an empty-handed trudge downstairs. A few coppers was better than that, and he could see he had cleaned us out.

After he had gone, Petronius pulled on his outdoor boots and vanished: running off to remove his reward poster. I carefully lifted the stool with the hand on it on to the balcony, but a pigeon flew down for a nibble almost straight away. I brought it back in and used Petro's smart mess tin upside-down over the hand as a lid..

He would curse me, but by then I would be across the road peacefully closeted with Helena. The good thing about having a work partner was that I could; leave him to fret all night over any new evidence. As senior executive I could forget it then stroll in tomorrow, refreshed and full of unworkable ideas, to ask in an annoying tone what solutions my minion had come up with.

Some of us are born to be managers.

TWELVE

The Curator of Aqueducts was an imperial freedman. He was, probably a slick and cultured Greek. He probably carried out his work with dedicated efficiency. I say 'probably' because Petro and I never actually saw him. This exalted official was too busy being slick and cultured to find time for an interview with us.

Petronius and I wasted a morning at his office in the Forum. We watched a long procession of foremen from the gangs, of public slaves march in to receive their orders for the day, then march out again without a word for us. We tackled various members of an ever-changing secretariat, who all handled us with diplomacy, and some were even polite. It became clear that members of the public were not likely to be granted an audience with the lord of the waters – not even when they wanted to suggest how he might keep the flow free of mouldering bits of dead people. The fact we had said we were informers did not help. Probably.

We were allowed to write a petition stating our concern, though a frank scribe who had glanced at it told us the Curator would not want to know. That at least was not just probable but definite.

The only way around this would be pulling rank on the Curator. I disapproved of such low tactics; well, I rarely knew anyone important enough to pull rank for me. So that was out.

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.'