Water tumbled past Asinia's head so the sand ran away from beneath her in rivulets, to be replaced by more. Left alone, she might bury herself on the bank or she might suddenly break free and roll along the channel to the great arch of peperino stone that gave on to the river,

`Have you ever found heads before?'

'Occasional skulls. You can't tell where they come from or how old they are – not normally. This is more…'The gang leader faded out politely.

`Fresh?' Not quite the. word, Anacrites. I gave him a disapproving look.

The gang leader breathed, deeply uncomfortable. He made no reply.

He reckoned there was another sandbank like this further down. He said we could wait while he took a look. We could hear Martinus shouting in the distance, so his lad went back to the ladder to confirm we were all right. That left Anacrites and me together in the tunnel.

It was quiet, smelly, safe only to the point where hairs curled on your neck. The cold water continually raced past our boots as they sank slightly into the fine mud while we stood still.; Around us was silence, broken by infrequent quiet drips. Asinia's skull, a parody of humanity, still lay in the silt at our feet. Ahead, lit from behind by wavering torchlight, the black figure of the gang leader walked away towards a bend in the tunnel through deeper and deeper water, eerily diminishing. He was alone. If he walked round the turn in the tunnel we would have to follow him. Going out of sight alone in a sewer was unsafe.

He stopped. He was leaning against the side wall with one hand, bending over as if inspecting the area. Suddenly I knew; `Too much for him. He's throwing up.' We stopped watching.

There was a task waiting for us. I handed my torch to Anacrites. Regretting that I had put on a clean overtunic that morning, I stripped off a layer. I planted one boot right against the head to steady it, then bent and tried to ease the tunic underneath. I was trying not to touch the thing. A mistake. It rolled. Anacrites scuffled up his own foot, making a wedge with mine. We trapped the head, and I captured it as, if we were playing some ghastly game of ball. Unwilling even to hold the weight, directly with a supporting hand underneath, I held on to the four corners of my garment, letting the water stream off as I stood up. I kept the tunic and its contents at arm's length.

`Dear gods, how does he manage it? I thought 'I was tough. How can the killer bring himself to handle the body parts once, let alone repeatedly?'

`This is a filthy job.' For once Anacrites and I spoke the same language. We were talking in low voices while he held the lights and with his free hand helped me knot the corners of my tunic to make a secure bundle.

I agreed with him. `I have nightmares that just by being involved in scenes like this some of the filth might rub off on me.'

`You could leave it to the vigiles.'

`The vigiles have been ducking out of things for years. It's time someone stopped this man.' I gave Anacrites a rueful grin. `I could have left it to you!'

Holding up the torches, he returned the wry look. `That wouldn't be you, Falco. You do have to interfere.'

For once the comment was dispassionate. Then I felt horrified… If we shared many more foul tasks and philosophical interludes, we might end up on friendly terms.

We waded back to the ladder. There we waited for the gang leader. Martinus' lad was sent up first with the torches. I went next. I had threaded my belt through the knots on the bundle and made the belt into a shoulder loop, in order to leave me two free hands. On a bowing ladder with narrow treads, in wet footwear, going up was even worse than coming down.

When I climbed out like a mole into the glare, of the sunlight Martinus dragged me upright. I was telling him what had happened while Anacrites came clambering out behind me. I moved to give him room. That was when I realised the Chief Spy was quite professional; as he emerged in his turn he looked round rapidly at the faces in the ogling crowds. I knew why; I had done it myself. He was wondering whether the killer was there: whether the man had dumped remains in different places specifically in order to taunt us, and whether he was hanging about now to watch their discovery. Seeing Anacrites checking like that was a curious relevation.

Shortly afterwards I discovered something else. When you have walked through a sewer, you have to pull off your own boots.

FORTY TWO

Martinus took charge of the head. It would be reunited with the torso at the station house. Then the formalities would be set in motion so Cicurrus could hold a funeral for his wife.

For the first and probably the only time ever, Anacrites and I went to a bath-house together. We were both extremely thorough with the strigil. Nevertheless, I did not offer to help him scrape his back.

I had taken him as my guest to the baths attached to Glaucus' gym, only a few steps from the Forum. A mistake. Soon Anacrites was glancing around as if he were thinking how civilised it was here and that he might apply for a subscription. I let him leave by himself to go back to whatever he wasted his time on at the Curator's office, while I stayed behind to warn Glaucus that the Chief Spy was not the type he wanted to patronise his esteemed premises.

`I could see that,' sniffed- Glaucus. When I admitted whom exactly I had brought today, he gave me a disgusted look. Glaucus liked to avoid trouble. His way of doing it was to bar people who habitually caused it. He only let me in because he viewed me as a harmless amateur. Professionals are paid for their work; he knew I rarely was.

I enquired if Glaucus had a free period for a spot of wrestling practice. He snorted. 1 took it as a negative, and I knew why too.

I strolled out down the steps, between the pastry shop and the small library which were provided for patrons', extra delight. Glaucus ran a luxurious establishment. You could not only exercise and bathe, but borrow some odes to rekindle a flagging love affair and then stick your teeth together with glazed raisin dumplings that were fiendishly delicious.

Today I had no time for reading and I was in no mood for sweetmeats. I was oiled and scraped in every pore yet still uneasy with the results. I had been in filthy locations before, but something about descending into sewers to find hacked up human remains left me shuddering. It would have been bad enough even without remembering that I myself had once dropped a man's decayed carcase through a manhole. A couple of years and plenty of heavy rainstorms should have ensured there was no chance I would stumble across unwelcome ghosts. But down there in the Cloaca Maxima I had almost been glad of Anacrites’ irritating, presence to prevent me dwelling on the past.

It was over. There was no need for Helena, ever to find out, I was still unsure how she would react to hearing that her missing uncle Publius had been left lying dead until he was positively fermenting, then shoved in the Cloaca, and shoved there by me… By now I thought I was safe. I had convinced myself I would never have to face her with the truth.

Even so, I must have been brooding. Here at Glaucus' gym I was on home ground. Informers learn that home is where you should never relax. Places where you are known are where bad characters come to find you. And when I noticed the group who were waiting outside for me today, I had already walked past them and given them time to emerge from the doorway of the pastry shop so they were above me on the steps.

I heard the clatter of boots.

I didn't stop. Instead of turning to see who was behind me, I took three running skips then a giant leap down the rest of the steps to pavement level. Then I turned.