We were observing the city gates. Hoping our theories were correct,, we concentrated on the eastern side. Petro and I took turns on the Tiburtine and Praenestine gates, where we stationed ourselves every evening just as the vehicle ban was lifted and the carts came into Rome; we remained until the traffic dispersed at dawn. Thanks to Julius Frontinus, the Prefect of Vigiles had given us help from his local men; for additional cover they were also on watch at the two gates to the north of the Praetorian Camp and two more further south.

`I hope you're prepared to be the one,' said Petro, `who tells the vigiles they have to look for a ginger-haired midget with a beard and a wonky leg.''

`They'll think it's a big joke.'

`Falco, I've come to the conclusion anything you're involved in is a joke!' he retorted, rather bitterly I thought:

The Porta Tiburtina was where, we expected the killer to drive in, whether he was our gingery suspect Damon, or somebody else. Both the Via Tiburtina and the Via Collatina enter Rome that way. There,' and also at the Porta Praenestina where a road came in from the same; general area of the Campagna, the vigiles were stopping and listing every vehicle.

It caused a stir, to put it mildly. We called it a traffic census, ordered by the Emperor. Each driver was asked where he had come from and to assist with forward planning where he was travelling to in. Rome. Quite a few hated telling us, and some probably lied on principle. When they, were asked the reason for their journey, and how often they came up for festivals, some of the middle and upper-class occupants of carriages said they, would rush straight home to write complaining petitions to Vespasian.: Naturally we fell back on `Sorry, sir; it's orders from the top' and 'Don't blame me, tribune; I'm just doing my job and naturally; that enraged them more… When they screeched off with sparks flying from their wheels; at least they were too busy fuming to stop and consider what our real motive might have been.

The fat-bodied, four-wheeled, bronze-embellished raeda lurched through the Porta Tiburtina on the Kalends. At the time I was on duty there. I had arrived in position as soon as the first vehicles were permitted to enter that night. The grand carriage was drawn by four horses but was being driven at the pace of a funeral bier. Its slow drag had already caused a traffic tail a: mile long. It was easy to spot. Not just because of the irritated yells from the frustrated drivers behind it, but because up on the front was the ginger-haired

small man all of us were looking for…

I stepped back and let one of the vigiles raise a baton to stop the carriage. I could see the elderly Aurelia Maesia peering out short-sightedly. She was the only passenger. Damon, the driver, was in his late forties, freckled, fair skinned and red-haired all over, right down to ginger eyebrows and lashes. As a ladies' man he looked nothing. For some strange reason that's often the case.

As the vigiles approached with their list of questions, I watched from the shadow of the inner gate, close enough to listen in. Details, were taken of Aurelia Maesia's plans to stay

in Rome with her sister, whose name she gave as Aurelia Grata, at an address on the Via Lata. She stated that she was visiting for the length of the Augustales and gave her reason

as a family reunion. Damon provided the name of a stable outside the Porta Metrovia where he said he would be staying with then horses and carriage, then he drove off into the regular traffic jam that was Rome at night. A member of the vigiles who had been primed in advance set off to follow on foot. He was to stick with Damon all the way to the stable, then lean on a broom there for the duration of the Games, tailing the man if he went anywhere.

Damon did not meet our criteria for the killer. If he really did stay at these stables throughout the Games, he failed to match our pattern of a man who went to Tibur to carry out each murder and returned later to dispose of his victim's torso and head. Still, if there did turn out to be some connection with Damon, I could feel a sense of quiet satisfaction: the Porta Metrovia was at the end of Cyclops Street. It was only minutes from the area where Asinia for one had disappeared, being the nearest city gate to the Circus Maximus.

FIFTY FOUR

"There were two Roman festivals named for Augustus. Eight days before October had been his birthday, on which formal Games were celebrated in the Circus; we had managed to miss that during our jaunt to Tibur. Now the main ten-day series was inaugurated, working up to splendid shows for the anniversary of the old Emperor's return from abroad after pacifying the foreign provinces. Still regularly bankrupting towns throughout the Empire, this was the kind of junket I tried to avoid. I didn't flatter Emperors when they were alive, so I certainly wanted no part in their deification once Rome was rid of them.

On the day of the opening ceremony, Petro and I were as keyed up as Brutus and Cassius having bad dreams the night before the Battle of Philippi. If he stayed true to form, come the evening our killer would be out looking for his next victim. Julius Frontinus had held long consultations with the tribunes of the Fifth and Sixth Cohorts of vigiles, who patrolled the Circus area; they were to have men out in force, with particular orders to protect the safety of unaccompanied women. Every time I thought about the amount of ground to be covered and the number of people who would be flocking to and fro, I went cold. It was an enormous task.

We had toyed with the idea of putting up notices warning people to beware. Frontinus forbade it. It cost us all some heart-searching but he took the final responsibility. We had to be hard. Everything had to appear normal. We wanted the killer to strike – though to strike when we were watching and could intervene.

My sister Maia came round that first afternoon. She was a bright, curly-haired spirit, smartly turned out, ready for anything, and quite uncontrollable. `We should go, Helena!'

she cried. `You and I are the sort who can keep our eyes open; I bet if he's there we could spot him.'

`Please don't go anywhere near the Circus.' I was terrified. I was Maia's older brother and Helena's chosen, partner. According to the ancient laws of Rome, my word should be law: fat chance. These were women of character, and I was just the poor duffer who tried to do his best for them. I had no jurisdiction over either.

They were close friends, and both argumentative. `Maia's right.' Helena knew how wound up I was, but was turning against me over this. `Maia and I could walk about near the Circus acting as decoys'

`Dear gods!'

`We'd be brilliant. You've got to try something,' cajoled Maia. From what she knew about the investigation, I could tell they had already been conspiring while I was out. `You missed him at the Ludi Romani, and you're going to miss, him again.'

`Oh, don't be so encouraging, You might build up my confidence.'

`You don't even really know how this piece of scum operates.'

True. We had no evidence, apart from one sighting by Pia and her ghastly boyfriend Mundus, of Asinia being spoken to by someone on foot: The man they saw might be totally unconnected with the murders. Asinia could have been picked up later, by a cart, chariot, carriage, a man with, a donkey or for all I knew Perseus swooping down on his winged horse. `The nearest we have to a suspect is a driver.'

Maia tossed her head. `Some hunch you and Lucius Petronius dreamed up!'

`Trust us

`Pardon me, Marcus. How can I do that? I know you and Petro!'

`Then you know we have had our successes.' I was trying to keep my, temper. Faced with girls with wild theories, always appear open to suggestion.