FIFTY SEVEN

Had all been normal, I was originally intending to call on Marina; I still had a question I wanted to ask her. Now there was no time to stop off at the Street of Honour and Virtue, not even to play the good uncle and visit my niece. Instead I strode quickly to the Temple of the Sun and Moon. There, as arranged, I met Petro and apprised him of the new development. Frontinus had given us use of the public slaves attached to the enquiry; in a trice we had them scampering in all directions, passing on the word to the vigiles that everyone should watch out for the red-haired Celtic-looking man with the gammy leg. It sounded like a joke; we knew it could be deadly serious.

`Has he taken the carriage?'

`No, but that's an eye-catching number. It's so big and so flash that he would risk being identified if it were seen near where a woman disappeared. He may go out on foot to grab the girls, then take them back to the stable.'

`If it's him,' Petro dutifully reminded me. But once someone under surveillance does something he isn't supposed to, it's easy to allocate to him the role of the villain you're searching for. Petro was forcing himself not to grow too excited. `Let's not be led astray on this.'

`No. At least it looks as if the tail has stuck with him.'

`He'll get a bonus!' Petro should know that was doubtful in public service. But the man would do a good job. `Damon doesn't, fit!' Petro muttered, but he had a dark look as if he were wondering whether we had somehow missed something vital and Damon was, after all, the man we sought.

All we could do was wait and continue as normal. We were still swapping venues to keep us alert on watch. It was Petro's turn for the Street of the Three Altars, while tonight I took the Temple of the Sun and Moon. He thumped his shoulder in the old legionary salute, then walked off and left me.

It soon grew dark. Above the Circus I could see a faint glow from the thousands of lamps and torches that were lighting the evening spectacles. This time of year the shows could be even more magical than in summer.

It was quieter, much less raucous than the long September evenings of the Roman Games. The Augustales, being closely linked to the Imperial court, tended to be subdued in periods when the court was acting respectably as it was under Vespasian. The applause from the stadium was polite. The musicians were, playing at a measured, almost boring pace, allowing them time to slide up to the right pitch when they squeezed out their notes. I almost preferred them playing flat.

`Uncle Marcus!'

A muffled cry made me start. A long, tightly wrapped cloak did its best to hide my most disreputable nephew, although beneath the hem of the sinister disguise his dirty big feet in their outsize boots were unmistakable to associates.

`Jupiter! It's Gaius ' He was slinking along the dark Temple portico, pressing himself against the pillars and adopting a low crouch, with only his eyes showing..

`Is this where you're watching for that man?'

`Come away from there, Gaius. Don't think you look invisible; you're just attracting attention to yourself.'

`I want to help you.'

Since there seemed no harm in, it, I described Damon and said if Gaius saw him he was to run for me or one of the vigiles. He should be safe. As far as we knew the aqueduct killer had no taste for lads. Anyway, if he smelt our unwashed Gaius he would soon have second thoughts.

I begged my nephew when he grew tired of surveillance; to go home and look after Helena for me. She would keep him out of trouble. After a few whines about unfairness he crept off, still stalking shadows. Groaning, I watched him start to walk with an exaggerated stride, practising giant steps. A child at heart, he was now playing the old game of stepping on cracks in the pavement in case a bear ate him. I could have told him, it was avoiding the cracks that mattered.

It was to be a night of irritations, apparently. I had hardly freed myself from Gaius when a new scourge sidled out of the shadows. `What's this, Falco?'

'Anacrites! In the' name of the gods, will you lose yourself, please?'

'On observation?'

`Shut up!'

He squatted down on the temple steps, like a layabout watching the crowds. He was too old and too swankily styled to pass muster for an off-duty altar boy. But he had the gall to say, `You really stand out up here on your own, Falco.'

`If idiots like you would just leave me alone I could lounge against a pillar with a fistful of cold rissole looking like a lad who's waiting for a friend.'

'You're in the wrong gear,' he pointed out. `I could spot you as a plant from half a street away. You look ready for action. So what's moving tonight?'

`If you're staying at this temple, then I'm moving!'

He stood up slowly. `I could help, you know.'

If we lost the killer because I turned down his offer, nobody in officialdom would accept the simple plea that considered him an idiot. Anacrites was the Chief Spy. He was on sick leave, reallocated to light duties at the water board, but ultimately he worked for the establishment, just like me.

All the same, if Anacrites caught the killer because I passed him a clue, then Petronius Longus would strangle me. I could cope with that, but not the other things Petro would do to me first.

`We're still on general watch: any man who looks at women suspiciously. Especially if he has transport.'

`I'll keep my eyes open.'

`Thanks, Anacrites.' I managed to say it without bile rising.

To my relief he moved off, though he was heading on a course that would bring him to the Street of the Three Altars and Petro. Well, Petro could handle Anacrites.

At least I thought he could. However, unknown to me, my stalwart partner was no longer there.

It was a dreary night. It seemed more tedious than usual. At regular intervals the applause rippled skywards from the, Circus. Bursts of ear-splitting music from the cornu bands disturbed my weary reverie: A slow trickle of exiting ticket holders began early.

The crowds started to disperse more quickly than, they had after the Ludi Romani, as if people sensed the approaching chill of autumn evenings, though in fact a warm j and sunny day was, ending in a perfect late summer night. I served my watch beneath swarms of bats, and then under the stars.

Enjoying the night too, the crowds slowed up again. Men suddenly discovered a need for one more drink in a bar. Women lingered, chatting, though eventually they flung their bright stoles around them – for effect rather than necessity on this balmy night- shook out the creases from their clinging skirts and strolled off amid plenty of chaperons. The

Augustales were very restrained Games. Too respectable for the hardcore rabble. Too staid for the keenest race-goers. Lacking the pagan edge of longer-established series whose histories of spilt blood went back for centuries. Honouring a man-made, self-made god lacked the gut attraction of the old Games that had been inaugurated under more ancient, more mysterious deities.

Strange rites had been enacted, however, for instance a visit to the, second-day events by five pistachio-chewing, mulsum-swigging, parasol-wielding, late-staying, man-baiting members of the Braidmakers' Old Girls. Their leader was the loudest, crudest, brightest, boldest wench that I had seen all night. She was, of course, Marina: the fast fickle mother of my favourite niece.

`Oh, Juno – it's Falco, girls!' How could anyone so beautiful in repose become so raucous when she spoke? Easily, in Marina's' case. Just as well, perhaps. Armed with

breeding and refinement too, she would have been desperately dangerous. `Let's chase him around the Temple and see who- can rip his tunic off'