When I reached home, I saw that Helena Justina must be in bed. A dim taper provided a glow by which I found the skip baby in a basket that looked as if it came from Ennianus across the road. Helena had tucked the child up safely; somehow she must have fed him too, for he was placid, though whimpering slightly. I picked him up and took him out to the balcony to say goodnight to Rome. He smelt clean now, and slightly milky. He had a little burp on my shoulder; I joined in with a nicely controlled belch, showing him how to do it properly.
After I put him back I noticed a bowl of cold fish and lettuce left on the table for me. I ate, pouring myself a cup of water. I blew out his taper to save the baby from fire, then found my way in darkness to my own bed.
Helena must have been asleep, but she stirred as I crawled in beside her. Somehow she realised how deeply disturbed my talk with Titus had made me. She held me while I told her the story, and calmed me down as I started to rant.
`Why do I always have to get the filthy jobs?'
`You're an informer. Finding unpleasant information is what you do.'
`Maybe I'm tired of being despised. I'm tired of being a fool to myself. Maybe I should change my work.'
`To do what?' Helena murmured, in a reasonable tone. `Do you see yourself selling purses or plucking ducks?'
`I hate women who reprove me with their sensible attitude when I'm trying to curse madly!'
`I know you do. I love you even when you hate me. Go to sleep,' she said, wrapping herself around me so I could no longer jump about in the bed. I sighed, submitting to her good sense. About three breaths later I dropped off into a heavy slumber. In my dreams I knew that Helena Justina was lying awake, worrying for me over what I had to do.
By that time the first victim would already have been tortured and murdered, and his body dumped.
XXVIII
PETRO'S WHISTLE WOKE me from the street. Within the apartment it was still dark.
We had been friends so long he could rouse me even from outside and six flights down. I knew it was him. When I dragged myself to the balcony parapet and looked over, he was standing below with one of the foot patrol. I could tell from the top of his head that he was cursing me for taking so long to appear. I whistled back and he glanced up. He waved urgently. I didn't stop to shout questions, but ran down to him, pulling on clothes as I went.
`Morning, Petro. No problem with your cat, I hope?'
He growled. `Stollicus was right, Falco! You're an irritating, insolent, dozy dog.'
`Stollicus just misunderstood my charm. What's up?'
`Body in the Forum Boarium. Sounds like problems.'
I let my curiosity ride. In the time it had taken me to come downstairs, Petro and the foot patroller had already strolled impatiently halfway along the lane. The three of us walked briskly to the end of Fountain Court, then hurried downhill, picking up Fusculus from his house. Petro must have banged on his door on the way to collect me and he was waiting for us, rotund and unreasonably bright for the time of day.
`Morning, chief. How's the cat?'
`Fusculus, I'm not in the mood.'
Neither Fusculus nor the vigilis who was with us grinned. Petro's men knew how to irritate a senior officer without needing to smirk.
At the end of the Clivus Publicus we saw Martinus emerging from his tenement, summoned by another member of the vigiles. `Don't ask about the cat,' warned Fusculus. Martinus lifted a wry eyebrow in a significant fashion and said nothing in a way that drove Petro mad. Martinus was allowed a grin, since he had had to forgo the joke. Petronius, who had the longest legs amongst us, lengthened his stride so the rest of us were forced to step out.
It was barely dawn. The pale light, empty streets and our echoing footfalls increased the air of urgency. We came down past the Temple of Ceres into the damp grey mist along the river.
`Why does this always happen before I've had my breakfast?' Petro grumbled.
`They dump the corpse in the dark, then the dawn patrol discovers it at first light,' Martinus explained. Petronius had not needed him to say this. Martinus went in for pedantry. As a result Petronius went in for thinking that Martinus needed to be washed out with a violent enema.
It crossed my mind that I could do Petro a favour by naming his deputy as a bribe-taker and having him removed. In fact, if my interest in truth had inclined to the inaccurate, I could have wreaked havoc in the watch. I could finger anyone I took against; it would be hard to disprove. Even though none of them knew the position, I felt sour.
`Petro, they do it on purpose, to stop you enjoying your morning… Do we know who this dumped corpse is?' I asked.
Petronius glanced back at the patrolman who had been with him at Fountain Court. `Not yet,' Petro said. He seemed to be keeping something back.
`Who found the remains?'
`One of the Sixth's patrols. It's in their patch.' That explained Petro's restrained attitude. He kept his council in front of men from another cohort. But he did condescend to mutter, `There seems to be a connection with the Emporium.'
We had reached the scene of the crime – or at least where the victim had ended up. Our pace slowed and we left further questions to answer themselves.
The Forum Boarium lies in the Eleventh region, immediately below the Capitol, between the river and the starting-gate end of the Circus Maximus. It is, part of the Velabrum. Once the marsh where Romulus and Remus were supposedly found by the shepherd, it has a long history. There must have been a landing place and a market here since long before Romulus grew up and identified the Seven Hills as an ideal development site. The rectangular Temple of Portunus marked the ancient use as a harbour of the riverbank between the Aemilian and Sublician bridges. The diminutive round Temple of Hercules Victor was later, a cute initiative in marble that dated from the time when shrines started to become decorative and, according to my grandfather, morals declined.
The meat market had its own decidedly off-putting flavour. Owing to the presence of the body it had not yet been set up for the day, which made it appear even shabbier. There was a mess of hurdles everywhere. I never liked walking through it, for the putrid smell of drying animal blood always hung about. The disgusting odour filled the air this morning so strongly I felt sick.
Right in the centre of the area a small group of fire-watchers were conversing in a huddle near a body on the ground. Further away a couple of street-sweepers stood gawping, leaning on flatheaded brooms. Market traders, kept back from their normal business, hung about talking in low voices, some of them warming their hands around little cups of hot spiced wine. The first arrivals of cattle were jammed in a pen on the river-side. They were lowing with distress; maybe they sensed even more trouble than the slaughter that awaited them.
We walked across to the corpse. The vigiles drew back and watched us as we looked down at their find. The two who had come to fetch us joined their colleagues. As they let officers take charge of their discovery they were wary, and disbelieving of our so-called expertise. We inspected the body in silence. It was a bad experience.
We were looking at a man, age indeterminate, probably not young. He lay on his front, with arms and legs neatly outstretched like a starfish – not the attitude of any accidental death. We could see at once that he had been tortured. He was barefoot, wearing what might once have been a white tunic. The tunic was almost completely soaked in blood. Its material also bore signs of what seemed to be scorching. There were marks of a thrashing on his calves. His arms were badly bruised and had been slashed with knives. People with perverted natures had really enjoyed themselves here, and their victim must have died slowly. We could see nothing above the neck. At some point during his terrible adventure last night, his head had been crammed inside a large bronze pot. The pot was still on the corpse.