`I bet.'

`There's been a misunderstanding, one that concerns you.'

`What's new?'

`No, listen,' he burst out excitedly. `We owe you an apology.'

`I'm all ears, Quintus.'

Then he told us that while we had been dining at the Camillus house last night a strange messenger had called. He brought a note, which the Senator's secretary took in and read. Since there was a family party in progress, the secretary dealt with it himself. The note asked for money for the return of the child; the child's name was unfamiliar to the scribe. He angrily sent the messenger away, and only when the strange story was mentioned this morning had Camillus Verus realised the truth. Luckily we had been talking about Tertulla during our visit.

`Jupiter! At least we can tell Galla she's probably alive. But what a cheek! Helena Justina, someone has been trying to put pressure on your father to ransom my niece!' As if our relationship did not entail enough embarrassments.

Needless to say, no clues had been retained. The ransom note had been thrust back at the seedy messenger; there was no useful description of the man; and nobody had watched to see which way he went after he was turned out of the house. Maybe the kidnappers would try again. Maybe they would have the sense to approach Helena Justina or me. Maybe they would lose patience, and just hand Tertulla back.

Maybe.

XLVI

AT THE THIRTEENTH-SECTOR patrol house moods were as dour as mine. It had been a quiet night on the Aventine. A normal one, anyway. Apart from eighteen house fires, arson in a grain warehouse, a rash of burglaries, several street fights related to the festival of the Armilustrium, three suicides dragged from the Tiber, and two more angry women whose nicely airing counterpanes had been stolen from balcony parapets, nothing had disturbed the peace.

I told Petro what we had discovered about the kidnaps, and he told me what I could do with my news.

`Don't fob me off. Tertulla is an official case, Petro. Galla demands an enquiry.'

`She's on our daily list.'

`Damn the list. This needs a vigorous follow-up.'

`Give me a name or a suspect house and I'll send in men.'

`It's someone with good information. It's someone who knows enough to connect my ghastly sister's snotty truant with the fact that my girlfriend comes from a family with status.' Not enough information, however, to realise that the illustrious Camilli had no spare cash.

They could have heard it at any barber's or breadshop.'

Are you sure? Someone out on the streets knows more than Helena's father's secretary does. He sent the runner away!'

`I presume you've made sure next time he'll put a leg ring on the messenger and pass him to us.'

`She's a seven-year-old girl. She ought to be a priority.'

`My priority is set by Rubella. My priority is eliminating the gangs.'

His scowl told me different. Petro had fathered girls himself. He knew all the doubts and dreads when a female child went missing.

He quietened down, told me Helena had done splendidly over questioning the other families, and remarked that I didn't deserve her. With her help, and now the attempt to involve her father, at least we knew what was going on.

`That's no consolation to my sister, and you know it!'

Petro promised that as soon as he had time he would look into it. As things were, he would never have time. We both knew that.

There had been no more raids and no more murders. That was a relief yet it meant we had no more to go on. Petronius and the squad were back with the dire, depressing task of flogging once more through old evidence. Worrying at empty details. Trying to tease an extra ounce of significance from useless facts.

`Where's the black boy?' Petro demanded suddenly. `The Nonnius slave?'

`With Porcius.'

`Then where's Porcius?'

Porcius was summoned from fending off counterpane victims. He came into the interrogation room nervously. He must have known Petro was the calmest man on the Aventine, but he could sense short temper tingling in the air like the night before a blinding storm.

`I thought I told you to make friends with the squealer's attendant?'

`Yes, chief. I'm doing it.'

`Well?'

`He's very timid, chief.'

`I don't care if he wets himself every half-hour. Mop him dry and keep up the pressure. I want to know what he saw.' `He talks a lot of gibberish, chief.'

`We can find a translator if he lacks Latin – ' `It's not his Latin – '

`Don't nit-pick. Porcius, this is Rome. We can find a trustworthy translator for any language in the world.'

`Chief, he's just terrified.' Like himself, Porcius could have said.

`So he's no use? I don't accept it. Surely if he was hiding right under the couch where we found him he could have glimpsed a few feet. Did he hear anything said? Can he not suggest bow many abductors came to the house? Were they talking any foreign languages?'

Porcius blinked a bit, but pulled himself together. He must have.acquired some feeling of responsibility for the tiny slave who had been placed in his care. Now he tried standing up to Petro – not a good idea. `Chief, I'm working on him. I've got a plan to lure him into talking usefully. He was brave enough the night it happened, actually; he must have gone into shock afterwards. He loved his master. He was loyal. So far I've found out that when Nonnius was taken, the boy ran after the group who grabbed him -'

Listening from the sidelines, I felt myself wince. Petronius Longus leapt to his feet. Already under stress, he picked up the last sentence and broke into a froth. `What's this? I don't believe I heard you!'

Porcius realised his error and stopped.

Petronius had needed an outlet for his frustration. The well-meaning recruit made an easy target. Petro was beside himself. `How long have you been holding this information, Porcius? Are you looking for early retirement? We have dead men and stripped buildings all over Rome, and you're prancing about like a circus horse "working on" the only witness! Get this straight: if you serve in this cohort's investigation unit, you're in a team, a team headed by me. You don't bury yourself in private schemes, you report every detail – relevant or irrelevant – to your colleagues and to me!'

`You'll burst something,' I muttered.

`Stuff you, Falco!' The interruption had calmed him slightly. Even so he slammed his hand against the wall. It must have hurt. `Porcius, don't stand there buckling like a bale of felt. I want to hear exactly what the slave has told you – every detail – and you'd better be fast. After that I'm going to hang you from the Probus Bridge by your boot-thongs just low enough to drown you slowly when the tide comes in!'

He was still so angry he had to do something more vigorous. It was either hit Porcius or break the furniture. He seized a stool and flung it splintering against the door.

There was a long silence. The entire station house grew still. The normal ranting of victims pleading for urgent enquiries and the racket from last night's prisoners abruptly stopped. The prisoners thought some suspect was being hurled around a cell. They thought they might be next.

Porcius had his eyes closed. He knew if anyone got pounded it was going to be him.

Fusculus and Martinus, who were tough nuts, appeared in the doorway looking openly curious. I commented gently, `What with the seating that's broken by flying boulders thrown in by your neighbours and the bum-props you destroy yourselves, the Fourth's office equipment bill must be rocketing these days.' Petronius, red in the face and ashamed of the lapse, fought to calm down.

Porcius, to his credit, did not waver. He was white as ash. I could see his knuckles shining as he gripped his fists beside his tunic seams. He had just been bawled at and attacked by a man who was famous for never losing his temper. He knew Fusculus and Martinus were playing about behind him, pretending to give his achievement admiring looks.