`As bad as it could be.'
`What's happened?' demanded Junia.
I ignored her. `Was the man drowned, Gaius?'
`No. Thrown into the keel of an old barge that had been stuck on the silt for months. One of our lads noticed footprints on a mudbank, and thought he might have uncovered some smuggling. He had a bad fright. There were no hidden bales, just this: a corpse hidden out on the barge. Whoever dumped him probably thought no one would ever go out there to look.'
`You mean it made a safer hiding place than the ocean, which might have washed the corpse ashore?'
`Looked as if the fellow had been strangled, but it was hard to tell. Nobody wanted to touch the body. We had to, of course,' Gaius added hastily. `Once discovered it couldn't be left there.' Nice to know that in the customs realm the highest standards of public hygiene ruled.
`Was the disc actually on the corpse?'
Something in Gaius' manner made me wish I had not asked. He flushed slightly. Customs have their moments. Screwing money from reluctant importers they have to face plenty of aggravation, but it usually stops at shouting and obscenities. Holding back a shudder he confirmed the worst. `We spotted the thongs. I'm afraid the disc had been rammed in the poor fellow's mouth. It looked as if in the process of killing him, someone had tried to make him eat it.' I swallowed air. In my mind I was seeing a boyish, cheery face with bright eyes and an enthusiastic grin. Gaius enquired, `Is anyone missing?'
`No one the cohort knew was lost.'
`So was he one of theirs then?'
`Yes.' I was terse. I stood up again. `I knew him briefly. This is very important, Gaius – for the cohort and for Rome. I'll come with you to see Rubella.'
I refolded the cloth gently around its significant contents. Gaius put out his hand to take it back, but I closed my fist too fast for him.
We found- Marcus Rubella at the cohort headquarters. I was surprised. It was by then the hour when most people were thinking about relaxation and food. Mentally I had had Rubella listed as the type who worked set hours – the minimum he could get away with. I had imagined he would slide out with his oil flask and strigil, bidding his clerks farewell the minute the bathhouse stokers started thrusting wood into their stoves. I thought he probably left his work behind him then, and kept a clear mind all through dinner and his recreation hours.
But he was alone in the office, a still, brooding presence, staring at documents. When we first walked in he barely reacted. When I told him there was trouble he opened a shutter, as if to see the problem more clearly. For a brief moment he seemed the type who faced up to things after all.
Gaius Baebius relayed his story, prompted by me when he tried to slow down. Rubella made no fuss. Nor did he decide on any action, beyond some comment that he would write in sympathy to the family. Maybe he liked to brood first – or more likely he just loved to let events roll forwards without throwing in his own spear.
`Any idea where Petronius Longus is, Falco?'
I had a good idea, and I preferred to keep it private. `He's following up an interview. I can track him down.'
`Good.' This was the sunflower-seed eater, neutral and standing well back. `I'll leave it to you to tell him then.' Thanks, tribune!
Gaius Baebius and I left the building. With the usual difficulty I managed to shed my brother-in-law, who always liked to cling on when he was not wanted. As the streets grew darker, I walked somberly from the Twelfth sector, where the Fourth had their headquarters, and down the hill to the Circus side of the Aventine. I could hear gulls squabbling over the Tiber wharves. They must always be there, but tonight I noticed them with resentment. Tonight was not the time to be reminded of the sea.
Everywhere seemed full of excited parties going out to dinner. Horse-faced women shrieked. Crass men chivied their trains of slaves to trot along faster. All shopkeepers looked malevolent. All passers-by had the air of would-be thieves.
A meek porter admitted me to Milvia's elegant house. I was told Florius was still out. No one seemed perturbed by it, even though respectable householders normally show up at home in the evening. If he was going out to dinner he ought at least to change his tunic – and some wives would expect to be taken along. No one had much idea when they might expect him back either. It seemed routine. Warily I asked whether an officer of the vigiles had visited that evening, and was told he was talking to Milvia in private.
As I feared. Another allegedly respectable husband was marauding off the leash. Petronius Longus could behave like a real boudoir bandit.
I was shown once more into the salon with the thin-legged Egyptian furniture. No one else was there. The house seemed very quiet, with not much going on. The whole time I was there Milvia, the young lady of the house, failed to appear.
I waited. After a few minutes Petronius walked in. He was wearing a green tunic that I had last seen the night he and Silvia dined at our apartment. He had bathed and changed, but there was no special odour of unguents. I might have been wrong; this was hardly the debonair adulterer at work. He looked perfectly normal – calm, steady, utterly the man in charge. My abrupt appearance here gave him some warning. We were such close friends he immediately knew far more than I had done when I set eyes on Gaius Baebius.
But I would still have to tell him.
‘What's up, Falco?' Petro's voice was quick and light.
`You won't like this.'
`Can things get worse?'
`A lot worse. Tell me, do all members of the vigiles carry identity tags?'
He stared, then took from a pouch on his belt a small bone counter, exactly like the one from Ostia. He let me examine it. On the face was the symbol COH IV, surrounded by ROMA and PREF VIG. On the reverse, being a neat, systematic character, Petro had scratched in full his three names.
`You don't wear it?'
`Some do. I don't like cords around my neck – villains can grab at them and throttle you.' Well he was right about that.
I gave him back his tag. Then I took from my tunic the other disc, handing it over in silence. By then he was expecting sorrow… His face had set into melancholy hollows. He turned the bone and read the name: LINUS.
Petronius sat on one of the delicate couches, leaning forwards, knees apart, hands clasped between them, holding the disc. I told him what had happened, as far as the customs force had worked it out. When I finished I walked over to a folding door and stood staring out at a garden while Petro absorbed the facts and tried to cope.
`This is my fault.'
I had known he would say that. It was nobody's fault, but taking the blame was the only way Petronius could handle his grief. `You know that's wrong.'
`How can get them, Falco?'
`I don't know. Look, we can't even start yet; there have to be formalities. Rubella is going to write a letter of sympathy to the relations, but you know what that will sound like.' We had both seen how officialdom informs bereaved families of death.
`Oh dear gods! That isn't any good.' Petronius roused himself. `I'll have to go. I'll have to tell his wife.'
`I'll come with you,' I said. I hardly knew Linus, but I had met him once and even the brief memory affected me. I was involved.
Petro made no move yet. He was still struggling. `I'm trying not to think about what this means.'