"Nothing, trust me on it." I was a realist.
"Everyone has a weak spot. Everyone can be bought." Bereavement, or something, was making Petronius sentimental. Gangsters' enforcers must be the hardest men in the criminal underworld, and if Splice and Pyro had come from Rome, they were the worst of their type. "This is the end of the world. It's frontier rules," Petro insisted. "Frontinus could sink them in a bog and no questions asked. If their masters place bail for them, we'll know exactly who their masters are. So they could be abandoned. They know they can be replaced; there is always some creep offering to become the gang's new bagman. Pyro and Splice know it, Falco: this is dead-meat town for them if things start going wrong."
"Oh yes! I'm taking notes," I scoffed, "for when we interrogate these babes! Cradle stories should frighten them witless. Whoever mashed Epaphroditus is obviously a nervous type-"
Petronius sighed. "You suggest something then."
"What can I say? Arrest Splice and Pyro-then watch what happens. That's as far as I can go, like you."
"It's pathetic," he said bleakly.
"Yes."
We both knew it was all we had.
???
Before I left to go and see the governor, I said, "Ask me who told me about the Verovolcus death."
"Who told you?" Petronius demanded obediently.
"One of those gladiator girls."
"Oh, them!" Petronius gave a short mocking laugh. He had temporarily forgotten that he saw me being led off by the fighters in frocks. "So they captured you outside the brothel. Now you're here, unscathed. How did you escape their clutches, lucky one?"
"Helena Justina came and fetched me safely home."
He laughed again, though he could read the trouble in my face. "So which one coughed?"
"She's calling herself Amazonia, but we know better. Remember Chloris?"
He looked blank, though not for long. He let out a shout. "You are joking! That Chloris? Chloris?" He shuddered slightly. "Does Helena know?"
I nodded. Then, like the two boys we had been years ago in Britain, we both sucked our teeth and winced.
XXXII
A sunlit street. Not much of a street by Roman standards, but feebly shaping up. It is morning, though not early. Whatever is happening has had to be approved, planned out, and put in hand.
A back-alley bar has a portrait of a short-legged, punk-faced Ganymede offering his lopsided ambrosia cup to some invisible sex-mad Jupiter. Waiters from the Ganymede stand halfway down the street, in conversation with a waiter from another place, the Swan. Its painted sign shows a huge randy duck pinning down a naked girl. All the waiters are talking about a dead baker. Everyone in the streets today is talking about him. By tomorrow he will be old news, but today on this fine morning, his grim fate is the main talking point.
Even so, the morning glows. There is little feeling of menace, just a faint lowing from a stable somewhere, the scent of eggs frying, a smooth-haired dog with a long snout, scratching herself. Between the pantiled roofs of the ramshackle properties is a narrow glimpse of clear blue sky, subtly more mellow than blue skies in Italy.
On the opposite side of the street from the two bars, a locksmith comes to his doorway to speak to a neighbor. They too are probably discussing the dead baker. They glance across at the group of gossiping waiters, but do not join them. After subdued words, the locksmith shakes his head. His neighbor does not linger.
The locksmith returns to his booth, and a man walks toward the Ganymede. He is confident and worldly, his pace jaunty. As he approaches the bar, a small group of soldiers appear out of nowhere. Swiftly they back the man against a wall, hands up. He submits to a search, laughing. He has done this before. He knows they cannot touch him. Even when they march him away, he is jaunty. The waiters, having watched what happened, return at once to their individual bars.
At the Ganymede, soldiers step out and arrest them. A man-tall, broad-shouldered, calm, brown-haired-goes in to search the joint. Another- sturdy, efficient, curly dark hair, handsome-identifies himself to the soldiers and follows the first inside the bar. Later they emerge, with nothing. Disappointed, they hold a short discussion, apparently about tactics. The bar is sealed. A soldier stays on guard.
The street is peaceful.
Elsewhere, at a barber's, a customer is in the chair half shaved. Two men in plain clothes, though with military bearing, come up quietly and speak to him. He listens courteously. He removes the napkin from under his chin, apologizing to the barber, who steps back, looking anxious. The customer shrugs. He places coins in his barber's hand, waving away objections, then he goes with the two officers who have sought him out. He has the air of an influential person who has found himself the victim of a serious mistake. His pained demeanor shows that he is too sophisticated, and perhaps too important, to create a public fuss about this error. It will be sorted. Once his explanation has been accepted by people in authority, there will be trouble. There is a faint implication that some high-handed fool will pay dearly.
The disconcerted barber returns to his business. The next customer stands up quietly but does not take the shaving seat. He says a few words. The barber looks surprised, then scared; he goes away with the man, who has dark curly hair and a firm step. That shop too is closed up and sealed.
Another street lies peaceful now. The operation has gone well so far: Pyro and Splice, and some of their associates, have been lifted on the orders of the governor.
XXXIII
I had watched the two men being picked up. Petronius and I had searched the Ganymede: no luck. If there had ever been money or anything else kept there, it had recently been removed. In the room where Splice and Pyro lodged we found only personal possessions of a meager kind.
Cursing, we made plans. Petronius Longus would lean on the ferryman for information about the boat that had dropped the baker in the Thamesis. He would also enlist the help of Firmus to try to discover where the attack on the baker had occurred. We felt it must be near the river-in a warehouse, probably. There would be bloodstains.
I would see what happened about Splice and Pyro. The governor's men would supervise their interrogation, but I expected to deal with the ancillaries: waiters and barber, plus any other hangers-on the army brought in. Soldiers were picking up the staff at the bar where Verovolcus died. Word had also been sent to Chloris to come in and make her deposition to the governor.
I followed the arresting parties back to the residence. The enforcers were Placed in separate cells. Neither was told the reason for his arrest. We left them to stew. They would be interviewed tomorrow. Neither knew the other had been detained-though they may have deduced it-and apart from the people who saw them being taken, nobody was informed by us that we had Pyro and Splice in custody. The waiters and the barber were put through preliminary interviews the same night. All refused to tell us anything. The barber may even have been innocent.
Word must have raced back to the gang leaders. The enforcers' lawyer came to importune the governor in midafternoon, only a few hours after the arrests. We already knew the lawyer: it was Popillius.
Frontinus had Hilaris with him for this confrontation; I made sure I was there too. I felt Popillius had arrived too quickly and overplayed it. Frontinus must have thought so too, and took him up on it: "A couple of common criminals, aren't they? Why do you want to see me?"
"I am told they are held incommunicado, sir. I need to consult my clients."
When I first knew Julius Frontinus, he seemed an amiable buffer with an interest in arcane branches of public engineering works. Given command of a province, and its army, he had grown into his role fast. "Your clients are well housed; they will be fed and watered. They have to await the normal interview process."