Nemesis

'My father did business with them, as I told you; Geminus knew them for a long time… So whatever happened?'

'A boundary dispute flared up. I knew about it – - squabbles have been grumbling on for years. Some of their neighbours are notoriously difficult to deal with. A few months ago cattle strayed on to Uncle's land and did a lot of damage. Modestus likes to assert his rights – he went to have it out. He never came back. Aunt Primilla is a spunky woman herself; she set off to find him. She too has never been seen since.'

'These neighbours are the Claudii you mentioned?… So have you reported it? Called in the authorities?'

'I did my best. It was a long time before I heard anything. Once I knew my folks had gone missing, I had to get someone to look after my business before I could go over to Antium. I managed to interest the local magistrate. A posse went to investigate. They found nothing. The Claudii all denied ever seeing my relatives. So nothing can be done.'

'That sounds feeble!'

'Ah well… it's the badlands, Falco. Strangers don't go there.'

'What – - upset the web-footed marsh sprites and they drown you?' I was amazed. 'Troublemaking is a homely Pontine tradition and everyone has to put up with it?'

As I raved, Silanus looked boot-faced. 'The fact is, Falco, I know perfectly well what happened. My aunt and uncle upset the wrong people and have paid for it. Nobody can find any trace of them. No one locally saw anything. There is no evidence. So I'm not going to tackle the Claudii and be made to disappear myself, am I? So yes, that is how bullies get away with it – but no, I will not leave my children orphans.'

I asked if he wanted to hire me to investigate. He said no. Partly, that was a relief. I was reluctant to do country work. Especially in the Pontine Marshes. That's suicide.

This would not have done for me, yet I did understand why Sextus Silanus was letting the mystery rest. He was practical. How many times had I advised clients to take such a sensible route (and how many had ignored me)?

Regarding the money Pa owed, we agreed that I would hand it over and call the account closed. Silanus would bank the cash at the Temple of Juno Sospes, until enough time passed for him to feel he could have it himself. Realistically, that would be soon. One glance at all the children he was bringing up said it. And I did not blame him.

He came out to collect the money. Shooing his freckled infants off the cart, he confirmed he was a single-handed parent; he had six under fourteen.

I bought a load of his fine terracotta wares. It would pay a few food bills for him, and anyway I liked the stuff. Albia helped me choose.

As Silanus waved us off, he asked, with a desperation I could almost forgive, 'Your daughter seems a very nice young lady – Does she have a husband, Falco?'

'Get lost!' Albia and I roared in unison.

Bad timing, Silanus.

XI

This strange disappearance of two respectable art dealers continued to haunt me. Driving allows you time to muse. Still, I had concerns of my own. If Silanus wanted to abandon hope, it was depressing, but his own affair. I went on my way, relieved of the cash and freed up to sell the statues. The curious episode was over. Or was it? I should have known better.

The Via Appia is a legendary highway built four hundred years ago by Appius Claudius. It runs down across the Pontine Marshes, straight as a javelin for fifty miles between Rome and Tarracina. That entails causeways where it crosses swamps, but the northern part is wide, well-paved and, if your donkey can summon the energy, pleasantly fast. I had hired a decent working beast; she didn't bite or he down in the gutter, though nor did she exert herself. We trickled sedately down a sliproad and hit the famous highway just before it climbed the Alban Hills, passing Lakes Nemi and Albanus.

Giving a friendly lecture to Albia (who barely responded) I had to admit that Appius, a great builder who also constructed the first Roman aqueduct, was better than average, for a patrician. As a freeborn city boy, I found some of his policies questionable – - allowing the sons of manumitted slaves to enter the Senate and extending the vote to rural folk who owned no land. Still, Appius Claudius also published the law, stopping the priests from keeping it as their private mystery. That made him a patron of informers.

We went north for ten miles. With only another two or three to go, we reached the tombs among the stone pines that line the approach to Rome's Twelfth District. On a bright and baking afternoon this sometimes lonesome vicinity made for good travelling. We hit shade. I was cheerful; I could detect the smell of home and the donkey could sniff her stable. Albia just snuffled miserably but soon I could hand her over to Helena.

Then we ran into the vigiles. Since the Twelfth is looked after by the Fourth Cohort, these were a section of Petro's men.

Outside the city boundary, discipline evaporated. Some, inevitably, were lying under pine trees for a nap. However, others applied themselves fairly well. They told me they were on the case Petronius had told me about: the corpse dumped in a mausoleum. One ritual laying-out was not enough for Petro. Armed with crowbars and a love of violence, his troops were bashing open mausoleums and peering inside for other bodies that ought not to be there. In the crumbly roadside necropolis, many tombs were so ancient nobody knew who built them. They were easy to search, once the vigiles scraped the sleeping vagrants off their worn old entrance steps. Others, even the oldest, were still used by families; thanks to good diet and our nation's virility, some Roman clans had long pedigrees.

One cranky owner must have stipulated he had to be present; I saw Tiberius Fusculus, Petro's trusty, hiding his impatience while the blighted toff fumbled interminably with a padlock. I pulled up the cart. and when Fusculus was free again, he strolled over. He was overweight, hot and red-faced. Albia gave him a drink of water. 'Take it all. Who cares?' She dispensed her generosity with airy fatalism, as if she herself did not care if she died of thirst.

Avoiding Albia's aggression like a wise man, Fusculus told me that no more corpses had been found. 'Well, plenty – -' Fusculus joked,'- – but none we link to the case.'

'Will Petronius pull you off it soon?'

'Not yet, Falco. Obstinate beggar is convinced we have turned up a ritual killer.'

'Then Petronius Longus must sit it out until the next new moon, or there's a "rho" in the month, or the red tunic comes home from the laundry – whatever weird trigger tells this killer it's time for him to shed more gore.'

'Normally,' Fusculus agreed, 'the boss would be happy to lie low. Especially in summer when he likes to get home early to your revered sister and have a nap on their nice sun terrace.'

I was amused. Petro had his eccentric side; he never liked anybody knowing his habits and he had not even told his men that he was living with Maia. They all knew of course. 'What's different?' I asked.

'Sealed lips. State secret.'

'Very grown-up! And are you going to share it?'

'Absolutely bloody not, Falco. This is so utterly sub rosa, one word to you and I'd be spit-roasted with a bunch of oregano pushed up my bum.'

Tired of boys' talk, Albia interrupted. 'I suppose, Tiberius Fusculus, that means Uncle Lucius has not told you his thinking on this?'

He gazed at her almost as speculatively as Silanus had before he asked if she was married. 'Bright girlie. No, Uncle Lucius – tight bastard – - has not revealed his mighty thoughts.'