'That's not it, Marcus. I want you to come back!' I want you to come back!'

Helena took in a breath, not despair, more exasperation. It was no more than if I had gone out in my newest tunic when the streets were muddy. She would let me go to the marshes once I promised to take care. Promises were not worth making in this situation, though for her I stretched the point.

Next morning, Helena and Maia visited apothecaries. A large basket of herbal ointments to keep away flies would be going on the mission 'with us. If we were sensible men we would use them.

If Petro and I were not sensible, our women would find out. So we thanked them politely for caring and agreed to take precautions against dying. 'You are taking swords, aren't you? What's the difference?'

I loved Helena Justina. I wanted to survive with her for many years. But did she think Hercules slathered himself with brimstone and pennyroyal when he departed for his twelve labours? . Actually it was worse. Petronius and I had been supplied with bunches of nettles to hang all around the ox cart, then numerous soapstone boxes of a concoction in which not only pennyroyal but wormwood, rue, sage, tansy, myrtle and spearmint were mingled in an olive oil base. Some individual ingredients were attractively aromatic, but the combination smelt foul.

'I'll use this stuff, if you will,' I told Petro.

He said, anything would be worth it to save us being bitten. For bites, he showed me, our determined women had sent another box. Their sandalwood and lavender bite-salve would scent us like a pair of Pamphyllian dancing masters. We were hard men, but that really terrified us.

XVI.

We detoured to call on Sextus Silanus. We had to pass on the tragic news of his uncle's death. Petronius would explain the circumstances. My role would be to watch this conversation unobserved, judging the nephew's reaction. He had benefited financially from the death. Some investigators would pin the murder straight on him. When motive gives you a quick way to clear up a case, who needs facts?

Silanus came to the shop door, saw our cavalcade, recognised me, and expected the worst. Petronius Longus always looked as if he had a grim purpose. His bearing and sombre face gave away the reason for our visit. The numbers in our group also indicated that Modestus and his fate were at last of official concern.

We had the ox cart, containing some of us and our baggage. On dilapidated mules were a couple of Petro's men, all he could safely scrounge from duty: Auctus looked too fragile to fight fires but he had been in the cohort for years and everyone accepted him; he was riding Basiliscus, a skeletal beast with a bent ear and bad breath. Ampliatus had an eye missing and rode a brindled, knock-kneed mule called Corex who kept running away. Although the vigiles are ex-slaves, most were not quite so off-putting; these were the only two men who would volunteer for our destination.

Petronius had left Fusculus behind in charge, though we wished we could have had that steady fellow with us. Somebody had to do Marcus Rubella's vital job; at least, that would be Rubella's view.

In charge of the cart, Petro's brother had a similar relaxed driving style, holding the reins in one hand loosely and letting the ox make his own pace. Otherwise there was little resemblance between them. Maybe there had been a frisky lupin-seller in the neighbourhood just before Rectus was born, though I did not risk the joke. Rectus was older, shorter, of squashy shape and slumped posture, an unsociable fellow who seemed hard to like. They had had very little to do with one another for years. I was sure Petro once told me his brother was a bit of a fixer and mixer, though he gave no sign of it. Perhaps age or the marsh fever had slowed him down. When anyone asked Rectus about the fever (which we did frequently, because we were all petrified), he just grunted; if pushed further, he let out a sardonic laugh and turned away. I decided not to discuss him with Petronius. Let him volunteer a comment if he wanted to.

Completing our party was a brother of Helena's, Justinus. I worked with him in Rome and had also taken him on missions in rough country. I knew he would be reliable. Helena had begged me not to expose him to danger, but he was no longer a lad; it was his choice. He was keen to escape the bad atmosphere at home, caused by his brother's new wife and pushy father-in-law. On this trip Justinus had brought his barmy batman, Lentullus. The dopiest, clumsiest ex-legionary in the Empire, Lentullus was devoted to Quintus in a wide-eyed way. He limped badly on one leg and would probably try to tame the Pontine flies as pets.

I planned that if we ran into hostility from local dignitaries, resentful of imperial interference, then Camillus Justinus, as a senator's son with the smart travel clothes and uppercrust accent, could be shoved forward to charm them.

We first tackled officialdom at Lanuvium. I was right; we were given the brush-off. If there's one thing I hate about travel outside Rome it is small-town magistrates who think they count for something. The petty toffs who ran Lanuvium had so little sense of proportion they called their town council the Senate and their magistrate a Dictator. That was the title used in ancient times for a leader with unrestricted powers who was called upon to rescue the nation in an emergency. On mention of the Claudii, the Lanuvium Dictator rapidly assumed other emergency powers: declaring that this problem was outside his jurisdiction. He kindly suggested we try Antium instead.

He had cow dung on his boots and I wasn't certain he could read -yet he managed to dismiss Laeta's request for civic aid as briskly as if he was swatting wasps on a saucer of relish.

'I'm getting a feel for this,' Petronius remarked in annoyance as we left.

'You mean,' suggested Justinus, 'it feels like stepping in a slurry pit?'

'And helplessly falling over!'

We spent the next half-hour despondently embroidering this with such details as falling in the manure while wearing your best cloak and with a girl you fancied watching .

Our detour to Lanuvium was partly a waste of time, but we did see Silanus. Petronius had asked him a few questions that confirmed the body found in the tomb was his uncle: a man in his sixties, nearly bald, thin build; usually wearing a lapis signet ring, which had not been found. I saw Petro thinking that the killer might have kept it as a trophy and that if we ever caught up with him, the ring might be good evidence. Her nephew said Livia Primilla was about fifteen years younger; in good health, blue eyes, greying hair, kept herself nicely, wore good clothes and jewellery. Unfortunately, even though they dealt in statues and must know the artistic community, the couple had never commissioned portraits of themselves.

Silanus gave us directions to his uncle and aunt's farm. It was near Satricum, adjacent to land farmed by the Claudius freedmen: 'If you can call what the Claudii do farming.' farming.'

They did own cattle: Silanus said his uncle had a long history of bad relations with them but the most recent ugly incidents began when the Claudii let a rampaging bunch of young bullocks break down a fence. Modestus had an overseer who went to demand compensation for the damage, but was badly beaten up.

Silanus confirmed that Modestus had a hobby of writing angry letters. He had complained directly to the obnoxious Claudii. He also badgered the town council in Antium; those wits'-end worthies may have lost patience with his demands. After he and Primilla disappeared and Silanus appealed for help, the magistrate had to investigate, but his men may not have put much effort into it.

'Some of the Claudii are just loafers; they go into town and act up -minor thefts from homes and businesses, insults, writing their names on walls, guzzling wine then causing a disturbance after dark . . . You know.'

'Everyday life, where we come from,' Petronius said, though he made it clear he was sympathetic.

We were indoors at the time; Silanus went to look outside to check what his children were doing. Lentullus, a big child himself, was talking to them; he had them feeding grass to the ox. 'One or two Claudii have more violent reputations. People don't like anything to do with them.'

'Particular names?' asked Petro.

Silanus shook his head. 'When Modestus was railing, I had my own troubles. It always sounded like exaggeration. Anyway, there never seemed much I could do ...'

'A man called Nobilis has been mentioned.'

'Means nothing to me.' Silanus fell silent. Now he blamed himself for not taking more interest previously.

I said quietly, 'You were right the other day. Why make yourself another victim? Your conscience is clear. Leave it to the professionals.'

I had watched Petronius silently weighing up the nephew as a harassed family man of basic honesty. Turning a piece of terracotta in his big hands, Petro asked, 'A slave brought you the news of your aunt's disappearance - can I speak to him?'

'Syrus. I don't have him,' said Silanus. 'There was a man I owed money to. I handed over the slave to pay off the debt.'

He had paid the butcher. That's how it is. Syrus may have loyally carried out instructions from Primula that had brought him on a day's journey, and the result of his information would make Silanus and his children financially secure. But unlucky Syrus was a slave. His reward for diligence was to be exchanged for half a year's supply of skillet offal.

Our conversation seemed to have finished. But as Silanus saw us off outside, he brought out awkwardly, 'I have to ask - - are you expecting to find Aunt Primilla?'

I let Petronius answer. 'We shall do all we can. You understand that we already suspect what happened. Whether any trace of her remains is a question I can't answer yet. I'm sorry.'

Silanus accepted it. But he had one more worry. We had told him how Modestus died. 'Will she have suffered . . . the same kind of injuries?'

Petronius Longus grasped his shoulders. 'Don't think about it. She won't be suffering now. My advice is, try to live as normally as possible until we report back. Whatever happened to Livia Primilla is long over.'

He would not give fake reassurance, nor could he offer comfort.

We had brought what remained of the late Julius Modestus with us from Rome. In such circumstances, the vigiles used a tame undertaker to cremate the body before it was returned to the family. All Silanus received was a plain urn with the ashes.

Petronius implied the cremation had been carried out when they thought the dead man might never be identified. But I saw the nephew's face. He recognised concern for him: preventing any chance that he or his children might see the decayed, beaten, mutilated and tortured corpse.

XVII.

The butcher in Lanuvium was typical. He was built like an unhealthy boxer, with a cleaver through his belt. A row of meat joints hung along the front of his shop, just where his horrible nitty head would bang into them all day. He had blood on his tunic. It looked and smelt as if it was weeks old so if you ate his meat you would keel over. But if we all avoided the produce of off-putting butchers, we would be stuck with a diet of lettuce leaves and the Empire would be overrun by beefy barbarians.

He no longer possessed the slave Syrus. We groaned, thinking this was the start of an interminable chain of petty debt pay-offs. In Rome it would have been. The butcher would have sweetened a brothel-keeper who then passed on the goods to buy a sack of hay . . .

Sophisticated barter had yet to arrive in Lanuvium. They were simply careless. 'Syrus? I only had him two days. He ran away.'

'Not much of a debt cancellation!' Petronius grinned. 'If I were you, I'd take the old "sleep-with-my-sister" settlement next time.' City wit really goes down well in country districts. The butcher gave him a glare that made me squeamish. Still lost in his joke, Petro appeared to ignore the frosty looks but went on in formal vigiles mode: 'Have you reported your slave as a fugitive, sir?' The 'sir' was satirical, if you knew Petro.

'What's the point?'

'He may turn up.'

'That good-for-nothing is long gone.'

'Well, we do like to have runaways listed properly; apart from being useful if we catch them involved in a felony, it helps deter the next one from trying it if he knows he'll be on a list for the bounty-hunters . . . Where do you think this Syrus is headed? Would he go back home to Antium?'

The butcher was full of bluster and certainty. 'Oh he's chased off where they all go - straight up to the Via Appia, hop on the back of a winecart, and disappear in Rome. They think the streets are paved with gold. Maybe they are. I think I'll go myself one day!'

Petronius Longus remained undaunted. 'Better give me his description and I'll have a docket sent on your behalf in case he's rounded up. You may get him back, sir. The Rome vigiles are adept at spotting country runaways . . .' He implied that agricultural incomers stood out in our sophisticated city. It wasn't true. A loser in flight from a farm looked little different from one on the loose from a town house - well, once the townee had rolled up his smart uniform and shoved it under a bush. 'Let me take down a few details. Height?'

'Middling.'

'Weight?'

'Middling.'

'Distinguishing marks?'

'None visible.' The butcher leered. 'I hadn't got around to inspecting his rude bits!'

'Trained for any fancy duties?'

'General runabout.'

'I suppose,' Petronius deduced, 'he was wearing a rough-sewn, homespun tunic and worn country shoes? Well, thank you for your keen observation, sir. That gives us some very useful points to go on.'

Petro was a po-faced, placid humorist. The butcher could not decide whether he was being mocked or praised.

XVIII.

We could have stayed the night in Lanuvium but we all agreed that somewhere else - - anywhere else - - might suit us better. I remembered there was a hamlet about halfway down to Antium; it would put us well on our way tomorrow, so we headed off there. It was a very ancient settlement, a place that made us feel we had strayed into Old Latium back when it was New. They claimed to have ninety inhabitants; they must have been counting in their goats. I kept expecting to run into the old hero Aeneas, tramping across this low-lying bog that the gods had sent him to colonise, still wearing the loincloth in which he escaped from Troy.

There was a cluster of poor houses, gathered together for company because it was near a crossroads; about a mile further on, a bridge crossed a river. There, a rutted track led off the narrow road. Rectus said the track wandered south, passing close to Satricum, so we could have nipped down there immediately, but we still planned to try in Antium to learn about the official efforts to find Modestus and Primilla. We only expected disdain from another magistrate. But why abandon a well-tried system just because it doesn't work?

A man and his wife conjured up basic meals for travellers. If there were places to stay, we preferred not to investigate. We ate, drank, told stories, then camped out. Next day, the man had gone to check his fig tree, but his wife made us a simple breakfast. Then we pressed on.

At Antium our qualms proved groundless. The magistrate was not going to be the least bit unhelpful; we were not even able to meet the man. His house was locked up and he was away.

'So . . .' Petronius Longus mused thoughtfully. 'If you live in a scenic old town on the coast, when summer comes you still have to go off on holiday?'

'That lummock with the fig tree nipped down here and warned him you were coming,' gloated his brother. This was pretty well the first opinion he had volunteered on anything. The rest of us gazed at Petronius Rectus and carefully kept quiet, as we belatedly assessed him as a crackpot fantasist.

We asked around. That was a lark. Half the people refused to speak to us, the rest said they knew nothing.

After these fruitless forays, we did move on to Satricum. It was another very ancient township, on low-lying ground, right at the edge of the Pontine Marshes. Around this remote crossroads, cultures had clashed for aeons. The warlike Volscians had fought over the archaic place; they probably still lived here. Not only did it feel as if we might bump into a bunch of slant-eyed, smiling Etruscan ancestors, there was an end-of-civilisation atmosphere, brought about by the little town's proximity to the dreaded wetlands.

A tightly built settlement was going about its business. Up on a hill stood a temple to Mater Matuta: the mother of the morning, Eos, Aurora - - the rosy-fingered harbinger who unlocks the gates of heaven so the sun can roll out each day. We climbed the acropolis like good tourists and saw the ancient goddess, chiselled in pitted stone, enthroned and mourning her son Memnon, killed at Troy by Achilles, whose corpse lay across her lap.

She was a goddess of provender as well, and a game girl who had been cursed by the jealous Venus into a habit of taking many lovers (the kind of curse most young girls fervently pray for). The Mater Matuta at Satricum looked a bit weathered for lovers, but had done her job with opening the gates for Helios today. The sky was clear blue and the sun shone brilliantly.

'That's the Pontine deception,' Petronius Rectus informed us gloomily. 'Gorgeous weather, vegetation blooming - death behind every bush.' As a travel companion, the man was a laugh a minute.

We went back to our lodging house, in need of a drink.

It had taken us a while to find an inn that could accommodate seven of us. Satricum might be a crossroads, but most people who came this way must be heading somewhere else. It had little to attract visitors. The main feature was the old temple; that was hardly a unique shrine. Mater Matuta once flourished all across mainland Italy. She had a temple in Rome, right beside the Cattle Market Forum and so close to my house the memory made me homesick.

Perhaps a mother mourning her dead son was a sight I was not yet ready for. Heaviness fell upon me. I lost myself in my own thoughts.

Most of us were spinning out the evening in the inn courtyard.

Auctus and Ampliatus, the two vigiles, were outside on a bench at the roadside. Although they were ex-slaves, we were equals on this trip and the rest of us genuinely wanted to include them; they stubbornly remained aloof. Meanwhile, as Justinus was a senator's son it was his birthright to chat up the girl who had served us. He was, however, unsure whether Lentullus, who had only recently joined his household, would report to his wife Claudia anything he got up to. Petro and I had our wives under control, or so we convinced ourselves; even though flirting with bar staff went against our noble natures, we did the necessary with the waitress, just as we had done for the past twenty years.

We were picking her brains. What did you think I meant, legate?

Because it was the largest roadhouse in the area - the only acceptable inn, it seemed - - this had to be where the posse that came to look for Modestus and Primilla also took a breather. At first the waitress was reluctant to say much. The riders from Antium counted as local to her; we were foreign. Under the curious eye of his older brother, Petronius set about persuading her how much he hated gossip and admired a discreet waitress, but how much more he liked a civic-minded young woman who poured wine so nicely while she revealed all. (All she knew, knew, legate; don't go off pop.) It took him about ten minutes before she had sat down with us and was gabbling information just as fast as he could ask the questions. Rectus, Justinus and Lentullus were impressed. I had seen Petro reach this point in half the time, but in those days he was young and in army uniform. legate; don't go off pop.) It took him about ten minutes before she had sat down with us and was gabbling information just as fast as he could ask the questions. Rectus, Justinus and Lentullus were impressed. I had seen Petro reach this point in half the time, but in those days he was young and in army uniform.

Her name was Januaria. She looked fifteen, was probably twenty, and would be killed by hard work before another decade passed. She had stabled our ox, cooked our dinner, explained the wine list (that took no effort), pulled heavy benches closer to the table, filled jugs from a cask and served us, including several detours to the two vigiles outside. None of us had asked, but it was understood that if we wanted, she would go to bed with us as well; all seven, if necessary, on whatever rotation basis we suggested. It would probably cost no more than a soft-boiled egg.

Januaria obligingly told us a posse turned up here about two months ago. A town magistrate who was hoping to go home as soon as possible arrived on horseback, in charge of volunteers who were hoping at least for a fight. After a hearty lunch, they toddled off into the marshes to tackle the Claudii. Following ingrained tradition, those scurrilous runts all swore blind they never saw Modestus or Primilla after the broken fence incident. They provided alibis for one another, in the usual way of large families.

'Then there wasn't much more to be done. Suspicion fell mainly on Probus and Nobilis.'

'Nobilis and Probus? Noble Noble and and Honourable?' Honourable?' I could hardly believe the irony of these names. I could hardly believe the irony of these names.

The simple girl didn't see my point. 'Those two are the best known - and most feared. They hang around together a lot. But Probus now has his own business - - he buys and sells harness; second-hand mostly.' That probably meant stolen, though she did not suggest it. 'Nobilis has been working for Thamyris, a grain supplier in Antium, though Probus swore blind to the militia that his brother had gone away. So he couldn't have done anything, could he?'

'Away where?' asked Petronius. 'Campania? Rome? Overseas?'

'No, somewhere real foreign.' The girl knew nothing of other regions of Italy, let alone the overseas provinces. Our glorious Empire meant little to her. She had never even been to Antium, which was only seven miles away.

'When did he leave?'

'We haven't seen him in Satricum for months, but that's not unusual. The Claudii come and go.'

'Do you think he fled because he knew people would be looking for him?'

'He's never been scared before.'

I shoved Petronius along his bench and muscled in. It took effort. He was bigger than me and resisting like a recalcitrant old hog. 'So, excellent young lady with the beautiful eyes - -' Januaria giggled as if no man had ever chatted her up before. Clearly few from Rome stayed here. 'What do you know about these rascals, the Claudii? Are there many of them?'