‘Not as fancy as that inscription your papa fixed up for himself, Falco! No This is my memorial which may never be sold, with a frontage of a thousand feet; no pretty Etruscan funeral altar, with dear little wings on it.’

I was not yet ready for jokes. I could satirise losing Pa, but thinking about my tiny son demanded respect. ‘Fusculus—that’s a large cemetery with a litter of confusing graves. Why did this corpse attract attention?’

‘You know some crazy killers want to yell out, Look at me; I’ve done what I wanted and you can’t catch me! Petronius reckons the dead man was placed near the road specially, so someone would notice.’

‘Did you see the body?’

‘That was indeed my privilege.’

‘Modestus was middle-aged. Someone similar?’

‘No, this one’s young. Slight build—easy to overcome.’

‘How was he set out?’

‘Obviously ritual. Face down, arms outstretched sideways like a crucified slave. Well, when I say full length, Falco, that is excluding both his hands which, having been hacked off, were placed very neatly either side of his head. Same groundplan as Modestus. And like Modestus, when the Seventh rolled him over, they found him sawn open from his gullet to his privates.’

‘Any other mutilation?’

‘That was enough!’

‘As vindictive as the Modestus killing?’

Fusculus gave that thought. ‘Maybe not. He had been thumped, but probably during initial attempts to subdue him.’

‘Then apart from the fact he lost his hopes in life, you could say he did not suffer?’

‘So nicely put! His clothes were there. Shoes, neckerchief—and bright new wedding ring still on his severed hand. Mind, I don’t think anyone would try selling what was left of his tunic in the flea market—not after he was slit open.’

‘Ring left behind—so theft not a motive?’

‘No money on him, so maybe. His donkey’s missing, but anyone could have pinched that from the roadside if the killer left it.’

‘And do we know who he is?’

‘We do, in fact!’ Fusculus left me waiting. It was the end of the night and he soon lost interest in teasing. ‘. . . A carter reported his courier missing. Young fellow. Just got married, so the bride started jumping as soon as he failed to report for his dinner. Her very first attempt at seafood patties—now he’ll never know how terrible they were . . . He’d been sent out with a parcel—the Seventh haven’t found the parcel, but it was in his donkey pannier. That caring citizen, his master, reported him gone because he thought the lad had simply scarpered with the goods.’

‘So this parcel-boy was heading out of Rome, not coming into town? And not on the Pontine Marshes side?’

‘No. So the Seventh were assuming it’s the same killer, because of the method, but those on high say different.’