A Body in the Bathhouse (12 page)

I could see Verovolcus liked Helena. That’s the trouble with foreign travel. You spend half your time trying to find edible food, and the rest fighting off men who profess extravagant love to your female companions. I’m amazed how many women believe outright lies from foreigners.

This could become embarrassing. I was primed to be a perfect diplomat in Britain—but if anybody laid a hand on Helena, I would sock him in the finer parts of his woad pattern.

I wondered what Maia was up to. She had elected to remain in town, along with Hyspale. Hyspale had just discovered there was nowhere in Noviomagus where she could go shopping. I was saving up the news that there were no decent emporia
anywhere
in Britain. Next time she really annoyed me, I would lightly drop word that she was now completely out of range of ribbons, perfumes, and Egyptian glass beads. I was looking forward to seeing her reaction.

“You like our house?” Verovolcus had mastered some playboy’s pickup lines. They always do.

“Yes, but you are having a new one built,” Helena responded with a regal smirk. “The architect is to tell Falco all about it.”

“I will come with you!” Oh Jupiter, Best and Greatest, we were lumbered.

There was worse. Verovolcus led us to a room where a man whose wild hair had paled to gray some years earlier now sat in an upright magistrate’s chair waiting for people with complaints to rush in and plead for his benevolent counsel. Since the Atrebates had not yet learned that among civilized people complaining was a social art, he looked bored. Easily sixty, the fellow had been playacting a Roman of rank for generations. He had the proper way of lounging, all boredom and a nasty attitude: arms apart on the supports, knees apart too, but booted feet together on his footstool. This tribal chief had studied Roman authority at close quarters. He was wearing white, with purple borders, and probably had a swagger stick stashed away under his throne.

Now we were
seriously
lumbered. It was the Great King.

Verovolcus launched into rapid chatter in the local language. I wished I had brought Justinus; he might have made something of it, even though his knowledge of Celtic linguistics derived from German sources. I myself had been in the army, mostly in Britain, for about seven years, but legionnaires representing Rome despised native argots and expected all the conquered world to learn Latin. Since most ethnic people were trying to sell us something, this was a fair attitude. Traders and prostitutes soon mastered the necessary verbals to cheat us in our own language. I had been a scout. I should have acquired a smattering of
their
tongue for safety reasons, but as a lad, I had thought that lying under a furze bush in the pouring rain was enough punishment for my system.

I caught the name of Pomponius. Verovolcus turned to us triumphantly. “The Great King Togidubnus, friend of your Emperor, will come to hear about his house with you!”

“Jolly nice!” I had kept any ruefulness or satire out of my tone, which was just as well. Helena looked at me sharply, but it passed unnoticed. Verovolcus seemed thrilled, but had no time to answer my platitude.

“It would be rather fun to hear a progress report,” replied the Great King on his own account. In perfect Latin.

I thought this man must have something seriously expensive that he wants to sell to Rome. Then I remembered he had sold it already: a safe harbor and a warm welcome to Vespasian’s men, thirty years ago.

“Verovolcus is assigned the task of monitoring events for me,” he then told us, smiling. “Pomponius will not be expecting me.” That, we gathered, would enhance the fun. “But please don’t let me be a nuisance, Falco.”

Helena turned to me. “King Togidubnus knows who you are, Marcus Didius—though I did not hear Verovolcus telling him.”

“And you are the perceptive, sharp-witted Helena Justina,” the King interrupted. “Your father is a man of distinction, friend of
my
old friend Vespasian and brother to the wife of the procurator Hilaris. My old friend Vespasian holds traditional views. Does he not yearn to see you married to some noble senator?”

“I don’t believe he expects that to happen,” she replied calmly. She had flushed slightly. Helena had a true Roman matron’s respect for her own privacy. To be the subject of imperial correspondence made her teeth set dangerously. The daughter of Camillus Verus was considering whether to give the Great King of the Britons a black eye.

Togidubnus surveyed her for a moment. He must have grasped the point. “No,” he said. “And having met you, with Marcus Didius, neither do I!”

“Thank you,” Helena answered lightly. The whole conversation had turned. I kept well out of it. The Great King responded by inclining his head, as if her implied rebuke was in fact some tremendous compliment.

Verovolcus shot me a complicitous glance, seeing that his own flirtation had been sidestepped. But I was used to Helena Justina making unexpected friends.

“To my new house!” cried the King happily, wrapping himself in a huge, gleaming toga as casually as if it were a bathhouse robe. I had seen imperial legates with pedigrees back to Romulus struggle and need four toga-valets to help them with the folds.

Needless to say, I had not even unpacked my own formal woolen wear. It was quite possible that when I left Rome, I forgot to include it. I had to hope Togidubnus would overlook the slight. Did Romanization courses for provincial kings include lectures on gracious manners? Putting your guests at ease. Ignoring crass behavior from brutes inferior to yourself. That stuff my respectable mother dinned into me once—only I never listened.

When he skipped down from his dais to join us, the King clasped my hand with a good Roman handshake. He did the same with Helena. Verovolcus, who must be more observant than he seemed, quickly followed suit—crushing my paw like a blood brother who had been drinking with me for the past twelve hours, then clinging on to Helena’s long fingers with slightly less violence but an admiration that was equally embarrassing.

As we all made our way to see Pomponius, I was starting to see just why Togidubnus had made and stayed friends with Vespasian. They both came up from inferior social situations, but made the best of it by using talent and staying power. I had the glum feeling I would end up with a real sense of obligation to the King. I still believed his new palace was an overscale extravagance. But, since the taxes of ordinary Romans had been allocated to pay for it—and since the money was certainly going into
someone’s
coffers—I may as well ensure the stylish home was built.

The King had taken over Helena. It reduced me to a cipher husband, trailing with Verovolcus. I could live with it. Helena was no cipher wife. When she wanted me, she would drop the pride of British nobility like an overhot sardine.

Any woman was bound to be impressed by a fellow who was equipping his house with brand-new floor mosaics throughout. It beats being fobbed off with a new rag rug and the promise that you, her layabout head of household, will replaster the bedroom alcove yourself “when you can get round to it. …”

XIV

“Y
OU’RE LATE
, Falco—I can’t do you now. …” In the midst of glaring at Helena, whom he had not expected, Pomponius trailed off. He had seen the King.

“I am
so
looking forward to hearing your current perspective on our project,” declared the royal client. The architect could only seethe. “Just pretend I am not here,” offered Togidubnus graciously.

This would be difficult, since his portable throne, his entourage, and his hairy servants plying him with trays of imported snacks in little shale dishes were now filling most of the plan room. Olives, in rich oil spiced with flecks of herb, had already been spilled on some elevation drawings.

Pomponius sent for a couple of architectural assistants. They were supposed to help with the presentation. That way at least, he ensured himself an admiring audience. Both were ten years younger than him, but were learning all their bad habits from his fine example. One was copying the project manager’s hair slick; the other had bought his outsize scarab from a similar fake Alexandrian jeweler. They had less personality between them than a flyblown carrot.

These old hutments must be falling apart. They were more breezy than army tents. The plan room was heated with antique braziers. With so many people crammed in, we were already sweating. That would soon dry out the skins on the architect’s plans and make them crackle. A map-room librarian would be horrified by these air conditions. I felt ready to warp myself.

An extensive layout drawing had been hung up ready for us—well, ready to impress me. This showed a monstrous four-square complex with innumerable rooms, set around an enormous enclosed garden. It was edged by blue hatching where the sea lapped. Green areas indicated not only the huge main garden in the center of the four wings, but another vast parkland on the south side running right down to the harbor.

“The new palace,” began Pomponius, addressing me directly as if he could not be expected to concern himself with tribal kings or women, “is to be the largest, most magnificent Roman development north of the Alps.”

Presumably the governor’s headquarters in Londinium would be equally massive. To impress official dignitaries, that would need to be glamorous, and to house the provincial administration, it would be elaborate. Since I had not seen it, I kept quiet. Maybe my frugal colleague Frontinus had chosen to run Britain from a festival marquee.

Pomponius cleared his throat. He glared at me, thinking I was not paying attention. I smiled, with a flash of teeth, as if I thought he needed reassurance. That put him right off.

“Er—the main approach is from the Noviomagus road, bringing most traffic from the tribal capital and beyond. To greet them, my concept provides for a stunning exterior facade. The monumental east front is the first aspect presented to visitors; it will be dominated by a central entrance hall—externally this has two dramatic sedimented facades, each with six massive columns, twenty feet in height. Internally the spatial content is divided into smaller units such as arcades, first to provide lateral support—”

“The roof weighs a bit?” It sounded more facetious than I meant.

“Obviously. Second, design features will draw people forwards to establish a flow-through into the interior—”

“Grand!”

Pomponius thought I was being insulting. Perhaps I was. I grew up in overcrowded apartments, where the people flow-through was provided by Ma, wielding a broom on dawdlers’ buttocks.

“Planned benefits include fine statuary and a dramatic marble-edged pool with a significant fountain feature,” the architect warbled. “My intention is to dramatize the scale and the fine quality fittings without oppressing occupants, at the same time emphasizing the sight line through the hall to the formal gardens beyond. This is a superior concept—cultured patrician living for a discerning, high-class client.”

Togidubnus was munching an extremely juicy apple that took all his concentration, so the halfhearted flattery was lost.

“Also included in the east wing is a semipublic assembly hall. En suite private rooms, fitted out to a good standard and with their own closed-access courtyards, are designed with peace and relaxation in mind—”

“Won’t they be rather noisy if they are located so near the main entrance?” asked Helena, rather too politely.

Pomponius stared at her. Arty types can manage tall girls with patrician accents and taste, but only as their own subjugated mistresses. He would have allowed her to hand round dainties at a soiree, but in any other context Helena Justina was a threat. “These are guest rooms for lesser officials, on temporary assignments.”

“Oh, Falco! I am looking forward to your next assignment in Noviomagus,” Helena cried archly. (There was no way I intended to come back.) Immediately she urged Pomponius on again: “You mentioned the formal gardens?”

“The central court will combine visionary elegance with serene formality. A spectacular hedged walkway, forty feet in width, transports people to the audience chamber opposite. To the left and right, balanced harmonious parterres of extravagant size contribute grandeur tempered with the tranquility of open space. Rather than stark lines, this main thoroughfare will be given a treatment of sculpted greenery, probably box: alternating topiary arcs and squares in grave dark foliage colorings—a reference to the best Mediterranean tradition.”

“Why,” I asked, “is there a single tree marked up there?” A large specimen was marked in the northwest area of the formal lawns. It was in a rather strange position.

The architect flushed slightly. “Indicative, only.”

“Have you a nasty drainage tank to hide?”

“The tree will relieve monotony!” put in the King. He sounded curt. He certainly understood his site layout. “When I come out of the audience chamber and stand looking to my left, a mature tree will relieve the bleak horizontal lines of the north wing—”

“Bleak? I believe you will find,” Pomponius humphed, “the elegant repetition—”

“There should be another tree balancing this one in the opposite quartile, to shield the south wing similarly.” Togidubnus interrupted coolly—but Pomponius was ignoring him.

“Urns,” he rattled on, “will provide handsome talking points; fountains are being assembled to provide aural delight. All footpaths will be defined by triple hedges. Plantings are to be set within geometric sculpted beds, again with topiary surrounds. I have asked the landscape gardener to aim for sophisticated species—”

“What—no flowers?” Helena giggled.

“Oh, I insist on color!” snapped the King at Pomponius. Pomponius looked set to launch into a hot defense of textured leaf contrasts—then thought better of it. His gaze flickered to me. He was irritated that I had noticed the tension between the King and him.

“You may want to ask the landscape gardener to consult your own people about pests,” Helena suggested blithely to Togidubnus. She was either diffusing the bad atmosphere—or being mischievous. I knew which I thought.

“Pests!” intoned the King at his man, Verovolcus. He was really enjoying himself. “Make a note of that!”