A Body in the Bathhouse (22 page)

“Get down from there, stinky! If they roll again, I’ll leave you crushed in the woodpile—”

Nux obeyed me just enough to lie rigid with her muzzle in a crack between two tree trunks, whining. I put my boot up beside her and craned to peer at her discovery. For some reason, I thought it might be a dead body. You get like that. Something whimpered. I could now see cloth, which turned out to be a child’s clothing. The child was still inside the dress, alive luckily. She was not herself trapped under the timber, but her skimpy gown had been caught so securely she could hardly move. She was scared—mostly that she would be in trouble.

I wedged a couple of stones under the bottom of the pile and then heaved up the top log just enough to free her. I lifted her down, then caught her just before she ran away. Upset by her fright, though bravely not crying, she glared. We had rescued a tough eleven-year-old girl called Alla, who knew how to lie but who finally admitted she had been warned by her father several times not to play on the stacked logs. It emerged, after a fierce extraction process, that her father was Cyprianus, the clerk of works. I grabbed her hand and took her back to the site to find him.

“This little loner is yours, I think? I don’t want to snitch, but if it were one of mine, I’d like to be aware she had had a scare today.”

Cyprianus made as if to swipe her. She nipped behind me. If he meant it, he had a terrible aim. She pretended to bawl her head off, but this was done purely on principle. He jerked his head at her; she stopped crying.

I got the picture. Alla was bright, bored, and mostly unsupervised—an only child, or the only one to have survived infancy. She roamed about, mainly content with her own company. Cyprianus, with his own busy concerns, had to ignore the fact she was at risk. There was no mention of a mother. That gave two possibilities. Either the woman had died—or Cyprianus had joined up with a foreigner in some other exotic territory and now she stayed out of sight. I imagined her in their hut stirring stockpots, having little in common with him or the places he brought her to—and probably bemused by their solitary, highly intelligent, Romanized offspring.

“Want something to do? You could come and help me,” I suggested.

“Your dog smells.” My dog had saved her from a night in the open, maybe worse. “What would I have to do?” she deigned to ask.

“If I provide a donkey, can you ride?”

“A
donkey
?” I was in the land of the horse.

“A pony, then.”

“Of
course
!” She was a bareback terror by the sound of it. Her father stood back and let me negotiate. “Ride to where?”

“Into Noviomagus sometimes to see a friend of mine. Can you write, Alla?”

“Course I can.” Cyprianus, who had to be both literate and numerate, must have taught her. As she boasted, he was looking on with a mixture of pride and curiosity. They were close. Alla probably knew how much you had to pay per day for first-class plasterers and how long new roof tiles should be left to dry out at the clamps where they were made. One day she would run off with some layabout scaffolder, and Cyprianus would be heartbroken. He already knew it would happen, if I were any judge of him.

“Are you a good girl?”

“Never—she’s terrible!” Cyprianus grinned, cuffing his roughneck fondly.

“Come and see me in my office tomorrow, then. I’m Falco.”

“What if I don’t like you?” Alla demanded.

“Yes, you do. It’s love at first sight,” I said.

“You think a lot of yourself, Falco.”

She might have been brought up entirely in a series of foreign provinces, but little Alla had the pure essence of any scornful Roman sweetheart at the Circus Maximus.

Back at the old house, we ate outside again. I can’t say it was warm, but the light was better than indoors. Tonight’s food was lavish; apparently the King had visitors and the royal cooks had made a special effort.

“Oysters! Ugh. I like to know where my oysters come from,” mouthed Camilla Hyspale.

“Suit yourself. British oysters are hymned by poets, the best you’ll ever taste. Give yours to me then—” I had my arm out to snaffle the rest when Hyspale decided she might try one after all. Thereafter she hogged the serving dish.

“That painter was here looking for you again, Marcus Didius.”

“Wonderful. If it’s the assistant from Stabaie, I was at his hut looking for him. What’s he like?”

“Oh … I don’t know.” I had not yet trained Camilla Hyspale to provide a witness statement. Instead, she blushed slightly. That was clear enough.

“Watch him!” I grinned. “They are notorious for lechery. One minute they are chatting to a woman harmlessly about earth colors and egg-white fixers, the next they have fixed her up in quite a different way. I don’t want any lout in a paint-stained overtunic getting the better of you, Hyspale. If he offers to show you his stencil-stumping brush, say no!”

While Hyspale was spluttering in confusion, some of us wondered hopefully if we could pair her off. Helena and I were die-hard romantics. … And leaving the nursemaid in Britain would be bliss.

The royal party must have dined formally, but afterwards some of the usual group with Verovolcus among them brought their wine, beer, and mead into the garden. We never saw the King in the evening; his age must have condemned him to an early-night routine. When we had finished eating, I went over to the Britons to broach with Verovolcus the subject of the King’s bathhouse upgrade.

Before I mentioned it, I noticed a stranger. He seemed well at ease in company with the King’s retainers, but turned out to be that evening’s guest. I could hardly miss him because, unlike anyone else in this province, he was wearing a two-piece formal Roman dining suit—a synthesis: loose tunic and matching overmantle the same shade of red. Nobody I knew ever made themselves look foolish with an old-fashioned twinset, even in Rome. Only rich-boy partygoers of a certain eccentricity would bother.

“This is Marcellinus, Falco.” Verovolcus had at last stopped calling me the man from Rome with every breath. However, if he did not need to tell Marcellinus who I was, my role must already have been discussed. Interesting.

“Marcellinus? Aren’t you the architect for this place, the old house?”

“The
new
house, as we called it!”

I remembered now that I had seen him before. He was the elderly cove who had turned up that morning to see Milchato, the marble chief. He made no mention of it, so I held my peace too.

Like many in artistic professions, he cultivated a stylish air. His unusual clothes were outlandish in a casual setting, and his elite accent was agonizing. I could see why he chose to stay an ex-patriot. He would have no place in Vespasian’s Rome, where the Emperor himself would call a wagon a dung cart—in an accent that implied he once knew how to shovel manure. With a grand Roman nose and gracious hand gestures, this Marcellinus stood out above the commonplace. It did not impress me. I find such men a caricature.

“I admire your superb building,” I told him. “My wife and I are greatly enjoying our stay here.”

“Good.” He seemed offhand. Put out, perhaps, that the scheme to which he must have devoted many working years was not to be superseded.

“Have you come to see the new project?”

“No, no.” He cast down his eyes demurely. “Nothing to do with me.” Was he disgruntled? I felt he deliberately distanced himself—but then he made a joke of it for my sake. “You must wonder if I am interfering!” Before I could answer, he continued charmingly, “No, no. Time to let go. I retired, thank goodness.”

I don’t allow autocratic men to brush me aside. “Actually I thought you might be here to mediate. There are problems.”

“Are there?” Marcellinus asked disingenuously. Verovolcus, like a gnarled Celtic tree-stump god, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, watching us.

“I feel the new project manager misjudges things.” Falco the frank orator outfought Falco the man of guarded neutrality. “Pomponius is a narrow official. He sees the project as an imperial commission only—forgetting that there would be
no
commission without its very specific British client. No other tribes are to be provided with a full-scale palace. This scheme will far outlive our generation—yet it will always be the palace that was built for Tiberius Claudius Togidubnus, Great King of the Britons.”

“No Togi, no palace. So what Togi wants, Togi should get?” His use of the crude diminutive in a serious discussion—in front of the King’s servants—jarred. Marcellinus was supposed to be on good terms with the King. His lack of deference sat poorly with the affectionate way Togidubnus had spoken of
him
in my hearing.

“I like a lot of what the King suggests. But who am I to comment on architecture?” I smiled. “But I suppose it is nothing to do with you nowadays.”

“I finished my task. Someone else can carry the burden of this great project.”

I wondered if he had ever been considered as project manager for the new scheme. If not, why not? Was being replaced by a newcomer a surprise to him? And did he accept it? “What brings you back today?” I asked lightly.

“Seeing my old friend Togidubnus. I don’t live far away. I spent so many years out here,” Marcellinus said. “I built myself a delightful villa down the coast.”

I knew some provinces could win the hearts of their administrators, but Britain? That was ridiculous.

“You must come and see me,” Marcellinus invited. “My home is about fifteen miles east of Noviomagus. Bring your family for a day. You will be made very welcome.”

I thanked him and made off back to my loved ones before I could be forced to arrange a date.

XXVII

W
E HAD
another bad night. Both the children kept us awake. Camilla Hyspale was indisposed by violent stomach upset. She blamed the oysters, but I had eaten plenty and was perfectly all right. I told her it was the penalty for flirting with the young painter. That caused more wailing.

Next day I felt jaded. Staring at figurework held no appeal. Now that I knew that Gaius was capable of flogging on through the records revision without me, I thought I would give the office a miss. I had requisitioned a pony for sending Alla to see Justinus, but I decided to take things easy and check up on him myself. I had something else to keep my runner busy. I introduced Alla to Iggidunus and told them I had decided it was time that the
mulsum
round was reappraised.

“You are both bright young people; you can help me sort this out. Iggy, today when you are taking round the beakers, I want Alla to come with you; she can write things down. Speak to every one of your customers personally, please. Tell them we are conducting a preference survey. You give Alla their names—Alla, set each one out neatly. Then list what kind of
mulsum
they like, or whether they don’t have any.”

“But I done the counting yesterday, Falco!” Iggidunus protested.

“Yes. That was brilliant. Today we are on a different exercise. This is an organizational method study to straighten out the refreshment rota. Modernize. Rationalize. Revolutionize. …”

The young persons fled. Management twaddle can always clear a room. The door closed behind them just in time, as Gaius, the clerk, collapsed in a fit of giggles.

Verovolcus saw me riding off. I had selected a small pony, thinking Alla would be riding it. My boots were almost scuffing the dust. Verovolcus burst out laughing. I was causing happiness all around today. I just grinned feebly. We Romans are never keen on horseflesh. I was perfectly happy knowing I could apply a brake by just putting my feet on the ground.

I hit Noviomagus about midday. It seemed distinctly quiet. Maybe this was not the best time. Either I had missed the busy hour—or else there never was one.

I had been here when we first landed, but was then exhausted and disoriented after the weeks of travel. This was my first real chance to look around. It really was a new town. I already knew that the kingdom of the Atrebates had had to restore its fortunes when Togidubnus took over. Prior to his reinstatement at the Roman invasion, fierce Catuvellauni from the north had pushed in and raided the territory of this coastal tribe, nibbling into their farmland until they were squeezed back right against the salty inlets. The Romans rewarded Togidubnus for his support with the gift of increased tribal areas. He called this “the Kingdom,” as if other British tribes and their royalty did not count.

At that time, he must have adopted a new tribal capital. He had to build it too—but then he did love building. Being Romanized himself, he had probably found it natural to use the legionnaires’ supply base as his starting point. So the “New marketplace of the Kingdom” lay here, part enclosed by the curve of a small river, a little way inland. Perhaps abandoning the old settlement (somewhere on the coast?) had symbolized the King’s affinity with the new way of life that would come with Britain’s status as part of the Roman Empire. Perhaps the old settlement just fell into the sea.

Noviomagus showed how flimsy Romanization was. I knew there were towns that had developed from military forts, often with legionary veterans forming the main body of citizenship. Queen Boudicca burned several, but they had been rebuilt now. They were utterly provincial, though solid and thriving. Unlike them, Noviomagus Regnensis had barely acquired any decent masonry properties or a population worth counting. Even though it was the headquarters of the most loyal British leader, this was still backwoods country. Wattle and daub remained the building style in the narrow streets, where only a few house dwellers and businesses had so far ventured.

Main roads came in from Venta, Calleva, and Londinium. At a central point, they met the inbound track used by market traders. The crossroad had a large graveled area that masqueraded as a forum. There was no evidence of use for democratic purposes, or even for gossip. It did provide stalls for selling pensionable turnips and pallid spring greens. There were a couple of dark little temples, a piss-poor set of baths, a faded sign to the out-of-town amphitheater and short row of brooch shops producing ethnic enamelware.