A Body in the Bathhouse (33 page)

We both paused.

“He took it out; he put it back. Curious,” I said.

Aelianus mimed the actions. “The instrument satchel must have stayed on the clothes peg throughout the killing. …”

“… So where was Magnus?”

He could be the killer. Then there were two possibilities that left him innocent. “Either he was in the tepidarium taking a slow cold plunge and oiling up—or he was fooling about with Gains.”

“Likely?”

“Neither seems the type.”

“How can you tell?” asked Aelianus. “I’ve known people who poked anything handy, whatever the sex.” It was Roman tradition, especially in high places. But it raised interesting questions about some of his own friends.

Reluctantly I tackled the other possibility: “Why ever Magnus went to the baths, he could still have been one of the killers.” I screwed up my face, still resisting the thought. “I caught him out when I showed him the string this morning. He owned up to it openly. But if he had
known
it was used to strangle Pomponius, he would at least have played down his ownership.”

“Let’s face it, Falco—Magnus would have known better than to leave something that could be identified as his property on the body.”

“Too disgusted to remove it?” I argued.

“No, no!” Aelianus had really entered into the spirit and his response was fierce. “If you hate someone enough to strangle them, and to gouge their eye out, you can remove the evidence.”

“Agreed,” I reflected. “It’s interesting that whoever did it thought that the compasses should be replaced—but apparently they thought the string was just anonymous twine. Were they trying to implicate Magnus, or had they just never seen—or never
noticed
—a five-four-three being used to make a right angle? That means it was
not
a surveyor, and most likely not the clerk of works.”

Aelianus shrugged. This was my theory. He would not argue, but he would not become excited by it either.

“If there was more than one man involved,” I suggested, “it could reflect different personalities. One removed the compasses; the other simply did not bother about the twine.”

“Neat and Slapdash?”

“Even if they were Neat and Tidy the killer, or killers, could have been interrupted. Maia arrived at the baths,” I pointed out. My sister was tough, but I tried not to dwell on her near encounter with the killers. “Cyprianus too, if we accept he was an innocent participant.”

“It just won’t work,” Aelianus rebuked me, typically frank. “Maia Favonia never ventured farther than the changing room. And we can discount even Cyprianus. You know bathhouses have dead acoustics. Nobody in the final caldarium would have heard anyone outside until that person was on top of them. Then it was too late to escape.”

“So,” I began, pursuing a new line, “do we reckon the killer or killers went to the baths on purpose, did their deed, and quickly fled?”

“If they went there especially, Falco, how could they be certain that Pomponius was all alone and that nobody would interrupt?”

“They kept the baths under observation until it was safe to strike.”

“It’s rather horrible,” mouthed Aelianus. “Pomponius is inside lazing with his strigil set. …” He trailed off for a moment. “Well, that’s clear premeditation anyway.”

“No doubt a good barrister, untroubled by conscience, would argue them out of that. …” I thought little of lawyers.

“But Falco! He was cornered like vermin. Once you get in the bowels of a bathhouse, you’re trapped.”

“Don’t dwell on it, Aulus. Or next time you’re slaking off the grime with your lavender oil, you might get jumpy.”

Aelianaus whistled through his teeth.

After a moment, he perked up and decided, “So we think it’s a conspiracy by the entire project team.”

He and I had been so absorbed we had forgotten our companions. At that, there was an upheaval from the wicker chair. Larius bestirred himself, wriggled himself upright, and let out an extraordinary belch. Aelianus and I looked pained. Julia Junilla sat down on a rug with her fat legs in front of her and tried to copy the disgusting noise.

“Myths!” exclaimed Larius. “You two mad buggers are indulging fantasies. Why say it’s the damned project team?”

I raised an eyebrow “You’re defending them?”

“They are a bunch of wet-arsed, boneless sea anemones,” Larius growled. “Jelly throughout. Not one of them could fight his way out of a cushion-case. The whole team together couldn’t work out a plan to open a latrine door—even if they all had the squits.”

“You give us a fine assessment of these noble men,” Aelianus congratulated him sarcastically.

“Let’s have your assessment then, Larius.”

“Uncle Marcus, the place is swarming with angry parties who all hated Pomponius for much better reasons than any of your suspects. The worse the project team had against him was that he was overbearing and horrible.”

“I concede that if being unpleasant were enough to get a man slain at the baths, Rome would be an empty city.”

“Try these,” Larius listed. “The marblers. Who needs bloody marble veneers anyway?” He complained professionally. “I can paint better veining, without any expensive breakages. … They had some ruse, which has been stopped.”

“The overcutting scam. Milchato was told to prevent it,” I said.

Larius made a face. “No, it was something much more lucrative, not just the old coarse-sand trick. Don’t ask me what. I don’t gossip with marble-men.”

“Standards!” scoffed Aelianus.

“Get stuffed.” Larius grinned. “Next, how about Lupus or Mandumerus?”

“Both?” I was surprised.

“Of course.”

“Mandumerus had a fake labor fiddle. I exposed that.”

“So Falco is next for strangling with the tight necklace?” asked Aelianus, rather too keenly.

“Oh, he has you and your brother to look after him!” Larius laughed. “Anyway, it’s known all over the site that Pomponius wanted to crucify Mandumerus, but Falco vetoed it. So Mandumerus still doesn’t like him, but he knows my dear uncle has a sensitive side.”

“Tell me more about the Mandumerus racket,” I said. “And why you include Lupus.”

“Mandumerus has been working this trick with the false numbers for decades. He probably cannot even remember how to operate honestly. Lupus has his own scheme.”

“What? I’ve gone through the labor records with the fine side of my comb, Larius, and found nothing suspicious.”

“You wouldn’t. The overseas labor has to be paid for by the Treasury. They pay Lupus; Lupus provides the men. But what Lupus does is
sell
the jobs to the highest bidder.”

“How does it work?”

“To be employed in the overseas gangs, men have to bribe Lupus. Once they come out here, full of hope, it’s a long way home if they don’t get taken on. So he sets his own terms. Mostly they give him a cut of their pay. Some manage to produce wives or sisters whom they pimp to him. He’s not fussy. He’ll take payment in kind.”

“Beats three sacks of barley and a basket of garlic.” I sighed.

“The Treasury is getting what they pay for. Does it matter?” Aelianus asked.

“It does to an Emperor who wants a reign famous for fairness,” I explained.

“That’s a bit idealistic!”

Larius and I, both plebeians, stared at Aelianus until he moved uneasily against the armrest of his couch.

“That you think so is no surprise,” I told him coldly. “I would have hoped a man of your intelligence would know better than to say it.”

Helena’s brother shifted again. “I thought you were a cynic, Falco!”

I clasped my hands over my belt. “Oh no. I’m constantly expecting good in the world, believe me!”

XLIV

A
T THE
prickly silence that ensued, my daughter Julia became unhappy. As always, she yelled her head off. Larius shoved her toy cart about with his toe. The distraction failed. Julia woke Favonia, who joined in the noise. I bestirred myself and picked up the baby, causing Larius to pinch his nose with disgust. “She stinks, Falco!”

“Reminds me of you at this age,” I retorted. “Where are all my domestics anyway? What have you two done with the women of my house-hold?”

“Helena Justina went to talk to the King. She took your sister as a chaperone.”

“Now you tell me! There is supposed to be a nurse. Where’s that idle miss Hyspale?”

“No idea.”

“Aulus?”

“I would have said she had dressed herself up and gone off to swoon over Larius—but Larius is here.”

“She’d be disappointed anyway,” scoffed Larius. “I have some standards.”

“Anyway, you’re too worn out by the bar girl,” I jibed. “Why is Helena talking to Togi?”

“He sent for you. You were not here. I volunteered to replace you,” Aelianus complained, “but my sister overruled it.”

I grinned, deducing that Helena had been her forceful self. “She’s just a girl, you know. Try standing up to her.”

He shot me a scornful look and did not deign to respond.

Leaving the lads in charge of the infants (with little hope of them changing the loincloth), I hotfooted round to the royal apartments. The few plaid-clad attendants on duty seemed surprised that I should feel the need to bother to appear on my own behalf when someone so competent as Helena was already representing me. Still, they let me in.

“When I was in Rome—” began the King as I entered. I could see him as the forerunner to a long tradition of British visitors to foreign parts who would never get over the experience. Looking at what they had here at home, how could anyone blame them? A hot dry climate (or even a hot humid one), a leisured pace, a generously comfortable lifestyle, warm wine, brilliant colors, not to mention exotic food and tasty women, would seem like a philosopher’s ideal republic to the hairy homunculi.

I felt homesick again.

This was a colorful symposium. Everyone was sitting around in wicker armchairs like snobs at a music recital. The room itself, elegantly coved and dadoed, was a sophisticated mix of purples and contrasting shades, mainly ochers and whites, against which the King made a different kind of contrast, dressed today not in his Roman wear but local garments in a whole fruit basket of berry dyes. Helena was in white, her formal choice, and Maia in pink, with green bands. I was now down to my last tunic in my chest, which happened to be black. Not my shade. In black, I look like a third-grade undertaker, a slapdash half-wit who will lose your beloved grandma and send you the ashes of a dead ass instead. In the wrong urn.

Togidubnus saw me and stopped. Perhaps Maia and Helena briefly showed relief. They looked as if they had been sharing his regal anecdotes for too long.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I smiled. “I heard you wanted me. Of course Helena Justina knows what I have to say better than I do, but she may let me listen while she recounts my views.”

“I hope you are not being sarcastic, darling,” Helena commented. She rearranged her stole on one shoulder with a faint jingle of silver bracelets. A decorous ringlet shook against her ear, causing a near-indecorous reaction in me.

“Actually, no.”

We all smiled. Helena took command. “His Majesty wanted to talk to you. He is concerned that with Pomponius dead, lack of supervision may disrupt his new building.”

“Awfully bad luck for Pomponius,” broke in the King. He had not yet learned to allow Helena her full number of water clocks when she made a speech.

“His Majesty,” said Helena directly to me, not giving the King a look-in, “was with Marcellinus yesterday. The architect’s wife held a birthday party at their villa. On his return, King Togidubnus was shocked to learn what had happened to Pomponius. Now he wants to ask you, Falco, whether Marcellinus could assist professionally.”

If he was at his wife’s party miles away, Marcellinus was in the clear. He had not helped himself back into power by strangling Pomponius. Well, not unless he could be in two places at once like that myth about Pythagoras.

Of course, somebody else could have killed Pomponius for him.

“I know Marcellinus will volunteer,” murmured the King—with just sufficient gloom to cheer me up. I had a welcome impression that he was being leaned on over this. Thirty years of the same architect could wear any client down; Marcellinus should have been thrown out for good the last time the cushions were changed.

“There is official protocol,” I hummed. “Pomponius was a Rome appointment and I cannot anticipate what Rome wants done next.” This overlooked the fact that it was my role to
tell
Rome what Rome wanted.

“Verovolcus says you intend to discuss the situation with Marcellinus.”

“I do.” I could say that with sincerity. “But you will understand it is rather low on my action list. My priority is to discover who killed Pomponius. For one thing, we don’t want to lose anybody else the same way!”

The King raised bushy white eyebrows. “Is it likely?”

“Depends on the motive. Strangely,” I said, “I find no sense of anxiety amongst people here. There is a marauding killer: the normal reaction should be acute fear that others are at risk.”

“People believe Pomponius died as a result of a purely personal animosity?” suggested the King. “That would make the rest of them safe.”

“Well, they know how many people hated him.” In my new role as a staid man of sense, I did not ask whether Togidubnus was afraid for himself. Nor did I query his feelings toward Pomponius. I had witnessed them in furious disagreement on design issues, but you don’t use emotive words like “hate” about landscape gardening and room layouts.

Or do you? King Togidubnus cared a lot about such matters.

“He and I had our disagreements, Falco, as you are aware.”

“Personal?”

“Professional.”

“Public too. … Still, few clients actually kill their home makeover man.”

The King smiled. “Given how much bad feeling refurbishment can cause, there would well be more who do! Luckily, I can say where I was yesterday,” he assured me, rather dryly. “Should you ask.”

“Well, I like to be thorough, sir.” I made it a joke. “I’ll put down a formal note: all day at the Marcellinus villa?”

“Yes. Have you been there?”