A Body in the Bathhouse (38 page)

I mention these points because
if
there were any scandals involving the building scheme, I was there specifically to suppress those scandals. One day the great palace at Noviomagus Regnensis would stand proud, every gracious wing of it fulfilling the vision of which Pomponius had dreamed. My role was not simply to get the monstrosity built, within a realistic margin of its completion date and budget, but to ensure it never became notorious. Magnus, Cyprianus, the craftsmen, and laborers could all move on to other projects, where they might well curse the palace as an old bugbear, but their moans would soon be lost amid new troubles. Otherwise, its sorry design history would die, leaving only sheer scale and magnificence to excite admirers.

Here would be the palace of Togidubnus, the Great King of the Britons: an astounding private home, a tremendous public monument. It would dominate its insignificant landscape in this forlorn district of a desolate province, possibly for centuries. Rulers would come and go. Further refurbishments would succeed one another, according to Fate and funding. Inevitably its fortunes would wane. Decay would triumph. Its roofs would fall and its walls crumble. The marsh birds would reclaim the nearby inlets, then call and cry over nothing but waterlogged hummocks and tussocks, with all grandeur forgotten.

All the more reason for me to sit one day in some gimcrack villa of my own, to gaze across a low river valley while rowdy descendants of Nux barked at shrieking infants in some struggling provincial garden where my ancient wife was reading on a sunny bench, intermittently asking her companions to keep quiet because the old fellow was writing his memoirs.

Pointless. There would be no scroll-seller willing to copy such a story.

I could take the private route. Any head of household hopes to become someone’s interesting ancestor. I could write it all out and shove the scroll in a casket, to keep under a spare bed. My children were bound to minimize my role. But maybe there would be grandchildren with greater curiosity. I might even feel the need to limit their noble pretensions by reminding the rambunctious little beggars that their background had some low, lively moments. …

Impossible again, due to that invariable brake: client confidentiality.

You can see the problem. When I reported home on these events, the Noviomagus file was swiftly closed. Anyone who claims to know what happened must have heard it from someone other than me. Claudius Laeta, that most secretive of bureaucrats, made it clear that I was forbidden ever to reveal what Togi and I discussed. …

Mind you, I never had any time for Laeta. Listen, then (but don’t repeat it, and I mean that).

I had asked to see the King in private. He honored this, not even producing Verovolcus: a nice courtesy. More useful than he knew—or was supposed to realize.

I myself had more stringent rules; I took backup. “Clean, smart, shaved,” I told the Camillus brothers. “No togas. I want this off the record—but I want you as witnesses.”

“Aren’t you being too obvious?” asked Aelianus.

“That’s the point,” Justinus snapped.

The King received us in a lightly furnished reception room, which had a dado with sinuous tendrils of foliage, its coloring and form exactly like one at the Marcellinus villa. I admired the painting, then pointed out the similarity. I began by discussing diplomatically whether this use of labor and materials could be coincidence—then mentioned that we were retrieving the building supplies that were currently stored at the villa. Togidubnus could work out why.

“I had every confidence in Marcellinus,” commented the King in a neutral tone.

“You must have been quite unaware of the nature and scale of what went on.” Togidubnus was a friend and colleague of Vespasian. He might be mired in fraud up to his regal neck, but I formally accepted his innocence. I knew how to survive. Informers sometimes have to forget their principles. “You are the figurehead for all the British tribes. A corrupt site regime could have damaged your standing. For Marcellinus to place you unwittingly in that position was inexcusable.”

The King wryly acknowledged how delicately I had expressed it.

I acknowledged the acknowledgment. “Nothing should ever take away the fact that Marcellinus designed you a worthy home, in splendid style, where you were comfortable for a long period.”

“He was a superb designer,” agreed Togidubnus solemnly. “An architect with a major talent and exquisite taste. A warm and gracious host, he will be much missed by his family and friends.”

This showed that the tribal chief of the Atrebates was fully Romanized: he had mastered the great Forum art of providing an obituary for a corrupt bastard.

And how would he record Pomponius, loathed by everyone except his fleeting boyfriend, Plancus?
A superb designer … major talent … exquisite taste … a private man, whose loss will greatly affect close associates and colleagues.

We discussed Pomponius and his affecting loss.

“There have been some rather feeble attempts to implicate innocent parties. So many people disliked him, it has complicated matters. I have some leads,” I told the King. “I am prepared to spend time and effort on these lines of enquiry. There will be evidence; witnesses may come forward. That would mean a murder trial, unsavory publicity, and if convicted, the killers would face capital punishment.”

The King was watching me. He did not ask for names. That could mean he knew already. Or that he saw the truth and stood aloof.

“I hate ambivalence,” I said. “But I was not sent here to push crude solutions. My role is two-fold: deciding what has happened—then recommending the best action. ‘Best’ can mean the most practical, or least damaging.”

“Are you giving me a choice?” The King was ahead of me.

“Two men were involved in the death of Pomponius. I’d say one is very close to you, and the other his known associate. Shall I name the suspects?”

“No,” said the King. After a while, he added, “So what is to be done about them?”

I shrugged. “You rule this kingdom; what do you suggest?”

“Perhaps you want them dead in a bog?” asked Togidubnus severely.

“I am a Roman. We deplore barbarian cruelty—we prefer to invent our own.”

“So, Didius Falco, what
do
you want?”

“This: to know that nobody else working on this project is at risk. Then to shun domestic violence and to show respect for dead men and their families. In wild moments of idealism, maybe I want to prevent more crime.”

“The Roman punishment for the base-born would be degrading death.” The Emperor’s judicial teachers must already have begun work. The King knew Roman law. If he was brought up in Rome, he would have seen condemned men torn apart by arena beasts. “And for a man of status?” he asked.

“Nothing so decently final. Exile.”

“From Rome,” said Togidubnus.

“Exile from the Empire,” I corrected gently. “But if your culprits here are not formally tried, exile from Britain would be a good compromise.”

“Forever?” the King rasped.

“For the duration of the new build, I suggest.”

“Five years!”

“You think I strike a hard bargain? I saw the corpse, sir. Pomponius’ death was premeditated—and there was mutilation afterwards. He was a Roman official. Wars have been started for less.”

We sat in silence.

The King moved to practical suggestion: “It can be given out that Pomponius was killed by a chance intruder, who had entered the bathhouse hoping for sex or robbery. …” He was displeased, but he was working with me. “What of the other death?—Who killed Marcellinus?” he challenged.

I told him a hired dancer, her credentials insufficiently checked. The motive, I said with a slight smile, must be robbery or sex.

“My people will search for her,” the King stated. It was not an offer, but a warning. He might not know Perella worked for Anacrites specifically, but he had realized she had significance. And if the King found Perella, he would expect some kind of trade.

Since I was sure she would have left the area by now, I did not care.

LII

I
WAS UNEASY
. Aelianus and Justinus purred happily, thinking our mission accomplished. I had a dark sense of unfinished business waiting to disrupt my life.

The site was too quiet. Never trust a workplace where absolutely nobody is standing around aimlessly.

It was now the second half of the afternoon.

Even this early, many of the laborers went tramping off the site, heading towards town. Soon it seemed as if they had all gone to the canabae. None of the project team were visible, so while no one wanted me to officiate, I retired to my suite to invest in the project manager’s privilege: thinking time, paid for by the client. Not long afterwards, there was a clatter of horses and most of the King’s male retainers mounted up, then swept off at a canter in the direction of Noviomagus too. Verovolcus was leading them. I assumed they had instructions from the King to search for Perella.

They had not found her the last time they scoured the countryside. But Verovolcus might have more incentive, if he had spoken to the King since my meeting. He looked grim anyway.

Helena’s brothers and my nephew Larius still believed the queen of dance would appear that night at the River Trout. To prepare for the entertainment, they all spent time at the bathhouse, throwing aside tools and other equipment left in the changing room by the contractors; the workmen, of course, had made a mess, then fled the scene. Nobody completes a bathhouse contract overnight. Where would be the fun in that?

Helena complained our suite was like a home with a wedding in the morning. A loner myself, I was appalled by the spectacle of modern youth getting ready for a big night out. Petronius and I never primped ourselves like these three. Aelianus stubbornly shaved himself with a meticulous vanity that seemed typical. I reckon he skimmed over his legs and arms too. The sight of Larius and Justinus simultaneously rasping at each other’s prickly chins while Aelianus kept possession of one dim hand mirror was unnerving. Then Larius cut himself while pruning his horny toenails and improvised a styptic paste with Justinus’ tooth powder. Soon extra lotions were being splashed into remote anatomical crannies for luck.

Our rooms filled up with conflicting masculine unguents; cardamom, narcissus, and cypress seemed to be this season’s favorites. Then Camilla Hyspale also started tickling noses as she tricked herself out in another room. Ringlets had been well scorched and her face was positively frescoed with a thick layer of white plaster and artistic paintwork. When her dabbing brought a reek of fiery female balsam, Maia ground her teeth, then muttered to me, “That’s my Sesame Stink! It used to keep Famia off when he’d had a few. … Have you actually agreed that Hyspale can go out with her paramour?”

“Curiously, I am still waiting to be asked permission. …”

Determined not to volunteer, but to force Hyspale to seek me out with her request, I sauntered back to the lads’ room. The sight of their three glistening torsos, how stripped naked while they began fervently trying to choose tunics, convulsed me. Any woman who agreed to grope one of these beauties would find he slipped from her grip like a wet mullet. They were resolutely serious. Even selecting the right undergarments required a symposium. Length, fullness, color, sleeve style, and neck opening all had to satisfy stringent criteria—and to look right with their favorite top layer. I could not bear to watch the belt stage. I went out for some air.

Thus, by chance, I came upon a small figure who had been knocking at our door unheard.

“Iggidunus!” I was still grinning over the scenes indoors. “What do you want?”

“Message for you, Falco.” The
mulsum
boy was as unprepossessing as ever. Mud-stained, surly, and dripping unhealthily from every orifice. At least he had not brought me a drink.

“Who wants me?”

“Your man Gaius.” I crooked up an eyebrow. Surrounded by idiotic youth, I was feeling wise, tolerant, and mellow. Iggidunus viewed my kindliness with suspicion. Drawing in a huge sniff, he mumbled, “He’s found something at the secure depot. He asked me to come and get you quick.”

I had thought we had discovered all the frauds on this site, but if any were still undetected, Gaius was the man to weed them out. Iggidunus was pressing me to hurry, but after all the times I had gone feet-out in a muddy slide, I nipped back inside to change my boots. Nobody was paying attention. I called out, “I’m wanted at the depot; won’t be long!”

Waste of time.

When I went out to the veranda, the boy looked surprised that I was wearing a cloak, slung over my right side and corded informally under my left arm. I confessed we Romans felt the cold. He sneered.

Iggidunus and I walked around the site by the road. Thin sunlight bathed the huge expanse in light. We skirted the great open area that was to become the formal garden, then went around the corner. The perimeter road brought us to a gate in the high fence of the locked compound.

I stopped. “Where are the guard dogs?”

“In kennels or gone for walkies.”

“Right.” There was no sound of the ferocious hounds. Normally they bayed themselves hoarse if anyone passed by on the road. “How do we get in?”

Iggidunus pointed at the gate. Quite rightly, it was locked. Cyprianus kept the keys and he had not returned from helping Magnus with the materials at the Marcellinus villa.

“So, Iggy, where is Gaius?”

“He was going to climb in.”

“I didn’t know he was that dumb!” He was not the only one. I applied a toe to a crack in the fence and shinned up it. Once perched on the top rail, I could see Gaius inside lying on the ground. “Something’s happened. Gaius is over there. He must be hurt. Iggidunus, run and find Alexas. I’ll go in—”

I swung over and dropped down. It was stupid. I would be lucky to see Iggidunus again. Nobody else knew I was here.

For a moment I froze and surveyed the scene. The depot was a medium-size enclosure, arranged extremely neatly with stores placed in rows, each wide enough apart to permit a small cart to pass between them. Wooden racks held large slabs of marble. Whole blocks of stone were supported on low pallets. Fine timber was arrayed in large quantities under a roofed area. Near the depot entrance, a stoutly built locked shack must be occupied by the special storeman in working hours. Rare luxuries such as the jewel bases for fine paint pigments and even gold leaf might be kept there in safe custody for the finishing trades. Nails and ironware—hinges, locks, catches, and other fitments—would be locked up in the dry too. A row of rough low hutments next to the shack was probably the dog kennels.