A Body in the Bathhouse (41 page)

A handful of trench-diggers sidled in, looking like first-timers here. After an age they were joined by a small group of more boisterous characters, determined to make the party swing. They failed. We all sat unhappily, wishing we had stayed at home. A couple of the lamps faded and died. Half the customers looked ready to follow them. The trench-diggers muttered among themselves for a while, then stood up together and sneaked out like ferrets, giving the rest of us guilty smiles as if they wanted to apologize that they had left us suffering.

Things suddenly improved. A girl came in. Larius and Justinus stiffened, but pretended not to notice her. Aelianus and I glanced at one another and chorused: “Virginia!”

She heard us and came over. With a perfect young face and extremely neat dark hair, drawn back tight in a ribbon, she was old enough to be serving in a grimy bar, yet young enough to look as if her mother ought to keep her in at nights. She wore a simple dress, pinned on so it looked ready to slip off. It revealed nothing; she had less to offer than she hinted. The tempting teenager had perfected a gesture of realigning the sleeves on her shoulders as though she felt nervous about their stability. She got that right. It made us watch.

“Stupenda’s dancing this evening?” Justinus checked.

“She certainly is,” Virginia assured him brightly. She indicated the drummer, who responded by fractionally speeding up his beat.

“Seems rather quiet here,” Aelianus put to the girl. I noticed Larius kept to himself. He was pretending to be the man who was on to a certainty, with no need to exert himself. What a fraud.

“Oh, it will liven up.” The waitress was full of blasé assurance. I didn’t trust her.

You can see them all over the Empire: little girls in bars who have big dreams. On rare occasions something comes of it, not necessarily a great mistake. Helena would say that the young men were responding less to the girl’s beauty than her aura of expecting adventure. This was all the more tragic if she was really going nowhere.

Her dreams made her fickle. Larius was history. She had already moved on. Justinus had never been in with a chance. Aelianus might suppose that as the newcomer he would be a strong attraction, but he was wrong. I drank my drink quietly and let the young men jostle for her. Virginia picked her favorite; she smiled at me.

“Who’s your friend?” she asked Justinus.

He knew better than to show disappointment. “Just an old codger in the family; we have brought him out for a treat.”

“Hello,” she said. I smiled faintly, as if I found being chatted up by barmaids embarrassing. I had the lads’ six dark eyes staring with hostility, but I was old enough and had enough bad history to live with that. Virginia’s patter was basic. “What’s your name, then?”

I replaced my beaker on the table and stood up. If she wanted a mature challenge, I could give her some surprise. “Let’s go somewhere more private, and I’ll tell you, sweetheart.”

Then the door crashed open.

We were bathed in a flood of light from smoky flares. Verovolcus and the King’s retainers poured inside with a flurry of bare arms, fur amulets, and bright trousers. Shouting in several languages, they swept through the bar, shoving tables aside and elbowing customers out of their way as they searched the place like vicious myrmidons in bad epic poetry.

They were rough, though not a quarter as rough as the vigiles in Rome. When Petro’s men took a bar apart, everything was wrecked. That was on a day when the red tunics were taking things easy. Other times, you would be lucky to be able to tell afterwards that it had ever been a bar. These fellows of the King’s had amiable faces, apart from a few bent snouts, cut eyes, and missing teeth. Their idea of raiding the canabae was pretty tame. They all looked as if they knew how to curse, but would be too shy to do so in front of their mothers. I moved Virginia to safe shelter among our group, lest the sweet thing should be accidentally bruised; then we waited patiently for the racket to subside.

They tired of playing bullies even sooner than I thought they would. Only Verovolcus maintained an ugly attitude. When he chose to give up his clowning and turn nasty, he could achieve it in stylish fashion.

“You!”
He stopped right in front of me. I let him glare. “I hear you say I killed someone.” The King must have told him.

“You’ll do best to keep quiet, Verovolcus.”

The Britons were patiently waiting for their furious leader. I hoped they stayed so calm. There were far too many for us to take on, and if we fought with the King’s men, we were finished.

“Maybe I will kill
you
, Falco!” It was clear how much Verovolcus wanted to do that. He didn’t scare me, but I felt my mouth grow dry. Threats from fools are just as likely to go wrong as threats from thugs.

I lowered my voice. “Do you admit killing Pomponius?”

“I admit nothing,” Verovolcus jeered. “And you can prove nothing!”

I kept my cool. “That’s because I haven’t tried. Force me—and you will be finished. Give in. You could have been kicked right out of the Empire. Be grateful that is not being demanded. You must have cousins in Gaul you can stay with for a few years. Remind yourself of the alternative and learn to live with the same tolerance that Rome is showing you.” He was livid, but I did not let him bubble over. “You could have jeopardized everything for the King—and you know it.”

Yes, he knew. I reckon the King had already made his feelings felt. With a snarl, Verovolcus turned and strode towards the door. As a gesture of contempt, he knocked the cupid from its side-table plinth. It lay on the floor, its iron arrow still rigidly in place. All the Britons stepped over it politely as they made their way out. Perhaps they thought it might bite their ankles.

Something close to peace returned to the bar. Customers took up the same seats as before, finding their drinks again. Some had a slight air of sadness, as if they had hoped their drinks had been spilled in the commotion.

I turned back to the girl. Now I was in no mood for messing. She started to smile, but I cut short the pleasantry. “The angry man said it, sweetheart. The name’s Falco. Marcus Didius Falco.”

Her blue eyes were appraising my new mood. She had heard the name. Like others before her, she was in two minds whether this was good or bad. “You are the man from Rome.”

Larius laughed briefly. “We are all men from Rome, Virginia.”

He would learn.

To Virginia, I said sternly, “So tell me again—what time does the entertainment start”—my tone hardened—“or does it?”

She knew what I meant. “She’s not coming,” Virginia admitted. “She is dancing somewhere else tonight.”

My nephew and the Camilli were indignant. “You said—” Justinus started.

I thumped his shoulder playfully. “Oh, grow up, Quintus. The whole point of beautiful barmaids is that they lie to you.”

“So why did she tell
you
the truth?” he raged.

“Simple. We are all men from Rome—but Virginia knows that I am the important one.”

LVI

W
E WERE
all on our feet, to go hunting for Perella.

Justinus was already at the door. As the stricken statue lay in their path, Larius and Aelianus cautiously picked it up between them and placed it back on its table. Aelianus jokingly lined up the bow so it aimed at me.

I had been about to leave with the lads, but I turned back. “Who owns your cheeky tabletop art?” I asked Virginia.

“The builder—at the moment.” Clearly she did not appreciate the off-balance cherub. His peeping buttocks and his leer were wasted on this worldly girl. “He gave us it as part of the decorations scheme for the new rooms upstairs.”

“Appropriate.” I confess I sneered. Upstairs rooms in places that sell drinks have only one purpose, everybody knows. I gazed at the girl. “Will you be working there yourself?”

She was too young to be insulted so meanly, but perhaps it would make her think. The bar owner was bound to be planning a career move for her. Sophistication had hit Britain; disease and low morals had arrived.

“Certainly not!” Her indignation sounded real. The bar owner had not told her his intentions yet.

“Oh, you will find it hard squeaking that you’re innocent, once the stairs are built. Stairs in bars go up to private rooms—and customers think rooms above bars have only one purpose.” In Rome, waitresses are officially designated prostitutes. It is among the infamous professions.

“That’s libel!” snapped Virginia. The law tutors had been here too. Strange how quickly barbarian peoples learn to use the basilica courts as a threat. “I am a respectable woman—”

I glanced at Larius and laughed. “No. You’ve slept with my nephew, darling. He’s married. Well, I’m married. We are all married—except for the snooty one.”

The cupid fell over again.

“Shove a stick under it!” muttered Aelianus. Larius broke a splinter off a table edge and began to comply. Aelianus was fussing. “It’s playing up again. You have to get it absolutely level or the bloody thing tips up—”

“Not the best invention of Heron of Alexandria?” I jibed. The cupid was too top-heavy.

“Pure Sextius,” Aelianus growled, giving it a sharp punch in the stomach. It reacted with an angry clang.

Delaying for art criticism had served a purpose. A man emerged from one of the side rooms looking to refill an empty beaker. He saw Larius trying to wedge the statue upright—and at once tried to sell it to him.

“Nice bit of bronze—feel that; absolutely genuine. Look at the lovely patina—takes years to acquire, you know.”

Larius stepped back, alarmed. He had seen enough fast-talking salesmen to know his purse was at risk. Aelianus scowled and jammed the cupid’s table into a corner of the room, where he somehow propped the bronze beast uncertainly upright against the wall. Justinus was still holding open the outer door impatiently, waiting for the rest of us. “Name of the gods, Marcus—we have to go!”

But I was looking at the newcomer.

It had to be the building contractor. He was somewhere between forty and fifty; he had lost most of his hair. His manner was urbane enough to come from outside Britain. Like all builders, he wore a scruffy oversize tunic, creased in the body and loose in the sleeves, with a wide neck. They live in old garments that won’t be harmed by dust and heavy work—despite the fact they never lift a finger on a contract. The tunic was bunched untidily over a scratched belt. Only his boots were worth much and even they had been repaired.

He needed a shave and a haircut. He was one of those men who looks as if he never settled, but wears an outsize wedding ring. A wife probably put it on his finger, but whether she had stayed around afterwards was a different matter. He was well built, at least around the midriff; he could be prosperous. He had a direct, friendly air.

He had noticed me staring. “Do I know you, Legate?”

“We’ve never met.” I knew a great deal about him, though. I walked across, holding out my hand. He took it, producing a personable smile. He had a firm handshake. Not as firm as mine.

“Falco!”
urged Justinus from the doorway. At my name, I felt the builder’s grip slacken. He was trying to back off. I held on grimly.

“That’s me,” I acknowledged with a smile. “Falco. And you must be Lobullus?”

Lobullus returned a sickly grin. I stopped smiling.

“You’re the uncle of Alexas, the orderly on the palace site, aren’t you? He has told me all about you.” I don’t mind lying. People tell me enough untruths; I deserve to even up the score. And Alexas was one who had lied to me. “So you’re working here at the River Trout—and starting the Great King’s bathhouse update?” Lobullus nodded, still distracted by my fierce grasp of his hand. “You get around,” I commented. “The last I heard, you were finishing a long contract on the Janiculan Hill in Rome. … Are you using a false name, or is Gloccus just a cognomen you leave at home when you take off as a fugitive?”

Aelianus stepped away from the side table so he could move in to support me. We pushed the builder onto a stool.

“Didius Falco,” I spelled out. “Son of Didius Favonius. You also know my dear papa as Geminus. He may be a rogue—but even he thinks that you stink, Gloccus. Helena Justina, who employed you for
our
bathhouse, is my wife.”

“A very nice woman,” Gloccus assured me. That was decent. I knew that on several occasions Helena had let rip at him in her best style. With cause.

“She will be delighted that you remember her. Pity she’s not here; I know she has a word still left to say to you. Camillus Aelianus—that’s him over there—had the pleasure of meeting your own wife in Rome. She is much looking forward to your return home, he tells me. Plenty to discuss.”

Gloccus took it cheerily.

“So where is your partner this evening, Gloccus? What chance of meeting the infamous Cotta?”

“Not seen him for months, Falco.”

“Alexas is
your
nephew—but I thought Cotta was the one with medical relatives?”

“He is. We’re all related. Cotta is family.”

“So where is he?”

“We parted company in Gaul—”

“I shall want to know,” I growled, “in which town, which district of the town—and which bathhouse you were both destroying when you did him in!”

“Oh, don’t say that! You’ve got it all wrong, Falco. Cotta is not dead.”

“I do hope not. I shall be very annoyed if you deprive me of the pleasure of killing him. So where did he go?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Back to Rome?”

“Could be.”

“He was coming to Britain with you?”

“He may have been.”

“Why did you part? Surely not a falling-out?”

“Oh no, not us.”

“Of course not—he’s family! Don’t you want to know,” I asked, “why I thought you might have finished him off?”

Gloccus knew that.

I told him anyway. “We found Stephanus.”

“Who would that be?”

He was sitting on a stool with his feet tucked under it. I lashed out. I hooked my right foot under, kicking out his legs. Aelianus grabbed him by the shoulders, lest he fall. I pointed to the builder’s feet. Gloccus wore worn but well-kept boots, with hobnailed soles. They had three broad thongs across the arch of the foot, crossed straps around the heel, and a couple more wide straps going up the ankle. These thongs were black; the one that had been repaired was narrower, with tight new brown stitching.