A Body in the Bathhouse (42 page)

“Stephanus,” I announced clearly, “was the last owner of these boots. He was well dead when I saw him. Word is, he went to work angry because he thought you had diddled his wages.”

“Yes, he was a bit put out that day. … But I never killed him,” Gloccus insisted. “That was Cotta.”

“And what will Cotta say?” jeered Aelianus. He leaned on the man’s shoulder heavily. “ ‘Gloccus did it!’ I suppose?”

Gloccus returned the fearless gaze of a man who has had to face sticky questions many, many times before. We would not find it easy to break him. Too many furious householders had tackled him, all determined not to be put off again. Too many customers had screamed their frustration when his laborers failed to turn up yet again, or mold grew in the wall flues, or the plunge bath was lined finally after months of delay—but in the wrong color.

Maybe he had even had to face interrogation by the vigiles.

Nothing was new to him. He answered everything in that infuriating way—denying nothing, promising all, yet never coming good. All my fury about the bathhouse returned. I hated him. I hated him for the weeks of bad feeling we had endured, for the waste of money, for Helena’s disappointment and stress. That was even before I remembered the scene when Pa and I set to with picks and unearthed that hideous corpse.

I said I was arresting him. Gloccus would be tried. He would go to the arena beasts. There was an amphitheater in Londinium; Hades, there was even an arena here. Lions and tigers were in short supply, but Britain had wolves, bulls, and Caledonian bears. … First I would make him tell me where to find Cotta. If that required torture, I would personally set light to the tapers and tighten the screws.

Maybe I laid it on too thick. He jumped up suddenly. Justinus and Larius were blocking his escape route to the street. He turned to make a run for it through the back exit. He barged Aelianus. Aelianus knocked against the corner table. The cupid clanged against the wall. There was a loud retort. The bow twanged. Gloccus was shot by the great iron nail, straight through the throat.

LVII

I
T WAS
a freak accident. It killed him. Not instantly. He suffered. Not enough for me, yet too much for the humane to find bearable. I sent the lads off. I stayed.

There was no point trying to ask again whether it was him or Cotta who had killed Stephanus. Even if he had been able to speak, he would not have told me. If he had said anything, I would never have been sure I could believe it. To finish the business, to draw the requisite line in the sand, I waited there until he croaked.

All right. In the circumstances croaked is the wrong word. I can still hear Gloccus in his dying moments. I mention it purely to give comfort to those of you who have found raw sewage backing up a waste pipe in your new caldarium, three days after your contractors vanished off the site.

I was in a dark hole where life was brutal. The River Trout stayed open, whoever might be dying on their filthy floor. Customers did move aside to give me light and air as I crouched beside Gloccus. Someone even handed me a drink during the ghastly vigil. When Gloccus died, they just towed the body out through the back exit.

Once he had gone, I felt no more cheerful. At least we avoided formalities. In Britain, you don’t hear the vigiles whistle, then find yourself stuck with hours of questions all implying you are guilty of some crime. Given how I felt about Gloccus, his end lay lightly on my conscience. It was fitting. Best not to think that the arrow could have struck down one of us and we, too, would have been dumped in a narrow alley for the wild hogs. But the sense of unfinished business crippled me.

As I made to leave, Timagenes, the landscape gardener, came in with Rectus, the engineer. They must be regular drinking pals. In shock, perhaps, I blurted out what had happened. Rectus took a deep interest and decided he would haggle with the landlord to acquire the fart-arse cupid. Its arm dropped off while he inspected it, but Rectus reckoned he could fix that.

They, too, bought me a drink. It helped my toothache, which had started up again.

“What are you two doing here? If you’ve come to watch the dancer—”

“Not us.” Rectus grimaced. “We came here on purpose to avoid all that.” Quiet types, unimpressed by the twirling of elderly pulchritude. Still, Rectus was a man who noticed things. He knew what was going on.

“So where is she appearing?”

“At the Nemesis.”

That sounded like a place where any accidents would be neatly planned by Fate.

Rectus and Timagenes gave me directions. Starting to feel light-headed, I roamed off alone. Summer evenings in southern Britain can be pleasant enough (by their standards). If this had been a port, there would have been noise and action, but Noviomagus lay slightly inland. It was partly surrounded by a river, nothing significant, not enough to encourage nightlife—or any life that would satisfy Rome. The town was only half developed, still with many empty plots lining the silent streets. Where there were houses, they displayed no lights. I found my way purely by luck.

This new dive lurked by the Palace Gate, which was on the western edge of town. It was the approach road from the palace handiest for the site workers. I found the venue by the soft glow of lamps shining from the open doorway and the loud hum of men’s voices. It was the only place in Novio that night with any real hint of activity. I was sure this was the right location; next door lay a darkened lockup, where a large signboard showed a human tooth. Gaius had mentioned the adjacent tooth puller. Had he been open for business, I would have rushed in, demanding that the mouth mangler relieve my pain. Like everywhere else except the bar, it was closed for the night.

As I approached, I saw a tall woman, her body and head decently shrouded in a Roman matron’s stole. She paused briefly outside, then made herself go in boldly. She was no mystery to me: Helena. I called her; she never heard me; I rushed after her.

Indoors was pandemonium. Helena could be determined, but she hated noisy crowds. She had stopped, nervous. I fought my way to her, breaking into my best grin.

“You wicked piece! Is this how you spend your evenings? I never had you for a barfly—”

“It’s you! Thank goodness.” I do like grateful women. “Marcus, we have to find Hyspale—”

“Maia told me.” Helena was covering her ears against the din. I saved my breath.

There seemed no chance of acquiring a table; then a group of Italian diggers decided they would leap up and knock the hell out of some Britons. The management had organized a party of big Gauls to keep the peace; they were of course eager for a ruckus, so all three lots went outside in good order and held their fight there. Impressed, I maneuvered Helena to a free space, just beating a friendly set of Spanish hearties. They tried chatting to my girl on principle, but took the hint when I lifted up her hand and pointed to a silver ring I had given her.

“My daughter,” Helena explained, miming heavily that she had a baby, “is called Laeitana.” This went down well. They had no idea what she was saying; they were from the south. Baeticans don’t give an as for Tarraconensis. That my child had been named for a wine-producing area near Barcino in the north had no effect. But Helena had made an effort and they made us share their flagon. Helena noticed I looked flushed. I blamed my tooth.

Drink was being sold at a furious rate, though there was no sign of imminent dancing. I climbed on a bench and looked over heads; I saw nobody I recognized.

“Where are my brothers and Larius?”

“Who knows? I found Gloccus.”

“What?”

“Later!”

“Pardon?”

“Forget it.”

“Forget what?”

There were so many men crammed in, it was hard to see what this bar looked like. I could tell how it smelled, and that we’d be lucky if the animal fat in the lamps failed to set the joint ablaze. If Noviomagus Regnensis lacked street lighting, there was no chance they had organized a patrol of firefighters. Once when I was an efficient operator full of good sense and energy, I might have wandered through the back kitchens to locate a well and buckets in advance. … No, not tonight, after a death and several drinks.

A plate of grilled meat snacks passed itself to our table. It sat there awhile. No one seemed to own it, so I tucked in. I could not remember my last meal.

The crowd heaved and reordered itself into new configurations. Through the press I glimpsed the Camillus brothers, squashed and red-faced. Helena waved. They started the long process of inching over to us, but gave up. I mouthed at them,
Where’s Larius?
and they signaled back,
Virginia!
Then, somewhere in the thick of the drinkers at the far end of the room, a stillness fell. Excitement was transmitted through the hubbub, bringing silence. Eventually new sounds became audible through that silence: a shimmer of a tambourine, shaken with infinite restraint, and the faintest ripple of a snare drum. Someone shouted to the people at the front to sit. Helena saw men climbing on a table near us. She flashed a glance at me. One minute we were both on our feet, the next standing up on the narrow bench.

That was how we stayed, clinging to each other for balance. That was how, in that dirty, noisy, disreputable hovel by a gatehouse in a half-built town, we were taken halfway to Olympus the night we saw Perella dance.

LVIII

A
LL THE
best performers are no longer young. Only those with experience of life, of joy and grief, can wring the heart. They have to know what they are promising. They have to see what you have lost and what you yearn for. How much you need consoling, what your soul seeks to conceal. A great mature male actor shows that although the girls scream after the ingenues, they are nothing yet. A great female dancer, in her prime, encapsulates humanity. Her sexual power attracts all the more because in popular thought only young girls with perfect limbs and pretty features are exciting; to prove that nonsense is a thrill for both men and women. Hope lives.

Perella revealed almost nothing physically. Her dress seemed entirely modest. Her severe hairstyle emphasized the bones of her pale face. She wore no jewelry—no tacky anklets, no twinkling metal disks sewn in her garments. When she entered that dire den, her casual poise almost insulted the audience. They thrived on it. Her matter-of-fact floating walk asked no favors. Only the respect with which her musicians waited for her gave a hint. They knew her quality. She let them play first. A double flute, eerie with melancholia; a drum; a tambourine; a small harp in the pudgy, beringed hands of an incongruously fat harpist. No clichéd castanets. She played no instrument herself.

At what point in her past history she had been taken up to dally with spies, I dared not contemplate. They must have approached her because she was so good. She would be able to venture anywhere. She had neither fear nor grand airs; she was dancing here as honestly as she must ever do. The only fault for her palace employers would be that she was so good, she would always attract attention.

She began. The musicians watched and responded to her; she tempered her movements perfectly to their tunes. They loved that. Their enjoyment fueled the excitement. Perella danced at first with such restraint of motion it seemed nearly derisive. Then each fine angle of her outstretched arms and each slight turn of the neck became a perfect gesture. When she burst forth abruptly into frantic drumming of her feet, whirling and darting in the confined spaces available, gasps turned to stricken silence. Men tried to fall back to give her room. She came and went, within the free area, flattering each group with their moment of attention. The music raced. It was clear now that Perella was in fact clad alluringly—we could glimpse white leather trunks and breast band under sheer veils of Coan silk. What she did with her supple body was more vital than the body itself. What she said through her dance—and the authority with which she said it—mattered most.

She came nearer. The entranced crowd parted for her. The smiling musicians slipped to their feet lightly, tracing her progress through the room so they neither lost sight of her nor left her insecure and unattended. Her hair came loose, a deliberate part of the act no doubt, so she swirled it free with a deep toss of her head. This was no slim and devious New Carthage beauty with a tumbling sheen of oiled, inky locks, but a mature woman. She might be a grandmother. She was aware of her maturity and challenging us to notice too. She was the queen of the room
because
she had lived more than most of us. If her joints creaked, nobody would know it. And unlike the crude offers purveyed by younger artists, Perella was giving us—because she had nothing else to give—the erotic, ecstatic, uplifting, imaginative glory of hope and possibility.

The musicians strove to a high climax, their instruments at breaking point. Perella twirled to an exhausted halt, right in front of me. Applause burst all around us. A hubbub rose; men called feverishly for drink to help them forget they had been overcome. Congratulatory grins surrounded the dancer, though she was left alone respectfully.

She saw who I was. Perhaps she had stopped here deliberately. “Falco!”

Helena teetered dangerously on the bench edge. I could not leap down and seize the dancer; I had to hold on to Helena. A Roman does not allow the well-bred mother of his children to tumble face-first on a disgusting tavern floor. Helena probably relied on that; she kept me with her on purpose. “Perella.”

“I have a message for your sister,” she said.

“Don’t try anything! Following my sister is a mistake, Perella—”

“I’m not after your sister.”

“I saw you at her house—”

“Anacrites sent me there. He realized he went too far. He sent me to apologize.”

“Apologize!”

“A stupid move,” she admitted. “That was him, not me.”
That is him dead then
, I thought.

“And what are you doing here?” I demanded accusingly.

“Earning my fare home. You know the bureau: mean with expenses.”

“You’re still following my sister.”