A Body in the Bathhouse (7 page)

My solution was easy. Sometimes the Fates must have a drop too much to drink; while they lie down groaning with a headache, they forget to screw you.

A way out arrived the same evening, when I reached home. The lads and I had arranged to hold a final consultation about the missing builders. Aelianus and Justinus had discovered something that day that made them think we should call off our search.

“Gloccus and Cotta are way out of reach.” Aelianus used a nasty smirk sometimes.

I was too upset by Perella; I just rambled, with half my mind on it: “So where are they? A yurt in darkest Scythia? While some tradesmen dream of retiring to a tasteless southern villa, with a pergola that a Babylonian king would envy, do bathhouse contractors opt for being smoked to oblivion with filthy drugs in exotic eastern tents?”

“Worse, Falco.” Suddenly I knew what was coming. Still too full of himself, Aelianus continued, “There is some large project overseas—building specialists are being sent from Rome. It is regarded as a hard posting, but we were told it is surprisingly popular.”

“High rates of pay,” Justinus inserted dryly.

They were trying to be mysterious, but I already knew of a project that would fit.

“Do you want to guess, Falco?”

“No.”

I leaned back, cradling my head. I sucked my teeth. This was normal man-management: I looked supercilious while they looked shifty. “Right. We’ll go there.”

“You don’t know where it is,” complained Aelianus, always the first to jump in blindly when he ought to suspect a catch.

“Don’t I? They are builders, aren’t they?” I knew where all the contractors were rushing off to currently. “Now. I owe this to your parents: one of you has to stay in Rome and mind the office. Agree between you who wins the chance to travel. I don’t care how. Draw counters from an urn. Throw dice. Ask a dirty astrologer.”

They were reacting too slowly. Justinus got there first: “Falco knows!”

“They’ve gone to a project known as the Great King’s House. Am I right?”

“
How
do you know, Falco?”

“We are looking for two builders. I make sure I know what’s being talked about in the building world.” It was a coincidence—but I could live with assistants who thought I had magical powers. “This is an enormous, glamorous palace being built for an old supporter of Vespasian’s. The Emperor takes a personal interest. Unluckily for us, the great one—who has an unpronounceable name, which we must learn to say—is king of a tribe called the Atrebates. They live on the south coast. That’s the south coast on the wrong side of the Gallic Strait. It’s an evil stretch of water, and it separates us from a ghastly province.”

I stood up. “I repeat: one of you can pack a bag. Bring warm clothes, a very sharp sword, plus all your courage and initiative. You have three days to kiss the girls good-bye, while I finalize our commission.”

“Falco! What commission?”

“One Vespasian has particularly begged me to accept. Our commission from Sextus Julius Frontinus, Provincial Governor of Britain, to investigate the Great King’s House.”

It was horrible—but neat.

I would go; I would have to take Helena; that would mean we took the children. I had sworn never to go back, but oaths are cheap. Gloccus and Cotta were not the only lure. I would drag along Maia, removing her from Rome and from Anacrites’ grasp.

I set it all up very quietly. I had to arrange things at the Palace so discreetly that Anacrites would not find out. Only then did I warn Maia.

Being one of my sisters—immune to good sense, careless of her own safety, and thoroughly bloody-minded—Maia refused to go.

VIII

M
Y PLAN
had been to slip out of Rome quietly. By now, the Fates must have woken up with a real hangover. The journey took forever and it was terrible.

The
first
time I went to Britain, I had the army looking after me. Nothing to worry about, except pondering why in Hades I had ever joined up. It was all easy. Kindly officers planned my every waking moment so there was no time to panic; practiced supplies managers ensured that food and every kind of equipment accompanied us; good lads were with me, all wanting their mothers just like I did but not saying so.

The
last
time I went out there, it was me and a one-man travel pack. I prepared it for myself without a kit manual, while others added an imperial pass to see me through and a mapskin showing the long road north. On the way back, it was me and a highly strung, furious young divorceé called Helena Justina. She was wondering what it would be like to go to bed with a brutal, outspoken informer, while I was very carefully avoiding the same thoughts. A thousand miles was a long way, trying to keep my hands off her. Especially once I started to sense that she wanted me to stop trying.

“Seems a long time ago,” I murmured, standing on the quayside in Portus, the main docking harbor at Ostia. It was five years.

Helena still had the art of talking to me privately, even amid a hubbub. “Were we different people then, Marcus?”

“You and I will never change.” She smiled. The old wrench caught me, and I spread my hands on her, the way that dangerous dog five years ago would have loved to do.

This time, our luggage for the trip to Britain covered half the dock. While Nux raced around barking, Helena and I skulked off towards the massive statue of Neptune, pretending that the sea of chests and wicker baskets had no connection with us. The two Camilli were quarreling with each other as they oversaw loading. They had still not decided who was coming on the trip, so both planned to sail to Gaul while they continued to wrangle over who must stay behind at Massilia.

“Massilia!” I grinned, still reminiscing. “I damn nearly went to bed with you there.”

Helena buried her face in my shoulder. I think she was giggling. Her breath tickled my neck. “I expect you will do, this time.”

“Be warned, lady.” I spoke in the tough voice I used to put on—the one I once supposed had fooled her, though she had seen through it after a week. “I’m planning to exorcize every memory of places where I let you stay chaste last time.”

“I look forward to that!” Helena retorted. “I hope you are fit.” She knew how to issue a challenge.

We stood in silence for a time. Wrapped in cloaks against the sea breeze, and closely wrapped up in each other. She must have looked like a tearful wife bidding farewell to an official who was off on a long overseas tour. I must have looked like some fellow who was bravely managing not to seem too keen on the freedom ahead.

There would be no farewells. Ours was a different kind of freedom. We had always enjoyed life on the wing together. We both knew the dangers. We thought about them, even there on the quayside when it was far too late. Perhaps I should have left Helena and the babes at home. But how many careful adventurers make that sensible choice, bum off, survive endless danger and hardship, then return to the Golden City only to find that all their treasures have been wiped out by marsh fever?

There was a virulent strain of marsh fever in Britain. Still, our destination was coastal. Beyond the Great King’s picturesque harbor outside his palace would lie windswept open water, not stagnant lakes and fens. Mind you, we had to cross two seas to get there; one was a terrifying stormy strait.

Helena and I thought that life was to be lived together. Private, domestic, and shared. Shared with our family: two children, one complaining nursemaid, one scruffy dog. Plus my two assistants, the Camilli. And thanks to the Fates recovering their sense of fun, with the addition on this quayside of my sister Maia and all her children—who were still not coming to safety with us, but who were getting in the way seeing us off. Then there was Petronius. He had tagged along, saying he wanted to visit his daughters in Ostia.

“Got your socks?” I heard him mocking the two Camilli. The word was new to them. When we hit the next ship, crossing the cold and wind-ravaged Gallic Strait, whichever of the two was still with us would work out the point of knitted one-toe socks.

“We could end up with both of them,” Helena muttered quietly.

“Oh yes. Your father thought it worth a formal bet.”

“How much?”

“Too much!”

“You two are incorrigible. … Father is heading for trouble. My mother ordered both my brothers to stay in Rome.”

“We’re taking both, then. That clinches it, sweetheart.”

Now we were both smiling. Helena and I would enjoy watching the lads trying to choose the right moment to confess.

Hyspale was feeling queasy before she was even on the boat. Once aboard, Helena dragged her off to the tiny cabin, taking Maia with them to help calm the woman down. I went belowdecks with Aelianus, stowing our long-distance baggage. Justinus had the thankless task of explaining to the ship’s crew that some items were wanted for the journey. We had a good system of identifier tags. Regardless of that, someone had mixed up everything. Nothing was missing as far as I could tell, but there seemed to be baggage I knew nothing about.

It is always unsettling as you wait for a long journey to start. In retrospect, perhaps there was more tension than there might have been. Perhaps people snarled and flustered around more chaotically than usual. There are shouts and bumps as a ship is laden with cargo. The crew do take delight in not bothering to inform passengers what is going on. Casting off seems their excuse to make shipboard visitors panic.

So for once, what happened was not my fault. I was down in the bowels of the vessel anyway. Then I heard the scream.

As I climbed up the rope ladder to the main deck, something worried me. Thudding and rocking had given way to smoother sensations. I felt the change in air movement; then a surge underfoot knocked me almost off balance.

“We’re moving already!” Aelianus cried excitedly. Foreboding struck me. A panicky commotion was already telling me the worst: the captain had cast off and sailed out of Portus. Unluckily, he did so while Maia was still on board with us.

My sister was now straining at the rail, ready to throw herself over like a naiad crazed by too much sun and foam. I had never seen Maia so hysterical. She was shrieking that she had been taken from her children. Only real force from Justinus, who had grasped the situation in his quick style and then grabbed Maia, stopped her trying to hurl herself overboard to get back to shore. Like me, she had never learned to swim.

“There’s my brother taking a firm hand with the women,” sneered Aelianus.

“My sister knows close-contact wrestling, though,” I commented as Maia flung her savior aside and collapsed weeping on her knees.

As Maia sobbed, something about the quiet way Helena was exclaiming over her in sympathy made me pause. I would have expected my beloved to turn to me and order me to solve this problem before it was too late.

I leaned on the rail and stared back at the quayside. There indeed were Maia’s four young children. Marius, Cloelia, and Ancus stood in a solemn line togther; they seemed to be calmly waving us good-bye. Rhea was held up in the arms of Petronius Longus as if to get a better view of her mother being abducted. An extra small dot must be Marius’ puppy sitting quietly on his lead. Petronius, who could have tried commandeering a boat to chase after us, was just standing there.

“My children! Take me back to my children! My darlings; whatever will become of them without me? They will all be terrified—”

The neatly lined-up little figures were all looking quite unperturbed.

Aelianus decided to play the hero; he obligingly rushed to negotiate with the captain. I knew the man would not turn back. Justinus caught my eye and we both stayed where we were, with suitable expressions of concern. I reckon he saw what I was thinking. Perhaps he had even been in on the plot: this was fixed. One reason the captain would not be turning back was that somebody had paid him to cast off quietly—and then to keep going.

My sister was being removed from the reach of Anacrites. Somebody had set this up, whether Maia liked it or not. My guess was Helena. Petronius and even Maia’s children might have conspired too. Only Helena could have invented the scheme and paid for it. Maia was unlikely to see the real truth. Once she had calmed down and started to work this out, then I, her utterly blameless brother, would end up being blamed.

“Well, let’s consider what we can do,” I heard Helena say. “The children are with Lucius Petronius. No harm will come to them. We shall somehow get you home again. Don’t cry, Maia. One of my handsome brothers will be going home from Massilia. You can easily be taken back with him. …”

Both of her handsome brothers nodded in support—then since neither really intended to turn back at Massilia, they both skulked off out of the way.

Nobody seemed to need me. I got my head down in my work. I tied a long string to my daughter Julia so she could clamber about the deck in safety (and trip up sailors). Nux, a first-time sailor, whined a lot, then lay on my legs. I rolled up the new baby in a warm papoose and kept her under my cloak against my chest. Then I sat on the deck with my feet up on an anchor, studying my notes from the Palatine secretariat, which administered funds for the Great King’s palace.

As usual with official projects, where the client had the highest expectations and the producing agency had the greatest need to shine, the larger were the errors and the higher the costs. Treasury audit had been applied and had nothing good to say. Loss of materials on-site had reached epic proportions. There had also been a rash of serious accidents. Even the scheme’s architect had submitted a scared report about his fears of sabotage.

Frontinus, the provincial governor, reckoned the program completion date had not just slipped—it had skidded right into the next decade. He was having difficulties curbing the client’s demands and possessed no decent manpower to send in on a rescue mission, due to conflicting needs of the major new works being built in Londinium (that was principally the new headquarters for the provincial governor—himself). Brutal paragraphs in administrative Greek spelled out the worst. The Great King’s palace had reached the danger stage: it was all set to be the biggest administrative failure ever.