Aelianus looked less than impressed with his task. Tough.
Both brothers were beginning to feel that working with me was not glamorous. For starters, we were gathered at my new house on the river-bank, eating a very rapid breakfast. A bread roll and a beaker of warm water each came as a shock. They had expected four-hour dalliances in wine shops.
“What can I do?” nagged Justinus plaintively.
“Plenty. Solve the identity of the corpse. Go to the contractors’ yard with your brother. Hang about after he leaves and talk to the other workmen.” I knew Aelianus would be rude to the men; then Justinus would be more friendly. “Make them list whoever was on-site during Pa’s bathhouse job. Again, obtain descriptions. If they cooperate—”
“Which you don’t expect?”
“Oh, I expect the goddess Iris to glide down in a rainbow and tell us everything! Seriously, find out who is missing. If you get a clue, visit wherever the missing man lived and take things on from there.”
“If nobody tells us who he was,” Justinus said, frowning, “how can we proceed, Falco?”
“Well, you’re big boys,” I said unhelpfully.
“Oh, go on!” scoffed Aelianus. “Don’t throw us in and leave us to sink.”
“All right. Try this: Gloccus and Cotta were the main contractors. But half the fancy fittings were supplied, and sometimes fixed, by other firms. See the marble-bowl supplier, the mosaicist, the plumber who laid the water pipes. They don’t want to be blamed. So they may be less inclined to conceal the truth. Ask Helena which importer sold her that monster splash basin in the tepidarium. Ask my father’s slaves for names of men who tramped mud through the kitchen fetching water for their mortar mix.”
“Were workmen allowed in the main house?”
“No.”
“That wouldn’t have stopped them?”
“Right. If you want a really irritating experience, try talking to Pa himself.”
“Then what?”
“Just do the jobs I have suggested. Then we’ll reconvene and pool ideas.”
They looked sulky. I kept them back a moment. “Get this straight. No one forced you to come in with me. No anxious parent begged me to find you a position. I could use someone street-smart instead of you two amateurs. Never forget, I have a queue of my own relatives who need the work.” The Camillus brothers were naive; they had no idea how much my relations despised me and my work—nor how crudely I loathed the feckless Didii. “You both wanted this. I’m allowing it as an idealist. When you bunk off back to the high life, I’ll just know that two pampered patricians have acquired practical knowledge through me.”
“O noble Roman!” Justinus said, smiling, though he had lost his rebellious attitude.
I ignored it. “Campaign orders: you accept that I am in charge. Then we work as a team. There is to be no showing off on solo escapades. We meet up every morning here, and each man turns in full details of what he has found out so far. We discuss the next course of action together—and in the case of disagreement, my plan takes precedence.”
“And what,” demanded Aelianus caustically, “are you intending to do on this case, Falco?”
I assured him I would be hard at work. True. My new house had a wonderful roof terrace, where I could waste hours playing. When I grew tired of planning herb troughs and realigning rose trellises, then the kind of dalliance in a wine shop that I had denied to the boys would suit me fine. If they guessed, neither knew me well enough to complain.
Taking both into the business brought me the benefit of their competitiveness. Each was determined to better his brother. Come to that, both would have been happy to put me in the wrong.
They played at being diligent. I amused myself wondering what the hair-plastered laborers made of them. Eventually we summed up progress: “Quintus, shoot the first spear.”
Justinus had learned in the legions how to give intelligence reports to brusque commanding officers. He was relaxed. Looking deceptively casual, he surprised me with some useful gen: “Gloccus and Cotta have been partners for a couple of decades. Everyone speaks of them as famously unreliable—yet they are somehow accepted and still given work.”
“Custom of the trade,” I said gloomily. “A standard building contract contains a clause that says: ‘It shall be the contractor’s responsibility to destroy the premises, abandon the agreed drawings, and delay the works until at least three Festivals of Compitalia have passed.’ ”
He grinned. “They do cheap house extensions, incompetent remodeling, occasional contract work for professional landlords. Presumably the landlords’ fees are larger, so the incentive to turn up on-site is greater.”
“And landlords employ project managers who flay slackers,” Aelianus suggested. I said nothing.
“Half their clients are in dispute with them for years afterwards,” Justinus continued. “They seem to live with it. When it looks like it’s becoming a court case, Gloccus and Cotta cave in; they will sometimes bodge repairs, or a favorite trick is to hand over a free statue plinth as supposed compensation.”
“Offering a half-price rude statue that the client doesn’t want?”
“And thus squeezing even more cash from him! How did you know, Falco?”
“Instinct, my dear Quintus. Aulus—contribute?”
Aelianus squared up slightly. He was slapdash by nature, but a generous superior would say he might repay the effort of training him. I was not sure I called him a worthwhile investment. “Gloccus lives by the Portico of Livia with a skinny drab who yelled at me. Her hysteria seemed genuine—she hasn’t seen him for some weeks.”
“He left without warning and without paying the rent?”
“Astute, Falco!” Could I bear this patronizing swine? “She described him rather colorfully as a fat, half-bald slob spawned by a rat on a stormy night. Other people agreed he’s paunchy and untidy, but he has a secret charm that no one could quite identify. They can’t see how he gets away with it, seems the consensus.”
“Cotta?”
“Cotta lives—or lived—alone in a third-floor set of rooms over a street market. He’s not there now. No one locally ever saw much of him, and no one knows where he’s gone.”
“What’s he like?”
“Skinny and secretive. Regarded as a bit of an odd case. Never really wanted to be a builder—who can blame him?—and rarely seemed happy with his lot. A woman who sold him cheese sometimes on his way home in the evening said his older brother is something in the medical line—an apothecary perhaps? Cotta grew up in his shadow and always envied him.”
“Ah, a thwarted-ambition story!” That sort of tale always makes me sarcastic. “Doesn’t your heart bleed? My brother saves lives, so I’ll smash in people’s heads to show I’m a big rissole too. … How do their workmen view their princes?”
“The laborers were surprisingly slow to insult them,” marveled Justinus. Perhaps it was his first experience of the mindless loyalty of men in trade—men who know they may have to work with the same bastards again.
“Subcontractors and suppliers?”
“Buttoned up. They, too, stick with their own.”
“Nobody would even tell us who’s missing,” Aelianus said, scowling.
“Hmm.” I gave them a mysterious half smile. “Try this: the dead man is a tile grouter called Stephanus.” Aelianus started to glance at Justinus, then remembered they were on bad terms. I paused, to show I had noticed the reaction. “He was thirty-four, bearded, no distinguishing features; had a two-year-old son by a waitress; was known for his hot temper. He thought Gloccus was a turd who had diddled his previous week’s wages. On the day he disappeared, Stephanus had gone to work wearing a worn, but still respectable, pair of site boots that had black thongs, one with a newly stitched repair.”
They were silent for only a moment. Justinus got there first. “The waitress found out that you were working on the murder, and came to ask about the missing father of her son?”
“Smart boy.
To celebrate, it’s your turn to buy the drinks.”
“Forget it!” Justinus exclaimed with a laugh. “I’ve a bride who thinks it’s time we stopped living with my parents—and I’ve no savings.”
The senator’s house at the Capena Gate was a spacious spread—but having many rooms to flounce off to only created more opportunities for quarrels. I knew Aelianus thought it was time that his brother and Claudia moved out. Well, he would. “We are not going to earn much on this, are we, Falco?” He wanted Justinus to suffer.
“No.”
“I see it as an orientation exercise,” Aelianus philosophized.
“Aulus,” snarled his brother, “you are so pompous, you really should be in the senate.”
I stepped in fast. “Informing is about days of nuisance work, while you long for a big enquiry. Don’t despair,” I chaffed them cheerily. “I had one once.”
I gave them a few ideas for following up, though they were losing heart. So was I. The best ploy would be to drop this, but to store our notes handily under the bed. One day Gloccus and Cotta would return to Rome. Those types always do.
Whilst my runners pursued our uninspiring leads, I devoted myself to family issues. One joyless task was on behalf of my sister Maia; I ended her tenancy on the house Anacrites had trashed. After I gave the keys back to the landlord, I continued to walk that way, keeping watch. If I had caught Anacrites lurking in the area, I would have spitted him, roasted him, then thrown him to the homeless dogs.
In fact, something worse happened. One evening I spotted a woman I recognized, talking to one of Maia’s neighbors. I had told a few trusted people that my sister had moved away to a place of safety; I never mentioned where. Friends understood the situation. Nothing would be said to a casual enquirer. Her neighbor was now shaking her head unhelpfully.
But I knew the infiltrator. She had dangerous skills. Her paid task was finding people who were attempting to stay hidden. If she found them—that is, when she found them—they always regretted it.
This woman was called Perella. Her arrival confirmed my worst fears: Anacrites was having the place observed. He had sent one of his best operatives too. Perella might look like a comfortable, harmless bundle who was only after female gossip. She was past her prime; nothing would change that. But under the dark frumpy gown, she had the body of a professional dancer, athletic and tough as tarred twine. Her intelligence would shame most men; her persistence and courage frightened even me.
She worked for the Chief Spy. She was damned good—and she enjoyed that fact. She usually worked alone. Scruples did not trouble her. She would tackle everything; she was utterly professional. If she had been given the ultimate order, I knew that she would kill.
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
MY 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.
A Body in the Bathhouse Page 5
