A Body in the Bathhouse

by Lindsey Davis

  “Internal viewing recommended, is it? Must be seen …” Why would the King assume I had a special interest in property, self-build or otherwise? Rome’s official brief would have covered my status and talents, not my living arrangements.

  Perhaps I had imagined any significance in the comment. The King merely resumed his tale of south-coast society: “The birthday party was due to last all day, concluding with a banquet—but I retire early nowadays, so could not undertake the long journey home at night.” Surely after their long years of collaboration and friendship, the Marcellinus couple could have provided a royal put-you-up? “I went for lunch only and drove back at dusk after a pleasant afternoon. I stayed overnight in my house in Noviomagus, returning here this morning. I was then told what had happened.”

  “I thought you were here last night,” I mentioned. “I sent someone to ask your permission to close off the baths.”

  “Verovolcus or others in my household should have dealt with that.”

  “Yes, they did … though it did not deter some laborers this morning, unfortunately.” No reaction from the King. “Verovolcus was not invited to the birthday party?”

  “No.” The King now looked embarrassed.

  “Verovolcus is organizing the contractors at the bathhouse,” Helena broke back in. “He stayed behind to deal with them.”

  “You need not be shy about the refurbishment,” I reassured the King. “The new palace is your gift from Vespasian, but you are perfectly entitled to make additional improvements. You are a wealthy man,” I told him. I wanted to hint that if he added to the approved scheme, he must commit his own funds—as least while I was auditing. “Lavish spending is the duty of a wealthy Roman. It demonstrates status, which glorifies the Empire, and it cheers up the plebs to think they belong to a civilized society.”

  This time nobody asked if I was being sarcastic, though they probably all knew.

  “You should ask about the architect’s party,” Maia put in suddenly. She had a morose expression, fired by a dangerous glint. I tipped up an eyebrow. “There was food and drink all day—then in the evening, after the King left, there was to be a grand formal dinner. That was to be accompanied by music and hired entertainment, Marcus.” I sensed what was coming. “The highlight was a special dancer,” my sister announced.

  It came as no surprise. Maia would hardly look so grim over a light poetry recital or a troupe of fire-eaters. “Let me guess. That would be a professional dancer, some exotic import all the way from Rome? Sinuous and expert?”

  “Expert in a lot of things,” Maia snapped. “Her name is Stupenda.”

  “Her name is Perella.” I now had no doubt. But what would Anacrites’ agent want with the retired ex-architect?

  Nothing good. Nothing that I could afford to ignore.

  XLV

  THE MARCELLINUS villa was supposed to be about twelve miles away—that was probably as the crow flew, and in my experience British crows were tipsy old bunches of feathers who could not use maps.

  The King realized I would not contemplate breaking off the murder enquiry to make such a journey unless I feared danger. He provided fast horses and a small escort of keen warriors. We were seen leaving by Magnus, who somehow found a mount and attached himself. Verovolcus also tagged along. So did Helena. While I protested, she made me carry her on my horse behind me. This was a fine example of Roman nursing motherhood—because yes, we had to have Favonia with us too. Helena had quickly run to fetch her, then turned up with the baby secured to her body with her stole. Not many informers go about their business accompanied by a madwoman and a four-month-old child.

  Maia stayed behind with Nux and a human bodyguard. “I’ll look after little Julia. I’m not taking on those other two you fostered. They look nasty blighters.” Aelianus and Larius pretended not to hear.

  Larius wanted to come. “You’re a murder suspect,” Aelianus rebuked him. “Just sit tight.”

  “I’ve been assisting Uncle Marcus since you were a two-foot-high whiner dribbling over your gold amulet—” Larius scoffed.

  “You were brought to Britain to paint sprays of pretty flowers. I am on official attachment—”

  “Stop arguing, both of you.” Maia scowled. Surprisingly, they did.

  We were offered a boat. It could have been quicker, for all I know. But I wanted to see if we met anybody coming back to Noviomagus from the villa. It did not happen. Still, you have to check.

  The Marcellinus spread lay a couple of miles inland. We certainly knew when we got there: its size and grandeur compelled attention the same way he did with his dramatic clothes and haughty bearing. As soon as we galloped up to the monumental entrance, my fears about last night were confirmed. The great place was in turmoil. The slaves were either running about like startled mice or cowering, all terrified. We soon found the architect’s wife, whom I put about twenty years younger than him—maybe it was her fiftieth birthday she celebrated yesterday. Scream after scream told us where she was. She must have been screaming helplessly for a long time, because she had grown completely hoarse. None of her staff dared approach to soothe or comfort her.

  The hysteria was caused by finding her husband dead. I did not need to ask her whether he died from natural causes. They had a bathhouse—but unlike Pomponius, Marcellinus had died in his bed.

  Helena took charge of the poor woman. Striding through elegant suites full of ornate furniture, I soon came on Marcellinus. He and his wife had separate bedrooms—the sophisticated system that enables couples to ignore each other. He was in his bed, still lying where he had slept, as the wife had said. Somebody had cut his throat. It was expertly done, through both jugular and windpipe, so deeply the knife must have scraped his vertebrae.

  The room stank of last night’s wine. There was a great deal of blood. I had been half prepared for this; well, I had seen such handiwork before. It still turned my stomach. Magnus, who followed me, failed to make it from the room before he vomited. Some of the Britons who came with me looked queasy, though they all managed to stay upright and nobody fled. Verovolcus came right up and inspected the scene at close quarters. A head half sliced from its body held no terrors for tribesmen whose nation decapitated enemies as war trophies. The young man could never have joined in much action, but Verovolcus gave the impression he had seen sights I would not like to hear about.

  It was a ghastly sight. I tried to remain professional. Marcellinus may have been asleep when he was set upon. From the way he lay high against the pillows, with the top portion of his body outside the bedspread, I thought it more likely he had sat up and been slashed from behind. Someone had been allowed to get close enough for that. If a woman did it—and I knew who I meant—any cynic could speculate as to how she wound herself so far into the man’s confidence—on his wife’s birthday too.

  Most of the blood was on the bed. There were no footprints. The door handle was clean. The perpetrator cannot have escaped the gore entirely, but had left no trail. A professional job. Little could spoil it except that my presence in the locality was real bad luck. I had seen enough handiwork like this to name Perella outright as the killer.

  There was no weapon at the bedside, but we could tell it had been a highly sharpened, thin-bladed dagger. Sharp enough to filet fish, bone meat—or for any other butchery. It would be well cleaned by now, pushed tidily back in its sheath, and tucked into the belt of the quiet, dowdy-seeming woman whom I had once seen pare an apple probably with that very knife. A cloak would cover any blood splashes.

  “Man from Rome, what do you think?” croaked Verovolcus. I thought he showed far too much eager curiosity, for one thing.

  “If people continue to die at this rate, nobody will be left as suspects. …”

  Verovolcus laughed. I did not join him. “Two great architects in the same night!” he marveled.

  “Intriguing coincidence.” Or was it? “Pomponius and Marcellinus had a professional rivalry. Since they were killed the same evening, all this distanc
e apart, neither killed the other. Mind you, we could still find the same motive—and the killers could have been organized by the same person.”

  “A jealous wife?” Magnus suggested.

  “You knew the couple,” I told Verovolcus. “Did she have a reason to be upset with her husband?”

  Verovolcus shrugged. “If she did, she never showed it. She always appeared content.”

  “She is upset now!” I commented.

  We searched the house, discovering nothing significant. The slaves said that after prolonged festivities, everyone had slept in late. That included some guests who had stayed overnight; we found them huddled together in a dining room. Local dignitaries, not particularly dignified in this crisis, they had nothing to tell us. People had risen late, came to breakfast—which was by then at lunchtime—and were planning their departure. Marcellinus’ wife decided to check on him, as he would normally bid farewell to any guests in person. After the screams started, the guests felt they should remain here, though nobody knew what form their assistance should take.

  I asked about last night. They all said the party was a huge success; the dancer had been splendid. The musicians were provided by Marcellinus, not brought by Stupenda, as she called herself. This morning, both musicians and dancer left—and were seen leaving by a gateman—one responsible citizen had thought to check this. The strummers and tam-bourinists went first. The dancer emerged a little after them; by prior arrangement she had been fetched from Noviomagus and was to be returned there in Marcellinus’ own carriage.

  The carriage was still out. I asked Verovolcus if the warriors could ride around and scour the countryside at least in the near vicinity. They ought to find the conveyance. They would not trace “Stupenda,” I was sure.

  I went to talk to the wife.

  No luck. Helena had calmed her down, but it had been necessary to sedate her. A woman in the kitchen had produced medicinal herbs for this purpose. Helena had wrapped the widow in a blanket. Now she simply sat weeping slowly as shock really set in. She was incoherent and oblivious to our presence.

  Helena drew me aside and spoke in a low voice. “I found out what I could. The party ended very late. People were exhausted, and most of them tipsy. Beds were found. Marcellinus and his wife slept in separate quarters. …” I did not comment. Helena and I shared strong views about that. Still, this was an elderly couple and he was an artistic type. “This morning the servants were all drowsy, so the wife herself investigated his nonappearance. She just walked in and came upon the horror.” Helena was shaken. Maybe she imagined how she would feel if she found me like that.

  “What is she like?”

  “Decent. Respectable if not cultured. Not his freedwoman; there would have been rank and a dowry, I’d say.”

  “He would want a wife who brought him money—expensive tastes.”

  “She has not yet absorbed what this means.” Helena herself in a crisis always saw instantly what it would involve. Helena conquered bereavement, fear, or any other tragedy by fiercely planning how to deal with it. “I told her we think the killer will be long gone and there is no threat to others. She could not take it in. She is not even calling for justice yet.”

  My voice rasped harshly. “If the killer comes from Anacrites, he is justice—imperial justice executed sneakily and summarily.”

  “Don’t blame the Emperor.” Helena sounded tired.

  “Oh, let’s pretend Vespasian does not know what his Chief Spy fixes—or his filthy methods. No. Be realistic: Vespasian does not want to know.”

  I knew Helena would resist. “Inform Vespasian if you want to, Marcus—but he won’t thank you!”

  Helena supported the Flavian regime, yet she was a realist. Vespasian maintained a pretense that he hated spies and informers—yet the imperial intelligence service still flourished. Titus Caesar had made himself commander of the Praetorian Guard, who ran the spies network (on the rationale that they were using it to protect the safety of the Emperor). From what I heard, rather than disbanding it, Titus was planning to restructure and expand the team.

  Even my own work for Vespasian was part of this system. Being freelance rather than on the palace payroll did not absolve me from the ordure of undercover work. I had approached this mission openly—yet in the preparatory stages even I had considered whether I could accomplish more on-site disguised as a fountain expert.

  Any casualties in my work were unavoidable. I never sought to cover up my actions with executions. When tragedies happened, I hoped the dead deserved their fate. But Anacrites would say the same. Perella slitting throats in far-flung provinces was only a means to liquidate offenders with maximum efficiency and minimum public outcry—using cost-effective means.

  “But why Marcellinus?” I had spoken out loud.

  Helena and I moved to an anteroom together so she was able to speculate with me, unheard. “For Anacrites to go this far seems very strange. Marcus, surely Marcellinus’ only sin was being too cozy with the client? A cold letter from Vespasian should have dealt with that.”

  “That was my reaction. I had intended to recommend recalling Marcellinus to Italy, whether he wanted to go or not.”

  Helena was frowning. “Perhaps it isn’t Anacrites. Could Claudius Laeta be at the back of this?” She could be as suspicious as I was. Laeta was a senior bureaucrat who meddled in major initiatives of all kinds. He was a keen enemy of Anacrites and no friend to me. Whenever he could, he set the two of us against one another.

  I could not reconcile myself to that suggestion. “Laeta briefed me for this trip. While it’s true I had suggested Anacrites to Vespasian as an alternative, I’ve never seen Anacrites working with Laeta—well, not since they started jostling each other for position—and I’ve never known Perella to work with anyone other than Anacrites either.”

  “So this is just the Chief Spy and his overseas agent. Every time we come abroad, we have the same problem of Anacrites dogging our footsteps,” Helena grumbled.

  “If he’s done this, I’m assuming it’s his personal initiative. Anacrites is not supposed to know that I am here.”

  “Did you ask Laeta to keep it confidential?”

  “Yes—because I thought Laeta would enjoy deceiving Anacrites.”

  “Ha! Perhaps Anacarites found out?”

  “That would make him a good spy! Don’t wind my ratchet, lady.”

  We sat quiet, perusing the decor while the situation sank in.

  “Look around you, Marcus,” said Helena abruptly.

  I had hardly taken in the layout and styling of this villa. That was partly due to the crisis, but also I felt I was in familiar surroundings. Now I saw what Helena meant. We had ended up in reception rooms that could be part of the “old house” back at the palace. I suppose it was natural. Marcellinus was the architect. He would impose his personal style. Yet the similarities were eerie. …

  Its floor had multicolored cutwork stones … a calm geometry of pale wine-juice red, aqua blue, dull white, shades of gray, and corn. Well, well. There was a blue-black dado and a painted cornice with an effect just like plaster bathed in evening light. Glancing from the window (fine-quality hardwood with long-life workmanship), I could see that the exterior materials were all equally familiar too, especially the gray stone, close to marble, which I knew came from a fine British quarry on the coast. The huge bathhouse looked just like the one at the palace.

  Helena stood at my shoulder.

  “I presume,” she murmured, “the aristocracy will have seen the King’s palace and want their private homes to be just as grand. Friends and family of Togidubnus in particular.”

  “Agreed. And Marcellinus was best placed to ensure his villa had positively the best of everything. So he shows Britain how to adopt Romanization—right down to our sophisticated corrupt practices.”

  Helena pretended this came as a surprise. “Are we Romans so bad?”

  “As in all things, sweetheart, Rome leads the world.”

  “And a
re you saying Marcellinus stole these expensive materials from the palace?”

  “I am not in a position to prove it—but until this moment, I was not looking for that kind of evidence.”

  “And now the truth just met your eyes.”

  “Very tastefully. In beautiful color configurations, all skillfully worked.”

  Maybe someone else had been looking for the necessary evidence. Outside a familiar white-clad figure moved in a courtyard. Magnus. He had been very keen to accompany us, and after we discovered the corpse, he had gone off alone to poke about. Finding an opportunity to explore Marcellinus’ villa was his reason for coming with us, probably. I marched out to join him, sinister, dexter, sinister, dexter.

  “Don’t tell me you’re looking for ‘lost’ property!”

  I had found Magnus frantically pulling covers off piles of stacked materials. In his triumph, he forgot our disagreement when I accused him of the other killing. “Jupiter, Falco! He had some depot!” Excitement left him bright-eyed.

  Marcellinus was storing all a home enthusiast could want—and these were not mere samples. Fine goods were assembled here in large quantities. A renovating handyman would have gurgled with delight at this collection of building sundries. Roof tiles, floor veneers, flues, drains—“Ceramic water pipes!” crowed Magnus.

  “I keep a few things at home myself,” I mused. “I follow the ‘it might come in handy one day’ principle.”

  Magnus turned to face me. “Couple of spare tiles for when your annex loses that wonky patch in the next storm? Timber offcuts? Sack of tesserae to match your special floor in case some idiot kicks up a corner? Don’t we all!”

  “And architects do it on a grand scale?”

  “Not all of them,” Magnus said grimly.

  “Maybe this stuff has been paid for.”

  Magnus only let out a harsh guffaw.

  “I’d ask the grieving widow for a sight of the relevant invoices,” I rasped, “but it seems heartless.”

  “Now you’re making me weep, Falco.”