A Body in the Bathhouse

by Lindsey Davis

  “Gaius!” He was so still because he had been tied up and gagged. He seemed unconscious too. I crouched over him, quickly scanning the nearby area. Nothing. I stripped off my cloak and draped it over him. With the knife from my boot, I began to cut away his bonds. “Gaius, wake up; stay with me!”

  He groaned.

  Talking in a low voice, I checked him over. He must have been thumped a few times. I had seen worse. The experience was probably new to him.

  “What happened?”

  “Came for me—but going after you,” he muttered groggily. It had a nice balance. I like a man who sustains his rhetoric even after a thrashing. “Britons.”

  I dragged his arm around my shoulder. “They beat you?” I pulled him upright.

  “I’m a clerk; I just gave in.” I started to maneuver him towards the fence. He let me push and pull, not contributing much.

  “How many of them?”

  “About eighteen.”

  “Let’s get out of here, then.” I tried to hide from him my anxiety. That “about” was conversational stuff; as an invoice clerk, Gaius was bound to have counted them.

  We were at the fence. I had my back to the compound. This was bloody dangerous. I looked over my shoulder as much as possible.

  “I can’t make it, Falco.”

  “Only way out, lad.” I was very tense now. They had brought me here for some reason. I was surprised nothing had happened yet. “Put your foot there, Gaius. Grab the fence and climb. I’ll shove you up from behind.”

  But he was desperate to tell me something. “Alexas—”

  “Never mind Alexas now.”

  “Family in Rome, Falco.”

  “Fine. I wish I was there. Well done.”

  He was woozy. Getting him over the fence took a few tries. In fact, it felt like several hours of effort. I would not call Gaius an athletic type. I never asked, but I guessed he had no head for heights. This was like acting as a caryatid to several sacks of soggy sand. Once I had him heaved halfway up, he stuck his damn foot in my eye.

  At last he was above me, clinging on, astride the top rail. I bent down to collect my cloak. “I’m feeling faint,” I heard him say. Then he must have slipped off, because I heard him crash-land—luckily on the other side.

  I had troubles of my own. Had I stayed upright, I would be dead. For just as I stooped, a heavy spear thudded into the fence, right where I had been standing. Retrieving my cloak had saved my life. In two ways: hidden under it, I had brought something useful. So when the villain who had thrown the spear now rushed me as a follow-through, I was ready. He came straight into my knife—which he clearly expected. As he parried the knife, I jerked out his innards with my sword.

  LIII

  DON’T BLAME me. Blame the army. Once the legions train you to kill, any attacker gets what-for. He meant me dead. I slew him first. That’s how it works.

  I stepped away. My heart pounded so loudly I could hardly listen out for others coming. One down, seventeen to go! Stinking odds, even by my standards.

  It was a cluttered compound. If they were here, they were well hidden. Some were outside: when I turned back to shin up after Gaius, gingery heads appeared above the fence. I grabbed a long piece of timber and thrashed at them. One fell back. Another seized the plank and yanked it from my grasp. I jumped aside in time as he threw it down at me. Otherwise, if they were armed, they were keeping their weapons for later. Sensing that there were more men inside the depot with me, I broke away, ran down an aisle, and dodged through some racks of marble. Yells from the fence were reporting my whereabouts. I dropped and wormed my way very fast at ground level into a long tunnel of cut timber.

  Suicide! My way was blocked. Trapped, I had to squirm backwards. Every second I expected to be attacked hideously from behind—but the watchers had not realized I was backing out again. Men were searching the far end of the timber row where they thought I would emerge. Flattened and sweating with terror, I inched under a trestle. One man came to investigate the place where I went into the timber. He was too close to leave alone. Crouched in my hiding place, I managed a backhand sword swipe through his legs. It was an awkward piece of scything, but I hit an artery. Anyone who hates blood can now go into hysterics. I had no time for that luxury.

  His screams brought others, but I was out of there. I leaped up on the marble sheets and went flying over the top this time. Slabs groaned and lurched beneath my weight. A spear whistled past my head. Another thudded harmlessly nearby. The third skimmed my arm. Then the marble slabs began keeling over. I had hit the ground again, but the row of tilted materials behind me slipped and crashed, each expensive slab grazing the surface of its neighbor, and some smashing into my assailants.

  While they jumped and cursed and nursed crushed feet, I doubled back unseen. I had some fun trying to climb around a stack of water pipes. Then I banged into a small pile of lead ingots; that brought back bad British memories for me.

  The custodian’s shack was locked. The only open hidey-hole was the dog kennel.

  Bad move, Falco. The stench was dreadful. The hounds were out, but their mess remained. These were not lapdogs. They must be fed raw offal, without the use of fancy feeding bowls. Nobody had even tried to house-train them.

  Through a crack in the kennel door, I could see swarming figures. The searchers thought I had scuttled among the timber again. They decided to smoke me out. Great. I preferred to survive than to save this valuable stock. It may have been imported from all over the Empire to create skirtings, folding doors, and luxury veneers, but my life mattered more. Fire damage would be a new excuse in my financial reports. Who wants to be predictable?

  It took some time for them to make a light; then the hardwoods refused to kindle. I could do nothing except lie low while desperate thoughts coursed through my mind. If I tried to make a break for it, I stood no chance. The men were enjoying themselves. They thought they had me there, caught in a trap; at least one was prodding the stacked timbers with a long pole, hoping to puncture or spit me. Eventually they let out a cheer; soon I could hear crackling and smell wood smoke.

  The noise and smoke were localized, but the passing of time had brought help. Some of it was unwelcome; in the distance I could now hear the dogs. Still, they were locked out, weren’t they?

  Not for long. Suddenly someone was trying to break down the gates—with a huge wheeled ram, apparently. It was a sound I last heard on an army-training ground. Deep crashing noises came at regular intervals, accompanied by cheers. Even from within my hiding place, I could tell that the gates were weakened and about to give. I waited as long as I dared. As the gates of the compound crashed inwards, dragged open by a two-wheeled cart, I scampered out from the kennel before the guard dogs came home.

  “Falco!”

  Dear gods: Quintus, Aulus, and Larius. Three incongruously well-dressed and coiffed ram raiders. My first hope was they were armed. No. They must have raced straight here without stopping to equip themselves. If they hoped to snatch me, they were thwarted by the assembled men who wanted to get me first. These renegades rushed at us, whooping.

  We all set about, biffing at anyone with wiry ginger hair. Smoke was choking us. There were too few of us. If we tried to make a break for it, we would be massacred. So as we fought, the lads using timbers, we stamped at smouldering wood or tried smothering flames. A great oak log finally caught fire; Larius and I tried to haul it free. A thick haze of smoke had filled the compound. It helped give the impression there were more of us than actually existed. We concentrated in putting on the boot in traditional Roman style.

  Three of us had military training. I was an ex-footslogger. Both the Camilli had served as army officers. Even Larius, who spurned the army in favor of art, had grown up in the toughest neighborhood in the Empire; he knew nasty tricks with feet and fists. Teamwork and grit soon showed our caliber. Somehow we cleared our opponents out of the depot. Then we blocked the gateway with the cart on which the lads had brought a large tree tru
nk as their improvised battering ram. They must have unhitched the beast of burden and combined as human mules to run the cart at the gates. Straight from the training manual. But with nothing in the shafts, now they could not use the cart to drive away. We were stuck here.

  Larius was heaving up pieces of broken marble to make chocks under the cart wheels so no one could drag off our blockade.

  “A ram!” I marveled

  “We’re well organized,” boasted Aelianus cockily.

  “No words, though. … I didn’t think you knew I’d gone—”

  “We heard you say—”

  “You didn’t answer! Giving houseroom to you lot is like having three extra wives. …”

  With four of us, we could now take a side of the compound each. Justinus was flailing at heads as they popped up on the fence. “If I were on the outside,” he shouted, “my priority would be to rush the gates.”

  I swiped a man who peered over at us. “I’m glad you’re in here with us, then. I don’t want attackers who use strategy.”

  The green timber had dried out enough to burn now, so we had to spare more time for beating out sparks or we would be roasted. Heat from the blazing tree trunk we had dragged free was making life really difficult. Rather than waiting to pick us off at leisure once the smoke increased, our attackers had the bright idea of setting fire to one of the fence panels. It took at once. A column of smoke poured skywards; it must have been visible for miles. We heard new voices, then the dogs baying once again. Aelianus sucked his teeth involuntarily. Shouts outside heralded some new phase of fighting. I waved at the lads; then we all scrambled over the cart and leaped outside the depot.

  We found mayhem—a fistfight all over the roadway. I spotted Gaius, being carried around on a pony behind a small girl—Cyprianus’ daughter, Alla. Maybe Gaius had fetched the help. Anyway, he was now riding in circles, letting out war cries. Dog handlers were patrolling the scrimmage, unable to decide where or when to unleash their charges. The men who had ambushed me were dressed indistinguishably in site boots and laborers’ tunics, but they were mainly fair or redheads, favoring long mustaches, whereas the new crowd were dark, swarthy, and stubbly chinned. These arrived in small numbers—most laborers had left earlier for the canabae—but they saw themselves as Roman support against the British barbarians. The rescue gang were Lupus’ men, opposing those who had worked with Mandumerus. They could all fight and were eager to demonstrate. Both sides were viciously settling old scores.

  We joined in. It seemed polite.

  We were hard at it, like drunks at a festival, when we heard more shouts above the melee. Trundling and creaking, along came a row of heavy transports, from which Magnus and Cyprianus leaped down in astonishment. The carts had returned from the Marcellinus villa.

  This took the passion out of everything. Those of the Britons who could still stagger made off sheepishly. Some of the rest and a few of the overseas group were suffering, though it looked as though there would only be two fatalities—the man I disemboweled first, and the other whose legs I had slashed. He was now bleeding to death in the arms of two colleagues. My party were all bruised, and Aelianus’ leg wound must have reopened, adding color to his bandages. As Cyprianus tore his hair out over the fire damage to the site depot—then growled even more when he realized what had happened to some precious stores inside—I recovered my breath, then explained how Gaius and I were set upon. Magnus appeared sympathetic, but Cyprianus was angrily kicking a torn-down, smouldering fence panel. He was furious—not least because he now had the Marcellinus material to store, but nowhere secure to keep it.

  I nodded at the lads. We made polite farewells. The four of us sauntered, perhaps rather stiffly, back to my site at the King’s palace.

  Then, as we approached the “old house,” I saw a man I recognized, shinning up a ladder on the scaffold: Mandumerus

  Nothing for it: my wife, sister, children, and female staff were inside that building. Anyway, I was well worked up for action. I reached the building at a run, grasped the wooden ladder and shot up after him. Helena would have said it was typical—one adventure was not enough.

  “Go inside and comb your hair, boys. I’ll be with you soon,” I roared.

  “Mad bugger!” That sounded like Larius.

  “Has he got a head for heights?” One of the Camilli.

  “He gets squeamish standing on a chair to swat a fly.” I would deal with that rascal later.

  There was a working platform at first-story height, and another up at roof level. I felt perfectly safe climbing aloft to the first one—then deeply insecure. “He’s gone all the way up, Falco!” Aelianus was sensibly resting his leg—standing back at a distance so he could monitor events and shout advice. I hated being supervised, but if I fell off, I would like to think someone could make out a lucid fatality report. Better anyway than Valla’s: What happened to him? He was a roofer. What do you think happened? He fell off a roof!

  Grit rattled through the boarding overhead, showering me in the eye. I came to the second ladder. Mandumerus knew I was after him. I heard him growl under his breath. I had my sword. Faced with light fencing practice, twenty feet above the ground, I shoved the weapon into its scabbard. I wanted both hands free for clinging on.

  I saw him now. He laughed at me, then ran lightly ahead, vanishing around the building. Beneath my feet, the boards seemed far too flimsy. Gaps in the loose, elderly planks gaped. There was a guardrail of sorts, just a few roughly tied crosspieces that would snap under the slightest pressure. The whole scaffold had been braced with mere scantling. As I walked, I could feel it bowing gently. My footsteps echoed. Bits of old mortar left unswept on the platform made the going treacherous. Obstructions jutted at intervals, forcing me out from the apparent safety of the house wall. Keeping my eyes fixed ahead, I knocked into an old cement-encrusted bucket; it went bowling off the edge and crashed below. Someone cried out in annoyance. Aelianus, probably. He must be tracking me at ground level.

  I turned the corner; sudden sea views distracted me. A gust of wind slammed into me frighteningly. I grabbed the guardrail. Mandumerus crouched, waiting. In one hand he wielded a pick handle. He had hammered a nail into the end of it. Not any old nail, but a huge thing like the nine-inch wonders they use for constructing fortress gatehouses. It would go right through my skull and leave a point on the other side long enough to hang a cloak on. And a hat.

  He made a feint. I had my knife. Small comfort. He lunged. I swung, but was out of reach. I stabbed the air. He laughed again. He was a big, pale, swollen-bellied brute who suffered from pinkeye and eczema-cracked skin. Scars told me not to mess with him.

  He was coming at me. He filled the width of the platform. With the pick handle flailing from side to side in front of him, I had no clear approach, even if I had dared close in with him. He flailed at me; the nail point hit the house and screamed down the stonework, leaving a deep white scratch as it gouged the limestone blocks. I grabbed his arm, but he shook me off and viciously jabbed at me again. I turned to flee, my foot slipped on the boards, my hand grabbed for the rail again—and it gave way.

  Someone had come up behind me. I was barged to safety against the wall. It knocked the breath out of me. As I scrabbled to regain my footing, someone stepped past, featherlight as a trapeze artist. Larius. He had a shovel and an expression that said he would use it.

  Justinus must have run along at ground level and climbed up by another ladder. I glimpsed him, too, at our height now, crashing towards us on the scaffold from the far side. He only had bare hands, but his arrival was at high speed. He grasped Mandumerus from behind in a bear hug. Using the surprise, Larius then smashed his shovel on the brute’s shoulder, forcing him to drop the wood and nail. I fell on top of him and laid my knife on his windpipe.

  He threw us all off. Dear gods.

  He was back on his feet and now chose to run up the pantiles. He scaled the palace roof at a slant. The tiles began to suffer. Marcellinus must have provi
ded inferior roof battens. (No surprise, the best probably went to his own villa.) Even climbing at an angle away from us, the steep roof pitch told against Mandumerus. He got halfway up, then lost his momentum. With nothing to grab, he began to slow down. Then his feet skidded.

  “Not a roofer—wrong boots!” chortled Larius. He was setting off to intercept Mandumerus.

  “Watch yourself!” I cried. His mother would kill me if he killed himself up here.

  Justinus and I inched warily past the section where the guardrail had gone, then followed Larius. The Briton slid slowly down the roof slope, in a vertical line towards the three of us. We captured him neatly. He seemed to give up. We were taking him back to the ladder when he broke free again. This time he managed to get his great hands on the giant hook on the pulley rope.

  “Not that old trick!” scoffed Larius. “Duck!”

  The evil claw, made of heavy metal, came hurtling round in a circle at face height. Justinus leaped back. I crouched. Larius simply gripped the rope, just above the hook, as it reached him. Four years playing about on Neapolis villas had left him fearless. He took off and swung. Feet out, he kicked Mandumerus in the throat.

  “Larius! You are not nice.”

  While I contributed the refined commentary, Justinus rushed past me. He helped my nephew batten onto the man again. Clutching his neck, Mandumerus gave in a second time.

  Now we had a problem. Persuading a reluctant captive to descend a ladder is no joke. “You can go down nicely—or we’ll throw you off.”

  That was a start. We acted as if we meant it—while Mandumerus looked as if he didn’t care a damn. I dropped my sword to Aelianus so he could stand guard at the bottom. Larius did gymnastics down the scaffold, then jumped the last six feet. The Briton reached ground level. The ladder must have been merely leaned against the scaffold (or else he slipped its ties as he went down). Now he grasped the heavy thing and hauled it away from its position. I had been about to follow him down, so I had to make a jump for safety. He swiped Aelianus and Larius with the ladder—and left me dangling from a scaffold pole. Then he threw down the ladder and was gone.