Nux obeyed me enough just to lie rigid with her muzzle in a crack between two tree trunks, whining. I put my boot up beside her and craned to peer at her discovery. For some reason, I thought it might be a dead body. You get like that. Something whimpered. I could now see cloth, which turned out to be a child’s clothing. The child was still inside the dress, alive luckily. She was not herself trapped under the timber, but her skimpy gown had been caught so securely
H3she could hardly move. She was scared mostly that she would be in trouble.
I wedged a couple of stones under the bottom of the pile and then heaved up the top log just enough to free her. I lifted her down then caught her just before she ran away. Upset by her fright, though bravely not crying, she glared. We had rescued a tough eleven-year old girl called Alia who knew how to lie but who finally admitted she had been warned by her father several times not to play on the stacked logs. It emerged, after a fierce extraction process, that her father was Cyprianus, the clerk of works. I grabbed her hand and took her back to the site to find him.
“This little loner is yours, I think? I don’t want to snitch, but if it were one of mine, I’d like to be aware she had had a scare today.”
Cyprianus made as if to swipe her. She nipped behind me. If he meant it, he had a terrible aim. She pretended to bawl her head off, but this was done purely on principle. He jerked his head at her; she stopped crying.
I got the picture. Alia was bright, bored and mostly unsupervised an only child, or the only one to have survived infancy. She roamed about, mainly content with her own company. Cyprianus, with his own busy concerns, had to ignore the fact she was at risk. There was no mention of a mother. That gave two possibilities. Either the woman had died or Cyprianus had joined up with a foreigner in some other exotic territory and now she stayed out of sight. I imagined her in their hut stirring stock pots having little in common with him or the places he brought her to and probably bemused by their solitary, highly intelligent, Romanised offspring.
“Want something to do? You could come and help me,” I suggested.
“Your dog smells.” My dog had saved her from a night in the open, maybe worse. “What would I have to do?” she deigned to ask.
“If I provide a donkey, can you ride?”
“A donkeyT I was in the land of the horse.
“A pony, then.”
“Of coursed She was a bareback terror by the sound of it. Her father stood back and let me negotiate. “Ride to where?”
“Into Noviomagus sometimes to see a friend of mine. Can you write, Alia?”
“Course I can.” Cyprianus, who had to be both literate and numerate, must have taught her. As she boasted, he was looking on with a mixture of pride and curiosity. They were close. Alia probably knew how much you had to pay per day for first-class plasterers and how long new root-tiles should be left to dry out at the clamps where they were made. One day she would run off with some layabout scaffolder, and Cyprianus would be heartbroken. He already knew it would happen, if I were any judge of him.
“Are you a good girl?”
“Never-she’s terrible!” Cyprianus grinned, cuffing his roughneck fondly.
“Come and see me in my office tomorrow, then. I’m Falco.”
“What if I don’t like you?” Alia demanded.
“Yes you do. It’s love at first sight,” I said.
“You think a lot of yourself, Falco.”
She might have been brought up entirely in a series of foreign provinces, but little Alia had the pure essence of any scornful Roman sweetheart at the Circus Maximus.
Back at the old house we ate outside again. I can’t say it was warm, but the light was better than indoors. Tonight’s food was lavish; apparently the King had visitors and the royal cooks had made a special effort.
“Oysters! Ugh. I like to know where my oysters come from,” mouthed Camilla Hyspale.
“Suit yourself. British oysters are hymned by poets, the best you’ll ever taste. Give yours to me then’ I had my arm out to snaffle the rest when Hyspale decided she might try one after all. Thereafter she hogged the serving dish.
“That painter was here looking for you again, Marcus Didius.”
“Wonderful. If it’s the assistant from Stabiae, I was at his hut looking for him. What’s he like?”
“Oh… I don’t know.” I had not yet trained Camilla Hyspale to provide a witness statement. Instead, she blushed slightly. That was clear enough.
“Watch him!” I grinned. “They are notorious for lechery. One minute they are chatting to a woman harmlessly about earth colours and egg-white fixers, the next they have fixed her up in quite a different way. I don’t want any lout in a paint-stained over tunic getting the better of you, Hyspale. If he offers to show you his stencil stumping brush, you say no!”
While Hyspale was spluttering in confusion, some of us wondered hopefully if we could pair her off. Helena and I were diehard romantics… And leaving the nursemaid in Britain would be bliss.
H5The royal party must have dined formally, but afterwards some of the usual group with Verovolcus among them brought their wine, beer and mead into the garden. We never saw the King in the evening; his age must have condemned him to an early-night routine. When we had finished eating, I went over to the Britons to broach with Verovolcus the subject of the King’s bath-house upgrade.
Before I mentioned it, I noticed a stranger. He seemed well at ease in company with the King’s retainers, but turned out to be that evening’s guest. I could hardly miss him because, unlike anyone else in this province, he was wearing a two-piece formal Roman dining suit a synthesis: loose tunic and matching over mantle the same shade of red. Nobody I knew ever made themselves look foolish with an old-fashioned twin set even in Rome. Only rich-boy partygoers of a certain eccentricity would bother.
“This is Marcellinus, Falco.” Verovolcus had at last stopped calling me the man from Rome with every breath. However, if he did not need to tell Marcellinus who I was, my role must already have been discussed. Interesting.
“Marcellinus? Aren’t you the architect for this palace, the “old house”?”
“The new house, as we called it!”
I remembered now that I had seen him before. He was the elderly cove who had turned up that morning to see Milchato the marble chief. He made no mention of it, so I held my peace too.
Like many in artistic professions, he cultivated a stylish air. His unusual clothes were outlandish in a casual setting, and his elite accent was agonising. I could see why he chose to stay an ex-patriot. He would have no place in Vespasian’s Rome, where the Emperor himself would call a wagon a dung-cart in an accent that implied he once knew how to shovel manure. With a grand Roman nose and gracious hand gestures, this Marcellinus stood out above the commonplace. It did not impress me. I find such men a caricature.
“I admire your superb building,” I told him. “My wife and I are greatly enjoying our stay here.”
“Good.” He seemed offhand. Put out, perhaps, that the scheme to which he must have devoted many working years was now to be superseded.
“Have you come to see the new project?”
“No, no.” He cast down his eyes demurely. “Nothing to do with me.” Was he disgruntled? I felt he deliberately distanced himself-but then he made a joke of it for my sake. “You must wonder if I am interfering!” Before I could answer, he continued charmingly, “No, no. Time to let go. I retired, thank goodness.”
I don’t allow autocratic men to brush me aside. “Actually I thought you might be here to mediate. There are problems.”
“Are there?” Marcellinus asked disingenuously. Verovolcus, like a gnarled Celtic, tree-stump god, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, watching us.
“I feel the new project manager misjudges things.” Falco the frank orator outfought Falco the man of guarded neutrality. “Pomponius is a narrow official. He sees the project as an imperial commission only forgetting that there would be no commission w
ithout its very specific British client. No other tribes are to be provided with a full scale palace. This scheme will far outlive our generation-yet it will always be the palace that was built for Tiberius Claudius Togidubnus, Great King of the Britons.”
“No Togi, no palace. So what Togi wants, Togi should get?” His use of the crude diminutive in a serious discussion in front of the King’s servants-jarred. Marcellinus was supposed to be on good terms with the King. His lack of deference sat poorly with the affectionate way Togidubnus had spoken of him in my hearing.
“I like a lot of what the King suggests. But who am I to comment on architecture?” I smiled. “But I suppose it is nothing to do with you nowadays.”
“I finished my task. Someone else can carry the burden of this great project.”
I wondered if he had ever been considered as project manager for the new scheme. If not, why not? Was being replaced by a newcomer a surprise to him? And did he accept it? “What brings you back today?” I asked lightly.
“Seeing my old friend Togidubnus. I don’t live far away. I spent so many years out here,” Marcellinus said, “I built myself a delightful villa down the coast.”
I knew some provinces could win the hearts of their administrators, but Britain? That was ridiculous.
“You must come and see me,” Marcelh’nus invited. “My home is about fifteen miles east of Noviomagus. Bring your family for a day. You will be made very welcome.”
I thanked him and made off back to my loved ones before I could be forced to arrange a date.
XXVII
we had another bad night. Both the children kept us awake. Camilla Hyspale was indisposed by a violent stomach upset. She blamed the oysters, but I had eaten plenty and was perfectly all right. I told her it was the penalty for flirting with the young painter. That caused more wailing.
Next day I felt jaded. Staring at tigurework held no appeal. Now I knew that Gaius was capable of flogging on through the records revision without me, I thought I would give the office a miss. I had requisitioned a pony for sending Alia to see Justinus, but I decided to take things easy and check up on him myself. I had something else to keep my runner busy. I introduced Alia to Iggidunus and told them I had decided it was time that the mulsum round was reappraised.
“You are both bright young people; you can help me sort this out. Iggy, today when you are taking round the beakers, I want Alia to come with you; she can write things down. Speak to every one of your customers personally, please. Tell them we are conducting a preference survey. You give Alia their names-Alia, set each one out neatly. Then list what kind of mulsum they like, or whether they don’t have any.”
“But I done the counting yesterday, Falco!” Iggidunus protested.
“Yes. That was brilliant. Today we are on a different exercise. This is an organisation al method study to straighten out the refreshment rota. Modernise. Rationalise. Revolutionise…”
The young persons fled. Management twaddle can always clear a room. The door closed behind them just in time, as Gaius the clerk collapsed in a fit of giggles.
Verovolcus saw me riding off. I had selected a small pony, thinking Alia would be riding it. My boots were almost scuffing the dust. Verovolcus burst out laughing. I was causing happiness all round today. I just grinned feebly. We Romans are never keen on horseflesh.
I was perfectly happy knowing I could apply a brake by just putting my feet on the ground.
I hit Noviomagus about midday. It seemed distinctly quiet. Maybe this was not the best time. Either I had missed the busy hour or else there never was one.
I had been here when we first landed, but was then exhausted and disorientated after the weeks of travel. This was my first real chance to look around. It really was a new town. I already knew that the kingdom of the Atrebates had had to restore its fortunes when Togidubnus took over. Prior to his reinstatement at the Roman invasion, fierce Catuvellauni from the north had pushed in and raided the territory of this coastal tribe, nibbling into their farmland until they were squeezed back right against the salty inlets. The Romans rewarded Togidubnus for his support with the gift of increased tribal areas. He called this ‘the Kingdom’, as if other British tribes and their royalty did not count.
At that time, he must have adopted a new tribal capital. He had to build it too-but then he did love building. Being Romanised himself, he had probably found it natural to use the legionaries’ supply base as his starting point. So the “New Marketplace of the Kingdom’ lay here, part enclosed by the curve of a small river, a little way inland. Perhaps abandoning the old settlement (somewhere on the coast?) had symbolised the King’s affinity with the new way of life that would come with Britain’s status as part of the Roman Empire. Perhaps the old settlement just fell into the sea.
Noviomagus showed how flimsy Romanisation was. I knew there were towns which had developed from military forts, often with legionary veterans forming the main body of citizenship. Queen Boudicca burned several, but they had been rebuilt now. They were utterly provincial, though solid and thriving. Unlike them, Noviomagus Regnensis had barely acquired any decent masonry properties or a population worth counting. Even though it was the headquarters of the most loyal British leader, this was still backwoods country. Wattle-and-daub remained the building style in the narrow streets, where only a few house-dwellers and businesses had so far ventured.
Main roads came in from Venta, Calleva and Londinium. At a central point they met the inbound track used by market traders. The crossroad had a large gravel led area which masqueraded as a forum. There was no evidence of use for democratic purposes, or even for gossip. It did provide stalls for selling pension able turnips and pallid spring greens. There were a couple of dark little temples, a piss-poor set of baths, a faded sign to the out-of-town amphitheatre and short row of brooch-shops producing ethnic enamel ware.
Togidubnus had a house here, and so did Helena’s uncle, Flavius Hilaris. His boasted hot air flues and a very small black and white mosaic. In his almost permanent absence it was run by a couple of wimpish slaves who were apparently out at market today. Lovely. Turnip soup was the gourmet speciality they would provide for Camillus Justinus, their honoured Roman guest. Ma would say, if we gave this province nothing else, people would thank us for the turnip…
Justinus was still in bed. I found the rascal still asleep. I hauled him out, poured cold water into a washing bowl, handed him a comb, found a scrunched-up over-tunic on the floor under his bed. He had shaved though not since I last saw him. According to my calendar, that was two days ago. He looked rough-yet to do the job I had given him, he was passable.
Someone appeared to have seen through his act: he had a black eye.
“I notice you are going into this task thoroughly. Lying in all morning with a terrible hangover and sporting shiners.”
He groaned.
“Oh very good, Quintus. You do have the art of sounding half dead. Do you want your belt, or would firm support around the midriff be too much to tolerate?”
With a huge yawn, Justinus took the belt and wound it halfheartedly around himself. Fastening the buckle was too complicated. I tightened it for him as if he were a dreamy three-year-old. The belt was a splendid effort in British tooled leather with a silver and black buckle though I could tell from, the elongated prong holes it was not new.
“Secondhand?”
“Won it.” He grinned. “Game of soldiers.”
“Well, take care. I don’t want to find you sitting here naked next time because some trickster has cleaned you out playing strip draughts!” Helena would be horrified. Well, his darling bride Claudia would. “Shall I reel you back in for safety-or are you doing good work?”
“I’m having a delightful time, Falco.”
“Really! Who hit you?”
Justinus touched his eye gently. I found a bronze hand mirror among his kit and showed the damage. He winced, more at the marring of his looks than the pain.
“Yes/ I said calmly. �
��You are a big boy now. Looks like you’ve been playing with some older boys that your mummy would disapprove of.”
My assistant was not in the least discomfited. “He was young,
actually.”
“Just stupidly drunk, or hated your accent?”
“Slight disagreement about a young lady.”
“You are a married man, Quintus!”
“So is he, I gathered… I was squeezing her for information-while he was just squeezing her tits.”
“Marriage has made you very crude.”
“Marriage has made me’ He stopped, on the verge of some enormous sad confession. I let it pass.
As I pulled him to his feet and carried him off to the kitchen for sustenance, I kept him talking lest he fall asleep again. “So, you compared notes with your assailant? That would have been when you became blood brothers in a heart-rending reconciliation, over jugs of British beer?”
“No, Falco. We are two homesick Romans stranded here. When the disloyal girlie went off with someone else, he and I found a quiet wine shop where we shared a very decent Campanian red and a civilised platter of mixed cheeses. “Justinus had the knack of telling an unbelievable story as if it were entirely true.
“I bet.” I shoved him to a bench by a table. Someone had been chopping onions. Justinus went green and put his head in his hands. I moved the bowl away smartly.
“It was civilised,” he vowed again weakly.
“I don’t like the sound of that.” I put some bread in front of him. “Eat, you beggar. And keep it down. I will not clear up a mess.”
“What I really fancy is some nice traditional porridge…”
“I’m not your adoring grandmother. I’ve no time to pamper you, Quintus. Stuff in the bread, then tell me what you’ve found out.”
“The nightlife,” declared my disreputable agent, through a mouthful of stale crust, ‘is almost non-existent here. What there is well, I’ve found it!”
“I can see that.”
“Jealous, Falco? When the troops were here thirty years ago, they must have quickly taught the natives what tough lads needed in the way of a brothel and a couple of dingy drinking dives. You can get several colours of imported wine, not well-travelled, and dried-up
Lindsey Davis - Falco 13 - A Body In The Bath House Page 17
