Maia was making it plain she supported the men who were throwing rocks at me. So instead of having dinner with my dear ones in our private suite, I took one of my British bodyguards and sloped off on a pony to see Justinus instead. I wanted him to take me to see the famous dancer-but he knew she was not appearing that night.
“Day off, Falco. The owner of the wine bar plays it cleverly. He lets the lads grow keen, then as word spreads, he only offers performances at intervals.”
“Saves paying the damn woman every night.”
“He’s even cleverer. The actual appearances are never publici sed until the last minute.”
“So how do you know, Quintus?”
He grinned. “Private source: dear little Virginia.”
“What a treasure. So while the curmudgeon who runs the bar is pretending he never knows when his artiste will agree to flirt her stuff, the luscious Virginia sells drinks to the crowds anyway? The keen ones still keep coming?”
“The owner claims that after a break, the dancer is fresh.” Justinus grinned. I ignored his leer.
“What’s her name?”
“Stupenda.”
I winced. “Her stage name, presumably! Tell me, please, that she’s just a busty teenager.”
“Mature,“Justinus disagreed, shaking his head wisely. That was bad news. “Experienced! That’s the fascination. You start out thinking “This is a raddled hag” -then you find she has enchanted you…”
“Oh Jupiter.”
This was what Perella liked to do: station herself near her quarry, working as a dancer in some sour dive. There she would listen, watch, make herself known in the district until nobody thought twice about her presence. All the time she was planning her move. Eventually she would vanish from the dancing venue. Then she struck. I had seen the results. When Perella found her victims she took them out, fast and silently. A knife across the throat from behind was her favourite method. Without question, she had others.
Next came another disappointment: Justinus was not seeing the young painter that evening. “We felt we could benefit from a night off drinking water. “Justinus had the grace to look sheepish.
I told him how Aelianus, fleeing the dogs, had met his friend the night before.
“So you got my message about the British workmen?” He did not ask about his brother’s welfare.
“Yes, thanks. The men are now making their mood all too obvious-I don’t know whether to keep looking upwards in case a loose scaffold board falls as I walk underneath, or to keep my eyes pinned to the ground looking for big deep thatch-covered holes they have set up as man traps
“Olympus.”
“The Britons’ leader is called Mandumerus. He’s a thickset, woad tattooed mental defective whom I would not like to meet in a narrow lane. I’m telling you that for a reason. He vanished from site this morning after I exposed the labour fraud so I want you to look out for him in the canabae, please. Send word at once if he turns up.”
Justinus nodded. He seemed sober today. He was probably listening, though he looked rather vague.
“Don’t approach Mandumerus on your own,” I reiterated.
“No, Falco.”
He fed me, courtesy of his uncle’s placid house slaves. We both drank water with our dinner. Justinus needed to cure his hangover. I wanted a clear head too.
I collected my bodyguard, who had been eating where he could watch the street outside, and we picked our way carefully back to the palace along the mile or so of road. I felt glad that I had taken the precaution of covering up in a mantle and a large hat. Travelling a coastal road at night can be eerie enough. A buoyant wind wafted around us, smelling of seaweed and surf. Expecting any moment to pass groups of hefty, hostile labourers, my ears were alert for the slightest sound behind us or ahead. Even with a bodyguard I felt very exposed. For all I knew, this silent Briton in the red and yellow cloak who rode alongside might be Mandumerus’ brother-in-law.
On the other hand, that might ensure his loyalty. Judging by how I felt about my own sisters’ husbands, if he loathed Mandumerus he would look after me with due diligence.
We hit the palace again before I was expecting it. I had travelled this way enough times now for the road to shrink. Lights showed. I tensed. It was the same here as in Rome. Never relax when you seem to be in sight of safety. That can be the most dangerous moment.
I was jumpy. As we rode in under the dark scaffold that shrouded the King’s quarters, a dangling rope brushed against me; I nearly fell off my mount. Its saddle was Roman, with high front pommels that you gripped with your thighs, and I managed to stay put. The bodyguard grinned. I returned his mirth manfully as we rode around to the courtyard garden. There I was preparing to swing down to ground level when we heard urgent running footsteps. Someone came ha ring around the outside of the building towards us.
If this was an attack, it was damned obvious. But an ill-executed ambush by idiots can be even more dangerous than a skilled operation.
Dim flares lit the courtyard. It was dark, so nobody was sitting out here. I was armed with a sword, which I drew quietly. The bodyguard grasped a long spear; he looked as if he knew what to do with it. Moving to a pool of light, we remained mounted. That gave us the best chance to manoeuvre. I hoped my companion did not realise I was keeping one eye on him in case he was planning a double-cross. With the rest of my attention I was watching to see who arrived.
One man, on foot.
Stark naked! White torso, deep brown arms and legs. Wild eyes. Oblivious to his daft predicament.
I relaxed somewhat, laughing. The bodyguard dismounted with a disbelieving grin. He hitched his horse and my pony to a column, bringing up one of the flares to shed more light. I skewed sideways and jumped down, then faced the ludicrously nude man. He was startled by my drawn sword as he arrived.
It was the clerk of works. Red-faced, he fell against the back of a garden bench, gasping so hard he looked ready to expire. His clothes were in a bundle, which he dropped. The bodyguard was casting a careful eye around the vicinity, so I was able to concentrate on helping Cyprianus calm down. I grabbed at his clothes bundle and pulled out a tunic.
Eventually he managed to stop wheezing. He got himself into the dingy blue tunic I was offering. As his head emerged through the neck hole, for a moment he just gazed at me. Whatever was wrong, it must have some magnitude.
He coughed again, bending low to brush grit off his feet and pull on boots. “You had better come, Falco.” His voice rasped with distress.
“What is it? Or do I mean who?1
“Pomponius.”
“Hurt?” Unlikely. Cyprianus would have run for help from the medical orderly, not rushed here for me.
“Dead.”
“No doubt of that?”
A rueful expression crossed Cyprianus’ face. “Afraid not, Falco. Absolutely no doubt.”
XXXV
Ii ed the way taking the indoor route. There was no point attracting attention until I had seen for myself. We went into the old house via my suite, enabling me to drop oft my outer clothes and collect a flare. Helena appeared, but I shook my head in warning and she withdrew, calling Maia and Hyspale after her. My grim face would have told Helena there was something wrong. Then we made our approach through the secluded inner corridor.
Cyprianus had found Pomponius in the baths. At least this corpse would be fresh. It was only that morning I was arguing with him. The thought crossed my mind professionally that I was glad I had an alibi tonight.
I went in alone. I grasped the torch in one hand, my sword in the other. Neither was much use for dispelling tear. When you know you are about to see a dead body your nerves tingle, however many times you have done it before. The flaming brand caused wild shadows on the pink stuccoed walls and my sword gave no reassurance. I have no truck with the supernatural, but if the architect’s ghost was still whistling around the hot rooms, it had only me to haunt.
The entrance and changing room were faintly lit w
ith oil lamps at floor level. Most were running out of fuel. Some had already burned down to nothing; a few guttered madly, their flames lengthening and smoking before their last moments. A slave would have poured fresh oil when dusk first fell. People normally bathe before dinner; the big rush would have been some hours ago. Only the fact that this was a large community, one with possible latecomers who might have some rank, would cause the bath house to be kept working late. In palaces and public buildings, men who have been held up by professional duties or newly arrived travellers have to be provided for.
In one of the clothes lockers sat folded garments. Rich cloth in vibrant colours-turquoise contrasted with brown stripes. All the other cubbyholes were empty. Nothing hung on any of the wooden cloak pegs. A few discarded linen towels scattered the benches.
There were no slaves present. A stoker must keep the furnace alive to power the hot-water boiler, but his access to the stoke-hole would be outside. Since there were no entrance tees and anyone could use the communal oil flasks, attendants were unnecessary. Cleaners would mop floors early in the morning and perhaps from time to time during the day. The towel supply would be replenished. At this hour, there was normally no staff activity.
The enclosed rooms, with their massively thick walls, were hushed. No splashing of dippers or slapping of masseurs1 fists disturbed the dead silence. I glanced in at the swimming-pool area to the left of the entrance. The water shimmered with slight movements, but not enough to create lapping sounds. No one had disturbed the surface recently. There were no wet footprints around the perimeter.
Cyprianus had told me where to look. I had to go to the hottest steam room. Treading carefully in my leather-soled outdoor boots, I crossed the first room, entered the second, then checked the large square tepidanum with its plunge bath. There were lingering odours of cleansers and body oils, but the room had begun to cool and the scents were now growing faint. An abandoned bone strigil caught my eye, but I thought I had seen the same one there before.
There seemed nothing unusual. Nothing any late arrival has not witnessed at any commercial bath house where the ticket woman has already left and the hot water has cooled down. And most private baths would be like this after the stoker went to dinner. You could rush through and still end up clean enough, but there would be no real comfort for your bones.
Even in the ascending heat of the sweat rooms, the floor and flue convection was now fading slowly, although bare feet might still need the protection of wooden-soled slippers. I went into the third steam room. The body was lying on the floor. There was no sign of life. Cyprianus was right about that.
At about the time I found the corpse, I heard noises: someone behind me in the outer regions was now wedging open heavy doors to cool the inner rooms. Sensible. Sweat was pouring off me. Fully dressed, I felt damp and unhappy. My concentration was slipping, when I needed to be alert. I put my sword down and wiped my face roughly with my arm.
Take notes, Falco.
I had no tablet or stylus but memory was always my best tool. Well, Hades, I can still see the scene today. Pomponius was lying face down.
His hair was wet, but its colour and florid style made him recognisable. He was turned slightly, partly on his left side, facing away from me; his knees were slightly drawn up so the posture was a curve. One arm, the left, was under him.
Someone with poor eyesight might suppose he had fainted. I spotted at once that a very long thin cord was wound tightly around his neck. Several times. A loose end was caught under his right arm; it trailed backwards, then meandered over the floor towards me as I stood near his feet. He was wearing slip-on bath clogs. If there had been a struggle, they would probably have come off. A modesty towel encircled the body, loosened yet still more or less in situ around the waist.
A small pool of pallid, watery blood was near his head. Cyprianus, horrified, had warned me what that was. He had pulled up the body, ready to turn it over. Shocked by what he saw, he had let the corpse fail back.
I braced myself. I steadied my foot against the centre of the dead man’s spine to stop him sliding across the floor, and pulled his upper arm hard. He was slippery with sweat, steam and oil, so I had to change my hold and grasp the wrist more firmly. In one strong movement I hauled him right over onto his back.
Tlwn I looked. One of his eyes was gouged right out. I stood back. I managed not to gag, but a hand came up over my mouth involuntarily.
Cyprianus now came in behind me. He had brought spare towels to dry the running sweat off our faces.
“Aargh… there’s something about eyes.”
“He’s been stabbed too.” My voice sounded dull. Maybe it was due to the acoustics in here. “You probably didn’t notice-‘
“No,” he admitted. “I just ran.”
In the throat and on the naked torso there were wounds, made with something that caused extremely small entrance and exit cuts. Cyprianus pulled a face. “What caused such wounds, Falco?”
“It’s curious. They are almost bodkin-sized. Could a woman be responsible?” I pondered, looking around for inspiration. The weapon was no longer in the room. Little blood had escaped. These stabbings could well have been done after death.
A bodkin? Would a woman have had the strength to strangle Pomponius, apparently without him fighting back? The towel that must have been tucked around his midriff as he bathed was the usual useless napkin that you have to tighten up every five minutes. It would have fallen oil straight away it he did anything energetic-even if he tried twisting around quickly. Could it have been placed back over him after the killing? Probably not. It was not just lying on the corpse; before I moved him, and although Cypnanus had made an attempt, the linen cloth was still wrapped right under his hips.
It was the strangling that did for him, I was sure of that. Either somebody came up behind him unexpectedly, or he was relaxed in the ‘safe’ presence of a social acquaintance. Most people sit in steam rooms on the side ledges, facing inwards to the room, backs to the wall. So coming up from behind was less likely.
Suppose this: Pomponius, bathing in the normal sequence, had reached the hottest room. After a hard day, irritating me and others, he had been full of torpor. Someone he may not have liked but whom he knew came in, sat fairly close, alongside maybe. If they had carried any large weapons, he would have seen. So they had a string, coiled up in the palm of the hand perhaps, and a small blade of some kind, also concealed. They whipped out the string and wound it around the architect’s neck very fast they stood up to do that, probably. They were strong enough to hold him still. (Or perhaps they had help but either way I could see no bruising on his arms.) He stopped breathing. To make sure or to exact further vengeance, they stabbed him and scooped out his eye. The eye could have been extracted with the same stabbing weapon, pushed in and then turned in a circular movement, like shucking an oyster. Finally, they lowered the body to the floor. My guess was that the whole incident had been very quick.
There could have been more than one assailant. One each side of him? A little too threatening when they first took up position. Say this: one sat beside him, one at a distance. The near one had the string. The second rushed up when the action started. He maybe had the concealed bodkin-like tool.
I bent and made myself unwind the string, jerking it from the folds of flesh into which it had dug so cruelly. Someone really pulled this tight. Loop and tug, loop and tug again… If Pomponius sat to relax in the steam the way so many of us do, leaning forward with his II
elbows on his knees and his head bowed, it would have been easy to |
collar him. Especially if he expected nothing. Both ends of the string had lain to the left of the head, as if the killer attacked from that side. I
When I unwound the string fully, I found a couple of small knots |
along its length. They were very old, made so long ago that they were now solid and impossible to untie. The string was a firm, tightly twisted type, with no stretch. It seemed to be waxed, and was
blackened with ancient dirt. Both tree ends were tied in little loops.
While I was bending over, I had noticed the wet floor was muddy from my outdoor boots. Circular footprint smudges, in black watery slurry, marked every step I had taken. Cypnanus, now booted, had made the same mucky trail. There had been no other dirt when I first came in. None I had noticed in the other rooms either.
“Cypnanus, I take it you were bathing when you found him? No clothes? Bare feet?”
“Slip-ons. Why?”
“Look what a mess our feet are making now.”
He nodded. “The floor was clean. Sure of it.”
“So, whoever it was, when they entered this caldariuin they too looked like an innocent bather or bathers. You didn’t see anyone?”
“No. I thought I was alone. That made it more of a shock when I walked in here.”
“No one went out past you, as you first entered the baths?”
“No, Falco. Must have been long gone.”
Not so long gone as all that, probably. He may have just missed meeting the killer or killers face to face.
“The next question must be: did they come here on purpose to kill? No question, in fact. Who goes into a bath house equipped with a length of twine and a bodkin?”
“Could a strigil have caused these wounds, Falco?”
“Too big. Snapped and splintered, maybe yes but these entry wounds are very neat. Whatever made them was smooth, not broken. Like a poultry needle, or something medical.” I made a private note to discover if Alexas had an alibi.
Cypnanus crouched briefly and checked out one of the stab wounds. “Straight,” he confirmed. “In and out through the same channel. Not a curved implement.”
Looking around, I found strigils lying right on the water basin. There were three decorative bronze implements with fully right angled curves, in various sizes. They were clearly made as a set, along with a globular oil flask and dipper, all of which could hang on a fancy ring. I sniffed the oil: rampantly expensive Indian nard.
Lindsey Davis - Falco 13 - A Body In The Bath House Page 21
