While one of his assistants played with the groma for practice, he himself was using a more complicated gadget, a diopter. A sturdy post supported a revolving rod set in a circular table, marked out with detailed angles. The whole circle could be tilted from the horizontal using cogged wheels; Magnus was underneath, tinkering with the cogs and worm screws that set it. Some distance away, another assistant waited patiently beside a twenty-foot-high sighting rod with a sliding bar, ready to measure a slope.
The chief surveyor squinted up at us, then looked around longingly at the unbroken ground; he badly wanted to set out the last corner of the new palace, where the south and west wings would meet and where the disputed 'old house' stood.
I told him about the scene we had witnessed between architect and client. Crawling out from his gadget, leaning away so as not to disturb the setting, he stood upright. He reckoned the animosity was normal, confirming what Plancus had told me. Pomponius had not dared to ban King Togidubnus from meetings, but he kept him at arm's length. Verovolcus came along instead and blustered, but he was a third party, with language problems. Pomponius took no notice of anything he said.
'Who was Marcellinus?' I enquired.
Magnus scowled. 'Architect for the old house. Worked here for years.'
'Know him?'
'Before my time.' I wondered if he had paused slightly. 'He was halfway through planning his own rebuild when Vespasian approved this complete redevelopment.' Magnus pointed out where areas of the site contained unfinished foundations for some vast buildings, not in the current design. 'The Marcellinus scheme stopped dead. I can't work out what his plans involved. But his foundations are hefty, a real menace to our own west wing. Not that we let a dirty great outcrop of unfinished masonry get in our way! Ours is just slapped on top...'
'Togidubnus seems to have been on good terms with Marcellinus. What happened to him? Dismissed? Died?'
'Just too old. He was retired. I think he went quietly. Between ourselves,' muttered Magnus, 'I've got him down as an evil old bastard.'
I laughed. 'He was an architect, Magnus. You would say that about any of them.'
'Don't be cynical!' quipped the surveyor - in a tone of voice that showed he shared my view.
'Did Marcellinus go quietly?'
'He's not entirely gone,' grumbled Magnus. 'He keeps niggling at the King about our plans.'
Helena had been gazing around. I introduced her. Magnus accepted her with much better grace than had Pomponius.
'Magnus, is it feasible to incorporate the old house in the way the King wishes?' she asked.
'If it is decided at the outset, it's perfectly possible and will save money!' He was a problem-solver, who happily set about proving his point to us. 'You understand that we had a serious problem of levels here? The natural site slopes with a big gradient to the west - plus another tilt south towards the harbour. Streams feed into the harbour. In the past there have been drainage problems, never really solved. So, our new scheme raises the ground base in the lower-lying areas, hoping to rise above the damp.'
'The old house will then be left stranded too low?1 I put in.
'Exactly.'
'But if the King accepts the disruption of having all his rooms in filled...'
'Well, he knows what a building site is like!' Magnus laughed. 'He enjoys change. Anyway, I sketched out a drawing myself to see if it's do-able. His garden courtyard would be sacrificed '
'For schematic unity?' Helena murmured. She had listened well.
'Integrity of concept!' Magnus quipped back. 'Otherwise, Togi can keep pretty well the same room layout, with new floors which he will love choosing - new ceilings, cornices, et cetera, and redecorated walls. Oh, and he preserves his bath house, handily at the end of his domestic corridor. With the Pomponius plan, Togi would have to live way across the site - traipsing around in a loincloth with his oil flask whenever he wants a scrape down.'
'Hardly regal,' said Helena.
'No fun during an October gale!' I shuddered. 'With an equinoctial wind howling in off the Gallic Strait, you could feel as if you were right among the breakers, shaking hands with Neptune. Who wants sand in his privates and sea spray messing up washed hair? So,' I asked lightly, 'is the bath house to be rebuilt at all?'
'Upgraded,' replied Magnus, perhaps a little shiftily.
'Oh! Pomponius is making a concession, then?'
Magnus was turning back to his diopter. He paused. 'Stuff Pomponius!' He glanced around, then told me in a low voice, 'We have no official funding for a bath house. Pomponius knows nothing about this. The King is organising the bath house refurbishments himself!'
I let out a breath.
'Have you been involved, Magnus?' Helena asked with cheerful innocence. She could ask brazen questions as if they just came to her coincidentally.
'The King asked me to walk the area with him,' Magnus admitted.
'You could hardly refuse!' Helena sympathised. 'I have a particular interest,' she continued. 'I just had a terrible time with some bath builders in Rome.'
'Gloccus and Cotta,' I put in, sounding bitter. 'Notorious!' Magnus showed no reaction.
'Togi is lucky to have your advice,' Helena flattered him.
'I may have made one or two technical suggestions,' reported the surveyor in a neutral tone. 'If anyone accuses me of drawing up his specification on my off day, I'll deny everything! So will the King,' he added firmly. 'He's a game, determined sod.'
'I presume he's paying. What contractors is he using?' I ventured.
'Oh don't ask me, Falco. I don't get involved with bloody labour, not even for a nice old king.'
'The wild garden is coming along, if you like greenery,' Magnus called after us, guessing well. Needing to clear our heads of nonsense, we both leapt at the invitation.
It was a peaceful haven. Well, it had a sea view as we had been promised, though the shore was taken up with a jetty where a ship was unloading stone very noisily.
A sea inlet ran through the area. Water features must be popular. The wild garden also had a significant pond site; mucking out of a disgusting kind was in hand. Herons from the landward and gulls from the seaward sides stood around, hoping for excavated fish among the muddy silt. Apart from the deep channel that was being created out in the harbour, the beaches were low along this coastal reach, and riddled with water courses and creeks. It made everywhere brackish and damp.
Once again, we were on an artificial terrace, three hundred feet of it, providing eventual occupants of the south wing with an informal vista, against which lapped the waves now controlled by a mole and gates lest Oceanus should behave too naturally. Behind the westward range of the palace a new domestic-services complex was already going up, including an obvious bake house and a monster grinding stone. Once the palace itself rose to its full height, those buildings would be hidden; the observer would only see artificial parkland sloping away to the sea and well-tamed woods beyond the inlet. The concept was strongly reminiscent of the 'urban countryside' devised by Nero when he filled the whole Forum with trees, lakes and wild animal parks, for his extravagant Golden House. The effect here, in rural Britain, was somewhat more acceptable.
Gardeners were toiling away. Since this was to be a 'natural' landscape, it required elaborate planning and constant hard work to keep it looking wild. It also had to remain accessible to those who wished to stroll here while lost in contemplation. Random specimen shrubs struggled listlessly against the salt and surf. Ground-cover plants rampaged healthily across the paths; sea-holly scratched our ankles. Grottos were being cemented; they would be delightful once shrouded in violets and ferns. But their fight against sea, and marsh, and enduring bad weather, had given the workers an air of desperate fatality. They walked in the slow way of men who did a great deal of leaning against the wind.
To demand of these poor locals a 'natural' plot was a grim trick. They must now have gardened for Togidubnus for several decades. They knew too well that nature would forge its
own way past fenced boundaries, slithering over walls, sprouting with giant weed fronds against their tender Mediterranean specimens, gobbling up precious slips and undermining exotic roots. It was all too wet and cold, and made us long for Italy.
We met the landscape specialist I had glimpsed at the project meeting. He confirmed the craziness.
'It won't be too bad in the formal courtyards. I'll plant them out three times a year with colour; prune the permanent in spring and autumn; then just turn over the lot to be mowed, hoed and trimmed. No need to touch it otherwise.'
He shouted instructions to men who were hoisting a heavy rope about, using its sluggish bends to devise an attractive layout for a winding path.
'But this is hard work.' Helena waved an arm, then chilled, she pulled her stole closer around her, tucking back loose strands of hair that had been freed by the wind.
'Misery, frankly.' He was a bowed, brown, shaven-headed man, whose apparent gloom hid real enthusiasm. 'We don't get to stand at ease with the sun on our faces, like in Corinth or New Carthage - we're battering back nature wherever it raises its head. Scything it down, slashing it through, scratching it with hooks and flattening it with spades as it scuttles across the soil. The soil is horrible, of course,' he added with a grin.
I was intrigued by his geographical references. 'What's your name, and where are you from?'
'I'm Timagenes. Learned my stuff on an imperial estate near Baiae.'
'You're not just a trowel-wielder,' I commented.
'Certainly not! I am in charge of the people who supervise the trowel-wielders' gang leaders.' He was half mocking his status yet it mattered. 'I can spot a slug - but basically, I'm the man who devises the glamorous effects.'
'And they will be glorious,' Helena complimented him. 'Pomponius has been describing your scheme for us.'
'Poniponius is a deluded snot,' replied Timagenes helpfully. 'He's all set on ruining my creative vision - but I'll get him!'
There seemed to be no hard malice in his words, yet for him to be so open was instructive.
'Another feud?' I enquired mildly.
'Not at all.' Timagenes sounded quite comfortable. 'I hate him. I hate his liver, lungs and lights.'
'And hope he has no luck with girls?' I was remembering Lupus, the overseer, describing angry curses laid at shrines by his labourers.
'That would be too cruel.' Timagenes smiled. 'Actually, there's no girl around here who would look at him. Girls are not stupid,' he opined with a polite salute to Helena. 'We all suspect he prefers boys but the boys in Noviomagus have better taste too.'
'What has Pomponius done to upset you?' Helena asked.
'Far too obscene to mention!' Timagenes bent down and gripped a small blue flower. 'A periwinkle. These do well in Britain. They peg their dark mats into dank spidery places, with strong glossy leaves that you hardly notice, until suddenly at the end of April they push up their sturdy blue stars. Now that's gardening out here. The startling discovery of some bright, defiant thing -'
The poetic foliage-forager pulled at the blossom, yanking so violently he presented Helena with a stringy rope two feet or more in length. There were very few flowers, and white roots dangled in unpleasant clumps. She took the offering gingerly.
'So what did Pomponius do to you?' I insisted laconically.
Ignoring the question, Timagenes only turned up his face to sniff the air, then answered, 'Summer is here. Smell it on the wind! Now we're in real trouble...'
Whether he meant horticulturally or in some wider sense, we could not tell.
XVI
As Helena and I later made our way back to the Noviomagus road and our transport, we came across a slow wagon trailing up to the site.
'Stop laughing, Marcus!' Luckily, there was nobody around to spy on our meeting. It would have been rude of me to guffaw at strangers the way I did now. But one of this mournful party was only disguised as a stranger. His grumpy scowl was all too familiar.
The scene was bright. Summer had come, as Timagenes observed. A fiercely cold morning with a lacerating wind had now developed into an afternoon of incredible mildness. The sun broke through the racing clouds as if it had never been away. It gave notice that even this far north, without any noticeable transition, there would be extra hours of light lengthening both ends of the day.
This spirit of renewal was wasted on the miserable young man we had met. 'Don't even speak to me, Falco!'
'Hail, Sextius!' I greeted his companion instead. 'I trust our dear Aulus is proving useful to you. He has some truculence, but we think well of him generally.'
The man who sold moving statues hopped down to gossip. Helena's brother turned away with even greater bitterness. Still in his role as an assistant, he began foddering a lanky horse who pulled the cart of stoneware samples. Helena tried to kiss his cheek in sisterly affection; he shook her off angrily. Since we had kept all his luggage, he was wearing the same tunic as when we left him in Gaul. Its white wool had acquired a dark, greasy patina which some ruffians would take years to apply to their working gear. He looked cold and glum.
'Is that a suntan or are you utterly filthy?'
'Oh don't worry about me, Falco.'
'I don't, lad, I don't. You are a repository of republican virtue. Nobility, courage, steadfastness. Let's face it, you're the kind of virtuous cur who really likes suffering-'
He kicked the wheel of the cart. It lurched, causing a sound of crashing stone.
'Oh!' protested Sextius, horrified.
As the statue factor clambered up to investigate, Aulus turned to me grimly. 'This had better be worth it! I can't tell you what a time I've had...' He did lower his voice. If he offended Sextius, Sextius could easily shed him, which would not help me. 'I'm bruised and bashed, and sick to the teeth of hearing about wonderful Heron of Alexandria's inventions. Now we have to slog here, find some completely uninterested buyer, then try to fib him into believing he needs a set of dancing nymphs worked by hot air, whose costumes fall off-'
'Whoa!' I stopped him, grinning. 'I had a crazy great-uncle who adored mechanical toys. This is a new variation on an old favourite. When did the famous dancing nymphs shed their dresses?'
'A modern twist, Falco.' Aelianus was displaying a prim streak. Hating popular taste, though he clearly understood it, he growled, 'We give our buyers what they want. The more pornographic the better.'
'Don't tell me you devised the striptease?' I chortled admiringly. 'Great Jupiter, you're really taking to this. My uncle Scaro would love you, boy! Next thing you'll have one of Philon of Tyre's dip-in-me all-ways inkwells.' Scaro had told me enough about Greek inventors to see me through this banter.
'Gimbals!' snarled Aulus. Thus proving that he had heard all about Philon's magic octagon, the executive toy every scribe wants as his next Saturnalia present. 'Don't interrupt when I'm raving,' Aulus carried on. I'm sick of this. Why me? Why not my devious brother?'
'Justinus is younger than you and he's delicate,' Helena reproved. 'Anyway, I promised dear little Claudia that I would look after him.'
'Quintus is quite hardy and no one promised Claudia anything; she thought her darling bridegroom would be going home from Ostia. I always get the short measure. I already know I'll be eating rancid broth, and sleeping at the side of the cart, under an awning alongside the horse.'
'There are canabae,' I told him, with a grain of pity.
Sextius overheard me as he jumped down again beside us. 'That's for me!' he cried. 'Lucky I've got you, lad. I'm not taking this stuff anywhere it might get pinched, young Aulus. You'll have to stop with the cart and mind the goods. I'm going to find myself a drink and maybe a tasty wench tonight.'
Aelianus was about to spit with frustration. Then we all pulled up. A voice which at least Helena and I recognised was calling my name excitedly. 'Man from Rome!'
We turned to greet him as one, like a set of well-oiled but slightly guilty automata. 'Verovolcus! Does your sophisticated king like moving statues?'
'Greek athletes he likes, Falco.'
'I think that means classical art, not oily boyfriends,' I explained to Sextius. 'I don't know what's on offer, Verovolcus. I just met these interesting salesmen for the first time. They are trying to find out the procedure for getting an appointment to show off their wares '
A Body In The Bath House Page 11