Aelianus, who had propped himself up when I first entered, lay down again on his back. “Shall I tell him?” he asked the low ceiling. “Yes, I will! He treats me like shit, he abandons me to die, and he jibes at me. But I am a person of honor, with noble values.”
“You are warped.” In fact, he sounded like his sister. It was the first time any likeness to Helena had revealed itself. “Yet in a crisis you act responsibly. Spit it out then.”
“The painter lad has a message from Justinus, which—were they not a pair of reprobates—they would themselves be telling you urgently. Instead, my brother merely informed this adolescent painter, about whom we know absolutely nothing, and he deposited the vital facts with me, a drugged-up invalid. He did seem to think you would find me, Falco,” Aelianus mused with some surprise.
“I’m glad someone has faith in me. … What’s the word?”
“You’re in big trouble.” Aelianus always gained too much pleasure from telling bad news.
I glared. “What now?”
“When Justinus and his friend were drinking in their favorite piss hole in Novio last night, they overheard some men from the site. Have you had a bunch of urchins collecting names and writing up a chart?”
I nodded. “Iggidunus and Alla. Checking up who really works on-site—as opposed to the inventive wages records.”
“The men started out laughing about it. Thought you a real clown, wasting time on official nonsense. I hear there were jokes, some cruder than others. I was not given details,” Aelianus said with regret. “But then one laborer who must have a sliver of a brain saw the implications.”
“They realize I am counting them?”
“You reckon there is a numbers diddle?”
“And I’m planning to stop it.”
“That’s what they worked out,” warned Aelianus, no longer mischief-making. “So be on your guard. Justinus heard them making serious plans. Falco, they are coming after you.”
I wondered what to do. “Has Justinus had his cover blown?”
“No, or he would be here, petrified.”
“You underestimate him,” I stated curtly. “What about you?”
“The painter says they all regard me as your spy.”
“Well, donkey’s ding-a-lings, you must have been really careless!” For jeering at his brother, he was due some insults back. “I’ll move you over to the palace as quickly as possible. We should have the King’s protection in the old house. I’ll ask Togidubnus to supply me with a bodyguard.”
“Can you trust him?” Aelianus asked.
“Have to. The working presumption is that as Vespasian’s friend and ally, he represents law and order.” I paused. “Why do you ask?”
“The laborers who are after you are the British gang.”
“Oh brilliant!”
Whether I could trust the King when British tribesmen were against me was indeed an unknown quantity. Would his decision to be Roman override his origins? Would completing the project take precedence?
Suddenly it looked as if my personal safety might depend on just how much the royal homeowner wanted his new house.
XXXII
THE BRITISH involvement was confirmed by a quick trip to my office. Alla and Iggidunus had handed in their list of named workers there last night. The clerk Gaius had already worked through it. The nonexistent men to whom Vespasian was paying wages all belonged to the local group who were managed by Mandumerus.
“You may like to know,” Gaius said heavily, “Iggy refused to have any more to do with you; he won’t even bring us mulsum. And Alla has been kept home by her father. She won’t be helping you again either.” Fair enough. I had no intention of placing the young people in danger.
“How about you?” I scoffed dryly. “Want to bunk off school as well?”
“Yes, I tried to get a sick note from my mother. Trouble is—she lives in Salonae.”
“And where is that?”
“Illyricum—Dalmatia.”
“She won’t get you off, then.”
Gaius stopped bantering. He spoke lightly, but underneath it he was tense. “I’ve never exposed a fraud before, Falco. I take it those involved won’t like us now?”
“Us? Thanks for aligning yourself with me,” I said. “But you’d better say in public, ‘I know nothing about it, I’m just the clerk.’ Let me be the one who exposes the fraud.”
“Well, you are paid more than me. …” He was angling to find out how much. Any clerk would want to know. I did not frighten him by saying that if I died here, I would not be paid at all.
I took a chance. There was no real alternative. I found Verovolcus and without giving reasons I told him that my position had become hazardous: in the name of the Emperor, I wanted the King’s protection for me and my party. Verovolcus was not taking me seriously—so with reluctance I mentioned the labor scam. He said at once that he would tell the King—and fix bodyguards. I then confessed that the culprits were the British group. Verovolcus’ face fell.
I might be surrounding myself with more trouble. But if the King was serious about Romanization, he would have to abandon his local loyalties. If Togidubnus could not do that, I would be in deep trouble.
I was now overdue at the site meeting—the one I had called. As I walked briskly to the ramshackle military suite where Pomponius had his work area, I was aware of a sinister new mood on-site. It confirmed the message from Justinus. The workmen had previously ignored me as some fancy management irrelevance. Now they took note. Their method was to stop work and stare at me in silence as I passed them. They were leaning on shovels in a way that had nothing to do with needing a breather—and all to do with suggesting they would like to beat those shovels over my head.
Remembering the battered corpse Pa and I had discovered back in Rome, I felt chilled.
Pomponius was waiting for me. He was too much on edge even to complain that I had kept him waiting. Flanked by his twin caryatids, the younger architects Plancus and Strephon, he sat chewing his thumb. Cyprianus was there too. Verovolcus turned up unexpectedly just as I arrived; I guessed the King had sent him speeding here to see what happened. Magnus followed a minute later.
“We don’t need either of you,” said Pomponius. Verovulcus feigned not to understand. Magnus, strictly speaking, had no direct management role. Of course he did not accept that definition. He was seething.
“I would like Magnus to be present,” I put in. I was hoping we would find time today to discuss the delivery-cart problem, whatever that was. “And Verovolcus already knows what I have to say about our labor problems.”
So Pomponius and I were daggers drawn right from the start.
Pomponius took a deep breath, intending to chair the meeting. “Falco.” I held back. He was expecting me to want to lead, so that floored him. “We have all heard what you have discovered. Clearly we should review the situation, then you will send a report to the Emperor.”
“We need a review,” I agreed tersely. “Reporting to Rome would take over a month. That’s time we don’t have—not with so much slippage already in the program. I was sent to sort things. I’ll do that, here on the ground. With your cooperation,” I added, to smooth his pride.
So long as I took any blame for problems, Pomponius had enough arrogance to seize this chance to act independently of Rome. Plancus and Strephon looked excited by their leader being decisive. I felt it could work out badly.
I outlined the situation. “We have a phantom labor force being charged to imperial funds.” I was aware of Verovolcus listening hard. “My research, I’m afraid, indicates that the problem is with the British group, the one Mandumerus runs.”
Pomponius leaped in: “Then I want all the Britons off the site. Now!”
“Not possible!” Cyprianus had spoken up quickly while Verovolcus was still swelling with outrage.
“He’s right. We need them,” I agreed. “Besides, to run a prestigious construction site in the provinces without any local labor would b
e most insensitive. The Emperor would never allow it.” Verovolcus kept quiet, but he was still simmering.
I had no idea how Vespasian would really react to wide-scale fiddling by a bunch of tribal trench-diggers. Still, it sounded as if he and I had shared hours of discussion on the fine points of policy.
“Right.” Pomponius came up with a new idea. “Mandumerus is to be replaced.”
Well, that was sensible. None of us argued.
“Now this dodge has come to light,” I said, “we have to stop it. I suggest we stop paying the supervisors in the current way. Instead of group rates based on their reported manpower figures, we’ll make them each submit a complete named roll. If either can’t write Latin or Greek, we can provide him with a clerk from the central pool.” I was thinking ahead to how other scams might develop: “Rotating the clerks.”
“On a random basis.” Cyprianus at least was working on the same lines as me.
“Cyprianus, you will have to become more involved. You know how many men are on-site. From now on, you should always countersign the labor chits.”
That meant if the problem persisted, the clerk of works would be personally liable.
I wondered why he had not spotted anomalies previously. Perhaps he had. Possibly he was crooked, though it seemed unlikely. I bet he just felt nobody would back him up. Judging him to be sound at base, I left that unpursued.
“I would like to know why you keep the two gangs separate,” I said.
“Historical,” Cyprianus replied. “When I came out here to set up the new project, the British group were already on-site as the palace maintenance crew. Many have worked here for years. Some of the old ’uns actually built the last house under Marcellinus; the rest are their sons, cousins, and brothers. They had formed established, tight-knit teams. You don’t break those up without losing something, Falco.”
“I accept that, but I think we have to. Amalgamate the groups. Let the British workers see that we are angry; let them know we have formally discussed whether to dismiss them. Then split them up and reallocate them among the foreign sector.”
“No, I won’t have that,” Pomponius interrupted haughtily, with no logic. He just hated to agree to anything that had come from me. “Leave this to the specialists, Falco. Established teams are a priority.”
“Normally yes. But Falco has a point—” Cyprianus began.
Pomponius brushed him aside rudely. “We shall stick with the present system.”
“I believe you will regret it,” I said in a cool tone, but I let it rest. He was the project manager. If he ignored good advice, he would be judged on results. I would report to Rome—both my findings and my recommendations. If the labor bill then stayed too high, Pomponius was for it.
A wider issue struck me. With Verovolcus present, raising it was tricky: I wondered whether King Togidubnus had known all along about the phantom labor. Had it been a regular arrangement for years? Were previous Emperors, Claudius and Nero, each overcharged? Was this fiddling routine—never detected by Rome, until new Treasury vigilance under Vespasian brought it to light? And so had the King knowingly allowed the fraud as a favor to his fellow Britons?
Verovolcus glanced at me. Maybe he read my mind. He was, I thought, intelligent enough to see that whatever had gone on under the old regime, the King now had to operate my package of reforms.
“We shall have to deal carefully with Mandumerus.” I was still trying to impose physical order. The last thing we wanted was an outbreak of sabotage. “If Mandumerus has been sharing his proceeds with his men, they are bound to feel sympathy for him if he’s arrested—not to mention their grief for lost income. It could lead to revenge ‘incidents.’ ”
“What do you suggest, then?” snapped Pomponius.
“Hold him liable for the lost wages. I recommend taking him under guard to Londinium. Get him right away from here—”
“Not necessary.” Pomponius reacted with daft bias yet again. “No, no, this is where we can show our magnanimity. A gesture to local sensitivities. Diplomacy, Falco!”
Diplomacy, my arse. He just wanted to cut across me. “You cannot have him staying in the district as a focus for disruption. The men go drinking in Noviomagus every night. Mandumerus will be sitting right there, inciting them—”
“Nail him up, then!”
“What?”
Pomponius had had another wild idea. “Put up the man on a crucifix. Make him a direct example.”
Dear gods. First this clown ran a completely lax site; then he became a scourge.
“That’s an overreaction, Pomponius.” This was serious. We had the brooding presence of Verovolcus—no longer the comic figure, but a hostile witness whose knowledge of these mad Roman machinations could do us great harm. “Crucifixion is a punishment for capital offenses. I cannot allow it.”
“I run this site, Falco.”
“If you were a legionary commander in a full war situation, that might pass for an excuse! You answer to the civil powers, Pomponius.”
“Not on my project.” He was wrong. He had to be wrong. Pained silence from Magnus and Cyprianus confirmed that Pomponius might get his way. Unluckily, my own brief did not extend to locking up the project manager. Only Julius Frontinus could authorize such a major step—but the governor was sixty miles away. By the time I could contact Londinium, it would be too late.
“What tribe is Mandumerus?” I asked Cyprianus.
“Atrebates.”
“Oh, well done, Pomponius!”
This would have been bad enough in any province. Exposing locals as corrupt had to be handled with great delicacy. Of course there must be a public scapegoat—but would he be a scapegoat for decades of royal complicity and Roman mismanagement? His punishment had to reflect any ambivalence.
Pomponius smiled serenely. “All issues of design and technical competence, welfare, safety, and justice are mine. We endure quite enough pilfering. Organized fraud will be drastically punished. …”
“Why don’t you keep a bunch of man-eating leopards in the depot along with the guard dogs? You could throw wrongdoers to the beasts in your own little arena, with you daintily dropping a white handkerchief to initiate the fun—but better not do that.” I knew I was right. “Only the provincial governor has Praetorian power. Only Frontinus is invested with the Emperor’s authority to execute criminals. Forget it, Pomponius!”
He leaned back. He had taken up position today in a folding seat, the symbol of authority. He put the tips of his fingers together. Light flashed off his enormous topaz ring. Arrogance flowed around him like a general’s overweight crimson cloak. “I shall adjudicate, Falco—and I say the man dies!”
Verovolcus, who had stayed significantly silent, rose swiftly and left the meeting. He made little fuss. But his reaction was clear.
“Straight to the King,” Cyprianus muttered.
“Straight in the shit for us,” growled Magnus.
In Britain, where memories of the Great Rebellion were set to last forever, the causes ought to have been fixed in the architect’s mind: high-handed Roman violence by minor officials who had had no feeling for the tribes and no judgment.
The Atrebates here in the south had not joined Queen Boudicca. When Rome was nearly swept out of Britain, the Atrebates had supported us as usual. Romans fleeing from massacre by the Iceni had been welcomed, comforted, and given refuge at Noviomagus. Togidubnus had again offered our beleaguered armed forces one safe base in the inflamed province.
Now a member of that loyal tribe had committed fraud, perhaps with official connivance. We had to keep it in proportion: the fraud had resulted only in financial loss, not real damage to the Empire. The damage would be caused if we handled the situation badly.
How could Pomponius be blind to the implications? If he executed Mandumerus, we were verging on an international incident.
I was so angry I could only jump up and storm out. I strode away so furiously I had no idea whether the sycophants all stayed with Pomp
onius, or whether other people followed me.
XXXIII
NOBODY WAS working on the site. Of course they all knew what was happening.
Verovolcus had gone ahead and disappeared from view. I strode to the old house. At the King’s quarters, I was turned away. Not wanting to create a scene, I headed for my own suite.
A couple of warriors were lounging outside in the garden. Seeing me, one of them stood up slowly. My heart sank. He was only saluting. These must be our bodyguards. I managed to find a smile for him.
I stormed indoors, disturbing a scene of domestic peace. The children were being good for once. Maia and Hyspale were using hot rods to frizzle their hair into rows of formal curls. Helena was reading. Then she read my expression. Seeing I had a real crisis, she abandoned the scroll.
As I told Helena what was up, Maia listened in, grim-faced. Finally my sister burst out, “Marcus, you said you had brought me from Rome for safety! First, last night’s trouble—and now more problems.”
“Don’t worry. His work is always like this.” Helena tried to make light of it. “He rampages about as if the gods had him under a murderous curse—then he clears everything up. Next minute he’s demanding when is dinner. …” She trailed off. It was doing no good.
The way Maia was standing very stiffly made me drag my concentration round to her. She met me with a hard stare.
“Everything’s fine.” I dropped my voice soothingly. Reassurance failed to work. Maia had learned to be suspicious of men pretending to be affectionate.
“I have been talking to Aelianus,” Maia retorted. Helena must have fetched him here while I was at the site meeting. Deeming him at least innocent of the conspiracy to bring her away from Rome, Maia volunteered to nurse him. “He said his brother goes drinking in the town.”
“Yes, it’s a ploy. Quintus is on watch for me. Drinking is what young lads do on a night out. … Look, Maia, I have an issue that needs quick thinking. Unless this is important—”
Maia said in an accusing voice, “There is a dancer, Marcus.”
A Body in the Bathhouse Page 20