“A dancer. Yes. Luring good men from their mothers.”
“A dancer—here in Noviornagus.” Maia was not recommending a good night out to improve our social lives. What had caused only vague unease in me was a source of terror for my sister. “You knew it—and you failed to tell me!”
“Maia, the Empire is stuffed with grimy castanet girls—”
The bluff failed. Maia already knew why the dancer might be a threat to her. “This one comes from Rome—and she is special, isn’t she?”
“Justinus did tell me the woman was causing excitement—some young chit who takes off more of her clothes than usual, no doubt—”
Maia simply glared at me.
“What is it, Maia?” Helena asked in a troubled voice.
“Anacrites has a dancer who works for him.” Maia was stony. “He once told me he has a special agent who works for him abroad. He said she is highly dangerous. Marcus, she has followed me. He has sent her to get me.”
My sister had a right to be angry. And frightened too. I threw back my head and breathed slowly. “I doubt if this is her.”
“You know all about her, then?” Maia shrieked. Wide-eyed, Helena had now caught on.
“Oh yes.” Did that make me sound efficient, or just devious? “Her name is Perella. I met her in Baetica. Helena and I both met her. As you see, we survived the experience.”
Perella, it had turned out then, had not been in Baetica looking for me. But I did remember how it had felt while I had thought I was her target. She and I had had a wrangle afterwards, when I stole the credit for a job she had wanted as her own commission. Our relationship since had been professional—but she was no real friend of mine.
It did not help that when I mentioned Perella, Helena hugged her arms around herself and shivered. “Marcus, why would Perella be here?” she asked. “Why would she know anything about Maia?” I tried not to answer. “Marcus! Has Anacrites really sent her?”
“If it is Perella, I can’t say what Anacrites has told her to do.” Helena knew, as I did, Perella would simply follow orders. She would assume it was state business.
“Tell me the truth!” Maia ordered. She tossed her dark curls contemptuously.
She had a right to know. “All right. This is the situation: Perella was seen in Rome, hanging around your old house. That’s why some people wanted you to leave.”
“What? Who saw her?”
“I did.” Maia was furious, naturally. Helena, too, looked annoyed that I had kept it secret.
My sister’s next question slightly surprised me. “Did Petronius Longus know all this?”
“Yes. I’m sure that’s why he helped your children with their scheme to extricate you—”
“And what about extricating my children?” seethed Maia. “It hasn’t worked, has it? I am still being chased by this woman, while my poor children—”
“Are with Petronius,” Helena interrupted. It was in effect her confession that she had been involved. “They are safe.”
“What is he intending to do with them?”
“Let them be seen in the neighborhood for a while, so it looks as if you are still in Rome—” I could easily see that going wrong. My anger at Petro for not talking to me about the plan redoubled. “Then of course he will take care of them in the safest way. Don’t worry about them,” Helena insisted. “Lucius Petronius knows what to do.”
All Maia’s old fear of Anacrites had returned. I was none too happy myself. “I’ll go and look at this dancer,” I offered gently. “Don’t worry about it, Maia. I shall know if it’s Perella or not. As soon as I have sorted out this site problem, I’ll go and check.”
XXXIV
THAT WAS a hiccup that I could have done without. Perella! Dear gods.
Sorting the labor problem would be a time-consuming enterprise, thanks to Pomponius. Luckily, we had a short reprieve: Mandumerus must have heard we were on to him. When I made enquiries, I was told the rogue supervisor had left the site.
The other workmen now gathered in groups, muttering. I thought it unlikely they would go for me, at least not openly. When I approached, most pointedly turned their backs. One man with a barrow of spoil came straight at me and tried to push me into a deep trench. Soon afterwards, as I walked under scaffolding against the old house, a sandbag, which had been used for weighting a pulley, suddenly fell off and crashed right beside me. It missed, or the deadweight could have killed me.
There was nobody in sight above. It could have been an accident.
I might extract information from the one man who seemed to be at odds with Mandumerus—Lupus, the other supervisor. But when I asked after him, he was unavailable. Pomponius had now called a site meeting with the leaders of all the trades—like the gathering from which he had debarred me on the day I arrived. Whether today’s was to discuss general progress or to make specific changes following my revelations about the labor scam, I did not know. He did not invite me to attend.
I worked in my office with Gaius all afternoon, trying not to feel demoralized.
Just before we packed up, someone threw a large rock through our open window. Gaius and I spent half an hour discussing whether to ignore this vandalism or stress ourselves reacting publicly. We chose to feign indifference.
Regular hard work lost its interest. Instead, Gaius said, “I did look out for Guttus and Cloaca, those pipe benders you were asking about.”
“Drippy and Drainage? Finding Gloccus and Cotta could be too much excitement at present, Gaius.”
“Neither is here,” he assured me. “I checked all through the lists when I was doing the comparisons and, Falco, they don’t feature.”
“False names.” I grimaced despondently. “Like their fake workmanship.”
“Does Lupus know anything about them, Falco?”
“He says no.”
“Mind you, Lupus is the worst liar I’ve come across.” Gaius beamed cheerfully.
I groaned. “How unusual!”
“They could be anywhere, you know, Falco. Some of the trades come out here on contracts—but a lot of men just turn up. Chances are they will be taken on if they can show a good pedigree from Italy or anywhere else that sounds civilized. We are making demands that Britons are not used to—unfamiliar materials and sophisticated techniques. A craftsman who says he has handled fine marbles, say, will be at a premium.”
“But plenty of cities in Gaul and Germany are being restored or expanded—so there is big competition for craftsmen, Gaius.”
“Right. Even in Britain, towns are throwing up temples to the imperial cult, or fancy public baths.”
“It’s baths that interest me. And my information is that Togidubnus has a private plan to renovate his facilities here.”
“He has a firm lined up, I think,” Gaius told me. “Some crew that Marcellinus, the old architect, recommended.”
“Do you know them?”
“I’ve been told nothing about it.”
“Is Marcellinus involved with the king’s bath refurbishment?”
“That creep Marcellinus would like to be involved with everything,” Gaius grumbled.
“He’s ex. Is he a problem?”
“We can’t winkle him out. He’s always hanging around the site. He really irritates Pomponius.”
“Don’t most people?” I laughed.
The afternoon site meeting must have broken up at exactly the time I dropped my pretense of working and emerged. Most people scattered, but I caught up with Blandus, the chief painter. I had wanted to speak to him ever since I saw him being injured in the fight with Philocles. He was walking slowly, perhaps still in discomfort. When the others saw me, they scurried on, heads down; he could not hop away so fast, so was lumbered.
“Glad to see you about again!” He grunted. “I’m Falco. A painter’s looking for me. Is it you?” He grunted again, apparently a negative. Conversation was not his strong point. Hard to see how he had such notorious success with women. Maybe he achieved his wicke
d way using those old Roman standbys: a noble profile and suggestive winks.
His profile was nothing to talk about, in my opinion.
“It must be your assistant, then.”
“I know nothing about that,” muttered Blandus grumpily. “He does what he likes. I’ve been laid up.”
I gave him a dry look. “Yes, I was there. Tough about Philocles Senior! I hear Junior is cut up over losing his papa.”
Blandus, who had caused the trouble by seducing Philocles’ wife all those years ago, refused to react. Still, I felt better for pointing out someone other than me had made enemies around here.
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 publicized 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 favorite 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 from 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 mantraps.”
“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 labor 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. Traveling a coastal road at night can be eerie enough. A buoyant wind wafted around us, smelling of sea-weed and surf. Expecting any moment to pass groups of hefty, hostile laborers, 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’s 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 traveled 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 haring around the outside of the building toward 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 maneuver. I hoped my companion did not realize 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?”
“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
ILED 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 off 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 leas
t 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 fear. 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 with 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 bathhouse to be kept working late. In palaces and public buildings, men who have been held up by professional duties or newly arrived travelers have to be provided for.
In one of the clothes lockers sat folded garments. Rich cloth in vibrant colors—turquoise contrasted with brown stripes. All the other cubby-holes 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 fees 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 masseurs’ 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.
A Body in the Bathhouse Page 21