A Body in the Bathhouse

by Lindsey Davis

  I had no alternative: I sized up the distance to the ground; then as my wrists began to go, I dropped. Luckily, I broke no bones. Larius and I replaced the ladder for Justinus to descend.

  The fugitive made it to the end of the garden colonnade. Then two figures appeared unexpectedly, discussing some abstruse design point in the fading light of dusk. I recognized the parties and feared the worst. Yet they turned out to be quite handy. One threw himself headlong in a tackle and brought Mandumerus down: Plancus. Maybe a low lunge to the knees was how he acquired new boyfriends. The other grappled with a garden statue (faun with panpipes, rather hairy, anatomically suspect; dubious musical fingering). He wrested it from off its plinth, then dumped the armful on the prone escapee: Strephon.

  We cheered enthusiastically.

  Being captured by a pair of effete architects hurt Mandumerus’ pride. He subsided, grizzling tears of shame. As he pleaded in crude Latin that he had meant no harm, Strephon and Plancus assumed the high-handed manners of their fine profession. They summoned staff, loudly complained about rowdiness on-site, denounced the clerk of works for permitting horseplay on a scaffold, and generally enjoyed themselves. We left them to supervise the miscreant’s removal to the lockup. Thanking them quietly, we continued to our suite.

  LIV

  MAIA WAS alone with my children.

  She was furious. I could handle that. She was anxious too. “Where’s everyone?” I meant, where was Helena?

  The Camilli and Larius, sensing domestic danger, shuffled off to another room, where I could soon hear them trying to repair the damage to their outfits. At least their bruises made them look like men to reckon with.

  My sister’s mouth was tight with distaste for yet another stupid situation. She told me Hyspale had gone off with her “friend”; he had turned out to be Blandus, the chief painter. Hyspale must have met him when she was hanging around the artists’ habitat, hoping to encounter Larius.

  I was disgusted and annoyed. “Blandus should not be entrusted with an unmarried woman—one with limited sense and no experience! Helena allowed that?”

  “Helena forbade it,” Maia retorted. “Hyspale sneaked off anyway. When none of you men came back for hours, Helena Justina went after her.” Of course she would.

  “You couldn’t stop her?”

  “It’s her freedwoman. She said she couldn’t leave Hyspale to her fate.”

  “I’m surprised you stayed at home,” I scoffed at my sister.

  “I would have gone to see the fun!” Maia assured me. “But you have two babes in arms, Marcus. Your nurse is a complete wastrel, and since their mother has abandoned them, I’m looking after them.”

  I was making preparations. I called out to the others. There was a water flagon on a tray; I drained it. We had no time to rest. No time to wash off the sweat, blood, and smells of the dog kennel. I checked my bootstraps and weapons.

  “Where did Hyspale and Blandus go?”

  “The River Trout. Hyspale wanted to see the dancer.” To be a woman in the company of the men “Stupenda” aroused would not be clever. Helena would instinctively understand that. Hyspale had no idea. Hyspale had been nothing but trouble to the pair of us, but Helena made up for the other woman’s complete absence of feeling for danger. “He’ll jump her,” said Maia bleakly. Nobody needed to tell me that. “And the silly chit will be so surprised.”

  “I’ll go. Don’t worry.”

  “With you in charge?” Maia was now positively caustic. I told myself it was a form of relief since I would have to take the blame.

  All my sisters liked to disrupt life with a complete turnaround just when plans had been made. “I’m coming too,” Maia suddenly declared.

  “Maia! As you said just now, there are two small children—”

  But it seemed one crisis had forced her to speak out over another. The moment was inconvenient, but that never stopped Maia. She gripped my arms, her fingers digging through my tunic sleeves. “Ask yourself, then, Marcus! If you feel like this about your children, what about mine? Who is looking after mine, Marcus? Where are they? What condition are they in? Are they frightened? Are they in danger? Are they crying for me?”

  I forced myself to listen patiently. The truth was, I did find it odd that Petronius Longus had never sent a single word of what the situation was. He must have made arrangements for my sister’s children—with Ma looking after them, probably. I would have expected a letter, at least one that was heavily coded—if not to Maia, then to me.

  “I don’t know what is going on, Maia. I was not in on the plot.”

  “The children had help,” Maia insisted. “Helena Justina.” Helena had admitted it. “Petronius Longus.” That was obvious. “You too?” Maia demanded.

  “No, really. I knew nothing.”

  It was the truth. Maybe my sister believed it. At any rate, she agreed to take care of my two daughters, and she let me go.

  It had been a long afternoon, but a much longer evening lay ahead.

  LV

  THE RIVER TROUT was a dump. I expected that. It stood at the junction of a puddled lane with a frightening alley, just two or three kinks in the road from the town’s south gate. Calling its location a road is a courtesy. However, it did have a set of road menders installing new cobbles at one end—and the inevitable workmen following them, tearing up the brand-new blocks in order to fiddle with a drain. Civic-amenity management in true Roman style had hit this province.

  There was no street-side space where food shops with marble counters could offer food and drink to passersby. A grubby wall, mainly blank, offered a couple of tiny barred windows too high to see in through. The heavy door stood half open; that passed as a welcome. A petite signboard showed a sad gray fish who would be a waste of pan space. There was no graffiti on any outside wall, which told us that no one in this neighborhood could read. In any case, they had cleared the streets. Provincials don’t dally. Why linger to socialize when your province has no meaningful society?

  I had the Camilli and Larius with me. We stepped down a couple of uneven treads into a gloomy cavern. It had a warm rank smell: too much to hope this was caused by animals—the people alone were responsible. There was one interior drinking den, with misshapen curtains half concealing filthy anterooms that ran off to the sides like burrows. Quality customers were perhaps reclining in an upstairs gallery, though it seemed unlikely. There was no upstairs.

  That was to be rectified. Like everywhere these days, the River Trout had a facility-improvement program. It was being extended upwards; so far, percentage progress was zero. A gaping hole in the ceiling marked the spot where a stairway was to be opened up. That was all.

  Downstairs offered sparse amenities. Lamps were kept to a minimum. One amphora stood propped in a corner. Covered with dust, it served more as an item of decor than a source of supply. From the shape, it had only held olives, not wine. A single shelf carried a line of beakers in odd sizes.

  The place was far too quiet. I knew exactly how many laborers worked on our project. Even allowing for stragglers, most were not here. Maybe we were too early for the dancer. Musicians were certainly due to play tonight: on a bench lay a worrying pipe with a skin bag attached, whilst a hand drum was being pattered lethargically by a long-faced laggard dressed in what passed around here for glamor (a dull pinkish tunic edged in unraveling two-tone braid).

  Of “Stupenda” there was no sign. Nor did she have a decent audience. The place should have been packed with people sitting or even standing on the rectangular tables, as well as squashed on every bench. Instead, a handful of men dawdled over their drinks in ones and twos. The most interesting presence was a three-foot-high statue of Cupid, supposedly bronze, on a plinth in the corner opposite the amphora. The love god had chubby cheeks, a big belly, and a sinister fixed expression as he aimed his bow.

  “Save us!” muttered Aelianus gloomily. “Sextius must have been touting his tat. The landlord must be an idiot to buy that.”

  �
��Rather a ferocicous talking point!” Justinus observed. Instead of an arrow, some wag from the site had provided the naked Eros with a long iron nail in his bow. I made an audit note that nails were disappearing from the palace stores. “Don’t anyone turn your back on this little blighter.”

  “You’re safe,” his brother assured him. “He’s supposed to shoot harmless blunt arrows, but we never could make him operate.”

  “Why have a love god on the premises when there are no skirts in sight?” complained Larius. There were no women visible. No Hyspale, no Helena. “No Virginia!” groaned Larius to Justinus.

  “Avoiding you,” came the reply, with an edge that suggested Justinus did know Larius had already had some luck with the girl.

  We tired of waiting for a greeter to seat us and positioned ourselves at a table. This took some doing as all the stools had wobbly legs. I managed to keep mine steady by wedging one knee under the table rim and bracing the other leg. A man with a grimy apron lurched from a back pantry to serve us. Aelianus asked, in his crisp aristocratic accent, to see the wine list. It was the sort of dump where customers were so locked up in their own misery, nobody noticed this crazy breach of etiquette. Even the waiter simply told him that there wasn’t one. It was hard work causing a shocked silence here, let alone making people fail to see a joke.

  We had what came. Every one had what came. Ours was brought in a blackened flagon, which seemed to be a polite gesture to Roman visitors. The rest had theirs poured into their Celtic face pots from a cracked old jug, which was taken away after one quick slosh.

  “Could you go for a dish of appetizers?” Aelianus asked. He was a joy to take undercover.

  “What?”

  “Forget it!” I ordered. I had just tasted the drink. I wasn’t risking food. All my companions had parents who would blame me if they expired of dysentery.

  A handful of trench-diggers sidled in, looking like first-timers here. After an age they were joined by a small group of more boisterous characters, determined to make the party swing. They failed. We all sat unhappily, wishing we had stayed at home. A couple of the lamps faded and died. Half the customers looked ready to follow them. The trench-diggers muttered among themselves for a while, then stood up together and sneaked out like ferrets, giving the rest of us guilty smiles as if they wanted to apologize that they had left us suffering.

  Things suddenly improved. A girl came in. Larius and Justinus stiffened, but pretended not to notice her. Aelianus and I glanced at one another and chorused: “Virginia!”

  She heard us and came over. With a perfect young face and extremely neat dark hair, drawn back tight in a ribbon, she was old enough to be serving in a grimy bar, yet young enough to look as if her mother ought to keep her in at nights. She wore a simple dress, pinned on so it looked ready to slip off. It revealed nothing; she had less to offer than she hinted. The tempting teenager had perfected a gesture of realigning the sleeves on her shoulders as though she felt nervous about their stability. She got that right. It made us watch.

  “Stupenda’s dancing this evening?” Justinus checked.

  “She certainly is,” Virginia assured him brightly. She indicated the drummer, who responded by fractionally speeding up his beat.

  “Seems rather quiet here,” Aelianus put to the girl. I noticed Larius kept to himself. He was pretending to be the man who was on to a certainty, with no need to exert himself. What a fraud.

  “Oh, it will liven up.” The waitress was full of blasé assurance. I didn’t trust her.

  You can see them all over the Empire: little girls in bars who have big dreams. On rare occasions something comes of it, not necessarily a great mistake. Helena would say that the young men were responding less to the girl’s beauty than her aura of expecting adventure. This was all the more tragic if she was really going nowhere.

  Her dreams made her fickle. Larius was history. She had already moved on. Justinus had never been in with a chance. Aelianus might suppose that as the newcomer he would be a strong attraction, but he was wrong. I drank my drink quietly and let the young men jostle for her. Virginia picked her favorite; she smiled at me.

  “Who’s your friend?” she asked Justinus.

  He knew better than to show disappointment. “Just an old codger in the family; we have brought him out for a treat.”

  “Hello,” she said. I smiled faintly, as if I found being chatted up by barmaids embarrassing. I had the lads’ six dark eyes staring with hostility, but I was old enough and had enough bad history to live with that. Virginia’s patter was basic. “What’s your name, then?”

  I replaced my beaker on the table and stood up. If she wanted a mature challenge, I could give her some surprise. “Let’s go somewhere more private, and I’ll tell you, sweetheart.”

  Then the door crashed open.

  We were bathed in a flood of light from smoky flares. Verovolcus and the King’s retainers poured inside with a flurry of bare arms, fur amulets, and bright trousers. Shouting in several languages, they swept through the bar, shoving tables aside and elbowing customers out of their way as they searched the place like vicious myrmidons in bad epic poetry.

  They were rough, though not a quarter as rough as the vigiles in Rome. When Petro’s men took a bar apart, everything was wrecked. That was on a day when the red tunics were taking things easy. Other times, you would be lucky to be able to tell afterwards that it had ever been a bar. These fellows of the King’s had amiable faces, apart from a few bent snouts, cut eyes, and missing teeth. Their idea of raiding the canabae was pretty tame. They all looked as if they knew how to curse, but would be too shy to do so in front of their mothers. I moved Virginia to safe shelter among our group, lest the sweet thing should be accidentally bruised; then we waited patiently for the racket to subside.

  They tired of playing bullies even sooner than I thought they would. Only Verovolcus maintained an ugly attitude. When he chose to give up his clowning and turn nasty, he could achieve it in stylish fashion.

  “You!” He stopped right in front of me. I let him glare. “I hear you say I killed someone.” The King must have told him.

  “You’ll do best to keep quiet, Verovolcus.”

  The Britons were patiently waiting for their furious leader. I hoped they stayed so calm. There were far too many for us to take on, and if we fought with the King’s men, we were finished.

  “Maybe I will kill you, Falco!” It was clear how much Verovolcus wanted to do that. He didn’t scare me, but I felt my mouth grow dry. Threats from fools are just as likely to go wrong as threats from thugs.

  I lowered my voice. “Do you admit killing Pomponius?”

  “I admit nothing,” Verovolcus jeered. “And you can prove nothing!”

  I kept my cool. “That’s because I haven’t tried. Force me—and you will be finished. Give in. You could have been kicked right out of the Empire. Be grateful that is not being demanded. You must have cousins in Gaul you can stay with for a few years. Remind yourself of the alternative and learn to live with the same tolerance that Rome is showing you.” He was livid, but I did not let him bubble over. “You could have jeopardized everything for the King—and you know it.”

  Yes, he knew. I reckon the King had already made his feelings felt. With a snarl, Verovolcus turned and strode towards the door. As a gesture of contempt, he knocked the cupid from its side-table plinth. It lay on the floor, its iron arrow still rigidly in place. All the Britons stepped over it politely as they made their way out. Perhaps they thought it might bite their ankles.

  Something close to peace returned to the bar. Customers took up the same seats as before, finding their drinks again. Some had a slight air of sadness, as if they had hoped their drinks had been spilled in the commotion.

  I turned back to the girl. Now I was in no mood for messing. She started to smile, but I cut short the pleasantry. “The angry man said it, sweetheart. The name’s Falco. Marcus Didius Falco.”

  Her blue eyes were appraising my new
mood. She had heard the name. Like others before her, she was in two minds whether this was good or bad. “You are the man from Rome.”

  Larius laughed briefly. “We are all men from Rome, Virginia.”

  He would learn.

  To Virginia, I said sternly, “So tell me again—what time does the entertainment start”—my tone hardened—“or does it?”

  She knew what I meant. “She’s not coming,” Virginia admitted. “She is dancing somewhere else tonight.”

  My nephew and the Camilli were indignant. “You said—” Justinus started.

  I thumped his shoulder playfully. “Oh, grow up, Quintus. The whole point of beautiful barmaids is that they lie to you.”

  “So why did she tell you the truth?” he raged.

  “Simple. We are all men from Rome—but Virginia knows that I am the important one.”

  LVI

  WE WERE all on our feet, to go hunting for Perella.

  Justinus was already at the door. As the stricken statue lay in their path, Larius and Aelianus cautiously picked it up between them and placed it back on its table. Aelianus jokingly lined up the bow so it aimed at me.

  I had been about to leave with the lads, but I turned back. “Who owns your cheeky tabletop art?” I asked Virginia.

  “The builder—at the moment.” Clearly she did not appreciate the off-balance cherub. His peeping buttocks and his leer were wasted on this worldly girl. “He gave us it as part of the decorations scheme for the new rooms upstairs.”

  “Appropriate.” I confess I sneered. Upstairs rooms in places that sell drinks have only one purpose, everybody knows. I gazed at the girl. “Will you be working there yourself?”