Alexas shook his head. “You’ve confessed sleep easy. Don’t trouble your conscience over hitting his head. The way the boy described it, his heart stopped. Excitement won’t have helped, but this would have happened anyway.”
The mulsum boy did a dramatic show of clutching his side, staggering, then falling by stages to the ground. “Very good.” I applauded him. “I look forward to seeing you play Orestes at the Megalensian Games.”
“I’m going to be a cart driver.”
“Good idea. Much better pay, and you don’t have to fight off swarms of adoring girls.” He shot me a disgusted look. He was about fourteen, a lad in a man’s world, growing up fast. He was old enough for girls, but money matters did not yet trouble him. Still, the girls would see to that.
As the mosaicist’s body was carried away, with Alexas in train, Cyprianus shook his head. “I’d better tell Junior that his father has died.”
“Ask him if he knows what the fight was about.”
“Oh we all know that!” Cyprianus snapped irritably.
“Jealousy, you said.” I watched him.
“They had a war going back decades.” Now Cyprianus spoke in a tired voice, telling me the sour site secrets he had previously tried to keep private from the Emperor’s man. There was no point sheltering Philocles Senior now, and for joining in the fight Blandus must take his chance. “Most sites, the rule was if you employed Blandus, you had to forget Philocles and vice versa. This was the first time for years they had been on the same project.”
“This being Britain, where your choices of craftsmen are limited, because nobody wants to come out here?”
“Yes.” Cyprianus spoke with rueful pride. “And being the Great King’s palace, where we want the best.”
“Were these two warned before they came that they might meet up?”
“No. Of course warned them, when they got here, that I would not allow trouble. Pomponius had hired them. He awards the special subcontracts. He either did not know they hated each other or he didn’t care.”
“Personal relationships are not his strong point.”
“Tell me!” Cyprianus sighed wearily. “So now Philocles Senior is on his way to Hades, and Junior will probably walk out on us. Blandus is laid up and who knows if or when he’ll be on his feet again…”
I thumped his shoulder. “Don’t let it depress you. What I still don’t see is what it’s all about?”
“Oh you know painters, Falco!”
“Light-fingered?” I guessed.
“Fingers everywhere, you mean. Randy little beggars, the lot of them. Why do you think they become painters? They go into people’s houses, with access to the women.”
“Ah! So Blandus… ?”
“Screwed the wife of Philocles Senior. The husband discovered them.” I winced. “But don’t tell Junior,” Cyprianus pleaded. “He’s a bit slow. We all think that he doesn’t know.”
A thought struck. “Blandus is not by chance his real father?”
“No. Junior was a baby.” Cyprianus had thought about it too. Then he chuckled. “Well, I think he was… Let’s pretend we’re sure. He’d be torn whether to carry on floor-laying, or to take up marbling walls instead!”
“You need him piecing in the tesserae - I’ll keep mum.”
For a moment Cyprianus did gaze at me. “There’s nothing else for you to do about this, Falco.” He was either checking my opinion anxiously, or seeking to influence my actions if I wanted to cause trouble.
“Why should there be?” I answered him. “It’s death from natural causes. He left us his creative work. Either Philocles Junior or some other humourless floor fixer will eventually lay those designs. Otherwise, it’s Fortune. This happens all the time. You curse their timing, comfort any relations, fix up a funeral-then you move on and forget them.”
Maybe Cyprianus thought me harsh. That was better than him thinking I would hold an enquiry. And, even though his work on building sites was dangerous, maybe I had seen more sudden deaths than he had. I was tough. Mind you, I could still get angry.
While the clerk of works went to break the bad news to the chief mosaicist’s son, I tried to see Blandus. Alexas let me in to where he was lying, but he was snoring. He had been in so much pain the orderly had drugged him.
“Poppy juice?”
“Henbane.”
“Careful!”
“Yes. I’m trying not to kill him Alexas assured me sombrely.
XXIV
this enquiry was making more demands than I expected. Today I had had a fall and a fight, then been involved in accidental death. I was shaken both mentally and physically. That’s without counting toothache, hard work in the office, or personal matters that had more pleasantly drained my strength.
I was glad I had brought Helena and the others here, so I did not have to face an evening donkey ride before I found dinner and solace. Anyway, it was clear I now needed regular access to my clothes chest. During a case, I liked a change of venue. The trouble with provincial assignments was always the same: the place and the personnel stayed with you day and night. There was no escape.
I was missing Rome. Back there, after any long day working, I could lose myself in the Forum, the baths, the races, the river, the theatre and thousands of street gathering points which hosted many kinds of edibles and drinkables to take your mind off trouble. I had been here three days and I was already homesick. I missed the tall, teeming buildings in the slum areas just as much as the high temples, glinting with bronze and copper, which crowned those famous hills. I wanted hot streets full of cracked amphorae, wild dogs, fish bones and falling window boxes; itinerant sausage-sellers peddling lukewarm meats; line after line of washed tunics, hung between windows where ninety-year-old hags leaned out and cackled their disgust over girls who were flashing too much leg at slippery bath-oil salesmen who were probably bigamists.
Nobody could collect several wives in Noviomagus; in this sparse population everyone would know him. Any be-torqued no-good boy would be found out and marched back to his own hut. I longed for a city where deception flourished and there was some hope for sophisticated guile. I yearned for a whiff of perversion among sweet scents of frankincense, pine needles and marjoram. I was ready to accept a garlic-tasting kiss from a seditious barmaid or to let a slimy Lycian sell me an amulet made from some exotic sexual organ, imperfectly embalmed. I wanted stevedores and garland girls, librarians and pimps, snobbish financiers in luxurious purple togas, their overheated wool rich in that foul dye from the shores of Tyre that stinks so expressively of the shellfish it is squeezed from. Dear gods, I missed the familiar noise and stress of home.
Three days in Britain: I could hardly wait to leave. But so soon after coming out here, the thought of the endless journey back to Italy was almost unbearable. Before we faced that, I might have to take us for a quick boost of city life up in Londinium.
Anyone who has been there will see that’s a joke.
It must be June. At home there would be blue sky. We had missed the great flower festival; they would have gone on into heroes and gods of war.
Here it was pleasant; well, I could pretend. People sat out of doors on a fine evening, we Romans with mantles slung around our shoulders. Today casual food trays had been brought to us by the King’s servants and we ate where we were in the garden. Camilla Hyspale spent her time ostentatiously shivering, which made others of us determined to enjoy the open air.
The baby was restless. I tried dandling her. It never works in company. Babies know you would like to impress people with your magic touch; they stop niggling to fool you-then wail louder.
“Another twenty years and she’ll be really good,” Maia sniggered. Nux crept under Helena’s skirt, whining softly. Helena, looking tired, whined back.
I tried that trick of standing up and pacing slowly. My mother could always do it. Once, when Julia had been screaming for about three days without a break, I saw Ma quieten her in about five strides. Favonia was not foo
led by my efforts.
Further down the large garden, near the King’s own quarters, we could see Verovolcus. He was with a small group of other Britons. They had been served at the same time as us, and were now dawdling through the food dishes, drinking too. It all seemed subdued, though perhaps would not stay so quiet. Verovolcus kept looking our way. Instinctively we avoided contact, keeping our group domestic. The last thing I wanted was to establish a pattern of heavy international social ising every night.
“He seems to be taking to heart the King’s instructions to keep back and let you do your work,” Helena remarked in an undertone. She knew how I felt.
I jiggled Favonia. She decided to stop crying. A bubbling hiccup reminded me this was a choice she could retract at any moment.
Julia, who was crawling around on the grass, now noticed the silence and released a piercing yell. My sister Maia leaned down and waved a doll at her. Julia smashed it aside, but she did shut up.
“Bed?” threatened Maia.
“No/’ Dear little poppet. It had been one of her first words.
I glanced over at Verovolcus, watching him the same way he watched us. “I don’t like to be antisocial, but ‘
“Perhaps it works the other way.” Helena smiled. “Here we are all smart clothes, loud Latin and showing off our love of culture. Perhaps our shy British hosts are smitten with a fear that ghastly politeness will force them to mingle with a bunch of brash Romans.”
We were silent. She was right of course. Snobbery can work two ways.
The fine rooms of the old house lay between the courtyard garden and the perimeter road. This meant the garden was peaceful, sheltered from traffic noise by the main structure. But on a still summer night we were aware of constant movement on the road behind. Voices and footsteps told their story: groups of men were making their way off site. Most were on foot by the sound of it. They had eaten, and were heading for their evening entertainment. Their destination could only be downtown Noviomagus, to the low haunts that offered women, liquor, gambling and music-the seedy delights of the canabae.
As the unseen irregular procession passed, I looked forward to the early hours, when they would all be returning. Helena read my thoughts. “I was too exhausted to notice last night. No doubt they creep back to their barracks like discreet mice.”
“Mice make a damned racket!” In Fountain Court I had once lived with a rodent infestation who were all kit ted out with army boots.
We were’ favoured with visitors that evening. From the camp beyond the site huts came Sextius; someone else must be minding his cartload of goods because he brought Aelianus. I let them sit down and talk. We gave them beakers, though not food-bowls. It would look fairly natural; we were all outsiders, who came over from Gaul together and who had palled up. Sextius and his sidekick might have taken us seriously when we issued that old cliched invitation, do drop round for a drink some time… When of course we really meant, please don’t!
I was still carrying the baby, an informal touch.
Sextius fixed his attention on Maia, though he sat at a distance; he hardly spoke to her and made no overt move. She was still moping. Except when she wanted to insult someone, Maia kept to herself. Normally my sister was a cheerful soul, but when she moped, she intended the world to notice. Any one of my sisters in a bad mood could depress a whole family party; Maia, whose mood was usually the sunniest, now reckoned she was owed some deep gloom.
Hyspale dropped to her knees and for once started playing with Julia. That way, she too could distance herself. As a freed woman she was part of the family; we allowed her indeed encouraged her to join in when we conversed together generally. Her senatorial roots were showing again. Having to share space with a couple of statue sellers horrified her. It took her some time to notice that the malodorous assistant was Camillus Aelianus, the spoiled darling of her previous refined home. Suddenly she squeaked with recognition. I did enjoy it.
He ignored her. She was the daughter of his childhood nurse. Aelianus was as much a snob as anyone around here. He was a thankless lout too.
He had rejected a seat then roamed about, helping himself to leftover food from any bowl he could reach. Helena watched, taking note that I had let her brother almost starve. She would have fetched him a feast, but Aelianus was gorging on his own account. That’s the joy of a patrician background: it stuffs young lads with confidence.
“How did you get on with the architects?” I asked Sextius.
He shook his head. “They won’t see me.”
“Ah well. Keep trying.”
Plancus and Strephon might well reject his tiresome novelties, so I hoped he would not try too hard. If he left Noviomagus, spurned, I would lose my handy plant. I wanted to keep Aelianus in the field.
Eventually the voracious lad stopped snacking. Equipping himself with a large beaker of undiluted wine, he sauntered closer to me.
“Falco!”
I rocked the baby, nuzzling her sweet-smelling head as if lost in purely paternal thought. “Any news?”
“Nothing much. I did see one of the managers having a big row today. Couldn’t get near enough to listen, but he was laying into a carter roundly.” From his subsequent description, I thought it could be the surveyor, Magnus.
“Hmm. I saw him poking about the delivery wagons this morning. Was he neatly dressed, smart boots, maybe a shoulder bag?” Aelianus shrugged uselessly. “What was in the cart?”
“Nothing; it looked empty. But the cart seemed to be what they were arguing about, Falco.”
“Is it still there?”
“No. Drove away later.”
“Heading where?”
“Umm…” He tried to remember. “Can’t be sure.”
“Oh that’s helpful! Keep looking. This could be part of some materials racket. Any time you are on your own near the parked-up wagons try inspecting them surreptitiously, will you.”
He scowled. “I was hoping I could finish skulking.”
Tough!” I said.
Not long after that, Favonia was sick on my shoulder-a good excuse to break up the party and retire for the night.
“Oh it will sponge off! “jeered Maia as we went to our rooms. I was too experienced to be fooled. I had run out of tunics too.
The workmen who had been out to the canabae started coming home just as I nearly fell asleep. They rambled back in dribs and drabs, mostly quite unaware they might be disturbing people. They probably thought they were really quiet. Some were happy, some obscene, some full of loud animosity for the group in front. At least one found that he needed an extremely long pee, right against the palace wall.
Way into the hours of darkness, their noise finally ceased. That was when little Favonia decided to wake up and cry non-stop until morning.
XXV
M’LSi’M served on a building site is disgusting. Unpalatable eve rages must be provided to labourers deliberately, to discourage them from taking time off for drinks. To troops, stuck at the back end of nowhere, marching a long road through a dense forest or trapped in some windswept frontier fort, even sour wine seems welcome whilst in an emperor’s Triumph, when the army returns home to Rome in splendour, they are awarded real mulsum. That’s four measures of fine wine mixed with one of pure Attic honey. The further you go to the outposts of the Empire, the less hope there is of an elegant wine or genuine Greek sweetener. As nourishment deteriorates, your spirits droop. By the time you reach Britain, life can get no worse. Not, that is, until you are sitting on a building site and the mulsum boy arrives.
Refreshed by my night’s rest (that’s another bitter quip), I had crawled to my office. Bleary-eyed, I set to, peering at some wages bills in case I could find Gloccus or Cotta listed. I had been first up in our household. There was no breakfast. So I fell on my beaker cheerfully once the sniffing boy arrived. A mistake I would only make once.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Iggidunus.”
“Do me a favour-just bring me som
e hot water next time.”
“What’s wrong with the mulsum?”
“Oh… nothing!”
“What’s wrong with you, then?”
“Toothache.”
“Want do you want water for?”
“Medicine.” Cloves are supposed to dull the pain. They did not work on my dying molar; Helena had tried me on cloves for the last week. But anything would taste better than the mulsum boy’s offering.
“You’re an odd one!” Iggidunus scoffed, bumming off in a huff.
I called him back. My brain must be working in its sleep. I had not found Gloccus and Cotta, but I had spotted an anomaly.
I asked whether Iggidunus served a brew to everyone, the entire site. Yes he did. How many beakers? He had no idea.
I told Gaius to provide Iggidunus with a waxed tablet and a stylus. Of course he could not write. Instead, I showed the boy how to create a record using rive-barred gates. “Four upright sticks, then one across. Got it? Then start another set. When you finish, I can count them.”
“Is this some clever Egyptian abacus trick, Falco?” Gaius grinned.
“Do one round of the site, Iggidunus.”
“I only do one. It takes all day.”
“That’s hard on the people who miss you.”
“Their mates tell me. I leave their cup with a tile on top.”
“So there’s no escape! Count every mulsum cup you serve. Also, put down a stick for anyone who should get a beaker but who says no thanks. Then bring the tablet back to me here.”
“With some hot water?”
“That’s right. Boiling would be nice.”
“You are joking, Falco!”
Off Iggidunus went. I placed my beaker of mulsum on the floor for Nux. My shaggy hound took one sniff, then stalked off to the clerk’s side of the office.
Lindsey Davis - Falco 13 - A Body In The Bath House Page 15