“The over-cutting scam. Milchato was told to prevent it,” I said.
Larius pulled a face. “No, it was something much more lucrative, not just the old coarse-sand trick. Don’t ask me what. I don’t gossip with marble-men.”
“Standards!” scoffed Aelianus.
“Get stuffed.” Larius grinned. “Next, how about Lupus or Mandumerus?”
“Both?” I was surprised.
“Of course.”
“Mandumerus had a fake labour fiddle. I exposed that.”
“So Falco is next for strangling with the tight necklace?” asked Aelianus, rather too keenly.
“Oh he has you and your brother to look after him!” Larius laughed. “Anyway, it’s known all over the site that Pomponius wanted to crucify Mandumerus but Falco vetoed it. So Mandumerus still doesn’t like him, but he knows my dear uncle has a sensitive side.”
“Tell me more about the Mandumerus racket,” I said. “And why you include Lupus.”
“Mandumerus has been working this trick with the false numbers for decades. He probably cannot even remember how to operate honestly. Lupus has his own scheme.”
“What? I’ve gone through the labour records with the fine side of my comb, Larius, and found nothing suspicious.”
“You wouldn’t. The overseas labour has to be paid for by the Treasury. They pay Lupus; Lupus provides the men. But what Lupus does is sell the jobs to the highest bidder.”
“How does it work?”
“To be employed in the overseas gangs, men have to bribe Lupus. Once they come out here, full of hope, it’s a long way home if they don’t get taken on. So he sets his own terms. Mostly they give him a cut of their pay. Some manage to produce wives or sisters whom they pimp to him. He’s not fussy. He’ll take payment in kind.”
“Beats three sacks of barley and a basket of garlic,” I sighed.
“The Treasury is getting what they pay for. Does it matter?” Aelianus asked.
“It does to an emperor who wants a reign famous for fairness,” I explained.
“That’s a bit idealistic!”
Larius and I, both plebeians, stared at Aelianus until he moved uneasily against the arm rest of his couch.
“That you think so is no surprise,” I told him coldly. “I would have hoped a man of your intelligence would know better than to say it.”
Helena’s brother shifted again. “I thought you were a cynic, Falco.”
I clasped my hands over my belt. “Oh no. I’m constantly expecting good in the world, believe me!”
XLIV
at the prickly silence which ensued, my daughter Julia became unhappy. As always, she yelled her head off. Larius shoved her toy cart about with his toe. The distraction tailed. Julia woke Favonia, who joined in the noise. I bestirred myself and picked up the baby, causing Larius to pinch his nose with disgust. “She stinks, Falco!”
“Reminds me of you at this age,” I retorted. “Where are all my domestics anyway? What have you two done with the women of my household?”
“Helena Justina went to talk to the King. She took your sister as a chaperone.”
“Now you tell me! There is supposed to be a nurse. Where’s that idle miss Hyspale?”
“No idea.”
“Aulus?”
“I would have said she had dressed herself up and gone off to swoon over Larius but Larius is here.”
“She’d be disappointed anyway,” scoffed Larius. “I have some standards.”
“Anyway, you’re too worn out by the bar girl,” I jibed. “Why is Helena talking to Togi?”
“He sent for you. You were not here. I volunteered to replace you,” Aelianus complained, ‘but my sister overruled it.”
I grinned, deducing that Helena had been her forceful self. “She’s just a girl, you know. Try standing up to her.”
He shot me a scornful look and did not deign to respond.
Leaving the lads in charge of the infants (with little hope of them changing the loincloth), I hot footed round to the royal apartments. The few plaid-clad attendants on duty seemed surprised that I should feel the need to bother to appear on my own behalf when someone so competent as Helena was already representing me. Still, they let me in.
“When I was in Rome’ began the King as I entered. I could see him as the forerunner to a long tradition of British visitors to foreign parts who would never get over the experience. Looking at what they had here at home, how could anyone blame them? A hot dry climate (or even a hot humid one), a leisured pace, a generously comfortable lifestyle, warm wine, brilliant colours, not to mention exotic food and tasty women, would seem like a philosopher’s ideal republic to the hairy homunculi.
I felt homesick again.
This was a colourful symposium. Everyone was sitting around in wicker armchairs like snobs at a music recital. The room itself, elegantly coved and dadoed, was a sophisticated mix of purples and contrasting shades, mainly ochres and whites, against which the King made a different kind of contrast, dressed today not in his Roman wear but local garments in a whole fruit basket of berry dyes. Helena was in white, her formal choice, and Maia in pink, with green bands. I was now down to the last tunic in my chest, which happened to be black. Not my shade. In black, I look like a third-grade undertaker, a slapdash half wit who will lose your beloved grandma and send you the ashes of a dead ass instead. In the wrong urn.
Togidubnus saw me and stopped. Perhaps Maia and Helena briefly showed relief. They looked as if they had been sharing his regal anecdotes for too long.
“Sorry to interrupt.” I smiled. “I heard you wanted me. Of course Helena Justina knows what I have to say better than I do, but she may let me listen while she recounts my views.”
“I hope you are not being sarcastic, darling Helena commented. She rearranged her stole on one shoulder, with a faint jingle of silver bracelets. A decorous ringlet shook against her ear, causing a near indecorous reaction in me.
“Actually, no.”
We all smiled. Helena took command. “His Majesty wanted to talk to you. He is concerned that with Pomponius dead, lack of supervision may disrupt his new building.”
“Awfully bad luck for Pomponius,” broke in the King. He had not yet learned to allow Helena her full number of water clocks when she made a speech.
“His Majesty,” said Helena directly to me, not giving the King a look-in, ‘was with MarceUinus yesterday. The architect’s wife held a birthday party at their villa. On his return, King Togidubnus was shocked to learn what had happened to Pomponius. Now he wants to ask you, Falco, whether Marcellinus could assist professionally.”
If he was at his wife’s party miles away, Marcellinus was in the clear. He had not helped himself back into power by strangling Pomponius. Well, not unless he could be in two places at once like that myth about Pythagoras.
Of course, somebody else could have killed Pomponius for him.
“I know Marcellinus will volunteer,” murmured the King with just sufficient gloom to cheer me up. I had a welcome impression that he was being leaned on over this. Thirty years of the same architect could wear any client down; Marcellinus should have been thrown out for good the last time the cushions were changed.
“There is official protocol,” I hummed. “Pomponius was a Rome appointment and I cannot anticipate what Rome wants done next.” This overlooked the fact that it was my role to tell Rome what Rome wanted.
“Verovolcus says you intend to discuss the situation with Marcellinus.”
“I do.” I could say that with sincerity. “But you will understand it is rather low on my action list. My priority is to discover who killed Pomponius. For one thing, we don’t want to lose anybody else the same way!”
The King raised bushy white eyebrows. “Is it likely?”
“Depends on the motive. Strangely,” I said, “I find no sense of anxiety amongst people here. There is a marauding killer: the normal reaction should be acute fear that others are at risk.”
“Peo
ple believe Pomponius died as a result of a purely personal animosity?” suggested the King. “That would make the rest of them safe.”
“Well, they know how many people hated him.” In my new role as a staid man of sense, I did not ask whether Togidubnus was afraid for himself. Nor did I query his feelings towards Pomponius. I had witnessed them in furious disagreement on design issues, but you don’t use emotive words like ‘hate’ about landscape gardening and room layouts.
Or do you? King Togidubnus cared a lot about such matters.
“He and I had our disagreements, Falco, as you are aware.”
“Personal?”
“Professional!”
“Public too… Still few clients actually kill their home makeover man.”
The King smiled. “Given how much bad feeling refurbishments can cause, there could well be more who do! Luckily I can say where I was yesterday,” he assured me, rather dryly. “Should you ask.”
“Well, I like to be thorough, sir.” I made it a joke. “I’ll put down a formal note: all day at the Marcellinus villa?”
“Yes. Have you been there?”
“No, but I have an invitation.”
“A beautiful place,” said Britain’s foremost connoisseur. “I gave Marcellinus the land, as thanks for his work on this house…” He tailed off slightly. Had the gift gone wrong subsequently? “I feel you would be interested in the property, Falco.”
He sounded like a realtor. I was not planning to buy within nine hundred miles of here. Not that that stops them.
“Internal viewing recommended, is it? Must be seen…” Why would the King assume I had a special interest in property, self-build or otherwise? Rome’s official brief would have covered my status and talents, not my living arrangements.
Perhaps I had imagined any significance in the comment. The King merely resumed his tale of south-coast society: “The birthday party was due to last all day, concluding with a banquet but I retire early nowadays, so could not undertake the long journey home at night.” Surely after their long years of collaboration and friendship, the Marcellinus couple could have provided a royal put-you-up? “I went for lunch only and drove back at dusk after a pleasant afternoon. I stayed overnight in my house in Noviomagus, returning here this morning. I was then told what had happened.”
“I thought you were here last night,” I mentioned. “I sent someone to ask your permission to close off the baths.”
“Verovolcus or others in my household should have dealt with that.”
“Yes they did… though it did not deter some labourers this morning, unfortunately.” No reaction from the King. “Verovolcus was not invited to the birthday party?”
“No.” The King now looked embarrassed.
“Verovolcus is organising the contractors at the bath house,” Helena broke back in. “He stayed behind to deal with them.”
“You need not be shy about the refurbishment,” I reassured the King. “The new palace is your gift from Vespasian, but you are perfectly entitled to make additional improvements. You are a wealthy man,” I told him. I wanted to hint that if he added to the approved scheme, he must commit his own funds at least while I was auditing. “Lavish spending is the duty of a wealthy Roman. It demonstrates status, which glorifies the Empire, and it cheers up the plebs to think they belong to a civilised society.”
This time nobody asked if I was being sarcastic, though they probably all knew.
“You should ask about the architect’s party,” Maia put in suddenly. She had a morose expression, fired by a dangerous glint. I tipped up an eyebrow. “There was food and drink all day then in the evening, after the King left, there was to be a grand formal dinner. That was to be accompanied by music and hired entertainment, Marcus.” I sensed what was coming. “The highlight was a special dancer,” my sister announced.
It came as no surprise. Maia would hardly look so grim over a light poetry recital or a troupe of fire-eaters. “Let me guess. That would be a professional dancer, some exotic import all the way from Rome? Sinuous and expert?”
“Expert in a lot of things,” Maia snapped. “Her name is Stupenda.”
“Her name is Perella.” I now had no doubt. But what would Anacrites’ agent want with the retired ex-architect?
Nothing good. Nothing that I could afford to ignore.
XLV
the marcel linus villa was supposed to be about twelve miles away that was probably as the crow flew, and in my experience ‘
British crows were tipsy old bunches of feathers who could not use maps.
The King realised I would not contemplate breaking off the murder enquiry to make such a journey unless I feared danger. He provided fast horses and a small escort of keen warriors. We were seen leaving by Magnus, who somehow found a mount and attached himself. Verovolcus also tagged along. So did Helena. While I protested, she made me carry her on my horse behind me. This was a fine example of Roman nursing motherhood because yes, we had to have Favonia.
with us too. Helena had quickly run to fetch her, then turned up with the baby secured to her body with her stole. Not many informers go I
about their business accompanied by a madwoman and a four-month old child.
Maia stayed behind, with Nux and a human bodyguard. “I’ll look after little Julia. I’m not taking on those other two you fostered. They look nasty blighters.” Aelianus and Larius pretended not to hear.
Larius wanted to come. “You’re a murder suspect,” Aelianus rebuked him. “Just sit tight.”
“I’ve been assisting Uncle Marcus since you were a two-foot-high whiner dribbling over your gold amulet-‘ Larius scoffed.
“You were brought to Britain to paint sprays of pretty flowers. I am on official attachment ‘
“Stop arguing, both of you,” Maia scowled. Surprisingly they did.
We were offered a boat. It could have been quicker, for all I know. But I wanted to see if we met anybody coming back to Noviomagus from the villa. It did not happen. Still, you have to check. I The Marcellinus spread lay a couple of miles inland. We certainly _
knew when we got there: its size and grandeur compelled attention the same way he did, with his dramatic clothes and haughty bearing.
As soon as we galloped up to the monumental entrance, my tears about last night were confirmed. The great place was in turmoil. The slaves were either running about like startled mice or cowering, all terrified. We soon found the architect’s wife, whom I put about twenty years younger than him maybe it was her fiftieth birthday she celebrated yesterday. Scream after scream told us where she was. She must have been screaming helplessly for a long time, because she had grown completely hoarse. None of her staff dared approach to soothe or comfort her.
The hysteria was caused by finding her husband dead. I did not need to ask her whether he died from natural causes. They had a bath house-but unlike Pomponius, Marcellinus had died in his bed.
Helena took charge of the poor woman. Striding through elegant suites full of ornate furniture, I soon came on Marcellinus. He and his wife had separate bedrooms-the sophisticated system that enables couples to ignore each other. He was in his bed, still lying where he had slept, as the wife had said. Somebody had cut his throat. It was expertly done, through both jugular and windpipe, so deeply the knife must have scraped his vertebrae.
The room stank of last night’s wine. There was a great deal of blood. I had been half prepared for this; well, I had seen such handiwork before. It still turned my stomach. Magnus, who followed me, failed to make it from the room before he vomited. Some of the Britons who came with me looked queasy, though they all managed to stay upright and nobody fled. Verovolcus came right up and inspected the scene at close quarters. A head half sliced from its body held no terrors for tribesmen whose nation decapitated enemies as war trophies. The young men could never have joined in much action, but Verovolcus gave the impression he had seen sights I would not like to hear about.
It was a ghastly sight. I tried t
o remain professional. Marcellinus may have been asleep when he was set upon. From the way he lay high against the pillows, with the top portion of his body outside the bedspread, I thought it more likely he had sat up and been slashed from behind. Someone had been allowed to get close enough for that. If a woman did it and I knew who I meant any cynic could speculate as to how she wound herself so far into the man’s confidence-on his wife’s birthday too.
Most of the blood was on the bed. There were no footprints. The door handle was clean. The perpetrator cannot have escaped the gore entirely, but had left no trail. A professional job. Little could spoil it except that my presence in the locality was real bad luck. I had seen enough handiwork like this to name Perella outright as the killer.
There was no weapon at the bedside, but we could tell it had been a highly sharpened, thin-bladed dagger. Sharp enough to fillet fish, bone meat or for any other butchery. It would be well cleaned by now, pushed tidily back in its sheath, and tucked into the belt of the quiet, dowdy-seeming woman whom I had once seen pare an apple probably with that very knife. A cloak would cover any blood splashes.
“Man from Rome, what do you think?” croaked Verovolcus. I thought he showed far too much eager curiosity, for one thing.
“If people continue to die at this rate, nobody will be left as suspects…”
Verovolcus laughed. I did not join him. “Two great architects in the same night!” he marvelled.
“Intriguing coincidence.” Or was it? “Pomponius and Marcellinus had a professional rivalry. Since they were killed the same evening, all this distance apart, neither killed the other. Mind you, we could still find the same motive-and the killers could have been organised by the same person.”
“A jealous wife?” Magnus suggested.
“You knew the couple,” I told Verovolcus. “Did she have a reason to be upset with her husband?”
Verovolcus shrugged. “If she did, she never showed it. She always appeared content.”
“She is upset now!” I commented.
We searched the house, discovering nothing significant. The slaves said that after prolonged festivities, everyone had slept in late. That included some guests who had stayed overnight; we found them huddled together in a dining room. Local dignitaries, not particularly dignified in this crisis, they had nothing to tell us. People had risen late, came to breakfast-which was by then at lunchtime-and were planning their departure. Marcellinus’ wife decided to check on him, as he would normally bid farewell to any guests in person. After the screams started, the guests felt they should remain here, though nobody knew what form their assistance should take.
Lindsey Davis - Falco 13 - A Body In The Bath House Page 26