A Body In The Bath House

LVII

it was a freak accident. It killed him. Not instantly. He suffered. Not enough for me, yet too much for the humane to find bearable. I sent the lads off. I stayed.

There was no point trying to ask again whether it was him or Cotta who had killed Stephanus. Even if he had been able to speak, he would not have told me. If he had said anything, I would never have been sure I could believe it. To finish the business, to draw the requisite line in the sand, I waited there until he croaked.

All right. In the circumstances croaked is the wrong word. I can still hear Gloccus in his dying moments. I mention it purely to give comfort to those of you who have found raw sewage backing up a waste pipe in your new caldarium, three days after your contractors vanished off the site.

I was in a dark hole where life was brutal. The Rainbow Trout stayed open, whoever might be dying on their filthy floor. Customers did move aside to give me light and air as I crouched beside Gloccus. Someone even handed me a drink during the ghastly vigil. When Gloccus died, they just towed the body out through the back exit.

Once he had gone, I felt no more cheerful. At least we avoided formalities. In Britain you don't hear the vi giles whistle, then find yourself stuck with hours of questions all implying you are guilty of some crime. Given how I felt about Gloccus, his end lay lightly on my conscience. It was fitting. Best not to think that the arrow could have struck down one of us and we too would have been dumped in a narrow alley for the wild dogs. But the sense of unfinished business crippled me.

As I made to leave, Timagenes the landscape gardener came in with Rectus the engineer. They must be regular drinking pals. In shock, perhaps, I blurted out what had happened. Rectus took a deep interest and decided he would haggle with the landlord to acquire the fart-arse Cupid. Its arm dropped off while he inspected it, but Rectus reckoned he could fix that.

They too bought me a drink. It helped my toothache, which had started up again.

"What are you two doing here? If you've come to watch the dancer '

"Not us." Rectus grimaced. "We came here on purpose to avoid all that." Quiet types, unimpressed by the twirling of elderly pulchritude. Still, Rectus was a man who noticed things. He knew what was going on.

"So where is she appearing?"

"At the Nemesis."

That sounded like a place where any accidents would be neatly planned by Fate.

Rectus and Timagenes gave me directions. Starting to feel lightheaded, I roamed off alone. Summer evenings in southern Britain can be pleasant enough (by their standards). If this had been a port there would have been noise and action, but Noviomagus lay slightly inland. It was partly surrounded by a river, nothing significant, not enough to encourage nightlife or any life that would satisfy Rome. The town was only half developed, still with many empty plots lining the silent streets. Where there were houses, they displayed no lights. I found my way purely by luck.

This new dive lurked by the Calleva Gate, which was on the western edge of town. It was the approach road from the palace handiest for the site workers. I found the venue by the soft glow of lamps shining from the open doorway and the loud hum of men's voices. It was the only place in Novio that night with any real hint of activity. I was sure this was the right location, next door lay a darkened lock-up, where a large signboard showed a human tooth. Gaius had mentioned the adjacent tooth-puller. Had he been open for business, I would have rushed in, demanding that the mouth-mangier relieve my pain. Like everywhere else except the bar, it was closed for the night.

As I approached, I saw a tall woman, her body and head decently shrouded in a Roman matron's stole. She paused briefly outside, then made herself go in boldly. She was no mystery to me: Helena. I called her; she never heard me; I rushed after her.

Indoors was pandemonium. Helena could be determined, but she hated noisy crowds. She had stopped, nervous. I fought my way to her, breaking into my best grin.

"You wicked piece! Is this how you spend your evenings? I never had you for a barfly-'

"It's you! Thank goodness." I do like grateful women. "Marcus, we have to find Hyspale -'

"Maia told me." Helena was covering her ears against the din. I saved my breath.

There seemed no chance of acquiring a table, then a group of Italian diggers decided they would leap up and knock hell out of some Britons. The management had organised a party of big Gauls to keep the peace; they were of course eager for a ruckus, so all three lots went outside in good order and held their fight there. Impressed, I manoeuvred Helena to a free space, just beating a friendly set of Spanish hearties. They tried chatting to my girl on principle, but took the hint when I lifted up her hand and pointed to a silver ring I had given her.

"My daughter," Helena explained, miming heavily that she had a baby, 'is called Laeitana." This went down well. They had no idea what she was saying; they were from the south. Baeticans don't give an as for Tarraconensis. That my child had been named for a wine producing area near Barcino in the north had no effect. But Helena had made an effort and they made us share their flagon. Helena noticed I looked flushed. I blamed my tooth.

Drink was being sold at a furious rate, though there was no sign of imminent dancing. I climbed on a bench and looked over heads; I saw nobody I recognised.

"Where are my brothers and Larius?"

"Who knows? I found Gloccus."

"What?"

"Later!"

"Pardon?"

"Forget it."

"Forget what?"

There were so many men crammed in, it was hard to see what this bar looked like. I could tell how it smelt, and that we'd be lucky if the animal fat in the lamps failed to set the joint ablaze. If Noviomagus Regnensis lacked street lighting, there was no chance they had organised a patrol of firefighters. Once, when I was an efficient operator full of good sense and energy, I might have wandered through the back kitchens to locate a well and buckets in advance… No. Not tonight, after a death and several drinks.

A plate of grilled meat snacks passed itself to our table. It sat there a while. No one seemed to own it, so I tucked in. I could not remember my last meal.

The crowd heaved and reordered itself into new configurations. Through the press I glimpsed the Camillus brothers, squashed and red-faced. Helena waved. They started the long process of inching over to us, but gave up. I mouthed at them, Where's Larius?" and they signalled back, Virginia? Then somewhere in the thick of the drinkers at the far end of the room a stillness fell. Excitement was transmitted through the hubbub, bringing silence. Eventually new sounds became audible through that silence: a shimmer of a tambourine, shaken with infinite restraint, and the faintest ripple of snare drum. Someone shouted to the people at the front to sit. Helena saw men climbing on a table near us. She flashed a glance at me. One minute we were both on our feet, the next standing up on the narrow bench.

That was how we stayed, clinging to each other for balance. That was how, in that dirty, noisy, disreputable hovel by a gatehouse in a half-built town, we were taken halfway to Olympus the night we saw Perella dance.