A Body In The Bath House

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."

"People 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.