A Body In The Bath House

LIII

don't blame me. Blame the army. Once the legions train you to kill, any attacker gets what-for. He meant me dead. I slew him first. That's how it works.

I stepped away. My heart pounded so loudly I could hardly listen out for others coming. One down, seventeen to go! Stinking odds, even by my standards.

It was a cluttered compound. If they were here, they were well hidden. Some were outside: when I turned back to shin up after Gaius, gingery heads appeared above the fence. I grabbed a long piece of timber and thrashed at them. One fell back. Another seized the plank and yanked it from my grasp. I jumped aside in time, as he threw it down at me. Otherwise, if they were armed, they were keeping their weapons for later. Sensing that there were more men inside the depot with me, I broke away, ran down an aisle and dodged through some racks of marble. Yells from the fence were reporting my whereabouts. I dropped, and wormed my way very fast at ground level into a long tunnel of cut timber.

Suicide! My way was blocked. Trapped, I had to squirm backwards. Every second I expected to be attacked hideously from behind but the watchers had not realised I was backing out again. Men were searching the far end of the timber row where they thought I would emerge. Flattened and sweating with terror, I inched under a trestle. One man came to investigate the place where I went into the timber. He was too close to leave alone. Crouched in my hiding place, I managed a backhand sword-swipe through his legs. It was an awkward piece of scything, but I hit an artery. Anyone who hates blood can now go into hysterics. I had no time for that luxury.

His screams brought others, but I was out of there. I leapt up on the marble sheets and went flying over the top this time. Slabs groaned and lurched beneath my weight. A spear whistled past my head. Another thudded harmlessly nearby. The third skimmed my arm. Then the marble slabs began keeling over. I had hit the ground again, but the row of tilted materials behind me slipped and crashed, each expensive slab grazing the surface of its neighbour, and some smashing into my assailants.

While they jumped and cursed and nursed crushed feet, I doubled back unseen. I had some fun trying to climb around a stack of water pipes. Then I banged into a small pile of lead ingots; that brought back bad British memories for me.

The custodian's shack was locked. The only open hidey hole was the dog kennel.

Bad move, Falco. The stench was dreadful. The hounds were out, but their mess remained. These were not lapdogs. They must be fed raw offal, without the use of fancy feeding bowls. Nobody had even tried to house-train them.

Through a crack in the kennel door I could see swarming figures. The searchers thought I had scuttled among the timber again. They decided to smoke me out. Great. I preferred to survive than to save this valuable stock. It may have been imported from all over the Empire to create skirtings, folding doors and luxury veneers, but my life mattered more. Fire damage would be a new excuse in my financial reports. Who wants to be predictable?

It took some time for them to make a light, then the hardwood refused to kindle. I could do nothing except lie low, while desperate thoughts coursed through my mind. If I tried to make a break for it, I stood no chance. The men were enjoying themselves. They thought they had me there, caught in a trap; at least one was prodding the stacked timbers with a long pole, hoping to puncture or spit me. Eventually they let out a cheer; soon I could hear crackling and smell woodsmoke.

The noise and smoke were localised, but the passing of time had brought help. Some of it was unwelcome; in the distance I could now hear the dogs. Still, they were locked out, weren't they?

Not for long. Suddenly someone was trying to break down the gates- with a huge wheeled ram, apparently. It was a sound I last heard on an army training ground. Deep crashing noises came at regular intervals, accompanied by cheers. Even from within my hide I could tell that the gates were weakened and about to give. I waited as long as I dared. As the gates of the compound crashed inwards, dragged open by a two-wheeled cart, I scampered out from the kennel before the guard dogs came home.

"Falco!"

Dear gods: Quintus, Aulus and Larius. Three incongruously well270dressed and coifed ram-raiders. My first hope was they were armed. No. They must have raced straight here without stopping to equip themselves. If they hoped to snatch me, they were thwarted by the assembled men who wanted to do for me first. These renegades rushed at us, whooping.

We all set to, biffing at anyone with wiry ginger hair. Smoke was choking us. There were too few of us. If we tried to make a break for it, we would be massacred. So as we fought, the lads using timbers, we stamped at smouldering wood or tried smothering flames. A great oak log finally caught fire; Larius and I tried to haul it free. A thick haze of smoke had filled the compound. It helped give the impression there were more of us than actually existed. We concentrated on putting in the boot in traditional Roman style.

Three of us had military training. I was an ex-foot slogger Both the Camilli had served as army officers. Even Larius, who spurned the army in favour of art, had grown up in the toughest neighbourhood in the Empire; he knew nasty tricks with feet and fists. Teamwork and grit soon showed our calibre. Somehow we cleared our opponents out of the depot. Then we blocked the gateway with the cart on which the lads had brought a large tree trunk as their improvised battering ram. They must have unhitched the beast of burden and combined as human mules to run the cart at the gates. Straight from the training manual. But with nothing in the shafts, they could not now use the cart to drive away. We were stuck here.

Larius was heaving up pieces of broken marble to make chocks under the cart wheels so no one could drag off our blockade.

"A ram!" I marvelled.

"We're well organised," boasted Aelianus cockily.

"No swords, though… I didn't think you knew I'd gone-' I "We heard you say '

"You didn't answer! Giving houseroom to you lot is like having three extra wives…"

With four of us, we could now take a side of the compound each.

Justinus was flailing at heads as they popped up on the fence. "If I were on the outside," he shouted, 'my priority would be to rush the gates."

I swiped a man who peered over at us. "I'm glad you're in here with us, then. I don't want attackers who use strategy."

The green timber had dried out enough to burn now, so we had to spare more time to beating out sparks or we would be roasted. Heat from the blazing tree trunk we had dragged free was making life really difficult. Rather than waiting to pick us off at leisure once the smoke increased, our attackers had the bright idea of setting tire to one of the fence panels. It took at once. A column of smoke poured skywards; it must have been visible for miles. We heard new voices, then the dogs baying once again. Aelianus sucked his teeth involuntarily. Shouts outside heralded some new phase of fighting. I waved at the lads, then we all scrambled over the cart and leapt outside the depot.

We found mayhem a fist tight all over the roadway. I spotted Gaius, being carried around on a pony behind a small girl- Cyprianus' daughter, Alia. Maybe Gaius had fetched the help. Anyway, he was now riding in circles, letting out war cries. Dog handlers were patrolling the scrimmage, unable to decide where or when to unleash their charges. The men who had ambushed me were dressed in distinguishably in site boots and labourers' tunics, but they were mainly fair or redheads, favouring long moustaches, whereas the new crowd were dark, swarthy and stubbly chinned. These arrived in small numbers- most labourers had left earlier for the canabae but they saw themselves as Roman support against the British barbarians. The rescue gang were Lupus' men, opposing those who had worked with Mandumerus. They could all fight and were eager to demonstrate. Both sides were viciously settling old scores.

We joined in. It seemed polite.

We were hard at it, like drunks at a festival, when we heard more shouts above the melee. Trundling and creaking, along came a row of heavy transports, from which Magnus and Cyprianus leapt down in astonishment. The carts had returned from the Marcellinus villa.

This took the passion out of everything. Those of the Britons who could still stagger made off sheepishly. Some of the rest and a few of the overseas group were suffering, though it looked as though there would only be two fatalities the man I disembowelled first, and the other whose legs I had slashed; he was now bleeding to death in the arms of two colleagues. My party were all bruised, and Aelianus' leg wound must have reopened, adding colour to his bandages. As Cyprianus tore his hair out over the fire damage to the site depot then growled even more when he realised what had happened to some precious stores inside- I recovered my breath then explained how Gaius and I were set upon. Magnus appeared sympathetic, but Cyprianus was angrily kicking a torn-down, smouldering fence panel. He was furious- not least because he now had the Marcellinus material to store, but nowhere secure to keep it.

I nodded at the lads. We made polite farewells. The four of us sauntered, perhaps rather stiffly, back to my suite at the King's palace.

Then, as we approached the 'old house', I saw a man I recognised, shinning up a ladder on the scaffold: Mandumerus.

Nothing for it: my wife, sister, children and female staff were inside that building. Anyway, I was well worked up for action. I reached the building at a run, grasped the wooden ladder and shot up after him. Helena would have said it was typical- one adventure was not enough.

"Go inside and comb your hair, boys. I'D be with you soon," I roared.

"Mad bugger!" That sounded like Larius.

"Has he got a head for heights?" One of the Camilli.

"He gets squeamish standing on a chair to swat a fly." I would deal with that rascal later.

There was a working platform at first-storey height, and another up at roof level. I felt perfectly safe climbing aloft to the first one then deeply insecure. "He's gone all the way up, Falco!" Aelianus was sensibly resting his leg standing back at a distance so he could monitor events and shout advice. I hated being supervised, but if I fell off, I would like to think someone could make out a lucid fatality report. Better anyway than Valla's: What happened to him? He was a roofer. What do you think happened? He fell off a roof!

Grit rattled through the boarding overhead, showering me in the eye. I came to the second ladder. Mandumerus knew I was after him. I heard him growl under his breath. I had my sword. Faced with light fencing practice, twenty feet above the ground, I shoved the weapon into its scabbard. I wanted both hands free for clinging on.

I saw him now. He laughed at me, then ran lightly ahead, vanishing around the building. Beneath my feet the boards seemed far too flimsy. Gaps in the loose, elderly planks gaped. There was a guard rail of sorts, just a few roughly tied cross-pieces that would snap under the slightest pressure. The whole scaffold had been braced with mere scantling. As I walked, I could feel it bowing gently. My footsteps echoed. Bits of old mortar left un swept on the platform made the going treacherous. Obstructions jutted at intervals, forcing me out from the apparent safety of the house wall. Keeping my eyes fixed ahead, I knocked into an old cement-encrusted bucket; it went bowling off the edge and crashed below. Someone cried out in annoyance. Aelianus, probably. He must be tracking me at ground level.

I turned the corner; sudden sea views distracted me. A gust of wind slammed into me frighteningly. I grabbed the guard rail. Mandumerus crouched, waiting. In one hand he wielded a pick handle. He had hammered a nail into the end of it. Not any old nail, but a huge thing like the nine-inch wonders they use for constructing fortress gatehouses. It would go right through my skull and leave a point the other side long enough to hang a cloak on. And a hat.

He made a feint. I had my knife. Small comfort. He lunged. I swung, but was out of reach. I stabbed the air. He laughed again. He was a big, pale, swollen-bellied brute who suffered from pink-eye and eczema-cracked skin. Scars told me not to mess with him.

I He was coming at me. He filled the width of the platform. With the pick handle flailing from side to side in front of him, I had no clear approach, even if I had dared close with him. He flailed at me; the nail point hit the house and screamed down the stonework, leaving a deep white scratch as it gouged the limestone blocks. I grabbed his arm, but he shook me off and viciously jabbed at me again. I turned to flee, my foot slipped on the boards, my hand grabbed for the rail again and it gave way.

Someone had come up behind me. I was barged to safety against the wall. It knocked the breath out of me. As I scrabbled to regain my footing, someone stepped past, featherlight as a trapeze artiste. Larius. He had a shovel and an expression that said he would use it.

Justinus must have run along at ground level and climbed up by another ladder. I glimpsed him too at our height now, crashing towards us on the scaffold from the far side. He only had bare hands, but his arrival was at high speed. He grasped Mandumerus from behind in a bearhug. Using the surprise, Larius then smashed his

shovel on the brute's shoulder, forcing him to drop the wood and nail. I fell on top of him and laid my knife on his windpipe.

He threw us all off. Dear gods.

He was back on his feet and now chose to run up the pan tiles He scaled the palace roof at a slant. The tiles began to suffer. Marcellinus must have provided inferior roof battens. (No surprise; the best probably went to his own villa.) Even climbing at an angle away from us, the steep roof pitch told against Mandumerus. He got halfway up, then lost momentum. With nothing to grab, he began to slow down. Then his feet skidded.

"Not a roofer- wrong boots!" chortled Larius. He was setting off to intercept Mandumerus.

"Watch yourself!" I cried. His mother would kill me if he killed himself up here.

Justinus and I inched warily past the section where the guardrail had gone, then followed Larius. The Briton slid slowly down the roof slope, in a vertical line towards the three of us. We captured him neatly. He seemed to give up. We were taking him back to the ladder when he broke free again. This time he managed to get his great hands on the giant hook on the pulley rope.

"Not that old trick!" scoffed Larius. 'Duck!"

The evil claw, made of heavy metal, came hurtling round in a circle at face height. Justinus leapt back. I crouched. Larius simply gripped the rope, just above the hook, as it reached him. Four years playing about on Neapolis villas had left him fearless. He took off and swung. Feet out, he kicked Mandumerus in the throat.

"Larius! You are not nice."

While I contributed the refined commentary, Justinus rushed past me. He helped my nephew batten onto the man again. Clutching his neck, Mandumerus gave in a second time.

Now we had a problem. Persuading a reluctant captive to descend a ladder is no joke. "You can go down nicely or we'll throw you off."

That was a start. We acted as if we meant it while Mandumerus looked as if he didn't care a damn. I dropped my sword to Aelianus so he could stand guard at the bottom. Larius did gymnastics down the scaffold, then jumped the last six feet. The Briton reached ground level. The ladder must have been merely lent against the scaffold (or else he slipped its ties as he went down). Now he grasped the heavy thing and hauled it away from its position. I had been about to follow him down, so I had to make a jump for safety. He swiped Aelianus and Larius with the ladder and left me dangling from a scaffold pole. Then he threw down the ladder and was gone.

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 recognised 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 pan pipes 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 lock-up. Thanking them quietly, we continued to our suite.