A Body in the Bathhouse Read online

  If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that the book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2001 by Lindsey Davis

  All rights reserved.

  This Grand Central Publishing edition is published by arrangement with Century, The Random House Group Limited, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA.

  Grand Central Publishing

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  The Grand Central Publishing name and logo are registered trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: September 2002

  Originally published in hardcover by Mysterious Press

  ISBN: 978-0-446-55647-7

  Cover design by Rachel McClain

  Contents

  ARCHAEOLOGICAL NOTE

  Principal Characters

  Rome and Ostia Spring, A.D. 75

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  Britain: Noviomagus Regnensis

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  XXXVII

  XXXVIII

  XXXIX

  XL

  XLI

  XLII

  XLIII

  XLIV

  XLV

  XLVI

  XLVII

  XLVIII

  XLIX

  L

  LI

  LII

  LIII

  LIV

  LV

  LVI

  LVII

  LVIII

  LIX

  LX

  TO LINDSEY DAVIS GO THE LAURELS!

  CRITICS PRAISE THE WINNER OF THE CWA ELLIS PETERS HISTORICAL DAGGER AWARD AND HER MYSTERIES SET IN ANCIENT ROME

  “Roman history and culture are nice accessories for the more durable tool Davis employs—hilariously good writing.”

  —Washington Post Book World

  “The action is fast and furious, and readers will divide their time between being mystified and laughing out loud.”

  —Romantic Times

  “One of the best historical series … wisecracking humor, scathing social commentary, and rollicking adventure.”

  —Detroit Free Press

  “A BODY IN THE BATHHOUSE is an interesting and humorous historical mystery.”

  —www.Suite101.com

  “Lindsey Davis’s excellent and funny series [is] a cross between I, Claudius and Mystery!”

  —Denver Rocky Mountain News

  “Fascinating … just as fresh as the first [book in the series]. … Of course, any of the Falco books could be subtitled, ‘When in Rome, do in a Roman.’”

  —www.ReviewingtheEvidence.com

  “If Travis McGee traveled in time back to treacherous, civilized Rome in A.D. 72, he might be something like Marcus Didius Falco.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “As always, Falco amuses, instructs, and engages the reader. … You have a glorious treat ahead of you.”

  —Mystery News

  “A clever whodunnit.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “A lot of fun, with nice touches of (usually black) humor. Falco has similarities to Robert Parker’s Spenser; if you like your PIs hard-boiled but soft-centered, try A BODY IN THE BATHHOUSE.”

  —www.NewMysteryReader.com

  “Great fun, an artful blend of suspense, superb characterization, and classical history. … If you like I, Claudius, you’re going to love Marcus Didius Falco. Ipso facto.”

  —Raleigh News-Observer

  “I enjoyed Davis’s skill at mixing humor, history, and a first-class mystery in which she creates a rare kind of hard-boiled detective.”

  —www.mostlyfiction.com

  “Davis is both a deft storyteller and a scholar. … [A] top-drawer series … smart, amusing … entertaining.”

  —Newsday

  “One of the best entries in a long-running series that has kept a consistently high standard. … If you enjoy historical mysteries or have ever dealt with contractors who don’t deliver, you’ll love this book!”

  —www.Bookloons.com

  “Rome lives.”

  —Daily Telegraph (London)

  ALSO BY LINDSEY DAVIS

  The Course of Honor

  The Falco Series

  Silver Pigs

  Shadows in Bronze

  Venus in Copper

  The Iron Hand of Mars

  Poseidon’s Gold

  Last Act in Palmyra

  Time to Depart

  A Dying Light in Corduba

  Three Hands in the Fountain

  Two for the Lions

  One Virgin Too Many

  Ode to a Banker

  For Richard, again. This one could only be for you. With all my love.

  ARCHAEOLOGICAL NOTE

  The remains of the Roman Palace at Fishbourne, near Chichester on the south coast of Britain, were unearthed by a mechanical digger during the construction of a water main in 1960. It seemed hard to believe that a Roman building of such wealth and importance could be found here. Some of the palace lies under modern houses, but the excavation and preservation of what was accessible owes everything to local volunteers and benefactors. It is still a matter of speculation why such a magnificent building was created in this unlikely place.

  If Fishbourne had a Roman name, we don’t know it. The palace of Togidubnus (as we now call him), Great King of the Britons, was constructed in various phases. In this novel, the Neroian “proto-palace” is called “the old house”; it is the grand Flavian expansion that Falco sees at building site stage. I have tried to use only what we know from excavation. Any mistakes are my responsibility and if future work reveals new treasures or leads to new interpretations, we shall just have to say: “They changed the design after Falco saw the plans.”

  There were various Roman villas in a similar style along the coast; these were probably homes to local dignitaries, perhaps relatives of the King. That the one at Angmering was built by an architect is my own invention.

  This is the first time I have based a story entirely on one archaeological site, and I am enormously grateful to everyone at Fishbourne, especially David Rudkin, the current curator, for welcoming the prospect so cheerfully. The palace belongs to Sussex Archaeological Society. It has a museum and other facilities and is a highly recommended site to visit.

  PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS

  In Rome

  Marcus Didius Falco an informer with a nose for trouble

  Helena Justina his partner, who can smell a rat

  Julia and Favonia two sweet and perfect babies

  Camilla Hyspale their sour and im
perfect nurse

  Nux a dog,who just smells

  Pa (Geminus/Favonius) a rather ripe householder

  Maia Favonia a “vulnerable” (not very!) widow

  Marius, Cloelia, Ancus, and Rhea her nice (sneaky) children

  L. Petronius Longus a loyal friend, annoying Maia

  Anacrites a dangerous spy, following Maia

  Perella a devious dancer, following orders

  Aulus Camillus Aelianus a high-class apprentice

  Quintus Camillus Justinus a bridegroom on the razzle

  Gloccus and Cotta bathhouse contractors, in bad odor

  Stephanus a stinking corpse

  Vespasian an Emperor, footing the bill

  In Britain

  T. Claudius Togidubnus Great King of the Britons, a makeover fanatic

  Verovolcus a royal facilitator

  Marcellinus a retired designer (with a very nice house)

  “Uncle Lobullus” a contractor, never there

  Virginia a fragrant barmaid

  On the New Palace Building Site

  Valla, Dubnus, Eporix, and Gaudius more dead men

  Pomponius the project manager (thinks he’s in charge)

  Magnus the surveyor (thinks he ought to be in charge)

  Cyprianus the clerk of works (just gets on and runs it)

  Plancus and Strephon junior architects (clones of Pomponius)

  Rectus the farting drainage engineer

  Milchato the hard-edged marble mason

  Philocles Senior the short-tempered mosaicist

  Philocles Junior a clone of his father (misinformed?)

  Blandusa seductive painter, with a bad history

  The Smartarse from Stabiae aiming for a good future

  Timagenes gardening in a harsh landscape

  Alexas a medico who mixes a mean draft

  Gaius a clerk who can count beans

  Iggidunus a sniffy mulsum boy

  Alla a girl who doesn’t snivel

  Sextius a mechanical statue-seller, moving in on Maia

  Mandumerus the local labor supervisor (a few restrictive practices)

  Lupus the overseas labor supervisor (more dogy customs)

  Tiberius and Septimus the universal laborers

  Rome and Ostia Spring, A.D. 75

  I

  BUT FOR Rhea Favonia, we might have lived with it.

  “There’s a smell! There’s a horrible smell. I’m not going in there!”

  I didn’t need to be an informer to know we were stuck. When a four-year-old girl reckons she has detected something nasty, you just give in and look for it. My little niece would not go near the bathhouse until we proved there was nothing horrible in the caldarium. The more we scoffed and told her the hot room was only smelly because of its new plaster, the more Rhea screamed hysterically at bathtime. There was nothing visible, and the rest of us tried to ignore it. But the child’s insistence unsettled everyone.

  There was a faint odor. If I tried sniffing it out, I lost it. When I decided there had been nothing, straightaway I smelled it again.

  At least Helena and I were able to go home to our own new house. My sister Maia and her children had to stay on there on the Janiculan Hill, in the home that was supposed to be their refuge from trouble, living with that other kind of trouble, Pa. My father, Geminus, and I were in the throes of a houseswap. While I tried to organize decorators to renovate his faded old lair on the bank of the Tiber, he took over the spread on which I had already worked for months, where all that remained for completion was the new bathhouse.

  The Janiculan house had a highly desirable location—if you worked on the north side of Rome. It suited Pa, with his auction house and antiques business in the Saepta Julia by the Pantheon. My own work required free access to all parts of the city. I was an informer, serving private clients whose cases could take me anywhere. However much I wanted to move out and across the river, I needed to live close to the action. Sadly, this sensible thought had only struck Helena and me after we had bought the new house.

  By chance, father’s long-term companion, Flora, then died. He turned into a maudlin romantic, who hated the mansion they had shared. I had always liked the riverside quarter below the Aventine. So we organized an exchange. The bathhouse contractors became Father’s problem. That was appropriate because Pa had introduced them to Helena in the first place. I enjoyed waiting to see how he would persuade Gloccus and Cotta to finish, a task where even Helena had failed—despite the fact she had been paying their bills. As with all builders, the more unreliable they had become, the more extortionate those bills were.

  With Pa, we couldn’t win: by some means, he fixed them. Within a week, Gloccus and Cotta had grouted their last wobbly tile and cleared off. My father then possessed a fine domestic outbuilding with a full cold room, tepid room, three-piece sweating-room suite; natty dipping pool; integral changing area with modish pegs and clothes bunkers; separate furnace and log store; deluxe Greek marble basins and a custom-designed sea-god medallion in one newly laid mosaic floor. But while people were admiring his Neptune, they also noticed the odd smell.

  In moments when it caught me, that reek seemed to carry hints of decay. Pa knew it too. “It’s as if the room had been locked up with some old codger dead inside for months.”

  “Well, the room’s brand-new and the old cove is still alive, unfortunately.” I gathered Pa must have had some neglected neighbors, in the past life we never discussed. I myself knew about smells like that from other situations. Bad ones.

  There came an evening, after a long hot day, when we found we could no longer ignore the stink. That afternoon I had been helping Pa dig over a terrace, Jupiter knows why. He could afford gardeners and I was not one to play the dutiful son. Afterwards, we both sluiced off. It must have been the first time we bathed together since he ran away when I was seven. Next time we met, I was home from the army. For a few years I even pretended not to know who he was. Now I had to tolerate occasional brushes with the old rogue, for social reasons. He was older; he was on his own with that, but I was older too. I now had two baby daughters. I should allow them a chance to learn to despise their grandfather.

  As we stood in the hot room that evening, we faced decision time. During the day, I had done most of the heavy work. I was exhausted, yet I still rejected Pa’s offer to scrape a strigil down my back. I had made a rough job of cleaning off the oil myself. Pa favored a concoction of what seemed to be crushed iris roots. Incongruous. And on that hot sultry night, nowhere near strong enough to mask the other smell.

  “Rhea’s right.” I glanced down at the floor. “Something’s rotting in your hypocaust.”

  “No, no; trust me!” Pa used the voice he kept for assuring idiots that some piece of Campanian fakery could be “school of Lysippus,” if looked at in the right light. “I told Gloccus to omit the hypocaust from this room. His quotation was outrageous for underfloor work. I worked out some figures myself, and with that kind of area to heat, I was going to be spending four times as much on fuel. …” He tapered off.

  I eased my foot against the wide instep strap of a bath shoe. Helena’s original scheme had involved properly heating the whole warm suite. Once she admitted what she was up to here, I had seen the plans. “What have you done then?”

  “Just wall flues.”

  “You’ll regret it, you cheapskate. You’re on high ground. You’ll find it chilly round your rude bits in December.”

  “Give over. I work right by the Baths of Agrippa.” Entrance was free. Pa would love that. “I won’t need to use this place except in high summer.”

  I stretched slowly, trying to ease the stiffness in my lower back. “Is the floor solid? Or had they already dug out a hypocaust when you decided against it?”

  “Well, the lads had made a start. I told them to floor over the cavity and block off any links to the other rooms.”

  “Brilliant, Pa. So there won’t be an access point for crawling under this floor.”

&nbs
p; “No. The only way in is down.”

  Nice work. We would have to break up the mosaic we had only just taken over brand-new.

  The underfloor space in a usable hypocaust would be eighteen inches high, or two feet at most, with a mass of tile piers to support the suspended floor. It would be dark and hot. Normally they send boys in to clean them, not that I would inflict it on a child today—to face who knew what? I was relieved there was no formal access hatch. That saved me having to crawl in.

  “So what do you think about this smell, Marcus?” my father asked, far too deferentially.

  “The same as you. Your Neptune is floating on rot. And it’s not going away.”

  Instinctively we breathed. We caught a definite hum.

  “Oh Titan’s turds.”

  “That’s what it smells like, Pa!”

  We ordered the furnace slave to stop stoking. We told him to go to the house and keep everyone else indoors. I fetched pickaxes and crowbars; then Pa and I set about ruining the sea-god mosaic.

  It had cost a fortune, but Gloccus and Cotta had produced their usual shoddy work. The suspended foundation for the tesserae was far too shallow. Neptune, with his wild seaweed hair and boggle-eyed attendant squids, would soon have been buckling underfoot.

  By tapping with a chisel, I identified a hollow area and we set to. My father got the worst of it. Always impetuous, he put his pick in too fast, hit something, and was spattered with foul yellowish liquid. He let out a yell of disgust. I leaped back and stopped breathing. A warm updraft brought disgusting odors; we fled towards the door. Judging by its powerful airflow, the underfloor system must never have been blocked off completely as Pa ordered. We were now in no doubt what must be down there.

  “Oh pigshit!” Pa peeled off his tunic and hurled it into a corner, splashing water on his skin where the stinking liquid had touched him. He was hopping with disgust. “Oh pigshit, pigshit, pigshit!”

  “Didius Favonius speaks. Come, citizens of Rome, let us gather to admire the elegance of his oratory—” I was trying to put off the moment when we had to go back for a look.

  “Shut your lofty gob, Marcus! It’s putrid—and it bloody well missed you!”

  “Come on; let’s get this over with.”

  We covered our mouths and braved a look. In a depression that must have been used as the lazy workmen’s cache for rubbish, amongst a mass of uncleared site rubble, we had unearthed a stomach-turning relic. Still just recognizably human, it was a half-decayed corpse.