A Body in the Bathhouse Read online

  “Can’t lure you with some boar hunting?”

  “Not my style.” Even if it had been, the Empire was packed with more thrilling places to chase wildlife across ghastly terrain. Most of the other places were sunny and had cities. “Nor do I cherish a visionary wish to implant civilization among the awestruck British tribes.”

  Vespasian grinned. “Oh, I’ve dispatched a bunch of lawyers and philosophers to do that.”

  “I know, sir. They hadn’t achieved much the last time you sent me north.” I had plenty more to say about Britain. “As I recall, the pasty-faced tribes had still not learned what to do with the sponge on the stick at public latrines. Where anybody had yet built any latrines.” Goose pimples ran across my arm. Without intending it, I added, “I was there during the Rebellion. That should be enough for anyone.”

  Vespasian shifted slightly on the bench. The Rebellion was down to Nero, but it still made all Romans shudder. “Well, somebody has to go, Falco.”

  I said nothing.

  He tried frankness. “There is a monumental cock-up on a rather public project.”

  “Yes, sir. Frontinus let me into his confidence.”

  “Can’t be worse than the troubles you sorted in the silver mines.” So he did remember sending me to Britain previously. “A quick dash over there; audit the slapdash buggers; nail any frauds; then straight home. For you, it’s a snip, Falco.”

  “Should be a snip for anyone then, Caesar; I’m no demigod. Why don’t you send Anacrites?” I suggested nastily. I always liked to think Vespasian reined in the Chief Spy because he distrusted the man’s abilities. “I am desolate to disappoint you, Caesar, though honored by your faith in me—”

  “Don’t blather. So you won’t go?” sneered Vespasian.

  “New baby,” I offered as a way out for both of us.

  “Just the time to nip off.”

  “Regrettably, Helena Justina has a pact with me that if ever I travel, she comes too.”

  “Doesn’t trust you?” he scoffed, clearly thinking that was probable.

  “She trusts me absolutely, sir. Our pact is, that she is always present to supervise!”

  Vespasian, who had met Helena in one of her fighting moods, decided to back off. He asked me at least to think about the job. I said I would. We both knew that was a lie.

  IV

  JUPITER, JUNO, and Mars—I had enough to do that spring.

  The house move was complicated enough—even before the day when Pa and I smashed up the bathhouse floor. Having Mico under my feet at the new riverbank place constantly reminded me how much I hated my relatives. There was only one I would have liked to see here—my favorite nephew, Larius. Larius was a fresco painter’s apprentice in Campania. He could well have repaid all my kind treatment as his uncle by creating a few frescoes in my house, but when I wrote to him, there was no reply. Perhaps he was remembering that the main thrust of my wise advice had been telling him that painting walls was a dead-end job. …

  As for that feeble streak of wind, Mico—it was not just that he left plaster floats in doorways and tramped fine dust everywhere; he made me feel I owed him something because he was poor and his children were motherless. Really, Mico was only poor because his bad work was notorious. No one but me would employ him. But I was Uncle Marcus the sucker. Uncle Marcus who knew the Emperor, flash Uncle Marcus who had a new rank and a position at the Temple of Juno. In fact, I bought the rank with hard-earned fees, the position was literally chick-enshit and Vespasian only asked me over to the Gardens of Sallust when he wanted a favor. He saw me as a sucker too.

  At least, unlike Mico, Vespasian Augustus did not expect me to buy rissoles all round as an end-of-week treat for his horrible family. With gherkins. Then I had to keep a pot handy, because gobbling the gherkins made Mico’s awful toddler, Valentinianus, sick in my newly painted dining room. All Mico’s children owned top-heavy names, and they were all villains. Valentinianus loved to humiliate me. His chief ambition currently was to vomit over Nux, my dog.

  I now owned a dining room. The same week it was redecorated, I lost my best friend.

  Petronius Longus and I had known each other since we were eighteen. We served together in the army—in Britain. We were naive lads when we joined up for the legions. We had no idea what we were taking on. They fed us, taught us useful skills, and trained us to be well up in connivance. They also subjected us to four years in a faraway, under-developed province that offered nothing but cold feet and misery. The Great Rebellion of the Iceni came on top of that. We crept home no longer lads but men, and bonded like a laminated shield. Cynical, grimmer than the Forum gutter tykes and with a friendship that should have been unshakable.

  Petro had now spoiled everything. He fell for my sister after her husband died.

  “Petronius hankered for Maia a long time before this,” Helena disagreed. “He was married, so was she. He played around, but she never did. There was no point in him admitting how he felt, even to himself.” Then Helena paused, her dark eyes somber. “Petronius may have married Arria Silvia in the first place because Maia was unobtainable.”

  “Cobnuts. He hardly knew my sister then.”

  But he had met her and seen what she was like: attractive, independent and subtly dangerous. Such a good homemaker and mother (everyone said)—and what a bright girl! That double-edged remark always implies a woman may be on the lookout. I myself liked a hint of restlessness in a woman; Petronius was no different.

  Around the Aventine he was held up as a model of steady fatherhood and virtuous hard work; no one spotted that he liked to flirt with risk. There were girlfriends in passing, even after he married Silvia. He settled down to look like a good boy, but how real was that? I was supposed to be the feckless bachelor, an endless worry to my mother—so like my father! So unlike my brother, the dead hero (though our Festus had been a wreck, with a chaotic life). Meanwhile, Petronius Longus, diligent enquiry chief of the Fourth Cohort of the Vigiles, flitted quietly among the pretty flowers on the Aventine, leaving them happy and his reputation unbesmirched, until he tangled with a serious gangster’s daughter. His wife found out. It all became too public; Silvia felt this disgrace was too much. She had seemed utterly dependent, but once she threw Petro out, she was off. She now lived with a potted-salad seller, in Ostia.

  Petronius might have accepted this, had not Silvia taken their three daughters. He had no wish to enforce his custody rights as a Roman father. But he was genuinely fond of the girls, and they adored him.

  “Silvia knows that. The damned woman flounced off to Ostia out of spite!” I had never like Arria Silvia. It was not simply because she loathed me. Mind you, that was relevant. She was a prissy little piece; Petro could have done better with his eyes closed. “Her loathsome boyfriend was quite happy selling his cucumber molds in the Forum; she put him up to moving, to make the situation impossible for Petro.”

  He was in a rotten position, though for once he refused to talk to me about it. We had never discussed Silvia anyway; it saved trouble. Then things grew worse. He started to face up to his attraction to my sister; she even began to notice him. Just when Petro thought they might make something of it, Maia suddenly stopped seeing him.

  I had cursed when I found one of my sisters wanting to berth alongside my dearest crony. That can damage a male friendship. But it was far more uncomfortable when Petro was dumped.

  He must have taken it hard. Helena had to tell me his reflex action: “Marcus, you won’t like this. Petronius has applied for a transfer to the vigiles cohort at Ostia.”

  “Leaving Rome? That’s madness!”

  “There may not be a job there for him.” Helena tried soothing me.

  “Oh rats, of course there will! It’s an unpopular posting—who wants to be stationed downriver at the port, outwitting customs diddlers and duck-billed cargo thieves? Petro’s a bloody good officer. The Ostia tribune is bound to jump at him.”

  I would never forgive my sister.

 
“Don’t blame Maia,” said Helena.

  “Who mentioned Maia?”

  “Your face speaks, Marcus!”

  Helena was suckling the baby. Julia was sitting at my feet, repeatedly headbutting my shins, annoyed to be no longer the sole object of attention in our house. That was certainly true; I ignored the little darling steadily. Nux chewed at one of my bootstraps.

  “Don’t be such a hypocrite.” Helena enjoyed pretending to be a serene mother, rocking the new baby to sleep in her arms. It was an act; she was placidly thinking up ways to slate me. “Own up. You hated the idea of Petronius and Maia growing close. He was your friend and you refused to share him.”

  “And she’s my sister. Her husband had died suddenly; she was vulnerable. As her head of household”—we never counted Pa—“I did not want her messed about.”

  “Oh, you admit Petronius has a bad record!” Helena smiled.

  “No. Never mind his other women. He has been Maia’s dogged follower, while my sister turns out as fickle as a flea.”

  “So what do you want?” Helena was easily roused by causes. “That Maia Favonia should move straight from one husband to another, simply because an interested man is available and it is socially convenient? Shall she have no time to readjust after losing the husband we all pretend she loved?” Helena could be very dry—and strikingly honest. Loving that tipsy loser Famia had been out of the question; I laughed harshly. Julia whimpered; I reached down and tickled her.

  “No, Maia deserves time to reflect.” I could be reasonable, even when it hurt. “She is well suited to working in Pa’s warehouse—and it’s doing her good.” Maia was keeping Pa’s records—more truthfully than he did—and learning about the antiques business.

  “Pius Aeneas graciously approves!” Helena was sneering. She took a tough line with traditional Roman values.

  “I do approve.” I was losing, but I stuck to it doggedly. Any head of household tries to stand up to the witch who ties him up in knots.

  Plenty of women at our level of society ran businesses. Most started out in partnerships with husbands, then as widows some chose to stay independent. (Independent widows with fears of being cheated were good news for informers. Their children brought in fees too—afraid the widows were planning remarriage with bloodsucking gigolos.) “If Maia does make herself financially independent, she might still want a man in her bed—”

  “And dear Lucius Petronius,” said Helena wickedly, “with all that practice, would be adequate!” I decided against commenting. Helena had a warning look in her eye. “I think Maia will want a man in her life, Marcus. But not yet.”

  “Wrong. Last I saw, Petronius was hanging back. At the Festival of Vertumnus, Maia tried throwing herself at him.”

  “Petronius was afraid of being hurt. Maia misjudged that. And she herself may be confused, Marcus. For one thing,” Helena suggested, “she had been married a long time, and may have lost her confidence.”

  “Marriage makes you forget the arts of love?” I scoffed.

  Helena Justina looked up at me, straight into my eyes, in a way that was intended to make me wish I had not asked. Both the children were with us; I had to let that pass.

  I was sure Maia had not simply mishandled her relationship with Petro. She knew how strongly he felt. She was a straight dealer. She had been all set to start something serious—then she completely backed off. Something made her do that.

  Helena and Maia were good friends. “What happened?” I asked quietly.

  “I’m not sure.” Helena looked troubled. She had an idea—but she hated it.

  I considered the situation. There was one possibility. Before my sister so briefly became interested in Petronius, she had an abortive friendship with another man. “Anacrites!”

  Well, she had sunk low there.

  Maia deserved better in life than the dice she had shaken out for herself. First as a young girl, she had opted to marry Famia. He may have looked amiable, and even stayed friends with her in his dozy way. Anyone connected with Maia would be stupid to give up on her. But Famia was a low proposition. He was a horse doctor for the Green charioteer faction and he drank continually. In his defense, he allowed Maia a free hand to run their household and bring up their children respectably—which she could have done twice as well without his presence.

  Maia was finally widowed and, newly unattached, she took on the traditional role of flighty piece. Her first foray was to adopt a male friend of stunning unsuitability, as widows like to do. Her chosen companion was Anacrites, the Chief Spy. Spies are never reliable lovers, due to their life of risk and their lying natures. Anacrites was also my sworn enemy. We had been forced into occasional shared work for the Emperor, yet I never forgot that Anacrites had once tried to have me killed. He was shifty, jealous, vicious, and amoral. He had no sense of humor and no tact. He never knew when he should keep to himself. And I reckoned he took up with my sister just to get back at me.

  A woman would have to be cracked to hitch up with a Chief Spy—any spy—but Maia always believed she could handle anything. Anacrites knew our family not only because he had worked with me; he had lodged with my mother. Ma thought he was perfect. I presumed my sister knew that our parent had a blind spot about men (well, dear Mother had married our father, for one thing). Maia also knew how I saw Anacrites. Anyone who looked that plausible had to be fake.

  Eventually even Maia sensed a dangerous imbalance in their friendship. Anacrites was too intense for her. She told us they had parted. She would have been tactful. She was even a little upset. If I could see it, he must have known too. He should have withdrawn gracefully.

  It was for the best. But would that maggot agree to let go? At last I understood the problem. “Helena, are you saying Anacrites is harassing Maia?”

  Helena usually shared her worries with me, though sometimes she hugged them to herself for a long time first. Finally she burst out, “I am frightened for her. She changed so suddenly.”

  “The children are very quiet.” Still, they had lost their father less than a year ago.

  “Have you spoken to Anacrites lately, Marcus?”

  “No.” I had thought it might be embarrassing. I expected him to plead with me to intercede with Maia. In fact, he had never addressed the point.

  If it hurt him to be rejected, he could react very nastily. Maia would not change her mind. So then Anacrites might do anything …

  Being the man he was, of course he did.

  V

  MY SISTER must have discovered what had happened in the late afternoon. After a normal day working with Pa at the Saepta Julia, she collected the children from my mother’s house and returned home. By chance, I came along shortly afterwards. There was never any hope of her hiding the situation. Even before I went into the house, I had sensed the disaster.

  As I strolled up the road where they lived, I had seen Maia’s three youngest children. She had left them waiting outside; that was unusual. The two girls and Ancus, the nervous one, were clinging together in a group on the pavement, opposite where they lived. Marius, the eldest, was missing (in defiance of his mother, I learned later, he had raced off trying to find me). Maia’s street door was open.

  This was one of the Aventine’s few good locations. People would think it rude to form a nosy crowd. Even so, frowning women were standing in their doorways. Men at food-shop counters were staring this way. There was an ominous stillness. My instincts said something terrible had happened. I could hardly believe it; Maia’s home was always well run. No oil lamps fell over; no braziers flickered near to door curtains; no unlocked shutters let in thieves. And she never left her children out in the road.

  I approached Cloelia, the maternal nine-year-old, who had her arms around her younger sister, Rhea. Ancus was holding his brother’s oversize puppy; Nux, my own dog, slunk past ignoring her offspring as usual, then waited for me snootily as I took stock of the children. They all looked white, staring up at me with shocked, beseeching eyes. I drew a pa
inful breath. I turned towards the house. When I saw the open door properly, the nightmare started. Whoever came here earlier had advertised their atrocious deed: a girl’s wooden doll had been hammered to the door, with a great nail through its head.

  Beyond, the short corridor was almost blocked. Possessions and shattered furniture were in chaos. I crashed over the threshold. My heart pounded. As I glanced into rooms, there was nothing worse to find. Well, there was nothing left. Every item that belonged to Maia and her children had been torn apart. Where was she?

  Nothing left. Everything destroyed.

  I found her, on the small balcony area they had always called their sun terrace. She stood amid the ruin of cushioned loungers and graceful side tables, with more smashed toys at her feet. Her back was to me; whitened fingernails gripped her bare arms as she rocked slightly to and fro. She was rigid when I took hold of her. She stayed rigid when I turned her around and held her. Then agonized tears came, silently.

  Voices. I tensed, ready for intruders. I heard urgent footsteps, then shocked obscenities. Young Marius, the eleven-year-old, had brought Petronius Longus, some vigiles too. After an initial commotion came quieter murmurs. Petronius arrived behind me. I knew who it was. He stood in the doorway; his mouth moved as he cursed silently. He stared at me; then his gaze covered the destruction in near disbelief. He pulled Marius against him, comforting the boy. Marius gripped a splintered chair arm, like a spear to kill his enemies.

  “Maia!” Petro had seen plenty of horrors, but his voice rasped. “Maia Favonia—who did this?”

  My sister moved. She spoke, her voice hard. “I have no idea.”