A Body in the Bathhouse by Lindsey Davis Read Free Book Online Page B

to the other workmen.” I knew Aelianus would be rude to the men; then Justinus would be more friendly. “Make them list whoever was on-site during Pa’s bathhouse job. Again, obtain descriptions. If they cooperate—”
    “Which you don’t expect?”
    “Oh, I expect the goddess Iris to glide down in a rainbow and tell us everything! Seriously, find out who is missing. If you get a clue, visit wherever the missing man lived and take things on from there.”
    “If nobody tells us who he was,” Justinus said, frowning, “how can we proceed, Falco?”
    “Well, you’re big boys,” I said unhelpfully.
    “Oh, go on!” scoffed Aelianus. “Don’t throw us in and leave us to sink.”
    “All right. Try this: Gloccus and Cotta were the main contractors. But half the fancy fittings were supplied, and sometimes fixed, by other firms. See the marble-bowl supplier, the mosaicist, the plumber who laid the water pipes. They don’t want to be blamed. So they may be less inclined to conceal the truth. Ask Helena which importer sold her that monster splash basin in the tepidarium. Ask my father’s slaves for names of men who tramped mud through the kitchen fetching water for their mortar mix.”
    “Were workmen allowed in the main house?”
    “No.”
    “That wouldn’t have stopped them?”
    “Right. If you want a really irritating experience, try talking to Pa himself.”
    “Then what?”
    “Just do the jobs I have suggested. Then we’ll reconvene and pool ideas.”
    They looked sulky. I kept them back a moment. “Get this straight. No one forced you to come in with me. No anxious parent begged me to find you a position. I could use someone street-smart instead of you two amateurs. Never forget, I have a queue of my own relatives who need the work.” The Camillus brothers were naive; they had no idea how much my relations despised me and my work—nor how crudely I loathed the feckless Didii. “You both wanted this. I’m allowing it as an idealist. When you bunk off back to the high life, I’ll just know that two pampered patricians have acquired practical knowledge through me.”
    “O noble Roman!” Justinus said, smiling, though he had lost his rebellious attitude.
    I ignored it. “Campaign orders: you accept that I am in charge. Then we work as a team. There is to be no showing off on solo escapades. We meet up every morning here, and each man turns in full details of what he has found out so far. We discuss the next course of action together—and in the case of disagreement, my plan takes precedence.”
    “And what,” demanded Aelianus caustically, “are you intending to do on this case, Falco?”
    I assured him I would be hard at work. True. My new house had a wonderful roof terrace, where I could waste hours playing. When I grew tired of planning herb troughs and realigning rose trellises, then the kind of dalliance in a wine shop that I had denied to the boys would suit me fine. If they guessed, neither knew me well enough to complain.
    Taking both into the business brought me the benefit of their competitiveness. Each was determined to better his brother. Come to that, both would have been happy to put me in the wrong.
    They played at being diligent. I amused myself wondering what the hair-plastered laborers made of them. Eventually we summed up progress: “Quintus, shoot the first spear.”
    Justinus had learned in the legions how to give intelligence reports to brusque commanding officers. He was relaxed. Looking deceptively casual, he surprised me with some useful gen: “Gloccus and Cotta have been partners for a couple of decades. Everyone speaks of them as famously unreliable—yet they are somehow accepted and still given work.”
    “Custom of the trade,” I said gloomily. “A standard building contract contains a clause that says: ‘It shall be the contractor’s responsibility to destroy the premises, abandon the agreed drawings, and delay the works until at least three Festivals of