"Mandumerus and Verovolcus are best friends?"
"From the cradle, Falco."
"Is it a lead?" asked Justinus meekly.
"It is- but I'm not thanking you!"
I ran both hands through my hair, feeling the curls coarsened and sticky after exposure to the salty coastal air. I wanted a three-hour bath, with a full technical massage, in a first-class establishment in Rome. One with manicure girls who looked like haughty princesses, and three kinds of pastry-seller. I wanted to exit onto travertine marble steps, in early evening, when hot sun still ripped off the paving slabs. Then I wanted to go home for dinner: in my own house on the Aventine.
"Hades, Quintus. This is tricky. Suppose Verovolcus and Mandumerus murdered Pomponius."
"Why would they?"
"Well, because Verovolcus is loyal to his royal master. He knows all about the King's design rages with Pomponius. He probably thought the King preferred working with Marcellinus. It's even possible there was some exchange of benefits between Verovolcus and Marcellinus. Unaware that someone else was planning to kill Marcellinus, let's say Verovolcus decided to eliminate Pomponius remove the new incumbent so the old one can be brought back. His crony Mandumerus would be happy to help; he had just lost a lucrative post on site, and Pomponius had wanted to crucify him. No doubt about it, Mandumerus would be after revenge."
"Do you believe the King connived at this, Falco?" Justinus was shocked. For one thing, he could see it was a stupid thing for anyone to have done. For another, the whimsical boy liked to believe in the nobility of barbarians.
"Of course not!" I snarled. "My thoughts are strictly diplomatic."
Well, that could be true.
"So killing Pomponius was an unsophisticated manoeuvre by two misguided henchmen that was doomed to exposure?" Justinus demanded.
"Not quite," I told him sadly. "If the surmise is correct only idiots would go ahead and expose it."
A short time later I made a formal request for a private interview with the Great King.
ILLI
time for a professional statement. A problem arises when working with clients who demand confidentiality clauses: the investigator is required to keep silent for ever about his cases. Many a private informer could write titillating memoirs, full of slime and scandal, were this not the case. Many an imperial agent could produce a riveting autobiography, in which celebrated names would jiggle in shocking juxtaposition with those of vicious mobsters and persons with filthy morals of both sexes. We do not do it. Why? They do not let us.
I cannot say I ever heard of a sensitive client calling up a court injunction to protect his reputation. That's no surprise. Faced with public exposure by me, many of my own clients would take action privately. A father of young children cannot risk being found lying in an alley with his brains spread around his head. And working for the Emperor involved even more constraints. This subtlety was not spelled out in my contract because it did not need to be. Vespasian used me because I was known to be discreet. Anyway, I never managed to obtain a contract.
Want to hear about the Vestal, the hermaphrodite, and the Superintendent of Riverbanks? You won't get a sniff of it from me. Is a nasty rumour running around that horses' wet-weather shoes, all left-footed, were once ludicrously over-provisioned by the army at enormous cost? Sorry; I cannot comment. As for whether one of the imperial princes had a forbidden liaison with… No, no. Not even to be condemned as tasteless speculation! (But I do know which of the Caesars…) I myself will never reveal who really fathered the baker's twins, the current location of that girl with the massive bust, which cousin is due to inherit from your feeble uncle in Formiae, or the true size of your brother-in-law's gambling debts. Well, not unless you hire me and pay me: fee, plus costs, plus full indemnity against nuisance claims and libel suits.
I mention these points because if there were any scandals involving the building scheme, I was there specifically to suppress those scandals. One day the great palace at Noviomagus Regnensis would stand proud, every gracious wing of it fulfilling the vision of which Pomponius had dreamed. My role was not simply to get the monstrosity built, within a realistic margin of its completion date and budget, but to ensure it never became notorious. Magnus, Cyprianus, the craftsmen and labourers could all move on to other projects, where they might well curse the palace as an old bugbear, but their moans would soon be lost amid new troubles. Otherwise, its sorry design history would die, leaving only sheer scale and magnificence to excite admirers.
Here would be the palace of Togidubnus, Great King of the Britons: an astounding private home, a tremendous public monument. It would dominate its insignificant landscape in this forlorn district of a desolate province, possibly for centuries. Rulers would come and go. Further refurbishments would succeed one another, according to Fate and funding. Inevitably its fortunes would wane. Decay would triumph. It roofs would fall and its walls crumble. The marsh birds would reclaim the nearby inlets, then call and cry _
over nothing but waterlogged hummocks and tussocks, with all
grandeur forgotten.
All the more reason for me to sit one day in some gimcrack villa of my own, to gaze across a low river valley, while rowdy descendants of Nux barked at shrieking infants in some struggling provincial garden where my ancient wife was reading on a sunny bench, intermittently asking her companions to keep quiet because the old fellow was writing his memoirs.
Pointless. There would be no scroll-seller willing to copy such a story.
I could take the private route. Any head of household hopes to become someone's interesting ancestor. I could write it all out and shove the scroll in a casket, to keep under a spare bed. My children were bound to minimise my role. But maybe there would be grandchildren with greater curiosity. I might even feel the need to limit their noble pretensions by reminding the rumbustuous little beggars that their background had some low, livery moments…
Impossible again, due to that invariable brake: client confidentiality.
You can see the problem. When I reported home on these events, the Noviomagus file was swiftly closed. Anyone who claims to know what happened must have heard it from someone other than me. Claudius Lacta, that most secretive of bureaucrats, made it clear that I was forbidden ever to reveal what Togi and I discussed…
Mind you, I never had any time for Lacta. Listen, then (but don't repeat it, and I mean that).
I had asked to see the King in private. He honoured this, not even producing Verovolcus: a nice courtesy. More useful than he knew or was supposed to realise.
I myself had more stringent rules; I took back-up. "Clean, smart, shaved," I told the Camillus brothers. "No togas. I want this off the record but I want you as witnesses."
"Aren't you being too obvious?" asked Aelianus.
"That's the point,"Justinus snapped.
The King received us in a lightly furnished reception room, which had a dado with sinuous tendrils of foliage, its colouring and form exactly like one at the Marcellinus villa. I admired the painting, then pointed out the similarity. I began by discussing diplomatically whether this use of labour and materials could be coincidence then mentioned that we were retrieving the building supplies that were currently stored at the villa. Togidubnus could work out why.
"I had every confidence in Marcellinus," commented the King in a neutral tone.
"You must have been quite unaware of the nature and scale of what went on." Togidubnus was a friend and colleague of Vespasian. He might be mired in fraud up to his regal neck, but I formally accepted his innocence. I knew how to survive. Informers sometimes have to forget their principles. "You are the figurehead for all the British tribes. A corrupt site regime could have damaged your standing. For Marcellinus to place you unwittingly in that position was inexcusable."