The King wryly acknowledged how delicately I had expressed it.
I acknowledged the acknowledgement. "Nothing should ever take away the fact that Marcellinus designed you a worthy home, in splendid style, where you were comfortable for a long period."
"He was a superb designer," agreed Togidubnus solemnly. "An architect with a major talent and exquisite taste. A warm and gracious host, he will be much missed by his family and friends."
This showed that the tribal chief of the Atrebates was fully Romanised: he had mastered the great forum art of providing an obituary for a corrupt bastard.
And how would he record Pomponius, loathed by everyone except his fleeting boyfriend Plancus? A superb designer… major talent… exquisite taste… A private man, whose loss will greatly affect close associates and colleagues.
We discussed Poniponius and his affecting loss.
"There have been some rather feeble attempts to implicate innocent parties. So many people disliked him, it has complicated matters. I have some leads," I told the King. "I am prepared to spend time and effort on these lines of enquiry. There will be evidence; witnesses may come forward. That would mean a murder trial, unsavoury publicity, and if convicted, the killers would face capital punishment."
The King was watching me. He did not ask for names. That could mean he knew already. Or that he saw the truth and stood aloof.
"I hate ambivalence," I said. "But I was not sent here to push crude solutions. My role is two-fold: deciding what has happened then recommending the best action. "Best" can mean the most practical, or least damaging."
"Are you giving me a choice?" The King was ahead of me.
"Two men were involved in the death of Pomponius. I'd say one is very close to you, and the other his known associate. Shall I name the suspects?"
"No," said the King. After a while he added, "So what is to be done about them?"
I shrugged. "You rule this kingdom; what do you suggest?"
"Perhaps you want them dead in a bog?" asked Togidubnus severely.
"I am a Roman. We deplore barbarian cruelty- we prefer to invent our own."
"So, Didius Falco, what do you want?"
"This: to know that nobody else working on this project is at risk. Then to shun domestic violence and to show respect for dead men and their families. In wild moments of idealism, maybe I want to prevent more crime."
"The Roman punishment for the base-born would be degrading death." The Emperor's judicial teachers must already have begun work. The King knew Roman law. If he was brought up in Rome, he would have seen condemned men torn apart by arena beasts. "And for a man of status?" he asked.
"Nothing so decently final. Exile."
"From Rome," said Togidubnus.
"Exile from the Empire/ I corrected gently. "But if your culprits here are not formally tried, exile from Britain would be a good compromise."
"For ever?" the King rasped.
"For the duration of the new build, I suggest."
"Five years!"
"You think I strike a hard bargain? I saw the corpse, sir. Pomponius' death was premeditated and there was mutilation afterwards. He was a Roman official. Wars have been started for less."
We sat in silence.
The King moved to practical suggestion: "It can be given out that Pomponius was killed by a chance intruder, who had entered the bath house hoping for sex or robbery…" He was displeased, but he was working with me. "What of the other death? Who killed Marcellinus?" he challenged.
I told him a hired dancer, her credentials insufficiently checked. The motive, I said with a slight smile, must be robbery or sex.
"My people will search for her," the King stated. It was not an offer but a warning. He might not know Perella worked for Anacrites specifically, but he had realised she had significance. And if the King found Perella, he would expect some kind of trade.
Since I was sure she would have left the area by now, I did not care.
I was uneasy. Aelianus and Justinus purred happily, thinking our mission accomplished. I had a dark sense of unfinished business waiting to disrupt my life.
The site was too quiet. Never trust a workplace where absolutely nobody is standing around aimlessly.
It was now the second half of the afternoon.
Even this early, many of the labourers went tramping off the site, heading towards town. Soon it seemed as if they had all gone to the canabae. None of the project team were visible, so while no one wanted me to officiate, I retired to my suite to invest in the project manager's privilege: thinking time, paid for by the client. Not long afterwards there was a clatter of horses and most of the King's male retainers mounted up then swept off at a canter in the direction of Noviomagus too. Verovolcus was leading them. I assumed they had instructions from the King to search for Perella.
They had not found her the last time they scoured the countryside. But Verovolcus might have more incentive, if he had spoken to the King since my meeting. He looked grim anyway.
Helena's brothers and my nephew Larius still believed the queen of dance would appear that night at the Rainbow Trout. To prepare for the entertainment, they all spent time at the bath house, throwing aside tools and other equipment left in the changing room by the contractors; the workmen, of course, had made a mess, then fled the scene. Nobody completes a bath-house contract overnight. Where would be the fun in that?
Helena complained our suite was like a home with a wedding in the morning. A loner myself, I was appalled by the spectacle of modern youth getting ready for a big night out. Petronius and I never primped ourselves like these three. Aelianus stubbornly shaved himself, with a meticulous vanity that seemed typical. I reckon he skimned over his legs and arms too. The sight of Larius and Justinus simultaneously rasping at each other's prickly chins while Aelianus kept possession of one dim hand mirror was unnerving. Then Larius cut himself while pruning his horny toenails and improvised a styptic paste with Justinus' tooth powder. Soon extra lotions were being splashed into remote anatomical crannies for luck.
Our rooms filled up with conflicting masculine unguents; cardamom, narcissus and cypress seemed to be this season's favourites. Then Camilla Hyspale also started tickling noses as she tricked herself out in another room. Ringlets had been well scorched and her face was positively frescoed with a thick layer of white plaster and artistic paintwork. When her dabbing brought a reek of fiery female balsam, Maia ground her teeth then muttered to me, "That's my Sesame Stink! It used to keep Famia off when he'd had a few… Have you actually agreed that Hyspale can go out with her paramour?"
"Curiously, I am still waiting to be asked permission…"
Determined not to volunteer, but to force Hyspale to seek me out with her request, I sauntered back to the lads' room. The sight of their three glistening torsos, now stripped naked while they began fervently trying to choose tunics, convulsed me. Any woman who agreed to grope one of these beauties would find he slipped from her grip like a wet mullet. They were resolutely serious. Even selecting the right undergarments required a symposium. Length, fullness, colour, sleeve style and neck opening all had to satisfy stringent criteria and to look right with their favourite top layer. I could not bear to watch the belt stage. I went out for some air.
Thus, by chance, I came upon a small figure who had been knocking at our door unheard.