Lindsey Davis - The Jupiter Myth

Exhausted by the effort of running through such weather, I then found somewhere more promising: glimpsed through the darkness stood a cluster of buildings. As I approached, head down against the storm, fortune for once smiled. The place had a commercial look. Someone was standing in the open doorway, staring out, but he drew aside to let me in. Warmth hit me. Civilisation awaited. I understood: visitors to the arena had been provided with a set of public baths.

Ever cautious, I searched for a nameboard. There was a pale fresco above the table where they took the entrance fees. It was called Caesar's. Well, that sounded just fine.

'No swords!'

'In the name of the governor; I have to search this place!'

I wanted to bathe. I wanted to shed my drenched garments, drop my weapon from my wet fist, peel off my leaden, sodden boots, then sit on a hot ledge, letting insidious steam wrap around me while I drowsed off. If my conscience allowed me to give up, I could happily stay here for days.

'Is this official? Got a warrant?' No one had warrants in the provinces. Hades, no one had warrants in Rome. If the vigiles banged on anybody's door, anxious to have a look around, the proprietor would let the roughnecks in and start saving up to pay for breakages.

I waved my sword angrily. 'This is my warrant. You want to argue, you can send a runner to the procurator's residence.'

'What – in this weather?'

'Then shut up and show me round like a bath keeper who wants to retain his licence.'

They were probably so keen to have bath houses built in Britain that no licence system operated either. Who would police it, if there were no vigiles? Legislation without enforcement is a bad principle.

Licensing of commercial premises was something we did have at home, with pompous baby senators prancing around as aediles, deadly keen to shift their togate backsides upwards on the cursus honorem, and meanwhile concerning themselves with nosy checks on opening hours, plebeian licentiousness and fire precautions. A bribe to their escort usually moved the irritation up the street to the next victim.

Here, where bureaucracy had yet to grow taproots, the simple power of language seemed to impress. I can't say I was led around like a hygiene inspector, but I was allowed to wander through the hot and cold rooms undisturbed.

My life as an informer seemed to be spent in constant searches of wet-floored baths; they were treacherous when in a hurry, wearing boots. It was hard to concentrate while skidding across slippery tiles face-first into a ridged wall which was shot through with hot air tubes. At least the din of thunder from outside was muffled by thick masonry roofs. Here, apart from routine tricklings and gurgles, was a cocoon of warmth and silence.

Silence was not what I expected. This was a spacious suite of hot rooms, yet there were no customers. This dark establishment lacked the sociability the Roman baths are intended to offer. Nobody at all was debating philosophy, discussing the Games, swapping gossip, or buffing beanbags for exercise. It was another failure for the British judicial legate's citizenship lessons. Come to that, the body oils smelt rancid.

'Are you always deserted? This is a big place!'

'There is supposed to be a new fort coming.'

'Who knows when! How do you make a living? Who uses your baths?'

'Soldiers mainly. They like the bar next door. They were in earlier. They all got called out on an exercise.' That would be the governor, ordering the troops to search for Splice.

A thought struck me. The barkeeper who had helped me entertain the centurion, Silvanus – it felt about six weeks ago – had talked about fetching his water from a bath house. 'Does a military drinking den use your water?'

The owner nodded. 'We have a well with a treadmill and a waterwheel,' he informed me proudly. 'There is nothing like our system anywhere north of Gaul -'

'Indoors?'

He gestured in the direction I had come from. 'We had to build the well where the water is.'

'Oh I saw your well-head premises.' That was behind me in the storm; I lost interest. 'So which way is the bar?' I demanded.

'Right next door,' replied the bath keeper, as if surprised I did not know. 'Caesar's. Same as us.' Well, that saved the drunks having to remember two names.

I left Caesar's Baths and hurried a few strides through a large, spreading puddle, to Caesar's Bar. When I walked in, who should I see gloomily supping a flagon, but my dear pal Lucius Petronius.

He half rose, looking anxious. Immediately all my pain over Chloris resurfaced. 'You all right, Falco?'

'No.'

He called for another beaker and pushed me on to a bench. 'Grieve. Do it now.' He meant, while I was here with him, not with Helena. Bad enough that she had seen me distraught, red to the elbows with the blood and intestines of a past lover. I glanced down at my clothing.

At least the rain had washed away some of the mess. As for grief, that decides its own timing.

Petronius had his elbows on a table, his boots off on the floor to dry, and his big bare feet in a towel. He looked depressed, yet oddly comfortable. He had lost his quarry in the teeming wet, and he had bunked off. I couldn't argue, because so had I.

'You found him, of course?' I challenged, shaking water from my hair.

'I will,' Petro croaked: he was obsessive.

I drank, then wiped my mouth. 'He looked a bit different! That was a shock. I remember him as a soggy lump with hangnails and lanky hair, dreaming he would open his own racing stable – which he never would have done.'

'Power sharpened him up,' growled Petro. Now he goes for snappy clothes.'

'Those bloody Parthian trousers!'

Petronius allowed himself a wry smile. If anything he had more conservative taste than me. 'The leg casings had a raffish style. They'd look quite good on a smelly muleteer in Bruttium.'

'So would a goatbell round his neck… I noticed his equestrian ring was three times the size of mine.' I spread my hand and looked at the slim gold band that signified I had been dragged into the middle class. Florius had worn a bar that covered a whole finger joint.

'The difference is,' said Petro, 'you wouldn't even wear one, from choice. Helena bought yours. She wants the world to know you are entitled to the honour and you go along with her out of guilt.'

'Guilt?'

'Being a scruff when she deserves better. But Florius -'

Petro stopped; he did not bother to express his full contempt. I had seen Petronius once take the ring owned by Florius' gangster father-in-law and flatten it under the heel of his boot.

Glumly he poured more wine.

'Is Florius the brothel pimp?' I asked suddenly.

Petro leaned back. I could see this was no new proposition. 'You mean "the Collector"? Yes, that's him. The old gang always ran whores in Rome, don't forget. They had brothels both for their own sake, and for the crime that goes on in them. Not just manicure girls who talk to their friends all day and fortune tellers who can't tell Cancer from Capricorn. I mean theft. Hustling. Illegal gambling. Contract killing. All on top of the usual depravity.'

'And Florius rounds up new talent himself?'

'Then he gets first go,' stated Petronius. We had both stopped drinking. 'Every filly in the Florius stable has been personally deflowered by him.'

'Raped?'

'Repeatedly, if needs be. To terrorise them, so they do as they are told.'

'That girl of ours he grabbed is about fourteen.'

'Some are younger.'

'You've been watching and not doing anything to stop it?' I glared at him. Did you realise you were directly watching Florius?'

'Not at first. As you say, he looks quite different.'

'Your customs pal told me he uses the brothel as an office when he comes into town. So he hangs his boots up properly somewhere else?'