Lindsey Davis - A Body In The Bath House

Through a crack in the kennel door I could see swarming figures. The searchers thought I had scuttled among the timber again. They decided to smoke me out. Great. I preferred to survive than to save this valuable stock. It may have been imported from all over the Empire to create skirtings, folding doors and luxury veneers, but my life mattered more. Fire damage would be a new excuse in my financial reports. Who wants to be predictable?

It took some time for them to make a light, then the hardwood refused to kindle. I could do nothing except lie low, while desperate thoughts coursed through my mind. If I tried to make a break for it, I stood no chance. The men were enjoying themselves. They thought they had me there, caught in a trap; at least one was prodding the stacked timbers with a long pole, hoping to puncture or spit me. Eventually they let out a cheer; soon I could hear crackling and smell woodsmoke.

The noise and smoke were localised, but the passing of time had brought help. Some of it was unwelcome; in the distance I could now hear the dogs. Still, they were locked out, weren't they?

Not for long. Suddenly someone was trying to break down the gates – with a huge wheeled ram, apparently. It was a sound I last heard on an army training ground. Deep crashing noises came at regular intervals, accompanied by cheers. Even from within my hide I could tell that the gates were weakened and about to give. I waited as long as I dared. As the gates of the compound crashed inwards, dragged open by a two-wheeled cart, I scampered out from the kennel before the guard dogs came home.

'Falco!'

Dear gods: Quintus, Aulus and Larius. Three incongruously well-dressed and coifed ram-raiders. My first hope was they were armed. No. They must have raced straight here without stopping to equip themselves. If they hoped to snatch me, they were thwarted by the assembled men who wanted to do for me first. These renegades rushed at us, whooping.

We all set to, biffing at anyone with wiry ginger hair. Smoke was choking us. There were too few of us. If we tried to make a break for it, we would be massacred. So as we fought, the lads using timbers, we stamped at smouldering wood or tried smothering flames. A great oak log finally caught fire; Larius and I tried to haul it free. A thick haze of smoke had filled the compound. It helped give the impression there were more of us than actually existed. We concentrated on putting in the boot in traditional Roman style.

Three of us had military training. I was an ex-foot slogger. Both the Camilli had served as army officers. Even Larius, who spurned the army in favour of art, had grown up in the toughest neighbourhood in the Empire; he knew nasty tricks with feet and fists. Teamwork and grit soon showed our calibre. Somehow we cleared our opponents out of the depot. Then we blocked the gateway with the cart on which the lads had brought a large tree trunk as their improvised battering ram. They must have unhitched the beast of burden and combined as human mules to run the cart at the gates. Straight from the training manual. But with nothing in the shafts, they could not now use the cart to drive away. We were stuck here.

Larius was heaving up pieces of broken marble to make chocks under the cart wheels so no one could drag off our blockade.

'A ram!' I marvelled.

'We're well organised,' boasted Aelianus cockily.

'No swords, though… I didn't think you knew I'd gone-'

'We heard you say '

'You didn't answer! Giving houseroom to you lot is like having three extra wives…'

With four of us, we could now take a side of the compound each.

Justinus was flailing at heads as they popped up on the fence. 'If I were on the outside,' he shouted, 'my priority would be to rush the gates.'

I swiped a man who peered over at us. 'I'm glad you're in here with us, then. I don't want attackers who use strategy.'

The green timber had dried out enough to burn now, so we had to spare more time to beating out sparks or we would be roasted. Heat from the blazing tree trunk we had dragged free was making life really difficult. Rather than waiting to pick us off at leisure once the smoke increased, our attackers had the bright idea of setting fire to one of the fence panels. It took at once. A column of smoke poured skywards; it must have been visible for miles. We heard new voices, then the dogs baying once again. Aelianus sucked his teeth involuntarily. Shouts outside heralded some new phase of fighting. I waved at the lads, then we all scrambled over the cart and leapt outside the depot.

We found mayhem a fist tight all over the roadway. I spotted Gaius, being carried around on a pony behind a small girl – Cyprianus' daughter, Alia. Maybe Gaius had fetched the help. Anyway, he was now riding in circles, letting out war cries. Dog handlers were patrolling the scrimmage, unable to decide where or when to unleash their charges. The men who had ambushed me were dressed in distinguishably in-site boots and labourers' tunics, but they were mainly fair or redheads, favouring long moustaches, whereas the new crowd were dark, swarthy and stubbly chinned. These arrived in small numbers – most labourers had left earlier for the canabae but they saw themselves as Roman support against the British barbarians. The rescue gang were Lupus' men, opposing those who had worked with Mandumerus. They could all fight and were eager to demonstrate. Both sides were viciously settling old scores.

We joined in. It seemed polite.

We were hard at it, like drunks at a festival, when we heard more shouts above the melee. Trundling and creaking, along came a row of heavy transports, from which Magnus and Cyprianus leapt down in astonishment. The carts had returned from the Marcellinus villa.

This took the passion out of everything. Those of the Britons who could still stagger made off sheepishly. Some of the rest and a few of the overseas group were suffering, though it looked as though there would only be two fatalities: the man I disembowelled first, and the other whose legs I had slashed; he was now bleeding to death in the arms of two colleagues.

My party were all bruised, and Aelianus' leg wound must have reopened, adding colour to his bandages. As Cyprianus tore his hair out over the fire damage to the site depot then growled even more when he realised what had happened to some precious stores inside – I recovered my breath then explained how Gaius and I were set upon. Magnus appeared sympathetic, but Cyprianus was angrily kicking a torn-down, smouldering fence panel. He was furious – not least because he now had the Marcellinus material to store, but nowhere secure to keep it.

I nodded at the lads. We made polite farewells. The four of us sauntered, perhaps rather stiffly, back to my suite at the King's palace.

Then, as we approached the 'old house', I saw a man I recognised, shinning up a ladder on the scaffold: Mandumerus.

Nothing for it: my wife, sister, children and female staff were inside that building. Anyway, I was well worked up for action. I reached the building at a run, grasped the wooden ladder and shot up after him. Helena would have said it was typical – one adventure was not enough.

'Go inside and comb your hair, boys. I'll be with you soon,' I roared.

'Mad bugger!' That sounded like Larius.

'Has he got a head for heights?' One of the Camilli.

'He gets squeamish standing on a chair to swat a fly.' I would deal with that rascal later.

There was a working platform at first-storey height, and another up at roof level. I felt perfectly safe climbing aloft to the first one then deeply insecure. 'He's gone all the way up, Falco!' Aelianus was sensibly resting his leg standing back at a distance so he could monitor events and shout advice. I hated being supervised, but if I fell off, I would like to think someone could make out a lucid fatality report. Better anyway than Valla's: What happened to him? He was a roofer. What do you think happened? He fell off a roof!