Lindsey Davis - A Body In The Bath House

'I'm tough. Just hurry, will you?'

He said we had to wait until the poppies took effect. I could understand that. He did not want his hand gnawed off.

I lay there in the semi-darkness, feeling myself relax. The tooth puller was pottering somewhere behind me, out of sight. Suddenly he reappeared to take a look in my mouth. I opened wide. He seemed awkward, as if I had somehow caught him out.

'It's the old story,' he mumbled. 'Too much grit in food. Breaks down the surface and trouble gets in. If you came to see me sooner, I could have filled the hole with alum or mastic but it never lasts.' Even though what he was saying was all professional, I felt myself losing confidence in him. 'Do you want a slow extraction?'

I gurgled, still with my mouth gaping. 'Quick!'

'Slow is best. Causes less damage.'

I only wanted him to get on with it.

Now my eyes were more accustomed to the Stygian gloom. The tooth-puller was a skinny stoat, with nervous eyes and thin tufts of hair. He had perfected a manner that must make his patients all terrified.

I remembered my great uncle, Scaro, who had once visited an Etruscan dentist whose skill impressed him enormously. Scaro was obsessed with teeth. As a small boy, I had listened to many tales of how that man held his patient's head between his knees, rasping away with sets of files to remove the tartar and how he would create a gold band to fit over surviving teeth, into which replacements carved from ox teeth would be pinned…

I would not acquire a cunning gold brace and a workable bridge in Noviomagus Regnensis. The man was barely competent. He prodded a gum. I cried out. He said he should wait longer.

The medicinal draught was taking effect. I must even have dozed off briefly. Time shrank, so a few seconds passed, filled with a wide spanned dream in which I found myself reflecting on the new palace. I saw some fellow who was project manager. He costed the works, created the programme, negotiated supplies of precious materials and hired specialists. Around him a pall of stone dust hung over the largest mason's yard north of the Alps. He inspected marbles from every corner of the world limestones, siltstones, crystalline and veined. Columns were fluted; mouldings were polished; cornices were run off from hard templates. In join eries planes squealed, tenon saws rasped and hammers banged. Elsewhere, carpenters banging down floor-boards whistled piercing tunes to overcome their own racket. In forges, blacksmiths clanged incessantly, turning out window catches, drain covers, handles, hinges and hooks. They produced mile after mile of nails, which in my dream were all nine-inch monsters.

I saw the palace complete, in splendour. One day the King's quiet corridors would be trodden by businesslike feet, amid the murmur of voices from elegant rooms. One day…

I woke. Something was wrong in my darkened surroundings. I saw it blearily. A large interior with a workplace. Fearsome gadgets hung on walls. Pincers and hammers. Was this tooth-puller a torturer, or just provincial and crude? He owned one tool that was familiar: a joined set of clamps with cutting edges. The last time I saw anything like that, it was the most precious possession of Maia's dead husband Famia. He used it for castrating stallions.

The man approached me. He was holding a set of enormous pliers. He had watery eyes, in which I discerned evil intentions. Through my numbed brain the truth rammed home. He had drugged me. He was now going to kill me. I was a stranger. Why would he do that?

I stirred. I jumped up. He must have thought I was unconscious. He fell back indignantly. I threw aside the cloth he had used to cover me; it resembled an old horse blanket. I discovered my head had been resting uncomfortably on a smithy's anvil.

'This is some wayside blacksmith's haunt!'

'He left. I bought it'

'You're an amateur. And I fell for your story!'

This was not for me. I would make Cyprianus pull the damn tooth out with a set of nail-head pliers. Better still, Helena could take me to Londinium. Her uncle and aunt would produce some skilled specialist who could bore fine holes into abscesses and drain off the poison.

'What do you think you are doing here? What kind of pathetic loser wants to be a fake mouth-surgeon?'

The shrinking fraud said nothing. He pushed open the wide stable doors for me to leave. I was too angry for that. Anyway, I had realised who he was.

I gave him a shove and he fell to his knees. Even through the fug caused by his sleeping draught, I knew I had had a narrow escape. I grabbed his lamp and shone it near his face. 'I need a piss; I think I'll piss on you! Where do you come from Rome?'

He shook his head. That was a lie.

'You're as Roman as I am. What's your true trade?'

'Barber-surgeon-'

'Cobnuts! You run a builder's yard. I'm Falco – now go on; pretend you have never heard of me. I'm a bounty hunter – but there's no money reward on my present quest – just pure satisfaction.'

I found an old rope, maybe an abandoned halter, and bound him tightly.

'What's this about?' he quaked.

'Have you got a brother who does something medical?'

'Barber and tooth-puller. Same as me,' he added unconvincingly.

'Father of Alexas, on the palace site, I take it? Or is he just a cousin? Alexas certainly tried to put me off finding you. Even your partner tried to pretend he had lost you in Gaul. But once I found him, I was ready for you too. So are you going to own up?' He trembled feebly. 'All right, I'll say it. You're Cotta. A builder. The firm Stephanus worked for. You come from Rome. You ran away because of how Stephanus died – who killed him?'

'Gloccus.'

'How curious. He said you did it.'

'It wasn't me.'

'You know-' now he was trussed, I sat him up playfully. 'I don't care which of you hit him over the head. You both hid the body and you both scarpered. You have to share responsibility. Gloccus died tonight but don't worry, that was an accident. You will have longer in the world. Much longer. I'm going to make sure of it. I know just the punishment for you, Cotta. You are going to the silver mines. It's final, Cotta, but it's ghastly and slow. If the beatings, hard labour and starvation don't kill you, you'll be grey-faced and die of lead poisoning. There is no escape except through death – and that can take years.'

'It wasn't me! Gloccus killed Stephanus -'

'Maybe I even believe that.'

'Let me go, then. Falco, what have I ever done to you?'

'Something really criminal! You built my bath house, Cotta.'

It had been a long night, but a good one. Now I felt no pain.