A Body in the Bathhouse (8 page)

IX

L
UCK IS
a wonderful luxury. What could better prove that some are born under a star of good fortune than the career (and the large, comfortable home) of the Great King?

“Cogidumnus.” Justinus cautiously tried it out.

“Togidubnus,” I corrected him. This was a provincial of such ripe insignificance that most Roman commentators never even called him by the correct name. “Learn it, please, lest we offend. The Emperor may be our principal client, but Togi is the end customer. Pleasing Togi is the whole point of us suffering this trip. Vespasian wants his house to go up nicely so that Togi stays happy.”

“You had better stop calling him Togi,” warned Helena, “or you are bound to slip up and insult him in public.”

“Insulting officials is my style.”

“But you want your assistants to be smoothly oiled diplomats.”

“Ah yes. I have the rough edges—you are a pair of sickly smarmpots!” I threw at them.

We had been stuck at some mansio in the drabber parts of Gaul when we found time for our tutorial. Hyspale had been instructed to stop moaning about her discomfort (she had the art of making herself unhappy) and to take care of the children. So Helena was able to shine as my background researcher. Luckily, her brothers (yes, both) were used to being lectured by their big sister. I myself would never quite relax when she started explaining things. Helena Justina could always surprise me by the scope of her sources and the detail they provided.

We had fetched up here after days of weary travel. The children seemed to be coping better than the rest of us, though Helena and I had the irritation of disapproval from foreigners. While Gauls were amazed how strict we were with our daughters, we thought them slapdash spoilers of their own uncontrollable brats. Some of theirs had fleas. Ours, swept off into kitchens to be cooed over for their pretty curls, would acquire them soon. Nux was attacking her Roman ones vigorously. I had had itches since Lugdunum; though if the creatures were being carried on my person, I had failed to find them. That was because I had rarely had my clothes off to search. Mansios had baths, but if you tarried in the queue to wash, you missed them serving dinner. Afterwards, the water was cold. With ruts in roads and gruesome weather, it added to the fun.

We all sat around a large table in the dingy hall that passed for a communal dining room at the mansio, with my sister hunched slightly to one side. Maia had been sufficiently alarmed by what she saw of the ship’s crew who hauled us north past Italy; she refused to go back to Ostia alone. She had never traveled more than twenty miles from Rome before. When we made Gaul, she had no real idea how many dreary miles remained. She still thought she would be going home in a few weeks. We would be lucky even to reach Britain in that time.

Helena had “found” a letter “hidden” in her luggage from Marius, explaining that it was the children who had decided to send their mother away to safety. Maia believed Petronius Longus must have helped them, and that it was a ploy to steal her children now his own were with Silvia. Maia sat around the whole journey, planning to poison him with toad’s blood. We stopped trying to include her in conversations.

“Our uncle Gaius has sent me some information about the area and the project,” said Helena briskly. “You two boys have never met him. You have to pretend this is being expounded by a neat, enthusiastic, lifelong administrator who has a huge knowledge of his province and insists on telling you everything—”

Gaius Flavius Hilaris was married to their aunt, a quiet, intelligent woman called Aelia Camilla. He was currently at the end of a long term as financial procurator in Britain. As far as we could tell, he had no intention of retiring back to Rome. He had been a provincial, born in Dalmatia, so Rome had never been his home base anyway. He worked like a dog and was absolutely straight. Helena and I both liked him enormously.

“Imagine Britain as a rough triangle.” Helena had a letter in her hand, so well studied she hardly referred to it. “We are going to the middle of the long south coast. Elsewhere there are high chalk cliffs, but this area has a gentle coastline with safe anchorages in inlets. There are some streams and marshland, but also wooded places for hunting and enough good farming land to attract settlers. The tribes have come down from their hill forts peacefully here. Noviomagus Regnenis—the New Market of the Kingdom Tribes—is a small town on the modern model.”

“What makes this different from any other tribal capital?” asked Aelianus.

“Togidubnus.”

“So what makes
him
special?”

“Not a lot!” I grunted.

Helena shot me a mock-severe look. “Convenient birth and mighty friends.” With her serious air allied to a lighthearted tone, she could make plain facts sound satirical.

“Would he introduce me to his friends?” Justinus said, grinning.

“Nobody with any taste would let you near their friends!” Aelianus snorted.

“Has Togi good taste?”

“No, just top pals and a lot of money,” I said.

“His taste may be exquisite,” Helena murmured. “Or he may simply employ advisers who know class. He is able to call on all types of specialists—”

“Who charge huge fees and know how to spend lavishly,” I grumbled. “Then Togi gets our famously frugal Emperor to foot the bill. No wonder Vespasian wants me there. I bet the invoices for this pretty pavilion need scrutinizing at arm’s length using blacksmith’s tongs.”

Helena Justina was a dogged lass. With only a slight rattle of bracelets to reproach me, she tried to reassert sense. Too much tetchy prejudice was rampaging through this group of exhausted travelers. “Togidubnus straddles the transition where barbarian Britain became a new Roman province. Once, thirty years ago, his tribe, the Atrebates, had an old king called Verica, who was under pressure from rivals—the fierce Catuvellauni who were marauding across the southern interior.”

“Fighting fellows.” To the fore of the Great Rebellion when I was there. “Good haters and encroachers. Boudicca was not their queen, but they galloped after her with panache. The Catuvellauni would follow a dung beetle into battle, if it led them to some other tribe’s arable pastureland—better still, to slicing off Roman heads.”

Helena waved an arm to silence me. “A huge system of earthwork entrenchments protects the Noviomagus area from raids by chariots,” she continued. “But in the reign of Claudius, there was anxiety nonetheless; Verica called in the Romans to help him fight off trouble. That was when Togidubnus, who himself may already have been singled out to take over as king, met a young Roman commander on his first posting called Titus Flavius Vespasianus.”

“So the invasion landed at this place?” Justinus was not even born when the details of Claudius’ mad British venture came flooding back to Rome. I could barely recall the excitement myself.

“One main thrust took place on the east coast,” I said. “Many tribes who opposed us were grouped around their sanctum, a place called Camulodunum, north of the Tamesis. No question, though; our takeover was facilitated by the Atrebates. It was well before my time, but I guess they may have hosted a second—safer—touchdown base for the landing force. Certainly when Vespasian’s legion moved west to conquer the tribes there, he operated out of what is now Noviomagus.”

“What was it then?”

“A bunch of huts on the beach presumably. The Second Augusta would have thrown up solid barracks, stores, and granaries—then they began a subtle system of lending Roman builders and fine materials to the tribal chief. Now he wants marble cladding and Corinthian capitals. To indicate his benevolence to subservient peoples, Vespasian is paying.”

“Having a friendly base when your army drops anchor in remote and hostile territory would count for a lot.” Justinus could work things out. He shifted uneasily. Splinters from the crude bench on which we were perched were working their way through the wool of his tunic.

“And Togidubnus was swift to offer beer and bannocks,” Aelianus sneered. “In the hope of reward!”

“He welcomed a chance to be Romanized,” Helena amended moderately. “Uncle Gaius doesn’t say, but Togidubnus may even have been one of the tribal chief’s young sons who had been taken to Rome—”

“Hostage?” asked Aelianus.

“Honored guest,” his sister reproved him. She had all the tact in her family.

“Being civilized?”

“Tutored.”

“Spoiled out of his mind?”

“Exposed to the refining benefits of our culture.”

“Judging by his desire to replicate the Palatine,” I joined in the cynical backchat, “Togi has definitely seen Nero’s Golden House. Now he wants a palace just like it. He does sound like one of those exotic princelings who were brought up in Rome, then exported back to their homeland as polite allies, who knew how to fold their serviette at a banquet.”

“Just how big is this fantasy house he’s being given?” Aelianus demanded.

Helena produced a rough sketch plan from her uncle’s letter. Hilaris was no artist, but he had added a scale bar. “It has four long wings. About five hundred feet in either direction—plus pleasure gardens on all sides, suitable outbuilding complexes, kitchen gardens, and so forth.”

“This is in the town?”

“No. This is dramatically set apart from the town.”

“So where does he live at the moment?”

Cautious, Helena consulted her document. “First he occupied a timber dwelling beside the supply base—provincial, though impressive in scale. After the invasion had succeeded, Claudius or Nero showed imperial gratitude; then the King acquired a big, masonry, Roman-style complex to demonstrate how rich and powerful he was. That is still there. Now that he has proved himself a staunch ally in a crisis again—”

“You mean he supported Vespasian’s bid for Emperor?”

“He did not oppose it,” I said dourly.

“The legions in Britain were equivocal?” Even Aelianus must have done some homework.

“The Second, Vespasian’s old legion”—
my
legion—“were always behind him. But there was a weak governor and the other legions behaved oddly. They ditched the governor, in fact; then they actually ran Britain themselves with an army council—but we don’t talk about mutiny. It was a time of civil war. Afterwards, all sorts of peculiarities were scratched out of documents and discreetly forgotten. Anyway, that’s the kind of crazy province Britain has always been.”

“If the legions wavered, even lukewarm allegiance from a king was a bonus,” Justinus added. “For Vespasian, it would have had reassurance and propaganda value.”

“Judging by the size of Vespasian’s honorarium,
he
thinks Togidubnus was thrilled to see him as Emperor,” Helena decided. “They look unlikely friends, perhaps. But Vespasian and Togidubnus were both young men on the make together back in the invasion days. Vespasian has founded his whole political life on his military success then; Togidubnus took over from the ancient Verica. He acquired the status of a respected ally—and by one means or another, he obtained substantial wealth.”

“How—”

“Don’t ask where the money comes from,” I intervened.

“He is bribed?” Justinus jumped in with the libel anyway.

“When you conquer a province,” his brother explained to him, “some tribes get catapults hurling big rocks up their backsides—while others are courteously rewarded with ample gifts.”

“I suppose the respective financial benefits have been carefully worked out by generations of palace actuaries?” Justinus still sounded sharp.

I grinned. “The dear tribes can decide for themselves whether they choose a javelin in the ribs and having their women raped, or cartloads of wine, some nice secondhand diadems, and a delegation of elderly prostitutes from Artemisia setting up shop at the tribal capital.”

“All in the name of progress and culture!” Justinus groused dryly.

“The Atrebates
do
see themselves as progressive, so they took the loot.”

“Vespasian is not a sentimentalist,” Helena concluded, “but he must remember Togidubnus from the special time of his own youth. Now they are both elderly, and old men grow nostalgic. Just wait—all three of you. I hope I’m there to see you all talking about the good old days!”

I hoped she would be. I nearly said that when one day I started dithering and dreaming, the last thing I would want was a dank, frescoed house in Britain. Still, you never know!

Justinus had captured the plan of the King’s great new house. He was staring at it with all the envy of a newly married man who was lodged at home with his parents. Jealousy gave way to a more distant look in his dark eyes. Being a cynic, I did not believe our sentimental hero was nostalgic for his Baetican bride of barely a few months, Claudia Rufina.

Claudia had not accompanied us on this trip. She was a game girl, but she had been led to believe Justinus would be returning to Rome. He must have persuaded her to wait behind. I watched him thoughtfully. In some ways I knew him better than his family or friends; I had traveled with Quintus Camillus Justinus on a dangerous mission among barbarian tribes before. I had a fair idea that when he grew nostalgic, there was an unreachable, idealized beauty filling his mind. We would find golden-haired women in Britain who looked like the woman in Germany who still featured in his dreams.

Aelianus, being a bachelor, had the right to enjoy all the amenities of travel, including romantic ones. Instead, he had appointed himself the man of sense who ran our show. So now he was staring in amazement at the mansio landlord’s enormous bill.

Helena went upstairs to feed the baby and settle Julia. We were a large enough group to commandeer ourselves a whole dormitory most nights. I preferred to keep my party together and to exclude mad-eyed thieving strangers. The women accepted shared accommodation calmly, though the boys had been shocked at first. Privacy is not a Roman necessity; our room only needed to be cheap and convenient. We all just fell on our hard narrow beds in our clothes and slept like logs. Hyspale snored. She would.

I stayed behind with a wine flagon now, keeping an eye on Maia. She was talking to a man. I’m no Roman paternalist. She was free to converse. But a woman who distances herself from the party she travels with can be seen by strangers as up for anything. In fact, Maia was waiting in tense fury for her nightmare removal from Rome to be over; she seemed so introverted and hostile that people hardly ever bothered her. But she was attractive, seated slightly apart at the end of our bench, a well-rounded piece with dark curly hair in a braided crimson dress. She did have clothes and necessities with her; a packed trunk had been “discovered” on board ship and we kept up a pretense that her children had arranged it.