XXXV

Ii ed the way taking the indoor route. There was no point attracting attention until I had seen for myself. We went into the old house via my suite, enabling me to drop oft my outer clothes and collect a flare. Helena appeared, but I shook my head in warning and she withdrew, calling Maia and Hyspale after her. My grim face would have told Helena there was something wrong. Then we made our approach through the secluded inner corridor.

Cyprianus had found Pomponius in the baths. At least this corpse would be fresh. It was only that morning I was arguing with him. The thought crossed my mind professionally that I was glad I had an alibi tonight.

I went in alone. I grasped the torch in one hand, my sword in the other. Neither was much use for dispelling tear. When you know you are about to see a dead body your nerves tingle, however many times you have done it before. The flaming brand caused wild shadows on the pink stuccoed walls and my sword gave no reassurance. I have no truck with the supernatural, but if the architect's ghost was still whistling around the hot rooms, it had only me to haunt.

The entrance and changing room were faintly lit with oil lamps at floor level. Most were running out of fuel. Some had already burned down to nothing; a few guttered madly, their flames lengthening and smoking before their last moments. A slave would have poured fresh oil when dusk first fell. People normally bathe before dinner; the big rush would have been some hours ago. Only the fact that this was a large community, one with possible latecomers who might have some rank, would cause the bath house to be kept working late. In palaces and public buildings, men who have been held up by professional duties or newly arrived travellers have to be provided for.

In one of the clothes lockers sat folded garments. Rich cloth in vibrant colours- turquoise contrasted with brown stripes. All the other cubbyholes were empty. Nothing hung on any of the wooden cloak pegs. A few discarded linen towels scattered the benches.

There were no slaves present. A stoker must keep the furnace alive to power the hot-water boiler, but his access to the stoke-hole would be outside. Since there were no entrance tees and anyone could use the communal oil flasks, attendants were unnecessary. Cleaners would mop floors early in the morning and perhaps from time to time during the day. The towel supply would be replenished. At this hour, there was normally no staff activity.

The enclosed rooms, with their massively thick walls, were hushed. No splashing of dippers or slapping of masseurs1 fists disturbed the dead silence. I glanced in at the swimming-pool area to the left of the entrance. The water shimmered with slight movements, but not enough to create lapping sounds. No one had disturbed the surface recently. There were no wet footprints around the perimeter.

Cyprianus had told me where to look. I had to go to the hottest steam room. Treading carefully in my leather-soled outdoor boots, I crossed the first room, entered the second, then checked the large square tepidanum with its plunge bath. There were lingering odours of cleansers and body oils, but the room had begun to cool and the scents were now growing faint. An abandoned bone strigil caught my eye, but I thought I had seen the same one there before.

There seemed nothing unusual. Nothing any late arrival has not witnessed at any commercial bath house where the ticket woman has already left and the hot water has cooled down. And most private baths would be like this after the stoker went to dinner. You could rush through and still end up clean enough, but there would be no real comfort for your bones.

Even in the ascending heat of the sweat rooms, the floor and flue convection was now fading slowly, although bare feet might still need the protection of wooden-soled slippers. I went into the third steam room. The body was lying on the floor. There was no sign of life. Cyprianus was right about that.

At about the time I found the corpse, I heard noises: someone behind me in the outer regions was now wedging open heavy doors to cool the inner rooms. Sensible. Sweat was pouring off me. Fully dressed, I felt damp and unhappy. My concentration was slipping, when I needed to be alert. I put my sword down and wiped my face roughly with my arm.

Take notes, Falco.

I had no tablet or stylus but memory was always my best tool. Well, Hades, I can still see the scene today. Pomponius was lying face down.

His hair was wet, but its colour and florid style made him recognisable. He was turned slightly, partly on his left side, facing away from me; his knees were slightly drawn up so the posture was a curve. One arm, the left, was under him.

Someone with poor eyesight might suppose he had fainted. I spotted at once that a very long thin cord was wound tightly around his neck. Several times. A loose end was caught under his right arm; it trailed backwards, then meandered over the floor towards me as I stood near his feet. He was wearing slip-on bath clogs. If there had been a struggle, they would probably have come off. A modesty towel encircled the body, loosened yet still more or less in situ around the waist.

A small pool of pallid, watery blood was near his head. Cyprianus, horrified, had warned me what that was. He had pulled up the body, ready to turn it over. Shocked by what he saw, he had let the corpse fail back.

I braced myself. I steadied my foot against the centre of the dead man's spine to stop him sliding across the floor, and pulled his upper arm hard. He was slippery with sweat, steam and oil, so I had to change my hold and grasp the wrist more firmly. In one strong movement I hauled him right over onto his back.

Tlwn I looked. One of his eyes was gouged right out. I stood back. I managed not to gag, but a hand came up over my mouth involuntarily.

Cyprianus now came in behind me. He had brought spare towels to dry the running sweat off our faces.

"Aargh… there's something about eyes."

"He's been stabbed too." My voice sounded dull. Maybe it was due to the acoustics in here. "You probably didn't notice-'

"No," he admitted. "I just ran."

In the throat and on the naked torso there were wounds, made with something that caused extremely small entrance and exit cuts. Cyprianus pulled a face. "What caused such wounds, Falco?"

"It's curious. They are almost bodkin-sized. Could a woman be responsible?" I pondered, looking around for inspiration. The weapon was no longer in the room. Little blood had escaped. These stabbings could well have been done after death.

A bodkin? Would a woman have had the strength to strangle Pomponius, apparently without him fighting back? The towel that must have been tucked around his midriff as he bathed was the usual useless napkin that you have to tighten up every five minutes. It would have fallen oil straight away it he did anything energetic- even if he tried twisting around quickly. Could it have been placed back over him after the killing? Probably not. It was not just lying on the corpse; before I moved him, and although Cypnanus had made an attempt, the linen cloth was still wrapped right under his hips.

It was the strangling that did for him, I was sure of that. Either somebody came up behind him unexpectedly, or he was relaxed in the 'safe' presence of a social acquaintance. Most people sit in steam rooms on the side ledges, facing inwards to the room, backs to the wall. So coming up from behind was less likely.

Suppose this: Pomponius, bathing in the normal sequence, had reached the hottest room. After a hard day, irritating me and others, he had been full of torpor. Someone he may not have liked but whom he knew came in, sat fairly close, alongside maybe. If they had carried any large weapons, he would have seen. So they had a string, coiled up in the palm of the hand perhaps, and a small blade of some kind, also concealed. They whipped out the string and wound it around the architect's neck very fast they stood up to do that, probably. They were strong enough to hold him still. (Or perhaps they had help but either way I could see no bruising on his arms.) He stopped breathing. To make sure or to exact further vengeance, they stabbed him and scooped out his eye. The eye could have been extracted with the same stabbing weapon, pushed in and then turned in a circular movement, like shucking an oyster. Finally, they lowered the body to the floor. My guess was that the whole incident had been very quick.