XXXIX

it was natural to retrace my steps down the corridor, via my own quarters. I needed to calm down. I found Helena, and told her what had happened.

"That paintbrush had arrived there since last night. Opening the baths so anybody could get in was deliberate, not just negligence by workmen. I've spent a morning allowing myself to be detained and delayed by Alexas and I think by Strephon earlier. Half the project team must have been rushing about behind my back."

"To cause confusion? As a set-up it's not very subtle, Marcus. If the young painter is innocent-'

"His innocence is not the point," I said.

Helena pursed her lips, her great eyes dark with concern. "Why do you think he has been set up as the culprit? He has offended someone?"

"Well, he drinks, flirts, gets into scrapes and hits people." Mind you, Justinus still liked him, despite being punched. "Then, too, I have seen his work. He is a strikingly good artist."

"Jealousy?"

"Could be."

"It sounds as if half the project team conspired to lay this false clue," Helena said angrily. "So did the project team or some of them- kill Pomponius?"

"I'm not ready to decide." My mood cleared slightly. "But one thing's for sure, the project team really hates the new project manager."

Helena knew at once what I had decreed at that morning's meeting. "I see! You want your own chance to be dogmatic and overbearing?"

I grinned. "And I'm ignorant of professional practice too, as was pointed out. I'm perfect for the job. With these talents, I could have been an architect!"

I had a quick word with Maia. She had little to add. Whoever she heard at the baths that morning had walked past the cold room briskly, then returned to the exit soon afterwards. That fitted. They must have gone into the hot rooms, dumped the brush and done a flit.

Now Maia had reflected on how she would have felt if she stumbled on the dead man. She confessed that she regularly lurked in the bath house alone, at hours when she hoped no one else would be around. She had gone there last night, for instance, she told me guiltily.

"This was after I left for Novio?"

"After dinner."

"Stupid! Maia Favonia, your mother brought you up to know that bathing on a full stomach can give you a seizure."

"It can give you a lot of thinking time too," Maia growled. I preferred not to know what she was thinking about. Exploring the dark elements of my sister's soul would have to wait.

"Strangers might assume you are making assignations."

"I don't give a damn what anyone thinks."

"You never did! So you were at the crime scene last night, Maia. Tell me about that. Tell me every little detail."

Maia was now prepared to help. "I knew someone had gone through ahead of me. When I arrived there were clothes in two of the bunkers."

"Two?"

"I can count, Marcus."

"You can be rude too! Describe this clothing."

Maia had worked for a tailor in her youth. "Bright stuff in one- expensive cloth, untidily crammed in. Unusual; jacquard cloth, maybe with silk in the weft. In another row of bunkers, there was a plain white tunic- wool, a common weave folded neatly, with a man's belt on top."

"Was the expensive material dyed brown and turquoise?" She nodded. "Pomponius. So who was the other man? Could it have been Cyprianus, who discovered the corpse? Was your visit just before I came home from Noviomagus?"

"No, quite a lot earlier."

"Before the crime was committed. Anyway," I remembered, "Cyprianus was wearing blue last night. You never saw these men?"

"I decided not to stay," said Maia. "I reckoned they were in the hot rooms, but they could have stayed there hours." The three hot rooms lay in sequence, normal procedure for a small suite. People had to come out the same way they went in, meeting anybody following. A woman alone would not want to be relaxing in a tiny towel when men strolled back through.

"So you decided not to wait?"

Maia continued her reluctance. Tin perished in this province. I could not face shivering in the cold room, applying my oil at a dawdle, while I waited to hear them leave. I thought I would go back this morning but I'm still thwarted!"

"Sweetheart, just be glad you didn't trip naked into the last caldarium while Pomponius was croaking on the floor."

"He was a man," said Maia grimly. "One who thought he ran the world I expect I could have borne it."

I was leaving when she added in an offhand tone, "The one with the white tunic had hung a bag on the cloak hook."

She was able to describe it, with the accuracy of an alert girl who took a practical interest. She described it so well, in fact, I knew whose bag it was.

As I set off to go to the painters' hut, I saw that studies were afoot for incorporating the previous palace into the new design. Strephon and Magnus were in deep discussion, while the surveyor's assistants stood around meekly with measuring equipment.

It looked a busier version of the scene I saw a few days ago. Magnus, distinguished by his smart outfit and grey hair, was setting up his elaborate diopter while more junior staff had to settle for the basic gro ma Some were responsible for raising twenty-foot-high marked posts that helped in taking levels, while others were awkwardly deploying a huge set square to mark a right angle for the initial setting-out of the intersection of the two wings of the new palace. As they struggled to work close up against the building, hindered further by its cloak of scaffold, I overheard Magnus telling them to dispense with the cumbersome square in favour of simple pegs and strings. He had straightened up and caught my eye. We exchanged cool nods.

First things first. A fresh breeze riffled through my hair as I marched off to the hutments outside the west end of the site. I had crossed the great platform, striding over the flat area which would one day be the great courtyard garden and picking my way over the dug trenches of the formal west wing and the first blocks laid for its grand stylobate. There was action on site, but it seemed subdued. I could hear hammering from the yard where I knew stone blocks were shaped and faced, and from a different direction came the rasp of a saw slicing marble. Sunlight, bright but in Britain not glaring, gently warmed my spirits.

Ahead of me scavenging seagulls wheeled above the wooded area where the carts were parked. I could smell woodsmoke again from the camp. I walked up the track quietly, passing the mosaicist's hut, which seemed devoid of life. I stopped at the adjoining home of Blandus and his lad. Its door was open; someone was inside. It was not Blandus.

He had his back to me, but was standing at a slight angle so I could see he was working on a small still life. It was fresh fruit in a glass bowl. He had created the arrangement of apples and was now adding delicate white lines to represent the ribs of a translucent comport. Unsure whether he had heard me, I stood still, admiring the flushed rotundity of the ripened fruit and the exquisitely hinted glassware. The young painter seemed absorbed.

He was a big lad. I could see one protruding ear, half covered by unkempt dark hair which would have been improved by a serious trim and work with a teasing comb. His clothes were covered with multicoloured paint splashes, though the rest of him looked clean enough, given that he was about eighteen and a thousand miles from home. He worked steadily, adept and confident. His design was already live in his head, needing only those thoughtful, rhythmic brush strokes to create it on the wooden panel.

I cleared my throat. He did not react. He knew I was there.

I folded my arms. "Creativity for your own pleasure is a high ideal but my advice is, never waste effort unless you persuade some half wit client to pay for it."