'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.
There could have been more than one assailant. One each side of him? A little too threatening when they first took up position. Say this: one sat beside him, one at a distance. The near one had the string. The second rushed up when the action started. He maybe had the concealed bodkin-like tool.
I bent and made myself unwind the string, jerking it from the folds of flesh into which it had dug so cruelly. Someone really pulled this tight. Loop and tug, loop and tug again… If Pomponius sat to relax in the steam the way so many of us do, leaning forward with his II
elbows on his knees and his head bowed, it would have been easy to |
collar him. Especially if he expected nothing. Both ends of the string had lain to the left of the head, as if the killer attacked from that side. I
When I unwound the string fully, I found a couple of small knots |
along its length. They were very old, made so long ago that they were now solid and impossible to untie. The string was a firm, tightly twisted type, with no stretch. It seemed to be waxed, and was blackened with ancient dirt. Both tree ends were tied in little loops.
While I was bending over, I had noticed the wet floor was muddy from my outdoor boots. Circular footprint smudges, in black watery slurry, marked every step I had taken. Cypnanus, now booted, had made the same mucky trail. There had been no other dirt when I first came in. None I had noticed in the other rooms either.
'Cypnanus, I take it you were bathing when you found him? No clothes? Bare feet?'
'Slip-ons. Why?'
'Look what a mess our feet are making now.'
He nodded. 'The floor was clean. Sure of it.'
'So, whoever it was, when they entered this caldariuin they too looked like an innocent bather or bathers. You didn't see anyone?'
'No. I thought I was alone. That made it more of a shock when I walked in here.'
'No one went out past you, as you first entered the baths?'
'No, Falco. Must have been long gone.'
Not so long gone as all that, probably. He may have just missed meeting the killer or killers face to face.
'The next question must be: did they come here on purpose to kill? No question, in fact. Who goes into a bath house equipped with a length of twine and a bodkin?'
'Could a strigil have caused these wounds, Falco?'
'Too big. Snapped and splintered, maybe yes but these entry wounds are very neat. Whatever made them was smooth, not broken. Like a poultry needle, or something medical.' I made a private note to discover if Alexas had an alibi.
Cypnanus crouched briefly and checked out one of the stab wounds. 'Straight,' he confirmed. 'In and out through the same channel. Not a curved implement.'
Looking around, I found strigils lying right on the water basin. There were three decorative bronze implements with fully right angled curves, in various sizes. They were clearly made as a set, along with a globular oil flask and dipper, all of which could hang on a fancy ring. I sniffed the oil: rampantly expensive Indian nard.
'I've seen Pomponius scraping himself down with those,' Cypnanus said. The architect's strigils had smooth rounded ends, and were all undamaged. No bloodstains either.
We were both expiring with the heat. We left the corpse and sought fresh air.
helena had followed me to the bath house. Looking anxious, she was waiting in the entrance, accompanied by Nux and our bodyguard. I asked the Briton to go and tell the King what had happened, then to arrange quietly to close off the baths, leaving the corpse inside for the moment. That way nobody else would discover the dead man.
'It's late; it's dark; half the people from the site are off in town. Let's keep this quiet until morning. Then I'll call a site meeting and start an enquiry. I always like to examine witnesses before they hear what's happened.' The Briton looked worried. 'This is my job,' I said patiently. 'Work I do for the Emperor.'
I He gave me a look as if he felt perhaps I caused such tragedies by my very presence. He still seemed not to believe I had an official role, but toddled off to report to the King. Togidubnus would know the position. Vespasian would have told him I was to investigate the rash of 'accidental' deaths. Little did we think that would include the project manager.
'What are we to do now?' Cyprianus groaned. He sat on one of the benches in the changing area. I dumped myself nearby; Nux jumped up on another bench and lay there with her big hairy paws together, taking an intelligent interest; Helena sat alongside me. With the cloak I had earlier discarded pulled tightly around her body, she was |
frowning. I told her the details rapidly, in a low voice.
I was tired. Shock had worsened how I felt. Nonetheless, I stared
hard at the clerk of works. 'Cyprianus, you were on the scene within
H
a short time of the murder; your evidence is crucial. I shall have to ask you to go through it sometime. Let's start now.'
Like most witnesses who sense they have become suspects and must explain themselves, he showed a flash of resentment. Like the intelligent ones, he then realised it was best to accept the situation and clear himself.
'I had a long day, Falco. Meetings, arguments with the men. I stayed on site, pottering. I must have been the last one there.'
'That's usual?'
'I like it. Especially when things are going wrong. You get time to think. You can make sure no bastards are hanging around, up to no good.'
'And were they?'
'Not once they saw me doing my rounds. Most of the types who enjoy plotting had scarpered into town early.'
'Because of the Mandumerus exposure? Do you expect trouble?'
'Who knows? In the end, they want the work. That helps encourage them.'
I sat quiet, wearily.
Helena Justina adjusted her wrappings, turning one end of the cloak back over her left shoulder like a proper modest stole, and tightening the rest around her body so her long skirt flounced from under it, hiding legs that deserved display. 'I heard about the quarrel this morning between Pomponius and Falco,' she said. 'Wasn't there
