Compitalia have passed.’ ”
He grinned. “They do cheap house extensions, incompetent remodeling, occasional contract work for professional landlords. Presumably the landlords’ fees are larger, so the incentive to turn up on-site is greater.”
“And landlords employ project managers who flay slackers,” Aelianus suggested. I said nothing.
“Half their clients are in dispute with them for years afterwards,” Justinus continued. “They seem to live with it. When it looks like it’s becoming a court case, Gloccus and Cotta cave in; they will sometimes bodge repairs, or a favorite trick is to hand over a free statue plinth as supposed compensation.”
“Offering a half-price rude statue that the client doesn’t want?”
“And thus squeezing even more cash from him! How did you know, Falco?”
“Instinct, my dear Quintus. Aulus—contribute?”
Aelianus squared up slightly. He was slapdash by nature, but a generous superior would say he might repay the effort of training him. I was not sure I called him a worthwhile investment. “Gloccus lives by the Portico of Livia with a skinny drab who yelled at me. Her hysteria seemed genuine—she hasn’t seen him for some weeks.”
“He left without warning and without paying the rent?”
“Astute, Falco!” Could I bear this patronizing swine? “She described him rather colorfully as a fat, half-bald slob spawned by a rat on a stormy night. Other people agreed he’s paunchy and untidy, but he has a secret charm that no one could quite identify. They can’t see how he gets away with it, seems the consensus.”
“Cotta?”
“Cotta lives—or lived—alone in a third-floor set of rooms over a street market. He’s not there now. No one locally ever saw much of him, and no one knows where he’s gone.”
“What’s he like?”
“Skinny and secretive. Regarded as a bit of an odd case. Never really wanted to be a builder—who can blame him?—and rarely seemed happy with his lot. A woman who sold him cheese sometimes on his way home in the evening said his older brother is something in the medical line—an apothecary perhaps? Cotta grew up in his shadow and always envied him.”
“Ah, a thwarted-ambition story!” That sort of tale always makes me sarcastic. “Doesn’t your heart bleed? My brother
saves
lives, so
I’ll
smash in people’s heads to show I’m a big rissole too. … How do their workmen view their princes?”
“The laborers were surprisingly slow to insult them,” marveled Justinus. Perhaps it was his first experience of the mindless loyalty of men in trade—men who know they may have to work with the same bastards again.
“Subcontractors and suppliers?”
“Buttoned up. They, too, stick with their own.”
“Nobody would even tell us who’s missing,” Aelianus said, scowling.
“Hmm.” I gave them a mysterious half smile. “Try this: the dead man is a tile grouter called Stephanus.” Aelianus started to glance at Justinus, then remembered they were on bad terms. I paused, to show I had noticed the reaction. “He was thirty-four, bearded, no distinguishing features; had a two-year-old son by a waitress; was known for his hot temper. He thought Gloccus was a turd who had diddled his previous week’s wages. On the day he disappeared, Stephanus had gone to work wearing a worn, but still respectable, pair of site boots that had black thongs, one with a newly stitched repair.”
They were silent for only a moment. Justinus got there first. “The waitress found out that you were working on the murder, and came to ask about the missing father of her son?”
“Smart boy. To celebrate, it’s your turn to buy the drinks.”
“Forget it!” Justinus exclaimed with a laugh. “I’ve a bride who thinks it’s time we stopped living with my parents—and I’ve no savings.”
The senator’s house at the Capena Gate was a spacious spread—but having many rooms to flounce off to only created more opportunities for
He grinned. “They do cheap house extensions, incompetent remodeling, occasional contract work for professional landlords. Presumably the landlords’ fees are larger, so the incentive to turn up on-site is greater.”
“And landlords employ project managers who flay slackers,” Aelianus suggested. I said nothing.
“Half their clients are in dispute with them for years afterwards,” Justinus continued. “They seem to live with it. When it looks like it’s becoming a court case, Gloccus and Cotta cave in; they will sometimes bodge repairs, or a favorite trick is to hand over a free statue plinth as supposed compensation.”
“Offering a half-price rude statue that the client doesn’t want?”
“And thus squeezing even more cash from him! How did you know, Falco?”
“Instinct, my dear Quintus. Aulus—contribute?”
Aelianus squared up slightly. He was slapdash by nature, but a generous superior would say he might repay the effort of training him. I was not sure I called him a worthwhile investment. “Gloccus lives by the Portico of Livia with a skinny drab who yelled at me. Her hysteria seemed genuine—she hasn’t seen him for some weeks.”
“He left without warning and without paying the rent?”
“Astute, Falco!” Could I bear this patronizing swine? “She described him rather colorfully as a fat, half-bald slob spawned by a rat on a stormy night. Other people agreed he’s paunchy and untidy, but he has a secret charm that no one could quite identify. They can’t see how he gets away with it, seems the consensus.”
“Cotta?”
“Cotta lives—or lived—alone in a third-floor set of rooms over a street market. He’s not there now. No one locally ever saw much of him, and no one knows where he’s gone.”
“What’s he like?”
“Skinny and secretive. Regarded as a bit of an odd case. Never really wanted to be a builder—who can blame him?—and rarely seemed happy with his lot. A woman who sold him cheese sometimes on his way home in the evening said his older brother is something in the medical line—an apothecary perhaps? Cotta grew up in his shadow and always envied him.”
“Ah, a thwarted-ambition story!” That sort of tale always makes me sarcastic. “Doesn’t your heart bleed? My brother
saves
lives, so
I’ll
smash in people’s heads to show I’m a big rissole too. … How do their workmen view their princes?”
“The laborers were surprisingly slow to insult them,” marveled Justinus. Perhaps it was his first experience of the mindless loyalty of men in trade—men who know they may have to work with the same bastards again.
“Subcontractors and suppliers?”
“Buttoned up. They, too, stick with their own.”
“Nobody would even tell us who’s missing,” Aelianus said, scowling.
“Hmm.” I gave them a mysterious half smile. “Try this: the dead man is a tile grouter called Stephanus.” Aelianus started to glance at Justinus, then remembered they were on bad terms. I paused, to show I had noticed the reaction. “He was thirty-four, bearded, no distinguishing features; had a two-year-old son by a waitress; was known for his hot temper. He thought Gloccus was a turd who had diddled his previous week’s wages. On the day he disappeared, Stephanus had gone to work wearing a worn, but still respectable, pair of site boots that had black thongs, one with a newly stitched repair.”
They were silent for only a moment. Justinus got there first. “The waitress found out that you were working on the murder, and came to ask about the missing father of her son?”
“Smart boy. To celebrate, it’s your turn to buy the drinks.”
“Forget it!” Justinus exclaimed with a laugh. “I’ve a bride who thinks it’s time we stopped living with my parents—and I’ve no savings.”
The senator’s house at the Capena Gate was a spacious spread—but having many rooms to flounce off to only created more opportunities for
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