A Body in the Bathhouse by Lindsey Davis Page A

quarrels. I knew Aelianus thought it was time that his brother and Claudia moved out. Well, he would. “We are not going to earn much on this, are we, Falco?” He wanted Justinus to suffer.
    “No.”
    “I see it as an orientation exercise,” Aelianus philosophized.
    “Aulus,” snarled his brother, “you are so pompous, you really should be in the senate.”
    I stepped in fast. “Informing is about days of nuisance work, while you long for a big enquiry. Don’t despair,” I chaffed them cheerily. “I had one once.”
    I gave them a few ideas for following up, though they were losing heart. So was I. The best ploy would be to drop this, but to store our notes handily under the bed. One day Gloccus and Cotta would return to Rome. Those types always do.
    Whilst my runners pursued our uninspiring leads, I devoted myself to family issues. One joyless task was on behalf of my sister Maia; I ended her tenancy on the house Anacrites had trashed. After I gave the keys back to the landlord, I continued to walk that way, keeping watch. If I had caught Anacrites lurking in the area, I would have spitted him, roasted him, then thrown him to the homeless dogs.
    In fact, something worse happened. One evening I spotted a woman I recognized, talking to one of Maia’s neighbors. I had told a few trusted people that my sister had moved away to a place of safety; I never mentioned where. Friends understood the situation. Nothing would be said to a casual enquirer. Her neighbor was now shaking her head unhelpfully.
    But I knew the infiltrator. She had dangerous skills. Her paid task was finding people who were attempting to stay hidden. If she found them—that is,
when
she found them—they always regretted it.
    This woman was called Perella. Her arrival confirmed my worst fears: Anacrites was having the place observed. He had sent one of his best operatives too. Perella might look like a comfortable, harmless bundle who was only after female gossip. She was past her prime; nothing would change that. But under the dark frumpy gown, she had the body of a professional dancer, athletic and tough as tarred twine. Her intelligence would shame most men; her persistence and courage frightened even me.
    She worked for the Chief Spy. She was damned good—and she enjoyed that fact. She usually worked alone. Scruples did not trouble her. She would tackle everything; she was utterly professional. If she had been given the ultimate order, I knew that she would kill.
    My solution was easy. Sometimes the Fates must have a drop too much to drink; while they lie down groaning with a headache, they forget to screw you.
    A way out arrived the same evening, when I reached home. The lads and I had arranged to hold a final consultation about the missing builders. Aelianus and Justinus had discovered something that day that made them think we should call off our search.
    “Gloccus and Cotta are way out of reach.” Aelianus used a nasty smirk sometimes.
    I was too upset by Perella; I just rambled, with half my mind on it: “So where are they? A yurt in darkest Scythia? While some tradesmen dream of retiring to a tasteless southern villa, with a pergola that a Babylonian king would envy, do bathhouse contractors opt for being smoked to oblivion with filthy drugs in exotic eastern tents?”
    “Worse, Falco.” Suddenly I knew what was coming. Still too full of himself, Aelianus continued, “There is some large project overseas—building specialists are being sent from Rome. It is regarded as a hard posting, but we were told it is surprisingly popular.”
    “High rates of pay,” Justinus inserted dryly.
    They were trying to be mysterious, but I already knew of a project that would fit.
    “Do you want to guess, Falco?”
    “No.”
    I leaned back, cradling my head. I sucked my teeth. This was normal man-management: I looked supercilious while they looked shifty. “Right. We’ll go there.”
    “You don’t know where it is,” complained Aelianus,