Finished Business

by David Wishart

  We reclined. Messalina gave me a sunny smile and what was almost a wink. She was a looker, sure, always had been, and even now in her mid-twenties and two husbands down the road with her slim figure, soft features and clear skin, she could’ve passed for ten years younger, easy; minimum of make-up and jewellery, although I noticed that she was wearing a ring with a ruby in it the size of a quail’s egg that must’ve cost Claudius an arm and a leg.

  ‘Why, Cousin Corvinus,’ she said. ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, it is.’ I kept my voice neutral.

  ‘A pleasant one, of course.’ She laughed and held her hands out to the slave coming round with the perfumed water. ‘And Perilla’s looking extremely well. For her age.’

  Uh-huh. I glanced sideways, but fortunately the lady was already in deep conversation with Vinicius, as was Livilla with Procula. It looked like Messalina, Vinicianus and me were going to form a threesome. At least for the moment. I held my own hands over the basin while the jug slave poured.

  ‘So, Corvinus,’ Vinicianus said. ‘What’s this sleuthing business my uncle mentioned? It sounds fascinating.’

  The slave behind the one with the water jug dried my hands with a napkin. Including the guy holding the basin, that made three of them. Obviously hand-washing duty was pretty labour-intensive: there was certainly no shortage of bought help around.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing much,’ I said.

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’ Messalina held up her cup without looking at the wine slave who was following behind the hand-rinse guys. He poured. ‘Quite the little busy bee, so I’m told.’

  I held up my own cup. The slave filled it.

  ‘Thanks, pal,’ I said. ‘Yeah, well, it keeps me off the streets and reasonably sober.’ It didn’t do either of those things, mind, but at a dinner party you’re not under oath.

  ‘Are you working on anything at the moment?’ Vinicianus said, lifting his cup for the slave.

  His tone was polite interest, no more. Uh-huh. Well, if that was how he wanted to play it, it was absolutely fine with me.

  ‘Actually, I am,’ I said. I sipped the wine and blinked as the taste registered. Shit, that was Caecuban! Real imperial Caecuban, from Gaius’s own cellar. By tagging along with Vinicius we’d obviously moved up a considerable notch on the drinks scale. ‘A guy by the name of Naevius Surdinus, murdered on his estate a couple of months back. You know him?’

  ‘I’d have recognized the face, yes, and I’ve certainly heard his name. But no, I didn’t know him, not personally.’ On the open side of the table, the slaves were laying out the starters. ‘How dreadful. Do you have any idea who killed him?’

  ‘I’m getting there,’ I said easily. ‘The actual perp, yes, because he was seen. A freedman with a distinctive scar or a birthmark on his left cheek.’ I took another swallow of wine. Beautiful! ‘You don’t happen to know who or whose that might be, do you?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. Why on earth should I?’

  I shrugged. ‘No reason. I’ve just got into the habit of asking people, that’s all.’ Interesting; very interesting. I’d been watching closely, and his eyelids had definitely flickered. The bastard was lying.

  ‘I had a freedman once,’ Messalina said, reaching for an olive. ‘Or rather Daddy did. He’d always been a bit strange as a slave. Talked to himself, you know? Muttered. Anyway, when he freed him Daddy set him up in a hardware shop. One day for no reason at all he picked up a vine-pruner’s knife from the bench and killed a customer with it. Slit his throat from ear to ear. The man had only come in for a set of door hinges.’ She smiled. ‘You can’t trust the poor dears – slaves and freedmen, I mean. They’re quite unreliable. Something to do with the breeding, I expect. Oh, lovely, we’ve got these little cheese and fig things again.’

  ‘I had a curious slave myself, actually.’ Vinicianus took a stuffed vine leaf from the dish next to him, put it on his plate and dissected it with his knife, frowning as he inspected the contents. ‘Curious in both senses of the word. The man was always poking, couldn’t leave anything alone. We had a stork’s nest on the roof one year, and he decided he’d go up and have a look at the eggs. Only he stepped on a loose tile, lost his balance, fell off the roof and broke his neck.’

  He raised his eyes and looked straight at me.

  Messalina laughed. ‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ she said. ‘Sometimes they are so silly, and then they’re their own worst enemies. Don’t you agree, Corvinus?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I do.’ I reached for the pickled cheese balls.

  No doubt about it. I’d been warned.

  There was a movement to my left, behind Messalina. I looked over. A Praetorian tribune in dress uniform, helmet under his arm, was approaching Gaius’s table. He stopped and saluted.

  ‘Oh, hell,’ Vinicianus muttered.

  I glanced back at him. ‘What’s going on?’ I said. ‘Trouble?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. Just the evening watchword.’

  ‘Watchword?’

  His face was set. ‘For the palace guard. It changes every night, and the emperor gives it. Nothing to do with us. Eat your dinner, Corvinus.’

  And he turned back to his plate. I’d noticed, though, that a lot of the other guests seemed to be taking a great interest in what was happening. There were a few suppressed giggles.

  Gaius was in deep conversation with the man next to him; a pantomime artist, by the look of him, with hair frizzed out in golden spangles. The Praetorian didn’t move. He stood at the salute, ramrod straight, waiting: not a young guy like Sextus Papinius or his brother Lucius had been, but a balding veteran, fifty if he was a day.

  Finally, Gaius looked up.

  ‘Ah, Chaerea, it’s you,’ he said. ‘You’ll be wanting tonight’s word, will you?’

  ‘Yes, Caesar.’ Although the words were barked out in strict military fashion, the voice didn’t match; it was high, almost feminine in pitch.

  ‘Right. Right. Let’s see now.’ Gaius frowned. ‘What was it yesterday? Not a single word; a phrase. On the tip of my tongue. Come on, man! Remind me!’

  There was a perceptible pause. Then the tribune said stiffly: ‘“Give us a hug”, Caesar.’

  The spangly haired guy next to Gaius choked on his wine and had to have his back pounded. All of the people occupying the nearby couches had been watching what was going on, and most of them, men and women, were laughing openly now, as if it were part of the evening’s entertainment. Which, in a way, I supposed it was. Certainly Gaius was showing all the signs of playing to the gallery here, and his sycophantic dinner pals were obviously eager to show their appreciation.

  ‘Tribune, now really!’ he said. ‘Not in front of all these people, please! Control yourself!’ The man still didn’t move, or answer; his arm was still up at the salute. Finally, Gaius tutted, rose from his couch and pulled the arm down. ‘Chaerea, darling, you are absolutely no fun whatsoever!’ he snapped. ‘Do you know that, you bum-face?’ He waited, but there was no answer. ‘All right, have it your own way. You’ll like this. The watchword for tonight is “Chubby-chops”. Oh, and you have to do this as well.’ He leaned forwards and planted a smacker of a kiss on each cheek. The room – at least the part of it where people were close enough to see – erupted. ‘Now bugger off, sunshine, I’m busy.’

  The tribune saluted smartly, turned and marched off. I had a good view of the man’s face as he left, and it radiated pure frustrated hatred.

  Gods!

  I turned back to Vinicianus, who had been arranging a selection of nibbles on his plate with deliberate care. ‘That happen every night?’ I said.

  ‘So I believe. With that particular tribune, at least.’ His voice and face were expressionless. ‘Caesar does like his little joke.’

  ‘Who was the tribune?’

  ‘A Cassius Chaerea.’

  ‘Cassius Chaerea?’

  That got me a slow look. ‘That’s what I said, yes.’

  ‘He a
ny relation to Cassius Longinus? The Asian governor?’

  ‘Not that I know of. A distant cousin, perhaps, but nothing direct.’

  ‘He is a bit of a bum-face, isn’t he?’ Messalina giggled, and looked up from her own selection of starters. ‘And that voice! I’m not surprised the emperor makes fun of him.’

  Vinicianus ignored her. ‘He was wounded in the groin, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘While he was serving with Germanicus on his Rhine campaign.’ Shit. Veteran was right. And Germanicus … just mention his name to any soldier any time in the twenty-odd years since the overrated bastard’s death – Praetorian or legionary, officer or grunt, it didn’t matter who – and he’d go all dewy-eyed; having served on the Rhine with Germanicus was equivalent to deputizing for Ganymede in bringing Jupiter his morning cup of nectar. Military street-cred just didn’t get any higher.

  No wonder being given a watchword like ‘Chubby-chops’ had had the guy spitting nails. And if the emperor’s treatment of Cassius Chaerea was at all typical, then the chances of a strong Praetorian involvement in a possible assassination plot had just taken a substantial hike.

  The ‘Cassius’ was interesting, too, right?

  ‘Marcus, petal! You came! How delightful!’

  Hell; I looked over my shoulder. Gaius was standing behind the couch, although ‘standing’ was a bit of an exaggeration: the emperor was pissed as a newt and swaying. Handling it well, on the whole, though, apart from the goggle-eyed stare and the slight slur.

  ‘Ah … yeah. Yes, Caesar,’ I said.

  ‘And lying beside the most beautiful woman in the room, too. My Caesonia excepted, of course. How on earth did you manage to wangle that, you crafty bugger?’ He reached down and patted Messalina’s bottom. She smiled up at him and arched her back like a cat. ‘Look at her! Couldn’t you just eat her up, the little minx? Wasted on a poor old stick like Claudius. Isn’t she, Uncle?’

  Claudius was already holding his cup up for more wine to the slave behind him; he obviously liked his booze, too. He turned back round.

  ‘Hmm? Oh. Yes. Yes, if you s-say so, C-Caesar,’ he said equably.

  ‘I do s-say so. I kn-know so, and I s-speak from experience.’ Gaius ran the back of his index finger slowly up Messalina’s spine and tweaked the stray lock of hair at the nape of her neck. ‘Don’t I, darling? You’re a lucky sod, Claudius, you randy old bugger. Far luckier than you deserve.’

  ‘Th-thank you, Caesar. I’m e-extremely aware of that.’

  Gaius gave the bottom another pat and smiled. ‘Oh, I am glad,’ he said. ‘I would just hate for talent like this to go unappreciated. And she does have the most marvellous tits. Well, boys and girls, enjoy. Livilla, try not to eat too much, my dear, or the next time you go sea-bathing at Baiae you may find yourself harpooned.’

  He lurched back to his own table.

  ‘Yes, well,’ Vinicius said after a long pause. ‘There you are, then.’

  He reached for the bowl of pickled radishes.

  We settled down to eat.

  It was a good four hours later that we finally climbed into the litter, thoroughly bloated and gently pickled. At least, I was, although as far as food’s concerned Perilla can shift it when she likes.

  ‘Urp.’

  ‘Yes, well, dear,’ she said icily as the litter louts took the unaccustomed strain, ‘you’ve only yourself to blame. Three helpings of flamingo was just a tad excessive, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘That wasn’t the flamingo, that was the radishes. You can tell.’

  ‘Marcus, please!’

  I grinned and settled back against the cushions. Actually, our evening out hadn’t been all that bad in the end, if you made allowances for the earlier part. The food had been pretty good, well up to Meton’s standard, which is saying something. And a generous supply of imperial Caecuban makes up for a hell of a lot of shortcomings elsewhere.

  ‘Your pal Tiberius Claudius was a bit of a revelation,’ I said.

  ‘Really? How so?’

  ‘I reckon I’ve misjudged him. You’re right, he is smart.’

  ‘I kept telling you that, but you wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘No, not just book-smart. That’s nothing. He’s a survivor, like Asiaticus.’ I frowned; hadn’t Lentulus said that Asiaticus was a Claudian client and a personal friend of Claudius himself? ‘You saw how he reacted, or didn’t react, rather, when Gaius was feeling up Messalina? And six gets you ten it hadn’t stopped there. He’s had her, when and how serious the affair was I don’t know, but that’s practically a cert.’

  ‘Obviously he has. She’s very beautiful, completely unprincipled, and she’s been one of his intimate circle for years, long before Claudius came on the scene. It’d be surprising if he hadn’t.’

  I shifted on the cushions. ‘Yeah, but that’s not all,’ I said. ‘I was watching what’s-his-name, Chaerea’s face when he marched out. The guy was fit to be tied. No one could’ve missed that; Gaius certainly couldn’t. Which of course is why the sick bastard does it. Needles people, winds them up, knowing that they can’t do a thing about it.’

  ‘Marcus, it’s late and I’m tired. Will you either shut up or get to the point, please?’

  ‘The point is that Claudius wasn’t like that. You saw for yourself. He shrugged the whole thing off. He didn’t even look or sound interested, from start to finish.’

  ‘Maybe he wasn’t. Livilla has affairs, Vinicius knows that. Like the one with that greasy smarmer Seneca. He ignores them for the puerile nonsense they are, and quite rightly so. The marriage was one of convenience; it isn’t as if they have any liking for each other, let alone affection, so why should he bother?’

  ‘Maybe because Vinicius is a survivor too. He’s certainly survived.’

  Perilla stifled a yawn. ‘Marcus …’

  ‘Yeah, OK, lady. But all I’m saying is that unless Claudius genuinely doesn’t have any feelings for his wife, not even at the basic sexual level, then he’s a bloody good actor, and it’s probably what’s keeping him alive. And Gaius swallowed it whole. That’s his weakness, not taking people he despises seriously. He’s doing it with Claudius, he’s done and is probably still doing it with Valerius Asiaticus, and he is sure as hell doing it with Chaerea. That’s playing with fire, especially with everything else that’s going on. Me, I reckon that if the egotistical bastard isn’t very careful it’ll kill him.’

  She was quiet for a long time. I wondered if she’d dozed off, but when we happened to pass a door with a lit torch outside it and I looked at her, her eyes were open and she was watching me closely.

  ‘So what can you do?’ she said softly.

  I shrugged. ‘Not a lot. Just what I’ve been doing all along, really. Dig, see what comes up. Rattle a few cages, see if anything jumps. And hope to hell that somewhere along the line before the stupid bugger gets himself chopped I find something concrete that I can take to him without risking him telling his guard to cut my throat or ordering me to slit my wrists. Even if he would regret it ten minutes later.’

  ‘It’s dangerous, dear. You know that, don’t you?’

  There wasn’t any answer to that. Not one I hadn’t given her already, anyway, and she could’ve supplied it herself.

  I was glad I’d met Vinicianus, mind; he’d been a real possible for a conspirator, virtually a cert. But if I was going to rattle anyone’s cage it would have to be the guy’s who’d come across so far as the weakest link. Which meant Sextus Papinius’s brother and fellow tribune, Lucius. We’d have a crack at him tomorrow.

  Like Perilla had said, it was late. I closed my eyes, concentrated on the swaying of the litter, and let myself drift into a doze.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I was over at the house on Patricius Incline by the fourth hour the next day. This time the gate slave was awake, and he remembered me.

  ‘You’ll be wanting to see the young master, no doubt, sir,’ he said. ‘Master Lucius.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ I said. ‘He at home?’r />
  ‘That he is, sir, but there’s another gentleman with him at present, and if you don’t mind I’ll make sure that he’s not occupied first. If you’d care to wait a moment?’

  ‘Who’s the—?’ I began, but the guy was gone, disappearing through the garden gate.

  He took his time coming back; in fact I’d been kicking my heels for a good five minutes before he reappeared.

  ‘I’m sorry for the wait, sir,’ he said. ‘You’re to go in. The gentlemen are in the atrium. You know the way?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, sure.’

  I went through the garden, into the house and through the lobby to the atrium. The couch where young Sextus’s body had lain was still there, but the man sitting on it I recognized from the time at Longinus’s place. So, Valerius Asiaticus himself, right? This was going to prove even more interesting than I’d expected.

  Papinius was sitting next to him, in his tribune’s uniform minus the hardware, and he was scowling. There was a folding stool – probably the same one Papinius had been using when I’d visited the house before – set about four feet in front of them, dead centre.

  The whole thing felt staged, set for a trial. Or maybe ‘inquisition’ would be a better term.

  ‘Well, well.’ Asiaticus was smiling, or at least his mouth was. ‘Valerius Corvinus, as I live and breathe. How very nice to see you again. Please do come in and have a seat.’

  I moved forwards and glanced down at the stool. ‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll stay where I am.’

  ‘As you like.’

  ‘I thought the guy on the gate had brought the message that I wanted to see Lucius Papinius.’

  Papinius raised his head, but he said nothing. He still had the deep scowl on his face, and he was looking at me with something very close to hatred.

  ‘And you are seeing him,’ Asiaticus said. ‘The only difference is that you’re seeing me as well. I thought you might be pleased about that.’

  ‘Oh? How so?’

  ‘Because you think we’re both conspiring against the emperor.’