Last Rites (Marcus Corvinus Book 6)

by David Wishart

  ‘Perdicca, sir,’ he said.

  From what Torquata had said I’d expected someone about Niobe’s own age, but her best pal was a nondescript little woman in her sixties with mousey-grey hair and a moustache. She didn’t look too happy; in fact, she was nervous as hell.

  ‘Come on, girl!’ Torquata snapped as Lucius closed the door behind him. ‘Stand up straight and no mumbling!’

  I winced.

  ‘Perhaps, Torquata,’ Perilla said, ‘I should ask the questions.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I gave a sigh of relief. ‘Yeah, good idea. Go ahead, lady.’

  She turned to the old woman. ‘You know that Niobe is dead, Perdicca? That she has been murdered?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’ The voice was barely a whisper. I’d heard noisier mice.

  ‘You were a friend of hers? A close friend?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘You want to find her killer?’

  No answer this time, but her head nodded.

  ‘Very well. In that case you must answer my questions as best you can. Will you do that?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  Torquata opened her mouth, but I held out my hand and she closed it again. Perilla ignored both of us.

  ‘Has Niobe said anything these past few days about something her mistress told her before she died?’ she said.

  Perdicca glanced quickly at Torquata, then away again. Her lips tightened.

  ‘No, madam,’ she said.

  ‘Nothing at all?’ Silence. ‘Perdicca, Niobe is dead and we are only trying to help. If she did tell you anything then we need to know what it was.’

  ‘She said it wasn’t her secret to share, madam. She would’ve gone to the’ – again her eyes flicked nervously towards Torquata – ‘to the Lady Junia, but she decided she couldn’t. It wasn’t her secret, see. Or that’s what she said.’

  ‘But she told you?’

  ‘No, madam!’ That came out sharp. Uh-huh. So there was spunk there after all.

  ‘You’re sure?’ Silence again. ‘Perdicca, we are only trying to help. I give you my word that if Niobe did tell you anything then whatever it was you need not be afraid to repeat it, for her sake or your own.’

  The old woman raised her eyes. ‘I swear, madam,’ she said. ‘I swear by Vesta herself. She didn’t tell me nothing. Like she said, it wasn’t her secret. She didn’t tell me nor no one else, neither. And that’s my word, madam.’

  Perilla sighed. ‘Very well. Let’s leave it. Now. About what happened today. The Lady Junia Torquata says that Niobe asked permission to go to the market. Do you know why that was?’

  I’d been watching the old slave carefully and I saw her freeze. I shot Perilla a look and she nodded imperceptibly.

  ‘No, madam.’ We were back to the whispers and the lowered eyes.

  ‘Perdicca, I’m sorry,’ Perilla said softly, ‘but that’s just not true, is it?’

  Silence.

  ‘All right. So why did she go? To meet someone?’

  A long pause. Perdicca was trembling now, but I’d bet it wasn’t through fear: despite appearances I’d reckon they didn’t come much tougher than this old bird. All she was doing was deciding which way to jump. Finally, she made up her mind.

  ‘Yes, madam,’ she said.

  Shit. I sat up. Perilla didn’t move.

  ‘Do you know who?’

  Instead of answering, Perdicca reached inside her tunic and brought out a scrap of paper. Perilla took it, smoothed it out and looked at it. Her breath caught.

  ‘How did you get this?’ she said.

  ‘She asked me to keep it for her, madam.’

  ‘You know what it says?’

  ‘No, madam. I can’t read. But Niobe told me.’

  ‘And how did Niobe get it?’

  Another nervous glance at Torquata. ‘One of the other slaves found it behind the side door yesterday morning, madam. It had her name writ on the back.’ Torquata stiffened but she said nothing.

  Perilla handed the scrap of paper over to me without a word. There were only a few lines. It was a note asking for a meeting by the Aemilian Hall on the market side of the Sacred Way, and it was signed Marcus Lepidus.

  ‘Is it genuine, do you think?’ Perilla asked when we were back in the carriage and on our way home.

  ‘It could be, sure,’ I said. ‘Good quality parchment, virgin, not a reused offcut. Good hand, well spelled. And the timing would fit as well.’

  ‘So? You don’t sound convinced.’

  I wasn’t. ‘It smells, Perilla. When I saw the guy he was in no condition to write notes, let alone neat ones, even given that he’d a reason for sending it. And why the hell sign his name?’

  ‘He might have had no option. Not if he wanted to be sure that Niobe would come.’

  ‘She went and she was murdered, lady. By which time Lepidus was already dead. I think that’s a fairly strong argument in itself for the thing being a fake, don’t you?’

  ‘Unless, as you said, the murder had no connection with the note and the killer was watching the building in any case.’ Perilla sighed. ‘No. I’m sorry, Marcus; I’m only playing devil’s advocate. You’re quite right. Of course it’s a fake.’

  ‘Okay.’ I settled back against the cushions. ‘So if it was sent by the killer to winkle Niobe outside, then what does it tell us?’

  ‘What we already know: that the girl knew something and had to be silenced. Also, naturally, that her secret involved Marcus Lepidus.’

  ‘Yeah, right. But we can do better than that. It also confirms the fact that there’re two people involved, a brains and a brawn. Whoever wrote that note it wasn’t our pal the fluteplayer, not unless the guy includes a good Roman education among all his other talents. He was given it, or it was delivered for him, by someone who could write and spell.’

  ‘There’s another thing.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s only a feeling, but if the note were genuine then I would have expected more of an air of secrecy in the message itself. Unless the young man was an absolute fool he must have known that signing his name, unavoidable under the circumstances though that might be, was unwise in the extreme. And it doesn’t sit well at all with the method of delivery, which was definitely clandestine.’

  ‘Uh, yeah.’ Sometimes Perilla’s way of putting things makes my head hurt, but I’d caught her general drift and she was right. ‘You mean that if Lepidus had really wanted to make sure the meeting stayed secret he’d’ve said so.’

  ‘Exactly. Or included an instruction to Niobe to tell no one or destroy the note on reading, perhaps. It’s as though whoever wrote the letter didn’t care whether anyone knew of its existence or not.’

  ‘Or that they actually wanted it to be found after the girl was dead so Lepidus would be nicely set up to take the rap. Yeah; that fits. And that way it would kill two birds with one stone, Niobe and Lepidus both, because when the delivery was made Lepidus himself was still alive.’

  Perilla was quiet for a long time. Then she said: ‘There is one further point. Whoever wrote the note knew the girl quite well; Niobe herself, I mean, not just the fact that she was Cornelia’s maid.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘You don’t assume literacy in a slave, Marcus, not unless they’ve been trained as a clerk or a secretary. To send a personal note in the first place implies the knowledge that the recipient can read it. So the killer, or the brains behind him, rather, had to know that Niobe had been schooled with Cornelia.’

  ‘That’s no big deal. It wasn’t a secret, surely.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but it is a further indication. Lepidus himself would know, certainly, but there’s no reason for anyone else to. Not outside the family or the sisterhood itself, anyway.’

  ‘Fair enough. We’ll just have to –’ Suddenly my jaw stiffened and I found myself yawning. Jupiter, I was whacked! Although it wasn’t especially late I’d had a heavy day even before Camillus had called us out. ‘Look, let’s pack it i
n for the night, okay? I haven’t got the mental energy for puzzles any more.’

  Perilla smiled. ‘If you like,’ she said. She leaned over and kissed me.

  I glanced out of the window. We’d turned down the long drag between the Circus and the southern slopes of the Palatine. More than halfway home, in other words, and just in time because the weather was getting worse. Gods, but I was tired! Well, Camillus, Arruntius and company couldn’t complain they weren’t getting value for money.

  I pulled my cloak round my ears and settled down into the cushions.

  18.

  I was down pretty late the next morning, although earlier than Perilla who was still flat out. I checked our smug piece of cutting-edge technology for glitches in passing, but whatever the hydraulics whizz-kid had done to its insides seemed to be holding. Not that I trusted the bugger an inch. It was probably busy working out third-level scenarios in its master plan to take over the empire.

  Bathyllus was setting the breakfast table. Extensively. Me, I don’t go much beyond a crust or two first thing, but Perilla scours the market for exotic dried fruits, cheese wrapped in straw and those fancy pots of Greek honey with herbs in. Or what I hope and trust are herbs.

  ‘Morning, little guy.’ I stretched out on the couch and reached for one of Meton’s poppy-seed rolls. ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He set down a bowl of what looked like yoghurt with jam through it. Uh-huh; I’d have to watch that lady. The last thing I wanted was a second Mother on my hands. ‘You had another message, by the way, sir. Delivered shortly after you and the mistress left yesterday evening.’

  There was a ghost of a sniff in the little guy’s voice. I’d been tearing off a scrap of the bread. I stopped. ‘Yeah?’ I said. ‘What kind of message?’

  ‘An invitation to call at the Lepidus mansion, sir.’ Bathyllus had on his prim expression. ‘The sender being the ex-consul’s daughter.’

  Well, that explained the disapproval: as a guardian of morals Bathyllus had old Cato beat six ways from nothing. I put the roll to one side. An invitation, right? Jupiter! That I hadn’t expected, especially since last time I’d been practically thrown out of the house on my metaphorical ear. And from Lepida, not the father; interestinger and interestinger. ‘She give any sort of reason?’ I asked.

  ‘No, sir.’ The little bald-head treated me to a full-scale sniff this time. According to the tenets of the Bathyllus moral code invitations from unattached females with reputations like Lepida’s were the equivalent of being hit by a bra from a balcony. I’d just bet he’d chosen to tell me now on purpose, rather than pass on the news last night while Perilla was around. ‘She did, however, stress that the matter was of some urgency.’

  ‘Yeah, okay. Thanks, Bathyllus.’ While he finished laying out the goodies I settled back, tore a bit off the roll and dipped it in oil. My brain was buzzing. Some urgency, right? What the hell did ice-bitch Lepida have for me that was so urgent she would send a skivvy round at an ungodly hour and yank me up the Quirinal before the cypress branches round the family door had even dried out? It had to have something to do with her brother, sure; but I’d as much idea of the whys and the wherefores as I had of basket-weaving. Still, I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity, and the invite would give me a chance to check the lady out. But to do that properly I needed intelligent help.

  Bathyllus had unloaded his last plate of prunes and was heading for the kitchen, his back still radiating disapproval.

  ‘Hey, little guy,’ I said. He turned. ‘Alexis around?’

  ‘I expect so, sir.’

  ‘Fine. Send him through, would you? I’ve got a job for him.’ I kept my face straight. ‘Oh, and when the mistress surfaces you can tell her I’ve gone to the Market Square for a shave.’

  Bathyllus gave another sniff, and his mouth looked like he’d just taken a swig from the pickle-barrel. ‘A shave in Market Square, sir.’ He eyed my already stubble-free chin. ‘Yes, sir. Certainly, sir.’

  I didn’t smile until he’d gone. Yeah, well, maybe I shouldn’t wind the prissy little so-and-so up, but he couldn’t get much fun out of life and the whiff of vicarious scandal would keep him sniffing happily until dinner-time.

  The weather had turned nasty again and it was chucking it down like there was no tomorrow, so I stilled my prejudices and went by chair. Litters I hate – they make me feel queasy, even when they’re carried by a good team – but it being daylight the ban on wheels was in force and Lysias and the coach weren’t an option. Besides, the Lepidus ménage was no place to turn up looking like a half-drowned rat. I’d been careful to put on my best mantle, for a start.

  We got there. Eventually. Sure, Perilla uses the litter on occasion, but she’s not a honey-wine-and-tartlets socialiser by nature so the litter guys aren’t exactly lean, mean and speedy; with the result that when I do take them out they tend to breathe heavy, move slow and arrive knackered. Especially when the target destination is the Quirinal with its chichi panoramic views and one-in-three gradients. Alexis ran alongside; he doesn’t mind the rain, and an extra body to tote would’ve finished those lardballs off when we hit the first slope. Embarrassing, really.

  We left them heaving their lungs out against the Lepidus family’s street-side wall. Alexis worked the door knocker, and while my old pal the Faithful Retainer showed me through to the lady’s private apartments he went off, suitably instructed, to mix with the other ranks in the servants’ quarters. I was beginning to get the feel of the place now, so I wasn’t surprised when I was led down half a mile of snazzy marbled corridor to a self-contained wing that for elegance wouldn’t’ve disgraced one of Tiberius’s villas on Capri; only I’d seen a couple of these, and the decorators Lepida patronised were clearly guys of much more robust taste. Forget the usual fruit-and-pheasant tat or Perseus holding up the head of Medusa; this artwork would’ve had Perilla reaching for the whitewash and Bathyllus slipping his hernia support. I noticed that my still none too friendly Mercury kept his eyes front and centre; but then perhaps he was used to it.

  We reached a door with a simple pastoral scene carved into the panelling. I didn’t have much time to check out the details, but from a cursory glance I’d reckon that it didn’t have a lot to do with milking goats. The slave rapped sharply and waited.

  ‘Yes, Venustus.’

  Old Faithful turned the knob so the door opened a crack, then stepped back. Uh-huh. I recognised standing orders in operation when I saw them: no peeking on the part of the bought help at what the mistress currently had on offer, evidently. Bathyllus could be right. I put my hand against the unlikely opulence of the courting swain’s girlfriend’s bosom and pushed.

  No, she wasn’t lying naked on a bed of rose petals stroking a cat; not even close. She was sitting at a desk going through what looked like a set of accounts.

  ‘Ah, Valerius Corvinus. You got my message.’ Cool enough, but, lack of the traditional encouragements to seduction or not, the lady was something. No mourning now, despite the cypresses outside; her mantle was pure silk – Indian, not Coan, from the sheen – and whoever had done her make-up could’ve given Dioscorides a run for his pigments. Added to which, like I said before, she was a grade-A stunner with bells on. ‘Come in, please. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.’

  Not a boudoir or a study; something halfway between, with a definite air of business to it. Centre stage was a reading couch that looked suspiciously wide – maybe the decoration on the outside of the door wasn’t so out of place after all – but I ignored it in favour of a folding stool.

  Lepida smiled and put the wax tablets away.

  ‘I don’t bite, Corvinus,’ she said. There was a final-sounding click as the door closed behind me.

  ‘You want me to take a second opinion on that, lady?’ I said.

  ‘Actually, no.’ The smile broadened; long and slow. ‘Second opinion might not back me up. But then perhaps the concomitant circumstances might not be quite as unpleasant as you seem to imagine.
’ Uh-huh. ‘Now. Would you like some wine?’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks. Wine would be great.’

  There was a tray on a side table. She stood up, poured for both of us and passed me the cup. Her fingertips brushed my hand. It could’ve been accidental, but I wouldn’t’ve taken any bets.

  ‘Before we go on,’ she said, ‘I’d like to apologise. When you were here last I froze you out. It wasn’t anything personal.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ I took a sip of the wine. It was Caecuban; good Caecuban. ‘No problem. I hardly even noticed.’

  That got me a brief glare: evidently in Lepida’s book not noticing how she reacted to you was a first-magnitude crime. ‘Father’s so stuffy, you see,’ she said. ‘I find myself playing up to him. And with Marcus dead…’ She left the sentence hanging and sat down on the couch, so close to me we were almost touching. The couch’s covering was blue velvet, and the nap looked well worn. Her perfume was grade A too.

  ‘My head slave told me it was urgent,’ I said.

  ‘But an apology is urgent, Corvinus.’ She took a sip of her own wine, her eyes on mine above the rim of the cup. ‘Very urgent. I couldn’t let you go on thinking badly of me, could I? I had to bring you round and say sorry face to face.’ She smiled. ‘If that’s the position you prefer, naturally.’

  Game, set and match to Bathyllus. I stood up. ‘Look, thanks for the wine,’ I said, ‘but – ’

  ‘You mean you don’t want to make love to me?’

  I almost dropped the cup. ‘Uh…’

  Her smile hadn’t wavered. She raised one elegant shoulder and turned away. ‘Oh, well,’ she said. ‘It was just a thought. Don’t let it worry you.’

  Suddenly I felt angry. ‘Was that it, lady?’ I said. ‘The reason for bringing me all the way up here?’

  ‘But of course it was.’ Her voice was matter-of-fact. ‘What other reason could there be? If you want to change your mind, naturally, now or at any future date, then –’

  ‘Jupiter, cut it out!’

  She laughed. ‘You’re as stuffy as my father, Corvinus, deep down, aren’t you? I told you, it was only a thought. It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other, not one bit.’ Her hand smoothed the velvet. The nails were long and carefully manicured. ‘Very well, we’ll talk about something else, just so your journey isn’t completely wasted. Or my time. How is the investigation going?’