Last Rites (Marcus Corvinus Book 6)

by David Wishart

  Well, some you win, some you lose, and there’s no use crying.

  ‘You get anything else?’ I said. ‘About young Marcus, say, or the father?’

  Alexis shook his head. ‘The households are kept pretty much separate.’ Surprise! ‘Melissa wasn’t too cut up about Lepidus Junior’s death, either.’ I caught a flash of embarrassment. ‘I understand he…er… made rather free with the younger slaves. Female and male.’ He paused. ‘I didn’t ask about Melissa herself, sir.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘The father’s a hard master, but he’s fair. Old-fashioned, sir, if you like. He’s not a well man, despite appearances. The rumour in the slaves’ quarters is he might not last another year.’ Another hesitation. ‘The girl did let drop one more piece of information, by the way. About the consul’s wife.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  The blush was back. ‘It seems she has a liking at times for rougher partners, sir. Slaves and freedmen.’

  I whistled softly. That would explain Lepida’s crack about Aemilia’s tastes being crude, and why the lady had been uncharacteristically reticent in elaborating the point: in the circles Lepida and Aemilia moved in purple-striper lovers were one thing, but slaves and freedmen were a whole different ball game. Fooling around like that could get you into serious trouble, of the legal variety, and even Lepida would think twice before splitting on a caste sister to a comparative stranger. Alexis was seeing his girlfriend through a rose-tinted haze right enough; Jupiter knew how she’d come by the information, but for a sugar-and-spice goodie-goodie who wouldn’t be drawn Melissa had been pretty free with her mouth. I’d guess Alexis wasn’t the only one who was smitten here and wanted to impress; he was better at chatting up the talent than he thought he was.

  ‘Is that right, now?’ I said. ‘Slaves and freedmen, eh? She, ah, vouchsafe any details?’

  ‘She mentioned one freedman in particular, sir. A second-hand furniture dealer. The affair seems to be a comparatively long-standing one.’

  I had to stop myself from groaning. A second-hand furniture dealer. All of that. Bugger: small as the knife-wielding-cum-fluteplaying population of Rome might be, I was willing to bet that the number of homicidal second-hand furniture dealers currently for hire in the city was even smaller. The boy had done good, certainly as well as I could’ve expected; still, none of what we’d put together between us that morning amounted to a row of beans. Apart, maybe, from what I’d got on Lepidus Senior. At least he was worth considering. I emptied my wine cup, poured in the last of the jug and swigged it down. The Fantastic Four had finished their pigs’ feet and licked the plates clean of gravy. It was time to be making tracks. If they could lug their carcases – and mine – the length of the Caelian.

  I needed to talk to Perilla.

  21.

  I noticed that Bathyllus had a careful look at my chin when I got back, but he sniffed and said nothing, just got on with his polishing. Perilla was in the atrium having her hair done: it seemed to be a day for primping and powdering all round. I planted a small smacker on her lips without getting too much in the maid Phryne’s way and stretched out on the couch with wine jug and cup.

  ‘Well, Marcus, how did it go? Your visit to Lepida’s?’

  I laughed. ‘You know about that after all?’

  ‘Bathyllus did drop some very heavy hints. Entirely unsolicited, I may add.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Shave excuse, nothing; if I ever did consider tomcatting I’d leave the sanctimonious little bastard tied up and gagged in the cellar. Not that I’d get away with cheating on Perilla in any case. ‘Let’s just say it wasn’t all that productive.’

  ‘As bad as that?’ Perilla smiled. ‘You’re losing your touch, Corvinus. Phryne, dear, we’ll finish off later, if you don’t mind.’ The maid padded off. ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Yeah. We had something in a cookshop on the way back.’ I poured a cup of wine. ‘The plot thickens. That note Perdicca gave us wasn’t a fake after all.’

  Perilla sat up. ‘Marcus Lepidus actually wrote it?’

  ‘Not the son. The father.’ I told her the story. ‘So. What do you think?’

  ‘His explanation seems plausible enough.’

  ‘Sure it does. Maybe even too plausible. And he’s a very smart cookie.’

  ‘You’re not saying, I hope, that you suspect Marcus Lepidus Senior of being behind the deaths?’

  ‘Why not? In theory, anyway. I was mulling it over on the way home. At least he makes some sort of sense.’

  ‘No he doesn’t. None whatsoever. You know, Corvinus, sometimes I wonder your skull doesn’t rattle when your head nods.’

  I winced. Ouch; whatever happened to the good old-fashioned wifely virtue of automatic deference to the husband’s opinion? ‘Don’t knock it, lady. Like I say, it’s only a possibility. But I could make a prima facie case.’

  ‘Really?’ She didn’t sound convinced, to put it mildly. ‘Now that I would just love to hear.’

  I took a swig of wine. ‘Okay. You said yourself whatever the secret Cornelia and Lepidus Junior shared there was a better than even chance it affected the Lepidus family. We assumed that meant the sister, because that wildcat’s the most likely candidate to have skeletons in her closet, but that was no reason to rule out the old guy himself. Everything else about protecting the family honour would still apply, in fact even more so: Lepidus Junior wouldn’t want to blow the whistle on his own father, and he might be even more reticent in facing him privately with the nasty details if he were the guilty party rather than Lepida. Which would explain why Lepidus Senior was ready and able to swear that his son hadn’t told him anything in their last interview.’

  ‘Accepted.’ That was grudging as hell, but at least the lady was scowling, which meant she’d taken the point and couldn’t think of an answer. ‘But what possible reason could Lepidus have for killing anyone? He’s one of the most respectable and respected men in Rome.’

  ‘Reason I don’t know. Or not as such, anyway. But there’s nothing wrong with the theoretical scenario.’

  ‘Which is, in detail?’

  Uh-oh; that had the waspish snap which meant that she was just dying for me to slip up so she could put the boot in. I’d have to go careful here. ‘Okay. Paragon or not, old Lepidus has stepped out of line in some way; how, we don’t know, but whatever it is it’s pretty major. His son finds out about it. Lepidus Junior’s in a quandary: it’s his civic duty to spill the beans, but he can’t bring himself to do it. So he goes to his long-term confidante Cornelia, who he still counts as family, and cries on her shoulder. Unfortunately, his father gets to know about this and–’

  ‘How?’

  Oh, hell! ‘How what?’

  ‘How exactly does Lepidus Senior learn that his son has told Cornelia?’

  ‘Jupiter, Perilla, give me a chance, okay? Maybe he knows he’s been rumbled and he’s having the guy watched. By our fluteplayer pal, say. Anyway–’

  ‘So Lepidus just happens already to have secured the services of a man who is, fortunately in the light of subsequent events, not only a proficient murderer but also a professional fluteplayer?’

  ‘Uh, yeah.’ I was beginning to feel out of my depth. ‘Okay, well, maybe not by the fluteplayer. Anyway–’

  ‘And how does he come by the fluteplayer in any case? His son or daughter having contacts among Rome’s low life I can understand, but not Lepidus Senior. His character – at least as expressed through his public persona – is all wrong.’

  Gods! I didn’t deserve this; it was only a theory, after all, and I didn’t really believe it myself. I just didn’t have anything better to offer at the present moment. ‘Anyway.’ I froze her out with a look. ‘The guy realises that he has to nip the leak in the bud–’

  ‘Leaks don’t have buds, Marcus. Don’t mix your metaphors.’

  ‘– so he arranges for Cornelia, as the weak link, to be zeroed by our fluteplayer, who is no doubt one of his very extensive body of dependent clients.
However, that still leaves him with the problem of the–’

  ‘His own niece? And a Vestal?’ Perilla sniffed. ‘Corvinus, I told you, Marcus Lepidus Senior is one of the most respected men in Rome. You know that yourself. Now stop talking nonsense, please. What else did you find out?’

  I sighed and gave up the unequal struggle. Yeah, well, maybe I had been spouting pure moonshine at that. The lady was right: once you actually put the thing into words, possible though it might be as a theory it stank. ‘Not all that much. Some murky details of the daughter’s love life, plus ditto for Aemilia, but neither seem to have much mileage to them. We’re stymied, Perilla. Barring Lepidus there’s no one with even the hint of a motive. My best bet at present would be the senior consul, but that’s only because the guy has male fluteplayer connections. What reasons Galba would have for zeroing a Vestal I just can’t begin to guess.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ Perilla said primly.

  ‘We need to find the actual murderer. This phantom fluteplayer bastard. And unless Lippillus can come up with–’

  ‘Why not ask your flutegirl friend to help?’

  I stared at her. ‘What?’

  ‘Surely it’s self-evident, Marcus. If you’re looking for a fluteplayer then you should ask a fluteplayer.’

  ‘Jupiter, you think I haven’t done that? Aegle’s already told me she didn’t know who the guy was! Nor did any of the other girls!’

  ‘I’m not talking about the man at the rites, I’m talking about the consul’s friend. Aegle might be able to track him down for you. If the two turn out to be one and the same, unlikely as that may seem, then well and good. If not then there’s no harm done, is there?’

  Feminine logic; brilliant! Sure, I should’ve thought of it myself, but it takes a woman to spot the obvious, and pace Perilla I didn’t believe there could be two professional male fluteplayers in Rome connected with this business, even though we still had the hurdle to get over of why, make-up notwithstanding, the guy hadn’t been recognised. It beat going through Celer, too: I didn’t know how many male fluteplayers there were in the city, but I didn’t fancy checking them all out. I got up off the couch, dumped the wine and gave her a proper kiss.

  ‘Thanks, lady,’ I said. ‘I’ll catch you later.’

  On the way out, just for the hell of it, I told Bathyllus I was going to see my banker and watched the bastard’s eyes cross.

  I was lucky on two counts: the day had faired up enough to make walking a possibility, and when I got to the tenement in Suburan Street Aegle was at home.

  ‘Hey, Purple-striper!’ she said when she opened the door and stood aside for me to pass. ‘You’ll be getting me a reputation if you’re not careful.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I hung my cloak on the peg.

  ‘Oh, that’s okay.’ She followed me into the sitting-room. ‘It was a compliment. Around here being screwed by one of the nobility’s a social plus. Or would be if it ever happened. Shift that stuff off the trunk and sit down.’

  I moved the pile of dirty washing on to the floor. Lying on top of it was a scrappy book-roll that looked like a generation or two of mice had lived off it exclusively. I glanced at the title-label: Meleager’s Garland. Well, that text didn’t need any more abridgement, that was sure.

  ‘Some light reading?’ I said.

  She picked the thing up and laid it carefully on the window-sill. ‘Don’t patronise me, Corvinus,’ she said. ‘What I do in my own time’s my own business.’ She sat down on the room’s only stool. ‘So. You know who killed Thalia yet?’

  ‘No.’ I parked myself on the clothes chest. ‘I was hoping you might help me find him.’

  ‘I’ve given you all the help I can. Or do you still not believe me?’

  ‘Oh, I believe you.’

  ‘You’d better. We stick together, us girls, I told you that. We have to because we’re all we’ve got. Your Vestal’s one thing, Thalia’s another. She was family.’ Her birthmark flushed and her lips tightened. ‘If I or any of us can nail that bastard then we’ll do it.’

  ‘Fine. So pin your ugly ears back, sister. I want to find a fluteboy pal of the senior consul’s.’

  She looked at me sideways. ‘Of Galba’s? And pal as in “pal”?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She whistled. ‘Mothers, you’re fishing in deep water! You think he’s the one that did it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. You know who he is offhand?’

  ‘No. I’ll tell you now, though, he isn’t anyone on the circuit. One of the lads gets to screw a consul, you hear about it. Strictly within the family, of course, but there aren’t many secrets among fluteplayers. Not that big, anyway.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘He could be from out of town; from Ostia or Veii. Naples, even.’

  ‘No, I’d bet this guy was local. If he’s the killer, which I think he is. Or at least he’s resident in Rome.’

  ‘You want me to put the word out?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You’ve got it.’ She shifted on her stool. ‘One bit of advice? Professional viewpoint?’

  ‘Yeah. Go ahead.’

  ‘This business, you don’t get freelancers, not the way we operate. Boys or girls. Slots aren’t exactly easy to set up on your own, and in any case anyone stealing the cherries out of the cake is going to be very noticeable very quick. Me, I’m laid back about these things but others aren’t. Try to muscle in without going through proper channels and you’ll find yourself being talked to seriously down a dark alleyway some night, maybe have your fingers broken or your lip slit. Ignore the warning and you’ll end up breathing Tiber.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘What I’m saying is there are no outsiders. I may not be able to recognise every fluteplayer in the city, but there were eleven of us at that party barring the ringer. One of us should’ve known her.’ She paused. ‘Him. Whatever. None of us did. If the guy had stuck around we might’ve asked questions later, but covering for Thalia and getting through the slot was more important at the time than the whys and wherefores. We took him – her – at her own valuation. Call it a truce, if you like.’ I nodded. ‘So professionally your “fake” didn’t exist: he/she was a real fluteplayer, only not a known one. Given what I’ve said, that leaves you with a hybrid. Someone who’s professional standard but not a pro in the literal sense. You with me?’

  This was fascinating. I should’ve turned Aegle loose on the case before. ‘All the way,’ I said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You get them now and again, in the big families. Home-bred slaves who show some talent for the pipes, who the master trains up for purely domestic consumption. Parties. Banquets. Quiet evenings by the pool before bedtime. I think your murderer’s one of these. Maybe he’s still a slave, maybe he’s got his cap, makes no difference to the skill. You understand me?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jupiter! ‘You mean he could be part of the Galba household? Or maybe one of the guy’s freedmen?’ I’d suggested that aspect of things to Perilla re Lepidus, but I hadn’t thought of Galba. Maybe I should have.

  ‘It’s possible. Just an idea. But if the killer and your consul’s stud are the same person it might add up where doing the job’s concerned.’

  My brain was humming. It would make sense, a lot of sense: the guy would know the ins and outs of the house itself without being told, for a start. As Aegle said, it would mean there was a strong, ready-made link between him and Galba that went beyond the sexual: slave to master or client to patron. It still didn’t explain why the senior consul should want Cornelia dead, but the mechanics of the business were working out like a dream.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ Aegle said. ‘If the guy’s a player – and he is – someone’ll know him.’

  ‘One problem,’ I said. ‘The slot was in the Galba house itself. Surely – given the fact that he went there to commit murder – he was taking a hell of a risk? If he was one of the household the other servants would’ve recognised him.’

  ‘Not as big a risk as all that. Remember the house was
closed to men. If he was the ringer, the servants wouldn’t be expecting to see him or any other man there after sunset, especially among the paid musicians. And his disguise was perfect. That guy was a woman, Corvinus; butch, sure, but female as they come. At least on the surface.’ Aegle grinned. ‘Also they may have fed us well enough but they sure as hell didn’t wait on us. The slaves had enough to do keeping the silk-mantled brigade’s plates full without bothering about the band. We were left to our own devices. Me, I helped myself whenever a tray passed, so I might’ve got noticed, but I’d bet the last thing on that guy’s mind was eating.’

  Yeah. Fair point. I stood up. ‘Okay. Thanks, sister. If you get something Celer knows where to find me.’

  She shook her head. ‘Uh-uh. I don’t want to bring Celer into this. The boys and girls are safe, but I wouldn’t put it past that bastard to split.’

  Fair enough; and I didn’t trust Celer more than half myself. I gave her my address. Then I went back home to wait.

  22.

  I waited for three full days. Which isn’t to say, of course, that I stayed in twiddling my thumbs or washing my hair. There wasn’t much I could do as far as the case was concerned, sure, except to check with Lippillus whether he’d got any change out of the other residents of Thalia’s tenement (he hadn’t), but with all this murder and mayhem my private life had taken a back seat and there was plenty to do that didn’t involve sleuthing. For a start, I called in at the city judges’ offices with a dinner invite for Gaius Secundus and his wife. I felt guilty as hell about Secundus. Like I said, we’d been close friends as kids and the Murena favour was the second time I’d traded on the friendship without giving anything back, which isn’t the Roman way. The least I owed Gaius was a good dinner.

  Then there was the Winter Festival shopping. Jupiter, I hate that, but with less than ten days to go it had to be done. I gritted my teeth and did the rounds of the markets, the Saepta and the chichi shops on Broad Street, the Argiletum and Iugarius. The Winter Festival, of course, is really for the slaves – it’s the only holiday the poor buggers get, barring a day for the Festival of the Matrons and another in August for the inauguration of Diana’s temple – but everyone gets a present nowadays, and I knew Perilla had already stashed mine (a sharp new mantle; that lady’s nothing if not an improver, and she gives me one every year) at the bottom of a spare-room clothes chest. For Perilla I got a couple of rolls of Carneades’s philosophical lectures (don’t ask) which she’d go into ecstasies over and, as an afterthought, a cut-price edition of Meleager’s Menippean Satires for Aegle. Mother got perfume, like I give her every year, and I already had Priscus’s little goody: a ring I’d picked up in Athens with the head of one of the Seleucid kings on it. Meton was easy: he’d been dropping heavy hints about a new omelette pan ever since we’d got back. So was Lysias: the guy’s belt-mad, and I found him a Spanish one with gilded studs. Alexis was more difficult, but I had a sneaking suspicion the kid was blossoming in the romance department so he netted a snappy tunic and a flask of good hair-oil. Bathyllus…