Last Rites (Marcus Corvinus Book 6)

by David Wishart

  I spent a lot of time and thought over Bathyllus’s present. The little guy isn’t easy to buy for; he’s got enough hernia supports already to equip a legion’s artillery division, and as for patent hair-growing remedies he’s tried them all without so much as a sprouting follicle. Finally, on a Gallic stall in Cattlemarket Square, I found the very thing: a pair of woollen long johns à la the Divine Augustus that would’ve stopped anything short of a direct hit from a siege bolt. When he was out of a January dawn buffing up the paving stones outside our front door Bathyllus would just love these to bits.

  I’d just stowed them away in the study with the other presents – it was just short of lunch-time – when the little bald-head himself shimmered in.

  ‘You have a visitor, sir,’ he said. ‘A woman.’ Sniff.

  ‘Yeah?’ I closed the lid of the chest before he caught a pre-Festival glimpse of the winter woollies. ‘Merciful gods! One of them, eh? She got her castanets and a rose between her teeth or has she left them at home?’

  Not a flicker. Maybe the woollies were a mistake after all: that guy’s impervious to everything the world can throw at him, sarcasm especially.

  ‘That I couldn’t say, sir,’ he said. ‘However, she is waiting outside. In the lobby.’

  And he’d probably checked the floor mosaic in case she scuffed it with her plebeian sandals while he was gone, too. I’d noticed the terminology: woman, not lady. Where maintaining the social distances is concerned Bathyllus could give a dowager lessons. I sighed.

  ‘Okay, little guy. Wheel her through.’

  It was Aegle, of course, complete with flute-case. ‘Hi, Purple-striper,’ she said as she took her cloak off. ‘Nice place.’

  Bathyllus made a sort of strangled choking noise. Yeah, well, he couldn’t see many visitors in just a gilded G-string and bra. ‘I’ll leave you in private, then, shall I, sir?’ he said.

  ‘You do that.’ I kept my face straight. ‘Go and adjust your truss, sunshine.’

  He sniffed and left.

  Aegle had laid the flute-case against the wall and settled herself on the couch.

  I grinned and poured us each a cup of wine. ‘You want me to tell the slaves to beef up the hypocaust, lady?’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘Hey, I’m sorry. I had an all-night slot at a house on Caelimontan Road and it wasn’t worth going home to change. You mind?’

  ‘I don’t. My head slave might need major corrective surgery, but at least he’ll go into it happy.’

  ‘That wasn’t how it looked from here.’ She sipped her wine. ‘I’ve found your fluteboy for you.’

  Hey! ‘No kidding?’ I took the stool next to the desk.

  ‘His name’s Scorpus. It was like I thought, the guy’s one of Galba’s freedmen. Got his discharge about a year ago. He runs a second-hand furniture business in the Remuria, just up from the Naevian Gate.’

  My skin prickled. ‘He does what?’

  ‘Runs a furniture business. Galba bought him into it. He must’ve given hell of a satisfaction in his tootling days, because it’s a proper going concern and that bastard’s close enough to skin a flint.’

  ‘Hang on, Aegle,’ I said. ‘This is important. You’re telling me this Scorpus is a used furniture dealer?’

  ‘Sure. Like I said, fluteplaying’s a closed shop. And it doesn’t exactly pay. Used furniture’s big business, especially in the Aventine district where people can’t afford fancy prices for new. He’s coining it hand over fist, my informant tells me.’

  Shit; Alexis’s pal Melissa had said that Aemilia’s bit of rough was a second-hand furniture salesman. Added that this guy had family connections with the Galbas, that didn’t leave any room for coincidence. I’d been chasing the wrong hare. ‘You seen him?’

  ‘No. I thought if you’re not busy we could do that together.’

  ‘Sure we could.’ I sank my wine in one and stood up. ‘We’ll go round there now.’

  ‘You mind if I have something to eat first? I haven’t had anything today and I’m starved.’

  ‘Uh, yeah. Right.’ I crossed over to the door and yelled, ‘Hey, Bathyllus!’

  He was there in two shakes of a G-string tassel, radiating prime disapproval. ‘Yes, sir. At your orders, sir.’

  ‘Cut the crap and bring the lady some lunch, sunshine.’ I looked at Aegle. ‘Ah…’

  ‘Just bread will do fine. And some greens if you’ve got them,’ she said.

  ‘Greens, madam.’ You could’ve used the guy’s tone to ice fruit juice. ‘Yes, madam. Certainly, madam.’

  ‘Get Meton to make up a tray,’ I said. ‘That cold pork and cumin from yesterday and the bean stew. Plus anything else he’s got going.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Cold pork, sir.’ He glanced at Aegle’s legs, stretched out and visible in their full lovely length. She grinned back at him and winked. ‘At once, sir.’ He left with a final sniff.

  ‘Your major-domo doesn’t like me,’ Aegle said when he’d gone.

  ‘Oh, Bathyllus is okay. He just isn’t human, that’s all.’ I opened the presents chest and brought out the Meleager. ‘By the way, I got this for you. It was for the Festival but you may as well have it now.’

  She took the roll like it was made of cobwebs and looked at the title. ‘The Satires! Corvinus, this must’ve cost–’

  ‘It’s a bargain-basement copy. Fourth-hand and two of the roller horns are missing. Besides, one of the careful owners spilled ink all over the last page so you’ll never know whodunnit. So no big deal, lady.’

  She’d gone very quiet. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  ‘What for? If this Scorpus of yours is the guy we want you deserve the old hack’s complete works in the gold leaf edition.’

  ‘I told you. Finding him wasn’t a favour. We all owed it to Thalia. And I don’t get many presents, certainly not books.’ Her fingers brushed the paper. ‘I’m grateful.’

  ‘Yeah. Well.’ I refilled my cup: if we weren’t going straight out I might as well have another one while I waited. ‘Who was your informant, by the way?’

  She set the scroll down. ‘One of the boys. He played up at the Galba place eighteen months back when Scorpus was laid up with a poisoned hand and the guy gave him a few tips. Not musical ones.’

  ‘Uh-huh. He meet the lady of the house, at all? Galba’s wife Aemilia?’

  ‘No. It was an all-male dinner.’ Aegle hesitated. ‘You think she was the one who arranged it, don’t you? The murder, I mean.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Jupiter, the lady was quick!

  ‘She and Scorpus…?’ She made a circle with her thumb and index finger, then slipped the other middle finger through.

  I grunted. ‘Uh, yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah. That’s how it looks, anyway.’

  ‘Hey!’ She laughed. ‘Don’t look so shocked, Corvinus! It isn’t as rare as you think. If you men can screw any good-looking slave that takes your fancy why shouldn’t the women? Especially if they’re going short otherwise. Happens all the time, only they keep quiet about it. And the boys aren’t going to talk, are they?’

  My mouth must’ve been hanging open, because I found myself closing it. Gods! This was seditious stuff! She hadn’t batted an eyelid, either. ‘Uh, no,’ I said. ‘No, I don’t suppose they are.’

  ‘So.’ She stretched out on the couch. I noticed she’d painted her toenails. ‘Scorpus had an in with the mistress as well as the master. To coin a phrase.’ Ouch. ‘But why should she want a Vestal dead?’

  I’d been asking myself the same question, and I didn’t have an answer. ‘Search me. Still, it fits. Celer tells me Aemilia would have a list of the girls at the rite.’

  ‘Yeah. Only the names, though, not the addresses. And if her tame fluteboy was Scorpus then how did he get in touch with Thalia?’

  That brought me up short. Hell. I hadn’t thought of that. The lady was right: Scorpus might have the technical qualifications, but he wasn’t on the circuit, which meant he wouldn’t automatically have the contacts. We still had that
hurdle to get over. ‘Fair point. You have any ideas yourself?’

  She considered. ‘If I were you I’d have another word with Celer. That bugger would sell his grandmother for the asking, and he probably has, but he’s no hero.’

  ‘Right. Good suggestion.’ There was a knock on the door: Bathyllus with the tray. Fast work, but then he had a vested interest. ‘Fine, little guy. Just put it down.’

  He did; carefully and with eyes averted. Evidently we had a five-star, gold-plated huff situation here. Jupiter! Minions!

  ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’ he said.

  ‘No, that about covers it.’ He sniffed and straightened. ‘Oh, one thing more. We’ll need the litter. Tell the lardballs ten minutes.’ I looked at Aegle. ‘That be okay?’

  ‘Make it fifteen, Bathyllus.’ She was already tucking in. Insouciant, I think, is the word. I really liked Aegle. There weren’t many people who could out-snub Bathyllus.

  He exited, out-snubbed and fizzing.

  Starved was right; the tray looked pretty empty by the time the lady was through with it. That last lunch I’d seen her picking at in the Suburan cookshop must’ve been a one-off, or maybe she was just making full use of the opportunity. We left the dishes for the little sourpuss to clear away and set off for the Remuria.

  23.

  The Remuria got its name because it was the part of the Aventine where Romulus’s brother was standing when he spied his vultures. The place has changed in the last eight hundred years, and not for the better: if the old guy came back now he wouldn’t see the sky for tenements, he’d find the vultures walking around in tunics, and there’d be a hell of a lot more than six of them. In fact, from the looks of the lean, mean, corn-dole-fed faces we passed I wondered if maybe we should’ve brought a back-up team. Certainly if things turned rough the litter saves would be no help. After the climb up from Circus Valley the lardballs were so knackered they couldn’t’ve handled a brace of determined three-year-olds.

  We got lost a few times, but finally an old guy who could’ve been Nestor’s grandfather if the Pylos royal family had gone in for nicking the tiles off temple roofs pointed us down a rubbish-strewn alleyway between two anonymous blocks of flats. Sure enough, it ended in a walled yard with a heavy gate. There was nothing to show who owned the place – I doubted if one in ten of the locals could’ve read a sign anyway – but the yard was heaped with furniture under a makeshift roofing of sailcloth. Most of it seemed to be basic stuff: iron bedsteads, stools, basin brackets. Cheap quality, nothing too big or too fancy, or even too intact. Yeah, that made sense: in the Remuria most of the punters would be strapped for space and cash, and who worried about a collapsing bed when the real problem was a collapsing bedroom?

  Aegle had been right about it being a going concern, though: I counted four men, three of them loading a wagon while the other scratched his balls to one side. Obviously the man in charge. I got out of the litter and went up to him.

  ‘This place belong to a guy called Scorpus, pal?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ He was leering at Aegle, who’d come out behind me. She was wearing her cloak, but it only covered her to the knees.

  ‘You know where I can find him?’

  ‘He’s out buying.’ He turned his head away and spat into the mud to one side. ‘Property by the Naevian Gate.’

  Down the hill a bit, to the south-west. ‘Uh-huh,’ I said. ‘You care to be more explicit?’

  He considered. ‘Family Mucius Trupho,’ he said at last. ‘Only the guy’s dead. Sale of effects. Third tenement before the gate, first floor left.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I turned back for the litter.

  ‘Hey, sister!’ the guy yelled. ‘You a flutegirl? Want to give us a tune on your pipe before you go?’

  ‘Screw you,’ Aegle snapped over her shoulder as we climbed in.

  ‘Sure.’ He chuckled. ‘Any time.’

  We leaned back against the cushions and the lardballs took the strain. Aegle’s birthmark was flushing scarlet and her lips were set.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said.

  ‘No problem, Corvinus.’ She grinned suddenly. ‘I could eat that bastard for breakfast and spit out the pips. It just gets a bit wearisome sometimes, you know?’

  Yeah; right. I gave the guys their directions and then ducked my head back in. We headed down for the Naevian.

  Even without the slimeball’s exact directions we wouldn’t’ve had any difficulty finding the right address. The furnishings for sale – such as there were of them – had been brought down the tenement steps and were laid out in the street for potential purchasers to finger over. Most of the neighbourhood had turned out, too, whether they were buying or not: when there’re no chariot races or games scheduled, in the Remuria you make your own entertainment. I noticed, though, that there were three hard-looking guys standing around on the fringes and keeping their eyes peeled. From the facial similarity, they had to be family, probably Trupho’s sons: even something as big as a bedstead can grow legs and walk on the Aventine if you leave it unattended for more than five minutes, and they were obviously keeping tabs on their property until the cash had changed hands. When the lads put us down I climbed out, Aegle behind me, and walked up to the nearest.

  ‘Excuse me, friend,’ I said politely. ‘Is there a guy called Scorpus here, do you know? Used furniture dealer?’

  ‘Sure.’ The guy pointed. ‘That’s him with Ma.’

  I looked, then looked again just in case, but there was no mistake. The man talking to the wizened crone who was probably no older than forty was six six in his sandals, built like a trireme and black as the inside of the Tullianum at midnight. Disguised or not, fluteplayer or not, if Scorpus could pass as any sort of female for more than two consecutive seconds to anyone who wasn’t purblind and a congenital idiot then I’d eat my mantle.

  Bugger. So much for that angle. I didn’t even bother to ask Aegle if she recognised him; I just steered her back into the litter and told the boys to take us home.

  . . .

  We were both pretty quiet on the way back.

  ‘Hey, come on, now, Corvinus,’ Aegle said eventually. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘You want to bet?’ I snarled. ‘That guy was my best shot. In fact he was my only shot. With him out Aemilia goes too, and Galba, for what he was worth, and they leave fuck all behind them.’

  ‘It can’t be as bad as that.’

  Cheery optimism I could do without. It just made matters worse. ‘Is that right now?’ I said. ‘You like to estimate how many other unaffiliated male fluteplayers there are in the city? Ones that don’t have their sandals made in a boatyard and can wear a short skirt and padded halter without looking like something out of a drag version of a titanomachy?’

  She giggled. ‘He certainly looked a stud, though. I can understand why Aemilia dropped her pants for him. Even Galba.’

  True; but then I wasn’t in the mood to see the funny side of things, not yet, not by a long chalk. And I hadn’t been kidding; I’d expected a lot from Scorpus. ‘Cut it out, lady,’ I said. ‘We’re in trouble. You’re the professional consultant; where do we go from here?’

  She looked out through the curtains. ‘Well, I’m not sure about you, Corvinus, but I’m headed for a slot this evening at a broad-striper’s house down Tusculan Road. Some of us have to work. You can drop me off at the intersection.’

  ‘Jupiter, sister, it’s not halfway through the afternoon yet! If you don’t want to go all the way back to the Subura then come home with me and I’ll get Lysias to take you in the coach.’

  She looked at me sideways. ‘You’d really do that, wouldn’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Sure I would. No problem.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She gave a small sigh. ‘Well, I suppose you would, at that. Uh-uh. Thanks but no thanks. I’ve got a friend living down that way. I’ll call in in passing, kill the time there.’

  I didn’t believe her for a minute, but there wouldn’t’ve b
een any point arguing. If I’d learned anything about Aegle in our short acquaintance it was that she was some independent-minded lady. ‘Two slots in two days,’ I said. ‘That’s not bad going, is it?’

  She shrugged. ‘It happens sometimes. Although for me not often enough. This one’s just a fill-in for Harmodia.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I was making conversation; anything not to have to think about the case. Or lack of one. ‘Who’s Harmodia?’

  ‘The girl whose place Thalia took at the rites.’

  Oh, yeah; the one who’d gone sick. ‘She’s not back yet?’

  ‘She called in at the clubhouse a couple of days after the ceremony, but only for the news. Her throat was still swollen. She wanted to sign off until the Festival. Celer was livid because she’s pretty popular, but there was nothing he could do. We’re sharing her slots out between us.’

  Something brushed my spine. ‘She, uh, missing out on a lot of work, then?’

  ‘Sure. Harmodia’s popular, like I said. The punters ask for her by name.’