Last Rites (Marcus Corvinus Book 6)

by David Wishart

  ‘Hi, Harmy,’ Aegle said.

  The girl almost dropped the tray. ‘Aegle!’

  ‘Yeah. How’s it going?’

  Harmodia didn’t answer, just brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and looked at me. I noticed she had a purple bruise on her jaw.

  ‘Who’s this?’ she said.

  ‘A friend. Marcus Corvinus. He wants to ask you a few questions.’

  I thought she was going to run: her eyes slid left and right like she was deciding which way offered the better chance.

  ‘No hassle, sister,’ I said gently. ‘Only we have to talk about your pal Myrrhine.’

  Harmodia set the tray down on the big stone table that took up most of the floor space. Her hands were shaking. ‘She didn’t tell me nothing,’ she said. ‘I swear she didn’t.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Aegle moved forward and gave the other girl a hug. ‘Corvinus knows you weren’t involved.’

  ‘Is Thalia all right?’

  My spine went cold. Shit; of course, she wouldn’t know.

  ‘No,’ Aegle said softly. ‘Thalia’s dead.’

  The girl gave a sort of whimper and her hands went up to her face. Aegle led her to a bench and sat her down. I waited.

  Finally she straightened. I’d expected she’d be crying, but her cheeks were dry. Well, you had to be tough to be a flutegirl. Slip of a thing or not, Harmy was no shrinking violet.

  ‘Okay, Corvinus,’ she said. ‘Tell me how much you know already and I’ll help all I can.’

  I kept my voice neutral. ‘Myrrhine used you as an in to the rites of the Good Goddess so she could murder the Vestal. She left you the morning of the rite after you’d told her you’d cancelled out. Then when you reported in at the guildhouse and found out what had happened you made the connection, panicked and ran. That’s it, all there is. No big deal, and all perfectly understandable.’ Sure, I’d left Thalia out, but that was intentional: the kid had to have given Myrrhine Thalia’s name and address, but she’d be feeling guilty enough already without me throwing in my penny’s worth.

  She glanced away and nodded. ‘Yeah.’ Her voice was dead. ‘That about covers it.’

  ‘You care to fill in some of the gaps for me, maybe?’ I said. ‘Like who this Myrrhine is?’

  ‘I don’t know much about her. We met at Maenalus’s and got talking. She said she’d been a player once down Capua way and asked about slots in Rome. She’d heard about the rites of the Goddess, and I told her I was playing at them.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘After that we… got quite friendly. One thing led to another and I invited her home.’

  ‘She volunteer any other information about herself?’

  ‘No. I asked her where she lived, but she said the let had fallen through and she was between places. I thought maybe that was part of the come-on, but I was interested myself by then so it was a plus rather than anything else so I didn’t push.’

  Bugger. ‘She didn’t give any clues? Let anything slip? Nothing at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Think, Harmy!’ Aegle squeezed the girl’s shoulders.

  Harmodia frowned. ‘There was one thing. It probably isn’t important, though.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I said.

  ‘Just before we left Maenalus’s a fat guy came in. Really fat; a waddler. We’d split a whole jug of wine and we were at the giggly stage. I said to Myrrhine, “You ever see anything like that before?” and she said, “Sure. The Hippo at the Crocodile would make two of him.”’

  ‘“The Hippo at the Crocodile”?’

  ‘Yeah. Just that. These words, like it was a man and a place. I asked her to tell me more but she just laughed and changed the subject.’

  Well, it was something, but nothing much. The Crocodile sounded like a club – aka cathouse – but there were hundreds of these joints in the city, some with a life span shorter than a mayfly’s, and it could be anywhere; maybe not even in Rome. If it even mattered. Still, I shelved it for later consideration. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘We weren’t together for very long. And she was more… physical than a talker.’ Harmodia dropped her eyes. ‘The only other thing that might help was the business on our way home that first day.’

  ‘Yeah? What business was that?’

  ‘We were going along Iugarius. There was a priest coming towards us; you know, one of those easterners from the Great Mother’s Temple, they look like long-haired women. Myrrhine took one look, grabbed my arm and pulled me across to the other pavement.’

  ‘She give any reason?’

  ‘She didn’t want to, but I insisted.’ Harmodia tried a small smile. ‘We were both pretty drunk, Corvinus. She’d made me bang into a guy in the road selling pendants and he wasn’t too pleased. Neither was I. When we got to the other side I asked her what she thought she was doing.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You want me to quote?’

  ‘Sure. Go ahead.’

  ‘She said, “These fuckers are the dregs. Just breathing the same air they do makes me sick to my stomach.”’

  Ouch. ‘Odd.’

  ‘I asked her why, but she wouldn’t say anything else. And that’s about all I can tell you. We did talk over the next few days, sure, but on her side it was mostly questions. A lot of them were about the rite; what went on, who’d be there, that sort of stuff. Now I know why, but then it just sounded like she was interested professionally. Any questions I asked about her and her background she just wouldn’t answer. I don’t even know how she came to learn the flute.’

  I sighed; hell, I’d expected more, a lot more. It might not have been a completely wasted journey, but it was the next thing to it. Our phantom fluteplayer was as phantom as ever. ‘Okay, lady,’ I said. ‘Grilling over. What are your plans now, exactly?’

  She glanced back at the oven. ‘I’ll stay here until after the Festival at least. Maybe for good. Mum’s snowed under; it’s one of her busiest times, my sister’s having a baby and she’s had to look after the stall herself. Anyway, I’m not going back home until Myrrhine’s caught.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s what I was going to recommend myself.’

  She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, ‘Has she been round since? Myrrhine?’

  ‘Once.’ I was cautious. ‘Your neighbour’s husband sent her away with a flea in her ear.’

  ‘Good. I never want to see her again.’ She shuddered, then looked at Aegle. ‘I’m sorry about Thalia. Really sorry. If there’s anything I can do…’

  Aegle hugged her again. ‘Hey, don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘But it is. You know it is. It should be me that’s dead.’

  Smart girl. And she was quite right. What could we say? We left.

  26.

  We had a very late lunch in a cookshop in Bakers’ Square itself. Neither of us fancied the long walk into town, nor a litter, let alone another boat trip, but by the time we’d finished the sun was in its last quadrant so we walked as far as the Ostian Gate and picked up a public carriage from the rank. I took Aegle back to the Subura – she was pretty subdued all the way – and then gave the guy his orders for the Caelian.

  So; what had we got? On the plus side, the murders were solved, at least as far as having the name of the killer was concerned. That was about it. Sure, I could go to Camillus tomorrow and give him Myrrhine’s name and description for the various Watch divisions, but I wasn’t under any illusions how effective that would be. The Watch was stretched as it was, and the city’s a big place. If she knew we had her tagged, Myrrhine could disappear into somewhere like the Subura or the Aventine tenement district and the chances of finding her would be as close to zero as made no difference. I’d half thought of playing it very dirty, using Harmodia as bait to bring her back to the flat in Transtiber, but I’d put that idea aside as soon as it came: I could be wrong about Myrrhine staking the building, and anyway it was far too risky for the kid. The bitch had killed three times already, we couldn�
�t cover all the angles and if I ended up responsible for a fourth corpse I’d never forgive myself. So no bear traps, not unless we were desperate. And we’d a way to go yet before that happened.

  The Crocodile and a foreign priest. The first, although it sounded the more promising, was actually the weaker lead of the two. If it was a lead at all. Like I say, Rome’s full of cathouses with weird names, like the Jumping Gaul or the Three Ones; at least the less salubrious districts are. The Crocodile could be anywhere. Or nowhere, for that matter. The best shot I could give it was to ask Lippillus. If I struck really lucky he might know of it himself, because where Rome is concerned the guy’s knowledge is encyclopaedic. Failing that I could get him to put the word out round the other regions, although that was a clear second-best: Watch commanders aren’t all as efficient as that shit-smart dwarf, and some of them – I suspected including the guy responsible for Transtiber – are only in the job for the backhanders they get from the local night-time entrepreneurs. They would either not know, not care or ask for a non-returnable upfront contribution to the widows’ and orphans’ fund. Probably all three.

  The priest angle was a far better bet. Sure, to kill a Vestal in the first place argued that our pal Myrrhine didn’t have the normal inbuilt horror of divine retribution, and she might just turn out to be a nut with a pathological hatred of anything to do with religion, but I doubted it: that you don’t get all that often, especially with people of Myrrhine’s class. On the other hand, the incident had happened. So why?

  The obvious explanation was that she was afraid of being recognised.

  The fact that the guy was a priest of the Great Mother made the theory even more attractive. Cybele’s been in Rome a long time – she was invited in from Asia by the state two hundred years back to help tip the divine scales against Hannibal – but the authorities have always handled her with kid gloves. Sensible. Religions from the mystic east and Romans – at least the pukkah variety – are like oil and water, they don’t mix, and whatever theological street-cred it has any cult that appeals primarily to women, involves orgiastic rites and asks its priests to dress up in flowing robes and lop their own wollocks off while chewing suspect substances isn’t going to go down a bomb with the staid city fathers. As a result, Cybele has only ever had one temple in Rome, on the Palatine where it’s nice and visible, and her priests are strictly non-citizen: Asiatics, not even Greeks. If Myrrhine had been a devotee at some time – and being a slave- or freedwoman-class made that a fair possibility – then that meant the Palatine set-up was the only game in town: she’d know them and, more important for my purposes, they would know her. QED.

  It was too late to go calling today, but Cybele’s temple was my logical next step.

  I just made dinner. Sure, with the Festival – and the omelette pan – on the horizon Meton wasn’t likely to throw a serious wobbler, but it was as well not to tempt fate. Not that I was too hungry: the cookshop I’d taken Aegle to was offering lung stew with garlic, which you don’t see all that often, and I’d pigged out. Still, I could pick, and with Meton it was being there on time that counted.

  Perilla was already in the dining-room.

  ‘Hi, lady.’ I kissed her and settled down on the couch. ‘Good day?’

  ‘Not bad, Marcus. How was your flutegirl?’

  ‘Which one?’ Bathyllus was serving the hors-d’oeuvres. He gave me a sniff in passing and I grinned. ‘There’re three of them now.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘Sure. Aegle, Harmodia – the kid whose place Thalia took – and the killer.’

  Perilla set down her cup of fruit juice. ‘I thought the killer was a man,’ she said.

  ‘That was yesterday. There’ve been developments.’

  ‘Corvinus, unlikely as it is that you’re suggesting some form of outré hermaphrodism at work that is how it sounds. Now perhaps you’d like to explain a little more clearly.’

  I explained.

  ‘You mean the rites weren’t profaned after all?’ she said when I’d finished. ‘You’ve had Torquata repeat them for no reason?’

  ‘Ah.’ Shit, I hadn’t thought of that aspect. ‘Well, anyone can make a mistake.’

  ‘Perhaps. But you don’t know Junia Torquata, dear. When she finds out she will kill you. Probably very slowly. I doubt if Nomentanus will be too happy either.’

  Yeah, well; that guy’s unhappiness I could live with. I snitched an olive from Bathyllus’s passing tray. ‘Forget the rites, Perilla. As far as the murders are concerned we’re getting there. The next stop’s Cybele’s temple.’ I told her Harmodia’s priest story.

  ‘It certainly makes sense.’ Perilla selected a pickled radish from the bowl on the table. ‘Especially if the woman is a fluteplayer. The cult of Cybele does tend to use its own devotees for the ceremonies rather than professionals.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I poured myself some wine. ‘Is that so, now?’

  ‘So I’m told, at any rate. You’ve still no idea who could be behind the original murder?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ I shook my head; that was the real bugger. The identity of the killer was one thing, but we still didn’t have so much as a smell of the person responsible. Let alone a motive. ‘He – or she – had to have some connection with Myrrhine to make it happen. Also, of course, they had to feel threatened in some way.’

  ‘Unless it was a simple revenge killing. Perhaps your Myrrhine had a personal grudge against Cornelia, or even Vestals in general. After all, the second murder – Thalia’s – was… I suppose you might call it an operational one, to facilitate the first. Why should there be anyone else involved at all?’

  ‘No, that won’t wash.’ I reached for another olive. ‘You’re forgetting young Lepidus. He felt he was responsible for Cornelia’s death. He must’ve had some reason to think that. Besides, how would Myrrhine have known the layout of the Galba place in advance? And she had to, to make the whole thing work.’

  ‘I thought you said that she’d questioned your other flutegirl – Harmodia, was it? – about the details of the rites? Including, presumably, the venue itself?’

  ‘Sure. But the Galba house was only this year’s venue. It changes every year, with the consul. Or the consul’s wife, rather.’

  ‘Had Harmodia been there before? On another occasion? Did you ask her that?’

  ‘Uh… no.’ Hell; this was slipping away from me here. Whether I liked it or not, the lady had a point.

  ‘As for Lepidus, what he thought and what the reality of the situation was could well be two different things. He was obviously not the most balanced of young men. He could have been fantasising.’

  ‘Yeah? And what about Niobe, then? Sure, we’ve cleared the matter of the note up, but her death was no fantasy.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Perilla frowned. ‘Yes, well, I suppose that does present a difficulty. It couldn’t have been coincidence, could it? An unconnected killing?’

  ‘Come on, lady!’

  ‘Of course, Niobe was Cornelia’s slave. The grudge could extend to her.’

  I laughed. Say what you will, Perilla’s a fighter. ‘You believe that?’ I said.

  Perilla ducked her head. ‘No. Perhaps not. But I do think that you’re looking for needless complications. Catching the actual murderer would be success enough. I’m sure Camillus would agree, for one.’

  Yeah; that was certainly true. The deputy chief priest had never liked my idea that one of the upper classes was involved. He’d go for Perilla’s theory with open arms, Niobe or not. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a hard day. Truce; sleuthing over for the evening.’ I shelled an egg and dipped it in the fish pickle. ‘So tell me: what’s been happening on the domestic front?’

  ‘Gaius Secundus and his wife sent round to say they’d be delighted to come for dinner. I’ve suggested the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine. Wear your biggest earrings.’

  She stared at me. ‘What?’

  ‘Just do it, lady. Furia Gemella will, and I don’t want you outgunn
ed. You told Meton?’

  ‘Of course. He was delighted. He suggested wild boar with myrtle and cumin. And perhaps a duck stuffed with dried plums and apricots.’

  ‘Great.’ We didn’t give dinner parties all that often – that was one of Meton’s pet grouses – but when we did the guy pulled out all the stops. And his fruit-stuffed duck was a minor culinary miracle. ‘Anything else in train?’

  ‘The clock. It’s been making peculiar noises all day.’

  Oh, hell. ‘What kind of noises?’

  ‘Digestive.’

  Gods! That thing was more trouble than Armenia! ‘Perilla,’ I said, ‘search your soul. Just how much do you really want a flatulent super-intelligent sundial?’

  ‘It isn’t a sundial, it’s a clepsydra.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘And it isn’t intelligent.’

  ‘You want to bet? That bastard’s smart. Burping’s just the next stage in its campaign of psychological intimidation. Get rid of it now or we’ll both regret it.’

  ‘Oh, Marcus!’

  ‘Believe me.’

  There was a squeaking noise; not the clock, Bathyllus with the main course. I thought it might be the little guy’s hernia appliance, but it was the trolley wheels. Another of these clever-clever Greek gizmos: if Jupiter had wanted us to use trolleys he wouldn’t’ve given us the tray. Ah, well; you couldn’t stop progress. At least we hadn’t got as far as a revolving ceiling that buried you in rose petals or squirted you with perfume yet, although no doubt some over-sophisticated bugger would get round to inventing that sooner or later.

  'Dinner is served, sir,’ Bathyllus said. ‘Enjoy your meal.’

  I lifted the dish covers: poached bluegill with rosemary and mint, pork liver with bacon slices and leeks in a raisin sauce. Yeah, well; life could be a lot worse. Maybe I was hungry after all.

  Mind you, we should’ve been having bulls’ testicles in cinnamon and nutmeg. With a visit to Cybele’s temple in prospect, that might’ve been more appropriate.