27.
The Temple of Cybele’s pretty impressive, if you like the fancy ornate Graeco-Asian style, which I don’t. Mind you, when it comes to temples I’m not exactly turned on by the grand Etrusco-Roman style or the harsh clean-cut simplicity of Doric, either. If you want an architectural grand tour then tough. As far as I’m concerned a temple is a temple is a temple. And incense gets right up my nose.
I grabbed a passing acolyte in the porch and sent him scurrying for the duty priest. That turned out to be a fat Syrian with more rings on his fingers and bells on his toes than you can shake a stick at and hair smeared with unguent that smelled like a goat with serious personal hygiene problems. More ungulant than unguent, in other words. I liked the saffron robes, though; very fetching.
‘Yes, sir?’ he said. ‘How can I help you?’ Polite, for an acolyte.
I gave him my name. ‘I’m looking for a woman called Myrrhine, pal,’ I said.
He didn’t exactly clap hand to forehead and stagger backwards, but the little beady eyes buried in the rolls of flesh blinked.
‘Myrrhine?’ he said.
‘Yeah. You know her?’
He fizzed. ‘I think you’d better talk to the archigallus, sir,’ he said at last.
Uh-huh; this sounded promising. The name had definitely registered. And the chief priest himself, eh? Incidentally, I’ve always thought the title was on the unfortunate side, given these guys’ physical condition; at least if you took the second bit of the word as Latin, not Greek. Under the circumstances ‘First Cock’ has a kind of ironic ring to it.
He took me by the shoulder – it was like being mugged by a bolster – and led me into the temple proper. I’d never been inside the place before, naturally, but I had to admit I was impressed. The goddess at the far end was forty feet high if she was an inch, seated on a throne with two lions flanking her, and the three pairs of jewelled eyes followed us all the way, glinting through a fug of incense that had me coughing. The fat guy gave her a perfunctory bow and ducked through a curtained door just short of the Holy of Holies.
‘If you’ll wait here, sir, I’ll see if the Lord Attis is free to receive you.’
‘Uh, yeah; yeah, you do that,’ I said. Attis; the Living God on Earth. Jupiter, these guys were something else! The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. It wasn’t often I got to talk to a real live god, even if he was self-appointed.
God or not, he kept a pretty seedy antechamber. There were a couple of pegs with robes hanging on them and a pile of dirty dishes on a table in the corner. Despite the incense fumes that drifted in from the temple proper next door the place smelled of old socks. I kicked my heels in silence for a good five minutes, trying not to breathe too deeply.
The priest came padding back.
‘The lord will see you now,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’
I’d expected a study like Camillus’s, but I was shown into a room that could’ve doubled as a whore’s boudoir. Given that the whore had a thing about eastern art. Jupiter knew where they’d collected all this stuff from, but it was as full of overblown furniture and recherché knick-knacks as a Saepta curio shop.
The archigallus was lying on a damasked couch. If I’d thought the first guy was fat this one looked like a beached whale. The priesthood of Cybele obviously liked their home-grown divinities on the large side. Maybe the appointments went by weight.
‘Valerius Corvinus.’ He held out a plump hand. I took it. No bones; it was like holding a bag full of warm porridge. Scented warm porridge. ‘Sit down, please. I’m told you were asking about Myrrhine.’
‘Yeah.’ I pulled up a stool ornamented with gilded cats.
‘May I know why?’ The voice was like warm porridge too.
‘I think she may have killed a few people,’ I said. ‘Including a Vestal.’
‘Ah.’ No surprise; not a whisker. It could’ve been a by-product of omniscience, mind you. ‘Yes. Of course. I have heard about that. Dreadful; simply dreadful.’
‘She’s one of your devotees?’
‘Was,’ he said quickly; too quickly. ‘We haven’t seen Myrrhine in the temple for quite some time.’
‘Uh-huh. But you know who she is?’ That got me a long stare that had nothing of the divine ataraxia in it. I was beginning to feel slightly pissed off. ‘Come on, lord! I mention her name to a guy at the door and he blanches to his toenails and brings me straight here, no questions asked. How many of your flock merit the full five-star treatment of an introduction to the boss?’
He smiled. ‘Very few. Nor does the archigallus know every woman who comes to worship the Mother by name. You’re quite right, Valerius Corvinus; I know exactly who Myrrhine is. However as you’ll see an enquiry about her does demand a certain amount of indulgence on your part. And a certain degree of reticence on mine.’
‘Okay.’ I folded my arms. ‘Consider yourself indulged. So who is she?’
He shifted his bulk on the couch. The woodwork creaked. ‘She is – was – the slave of a gentleman named Gaius Considius Proculus. I can’t remember his address offhand, but he lives, I think, on the Pincian near the Flaminian Gate. Not that that will help you much because she’s no longer there. Of her current whereabouts you know as much as I do. Or as he does.’
‘He freed her?’
‘Not exactly.’ I was still getting that considering look. ‘Myrrhine is a Thracian, from Perinthus on the Propontis. She was brought up as a devotee of Bendis who has, as you’re no doubt aware, close similarities to our own Lady Cybele. Her parents sold her to a slave merchant as a very young child and she was bought by Proculus who was then attached to the governor’s staff in Athens. Since she showed a certain aptitude for music, he had her trained as a flutegirl.’
Full-scale biographies I could do without. ‘Could we get to the point, please, sir?’
‘Indulgence, Corvinus.’ He hadn’t raised his voice. ‘This is all relevant. You asked; let me answer.’
Fair comment. I said nothing.
‘When Proculus returned to Rome he brought the girl with him. At a certain stage – she was, I think, sixteen at the time – she became, with her master’s permission, one of our devotees. Eventually, one of our most fervent devotees. Her fluteplaying skills made her a most welcome addition to our ranks, and she performed regularly in the rites of the Megalensia. The temple – we – became her second family, perhaps her first. This is important.’
‘Uh-huh. So what went wrong?’
I might as well not have spoken; the guy looked straight through me. Oh, yeah; indulgence.
‘Twelve years passed. I mean, from the beginning. During that time the girl – or woman, now, rather – had changed, become more withdrawn.’ He hesitated. ‘It is not our policy, Valerius Corvinus, to interfere between master and slave. Although the cult is long-established and widespread in Rome, we are still tolerated rather than respected. We cannot – dare not – take sides. You must know that slaves, female slaves especially, are required to perform certain services for their masters which may be repugnant to us but are none of our concern.’
Yeah; I was beginning to get his drift. ‘You mean Proculus raped her.’
‘You do not “rape” a slave,’ the archigallus said gently. ‘Slaves, according to your Roman law, are property, not people.’ Ouch; he was right, though. And I knew guys who thought less of their butlers than their fruit dishes. ‘Let us say he used her sexually. Had been using her, over a considerable period, perhaps since he first acquired her. There was, I repeat, nothing we could do. He was quite within his rights. That brings us up to last year. Myrrhine ran away. After, I’m afraid, having stabbed Proculus’s head slave and abstracted certain valuable items of silverware.’
Gods! I sat back. We weren’t talking petty here: under the law runaway slaves get pretty short shrift: when a society’s built on slavery you can’t afford just to shrug and go out for a replacement, or it would be happening all the time. Runaways who use violence and take a slice of the mast
er’s property with them are right beyond the pale. Forget branding on the face and a spell at the treadmill; all they can expect if they’re caught – and they usually are, eventually – is to be nailed to a plank and hung up for the crows.
‘She came to us demanding sanctuary. Not asking, note, demanding, as a right. Of course we had to refuse. She was held while the authorities were contacted; or at least an attempt was made to hold her.’ Again, the archigallus hesitated. ‘She became abusive. Finally she drew a knife and fatally wounded two of our acolytes. In the temple itself, if you can believe that. She escaped as a consequence, and we haven’t seen her since.’
I sat back. Shit. No wonder the guy remembered her. And no wonder she’d pulled Harmodia across the street when she’d seen a priest of Cybele coming towards her. An exit like that wouldn’t be forgotten easily.
‘Where did she get the knife?’ I said.
‘She always carried one. She had a fascination with knives, even as a girl.’
Yeah, that figured. I’d bet she looked after them, too. Harmodia hadn’t mentioned that aspect of things, but maybe their acquaintance had been too short or the bitch hadn’t wanted to arouse her suspicions. Waking up to see your partner carefully stropping a knife blade is enough to give anyone second thoughts about continuing a relationship. ‘And she didn’t get in touch again?’
‘No. We informed the Religious Officer’ – that would be one of the Board of Fifteen responsible for overseeing foreign cults – ‘and buried our dead. I hadn’t thought about Myrrhine since, until Hermodotus told me you were asking for her.’
Well, I’d got my information, and it all fitted. We weren’t any closer to motive, though; or associates. ‘She have any contact with the dead Vestal at all? Cornelia?’ I asked.
‘Not that I’m aware of. And it’s most unlikely.’
‘What about other Romans? Members of the upper classes, I mean?’
The archigallus smiled. ‘I told you, Corvinus, and in any case you must know yourself: our cult is not one that is attractive to the Roman establishment, certainly not to the aristocracy. Again I have to say no.’
Bugger; well, that was that. I stood up. ‘Thank you for giving me your time, archigallus.’
‘You’re very welcome. I’m sorry about Myrrhine. She was, as I said, a valuable member of the cult; perhaps, had circumstances been otherwise, she might even eventually have become a priestess, although of course not here in Rome.’
Jupiter! Still, where these whacky mystery cults were concerned maybe a fascination with sharp instruments and a readiness to carve up anyone who got in your way wasn’t an impediment to a religious career. And who was I to judge?
I left.
28.
It was still only mid-morning when I left the Temple of Cybele, and a lovely day for walking. I came down off the Palatine into the Septimontium and headed towards the Public Ponds district. If I was lucky I’d catch Lippillus at the Watch House; maybe, if he wasn’t too busy, split a lunch-time jug. I’d got Thalia’s murderer for him, sure, and he’d want the name, at least; but I could also pick his brains about the Crocodile. If we could find that, then maybe – just maybe – we might find the woman herself. It was worth a try, anyway.
The gods were smiling: he was in, beavering his way through a small mountain of paperwork. From what I could see of him behind it he didn’t look too happy.
‘Hey, Lippillus.’ I sat down on the bench next to his desk. ‘How’s it going?’
His head came up. Unhappy was right: the guy had that frayed-at-the-edges look that suggested late nights, early mornings and not much free time in between. That made sense: being a Watch commander these report-conscious days is no joke, and if you liked to stay personally at the investigative cutting edge, which Lippillus did, it meant holding down what amounted to two jobs.
‘Oh, hi, Corvinus.’ He tossed a wax tablet on top of the pile and picked up another. ‘Sorry, I’ve been meaning to get in touch. No luck on your flutegirl. I’ve had one of my best men knocking on every door of the tenement, but no one saw nothing, Watchman. Par for the course.’
‘The killer’s name was Myrrhine. She’s a Thracian. Runaway slave, belonged to a guy called Considius Proculus.’
He stared at me. ‘You found her?’
‘No. Not the lady herself. But I’ve got a description. Maybe some sort of a lead as well.’
‘Yeah?’ He grinned. It took years off him. ‘That’s great! Any time you want a job with the Watch, pal, just ask. What kind of lead?’
‘You happen to have heard of somewhere called the Crocodile?’
‘The Hippo’s place? Sure.’
It was my turn to stare. ‘You know it?’
‘I should do. My lads are round there breaking up brawls three, four times a month regular. Or picking up the pieces, rather. It’s a cat-house this side of the Raudusculan Gate, specialises in the rougher end of the market. We’d’ve closed it down long ago, but the punters would just move somewhere else and give us the same headaches, and at least the Hippo cooperates.’
The Raudusculan was where the Ostian Road passed through the old city wall, in the valley between the two main peaks of the Aventine, west of the Remuria. Right on the edge of Lippillus’s patch, in other words. I’d been lucky right enough.
‘Can you take me there?’ I said.
That got me another grin. ‘Corvinus, believe me, if it meant getting away from these reports I’d take you all the way to Capua. You’ve got it. That where you think this Myrrhine hangs out?’
‘Could be. She mentioned the name, that’s all.’
‘Fine.’ He paused. ‘You want a couple of the lads as well? For back-up?’
I hadn’t thought of that, but it might be an idea: if we did find Myrrhine then I didn’t fancy taking her on single-handed, even with Lippillus there. Like Aquillia had said, that bitch was evil, and if she was as handy with a knife and as ready to use it as past events suggested then now was no time for heroics. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘If they’re free.’
‘Fair enough.’ He got up and went to the door. ‘Hey, Faustus! Chilo! In here a minute!’
The two guys who had been propping up the outside desk when I’d arrived shooting the breeze with the clerk looked up and lumbered over. Yeah; that would just about do it where back-up was concerned. Either one of them could’ve punched out a rhino.
Lippillus made the introductions and explained the situation – standing, he came up to about the shorter guy’s chest – and we set off for the Crocodile.
The place was a real dive, I could see that from the outside: a ramshackle two-storey building in a rubbish-strewn street of tenements backing on to the old wall itself. Some hack with more imagination than talent had painted the eponymous reptile on the wall beside the door, but the paint had flaked away over time until even the least critical of art lovers – who probably didn’t feature much anyway as a class among the club’s clientèle – wouldn’t’ve recognised it for what it was unless they’d known in advance. Still, it showed we were dealing with an old-established firm here. That was nice; longevity always inspires confidence.
Lippillus pushed open the door and we went in. There were three customers drinking at the counter, but they took one look at us and suddenly decided they had pressing business elsewhere. I noticed they gave Faustus and Chilo a wide berth, walking very carefully like they were tiptoeing on eggs. I didn’t blame them.
That left a trio of hard-eyed girls, obviously employees taking an early lunch break, and behind the bar the fattest guy I’d ever seen who just had to be the Hippo.
‘Hi, Hippo,’ Lippillus said. He hadn’t even glanced at the punters while they made their exit. ‘How are things?’
The fat guy smiled. Or at least rearranged the mounds of flab that made up his face. Jupiter, he was gross: three hundred pounds, at least, and every ounce of it blubber. ‘Watch Commander!’ he said. ‘A delight to see you! A jug of our best wine, a few pieces of cheese and an oli
ve or two. On the house, of course.’
Lippillus looked at me. I shrugged, he nodded and we went up to the counter with the two squaddies in close attendance.
The Hippo was filling a jug from a flask. He glanced over his shoulder at me. ‘We don’t see many purple-stripers in this part of the Aventine, sir,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘This is Marcus Valerius Corvinus, Hippo.’ Lippillus took four cups from the pile on the counter, inspected them, swapped one for a fifth and set them out. ‘He’s a good friend of mine and he wants to ask you some questions.’
‘Any friend of yours is always most welcome at the Crocodile, Commander. You know that.’ The fat guy poured for us then cut a huge wedge from the cheese on the bar counter. I noticed, though, that the phoney bonhomie had gone up a notch, if that was possible: ‘questions’ was obviously a word that made our cheery pal nervous.
I tasted the wine. Considering the place, I’d been expecting rotgut, but it wasn’t bad. Not top-of-the-range stuff, sure, nor even second – either would’ve been pushing things – but good for its class. Very good. ‘Corfinian?’ I said.
The Hippo was ladling olives. He straightened and gave me a look that could’ve been respect but was probably wind. ‘Close, sir,’ he said. ‘Very close indeed. It’s from Sulmo. My cousin’s farm.’
‘Nice.’
He put the plates of cheese and olives in front of us. I tried a bit of the cheese, and it wasn’t bad, either. Just goes to show, you can’t trust first impressions. I could get to like this place.
Maybe it was telepathy. The girls along the bar had been giving me the eye over their bread and pickles since we’d come in. Now one of them – a stacked Mauretanian with shoulders that could’ve been smoothed ebony – called out, ‘Hey! Purple-striper!’
I turned. ‘Yeah?’
The Hippo was glaring at her but the other girls were sniggering.
‘You want some dessert after that, you just say, okay? Real genuine purple-stripe dessert.’
Last Rites (Marcus Corvinus Book 6) Page 21
