Last Rites (Marcus Corvinus Book 6)

by David Wishart

  Jupiter, the guy was smart! ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘We are.’

  ‘Political enough to scrub the investigation altogether?’

  ‘Easily. Twice over. And if you try to push things, Decimus, you’ll be slapped down so hard your head will ring. From both sides, senatorial and imperial.’ I held his look. ‘I’ll tell you something else: this time it’s got my vote. The bastard deserved everything he got and more. How he died is secondary.’

  ‘Fine,’ Lippillus said equably. ‘Keep your hair on. I’m just thinking aloud here.’ Gods! Thinking aloud was right: I could almost hear the guy’s brain chug. ‘Senatorial I can understand, but not imperial. You mean the Wart? Or Gaius and Macro?’

  This was getting too close for comfort. I could just tell him the whole story, sure, but that sort of knowledge was dangerous. We’d got corpses enough already. ‘Lippillus,’ I said, ‘read my lips, okay? Cut it out now, please. You just do not want to know. Believe me.’

  I might as well have been talking to the wall. He picked up his wine cup again and sipped slowly.

  ‘Gaius and Macro, then,’ he said. ‘So what particular dirty laundry are those two beauties kicking under the bed?’

  Oh, shit. Well, what the hell; he’d probably work it out anyway in another couple of chugs. It was sickening: solving the case had taken me half a month’s hard grind and here he was with the basics in two minutes flat. ‘Hang on, pal,’ I said. ‘You like to hear a scenario? A totally fictitious, totally hypothetical scenario with absolutely no bearing on the real situation whatsoever, in this world or any other?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He was grinning. ‘I’ll settle for that. Tell me.’

  I told him. The whole boiling. By the time I’d finished he wasn’t grinning any more.

  ‘There isn’t anything you can do?’ he said.

  ‘Not a thing. And even if there were, I doubt if I’d do it. The Wart will carry the can like he always does. What’s another bit of mud? Whereas when he hangs his mantle up at least Gaius will start fresh.’

  ‘Screw fresh. The bastard’s rotten to the core. In the old days mother-killers got the Rock, whoever they were. Now if their last name’s Caesar we put it down to political expediency.’ Lippillus got up. He was angry as hell. ‘You were right; I didn’t want to know. Now that I do, as a Watchman I feel just that much dirtier.’

  ‘How do you think I feel?’

  Lippillus grunted. ‘You’re lucky, Corvinus. You were born one of the great and good. Me, my dad worked a hammer at the cattle market. Where wading through shit’s concerned, you’ve got the family edge.’

  Ouch. The guy had a point, though: purple-stripers take in the murky ground rules of politics with their mother’s milk. If I couldn’t sympathise with the cover-up, at least I could understand the whys and wherefores. Lippillus had a cleaner mind than I did; he couldn’t do either.

  We walked to the door in silence.

  ‘Have a good Winter Festival, Decimus,’ I said.

  The frown lifted; not altogether, but enough. We shook hands, which is something we don’t often do.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, Marcus,’ he said. ‘You too.’

  37.

  I like the Winter Festival. Partly it’s the anarchist in me, partly it’s the pure pleasure of seeing the happy smiling faces of the slaves when they wake up on a Winter Festival morning to the knowledge that for three whole days they don’t have to take any nonsense from the bastards in the mantles. Or that’s the theory at any rate. Licensed anarchy and role reversal for three days a year may sound a peachy way to keep the wheels of society oiled, but there’s always the morning-after effect. Any silly bugger stupid enough to use the family’s best Corinthian vase as a spittoon or feel the mistress up while she’s passing him the turnips at dinner is just asking to be clobbered the moment things get back to normal.

  Every household has its own little ceremonies. Me and Perilla, we start the day off in the atrium giving out the presents and the cash, after which the guys and girls are free to do what they want until dinner-time. Kitchen staff excepted, for obvious reasons: if we tried to muscle in on the cooking side of things Meton would throw a fit. Besides, Perilla can’t boil an egg without burning it, and you can carry equality too far.

  So there we were, up and brushed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I’d got my new mantle – not on, because everyone slops around at the Festival – and Perilla had her book-rolls. Bathyllus went into quiet ecstasies over his long johns. I’d bought Alexis a belt like Lysias’s to go with his sharp new courting tunic, and Meton had gone back to the kitchen clutching his omelette pan. The various minions and skivvies had their little chinking bags, I’d broken out the sticky animals and that was the heady excitement over for another year. The atrium began to empty. Finally there were only us and Bathyllus left.

  ‘You got any plans for the day, little guy?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, sir. I thought I might pay a visit to a friend near the Querquetulan Gate.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I grinned. ‘Good idea, sunshine. You can show her your new thermal leggings.’

  Bathyllus coloured. ‘He is a retired schoolmaster from Ephesus, sir, an expert on Pindar and most respectable. We used to play draughts together on the first day of the Winter Festival regularly, until you and the mistress went abroad.’

  ‘Uh, yeah.’ I wiped the grin off. After all, it was a holiday, and Bathyllus-baiting was out of order for the duration. ‘Yeah, right. Have a nice time, Bathyllus.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. You too.’ He left.

  Now we were alone I grabbed Perilla round the waist, lifted her up and held on while I planted a Festival smacker between nose and chin. ‘How about you, lady?’ I said. ‘It’s a beautiful morning. You fancy a walk?’

  ‘If you like, Marcus. Where to?’

  ‘I thought Sallust Gardens.’

  ‘Mmm.’ She gave me a return peck and smiled. ‘All right. If you just put me down and stop messing up my mantle I’ll–’

  Something went urgleurgleurgle.

  I stiffened. ‘Uh… was that your stomach, lady?’ I said cautiously.

  ‘No, dear. I thought it was yours.’

  Urgleurgle.

  Uh-huh. I set her down slowly and carefully. I didn’t want to turn round; I really didn’t want to–

  Urgleurgleting!

  ‘Oh, shit,’ I said. I turned and looked at the clock…

  I could see the pointer rising from here; fast and steady. From the looks of things, if our pal in the tutu and her friend the jolly titan had their way this was going to be the shortest Winter Festival on record.

  ‘Marcus…’ Perilla said.

  Urgleurgleurgleting!

  We both watched in fascination. I’d been right to be wary of that thing. The cunning bastard had bided its time until the house was empty. Now it was ready to make its move.

  ‘Don’t panic, lady,’ I murmured. Then I yelled, ‘Bathyllus!’

  Urgleurgle...

  Pause. Long pause. We held our breaths.

  ‘There, Marcus,’ Perilla said finally. ‘It’s–’

  …ting!

  Urgleurgle…

  The bugger was playing with us. I broke out into a sweat.

  ‘Marcus!’ Perilla was really alarmed now. ‘Can’t you do something?’

  ‘Not a lot.’ I went over and looked up at the cistern. Perilla joined me. There was a good five gallons of water in there, and normally it’d stay put, but on this occasion I wasn’t taking any bets.

  …urgleurgleURGLEURGLE…

  ‘Oh, fuck!’ I said.

  ‘Marcus!’

  …URGLEURGLEURGLETING! TING! TING!...

  Clunk.

  Silence. A waiting silence. I didn’t like the sound of this. I stepped carefully to one side, my eyes on the clock. ‘Uh, Perilla,’ I murmured. ‘No sudden moves, right? But if I were you I’d get out of the…’

  TINKLETINKLETINKLEPSSSSSSSSS…

  Too late, and with the contents of a whole cistern behi
nd them the cupids were doing it out of full bladders. The overflow cleared the basin in two seconds flat, hit the tiles in a wave and kept coming. Perilla squealed and jumped back clutching the hem of her mantle while the cistern cheerfully emptied itself all over the atrium floor.

  Bastard! Clever, conniving bastard!

  ‘Having problems, sir?’

  I looked round. Bathyllus had oozed in like a water-rat, his sandals making little plashing noises in the spreading pool round the now-empty clock.

  ‘What does it look like, pal?’ I snapped. ‘Get half a dozen skivvies in here with mops and buckets!’

  ‘Skivvies, sir? Mops?’ He sniffed. ‘Buckets?’

  Oh, hell; the Festival! Cunning was right! ‘Look, little guy, never mind tradition, this is an emergency, okay? Bring anyone who’s around, even Meton. Your draughts can wait.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ Another sniff. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  He squelched off.

  The atrium – or that corner of it, at least – was like something out of the flooding of the Nile. I paddled over to my couch and took off my sodden sandals. Perilla was doing the same.

  ‘That monster goes back, lady,’ I growled. ‘First thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘It’s the Festival, Marcus. All the shops are closed for three days.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Don’t swear, dear. And don’t be silly. It’s just a little teething trouble; you can expect that with any new machine. The engineer will–’

  ‘Perilla, my lips.’ I glared at the clock and it sneered back at me. ‘This is final. Either that thing goes or I do. It’s alive, it’s smarter than both of us and it hates us.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘How else would you describe something that waits for the perfect psychological moment and then pisses all over your living-room floor? Jupiter, even a Gallic wolfhound wouldn’t do this much damage. For a parallel you’d need to go the length of a fucking elephant.’

  Perilla was wringing out the edge of her mantle. ‘Marcus, dear, you’re needlessly anthropomorphising. It’s only a machine. And please don’t swear; I’ve already told you.’

  ‘Listen, lady. If we don’t send it back then I’ll personally fucking anthropomorphise the brute with a sledgehammer and a hacksaw. And that’s a promise.’

  ‘Very well. If you’re sure.’

  ‘Sure I’m sure.’

  The mop-and-bucket gang trailed in: Bathyllus, Meton and two vegetable-peelers. They didn’t look happy. Meton especially. Gods! Come dinner-time we were all going to suffer, I could tell that now. Scratch the special Winter Festival meal; it was going to be omelettes all round, with no afters, and lucky to get them. No one was going to tell me this wasn’t planned. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Thanks, pals. Just–’

  Knock knock knock.

  The front door. I’d bet the clever bastard had engineered that as well somehow. Bugger. This was all horribly familiar. Still, it couldn’t be what’s-her-name the stringy Vestal back. I doubted if we were on her Winter Festival visiting list. I just hoped it wasn’t Mother; that was all I needed.

  ‘Shall I get that also, sir, or do you think you can manage?’ Bathyllus, and sarky as hell.

  ‘No, that’s okay, sunshine. I’ll do it.’ I padded through to the lobby and opened up.

  Aegle was standing on the step with a covered plate in her hand. Beside her was a big, well-muscled guy I half recognised but couldn’t place.

  ‘Happy Winter Festival, Corvinus,’ she said. ‘We’re not disturbing you, are we?’

  Behind me I could hear the clanking of mops and buckets. ‘Uh, no.’ I stepped back. ‘No, come in.’

  ‘That’s okay, we’re not stopping.’ She handed me the plate. ‘I brought you some sticky animals from Harmodia’s mum’s stall. A Festival present. And this is Thalia’s brother Phrixus. He wanted to meet you.’

  Phrixus held out a hand the size of a spade, and I suddenly remembered: the customer in the Crocodile, who’d come in after me the time I’d asked about Nomentanus and sat quietly drinking his wine while I was talking to my thirsty punter friend. The last piece of the puzzle slipped into place. Our eyes met as we shook, and I knew he knew that I knew; also that it was why the guy had come.

  ‘Happy Festival, Phrixus,’ I said.

  ‘And to you, sir.’ The voice was quiet with just a touch of wariness. Smart, too, with good vowels. Rough hands and working tunic or not, Phrixus was no uneducated bonehead.

  ‘You, uh, sure you wouldn’t like a cup of wine?’ I said. ‘On the house this time.’

  The corner of his mouth lifted and the wariness left his face. ‘Oh, I’m not much for wine, sir,’ he said carefully. ‘Or wineshops. Just now and then, when I’m working.’

  ‘Is that so, now?’ I said. I closed the door behind us and motioned them towards the stone bench that ran the length of the lobby wall. ‘What work do you do exactly?’

  ‘I run a transport business. Three carts, out of the Tiburtine Gate.’

  ‘Not the Raudusculan?’ I kept my voice neutral.

  ‘No.’ His smile was more relaxed now. ‘I’ve been down there two or three times, but it’s not an area I know well. In fact, if I hadn’t been tagging along behind a friend the first time I visited I might never have found where I needed to go.’ He paused. ‘And I’d’ve hated that to happen. I really would.’

  ‘Meaning the last time you managed okay on your own?’

  ‘I got what I wanted done, sure.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I sucked a tooth. ‘Debt collecting, would that be?’

  ‘That’s right.’ His eyes held mine. ‘You have a problem with that?’

  I shook my head slowly. ‘Not me, pal. I’m all in favour of people paying what they owe.’

  Aegle had been looking from one of us to the other. ‘Corvinus?’ she said. ‘Phrixus? What is this?’

  ‘Just a friendly conversation, lady,’ I said. ‘Shooting the breeze, that’s all.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, and I’m Cleopatra.’

  I grinned and handed her back the plate. ‘Okay, Cleo, why don’t you have one of Harmodia’s mother’s sticky hippos and close your ears for a minute?’ I turned back to Phrixus. ‘Ah… this debt collection, friend. You missed out on the first instalment, right? Why would that be, now?’

  He shrugged. ‘I was around. I just didn’t have a chance to collect, that’s all. Too many other creditors muscling in. It was no big deal. So long as the transaction got made it didn’t matter who made it.’

  ‘And the, uh, debt itself? How did you find out about that?’

  ‘Aegle here told me.’ Aegle looked up at him and opened her mouth to speak but closed it again. Phrixus ignored her. ‘She gave me your…’ He paused; his lips twitched. ‘She gave me the address of that friend I mentioned.’

  ‘You mean the purblind, unobservant bastard you followed twice to the Raudusculan without his knowing you were behind him?’ I said.

  He grinned. ‘Yeah. That’s the one.’

  ‘So you just hung around outside his front door from first light on and stuck with him when he came out, right?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Easy.’ He patted his stomach. ‘Good for the waistline, too. You get flabby working the carts.’

  Hell! And I hadn’t had so much as a prickle! I was losing my touch! Still, it’d all turned out for the best, so maybe that was why my sixth sense hadn’t kicked in with the usual warning.

  Aegle had put the plate down on the bench beside her. ‘Look, you two,’ she said. ‘Cut it out, okay? You’re talking about Myrrhine’s death, aren’t you?’

  I let her have my blankest stare while Phrixus carried on grinning.

  ‘What gave you that idea?’ I said.

  She flushed. ‘I’m not stupid, Corvinus, so don’t patronise me. Are you saying there was someone else involved in the murders besides Myrrhine? And that Phrixus here killed him?’

  ‘As a matter of fact there was.’ I kept my face straight. ‘Myrrhine was
recruited by one of the city judges, a guy called Sextius Nomentanus, and yes, by pure coincidence Nomentanus is dead. About Phrixus killing him I don’t know.’ I glanced at the big guy. ‘That name ring any bells with you, pal?’ I said.

  Phrixus shook his head slowly. ‘First time I’ve heard it,’ he said. ‘And I don’t remember killing anyone with purple on his mantle, either. That’s the gods’ own truth.’

  I turned back to the girl. ‘There you are. Satisfied?’

  ‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘Evidently you are, though.’ I didn’t speak. ‘So how did he die?’

  ‘Who knows? Coincidence, like I said. Or call it divine retribution if you like.’ Being careful not to look at Phrixus, I took one of the sticky animals. It could’ve been a horse, or maybe a goat: Harmodia’s mother was no artist. ‘That’s the way the Watch are viewing it, anyway. As just another Aventine mugging. Case closed.’

  Phrixus stood up. ‘We won’t take up any more of your time, Valerius Corvinus,’ he said. ‘It’s been nice meeting you.’

  ‘Likewise.’ I could still hear the clanking of buckets. ‘A real pleasure. Uh… one last thing, pal.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You… uh… take small commissions? Like moving articles of furniture?’

  ‘Sure.’ He frowned. ‘Such as?’

  ‘There’s something I want delivered to an acquaintance of mine, name of Furia Gemella. A water clock. One of these big marble bastards. I know it’s the Festival, but…’

  ‘No problem.’ The frown lifted. ‘I’ll bring the cart round myself. After sunset today do you?’

  ‘That’d be perfect.’ I held out my hand and we shook again. ‘Nice meeting you, friend. Have a good Festival.’

  They left. I grinned and went back inside to pick up Perilla for our jaunt to the Sallust Gardens.

  Case closed. Definitely, this time. Yeah, and a lot more satisfyingly than I’d thought it would be, in more ways than one. The clock would go well with Gemella’s set of candelabra. And the lady would just love the cupids.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE