Food for the Fishes (Marcus Corvinus Book 10)

by David Wishart

  ‘Ah.’ He looked smug. ‘So you’ve found out about the barge, have you? It’s one of Aulus’s more extravagant schemes. Extravagant in both senses of the word. He put it to Father a month or so ago and the old man sent him off with a flea in his ear. Quite rightly so, in my opinion, and not on financial grounds alone.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Florus’s cousin is something at the naval base in Misenum. Seemingly he heard of a grain barge - one of the big ones, you know, that ply between Egypt and Puteoli - that was being put out of commission. Aulus’s idea was - is - that they should buy it and do it up as a floating brothel-cum-gambling hall. Ludicrous, of course - the capital investment, even split two ways, would be huge, the comparative risks enormous - and morally...well, personally I find the morality suspect to say the least. So did Father.’ He paused and then said, very deliberately: ‘You know, Corvinus, although I hate to shed suspicion on my own brother, I do wonder if that barge wasn’t the subject of the argument he and my father had in the study the day he died. Certainly Aulus isn’t one to take no for an answer. And he’d have to get the money from somewhere, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said non-commitally. ‘Yeah, I suppose he would.’ Jupiter, what a pair! I’d already had Aulus Nerva practically accusing his brother of parricide and here was Chlorus reciprocating the favour. Not that the point wasn’t well-made, though. And if Philippus had been one jump ahead of me when I’d told him about the grain barge - which I’d bet the smart dwarf had been - it explained why he’d been so anxious for further details. Also why he’d been so disappointed to find Nerva and Florus gone. I’d probably unintentionally thrown a major spanner in the works there, because having heard him express his opinion re poaching on other people’s business preserves I could see how a plan to open a floating brothel-cum-gambling hall would really piss the guy off. Not that that would lose me any sleep, mind. ‘Ah...one last question, pal, if you’ll answer it for me.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How did your mother die?’

  He blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It was a natural death, was it?’

  ‘Corvinus, you have no right to –’ He stopped; he’d gone bright purple to the roots of his hair. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘If you don’t want to answer, pal, then that’s fine by me. I can always ask someone else.’

  ‘No. In any case, there’s nothing that...at least…’ He stopped again and took a deep breath. ‘Mother was a chronic invalid. She also walked in her sleep; the doctor said the habit was connected to the disease. One night she...the slave who was supposed to be watching her had dozed off. Mother walked out of her bedroom, fell downstairs and broke her neck.’

  I stared at him. ‘This was, what, thirty years back, right?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it was, as a matter of fact. Exactly, twenty-eight.’

  ‘Anyone see it happen?’ I could’ve bitten my tongue off as soon as I asked the question: Chlorus might be oily, but he wasn’t stupid. Not that he seemed unduly put out, mind, although he didn’t reply at once; I could’ve been mistaken but I had the impression he was weighing up two possible answers, which was interesting in itself. Finally, he said: ‘Yes. My sister. And my father. They both came out when they heard her moving. My father’s room was next door to Mother’s and Penelope’s was just down the corridor.’

  ‘They couldn’t do anything?’

  Pause again. Chlorus cleared his throat. ‘She’d sleep-walked before, of course. The doctor said that waking her would be more dangerous than leaving her alone, so he didn’t interfere. Then she...her foot must have come out of one of her slippers. She tripped and fell. My father tried to catch her but he was too late. She tumbled all the way down.’

  ‘And your sister?’

  ‘She came out of her room after my father left his. She could do nothing either.’ A third pause, longer this time. ‘Corvinus, I should not really be telling you this, but Penelope claimed that it was no accident. That Father had pushed her.’

  For a second, it didn’t register; then it did. Shit.

  ‘You’re saying Murena killed your mother deliberately?’ I said.

  ‘No, of course not. I’m only saying that Penelope believed that he killed her. She still does. Complete nonsense, of course, she must have been mistaken - have misinterpreted - but there you are. That’s Penelope for you; she always was a strong-minded girl, very stubborn, very sure of herself even when she was obviously in the wrong. It’s why she hated Father. Why she’s always hated him. I thought perhaps you’d better know that too.’ He stood up. ‘I’m sorry, I really must be going. Thank you for the wine.’

  My brain still felt numb. ‘Uh...one more thing, pal,’ I said. ‘No offence, but I asked your brother and I’d better ask you just to balance the books. Where were you the night your father died?’

  This time he didn’t hesitate. And the smugness was back in spades. ‘At Ligurius’s house. I’d gone round to warn him about a slow-paying customer in Pompeii.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘That late? After hours? Couldn’t you have talked to him during the day?’

  ‘He lives not far from me. It’s often more convenient to call round in the evening than to make a daytime trip out to the farm, and that’s what I usually do. The Anchovy doesn’t mind.’ Yeah, I’d bet! ‘You can confirm it with him if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘Right. Right.’ Sure I would! ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  He left. But it wasn’t the smug way he’d delivered his alibi that stuck as I watched him go: that’d check out, or the bastard wouldn’t’ve been so happy to give it, or so quick. Nor was it even the story of his mother’s death (dear gods, I didn’t even know the woman’s name!)

  It was the look in his eye, when he told me about Penelope hating her father, of complete and utter satisfaction.

  Nice family, right? First Gellia slagging Chlorus and Nerva, and vice versa; then Nerva putting the boot in on his brother; now Chlorus doing the same for Diodotus, Nerva and Penelope.

  I felt faintly sickened. There wasn’t the worth of a copper piece to choose among the lot of them.

  I didn’t feel like any more of the dumplings, but I poured myself more wine and sat back to think things through. Well, that had been a facer. I didn’t doubt the story had been true, in its essentials at least - Chlorus wouldn’t’ve risked making it up from scratch - but the angle he’d given it was a different matter. Gods, what a shower! If I hadn’t asked about the mother’s death no doubt eventually one of the brothers - and I couldn’t see much difference between Chlorus and Nerva there, they were both poisonous bastards - would’ve found some excuse for telling me about it, just to spread the poison. So. Penelope believed that her father had been directly responsible for her mother’s death. Whatever the actual facts were - and I’d have to follow that one up before I was much older - it gave her reason in spades to hate him and so, possibly, to have murdered him. Nice one, Chlorus.

  What he’d told me about Diodotus was interesting too. Oh, sure, his motives were obvious, but again facts - if you accepted them - were facts. Whatever line Diodotus had shot me about the ethics of the medical profession, that Drepanum business was too coincidental for comfort; too coincidental, certainly, for me to dismiss it as irrelevant out of hand. And the connection with Philippus had been completely unexpected. If the two were partners - or at least shared a business interest - then it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that they were in bed together in other ways. That was another angle that I’d have to check.

  Add Brother Nerva’s projected scam with the grain barge. From what Chlorus had said, that was a factor too. The guy was pressed enough for cash as it was - I knew that - and the grain barge would put the lid on things. If he’d floated the idea past his father and got the dull thud, then he’d be getting pretty desperate. Murena’s death would’ve removed a considerable obstacle: he’d have, if not the money itself yet, at least the g
uarantee of the money, and what was just as important virtual control of the company’s policy. Not a clincher by any means - I didn’t know how vital he considered his grain barge idea to be - but again something to bear in mind.

  Of course, re the grain barge and controlling interest in the company, there was another possibility to consider. Philippus had acted surprised when I’d mentioned the barge, sure, but all the same the guy was a sharp, sharp cookie where business was concerned, and his information network was probably pretty hot stuff. The case for his knowing about it already was at least arguable.

  Okay, given that, a second scenario. Let’s say that he did know about it; that what surprised him - or rather knocked him out of kilter - wasn’t the news that Nerva and Florus were planning to set up in competition with him but that the nosey purple-striper looking into Murena’s death was in on the secret. Gambling was Philippus’s bag. Nerva would know that. He’d also know that if he got into a head-to-head with a hard bastard like Philippus the chances were he’d come off a poor second best. Right. So say instead that he’s completely open about things. He approaches Philippus with the barge idea and suggests a three-way partnership rather than the two-way one that he and Florus have got going already.

  It would work; sure it would. Nerva would benefit because he’d neutralise a potential future business rival, and probably avoid having his balls stamped on in some alley in the process. Also, he’d be able to tap into a major new source of finance, which was something he was desperate for. Sure, now the profits would have to be split three ways rather than two, but this was Baiae, and once the thing was up and running they’d be pretty considerable. On the plus side, his own capital outlay to get them into that state would be a lot less. In his present circumstances the advantages would outweigh the disadvantages, no question.

  So much for Nerva. Philippus, now, ...

  This was the crux of the scenario. If that was the sum total of the deal then Philippus would benefit in the usual ways, naturally. On the other hand, the guy could do better: a lot better, especially since he’s no milksop and for personal reasons so far undisclosed already hates Licinius Murena’s guts. Currently, Murena’s in the process of using company funds to finance the building of a hotel, and Philippus may be spitting blood but he’s hamstrung. Okay. So then Nerva comes along and makes his pitch re the grain barge scheme. Philippus brings up the subject of the hotel. He doesn’t approve and - because Murena has refused to bankroll Nerva on the project’s account - he understands that Nerva doesn’t approve either. He points out that without Licinius Murena there wouldn’t be any hotel project and that with his father out of the picture Nerva could invest the family company’s money as he liked. Also, that Nerva doesn’t have any more love for Murena than Philippus does. That being the case, and to simplify matters, it might be in both their interests to put the old guy into an urn...

  Of course, there was that argument between Nerva and his father the day of Murena’s death to explain. With the Philippus deal up and running, he wouldn’t’ve had to ask Dad for money again at all. All the same, I only had Chlorus’s suggestion that that was what they’d quarrelled over, and Chlorus had his own fish to fry. It could’ve been about something entirely different - Murena, by all accounts, hadn’t been the most easy-going of men - and if so the theory still held...

  Bugger Chlorus. I didn’t like the man, and he was as slippery and self-serving a customer as I’d ever experienced, but intentionally or otherwise he’d put the ends of more strings into my hands in that five minutes than I’d bargained for. Now all I could do was play the game, follow them up and see where they led.

  So where did I start? With the most puzzling string, the one I knew the least about, the death of Murena’s first wife. How that fitted in I didn’t know, but my guts told me that it was important. Or could be important. Another talk with Penelope was in order there, sure, but I couldn’t go in there cold. I had to get the background first. So who could I ask? Not Tattius: there was something about the guy that made me uneasy, and he was Penelope’s husband, which put him out of court in the first instance. Someone who’d known the Murena family a long time but wasn’t directly connected with them.

  I swallowed the last of the wine, paid my bill and set out for the fish farm and another talk with Ligurius.

  13

  ‘Fadia. Her name was Fadia.’ Ligurius was eyeing me speculatively from the other side of the office counter. He put the set of bills he’d been working on to one side. ‘She’s been dead almost thirty years. Why would you be interested in her?’

  I shrugged. ‘I’m interested in everything at the moment. Anything and everything that comes up.’

  ‘Things aren’t going too well?’

  There it was again. I’d had it with Nerva, then Chlorus, now I was getting it from Ligurius: the too-casual question that hinted at more than just curiosity. I gave him the same answer I’d given the other two. ‘I’m plugging along. We’ll get there in the end.’

  He grunted and flicked one of the abacus beads back to its starting point on the wire. ‘Fair enough. What do you want to know?’

  ‘She was an invalid, wasn’t she?’

  ‘An invalid?’ He looked at me sharply. ‘Who told you that?’ Then, when I didn’t respond: ‘Not that it matters, they’re all as bad as one another. My bet would be Chlorus. He’s always been the mealy-mouthed one of the family.’ He waited. I waited longer. ‘Well, Corvinus, “invalid” would be one description. Fadia was odd when Murena married her. Nothing extreme, just what you’d put down to fancies and obsessions; wouldn’t wear anything blue, wouldn’t step on the cracks between paving stones. Over time it got worse. Latterly she wasn’t exactly insane but she wasn’t all that far from it. She hadn’t been out of the house for years, never left alone for a minute. She even had a slave watching her at night while she slept in case she did something silly.’

  ‘What sort of silly?’

  ‘Any sort. Burned the house down. Or tried to harm herself. That was always a possibility.’

  This was an angle I hadn’t thought of. ‘You mean she was suicidal?’

  ‘There were a couple of incidents. Like I say, it was possible.’

  ‘You think she did kill herself in the end?’

  That got me a long, considering stare. Finally, he looked away: ‘No. No, her death was an accident, as far as I know. As far as anyone knows for certain.’ He paused, and I had the distinct feeling that he was going to say something more. If so, he changed his mind and turned back to me. ‘All the same, it was an accident waiting to happen, and maybe it was for the best. A release for everyone concerned, including her. You heard about the sleepwalking?’

  ‘Yeah. She fell downstairs, didn’t she?’

  ‘That’s right. Fell and broke her neck on the way down. She was dead before she reached the bottom.’

  This was the tricky bit. ‘Uh...there seems to be a question over whether her husband was involved. As more than a witness, I mean.’

  He glanced at me sharply, then looked away again. ‘So I’ve heard,’ he said.

  ‘You have any opinions on that score?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t there, and me, I can’t see that it matters now. Like I say, the death was a release for everyone concerned, including the woman herself. And whatever the truth it was a long time ago. Water under the bridge.’

  Yeah, well, maybe. But I couldn’t leave it at that, no way. Evidently to get a reaction I had to spell this one out. ‘Penelope claims that her father was responsible. She believes she saw him push her. Or that’s what I was told.’

  His eyes came back to me. ‘By Chlorus again?’ He turned away as if he was going to spit, but didn’t. ‘Chlorus is a shit-stirrer, Corvinus, and always has been. And he’s never liked his sister. Never liked anyone, much.’

  ‘You mean he’s lying?’

  ‘No. At least, not about the believing part. Chlorus doesn’t lie if telling the truth - or as much of it as will suit, anyway -
will do his business for him. What actually happened that night’s another matter, and like I say I’m not qualified to give an opinion.’

  ‘What happened to the slave? The one who was supposed to be on watch?’

  ‘Murena had her flogged to death.’ He must’ve noticed my expression because his lips twisted. ‘Oh, yes. He ordered it there and then. He was within his rights, of course - technically, at any rate - and he was quite justified over the blame aspect, because if the woman had been doing her job properly the accident would never have happened.’

  ‘Even so, that’s what it was. An accident.’

  He flicked another bead on the abacus back and forward before he answered. ‘You didn’t know the man, Corvinus,’ he said neutrally. ‘That wouldn’t matter to him; accident or deliberate, it’d come to the same thing. He could be cruel when he liked, very cruel. If you were wise you didn’t cross Licinius Murena, or if you did you learned to regret it.’

  ‘That’s a trait he passed on, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘I was told Chlorus had had one of his slaves beaten to death for breaking a wine-dipper.’

  Ligurius nodded. ‘That’s so. It happened a year or so back, caused quite a stink locally; killing a slave for next to nothing might be acceptable behaviour in some quarters, but not around here. It’ll have been Brother Nerva told you this time, no doubt?’ I didn’t answer, but he grunted and half-smiled. ‘Right. Oh, they love putting their knives into each other, these two. They’re both bastards, and the old man was worse than either.’

  Yeah, I’d go along with that. As far as Nerva and Chlorus were concerned, anyway, and I’d take his word for it on Murena.

  ‘So just out of interest why do you still work for them if you dislike them so much?’ I said. ‘You’re no slave, not even a freedman, you can do what you like and go where you like. Why not just up sticks and leave?’

  Another long, slow look. ‘Because I enjoy my job and I’m good at it,’ he said. ‘Because, bastard or not, the old man knew that and he left me to it. Because my father managed the farm and his father before him. And because I’m not particularly ambitious.’