‘You obviously don’t know my father as well as I thought you did, Valerius Corvinus. He’d decided on Titus, so Titus it would be. If anything, the fact that Titus was fighting him every step of the way only made him more determined.’
Well, I’d believe that. Eutacticus wasn’t the kind of bastard who’d take ‘no’ for an answer. ‘Did Occusia know? About the terms, I mean?’
She was quiet for a long time. Then she said: ‘Father told Titus in private, so it would depend if he’d passed it on. I don’t think he did, but I’m not absolutely sure. And of course Father could’ve told her himself. A bit of moral blackmail. He’s not above using any lever he can lay his hands on.’
Said without the barest smidgeon of expression. There ain’t nothing like being popular with your family, and I reckoned that, daughter or not, young Sempronia’s opinion of Eutacticus wasn’t a lot higher than her stepbrother’s. She was smart, too. ‘So if it was private between Titus and your father then how do you come to know?’
‘Ah.’ She ducked her head. ‘That’s another piece of the picture you have to have. Another reason why Titus doesn’t want Father to adopt him is that it’d make us legally brother and sister.’
‘Yeah, well, naturally, but -’
‘That would mean we couldn’t marry.’
I stared at her. Oh, bugger; this thing was getting more complicated by the minute. ‘You likely to?’
‘Of course. We liked each other from the start, and it’s sort of developed from there. It wouldn’t’ve been easy swinging it even so, but as long as Titus was legally another man’s son there was a reasonable chance. If the adoption had gone through there would’ve been no chance at all.’
‘Did your father know about this?’
‘What do you think? No-one knew, apart from us, because we couldn’t trust anyone.’
‘Then why tell me?’
‘Because when you find him you can tell him that I’m ready to go ahead with a marriage now, as soon as he can arrange it. I’ll meet him anywhere he likes.’
‘Isn’t that, uh, a bit drastic?’
‘Yes. But you see I’ve no choice either. Titus wasn’t the only one being pressured. Father’s engaged me to a certain Lucius Statius Liber. Not a great catch in society terms, but his family’s big in Beneventum and it’s as high up the social ladder as someone with our side’s background and commercial interests can expect to get. The wedding’s in six months’ time, after the Spring Festival.’
Right. Right. Mind you, for all the young lady’s manner of cool determination – and Sempronia was no fluffy kitten, I could see that – I reckoned there was more than a bit of astigmatism here. The boyfriend’s choice of lifestyle might suit him and not be all that different from what he’d been used to before his mother married Eutacticus, but if she couldn’t somehow bring her father round to the idea then unless she had a private income of her own sweet Sempronia would have to make some pretty radical changes to her expectations. Still, that was no affair of mine, and to tell the truth my sympathies were with the kids.
‘So why didn’t he tell you where he was going before he went?’ I said. ‘Or even that he was going at all? Or did he?’
She frowned. ‘No, he didn’t. Not a word, not even a hint. That’s been worrying me. It isn’t like him just to take off, however angry he was with Father.’
Ah, well, there was probably a simple-enough explanation, and I didn’t know the exact circumstances. Maybe the guy had had to take his chance of escape when it was offered and hadn’t had the opportunity, or maybe he was waiting until he’d made definite arrangements and would get a message to her. Everything seemed pretty cut and dried, anyway. I stood up.
‘Right, then,’ I said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘You’ll give him my message? When you see him?’
‘Yeah. But that’s it, lady. No arm-twisting, not on my part. I don’t play Cupid, and I don’t play piggy-in-the-middle, either. Certainly not where your father’s concerned. That suit you?’
‘Yes. You won’t have to. I promise.’
‘Fine.’ I glanced over at the maid in the corner. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t even, from the look of her, so much as raised her eyes from the floor right through the conversation. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘Thank you, Valerius Corvinus. And I’m sorry about my father forcing you into this. It’s just the way he does things.’
‘Yeah. So I’ve noticed.’
I left.
CHAPTER TWO
‘But why on earth did you agree to do it, Marcus?’ Perilla said.
‘You’ve never met Eutacticus.’ I poured myself a refill of Setinian from the jug next to the couch: the first cupful hadn’t even touched the sides. ‘You don’t argue with guys like that. It isn’t healthy. Besides, it’s no big deal. I’ll just go down to the Aventine tomorrow, have a word with this Tullia and get details of her husband’s itinerary from her, then find the kid, talk to him and report back. Job done. Occusia or whoever can take it from there and they can all go to hell in a handcart as far as I’m concerned. Like the woman said, it’s the end of the season and Luscius’s troupe’ll be well on their way back, so they can’t be far away. If I take the mare three or four days should do it, max, and I can slum it in roadside inns for that length of time no bother.’
‘Hmm.’ Perilla sniffed. ‘I still don’t like it. Besides, I’ve arranged an appointment with Daistratus for the day after tomorrow.’
‘Who the hell is Daistratus?’
‘You remember. The wall painter. About the dining room mural.’
Oh, bugger. I did remember, at that: Daistratus was a protégé of one of the lady’s poetry pals who was touting him around (possibly for private reasons of her own) in the hopes of fixing the guy up with a few lucrative commissions. One of which was to fill the empty space on our dining-room wall. ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘You’re the artistic one in the family. You talk to him. I’d just stand around making polite noises anyway.’
‘But Marcus! We have to agree on a subject, at least. That’s a family decision.’
‘As long as it’s not dead animals or birds I’m easy.’ I took another swallow of wine. ‘What’s he good at?’
‘Rutilia said he specialises in architecture.’
‘Fine.’ A nice tasteful picture of a lakeside villa at evening, possibly with a boat in the foreground drifting gently across the placid water, would just do nicely. ‘Architecture it is.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely certain. You’ve got a free hand. Surprise me.’
‘He’s...well, Rutilia says he’s rather avant-garde. Years before his time, was how she put it.’
‘That’s okay. After all, how avant-garde can an architectural painter be? A villa is a villa is a villa. It’s not like we’re risking getting him to paint us a Bacchic orgy. Besides, your pal Rutilia wouldn’t know avant-garde if it bit her in the bum.’
‘All right. If you’re really sure. But -’
‘I told you. Absolutely certain. Subject closed.’
Bathyllus, our major-domo, drifted in. ‘The chef says dinner is served, sir,’ he said.
‘Great.’ I got up and hoisted the still-half-full wine jug.
* * *
I set off early next morning for the Aventine and Tullia’s place. Occusia’s directions were pretty straightforward, although I could see why she’d written them down for me in advance rather than told me there and then: having to admit face to face that her brother-in-law was an actor was bad enough, but she’d obviously felt that giving the contact address of his wife as a cookshop on the Aventine was something she couldn’t bring herself to do. Yeah, well: marrying into money does have its downside, not least that it can bring a sudden dose of snobbery with it. I felt sorry for the kid, mind: the chances of a bit of maternal support for his decision not to fit in with his stepfather’s plans would be slim at best. Maybe that was another reason why he’d cut and run without telling
anyone.
The cookshop was in the same street as the Temple of Flora. There were two or three candidates on offer – tenement dwellers tend to live out of cookshops, particularly when the weather gets too chancey for pavement barbecues, and the Aventine is prime tenement country – but I asked a friendly prostitute coming down the temple steps, and she pointed me to the right one. Sure enough, when I went in there was a middle-aged woman with her back to me chopping vegetables at the table beside the stove and feeding them into the stewpot. Another, much younger woman was decanting pickles into a smaller container on the counter. She looked up.
‘We’re not properly open yet, but I can do you some cold sliced sausage and salad,’ she said.
‘No, that’s okay.’ I glanced over at the woman with her back to me. ‘I was looking for a lady called Tullia. Sextus Luscius’s wife?’
The older woman turned round. I could see the resemblance between the two of them at once: obviously mother and daughter.
‘That’s me,’ she said.
‘Valerius Corvinus. I’m here from your sister-in-law Occusia. She’s trying to trace her son Titus.’
‘Yes?’
Not much interest there; mild hostility, if anything. I remembered that Sempronia had said the two women didn’t get on. ‘He disappeared two or three days back. She thinks he might’ve gone to join your husband.’
‘Really?’
‘Mother!’ The girl – she couldn’t’ve been older than sixteen – set down the pickle jar.
The woman ignored her. ‘We’ve nothing to do with Occusia any more,’ she said. ‘Not since she took up with that crook of a new husband of hers. Or with her fancy-dressed friends. You’ve had a wasted journey.’
She turned back to her chopping-board and reached for a carrot.
‘Look, all I need to know is if he’s been in touch with you,’ I said. ‘Failing that, where your husband’s likely to be at the moment so I can check if he’s gone there. It’s no big deal.’
Tullia picked up the knife, then set it down. She didn’t turn round.
‘You look,’ she said. ‘I’ve nothing against Titus. He’s a nice enough lad, it’s not his fault he’s saddled with that man as a stepfather, and by all accounts he isn’t playing the same game as his mother. If he’s run off to join Sextus then I don’t blame him and good luck to him, he should’ve done it earlier. Now that’s all I’m going to say.’
Bugger. Well, I’d tried. We’d just have to do it another way.
‘Thanks for your help,’ I said.
No answer: she’d gone back to chopping carrots.
I left.
I’d only got a few yards down the street when the girl caught me up.
‘Valerius Corvinus?’
I stopped. ‘Yeah?’
‘I’m sorry about that.’ She glanced back at the cookshop door. ‘Mother can be...well, she can be a bit sharp at times. Particularly where Aunt Occusia’s concerned.’
‘Yeah, well. It’s understandable, I suppose.’
‘Titus hasn’t been in touch. At least, not as far as I know. But if he’s gone to join Father then he wouldn’t need to tell us where he’s likely to be. The troupe was Uncle Marcus’s before he died and Dad took it over, and they’ve always followed the same route every season. Titus’d know that, he used to go with them until Sempronius Eutacticus put a stop to it. If I were you I’d try Sutrium. If they’re not there yet they soon will be.’
Up the Cassian Road, about forty miles from Rome. Two days there, two back. Well, it could’ve been worse.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘I hope you find him. If you do tell him Luscilla sends her love.’ She was blushing.
‘Yeah, I’ll do that.’
But she was already gone, running back to the cookshop. Evidently a popular guy, young Titus, at least in some quarters.
* * *
So. I wasn’t looking forward to four days in the saddle, not to mention the overnight accommodation in between: we didn’t have any friends or acquaintances in that direction that I could scrounge a bed for the night from, which is the usual way of doing things if you very sensibly want to avoid roadside inns. Still, if it’d get Eutacticus off my back then I’d make the sacrifice gladly. Much too late to start today, though.
I went home.
CHAPTER THREE
Lysias the coachman had the mare saddled up and loaded down before dawn the next morning. I’d explained to our touchy chef Meton that I wouldn’t be around to appreciate his dinners for the next four days at least, and he’d grudgingly provided me with a selection of goodies in case the substitute meals proved totally unfit for human consumption; which for Meton covers most of what’s on offer at tables throughout the empire. Bathyllus supplied a travelling-flask of Setinian, and we were all fixed.
Getting across Rome on horseback is a bugger at any time, but just before dawn is your best bet, because most of the supply carts have trundled their way in and out and the streets are as empty as they’re ever likely to get. Once I was clear of the city and onto the open road I settled the mare into a steady trot that wouldn’t knacker either of us: I’m no horseman by choice, but the road was good and I could make it as far as the half-way point at Bacanae in plenty of time to suss out the possibilities for overnight accommodation. The weather was good, too, a cool autumn day perfect for riding, and the traffic when I branched off from the Flaminian Road onto the Cassian was light, mostly locals on foot or mule-back with the occasional farm cart or coach to provide variety.
I reached Bacanae half way through the afternoon. There was an inn just inside the town gates, so I left the mare tethered by the water trough outside and went in to size the place up. It looked promising: clean limewashed frontage, two storeys high, with stables to one side and a vine-trellised courtyard with wooden tables and stools on the other. The entrance was through the courtyard, and there were a couple of locals on one of the benches soaking up the afternoon sunshine. I gave them a nod in passing and got a suspicious stare and a couple of grunts in return. Yeah, well, we were in the country now.
The inside looked promising too: lath and whitewashed plaster, a long communal table with benches running both sides like you’d see in any country farmhouse, beams with smoked hams and drying herbs hanging from them and a bar counter one end with an open door to the kitchen beyond from which a smell of stew was drifting. I looked up at the board with the wines written on it. Not a bad selection, with Graviscan and Statonian topping the list.
A guy carrying a pile of plates came through from the kitchen.
‘Afternoon, sir,’ he said. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Half a jug of the Graviscan would do for a start, pal,’ I said. ‘You serving food at present?’
‘There’s a game stew in the pot. Or the wife can make you an omelette if you like.’
‘Stew would be great.’
He put his head round the open kitchen door and yelled, ‘Secunda! One stew!’, then turned back to me and set the plates down. ‘You from Rome?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Nice place, they say.’ He took a jug down from its peg and filled it from one of the flasks behind the counter. ‘Need a room?’
‘If you’ve got one free. A whole one, no sharing.’
‘We can manage that.’ He reached for a cup and filled it. ‘Have your wine and food and my wife’ll show you. Just for the one night, was it?’
‘Yeah. At least, I think so.’ I took a sip of the wine. Not bad; not bad at all. If the stew was as good and the room had a bug-free bed then here would do me nicely. ‘I’m on my way to Sutrium.’
‘Business or pleasure?’
‘Business. I’m looking for a troupe of actors.’
‘The Luscian bunch?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one.’
‘You don’t want Sutrium then. Theatre’s closed for repairs.’
Bugger! ‘Is that so, now?’
‘They had a fire last month, took out the stage
and most of the scenery. Or so I’m told. I haven’t been that far myself.’
Hell. ‘You any idea where I’d find them, then?’
‘That’s no problem at all, sir. We’re the next stop on their route. Play’s advertised for tomorrow afternoon.’
Oh, glory. If Luscius was due tomorrow then I’d timed things perfectly and saved myself a couple of painful days in the saddle. Thank you, Mercury, patron of travellers.
The landlord’s wife appeared with a bowl of stew and a quarter-loaf and set them down at the end of the long table. I thanked her, topped up my winecup and took it and the jug over. The stew was excellent, and the bread was fresh out of the oven. Not too high a grit content from the millstone, either: with cookshop bread you need to watch where you’re putting your teeth or you find yourself with fewer than you started with. Taken together with the not-bad wine, three ticked boxes out of four and counting. Mercury was definitely working his winged socks off; I reckoned I’d landed lucky here. ‘You happen to know where they’ll be staying?’ I asked the landlord. ‘The actors, I mean.’
‘They camp out in the field next the theatre. You’ll’ve seen that outside the gates on your way in. ’Less the weather’s bad, when they use old Paquius’s barn. But they’ll be in the field this time for sure.’
‘They come every year? The same troupe?’
‘Aye, same ones. For the last twenty at least, to my certain knowledge. Same time, regular, just before the olive harvest.’ He poured himself a cup of wine then came over and sat opposite me. ‘Not always the same faces, mind, specially where the youngsters taking the female parts are concerned, but it’s always been the Luscians. And you can be sure of a good show, so there’s never any shortage of backers.’
That made sense. No one who’s angling for a town officer’s job would risk pissing off the voting punters by funding a dodgy production, particularly since - as it would - it’d represent a high spot in the local year. Entertainment opportunities in small towns like Bacanae may be thin on the ground, but where getting value for votes is concerned the locals tend to be pretty picky. Mind you, get yourself an established niche – as Luscius’s troupe seemed to’ve done – and you have it for life.
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