Foreign Bodies

by David Wishart

  ‘Titus? The son? He wasn’t even born then.’

  ‘No. But she was always talking about him. And Titus picked up on that. He’s a strange boy, Titus. Both the sons are, in their different ways.’

  Gods! ‘I got the impression that he wasn’t too enamoured of his Uncle Quintus,’ I said. ‘Speaking currently, at least. You any idea why that should be?’

  ‘Really?’ He scooped up some more of the beans, followed them with a couple of slices of sausage, and then took another long pull at the beer keg. ‘No, none at all, or for no reason that I know of, certainly. But he has his moods, young Titus Cabirus, and he’s a secretive cove. Take that girlfriend of his, now. Aia.’ He chuckled. ‘I don’t know if Tiberius knew about her, but I’m damned sure he wouldn’t have approved if he did. And I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him, that was for sure. It was none of my business.’

  Interesting; I was certain that, when I’d talked to Titus and brought the subject up, he’d told me categorically that he didn’t have a steady girlfriend.

  ‘Why would that be, now?’ I said. ‘That Cabirus wouldn’t have approved, that is?’

  ‘Oh, the girl’s family. Father’s a man called Doirus. Local farmer, has a place out beyond the Western Gate. He got into a bit of trouble a couple of years back, when Tiberius had my job and sat on the local bench. Tiberius had him flogged, quite rightly so, he thoroughly deserved it. But you try telling him that.’

  Jupiter Best and Greatest! ‘How come Nerva didn’t know any of this?’ I said.

  ‘Why should he? As far as the earlier part goes, the revolt side of things, it’s ancient history. Young Nerva’s only been here five minutes. Governor Gabinius, too.’ Biracus finished off the beans and wiped the bowl with the last hunk of bread. ‘Where the rest’s concerned, Aia and her father – well, no offence, but Nerva’s a Roman, isn’t he? Romans go around blinkered half the time, can’t see their nose before their face.’

  Yeah, well, I’d agree with him there. Gods!

  ‘You know anything about a dead wolf that was left in Market Square two or three months back, by the way?’ I said.

  ‘No, can’t help you there at all, I’m afraid.’ Biracus chewed on the bread and reached for the last of the sausage. ‘Oh, I know what you’re talking about, but that’s as far as it goes. The governor asked me the same question at the time, and I’ll give you the same answer I gave him: it was just a prank, no more. Some of the local youngsters messing around.’ He gave me a direct look. ‘Listen, Corvinus. We Lugdunans – Segusiavi, whatever – we’ve always supported Rome, through thick and thin. We aren’t troublemakers, any of us. It was just a bit of thoughtless silliness, with nothing serious behind it, you can take that from me.’

  Yeah, well, I wasn’t altogether sure that he was being completely open on that score, at least as far as knowing nothing about the matter went – Julius Biracus struck me as a pretty smart and switched-on guy, despite his resemblance to a pregnant hippo – but I was willing to take him at his word. Besides, I reckoned I’d got my sesterce’s-worth for this particular meeting. More than. I stood up.

  ‘Thanks for your help, sir,’ I said.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Then, as I was turning to go, ‘Incidentally, Corvinus, did you happen to bump into young Claudilla when you were at Tiberius’s house? That’s the daughter, of course.’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ I said. ‘Her mother told me she was on a visit to a friend in Arausio.’

  He made a tssk! of annoyance. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Silly of me. I’d forgotten. The new baby. What was the friend’s name again?’

  ‘Diligenta didn’t say.’ I was frowning. ‘Why should I have needed to—?’

  ‘Can’t recall who the girl was myself, either. I’ve a mind like a sieve, you know, and it gets worse as I grow older. Take my advice, boy, and stick at the age you are.’ He chuckled. ‘Oh, one more name, off the top of my head, before it slips my memory altogether. Julius Vindus.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He’s an officer in the procurator’s guard. Also, Julius Oppianus’s nephew and ward, and a good friend of Titus Cabirus’s. In fact, they go hunting together quite often, up in the mountains.’

  ‘Is that so, now? What does he—?’

  ‘That’s right. Just a suggestion, naturally.’ He took another long pull at his beer. ‘Good to have met you, Corvinus. It’s nice to see a new face, even under these unpleasant circumstances.’

  ‘Ah … right. Right.’ I was feeling sorely puzzled. ‘Thanks again, sir.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. My pleasure, any time. As I said, Tiberius was a good friend, both to me and the city. If you can catch the man who killed him then good luck to you.’

  ‘Oh, incidentally,’ I said. ‘One last question on my side.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Julius Oppianus. He liable to be chosen as Cabirus’s replacement for the Altar ceremony?’

  ‘I’d imagine so. Certainly he’s by far the most likely possibility.’

  Bland as hell.

  ‘Thanks again,’ I said, and left.

  After that little interview, I needed time to think, badly. Not immediately, though; I had to talk to Diligenta first. That was something I wasn’t looking forward to, but it couldn’t be put off.

  The servant-girl – Cotuinda, wasn’t it? – was sweeping the porch when I arrived.

  ‘The mistress in?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She leaned the brush against the wall and flicked a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. ‘She’s in the kitchen having a word with the cook about lunch. If you’ll wait in the living room I’ll go and fetch her.’

  I followed her inside.

  ‘Have a seat. She shouldn’t be long.’ The girl carried on through to the back part of the house. I sat down in one of the wicker chairs.

  Sure enough, it was only a minute or so before Diligenta herself came through.

  ‘Valerius Corvinus,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect to see you back so soon. Was there something you forgot to ask?’

  ‘Uh … no, not exactly.’ Hell; this was going to be tricky. Still, there was no sense in faffing around, and none in covering up the details, either. ‘There’ve been certain developments. I had a visit from your chief clerk Silus yesterday.’

  ‘Silus? What on earth would he want to see you about?’

  ‘He, ah, told me that your brother-in-law has been fiddling the accounts. Helping himself to the company money.’

  She sat down opposite me. ‘You’re joking!’ she said.

  ‘Not at all.’

  She was quiet for a long time. ‘You’re sure?’ she said at last. ‘I mean, Silus is sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. He has documentary proof. Or so he said.’

  ‘And how long has this been going on for?’

  ‘Silus didn’t know. At least six months, but possibly – probably – a lot longer.’

  ‘I see.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘Why didn’t he come to me directly? Or, if it was that long ago when he found out, to Tiberius? That would have been the sensible thing.’

  This was the really difficult bit, and there was no way of getting round it.

  ‘Actually, he did,’ I said. ‘Tell your husband, I mean. Just before he died.’

  Silence; long silence. Diligenta hadn’t looked up.

  Then: ‘Quintus is not a killer,’ she said. I didn’t answer. She raised her eyes and looked at me directly. ‘I’m telling you, Corvinus. I’m totally sure of that. Quintus did not murder Tiberius; he hasn’t got it in him. Besides, why should he? They were a good partnership, they each had their separate role to play and they complemented each other. The business was doing well, and it was for that very reason. Quintus would have been a fool to spoil things.’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe he had no choice. If his brother had found out, which he had—’

  ‘Tiberius wouldn’t have done anything drastic. Oh, he would have been shocked, certainly, and gravely disappointed. There would
have been words, probably strong words, but they were brothers, after all. The matter would’ve been resolved amicably in the end, somehow or other; Quintus would know that. How much money are we actually talking about?’

  ‘Silus said a total of five thousand sesterces. That’s only since January, mind.’

  ‘Not an absolute fortune, then. Oh, it’s a lot, I don’t deny that. But as I said the business was doing well, even so. It’s not as if he was bleeding us dry.’

  I didn’t believe this; it sounded like she was actually defending him.

  ‘Look, Diligenta,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, but I’d’ve thought you’d be more—’

  ‘Outraged? Censorious?’ She smiled weakly. ‘I’m angry, yes; of course I am. Angry, surprised, and, as Tiberius would have been, shocked and very, very disappointed. But as I said – as Tiberius himself would have said – Quintus is family, and that makes all the difference in the world. Thank you for telling me, Valerius Corvinus. Leave it with me, I’ll take care of it.’ Yeah; more or less what Silus said Cabirus had told him, two months back. Well, I supposed it was fair enough; like I’d told Perilla, it was the lady’s business, not mine, and I’d faithfully passed the message on.

  I’d keep an open mind where embezzlement as a motive for murder was concerned, mark you.

  Diligenta stood up. ‘Now, if that’s all for the present—’ she said.

  ‘Actually, no. Although the other thing’s curiosity more than anything else.’

  ‘Curiosity?’ She sat down again.

  ‘I’ve just been talking to Julius Biracus.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘About … well, about various things. But he talked about when you and your husband – and Quintus, of course – came down from Augusta twenty years back.’

  She smiled. ‘Forgive me, but there’s nothing to be curious about in that. You knew we were from there to begin with. In fact, we talked about it.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but according to you it was purely a business move on your husband’s part. Biracus seemed to think it had more to do with the troubles following the Florus revolt.’ Not exactly true, in fact verging on a complete porky, but I thought a little embroidery might well be justified here. ‘He also told me something more about that brother of yours who I think you mentioned; Licnus, was that his name?’

  The smile had disappeared, and her lips were set in a straight line. ‘Licnus. That’s right.’

  ‘He gave me the distinct impression that he’d been involved on the wrong side. Florus’s side. And that you and he had been pretty close.’

  There was a long pause. Finally:

  ‘Biracus,’ she said quietly, ‘is an old busybody. That’s all in the past; we’re Lugdunans now, and life has moved on. As far as Licnus goes, yes, we were close – we were sister and brother, after all – but I haven’t seen him since we moved. In fact, I seem to remember telling you that after my marriage I lost touch with both my brother and my sister. Or am I wrong?’

  ‘No. But—’

  ‘There are no buts; I simply did not feel the need at the time to provide full details. Since you seem interested, I will now. Quadrunia, my elder sister, is married to a wholesale draper, an obnoxious man whom I cordially loathed. They make an excellent match. She still lives in Augusta; Licnus does not, and for all I know might be dead. Now is your curiosity satisfied?’

  ‘Ah … yeah. Yes, it is,’ I said. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I caused any offence. It wasn’t deliberate. And it isn’t Biracus’s fault; he told me that what happened during and after the Florus revolt was dead and buried. I just—’

  ‘That is so. And I’d prefer if it stayed that way. What’s past is past.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Now. I’m sorry in my turn that I lost my temper: you’re a Roman, Corvinus, not a Gaul, and some things – depths of feeling – you don’t understand. You can’t be expected to, and I forgot that for a moment. Forgive me?’

  ‘Sure. Forgiven and forgotten.’

  ‘Good. It’s reciprocal. Well, if that’s all this time—’

  ‘Actually, I was wondering if I could have another word with your son Publius.’

  She frowned. ‘Publius? Of course. What about?’

  ‘Just a couple of things I wanted to ask him. Is he at home?’

  ‘Yes, he’s upstairs in his room. He usually is, unfortunately; it’s difficult to get him out of there. Shall I call him?’

  ‘No, I’ll go up, if I may.’ I hadn’t planned, when I arrived, to talk to the kid – sixteen, and so technically an adult, he might be, but I thought of him as such. In the light of events, it might be better to do things in private. ‘If it’s all right with you, naturally.’

  ‘Of course it is. His room’s at the top of the stairs, immediately to your right when you reach the landing. I can have Cotuinda take you, if you like.’

  ‘No, that’s OK,’ I said. ‘I can find my own way. Thank you, Diligenta.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  The stairs were at the far end of the entrance corridor. I went up, found the door, and knocked. No answer.

  ‘Publius?’ I said. ‘It’s me. Marcus Corvinus.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just a chat.’

  There was a pause. Then he said: ‘OK. You can come in, if you have to.’

  Grudging as hell. Still. I went inside.

  The room was big, and very light, with the sun streaming through the open window facing me. The kid was sitting at a large desk – a table, really – under the window itself. It was covered with a jumble of models: temples, ships, chariots. Pride of place in the centre was one I recognized as Lugdunum’s theatre, complete and beautifully made of wood and painted canvas. There was another, smaller table to one side with woodworking tools, a small vice and paint pots and brushes. Rolls of canvas and thin wooden spars were stacked beneath it. The place looked more like a workshop than a bedroom; the only evidence of that was the bed itself, a clothes chest, a few shelves and a couple of cloaks hanging from pegs set in the wall.

  ‘I’m busy,’ Publius said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I told you. Just a chat.’ I closed the door behind me. ‘It won’t take long. I need the answers to a couple of questions, that’s all.’

  ‘Questions about what?’ He had a tiny paintbrush in his hand, and he was working on what I recognized as a scale model of one of those three-piece bits of theatre scenery that you get in the wings of a stage, with stylized representations of the three main settings for scenes in a comedy: town, country and seashore. He laid it down carefully and turned to face me.

  ‘That’s a pretty impressive hobby you’ve got there.’ I indicated the contents of the table. ‘Must be skilled work.’

  ‘It is. I’ll ask you again: questions about what?’

  ‘Detailed, too. And hard on the eyes. It’s a good job you’ve got so much light here. The window overlooks the garden, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You know it does; you can see for yourself. And you asked me that before, didn’t you?’

  ‘And whether you’d seen anything, the day of the murder. Yes.’ There were a couple of theatrical masks hanging on the wall: a comic slave’s and a tragic heroine’s. They looked home-made, but they were pretty good, all the same. ‘All the same, I’ll ask you again, because it’s important. Did you? See anything or anyone?’

  ‘No. I said I was asleep.’

  ‘With the shutters open? That must’ve been difficult, this room facing south and all and it being the early afternoon.’

  He hesitated. ‘The shutters were closed. I closed them when I came up.’

  ‘Is that so, now? And you didn’t happen to look out at all while you were doing it?’

  ‘I may’ve done. So? It’d only be for a moment. What could I have seen?’

  ‘I don’t know. But you’d have a good view. Someone in the garden, perhaps. Someone you knew.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Your Uncle Quintus?’

  He stared at me. �
�No! Why should I have seen him?’

  ‘Just an idea.’

  ‘Then it’s nonsense. I told you: I didn’t see anyone. No one at all. Clear?’

  I shrugged; he seemed genuine enough, but it had been worth a try.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘What about Titus?’

  He went very still. ‘What about Titus?’

  ‘The impression I got when I talked to him was that before your father died Titus had … well, maybe “had a disagreement with him” is putting things too strongly. But there was a coolness. Am I right?’

  He hesitated again. Odd, though: I had the feeling that the tenseness had gone out of him. Then he said, grudgingly: ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You happen to know why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could it have had anything to do with his girlfriend? Aia?’

  ‘How do you know about Aia?’

  ‘So you do? Know about her, I mean?’

  ‘Just that she exists. I’ve never met her.’

  ‘Your father didn’t know. Or maybe he did, that’s the point, at least latterly. Did your mother?’

  ‘No. Titus was keeping her a secret. I only know about her myself because he let it slip one day. But he made me promise to keep my mouth shut. Which I did, because she was Titus’s business, no one else’s.’

  ‘So you didn’t tell your father about her? Or Titus didn’t?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘And your father didn’t find out about her some other way?’

  ‘How should I know? Probably not; it was never mentioned, at any rate, and it would’ve been.’

  We were back to the sulky, sideways looks. Ah, well; that was a point or two cleared up. Or at least clarified. On the other hand, there’d been that hesitation over the shutters, and the odd reaction when I’d first brought up the subject of Titus …

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said, turning towards the door.

  ‘That’s all?’ Surprise.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t it be? Unless there’s anything else you want to tell me.’

  ‘No. No, nothing.’

  ‘Right, then. I’ll see you.’

  But he didn’t answer. He was already reaching for the bit of stage scenery he’d been working on and the paintbrush.