Gods, she was ugly! I took a step back, but she closed the gap.
'Uh...I'm sorry to disturb you, mother,' I said, 'but I'm looking for a guy called Smaragdus.'
That got me a twenty-candelabra glare. 'Top floor. And less of the mother, dearie.'
'Right. Right.' I backed away again: wine I enjoy, but not second-hand; and not mixed with raw onion, either. 'Sorry.'
'You won't find him, though.' She flashed her brown teeth at me. 'The bugger's out. He's been out for days. I'm giving him to the end of the month and then he can pick his stuff up in the street.'
Oh, shit, here we go again. Was nothing simple? 'You know where he's gone, maybe?' I said.
The door behind her opened further and two girls sidled out. One was big, blonde and busty, the other was a rake-thin negress. They wore skimpy, grease-stained tunics and their eyes were glass-hard.
'No. But then maybe I can find out, lord.' The old woman's grin widened. 'Why don't you come in meantime? My daughters'll amuse you while I'm gone. Isn't that right, girls?'
The fake blonde –I could see the black roots under the dye – gave me a slow smile.
'Sure,' she said. 'We'd enjoy the company.'
'Maybe some other time, okay?' I took out a silver piece and slipped it down the top of her tunic. She giggled and caught it half way down. 'Today I'm in a hurry. Just point me in the right direction.'
'Harpalus would know,' the negress said. The blonde looked at her and gave another giggle. 'Why don't you try Harpalus?'
'Yeah. I might just do that.' I pulled out another coin; hell, this was getting expensive. 'You know where I can find him?'
She glanced down at her piggy bank. Ah, well. In it went.
'You sure you don't want to stay?' she said.
'No, I'll settle for Harpalus, thanks.'
The blonde giggled again and leaned over to whisper something in the negress's ear. The second girl shook her chime-bar earrings and laughed.
'Suit yourself,' she said. 'If that's your fancy. But he'll be at work just now. In the bird shop, two doors down.'
I turned to go. The blonde's voice caught me as I reached the stairs.
'Watch yourself, dear,' she shouted. 'The bastard charges over the odds. Particularly for Romans.'
7.
The bird shop was one of these sad grey places smelling of dank feathers, old blood and bird droppings that you get near temples and that double as religious suppliers and on-the-claw delicatessens. Under the awning, cages packed with pigeons, thrushes and ortolans hung waiting for punters to make their choice and either take it off live to the Mother of the Gods or have its neck wrung there and then for the stew pot or the griddle. There was only one splash of colour. On a perch next to the door was a red and green parrot.
Yeah. Unusual, right? Parrots are strictly high-class merchandise: you see them preening themselves outside the chichi shops around the Marketplace, tricked out with ribbons and bells like Corinthian prostitutes and being cooed over by fluffy matrons with more bangles than brains. Only this one looked more like something that had staggered home pissed out of his skull after a wild all-night party and been woken by the neighbours' dog an hour later.
In other words he looked familiar. Hauntingly familiar. If he hadn't been so obviously a bird I'd almost have sworn that...
I went over for a closer look. I was right. All the feathered bastard needed was a broad-striped mantle and he'd be the spit and image of my Uncle Cotta. No exaggeration: literal truth. It was weird.
'Hey, Cotta.' I stroked his back. 'How's it going, pal?'
The parrot hunched his shoulders, opened a jaundiced, red-flecked eye and fixed me with a glare like I was a cockroach he'd found among the lupin seeds in his feed tray.
'Bugger off, sunshine,' he said.
He meant it, too, I could tell. Yeah, sure enough, Cotta to the life. I chucked him under the beak, nearly losing a finger for my trouble, and went inside. There was someone ahead of me, an old woman buying a pair of doves to go. I waited until she'd finished then walked up to the counter.
After what the girls at the rooming house had said, or at least implied, the guy behind it had to be Harpalus. Maybe he saw himself as one of the gilded butterflies of the City porches, but he just looked sad as the birds he sold. He was no kid, for one thing: twenty-five if he was a day, thin-haired and balding already, with a broad coarse-pored face and the hands of a navvy. Forget the 'gilded' as well: the face that turned towards me wasn't so much made up as seriously enamelled. It brightened, though, when he saw me. Thinking of the big blonde's parting shot about Romans, I didn't know whether to take that as a compliment or not.
'Yes, lord.' He smiled. Bad teeth, too: it seemed like the poor guy had nothing going for him at all. 'And what can I do for you?'
'That parrot outside. He for sale?' Shit. I hadn't meant to say that, it just came out. Still, as an opening it was as good as any, and you don't come across a psittacine version of Cotta every day.
'Nestor?' The guy looked surprised. 'Sure. Fifteen drachmas.'
Ouch! And Nestor? Jupiter in spangles! 'Ten.'
'He's worth fifteen, lord. And in the City you'd pay thirty.'
'True enough, pal, but not for a bird with his colourful turn of phrase. That's no delicate toy for the Beautiful and Good you've got there.'
He glanced at the door. I could almost hear him mentally weighing twelve silver pieces in the hand against one very foul-mouthed bird on the porch. Avarice – or maybe it was pragmatism – won out.
'Okay,' he said. 'We'll call it twelve. And I'll throw in the perch.'
'Deal.' I took out my much-slimmed-down purse. 'Your name Harpalus, by the way?'
He paused. 'What if it is?'
'You're Smaragdus's friend?'
'We know each other, yes,' he said cautiously.
'You know where I can find him?'
'Maybe.' He wasn't smiling now. If anything he looked nervous. 'What's your business with Smaragdus, lord?'
I reached into the purse and brought out a shiny half gold piece. 'I need to talk to him urgently. About a certain article he and his partner are handling. His ex-partner, rather. I was hoping you might be able to help. If you can then Nestor's price has just gone up and there's no need to tell your boss by how much.'
His eyes fixed on the coin and he wet his lips. Forget nervous; for some reason – and I'd've given a lot to know what it was – he looked scared as hell.
'You're from Eutyches, aren't you?' His voice had sunk to a whisper.
I kept my face straight. 'Maybe.'
'Very well.’ He swallowed. ‘I'm making no promises, but I'll pass your message on. How can I get in touch with you?'
'You can't, sunshine.' I wasn't going to give him my name; no way. Not after that little exchange. 'I'll call back tomorrow. Same time. Okay?'
'Okay.'
I passed the gold over. This time I didn't regret it, because he'd told me a lot. For a start, that he – and so Smaragdus – knew about the Baker. Secondly when I'd given him a time limit he hadn't blinked, so if he could deliver the message to Smaragdus and come back with an answer inside a day then Smaragdus couldn't be far away. Lastly, he'd handed me another piece to the puzzle, even though I couldn't place it. Who the hell was this Eutyches? Somebody important and, from the guy's reaction, none too chancy.
Interesting, right? And definitely food for further thought. I gave the subdued Harpalus a brief nod and went out to collect my purchase.
I walked back to the carriage carrying Nestor on his perch like a legion's Eagle, with the bastard glaring at me and trying to take my ear off the whole way. I was having serious qualms of conscience here: when she heard our new pet's language Perilla would kill me. Also just thinking about having a dead ringer for Uncle Cotta permanently in residence gave me hives. Maybe I should hand him straight over to Meton and be done with it: roast parrot with a nut and sunflower-seed stuffing had a sort of ring to it...
There were a co
uple of snot-nosed lads hanging around the carriage, kicking the wheels and bad-mouthing Lysias. They took to their heels when they saw me coming, but I called the elder one over. He came, eventually, and stood glowering at me.
'Hey, sonny.' I hunkered down to his level: no point in intimidating the poor kid. 'You want to make yourself an easy drach?'
The eight-year-old looked me up and down with eyes that belonged to a hard-boiled city-square huckster. He turned away and spat neatly into the gutter.
'Doing what?' he said. The tone suggested he thought he knew already, and the price was just about to take a hike. Jupiter! So much for innocence!
'The guy at the bird shop. You know him?'
'Harpalus?' The kid sniggered. 'Sure.'
'If he goes out I want to know where to. And I don't want him to know I know. Get me?'
'I get you.' He looked at his brother, who was about three years younger, waist-high, and at the taciturn, nose-picking stage. 'We work together. Fixed rates. Three drachs each, up front.'
Gods alive! What did they teach kids nowadays? For six drachs I could buy half a parrot. 'Deal. One now, two later. Fair?'
He considered, then held out a grubby mitt. 'Two now, two later. Otherwise you can go screw.'
I sighed and handed over the silver. At this rate I'd have to be paying a visit to my banker soon. Maybe I should start making a list of expenses and charge them to Priscus's bill. 'Okay. You know the cookshop near the Shrine of Hyakinthos? Behind the Serangeion?'
'I'll find it.'
'Good. When you have something for me leave a message there for Marcus Porcius Cato and collect from the owner. You got that?'
'That your name? Cato?' The kid might not know his Roman history, but he could spot a lie a mile off. I grinned.
'It'll do,' I said: the tight-fisted old so-and-so would be spinning in his urn. 'Just make sure Harpalus doesn't spot you.'
'Harpalus? Harpalus couldn't find his own arse with both hands.'
I winced. Gods! Well, I could see now where the parrot got his vocabulary from. It was obviously par for the local course. 'Okay. Don't forget. Marcus Porcius Cato, the Hyakinthos cookshop.'
'Marcus Porcius Cato, the Hyakinthos cookshop,' he repeated, and gave me a look like I was capable of dribbling into my bedtime gruel. 'You've got it, lord.'
I straightened up, and the two kids ran off. Probably on their way to liberate the lead from the Mother of the Gods's roof. Yeah, well, it kept them off the streets, and if they didn't break their necks in the process they'd probably end up millionaires. I shoved Nestor into the carriage and told Lysias to head back to Zea. Then, after I'd squared arrangements with my pal at the cookshop – another two drachs' worth – he turned the carriage in the direction of the City Gate and home.
The next bit I wasn't looking forward to. This was going to be tricky. And I don't mean Smaragdus, either.
Perilla was in the garden, picking flowers. When she saw Nestor she beamed. Good start.
'How beautiful, Marcus! A parrot! Wherever did you get him?'
'Bugger off, sunsh...'
Oh, hell! I grabbed at his beak, just in time. Luckily Perilla didn't seem to have heard, or maybe she just didn't believe her ears.
'A shop in the Piraeus,' I said. 'His name's Nestor.'
'But he's an absolute darling!'
The absolute darling was trying to bite through my finger. Enough was enough. I put my mouth next to the feathered bastard's head.
'Listen, pal,' I hissed. 'Cut it out. One word out of place in front of the lady and you're cat's-meat. Understand?'
The biting stopped. Carefully I let go. Nestor shuffled sideways along the perch, glaring at me. Perilla stroked his breast-feathers and he arched a claw in sexual ecstasy.
'He's lovely,' she said. 'What does he eat? Besides fingers, that is.'
Hell. I should've thought of that and had Harpalus throw some birdseed in with the deal. Well, no doubt Meton could rustle something up temporarily.
'Nuts. Sunflower seeds.' I caught the evil glint of an eye. 'Spare ribs. Hamsters...'
'Surely not.' Perilla frowned. 'Parrots are vegetarians.' She turned to Nestor and ruffled his feathers again. 'You don't eat meat, do you, darling?'
'Drop your pants, lady.'
This time my hand was years too late. Perilla pulled back like she'd been stung.
'Marcus, what did that bird just say?'
I had him by the beak again, and I swear could feel the bastard grin. 'It's...uh...just one of his standard phrases, Perilla. He comes from a deprived background. A few days in a more refined environment and he'll be a changed bird. I promise you.'
The frown didn't shift. 'Corvinus, I have enough on my hands training you. I have no intention of taking on a parrot in addition.'
'Fu –'
'Sorry, lady, my hand slipped. He'll be okay, honestly. Just give him time.'
'Very well. He has a month.' Perilla was staring at him. 'You know, this may sound silly but if you imagine him wearing a broad-striped mantle he'd be the spit and image of –'
I gave a yell of agony. Nestor had finally got a proper bite in, and it felt like being mugged by a set of nutcrackers. Which I suppose was what it was, really.
'Cadmus is an onanist!'
Right. That was the last straw. I didn't mind the swearing, personally, but when a parrot started using words I didn't know it was time for drastic action.
'Bathyllus!'
'Yes, sir.' The little guy oiled up out of nowhere.
'Here.' I handed him Nestor on his perch. 'Take this bit of crow's-meat up an alleyway and kick some civilisation into him, will you? I don't want to see the bastard again until his language is dining-room standard.'
'Like your own, sir.' Bathyllus sniffed. 'Certainly. Alexis the gardener has a way with animals. I'll give the bird to him.'
'You do that. And tell Alexis he has a month. After that one blue phrase and we fricassée the bugger.'
'Alexis or the parrot, sir?'
'Don't try to be funny, Bathyllus. It's been a long hard day and I haven't the mental energy.'
'Very well, sir. Apropos, Meton says that dinner is almost ready.'
'Great. What is it tonight?'
'Mussel forcemeat sausage, baked eel with egg sauce and a purée of green vegetables, sir. The chef is feeling nautical.'
'Eels are freshwater.'
'Piscatorial, then. Will that be all?'
'Yeah.' I stopped myself. 'No. What happened to the wine? You know the standing orders when the master's out.'
'It was waiting for you, sir, beside the pool.'
Shit. I'd walked right past it. And after a hard day back and forth to the Piraeus with nothing but the Hyakinthos wineshop in the middle I needed a drink badly. 'Okay, my mistake. Go fetch.'
'Certainly, sir.' He padded back inside.
Perilla set the flowers in a vase on the stone table and sat down on the bench. I sat beside her and draped an arm round her shoulders.
'How's Chrysoulla?' I said.
'The funeral was this afternoon. She wanted to go straight home afterwards, to get things ready.'
I nodded. Her ship wouldn't be sailing for a couple of days yet, and it would've been better and safer if she'd stayed, but that was her decision. Maybe she had a friend or two somewhere in the Piraeus after all. I hoped so.
'So.' Perilla kissed me. 'How was your day? Apart from the parrot.'
'Not bad.' I gave the edited highlights. 'It sounds like this Smaragdus is lying low somewhere and using his pal Harpalus as a go-between with potential customers.'
'That would seem very sensible, under the circumstances. Considering his partner has been murdered.'
'Yeah.' I frowned. 'Apropos of which, Harpalus assumed that I'd been sent by a guy called Eutyches.'
'A rival bidder, perhaps?'
'Could be.' Bathyllus reappeared with the wine jug and a full cup. I took a long swallow. 'Only if so then why didn't Priscus mention him in his lett
er?'
'Is that so strange? A seller is under no obligation to provide a list of bidders, surely.'
'Maybe not, lady. But I got the distinct impression this was a one- horse race. So if Eutyches is a customer then what kind of customer is he? New or old? Bona fide or the type who goes to business meetings on Mounychia with a crowbar tucked under his cloak?'
'Oh, Marcus!' Perilla's eyes widened. 'You think he was the one who killed Argaius?'
'It's a working hypothesis. We know Argaius went to meet someone on Mounychia, and up to now Eutyches is the only game in town. Another thing. When Harpalus thought I was representing him the guy was jittery as a cat on a seesaw. Whoever the bastard is, customer or not one gets you ten he's no paragon of respectability.'
'But if Smaragdus even suspected that this Eutyches was responsible for his partner's death then surely he'd have nothing to do with him?'
'Not necessarily. To guys like Argaius and Smaragdus a customer's a customer. We're not shopping in the Porches now.'
'Marcus, this is all beginning to sound horribly risky.'
'You're telling me something I don't know?'
'Of course not. What I am saying is that perhaps you should leave this thing alone after all.'
'That won't get Priscus his Baker, lady. And I don't see why the old guy shouldn't have it, if he's willing to pay through the nose. Assuming it's genuine, of course.'
'You think it is?'
I hesitated. 'Perilla, I don't know any more. Maybe. However unlikely it seems. Because if it isn't then a lot of people are putting in a hell of a lot of effort for nothing.'
'Yes. That's true.' Perilla looked thoughtful. 'So what happens now?'
'Simple. Tomorrow, one way or another, I talk to Smaragdus. See the statue, get Priscus's pal Melanthus's opinion. After that we take it from there.'
'And Eutyches?'
'Eutyches is Smaragdus's problem. And maybe Callippus's.'
'No silly heroics? Promise?'
'Sure.' I kissed her. 'Now. You want to watch me waste away or should we scare up some dinner?'
She got up. 'Dinner.'
We went in for the eels.
8.
I took the long hike down to the Piraeus again the next morning. This was getting monotonous; maybe I'd do better renting a flat somewhere and moving lock stock and barrel for the duration.
The Lydian Baker (Marcus Corvinus Book 4) Page 5
