When I re-emerged into the sunlight it was past noon and my mouth felt dry as a shortass camel's scrotum. A perfect time for the Cockerel. I grabbed an itinerant pastry-seller and got directions to Half Moon Street.
Caere's biggest cookshop or not, I'd assumed that the Cockerel would be a pretty low dive, but the place had some pretensions. Meaning that there was graphic and pictorial decoration on the walls, some of it not just the product of freelancers expressing their political views or detailing the sexual proclivities of the local talent. Not that the management's contribution was artistically speaking much better, mind: the eponymous cockerel that faced you as you went in could've been anything from a constipated ostrich to a cabbage with legs and a beak, and I'd never seen so many cross-eyed ladies in my life. Early afternoon you'd think a place like that would be quiet – cookshops with 'entertainment' only get going after sunset – but it was comfortably full, and there was what I can only describe as an air of expectancy. I found a free table and ordered up a jug of Caeretan, some poached brains with fennel and a side plate of cheese and olives.
'Hey, pal,' I said to the waiter when he'd brought the stuff. 'Does a girl called Pullia work here?'
He grinned as he set the plates down. 'Sure.'
'You think I could see her?'
'No problem.' He jerked his head towards a platform at one end of the room that I hadn't noticed. 'That's Pullia now. Look all you want.'
I looked, and my jaw hit the table. Jupiter! I looked harder, just for the fun of it. Yeah, well, that explained why there were so many punters this early. The girl who'd just come out of a side door and jumped up onto the stage was wearing enough makeup and flashy jewellery to fit out a whole cat-house, and not a great deal else. The noise level suddenly went up a couple of dozen notches.
I sat back with my wine and watched the show. Subtle it wasn't, but she was young enough to get away with it, and stacked into the bargain; that much was obvious after the first two minutes when she started peeling off in earnest. There were no gimmicks, no wrestling with amorous pythons or spinning judiciously-attached tassels: this was a straight appeal to the audience's gut instincts, and they lapped it up and yelled for more.
Me – well, I've always preferred my poached brains with fennel cold, anyway.
The punters were still climbing over tables and yammering for seconds when she picked up the bits and pieces that she'd pulled off, slipped down, wriggled out of or otherwise removed in the course of her act and left the stage. I took a deep swallow of the wine – it wasn't bad stuff, which said a lot for the management's professional integrity – and waved the waiter back over.
'Now, friend,' I said. 'About that introduction. I'd sort of envisaged a more private chat, somewhere quiet. You think you could arrange that for me now the lady's done her bit out front for the boys?'
'Sure.' He looked down pointedly at the pouch on my belt and leered. 'No problem.'
I pulled out a silver piece. He waited. I made it two. He waited again and I added a third. Well, it'd been a cheap holiday so far.
The coins disappeared like rabbits down a hole. 'Follow me, boss,' he said.
I picked up the cup and jug – the brains I didn't mind, but there was no point in leaving good wine for some other bugger to filch – and tagged along behind him. He led me through the exit the girl had taken and up a flight of worm-eaten stairs, stopped outside a door at the top and knocked.
'Yeah?' A woman's voice, muffled.
'Visitor for you,' the guy said through the panelling.
'Damn! Wait a minute, Flavius.' There was a pause and the door opened.
She was older than I'd thought she'd be: at close quarters and with the makeup off I could see the beginnings of crow's-feet round the eyes. Also she was wearing a decent tunic, which tended to spoil things.
'Flavius, you little pervert, I told you never to –' she began. Then she took in my purple stripe and aristocratic nose and did a good imitation of a gannet swallowing. 'Oh. Ah. Right. Yeah.'
Well, at least we were starting on a plus here. 'The name's Marcus Valerius Corvinus,' I said. 'You think I could have a word with you?'
'Sure.' She stepped aside quickly. 'Two. A dozen. As many as you like. I'll see you later, Flavius, okay?'
The waiter gave me another leer and went clattering off down the stairs.
'Come in.' Pullia closed the door behind me, walked over to the bed and lay down. 'Make yourself comfortable.'
I looked around. There was an open clothes chest, a couple of shelves with not much on them, an old bronze mirror thick with verdigris that could've come from the bargain heap of any third-rate junk shop, and nothing else. No chairs, no stools.
Uh-huh.
Well, it had to be done. I went over to the clothes chest, closed it and sat on the lid, setting the jug and wine cup beside me. Pullia watched expressionlessly.
'Words, lady,' I said. 'Just words.'
The tunic had slipped. She pulled it up a bit and sat higher on the bed, her back against the wall. Still she said nothing. I opened my pouch, slowly took out a half gold piece and laid it beside the wine jug. Her eyes went to it, then back to me. They looked puzzled.
'You're kidding,' she said.
'Uh-uh.' I shook my head. 'I enjoyed the show. Think of it as payment for that, if you like.'
She shifted on the bed and swung her feet over so she was sitting on the edge. I had a tantalising glimpse of leg, but then the hem of the tunic was pulled down. I sighed; life is never easy.
'Okay,' she said. 'Then what do you want?'
'You're Aulus Bubo's girlfriend, yes?'
That got me a considering look; the lady was no bubblehead.
'Was,' she said. 'The poor sap's dead.' Well, I'd heard gentler valedictories in my time. 'He was murdered two days ago.' She paused. 'That what this is about?'
'Yeah. I thought you might be able to tell me a bit about him.'
'Like what, for instance?'
'Jupiter knows, lady. Let's start with his business. He was a fence, right?' She hesitated. I glanced meaningfully at the half gold piece, and she nodded. 'Okay. So what sort of things did he handle, mostly?'
'Besides me?' Her lips twitched. 'The usual. Jewellery, plate.'
'Middle of the range? Top? Who did he deal with?'
'Top.' She was still looking at me like a cat at a mouse-hole. 'He specialised in antiques. And he had his contacts. Not many, but they were the best.'
'And he sold the stuff on through his shop in Lampmakers' Street.'
'Sometimes. It depended. There's no real market for antiques in Caere. The best of it went to his brother in Rome.'
My scalp prickled. 'His brother?'
'His brother Publius. He has a business on the Sacred Way.' She leaned back. Maybe it was accidental, but her tunic was shifting again, and this time she didn't pull it down. 'You from Rome yourself?'
'Ultimately, yeah.'
'I've never been to Rome. It must be nice.'
'It's okay.' I glanced at the coin again, then back to her. 'Ever hear of someone called Clusinus?'
'Titus Clusinus?' She smiled. 'I've met him a couple of times.'
'At Bubo's?'
'There and elsewhere. He's a nice guy.'
'You know what his business with Bubo was?'
'He was selling, Bubo was buying. That's all I know.'
'Something big?'
'Bubo always dealt big. I told you. But, like I say, that's all I know.' The tunic hem rode up another half inch. 'You have a house in Rome?'
'No. Not any more.'
'I've never met a Roman purple-striper before. You don't see many of them in Caere, not at the Cockerel anyway. You really liked the show?'
'Sure. You've got real talent.'
'Bubo never complained. But now he's dead there's no one to appreciate it.' She wriggled. The tunic top slipped. 'Not properly.'
'I saw the funeral pass,' I said. 'You weren't there.'
She laughed. 'I'm a work
ing girl. I've got commitments. Besides, I doubt if his wife would've been too happy about me turning up at the graveside.'
'No.' I kept my voice neutral. 'Maybe she wouldn't. Arria knew about you, then?'
'Of course she did. Arria may be a stuck-up cow but she's no fool. That marriage was a simple trade-off, connections for cash. She was happy enough so long as the money kept coming in.'
Smiler had mentioned connections, too. 'She come from a good family?'
'The best in Caere. Her brother married the mayor's daughter.'
Something cold touched my spine. 'Cominius's daughter?'
'Unless there's been an election I haven't heard about, sure.'
So Bubo's wife was a collateral relative of Aternius's, was she? If I wanted an explanation of how the bastard had known about Clusinus's connection with Bubo I needn't look any further. It seemed like I'd have to talk to Arria Metella after all.
'Can you give me an address?' I said.
'For Arria?' Absently, she reached up to the neck of her tunic and tugged at it, pulling it off the shoulder. 'I could. There's no hurry, though. The funeral'll be over by now, but she'll still be busy with the purification rites. Besides, I'm not on again until tonight.'
'Humour me.'
Our eyes locked. Then she sighed, twitched the tunic back and hugged her breasts. 'The big house at the top of Crows' Staircase,' she said. Her voice was dull. 'Near the Shrine of Atropos.'
I stood up. 'Thanks.'
'Don't mention it. Just fuck off and leave me alone, okay?'
I left the wine where it was and went back downstairs.
31.
Crows' Staircase was well-named: I was gasping for breath half way up, and the back of my legs hurt like hell. The view from the top was something, though: I could see across the plains in every direction, down into the valleys either side of town where the tombs were and over to the north-west almost as far as Pyrgi. Bubo's place you couldn't miss. It was perched out on a spur like an eagle's nest, and just the thought of standing on the balcony gave me vertigo.
The front door was still hung with cypress branches. I knocked and a slave opened it. He had a chunk of hair missing in the front. Whoever had wielded the funeral scissors had taken his job seriously where the domestic servants were concerned.
'Yes?' he said.
This was the tricky part: the afternoon of a funeral is no time for a social call, especially if what you really want to discuss are the dead man's shady business affairs. However, I'd got my approach all worked out.
‘I'm sorry, friend,' I said. 'This is Herminius Bubo's house, isn’t it?'
He gave me a look like he'd just caught me chalking a nasty word on the doorpost. 'Yes, sir,' he said. 'But the master's dead. We've just burned him.'
'Yeah, I know.' I went into my routine. 'I was down at his shop earlier and I saw the funeral pass. Only I didn't know it was his at the time. I'm only in Caere for the day and I thought maybe I should come up and give my condolences to his widow.'
I'd let the guy have the full force of my patrician Roman's plummy vowels, and he blossomed like a rose, which was just what I'd been playing for: in my experience house slaves are the biggest snobs you could ever hope to meet, and he couldn't've had many purple-stripers standing on his doorstep.
'If you wait here, sir,' he said, 'I'll see if she's receiving. What name shall I say?'
I told him; all four bits, because I was out to impress. 'She won't know me,' I said. 'But we have an acquaintance in common. Gaius Aternius, the mayor's nephew.' Yeah, well, that was true enough. And good society runs on being able to name shared acquaintances. The fact that I thought the guy was a crook and multiple murderer and hoped to nail him as such had nothing to do with anything.
That put the icing on it: Baldy turned almost affable, and let me wait in the porch. Two minutes later I was being shown through into the atrium where Arria Metella was waiting to receive me.
Hatchet face was right: I could've used the lady's nose to split kindling. She was pleasant enough, though.
'Valerius Corvinus,' she said, stretching out a hand. 'It's good of you to come. I saw you when we passed Aulus's place of business, naturally, but I didn't know you were a friend of his or I would have spoken.'
'I wasn't.' No point in lying, especially when I didn't have to. 'I was going to see him, sure, but I'd never met him. When the guy in the shop next door told me he was being buried I'd've come to the cemetery but I didn't like to impose. Still, I felt I should come and pay my respects in some way.'
'Most thoughtful.' She gave me a sad smile, then turned to Baldy who was hovering in the background. 'Sestus, a cup of honey wine for our guest. Do have a seat, please, Corvinus.'
Baldy bowed and left, while I pulled up a chair and sat down. Honey wine, right? If I went before Perilla I'd leave instructions that for the duration of the mourning period unless it was actually asked for that muck should stay in the cellar where it belonged.
Arria turned back to me. 'What exactly was your business with Aulus, by the way?’ she said. ‘I doubt if I can help –I know very little of that side of things – but I'd hate to think your visit to Caere was entirely wasted.'
The question sounded completely natural. Either Bubo's widow had the art of dissimulation worked out to a tee or she was genuinely ignorant of what the guy's business entailed. Probably the former: I'd met wives like Arria before, and they'd spent so long cultivating a blind spot to what their husbands got up to outside the family circle they'd come to believe the fiction themselves.
'Nothing in particular,' I said. 'I was told he dealt in high-class antiques. My stepfather's a bit of a collector. I thought I might drop in and look over his stock, maybe pick up something I could put by for a present.'
She preened; there couldn't've been many purple-stripers interested enough to paw through Bubo's merchandise. 'Aulus certainly did have some beautiful things,' she said. 'He had excellent taste.' Another sad smile. 'Taste, but no sense. I told him the shop was no place to keep them on a permanent basis, even with the iron shutters and that new strongroom of his, but he insisted. Of course, that was why the poor dear was killed. It was an open invitation for burglars.'
'New strongroom?'
'Yes. He had it built a month ago by one of the local masons.' Oh, yeah: the mason's hammer that he hadn't returned and the killer had used to bash the guy's skull in. Poetic justice. 'Not that he used it, to my knowledge. Silly man. Quite ridiculous.'
Baldy came in with the wine. I took a token sip and set the cup down. The hairs on my neck were prickling. 'He didn't?' I said.
'No. Not at all. And it must've cost thousands. Of course, there's no extra space in these Lampmakers' Street properties, and the foundations are solid rock. Aulus had to dig a small cellar and put in an iron trapdoor.'
The prickle became a full-blown itch. 'You're sure? That he never used it?'
Arria gave me a suspicious look. 'Certain,' she said. 'The thieves cleared the shop out, but the trapdoor was hidden by an empty storage chest and the padlock was intact. He'd left the key at home, and when I opened it the strongroom was empty. Valerius Corvinus, I'm afraid I fail to see what possible interest this can have for you.'
'Just curiosity,' I said. Was it hell! Jupiter on wheels! 'One more thing. Did your husband ever mention a guy called Titus Clusinus?'
She stood up. 'Young man, I'm beginning to doubt your motives for coming here today after all. Perhaps you'd better leave.'
Well, maybe I had overreached myself. Pullia had said the woman was no fool, and the turn the conversation had taken would make anyone smell a rat. Still, I had no regrets. That nugget about the strongroom and Arria's reaction to the name Clusinus were worth a little aggro. I stood up too.
'I'm sorry,' I said. 'My condolences again.'
She was giving me a look that would've put a coating of ice on a firebrick. 'Sestus!' she snapped. Baldy must've been hanging about outside to make sure the mistress's virtue wasn't thre
atened, because he was right there before she'd got the second syllable out. 'Valerius Corvinus is just leaving. Show him to the door, please.'
I went quietly.
So. I'd been right about Arria having passed on Clusinus's name to Aternius; or at least she'd realised what I was getting at or she wouldn't've jumped up like a startled pheasant and thrown me out. The question was, how did this strongroom business fit in? The lady had said it herself; to spend that amount of time and effort building a strongroom you didn't use made no sense at all. And Bubo hadn't used it: the fact that he'd left the keys at home instead of keeping them on him showed he'd no intention of using it. Not immediately, anyway. So what the hell was he playing at?
Not immediately, anyway...
I stopped. Shit! That was it, it had to be!
Bubo hadn't used the strongroom because he was keeping it for something special. And if he'd only had it built a month ago then whatever that was had only come on the horizon recently; about the time, say, that he'd begun to deal with Titus Clusinus. And the deal had never gone through...
So what was valuable enough to justify a guy like Bubo, who was used to big deals, taking extra security precautions that involved him in a lot of unwonted personal expense? Whatever it was, it had to be big: physically big, because otherwise why a whole strongroom, why not a simple strongbox cemented to the floor like most people had to hold their ready cash and Great-Auntie's pearl-and-ruby necklace?
I started down the stairs. It wasn't much easier going down than it had been coming up; you only strained different leg muscles. No wonder the guy had spent so much time at his shop. There was a road, sure, but it zigzagged so much that it'd take three or four times as long to get down to the town centre. Also, there was the view. Downhill was even more impressive because you had it all the time. The sun glinted off the small stream far below, and the line of the road that wound its way through the old cemetery on its far side. I stopped to look and give my calf muscles a rest. Gods! There must be hundreds of tombs down there, plus hundreds more the other side. A real City of the Dead that made Caere itself seem like a village. A city with proper houses, too, that guys who'd died when Rome was a clutch of mud huts had built to spend eternity in and stocked with...
Old Bones (Marcus Corvinus Book 5) Page 20
