Solid Citizens

by David Wishart

  Yeah, I fancied Manlius, certainly as a comfortable side bet. Particularly with Canidius in the background as an éminence grise.

  Maybe, though, if I was pushing that angle I should rope in Silius Nerva. I wasn’t exactly persona grata with Bovillae’s aedile, and I certainly wasn’t going to ask him straight out if his tame gorilla had zeroed Mettius: Nerva could arrange things more subtly, and with a better chance of a satisfactory result. Besides, the bastard was getting his penny’s worth of effort out of me where this case was concerned as it was.

  So. First stop the town offices. If Nerva wasn’t there – which as an ordinary senator he probably wouldn’t be – the public clerk would be able to point me in the right direction.

  In the event, I didn’t have to bother looking for him: Nerva was in the square itself, chatting to a guy in a sharp plain mantle who had his back to me. I went over.

  ‘Ah, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘How did things go at the Mettius villa?’

  The other guy turned round. Canidius.

  ‘Uh, OK,’ I said. ‘Do you have a moment to spare? In private?’

  ‘Of course.’ He frowned and turned to Canidius. ‘I’ll talk to you later, Sextus, if that’s convenient. But tomorrow evening should be fine. We’ll call it a date, shall we?’

  Canidius was giving me a jaundiced stare, which after the circumstances of our last meeting wasn’t surprising.

  ‘The Mettius villa?’ he said.

  Nerva hesitated, and glanced sideways at me. ‘Poor Aulus Mettius has … met with an accident,’ he said. ‘A fatal accident. You hadn’t heard?’

  ‘No, I hadn’t.’ Canidius didn’t seem too surprised, mind. Or all that shocked, or even interested. ‘Oh, dear. What a pity. Tomorrow evening it is, then, Publius. I look forward to it. Corvinus.’ He gave me the briefest of nods and moved off.

  I watched him go. ‘So what’s happening tomorrow evening?’ I said to Nerva.

  ‘Just a dinner invitation. He and his wife are coming over for a meal.’ Yeah, of course: in a small town like Bovillae, the Great and the Good of the social network would be in and out of each other’s houses all the time, particularly in the festival period. Still, it was a salutary reminder that I couldn’t be absolutely sure of even Nerva’s objectivity. ‘Now, Corvinus, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I was wondering if you could check on something,’ I said. ‘Manlius’s rod man, or one of them. Would anyone know whether he was doing anything in particular earlier this morning?’

  Nerva frowned again. ‘Do you have a reason for asking?’

  ‘Just checking, like I say. Mettius had his head beaten in, as you know. My son-in-law Clarus says it could’ve been done with some sort of long, weighted stick. The kind that rod men carry.’

  ‘And you think this man might have been responsible?’

  ‘It’s … a possibility,’ I said cautiously. ‘If he was elsewhere at the time it’d definitely rule him out.’

  ‘But why on earth would Marcus Manlius’s rod man want to kill Aulus Mettius?’ Nerva asked. I said nothing. Nerva sighed. ‘Very well, I won’t pry. You’re dealing with the case; you have your reasons for suspecting him, no doubt, and presumably you think they’re valid, or sufficiently so. But as I told you, it’s a bad business.’ He patted my arm. ‘Still. As far as checking on the fellow’s whereabouts is concerned, we can find those out easily enough, in fact we’ll do it now. The lictors are public servants. The clerk over at the town offices should be able to say whether he was on duty today. Follow me.’

  The offices were just the other side of the square. We crossed over through the crowd and I followed Nerva up the steps and inside.

  ‘Ah, Salvius,’ he said to the slave on the desk. ‘This is Valerius Corvinus. He wants to know if one of Aedile Manlius’s lictors by the name of …?’ He glanced at me interrogatively.

  ‘Decimus,’ I said.

  ‘By the name of Decimus had any formal duties this morning.’

  ‘No, sir,’ the slave said. ‘Not today. The aedile was at home, so he wasn’t needed.’

  Nerva grunted and turned back to me. ‘There you are, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Question answered. Of course, Manlius might have told him otherwise, as he has a perfect right to do. If he’s at home at present we can always go over and check. It wouldn’t take long; he doesn’t live far away.’

  ‘No, that’s OK,’ I said. There was no point: if Decimus had been moonlighting on instructions from his boss, Manlius wasn’t likely to admit it just for the asking, was he? I turned to the clerk. ‘One more thing, pal, while I’m here. You know the night the censor-elect was murdered? Could you happen to tell me if the guy was on duty then?’

  ‘That’d be after sunset, sir, so no, he wouldn’t be, definitely not. Under normal circumstances, a lictor’s duties fall only between sunrise and sunset.’

  Under normal circumstances. Right.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, turning away.

  ‘Well, Corvinus,’ Nerva said as we left. ‘So your “possibility” is still possible. For what it’s worth, I’m compelled to say.’

  ‘Yeah, it seems so. Still, it’s only one of several.’ I glanced up at the sky, to where the sun was peeking through the clouds. Getting towards the middle of the afternoon. Well, there wasn’t anything to keep me in Bovillae for the moment, not if Carillus over at the brothel was acting watchdog for his mistress. I really, really needed to talk to her, but it seemed that was going to be difficult now. I just hoped she hadn’t skipped town altogether, which was a distinct possibility. ‘Thanks for your help, Nerva. We’ll leave it there for the present.’

  ‘I’ll be getting home, then,’ Nerva said. ‘Good luck with the continued investigation. Libanius was quite right to suggest contacting you. You appear to be doing very well.’

  Uh-huh. It didn’t exactly feel like that from my side; in fact I’d describe my progress as like wading through glue. The usual problem: too many theories, not enough hard evidence. Still, glue or not we were moving forwards, and at least I was able now to make a case for Decimus the rod man being a possible perp for both murders, with his boss – and, by implication, Canidius – the guiding brains.

  Unless, of course, the killer had been Roscius, who together with Brother Lucius was equally if not a hell of a lot more possible where motive and opportunity went. Or Opilia Andromeda, using the second murder of her lover as a cover-up for the first. Then again, ignoring the alibi his door slave had given him, there was always Quintus Baebius …

  Glue, pure and simple. Sod it. I was going home, too.

  Bathyllus met me in the villa’s entrance lobby with the wine tray, his black eye very much in evidence.

  ‘Here you are, sir,’ he said, handing me the welcome-home cup of wine. ‘And let me just say I have given my solemn, binding promise to Master Clarus and Mistress Marilla that if I am allowed to stay for the duration of your visit you will have no further cause for complaint. Lupercus has given his word, too. Will that be satisfactory?’

  I grinned. ‘Yeah, OK, Bathyllus. You’re off the hook, pal. It is the Winter Festival, after all, and so long as you and Lupercus behave yourselves and get along nicely that’s all I ask. But you’re on strict probation, right?’

  ‘“Share”, sir, shall henceforth be my watchword.’

  ‘Good.’ I kept my face straight and made a move towards the atrium. ‘See you keep it that way.’

  ‘Ah … sir?’

  I turned. ‘Yeah, Bathyllus? Was there something else?’

  ‘I should tell you that your mother and Helvius Priscus have just arrived. About ten minutes ago, in fact.’

  Bugger! Already? ‘That’s … good news, little guy,’ I said.

  ‘And that they have brought their chef with them.’

  I stopped. ‘They have what?’

  ‘Phormio, sir, is one of the party. Dinner will be in an hour, should you wish to change.’

  Oh, hell! Hell and bloody damnation! I carried on into the atrium. The b
ought help had brought in a couple of high-backed chairs, which Mother and Priscus were occupying. As usual, she looked stunning, even after the thirty-odd-mile coach trip, perfectly made-up and coiffured, and a good twenty years short of her actual age, while Priscus was doing his normal wrinkled-prune older-than-God impression. Perilla was on one of the room’s three couches, and Marilla and Clarus were sharing another. I set my wine cup on the small table beside the unoccupied third and gave Perilla the usual kiss.

  ‘Successful day, dear?’ she said.

  ‘Later,’ I said, teeth gritted. I turned to Mother. ‘Hi, Mother. Priscus. You’re early.’

  ‘The traffic was very light,’ Mother said, putting her cheek up to be kissed. ‘And it is Titus’s birthday today, after all.’

  Bugger! I’d thought it was tomorrow. But then I always get birthdays wrong. ‘Happy birthday, Priscus,’ I said.

  ‘Mmmaa! Thank you, Marcus.’

  I settled down on the couch and tried to keep my voice neutral. ‘Ah … Bathyllus says you’ve brought Phormio with you.’

  Mother gave me her best dazzling smile. ‘Yes. Oh, I know what we agreed, dear, but I didn’t have the heart to leave him behind. And he has such marvellous plans for the Winter Festival dinner! You’ll be amazed!’

  I glanced at Clarus and Marilla. Obviously, from the looks on their faces, this was news to them, too. Not good news, either, to put it mildly, which came as no surprise. No one wants to spend the Winter Festival spewing their guts out, and with Phormio doing the cooking it’d be practically a dead cert.

  Stopping Mother in her tracks, however, was a task about as easy as all twelve of Hercules’ labours rolled into one and doubled.

  Fuck. Double fuck.

  ‘Vipsania, we do have a perfectly good chef of our own, you know,’ Marilla said.

  ‘Of course you do, darling!’ The smile shifted to her and Clarus. ‘And I’m sure Euclidus is simply marvellous, for the everyday stuff, at least. But Phormio has just got this frankly unbelievable book of recipes from a correspondent of his in Palmyra, who had it from a friend at the other end of the spice route.’ She turned to Perilla. ‘So terribly exciting for him! He really does take his cooking seriously, the lamb, and he’s always on the lookout for anything just that little bit outré.’

  ‘Yes,’ Perilla said through tight lips. ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s quite fortuitous, really. He’s been waiting for the book to be copied and sent for almost two years now. And the special ingredients the recipes call for, of course, because most of these you can’t find here. Those were even more difficult. We had to arrange for them to be imported on an almost individual basis, and you would not believe how much time and trouble that involves. Not to mention the expense.’

  ‘Ah … just exactly what would these ingredients be, Mother?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, really, I don’t know, dear. Lots of things. You’d have to ask Phormio, although I doubt if even he could help. I don’t actually think the majority have names in Latin at all. Or even in Greek, for that matter, which was why Phormio’s Palmyran friend took so long to send the book in the first place. Seemingly, finding a capable translator who knew both Greek and whatever language the poor dears beyond Parthia speak was such a trial you wouldn’t credit. As I said, it’s all very exciting.’

  Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit! This sounded bad. Being poisoned was one thing, but being poisoned by something that didn’t even have a proper civilized name west of the Indus would be nothing short of fucking embarrassing.

  ‘Uh … maybe we should talk about this, Mother,’ I said cautiously. ‘I mean, the Winter Festival meal’s no time for experiments, is it?’ Not sodding Phormio’s kind of experiments, anyway, even if we did have a doctor on hand. Which wouldn’t be much help if Clarus was down in the latrine or bent over a bucket along with the rest of us.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so boring, Marcus! You’re such a fuddy-duddy traditionalist! It’ll be an experience, I promise you.’

  Right. Well, I was ready to go along with her on that score, certainly. And personally I’d rather spend the festival as a fuddy-duddy traditionalist with all his digestive organs still intact and functioning than an avant-garde gourmet who had to wear his running shoes to bed. Still, we’d a few days’ grace before Phormio had his evil way with us. Maybe a solution would present itself.

  Time for tact, and a change of subject.

  ‘Incidentally, Priscus,’ I said. ‘I’ve a present for you.’ The ivory plaque was still in my belt pouch. I took it out and handed it to him. ‘Look and marvel.’

  ‘Mmaa!’ He held the thing up to the light and examined it. ‘Oh, how very nice! Thank you, Marcus. You really shouldn’t have. What an interesting design.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s Sicilian. About a century and a half old, the guy in the shop said.’

  ‘Oh, no. The original may have been Sicilian – the design certainly is, Archimedes lecturing, I think – but this is a copy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mmaaa! You didn’t know? Well, it really doesn’t matter; it’s the thought that counts. Representations of Archimedes are quite common in Sicilian minor art of the period, particularly, naturally, that of Syracuse. Possibly as a covert expression of contemporary anti-Roman feeling, since of course he was quite the local hero and his death at the hands of the – in Greek eyes – philistine Roman captors of the city was viewed by its citizens as—’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Priscus,’ I said. ‘Are you saying the thing’s a fake?’

  ‘But of course it is.’

  Jupiter! ‘You sure?’

  ‘Mwahahaha!’ He chuckled; not a pretty sight or sound. ‘Oh, come now, really, my dear boy! You only have to look at the patina! It’s obvious!’

  Yeah, well, maybe it was, to your average antiquarian nut who could deliver an impromptu lecture on hundred-and-fifty-year-old Sicilian minor art at the drop of a hat. Me, I’d just have said that the thing was yellow.

  ‘So, mwahahaha, you bought it as genuine, then?’

  ‘Yeah, I did. From a shop in Bovillae.’

  ‘Oh, dear, oh dear! Mwahahaha! In that case, Marcus, I shouldn’t patronize it again, if I were you. The owner obviously doesn’t know a thing about what he’s selling. Or, of course, you’ve been sold a pup.’

  ‘Guy by the name of Baebius. Ring any bells?’

  ‘Quintus Baebius?’ He blinked at me. ‘Indeed it does, my boy, indeed it does! Quite a loud one. We’ve met on occasion, in the Saepta and at auctions.’

  ‘He know his stuff?’

  ‘Certainly! Mmmaaa! Oh, he’s an expert, all right, quite the aficionado. Alexandrian period, if I remember, specialising in the Asian cities. But from what I’ve heard he’s – mmmaa – not quite pukka, shall we say. Hairy in the hoof and too ready to take the main chance when it’s offered, that’s about the fellow’s measure. What today’s youngsters would no doubt call – mmmaa – a bit of a wide boy.’

  Would they, indeed? ‘Is that so, now?’ I said. ‘Thanks, Priscus.’

  ‘Mmmaaaa. A nice enough piece in itself, though. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ I was thinking hard. Passing off a fake antique as genuine didn’t exactly rank as the crime of the century; not when it could only have brought in a couple of extra gold pieces, max. And, if I believed his door slave, which I did, Baebius couldn’t have committed at least the first of the two murders. However, the guy evidently wasn’t the honest, solid citizen he pretended to be, and we still had a quite genuinely valuable figurine to account for, which the chances were that Caesius had had on him the evening that he died. Me, I wouldn’t trust the bastard’s word that he hadn’t got it now if he swore blind by every god in the pantheon. Plus the fact that we had the coincidence of him and the murdered man being members of the same club in Rome to consider.

  Shit; weren’t any of these guys straight?

  I’d have another talk with Quintus bloody Baebius tomorrow.

  NINETEEN

  I l
eft it later than usual to make the trip into Bovillae, intentionally so, setting off a good hour after breakfast. Which, I was glad to note, despite Mother and Priscus being in evidence, was blessedly free of Phormio’s gunk. Over dinner the previous evening Clarus, with uncharacteristic firmness, had ignored Mother’s strident protests that as a medical man himself he should be encouraging his guests to eat a healthy breakfast and put his foot down on that score: Phormio had been barred from using the kitchen to so much as boil an egg pro tem, which, considering that the bastard’s eggs of choice came from crocodiles and had been shipped over from Egypt in jars of sand, made it a reasonable place to start. Where that left us vis-à-vis the actual Winter Festival dinner, mind, was still a moot point: it’d take a much braver man than Clarus – or me, for that matter – to go head-to-head with Mother when she was dead set on something, and that particular sword of Damocles was still hanging. We’d just have to hope for divine intervention. Or maybe a major earthquake.

  So. Since he lived in the top part of town, it had to be Baebius first. The guy had questions to answer, not only in regard to the dodgy plaque his freedman had sold me but also as to why he hadn’t mentioned the fact that he and Caesius shared membership of a Roman club. I dumped my horse as usual at the Tiburtine Gate water trough and went straight round to his house, only to be told that that he was out.

  ‘You know where he might be at all?’ I asked the young door slave who seemed to double as his major-domo. ‘It’s pretty important.’

  ‘He could’ve gone to the shop he owns, sir,’ he said. ‘You could try it, anyway. The one selling antiques and curios, in the street opposite the market square.’

  ‘Yeah, I know where it is,’ I said. ‘I’ll do that. Thanks.’

  I was cutting through market square on the way to the shop when I felt a hand on my arm. I turned to find Tertius, Silius Nerva’s slave who’d taken me out to Mettius’s villa.