Bodies Politic

by David Wishart

  ‘He had no slave or freedman by that name at all, sir.’

  Oh, Jupiter! This just didn’t make sense! ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I was with the master for ten years, and I am absolutely sure.’

  Bloody hell! But Dion’s name had been in the letter! If the guy didn’t exist, then -

  ‘Hang on, pal.’ I’d brought it with me, just in case I did get to talk to Dion. I took it out of my mantle-fold and handed it over. ‘Take a look at this for me, will you?’

  He unrolled it and read. Then he looked up.

  ‘The master didn’t write this, sir,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, the handwriting is similar, but it’s definitely not his. The s’s are wrong, and the t’s. And I’m afraid - well, the master was no scholar, to put it mildly. Half these words he wouldn’t even know, let alone use. I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.’

  I took the letter back. ‘No more do I, pal,’ I said. ‘No more do I. Thanks for your help, anyway.’

  I left, my brain numb.

  Gods almighty, what the hell was going on here?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  What I needed now was a half jug of wine and a think. In that order. Renatius’s wasn’t too far, on Iugarius, but there was a new place I’d thought I might try off Augustus Market. Besides, this time of day Renatius’s would be packed with familiar punters and I’d just get sucked into a conversation I didn’t want.

  The place had tables and stools outside, under a shady trellis - late June in Rome’s no time to be sitting out in the full sunshine - and if it wasn’t exactly busy it wasn’t empty either. A good sign. I sat down and the waiter came over.

  ‘You have such a thing as Mareotic, pal?’ I said.

  ‘Just what’s on the board, sir.’

  I looked. ‘Make it a half jug of Massic.’

  ‘Half of Massic it is.’ He went off.

  Okay, so what was I to make of this, then? I was used to a puzzle at one end of the line, but not at both. Who the hell was Dion, what connection, if any, did he have with Macro, and why was he so anxious - as anxious he obviously was, to go to all this trouble - to have me look into the bastard’s death? Above all, what the hell was the point of this faffing around? He must’ve known that, if I did start an investigation, his porky about being Macro’s secretary and the whole whacky letter business would hold up for about as long as spit on a hot griddle. As indeed it had. So why tell the porky in the first place?

  Because although the investigation was important for some reason so was keeping himself - or whoever he represented - out of it. Obviously.

  ‘Your Massic, sir.’ The waiter, back with the half-jug, cup and a complimentary plate of olives. Well, I couldn’t complain about the speed of the service. And when I tasted it the Massic wasn’t bad either. The first cupful didn’t even touch the sides, and I poured myself a second and took a good swallow.

  So. What had we got?

  First of all, he was pretty well-informed. He knew me, where to find me, and that I’d known Macro and we hadn’t got on. He knew how to get me hooked despite myself. He knew Macro’s handwriting well enough to produce a passable forgery, but not well enough to do it absolutely right. He’d got an axe to grind, maybe even a personal axe, because if not - again - why the hell bother in the first place? On the other hand, he wasn’t in a position to do anything himself. That much fitted, at least: he’d been a Greek, probably an Asiatic Greek, not a Roman, and if he wasn’t freedman class he’d been a damned good actor. Smart freedman class, though: ‘secretary’ had hit it nicely. I reached for the winecup. Then again -

  A hand grabbed my wrist. I refocused.

  ‘Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The guy who’d sat down on the stool across from me was built like a slab of the Capitol, if a slab of the Capitol had had that much hair growing in its nostrils. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Just someone who wants to keep you still living, pal. And your wife Rufia Perilla. And your adopted daughter and her fiancé up in the Alban Hills. Castrimoenium, isn’t it? Nice place.’

  My belly went cold.

  ‘Course, that’d depend on whether you were sensible or not.’ He leaned forwards and I could smell his early lunch on his breath. Raw onions and cheap wine had figured prominently. ‘Asking questions, poking your nose into things - well, that’s not sensible, is it, sir? Give it up now, that’d be my advice. Before someone gets hurt.’

  I pulled back on my hand, but I might as well’ve tried to shake off a vice. ‘Touch my family, you bastard, and you’re dead meat. You and whoever sent you.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, sir, I really don’t. Believe me. And like I say this is just a friendly warning. Next time - well, let’s hope there’s not a next time, for everyone’s sake, eh?’ He leaned over and patted my shoulder. ‘I’ll see you around. Be good. Enjoy your wine.’

  And he was up and off, striding into the crowds that packed the entrance to Augustus Market. I stood up myself, but he’d already disappeared and I knew I hadn’t a hope in hell of following him let alone catching the bugger. And there wasn’t a lot I could do to him even if I did.

  I sat down again and swallowed the wine in my cup at a gulp, brain and guts both churning.

  ***

  When I got back home Perilla was in the garden going through what I just knew was the wedding checklist for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘You win. I’m giving it up.’

  ‘What?’ She set the tablet and stylus down on the table beside her.

  ‘The investigation. I’m giving it up.’

  She looked scared. ‘Marcus, what’s happened?’

  I told her.

  ‘The guy was a plain-clothes Praetorian,’ I said when she’d finished biting her knuckles. ‘Or if he wasn’t he behaved like one. Perilla, he knew the lot! My name, your name, about Marilla and Clarus. He even knew where Marcia’s fucking villa was.’

  ‘Gently, dear,’ Perilla said.

  ‘And that bugger Dion was a fake. Macro’s major-domo had never heard of the guy. The same goes for Macro’s fucking letter. He didn’t write the fucking thing at all.’

  ‘Marcus. Please. Sit down.’ I did. ‘Take a deep breath, hold it to a count of five, and let it out.’ I did. ‘Good. So. Now exactly what are you going to do?’

  ‘Give up. I told you. It isn’t worth it.’

  She was frowning. ‘You’re sure? Absolutely sure?’

  ‘Lady, I’m not a complete idiot, or a potential suicide. If the warning came from Gaius - and six gets you ten it did - then I can’t go head-to-head with the emperor, whatever the rights or wrongs might be. Besides, I promised.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true. Still, when has that ever mattered?’

  I stared at her. ‘Whose side are you on?’

  ‘Yours. That’s the point.’ She picked up the wax tablet again. ‘Fine. So if you think the emperor wants to stop you then your logical next step would be to confirm it with him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go and see him.’

  ‘Gods almighty, Perilla -!’

  ‘Why not? It would save everyone a lot of grief and heartache, wouldn’t it? If the wineshop man was a Praetorian, and Gaius had sent him, then why shouldn’t the emperor confirm it? Then you can say, Yes, Caesar, all right, I’m sorry, I’ll stop being such a nosey bastard from this moment on, and you’re both happy. Or at least you’ll know where you stand. Or am I wrong?’

  I was laughing despite myself. I leaned over and kissed her. ‘Absolutely right, lady. We have a deal.’ I turned and raised my voice. ‘Bathyllus!’

  The little guy had been hovering as usual. I’d hardly got the last syllable out when he shimmered over.

  ‘Wine, sir?’

  ‘Yeah, but then I want you to put on your cleanest socks and go on over to the palace. Make an appointment for me to see the emperor.’

  Bathyllus doesn’t faze easily, but he
did now. ‘Ah...’

  ‘You heard me, sunshine. I’m not joking. The palace, appointment with the emperor, asap.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘Could I suggest, though, that when you do go you wear a mourning mantle?’

  Oh, bugger; I’d forgotten about that. Rome might be getting back to normal after Drusilla’s death, but she’d been far and away Gaius’s favourite sister. From all accounts her death had hit him hard - he hadn’t even been able to attend the funeral on Mars Field - and he was still a long way from getting over it. Turning up looking crisp, summery and well-barbered, smelling of roses and with a broad grin on my puss, would go down with the guy like a six-day-old anchovy in a heatwave. If, that was, he agreed to see me at all. Still, things were urgent, and I had to try.

  ‘Well reminded, Bathyllus,’ I said. ‘Off you go. Spit spot.’

  He left.

  ‘Flute-players,’ Perilla said.

  I frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘For the wedding, Marcus. I’d thought of getting them from the guild in Rome, but Marilla says she’d rather use ones from Bovillae. What do you think?’

  ‘Ah...Bovillae’s fine with me. If that’s what Marilla wants.’

  ‘Very well.’ She made a tick on the list. ‘Clarus can arrange that. He has an uncle in Bovillae. Now what about Patinius Cruso? I’m a bit worried about him.’

  ‘Who the hell’s Patinius Cruso?’

  ‘You know perfectly well, dear. The priest. He was a very close friend of Aunt Marcia’s and he’s known Marilla all her time in Castrimoenium. He must be well over eighty.’

  ‘So?’

  She sighed. ‘Marcus, he’s completely senile. The last time I saw him his major-domo was trying to convince him that a loincloth and hobnailed boots were not appropriate dress for a dinner party. We’d be far safer with someone else, agreed, but he’s a lovely old man and he’d be desperately upset if we passed him over.’

  ‘It’d make for an interesting ceremony. Not many people get married by a priest in a loincloth and boots.’

  ‘Be serious.’

  ‘Okay. So make sure the major-domo rides close shotgun on the day and have one of the other priests primed to take over. If necessary we can bundle the old guy up in his mantle and lock him in a broom cupboard until the reception.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, if you’re sure.’ She made another tick. ‘What about flowers?’

  ‘Your wine, sir.’ Bathyllus must’ve gone off to the palace; the slave with the tray was one of the skivvies.

  I took the wine and sipped. Well, there was nothing I could do now until Gaius agreed to see me. Or not, as the case might be. And at least Perilla was off the Alexandrian jag.

  I was still puzzled over this Dion business, though. That made no sense at all.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I got my appointment two days later.

  I was nervous as hell; sure I was. We’d got on well enough in the past, Gaius and me, on the occasions that we had met, and although Macro’s letter had been a fake the bit about him being well-disposed had seemed true enough. Even so, the guy was emperor now, he could break me with no more trouble than swatting a fly. And he was about as reliable as an adder with fang-ache.

  Besides, we’d had four enforced top-bracket suicides inside of eight months. Those sort of statistics aren’t exactly encouraging.

  I’d let Bathyllus choose the wardrobe. Going unshaven for the two days, which is proper mourning etiquette, had seemed a bit OTT - the guy didn’t like crawlers, I knew from past experience, and Drusilla hadn’t been family - so I didn’t do it; but a plain mourning mantle and no barber’s powder was only sensible. I took the litter, too: walking from the Caelian to the Palatine in the afternoon heat of summer can leave you humming, and that I didn’t want either.

  I gave my name to the palace flunkey - like all the slaves in the imperial quarters he was in a mourning-tunic himself, and half his fringe was missing - and he took me in to the Presence.

  Gaius looked terrible. Yeah, well, he usually did - not a good-looking guy, our emperor - but I’d seen privy-slaves in better nick. If I’d had any doubts about his grief over Drusilla, I didn’t have them any more. Oh, sure, his mourning-tunic would be top-of-the-range quality, but even at a room’s-distance in the poor light I could see he’d had the same one on for days. From the length of his stubble he hadn’t shaved since Drusilla’s death; hadn’t eaten all that much, either, because he looked like a half-starved goat. Skulls came to mind. Mildewed ones, at that. The room’s curtains were closed, there were only a few lamps lit and the place smelled of stale sweat and incense.

  I bowed my head as the slave closed the door behind me. ‘Caesar.’

  ‘Hello, Marcus.’ Well, at least he sounded brighter than he looked, which admittedly wasn’t saying much. The usual bright, brittle drawl was missing. ‘Come in. Have a seat, if you can find one. I’m afraid the place is a bit of a mess. The slaves want to tidy it, but I just can’t be arsed. I’ve told them to stay out.’

  I moved over to the couch opposite his. There was a tray on it, with bowls of untouched food that looked like it’d been there for days. I lifted it out of the way, onto a side table, and sat down.

  ‘I’m sorry about your sister, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’ He gave a brittle smile that didn’t touch his eyes. These I didn’t like the look of at all; they shifted, and they glittered in the lamplight. ‘Mind you, she’s a goddess now, you know. Or she will be shortly, as soon as I can make her one. I thought Panthea would be a good name - the Universal Divinity. Venus, sort of thing. In fact, she could share Venus’s temple in the Julian Market, in the short term, anyway. What do you think?’

  My stomach went cold. ‘Very nice, Caesar,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. She’ll like that. Still, it’s hard, not having her around in the flesh any more. She was a lovely girl. We’re all quite devastated.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Life, however, must go on, I suppose.’ Another brittle smile and a shrug of the shoulders. ‘Now. What can I do for you?’

  This was the tricky bit. I cleared my throat.

  ‘I had a letter the other day, sir. From Sertorius Macro. Only it turns out that it wasn’t.’

  The smile had become a frown. ‘Macro? He’s dead. Been dead for months.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I know. It was delivered by someone who claimed to be his secretary. That wasn’t right either.’

  ‘Marcus, petal, you’re not making sense.’

  I took the letter out and handed it over. ‘Read it yourself, sir. But as I say it’s a forgery.’

  ‘How very odd.’ He unrolled it. ‘Bring some light over, would you? It isn’t very bright in here.’

  I got up and fetched the nearest candelabrum closer - half the lamps were out of oil - then waited until he’d read the thing through.

  He chuckled.

  ‘It’s a load of balls,’ he said. ‘Patronising to boot. I mean, what “foibles” do I have, for goodness’ sake? And I certainly was not “misinformed”. The man was a scheming bastard, and that wife of his was worse. I should never have given either of them house room. Especially her.’

  ‘You’re sure of that, sir?’

  ‘Absolutely sure. Macro pushed his overblown bedmate at me to worm his way into my confidence, then when I fell ill the two of them got together with that pompous idiot Silanus and stinky young Gemellus to get rid of me altogether. Only it didn’t work. I was protected, you see. The gods of Rome protected me.’

  ‘So there was an actual conspiracy?’

  ‘Of course there was. They were completely guilty, all of them. Naturally, I couldn’t make it public, not after making such a song and dance about scrapping that dreadfully unpopular treason charge. But I could kill them all anyway.’ He grinned. ‘By the gods, I could! I was a bit sorry about Gemellus, mind, he was just two tiles short of a roof, poor lamb, but I’d’ve had to do it sooner or later anyway, and he wasn’t much of a loss.’


  My belly went cold again.

  ‘So.’ He handed back the letter. ‘If that’s all that’s worrying you -’

  ‘Not quite, Caesar,’ I said.

  ‘You mean there’s more?’

  ‘I - well, I sort of got interested.’ I swallowed.

  ‘Really?’ He raised himself on his elbow. ‘You surprise me.’

  ‘I mean, why the letter in the first place? I know it’s a forgery, but -’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, Marcus! Marcus! You don’t change, do you? Now don’t tell me you want to take this further! I said: it’s absolute balls!’

  ‘So why when I start asking a few questions should some heavy go for me in a wineshop and threaten me and my family to get me to stop?’

  The laughter died. ‘What?’

  ‘It happened a couple of days ago, sir. I, uh, wondered at the time if you hadn’t sent him yourself.’

  ‘Why on earth would you think that?’

  ‘He was pretty well informed. And he looked like a Praetorian.’

  He laughed again. ‘Marcus, petal,’ he said. ‘If I wanted you to stop pushing your fucking long nose into something then I’d’ve hauled you over here and told you myself. Or sent someone who not only looked like a Praetorian but was one to do it for me in no uncertain terms, with a nasty great sword in his hand to stress the point. That’s what this is all about.’ He gestured round the room. ‘I’m the emperor, for the gods’ sake, I don’t need to be subtle. Besides, I know you and it wouldn’t work. You wouldn’t take a telling. So I’d’ve ordered the Praetorian with the sword to use it there and then or had you use it for him and saved us all a lot of trouble.’ The hairs crawled on my neck. ‘Not guilty, love. It wasn’t me, I promise you.’

  Well, that was a relief, anyway. Still, we weren’t through the woods yet.

  ‘If you do want me to stop, Caesar,’ I said, ‘then I will.’

  He looked at me for a long time, frowning. Then he chuckled.

  ‘Really?’ he said. I didn’t answer. ‘Do you want to? The truth, now!’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘There you are, then. That’s settled.’ He reached forward and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘So don’t. It’s no skin off my nose. You’re a fool, Marcus, because there’s nothing to find and you’re wasting your time, but that’s your business. Besides, past experience has taught me that your long nose finds its way into very unexpected places. I may be wrong, and that would be interesting.’