Bodies Politic

by David Wishart

  Shit, there was that glitch again, in a different form: if Gaius needed proof that Macro was conspiring against him, as he would, then it couldn’t’ve come from the letters because the emperor, ipso facto, could never have seen them. We were still missing something here. Never mind, carry on.

  Glabrio’s safe enough. X - through Isidorus - would be careful to guard his part in things, and Cineas’s: all Flaccus would know was that the letters were all forged; there’d be no reason for him to suspect his weren’t done by the same guy who’d forged the Macro ones, his enemy in Rome, and Isidorus would be at pains to encourage the belief. On the other hand, if push came to shove, Glabrio the faithful aide would be there to say he’d known for a long time that the governor was receiving clandestine letters via Cineas but that loyalty to his superior had forbidden him to etc etc. By which time Flaccus would be so far up the creek Gaius wouldn’t believe him if he claimed the sun rose in the east.

  It worked; it all worked. Sure it did. The only problem - and it wasn’t an impediment, just a missing piece of the puzzle - was the connection between X and the imperials. If there was one. That part I just couldn’t get my head around.

  Well, enough for the day. We were getting there, certainly. I patted the noses of my fellow horse trough loungers and set off for home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I needn’t’ve worried. The message that Glabrio would see me the next morning arrived not long after I did: the guy was running scared right enough. Not at the Palace, mind, but at his home, which made sense. He gave an address in Bruchium, the other side of the Canopic Way, behind the Gymnasium.

  I knew something was wrong as soon as I saw the house. There were cypress branches hung over the front door and draped around the pillars either side. That could only mean one thing: a death.

  Shit.

  The slave who opened the door looked frightened; not just frightened, terrified. He let me in, promising to go and fetch the major-domo, and left me in the main sitting-room with the body.

  They’d laid him out on a formal death-couch, coins on the eyes and an embroidered coverlet pulled up to his chin. I couldn’t see how he’d died but I twitched back the coverlet a little. Not a slit throat, anyway. There were the usual shears and basket for visiting mourners’ hair-clippings, but I didn’t use them. I wasn’t that much of a hypocrite.

  The major-domo came through: an oldish guy in his late fifties. He looked terrified too. He glanced at my unshorn fringe, then at the shears and basket, but made no comment.

  ‘Valerius Corvinus, pal,’ I said. ‘I’d an important appointment with your late master this morning. Care to tell me what happened?’

  ‘He choked on a fishbone, sir.’ The guy’s voice trembled. ‘Last night, at dinner.’

  Yeah. And I was Ptolemy fucking Sopater. ‘Is that so, now?’

  ‘There was nothing anyone could do. He was dead in minutes.’

  ‘Were you there at the time, friend?’

  He hesitated. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘No, sir, barring some of the other slaves. The master was dining alone. We sent for a doctor - there’s one a couple of streets off - but by the time he arrived it was much too late.’

  It would’ve been. Whoever had stiffed the poor bugger - and I’d bet the process hadn’t involved a badly-filleted Lake Mareotis pike, either - would’ve made sure of that. And made certain that none of the staff told tales into the bargain: the major-domo was twitching like he had the palsy.

  ‘I don’t exactly know how the local law stands on slaves covering up the circumstances of their master’s death, sunshine,’ I said carefully. I hated doing this, but it was the only way. ‘But if it’s the same as in Rome it means the strangler’s noose. For the whole household. Now. You want to reconsider that fishbone?’

  He swallowed like he’d got one lodged in his throat himself. ‘No, sir. That was how it happened.’

  Gods! If that threat didn’t scare him then whatever one had was a beaut. And I’d a fair idea who’d made it. Not that, under the circumstances, I could do much about it.

  Which didn’t stop me trying, mind.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Have it your own way, pal. I’ll see myself out.’

  I left.

  ***

  I was as angry as I’d been the day before when I confronted Glabrio in his office. Angrier. The bastard hadn’t even bothered to make the death plausible. A fishbone, a fucking fishbone! Oh, sure, I knew what had happened, it was clear enough: after Glabrio had sent to me to arrange the meeting the fool had had second thoughts or a crisis of conscience and run for advice to his co-agent Isidorus, who had naturally plumped for the obvious solution. Exit Glabrio.

  I didn’t know where to find Isidorus, but Flaccus would. And it was time to talk to the governor anyway. I’d start with the Palace.

  What I couldn’t get over was the casual way the murdering bastard had gone about things. Yeah, he wouldn’t have had the time or the opportunity to arrange an accident that was half-way convincing, but even a fake suicide would’ve been more believable than this fucking fishbone nonsense. He was either mind-blowingly stupid with the imagination of a retarded gnat - and I knew he wasn’t the first - or he thought it didn’t matter one little bit whether I believed the story or not. And that was just plain insulting. Sure, it was worrying as well - it meant his hold over Flaccus was so strong he could laugh at the threat of an official investigation - but it made me furious all the same.

  I got to the Palace, ignored the guy on the desk and went straight up the big staircase. Behind me it’d be an exaggeration to say that all hell broke loose, but we had the quiet equivalent all the same: two or three slaves no more than half a dozen yards behind me, plus the squaddies who’d been on guard outside the door half a dozen yards behind them. I kept on going, crossed the hallway at the top, and threw open the governor’s door...

  Flaccus had a visitor already, and he turned when I came in: a plump-faced smiling Greek with a narrow beard and moustache and the eyes of a rabid dog. Isidorus. It had to be. Which was fine by me, absolutely fine. Perfect.

  ‘Valerius Corvinus!’ Flaccus snapped. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’

  The slaves behind me - and the squaddies - had stopped in a bunch on the threshold. One of the squaddies pushed through and grabbed my arm. I shook him off.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Flaccus said to him. ‘Leave him. And go back downstairs, all of you. I’ll deal with this.’

  He stood up. The squaddie saluted and backed out, closing the door behind him.

  ‘I repeat, Corvinus. What’s the meaning of this?’ The guy was angry, sure, but there was something else in his eyes that looked very like fear. ‘You have absolutely no right to…’

  ‘Glabrio’s dead,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Flaccus broke eye contact and moved a pen from one side of the desk to the other. ‘I was told first thing this morning. A tragic accident with a fishbone. What has that to do with -’

  ‘Fuck the fishbone,’ I said. ‘He was murdered, and you know it. Or if you don’t then your pal here certainly does.’

  ‘I know nothing of the kind,’ Isidorus said. We’d been speaking Latin, of course, but he’d obviously understood, even if he did speak now in Greek. ‘And I find the implication totally insulting.’

  I ignored him; my business at present was with the governor. Whatever his private situation was, officially he represented Rome, and I wasn’t about to let him forget it. ‘He was murdered because he’d arranged to talk to me this morning about the scam that this bastard here’ - I stabbed a finger at Isidorus - ‘has going to blackmail you about your involvement with Macro and the Gemellus plot.’

  Flaccus’s face had gone ashen. ‘I had nothing to do with the Gemellus plot! Corvinus, you’re raving!’

  ‘Yeah, I know you didn’t,’ I said. ‘Because the fucking thing never existed.’

  Flaccus looked blank. ‘Nonsense! Of cour
se it did! I may not have been involved, but -’

  ‘Believe me, pal. Not that it matters one hoot, because the emperor thinks it did, but it was a fabrication from beginning to end to get rid of Gemellus, Silanus and Macro.’

  The governor sat down suddenly, like someone had cut his strings. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Who by? And how do you know -?’

  ‘I can’t go into that,’ I said. ‘Take it from me, though, that it was a complete ringer from the outset.’

  He stared at me, and his mouth opened and closed but nothing came out. Mika had told me Nikos thought Flaccus was losing his grip; I could see now that he might be right. Mind you, he had cause.

  ‘This is nonsense!’ Isidorus snapped: he was speaking Latin now. ‘You said yourself, Governor: the man’s raving!’ He turned his mad-dog eyes on me and the hairs rose on my neck.

  ‘I agree.’ Flaccus was making a visible effort to pull himself together. ‘I agree. Corvinus, go home, you’re obviously unwell. I’ll have someone -’

  ‘I’m fine and you know it,’ I said. ‘And I’ll go when I’m finished. Now. Anything I can say about this piece of dirt here you know already, so I won’t bother: he’s a blackmailer, a traitor, a killer and an all-round dangerous scumbag, but that’s your concern, and if you want to keep taking his side and go to hell in a handcart then that’s fine by me, it’s your funeral.’ He flinched but didn’t answer. ‘Still, I’m telling you formally that your aide, Atilius Glabrio, was in the pay of whoever your friend here works for in Rome, that he had been for the last sixteen months at least, and that it was his job to put the skids under you and supply him with the manufactured evidence. Think about it.’ I paused; right, it had registered okay, Flaccus wasn’t stupid. ‘I’m also asking you formally, Governor, for what it’s worth, to open an official investigation into his death. Now spit in my eye.’

  Flaccus glanced at Isidorus. He was sweating, and a tic had started up on his jaw. ‘I really don’t think,’ he said, ‘that an investigation is either necessary or possible. Of course if -’

  ‘Fine,’ I said, turning for the door. ‘Like I say, it’s your funeral. Possibly literally. Just don’t tell me later I didn’t warn you.’

  ‘Corvinus!’ That was Isidorus. I turned back. ‘Alexandria’s a dangerous place these days. Perhaps it might be safer for you and your family if you put all this nonsense completely out of your mind.’

  I counted to five before I let myself move or answer. If I hadn’t the guy’s teeth would’ve been all over the floor and I’d’ve legitimately been on the first boat out.

  ‘Look, pal,’ I said softly. ‘You’ve tried twice and not succeeded, maybe through luck but never mind that. You want to try a third time? Because if you do, and it doesn’t come off again, then you’d better run far and fast, because I swear by every god in the pantheon that I’ll come after you and slit your fucking throat. Yours personally, no shilly-shallying, no questions asked, no quarter given. Understand?’

  I got a look from those eyes that made my skin crawl, but the message had gone home. I meant it, and he knew I meant it. He didn’t answer.

  ‘Corvinus, I -’ That was the governor, but it was all that he said. If ever I saw the face of a dead man walking then Flaccus’s was it. Still, like I’d told him, he’d made the choice and if he wanted to stick with it then it was his funeral. He’d get no tears of sympathy from me.

  I went downstairs and out, past the frozen tableau in the entrance hall.

  ***

  So that was that: masks off, lines drawn. What I could do now I didn’t know; maybe I might be as well going back to Rome in any case because there wasn’t a lot left for me here except -

  I stopped. Cineas.

  He wouldn’t know as much as Glabrio, sure, but he was better than nothing. And I needed a live witness. If our merchant pal was still alive: with Glabrio dead I wouldn’t’ve put the odds on that being better than even. Still, it was worth a try, and his warehouse was only a short walk away.

  I’d been wrong about Isidorus. Oh, no, nothing to do with his involvement, just the man himself: the guy was clever, sure, but he was a fanatic, and with that sort of bastard you don’t expect logical thought. He’d wreck Alexandria without a second thought if it got him where he wanted to go, and he wouldn’t think about little things like consequences or collateral damage. That was something else I’d got against Flaccus: the man was a Roman governor, he was far from stupid, and whatever his personal circumstances were letting a rabid animal like that have virtual control of local government policy was sheer -

  Oh, shit!

  Flaccus knew about the Lepidus/Agrippina plot!

  He had to; it was the only explanation why he should be going so far out on a limb to back Isidorus, because it was the last throw he could make. Oh, he wasn’t necessarily actively involved - or I couldn’t see a role for him, anyway - but a change of emperor to one more sympathetic was his only chance of political survival. Probably, after the hash he’d made of things and the worse hash he looked like making over the next couple of months, of his physical survival too. Which meant that Isidorus knew, because he’d’ve had to be the one who told him. Which in turn meant that I’d got another clear link between X and the imperials.

  I found the street with Cineas’s warehouse on it. Okay so far: the place was open and everything seemed normal. Maybe I was going to be lucky after all. There weren’t any slaves outside this time, so I made my way indoors and headed for the office.

  No Cineas, but the clerks were there. After the circumstances of my last visit I wasn’t surprised to see two or three gaping mouths and a lot of fingers suddenly busy with abacus beads.

  The head clerk got up slowly and came over. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘How can I help you?’

  Stiff as hell.

  ‘I was hoping to see Cineas,’ I said.

  ‘I’m afraid the master’s gone to Athens. He left yesterday morning.’

  The day after we’d talked. Bugger. ‘This would be a sudden decision, would it, sunshine?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Very. But he may have had word from our agent there about something that needed his urgent personal attention.’

  Yeah, I’d bet. ‘He tell you when he’d be back?’

  ‘No, sir. Only that he might be some time.’

  Well, that was that. Hamster-face, very sensibly, had sniffed the air and headed for the tall timber. Maybe it was the best, because at least he was still alive and no doubt Etruscus or Gaius or whoever the hell I was doing this for could lay their hands on him at some future date if they wanted him. Even so, it was another avenue closed. Alexandria was just about played out as far as the case was concerned.

  I left, and went home.

  ***

  There’d been a message from Marcus Gallius in my absence. If it was okay with me and Stratocles he’d come round to dinner the next day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  He arrived promptly an hour before sundown. Stratocles had had a slight attack of chest palpitations that morning - he was prone to them, seemingly, now and again - and preferred to eat in his room, but he’d turned the main dining-room over to us and made sure before he left that everything would go smoothly. As I was sure it would, because although his chef wasn’t quite in Meton’s league he was well above the average hash-slinger. We were having poached snapper in a date sauce, quails with an almond-ginger stuffing and a purée of leeks and other assorted greens in a pastry mould, plus the usual sundries front and back. I’d reckoned we might make an appreciable hole in Stratocles’s wine stocks over the evening, so I dropped in at the supplier’s his head slave recommended and bought a jar of top-range Mareotis, plus a smaller jar that I’d give to Mika’s Nicos when we left.

  ‘Hey, pal!’ I said when the slave led Gallius through to the dining-room. ‘Nice to see you. Put on your slippers and park yourself on the vacant couch.’ He did, and one of the dining-room skivvies offered him the hand-washing bowl. I made the introductions.

&nbs
p; ‘Pleased to meet you, Tribune,’ Perilla said.

  ‘Thank you for the invitation, Lady.’ Delivered dead-pan and super-polite, but with a smile: a well-brought-up youngster, Gallius. He dipped his hands in the basin, then dried them on the skivvy’s towel while another slave poured him a cup of wine. I saw that he’d noticed Clarus’s bruised face - the shiner had come up beautifully now - but he didn’t comment. ‘You’re enjoying your visit to Alexandria?’

  ‘Oh, very much. We all are. It’s a lovely city.’

  He turned to Marilla. ‘So when is the wedding?’

  ‘The end of October,’ Marilla said. ‘Not in Rome; we’re having it in Castrimoenium, in the Alban hills.’

  ‘Near Bovillae? I’ve an uncle with a villa outside Bovillae. Sallustius Calvinus. You know him?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Marilla smiled. ‘At least, we’ve met. He was a friend of my Aunt Marcia’s.’

  ‘Fabius Maximus’s widow? Well, well. He talks about her often. So you’re that Marilla, the one who likes animals? It’s a small world.’

  I grinned. Yeah, it was, although the fact that they had an acquaintance in common wasn’t surprising. The upper-class Roman network is pretty limited, and finding a connection somewhere in the course of the introductory small-talk isn’t difficult. Which, of course, is how the empire’s run, at base. Still, now we knew how we all fitted in, as it were, it made for a nice relaxed atmosphere. I signalled the slaves to wheel in the starters while Gallius, Marilla and Clarus chatted and compared notes about people and places they knew in common: Gallius was a few years older, sure, but they were the same generation and I was glad they’d struck it off together. When Clarus told him his father was the local doctor he didn’t bat an eyelid. A nice guy, the tribune, like I said.