Bodies Politic

by David Wishart

  ‘So...what happens now?’ He was looking at me like I was the only drink of water in the desert.

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. Oh, you have my promise: when I see the emperor I’ll tell him just exactly what you’ve told me. Then it’s up to him.’

  ‘You think he’ll understand?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Personally, I doubted it: Gaius wasn’t exactly your understanding person, and he didn’t forgive easily. The guy wasn’t looking at the chop, mind - unless the emperor was feeling particularly vindictive - but exile was a distinct possibility. Still, he had it spot on: he’d been a greedy little fool and deserved all he got. ‘I’ll do what I can.’ I stood up. ‘Meanwhile, don’t go anywhere. That’s not advice, it’s a warning.’

  ‘Where would I go?’

  Right. I turned to leave. Then a thought struck me, and I turned back.

  ‘Did Cornelia happen to mention any names? Anyone at all?’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just anyone.’

  ‘No, none.’ He frowned. Then he blushed again. ‘She said once when I’d refused to help that I was as much an innocent and a washout as Gaius Anteius sounded, but -’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gaius Anteius. I’d no idea who she meant. I still don’t. Do you?’

  But I was already heading for the portico and the front door.

  Gaius Anteius.

  Shit.

  ***

  So: I’d got a witness. Not much of one, but at least Vinius was better than nothing. And his evidence would prove at least that Gaetulicus was trying to subvert the Pannonian legions.

  The mention of Gaius Anteius had been a facer, though. The guy, if you remember, had been at literary hack Seneca’s poetry reading the evening I’d been almost crushed by the runaway cart on the Staurian Steps: the squeaky-clean young North Italian quaestor with a penchant for poetry who’d mentioned Gaetulicus to us. And who had almost immediately thereafter been hauled off by Agrippina. Whom Crispus had later indicated he was possibly having some sort of an affair with.

  Jupiter, it couldn’t be coincidence. No way.

  How exactly he fitted into things I didn’t know, but it set up a very interesting train of thought. He was a friend of Seneca’s, and Crispus had also told me that Seneca was currently screwing the emperor’s second sister Livilla. Who was also - if the theory held - in on the plot. Obviously, if Cornelia knew his name, she’d have to have got it from her father, probably through one of his letters. And innocent fitted the guy to a T. He and Vinius - barring certain important differences - were birds of a feather.

  Okay. I distinctly remembered him saying he’d been talking to Gaetulicus himself only a couple of months previous, and I’d been on the point of asking him for details when Agrippina hustled him off. Anteius was a North Italian, sure, but Mantua was still a long way from the Rhine. What opportunity would he have? Gaetulicus couldn’t’ve come to him on his father’s estate: a legate isn’t allowed to leave his command except under very exceptional circumstances, and if he’d just been elected quaestor he couldn’t’ve been lately out of uniform himself. Which left only one possibility.

  He’d gone to the Rhine specially. Because Gaetulicus was using him as a courier to keep in touch with his imperial pals in Rome.

  Maybe I’d got my second bit of living evidence.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  In the event I decided not to go for Anteius, or not directly: if Vinius had been right about Cornelia’s summing up of him - and my impression when I’d met the lad confirmed it - then he was an innocent dupe in any case, and so not likely to be very informative. Besides, through him I had a much better prospect lined up: Annaeus Seneca.

  I wasn’t sure that Seneca was actively involved in the Lepidus/Agrippina plot, but if he didn’t know what was going on and be providing at least his support and tacit approval then I was a blue-tailed Briton. The guy was the archetypal go-getting provincial on the make: politically and socially ambitious, a total snob, and with a conceited ego the size of the Capitol. One of those sad buggers who only see the height of the dung heap without caring about what it’s made of or how much shit they have to swallow to get to the top. Which was fortunate: convince them that there’s a danger that in a short space of time they’re going to be back on the barnyard floor arse-up with their face in the mud and they revert from the roosters they thought they were to the chickens they really are.

  The problem was, of course, that he’d know who I was, so knocking on his door and asking to talk to him just wasn’t an option: at best he’d have his slaves give me the bum’s rush, at worst he’d leg it for safer climes and stay there until the heat died down, leaving me to twiddle my thumbs. Probably warn his imperial pals that I was sniffing around again into the bargain. So I made my preparations. Finding where he lived was easy enough - a top-market rented property on the Esquiline - and I sent my smart-as-paint gardener Alexis over to hang around outside the house, follow him when he went out, and suss out my best chance for a private tête-à-tête. Then, when he reported back, I packed off another skivvy to Agron in Ostia asking if I could borrow him and a couple of his stevedore chums.

  All this took four days. On the fifth - coincidentally, the day of Helicon’s party - we were set to roll. The deal was simple. Every morning, fourth to sixth hours, Seneca used a bath house in the Carinae near the Porch of Livia. Me and Agron and his two chums would follow him in, paying our entrance coppers like ordinary punters; after which I’d hussle Seneca into a quiet corner somewhere for our chat while the other three made sure we weren’t disturbed.

  It went without a hitch. I collared the bastard in the changing-room and stiff-armed him while whispering in his ear that if he so much as squealed I’d dislocate his fucking shoulder. Then, with Agron and company in close attendance, I ignored the curious glances we were getting from our fellow would-be bathers and marched him down the corridor to one of the empty massage rooms.

  Not that I need’ve worried about him squealing, in either sense of the word: when I let him go and he turned round his pudgy, jowly face was slack with terror.

  ‘Okay, pal,’ I said conversationally, pushing him back so that he sat on the massage couch. ‘I’ll start by telling you what I know, after which you can fill in the gaps, if any. That suit?’

  ‘I don’t know what you -’

  ‘Been there. Heard it. Let’s just skip that part, shall we, sunshine? You, Lepidus, Agrippina and Livilla are plotting with Lentulus Gaetulicus to have the emperor assassinated when he joins the Rhine legions for the British campaign next year.’

  He gave a sort of mewling whimper. ‘I’m not -’

  ‘Involved? Sure you are. Right up to your greasy neck, which I am sure when I tell him Gaius will take the greatest pleasure in wringing.’ He swallowed and clammed up. ‘The only question is whether you’re in over the eyeballs as well. For instance. Lepidus and Agrippina roped in bubblehead Livilla by threatening to tell the emperor that you were screwing her, right? Now I’d like to believe that the lady herself made the running and you only started the affair because getting an imperial into bed with you gave you an in, as it were, with the ruling family. Simple ambition, opportunism and social climbing, in other words. On the other hand, I have a very dirty and suspicious mind, and there’s just the off-chance that the whole thing was deliberate from the beginning and that Agrippina suggested it to you. In which case, pal, you are really in schtook. You like to comment, maybe?’

  He said nothing, but he went a shade greyer and his jowls wobbled. Bull’s-eye!

  ‘Fine. Now let’s move on to Gaius Anteius.’ That got me another scared look. ‘As a courier between you and Gaetulicus he’s perfect. He comes from Mantua, so if he takes the occasional trip north no one’s going to be surprised, and if he overshoots by a few hundred miles, well, who in Rome would know about that? He’s a fellow-poet, a friend of yours and an admirer of Gaetulicus, who also dabbles, so no one�
�s going to question the relationship either end of the line, especially if one of you wants him to carry a message to the other. Least of all Anteius himself, who I doubt would recognise a treason plot if it jumped up and bit him. Particularly if the kid’s all starry-eyed at being taken on by Agrippina and desperate to please.’ I paused. ‘How am I doing, by the way?’

  He gave a strangled grunt.

  ‘I’m delighted. So. The plan is that next summer Gaius will tootle off north to spearhead his triumphant campaign into Britain, probably taking - at his request - his good friend Lepidus with him. In the meantime his other good friend Claudius Helicon’ - another terrified stare - ‘plus his good mates in the imperial civil service have been working their little socks off to persuade him that sacking Gaetulicus, at least for the time being, is not a smart move. When he reaches Mainz the emperor will die in as unsuspicious circumstances as Lepidus and Gaetulicus can manage, the whole campaign and the changes to the command structure will be quietly shelved for the duration and Lepidus will return to Rome to be saluted by the senate and people as emperor, with Agrippina as his consort. Oh, and perhaps Annaeus Seneca as one of his chief advisors.’ I smiled. ‘There it is. What do you think? Have I missed anything? Any mistakes?’

  The eyes that looked back at me were a terrified rabbit’s. He swallowed.

  ‘Lepidus was staying in Rome. Agrippina thought it’d be safer, he couldn’t be implicated. Gaetulicus would arrange the whole thing.’

  I didn’t react, just nodded, but my heart had broken into song. Joy in the morning, I’d turned the bugger!

  ‘I need you to talk to Caesar, Corvinus. Tell him I made a mistake, I never meant to involve myself in treason.’ He was pawing at my tunic. ‘Tell him it’s all Agrippina’s fault. She forced me.’

  ‘You can tell him yourself, pal.’ I backed away. ‘Explain the whole thing personally. In fact, if you want to avoid the strangler’s noose or an invitation to slit your wrists that’s the course I’d recommend.’ Not that I thought it’d do much good: the ladies, being Gaius’s sisters, would probably get away with exile, but I reckoned the emperor would have Lepidus’s and Gaetulicus’s heads on a pole, and Seneca’s too. Not that the stupid bastard had been using it for much recently barring keeping his ears apart, so I didn’t have a lot of sympathy.

  He made a little bleating noise. ‘Corvinus, I can’t! They’d...if she found out it was me who told the emperor Agrippina would -’

  ‘Your problem, sunshine. I only make the recommendations. You think it over, I’ll be in touch.’ I paused, my hand on the curtain. ‘Oh, and in your own interests I really, really wouldn’t recommend passing on the content of this conversation to anyone, not even Livilla. The last guy I talked to who had second thoughts in that direction died suddenly of a fishbone in the throat.’ He gave another little bleat. ‘If it helps, just think of the loss you’d be to poetry.’

  I went out. Agron and the other two were standing along the corridor with their backs against the wall, just out of earshot.

  ‘Get what you wanted?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. Skip the bath and split a jug of wine?’ I looked at the two stevedores. Jupiter, they bred them big in Ostia! ‘Better make that four jugs.’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Agron grinned.

  ***

  I got back home in plenty of time to get ready for gatecrashing Helicon’s party. Again, I’d done my homework carefully in advance: he had a big house on the Pincian, where a lot of the new money was, and the bash would start in the early evening, an hour before sunset.

  We were doing things properly: best mantles, scent at a gold piece the tiny bottle, Perilla dolled up to the nines with the family jewellery out of hock and the litter slaves washed, polished and gleaming. I was even taking the bugger a birthday present, one of these little models of the Alexandrian lighthouse with an oil lamp in the top that the souvenir sellers in the agora insist you can’t possibly go home without. Pure tat, sure, but I thought it was appropriate. And if we did get talking then it’d give me an excuse to introduce the subject of Alexandria.

  ‘You sure you won’t reconsider this, Marcus?’ Perilla said as we got ready to board the litter. ‘After all, you’ve got Seneca now, and that tribune, what was his name? Vinius.’

  ‘Uh-uh. They’re both on the other side of the case. Anyway, I want to see Helicon for myself, close up.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s silly. And possibly dangerous.’

  ‘Lady, it’s a party! There’ll be a hundred people there, literally, probably more. And you never know what’ll turn up.’

  ‘All right.’ She sniffed. ‘On one condition. If there’s any trouble, about admission, I mean, you leave it to me to solve. I am not having you indulging in a punch-up or slanging match with the slaves on the gate. It’s not dignified and it would be counter-productive. And if we are turned away in the end then we go quietly.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Agreed.’

  We set off.

  The party was in full swing when we arrived just before sunset. Big house was right: it stood in its own grounds, with a wrought-iron gate and a carriage drive leading up to the main complex of buildings with various wings and annexes off to either side. There were marquees set up in the garden, a stage with fluteplayers and percussionists tootling, banging and tinkling away, and the busy hum of a large slice of Rome’s great and good networking their socks off as they tucked into the drinks and nibbles.

  Our litter lardballs set us down at the gate and we disgorged.

  ‘Good evening, sir. Madam.’ A slave in a natty red tunic with silver tassles came over. ‘Your invitation, please.’

  ‘Ah’ - I patted my mantle-pouch - ‘we seem to have come away without it, pal. Stupid, I know, but these things happen. Still -’

  ‘Then I’m sorry, sir, but the master gave very strict instructions. Perhaps if you were to go back home and return with it, or send one of your slaves -’

  ‘Now that is enough!’ Perilla snapped. ‘Young man, if you think that we are going to go all the way back to the Caelian for a silly bit of paper or sit out here while one of the boys fetches it then you are very sadly mistaken. Do you?’

  ‘Ah...’ The guy shifted nervously and glanced at me. I shrugged and moved out of the line of fire: the poor bugger had asked for it, and he was on his own.

  ‘And look at your hands!’ The gate slave put them quickly behind his back. ‘The nails are filthy! You will go straight inside, please, after you’ve let us through, and give them a good scrub with a nail brush. And comb your hair while you’re at it, it’s an absolute disgrace!’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘I really do not know what things are coming to these days. If a high-profile slave like you thinks that absolutely strict attention to detail where appearances are concerned doesn’t matter and that it’s enough to -’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘- give your sandals a cursory scuff on the back of your ankles before you greet the guests, then -’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘- I despair of the state of the empire. Now open that gate at once, please.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He did, almost blurring in the process. ‘I do apologise, ma’am.’

  ‘So I should hope. Remember, young man, I shall be checking up on you when we leave, and if I do not see that there has been a considerable improvement to your present slovenly turnout then I shall be very seriously annoyed.’

  ‘Understood, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. And I can only apologise again, ma’am.’

  We went in.

  Jupiter!

  ‘Ah...well done, lady, nice job,’ I said cautiously, glancing back at the slave. He looked like someone had just hit him with the Capitol. ‘What do you do for an encore? Chew iron and spit out nails?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Marcus, you just have to be firm, that’s all.’ She sniffed. ‘Now what?’

  ‘We mingle.’

  So we mi
ngled.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I hate these stand-up parties. You never know what to do with your plate, and if you set your wine down for a minute either some other bugger sinks it by mistake, an overefficient slave whips it off, or half the local insect population uses it to drown in. Plus spending the evening exchanging small talk over the canapés with Rome’s great and good just isn’t my bag. Perilla was okay; the lady’s a natural stand-up party animal, she’d met one of her poetry pals early on, and they were in deep conversation about the Cyprian pastoralists. Me, I spent ten gruelling minutes with an ex-consul on the subject of his staffing problems (it was impossible, seemingly, to buy a chef who boiled your breakfast egg just right) and another ten with a horse-faced woman who kept trying to drag me into the shrubbery. That was enough. I disengaged myself politely, cadged a refill from a passing slave (Chian, but not bad. The wine, I mean) and drifted off to enjoy it in peace.

  I’d been communing with Claudius Helicon’s version of nature - bushes topiaried within an inch of their lives, separated by a gridwork of scrubbed flagstone paths, twee grottos and simpering statues - just long enough to be thinking about another belt of Chian when I spotted the birthday boy himself over by the huge ornamental fountain, chatting to a couple of broad-stripers: a fit, chunky guy in his early thirties wearing a freedman’s cap and sharp Greek party mantle and looking more like a professional wrestler than a civil servant. I took my gift-wrapped Alexandrian lighthouse out of my mantle-fold and began to stroll over, rehearsing what I was going to say. I’d got to within a dozen yards when our pal the gate-slave moved in ahead of me, tugged at Helicon’s sleeve and whispered something in his ear. Helicon looked up, back towards the gate, and I followed his eyes...

  Which was when three things happened almost simultaneously.

  The first was that I saw the man who the gate-slave had obviously wanted to bring to Helicon’s attention. He was hanging around on the fringes of the crowd - unseasonably thick travelling cloak, no party mantle, a visitor, not a guest - and I recognised him straight off. Our delinquent Alexandrian bridesmaids’ dress material seller, Cineas.