Going Back, page 10
part #20 of Marcus Corvinus Series
‘Namely?’
‘Just something he said to Publius, before the guy got up and left. They’d had a bit of a spat, with Publius practically accusing Scarus of cheating at dice, and Scarus threatened to, quote, “tell Mummy on him”.’
‘But , Marcus, there’s nothing odd about that. Snide and nasty, I grant you – the implication that Publius was no more than a naughty child under his mother’s thumb – but hardly dripping with significance.’
‘Well, maybe not. It was just a feeling. For all his faults, Publius didn’t strike me as a mummy’s boy. For a start, when he was talking about his father he bracketed his mother, his brother and himself together on more or less equal terms, and like I say as far as the engagement and move to Rome are concerned there were no signs of arm-twisting; quite the contrary. Scarus was needling him, sure, no argument, but for that to work you have to target a genuinely weak spot. No, me, I think it was a real threat disguised for my benefit as a put-down, and Publius recognised it as such. Which was why he left straight off without any comeback.’
Perilla sighed. ‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said, ‘but without some proof to back it up that is simply too far-fetched. Perhaps it was just a nasty reminder that he and the mother were on intimate terms. In any case, tell her what? Publius is a grown man, in fact now his father’s dead he’s officially head of the family and heir to most of the estate. If he’s no mummy’s boy, as you say, then why should he worry about his mother’s lover threatening to tell tales?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shrugged. ‘Maybe you’re right. Still, there was something going on beneath the surface, that I’d swear to.’
Perilla smeared the last vestiges of the honey onto the remainder of her roll. ‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘So. What are your plans for today?’
‘Yeah, well, I’m a bit stuck at present,’ I said. ‘There’s Medar, of course, he’s the biggie, but I’ll have to wait until Gratius finds him for me. Given that he ever does, because if the guy was responsible for Cestius’s death and has the sense of a newt he’ll’ve legged it out of the province and be staying away for as long as it takes. I still have to talk to the other brother, Quintus, but I’m not sure how to manage that. I was hoping you’d be able to help there.’
‘Me? How?’
‘Through your pal Cornelia, of course. You’ll be seeing her shortly?’
‘Yes. Later today, actually. But her relationship with Quintus Cestius is supposed to be a secret. I can’t just–’
‘You’ll find a way, Aristotle, I’m sure. Think about it. Meanwhile’ – I stood up – ‘I think I’ll go down to the harbour, see if I can have a word with what’s-his-name, the assistant to the slave-dealer who was found dead yesterday morning. Laenius Cycnus.’
‘Oh, Marcus! I told you, that is a sheer waste of time! It was a straightforward mugging and robbery, nothing out of the ordinary, Quirinius said, even if the man was killed in the process. It has nothing to do with you, or with the Cestius case. Can’t you think of anything more useful to do?’
I grinned. ‘Uh-uh. Unless you have any bright suggestions, lady, that’s all that’s currently on offer. And for all we know, it’s relevant in spades. I’ll see you later.’
There was only one wineshop that fitted Quirinius’s description; not a particularly salubrious one – although that’s pretty much standard for harbour area wineshops anywhere in the empire – but no doubt the fact that it was close to where Justus’s ship was moored made up for that. I pushed open the door and went in.
‘Morning, sir.’ The guy behind the bar was stacking wine jars. ‘What can I get you?’
‘I was looking for a Laenius Cycnus,’ I said. ‘He and his boss had a room here, I understand.’
‘Ah.’ His expression went serious. ‘The murder, right? Terrible business, that. You’d be from the authorities, yes?’
‘Yeah.’ Not strictly true, of course, but I didn’t think Quirinius would come down too hard on me for misrepresentation. Let alone sit-on-your-hands Sulpicius Galba. And it would simplify things in the long run. ‘He still here?’
‘He’s staying here, aye, until after the funeral. But if you’re looking for him this minute you’ll probably find him at his ship.’
‘And where’s that, do you know?’
‘Quay Six. That’s to your right as you go out the door, third quay along. The “Dolphin”.’
‘Thanks, pal.’ I half-turned to go, then changed my mind. ‘As you were, no hurry. I’ll have a cup of wine while I’m here.’ I glanced up at the board and went for a name at random. ‘Tubernucan?’
‘Tubernucan it is.’ He reached up a jar, and poured. I laid the necessary coins on the counter and took a sip...
Uh-huh. Maybe not Tubernucan in future, then, unless this was a particularly bad example, which given the place and the low price was eminently possible. Cat’s piss came to mind. And it must’ve been a pretty sick cat.
‘So what was he like, this Appius Justus?’ I asked, shifting the cup to one side where it couldn’t do any more harm.
‘In himself? Big man, well-built, late fifties. Heavy beard. Italian, from his accent.’ The barman hefted the jar back into its cradle. ‘Pretty rough-spoken, but polite enough. And he didn’t haggle over the price of the room, neither.’
Evidently, from the man’s satisfied tone, sufficient to raise Justus to the status of Ideal Tenant.
‘He a regular?’ I said.
‘Here in Carthage, you mean? I’d not seen him before myself, sir, but that don’t signify. It would’ve depended on where his ship was berthed, which quay, like. Plenty of other places to put up around here.’
Yeah, that was true, if you weren’t too fussy. Given that you wanted to stay close by the harbour renting a whole room above a wineshop would be one of the pricier options; there’d be a fair number of spare beds on offer in the private properties near the waterfront that you could get for a quarter of the price, if you didn’t mind the risk of sharing them with the local fleas.
‘So what happened, exactly?’ I said.
‘You mean the murder? Can’t tell you much about that, except that it was two nights ago. He and his mate had a bite to eat, then he goes out on his own. He can’t’ve got far, though, because old Prescius who lives in the alleyway just back of us found him on his doorstep the next morning with his throat cut and his purse missing.’
‘He didn’t say where he was going?’
‘Not to me, sir. Why should he? Your Cycnus’ll know, if anyone does. You’ll have to ask him.’
Yeah; that was about the sum of it. Well, there wasn’t much more I could do here.
‘Thanks, friend,’ I said, turning. ‘See you around.’
I found the ‘Dolphin’ where the wineshop owner had said she’d be, the middle ship of three moored to the quay. There was no one around, but a gangplank linked the ship itself to the quayside and I stepped aboard.
I’d never been on a slave-ship before. No difference to the usual small merchantman, mind – single-masted, with a raised part-deck at the stern with the steering-oar and everything else open for cargo – except that there was a rail running the whole length of each side of the boat inside the curve of the hull, with short chains and manacles attached. It smelled, too, of old urine and faeces; not strongly, but you could tell the stink had become a part of the woodwork. Nasty. Oh, sure, slavery’s a fact of life: the world couldn’t get along without it, and society would grind to a halt. But that doesn’t mean you have to like being brought face to face with the sordid realities.
Hell. Well, I could either hang around to twiddle my thumbs here or go elsewhere, maybe find a more upmarket wineshop, and try again later.
The smell and the general ambience didn’t make the choice too difficult. I was re-crossing the gangplank when there was a shout from further along the quay. I looked over to see a guy in a freedman’s cap hurrying towards me.
‘You looking for me, sir?’ he said. Late middle-aged, small and scrawny, with – like a lot of sailors, shaving at sea being the problem it was – a substantial beard. ‘Laenius Cycnus?’
‘Yeah, as it happens,’ I said. ‘Valerius Corvinus. Sextus Quirinius, the governor’s aide, asked me to look you up.’ Another white lie, of course, but what the hell. ‘You got a minute to tell me about things?’
‘Sure. Come aboard.’
‘Uh...perhaps not,’ I said. ‘Maybe we could go back to the wineshop where you’re staying? It’s not all that far, and we can talk in comfort.’ Relative comfort. And it wouldn’t include another cup of bloody Tubernucan, either.
‘Suits me.’
We walked back.
‘You’re travelling empty?’ I said.
‘Yeah. We sold our last cargo in Syracuse, before we made the crossing. The plan was – still is, for that matter, even with poor Titus gone – to head west along the coast, see what we could pick up along the way.’
‘That your usual route?’
‘Nah, first time south of Sicily. We usually work the Sicilian east coast, then up through the straits to Italy as far as Ostia, picking up cargo as we go. Maybe selling a few en route if we’re overstocked and the prices are good. Mostly buying in that direction, though: it’s a poor area, and a buyer’s market.’ He must’ve noticed the expression on my face. ‘Look, someone’s got to do it, right? Most of the time we’re doing the merchandise a favour. The rate those country buggers breed more than half of the youngsters we get would’ve starved to death or died of disease before they hit their teens, and those’d be the lucky ones. The rest are old by thirty if they make it that far, worked out. At least this way they’ve the chance of a half-decent future.’
‘Very altruistic.’ I wasn’t being fair, I knew that; like I say, slavery is one of life’s unalterable facts, and I couldn’t get by without the bought help myself. Besides, from the cap he was wearing chances were he’d been that route personally, and he hadn’t done too badly in the end. There’s a lot to be said on both sides.
‘We treat them better than most, while we’ve got them, sir,’ he said carefully. ‘Most traders do, the reputable ones at least. After all, like I say, they’re merchandise. At the end of the day it’s in our own best interests.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry; I apologise.’
‘That’s okay, I’m used to it; slave trading’s not what you’d call a cosy profession. No bones broken.’
We’d got to the wineshop, and I led the way in.
‘Ah, you found him,’ the barman said.
‘Yeah.’ I turned to Cycnus. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘A cup of the usual would be welcome.’
The barman grunted and hefted a flask. ‘You, sir? Same as before, the Tubernucan?’
‘No, I think I’ll pass this time round. It’s a bit early in the day for me.’ Simple rule: never, ever tell a wineshop owner that his wines are crap. It doesn’t do a lot for customer relations, and some of them can get seriously miffed. I put the coins down on the counter. ‘Over there in the corner be fine?’
‘Perfect.’ Cycnus picked up his cup and took it to the corner table. We sat.
‘Now,’ I said. ‘Tell me.’
Cycnus swallowed a mouthful of his wine, whatever it was, and smacked his lips. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘There’s not much to tell. We’d been here for two or three days and we were getting ready to move along the coast. Titus said he’d got something to do in town, and not to wait up for him. He went out and that was the last I saw of him alive.’
‘He say what the something was?’
‘Someone he needed to see.’
My interest sharpened. ‘He give you any indication of who that might be? Or why he needed to see them?’
He shook his head. ‘No. None at all. Not even if it was a man or a woman. Tell you the truth, he’d been pretty cagey ever since we’d got here, going off on his own without a word of explanation before or after.’
‘That was normal behaviour for him?’
Another shake of the head; a definite one. ‘Uh-uh. Twelve years we’ve been partners, Corvinus, he was like my brother, and he’d never acted like that before. Never. It didn’t start just recently, either. He hadn’t been himself the whole way down from Ostia.’
‘What was his mood like?’
‘Come again?’
‘He seem more cheerful than usual? More worried?’
‘Not worried, definitely not that. Cheerful...no, that’s not quite it either, although it’s close.’ Cycnus frowned, thinking. ‘Satisfied. Or maybe smug’s better. Smug about sums it up.’
‘“Smug”?’ Odd word to choose. ‘About what?’
A shrug. ‘No idea. But it was like he’d heard something that showed he’d finally been proved right all along, or that something bad had happened to an old enemy of his. Something deservedly bad, if you get my meaning.’
‘Yeah. More or less.’ Interesting.
‘Well, that’s good, because I’m buggered if I do.’ He swallowed some more of his wine. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t signify, does it? Wherever he was going he got himself robbed and killed on the way there, poor devil, and that’s an end to it.’
Uh-huh. Maybe, but I wouldn’t be taking any bets. My gut feeling told me that this hadn’t been a wasted trip in the slightest. Quite the reverse. ‘So when did you start out from Ostia?’ I said.
‘About a month ago. Middle of August or thereabouts.’
Right. And Cestius had been killed, what, a month before that. Plenty of time, in other words. The news of his death hadn’t reached Lepida – and so Claudius – until a bit later, mind, but that was down to sheer couldn’t-care-lessedness on Verania’s part; the sailing fraternity, being frequent and long-distance travellers by profession, have their own grapevine, and news items, especially the lurid sort such as the murder of an ex-praetor, can travel pretty fast via quayside wineshop gossip. There was no reason, none at all, why Appius Justus couldn’t’ve heard about Cestius’s death before he set out.
Why the hell it should matter to him, mind, was another thing entirely. If it did. And even given that, why should he take the trouble to come all the way to Carthage on the strength of it? Because six got you ten that, whatever his reasons for making it were, the change to his usual trading route had been no coincidence.
To see someone, of course; that was obvious. The questions of who and why, now, those were the real buggers to answer. Yet another little mystery to be solved.
‘You’ll be on your way soon, then?’ I said.
‘Yeah. Nothing to keep me and the lads – we’ve a crew of three – in Carthage. I’ve arranged the funeral for tomorrow, and if the wind’s right we’ll be off the day after.’
‘You mind if I come? To the funeral, I mean.’
He looked at me in surprise. ‘Not at all; glad to have you. There’ll just be us and the undertakers’ men. The ceremony’s set for the third hour.’ Half way through the morning, in other words. ‘The cemetery’s on the Utica road, I understand.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll see you there, then.’
I left.
13.
So where to now? It was still an hour shy of noon, far too early to be heading back, and besides Perilla had said she was meeting Cornelia, so she wouldn’t be home. Maybe it was time to check out Scarus’s alibi, for all the good it would do: it was plausible, and he’d been far too cocky for it to have been an outright lie. Still, I might as well go through the motions.
The gladiator school, I knew, was on the far side of town, near the amphitheatre. No great distance, but then nothing was in Carthage, if you kept within the city boundaries. Either I was getting used to the heat, or it was a kinder day, with a fresh wind blowing off the sea; in any case, I quite enjoyed the walk, and off the main drag in comparison with Rome that time in the forenoon the streets were practically empty. I bought a sesame bread ring from a guy with a couple of dozen of them on a stick and chewed on it as I went along.
I found the amphitheatre first, and took a look inside just out of interest. Definitely provincial quality: pretty small, certainly in comparison with the ones back home, and hardly more than a developed natural depression in the ground separated off from whatever was going on by a high wall and ringed with a bank of wooden benches, with more upmarket stone seats for the local dignitaries. There was no one around. Well, at least today wasn’t a fight day, however often they had those here, so I could be pretty sure of getting someone at the school to talk to.
It was a hundred yards further up the road I was on, right on the edge of town: a major complex behind a high wall with a single gate. There didn’t seem to be anyone on duty outside, and the gate wasn’t barred, so I pushed it open and went in.
Those places are pretty much standard: a block of buildings housing the men’s sleeping cubbies – you can hardly call them ‘bedrooms’ –, a communal dining hall and kitchen, equipment stores, latrine and so on, and a large practice yard. Plus, most schools have basic hospital facilities with a doctor, usually an ex-army man, on the permanent staff: injuries, wounds in particular, are common for obvious reasons, and like Cycnus had said it makes sense to keep your stock in prime condition. Find yourself in need of a surgeon and you’re miles better off in a gladiatorial school than you would be anywhere else, barring a legionary base.
The comparison holds good in other ways, too. Like an army camp, a school is a self-contained unit, with the all-male inmates living together every minute of every day, sunrise to sunrise. Oh, sure, there’re exceptions. If the real stars, guys like Scarus, want to jump the wall and do a bit of tomcatting or whatever then a blind eye is most definitely turned; but in general discipline is as strict as it would be in a legion, the one important difference being that when it comes to fighting your best mate might be the bastard doing his best to kill you. Me, I’d think living with guys you knew one day might put a sword through your gut just to entertain the crowd, or you might have to do it to them, would be pretty stressful; but professional sword-fighters seem to take it in their stride.
