Going Back, page 13
part #20 of Marcus Corvinus Series
‘Fine. Very conscientious of you. So what’s the story now?’
He pulled up a stem of grass and put it between his teeth. ‘I was there, right enough. At the school, in my cubby, like I told Pettius I would be, from mid-morning to late afternoon. But I wasn’t alone, and I wasn’t exactly resting.’
‘Uh-huh. So no strained shoulder-muscle, then?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. Now that was a lie, if you like, pure and simple. I’d made a prior arrangement, you see.’
‘To meet Verania.’
‘You’ve got it. “Meet” isn’t the right verb, but we’ll stick with it. The lady gets off “meeting” in an all-male environment, the seedier the better. Something about the smell of the place, I think. She doesn’t have the chance to do it very often, naturally enough, and that day was perfect: no one around or likely to be, everyone busy in the exercise yard. We were there “meeting” for the whole of the time. At least, up to the middle of the afternoon; I’m not that good.’
‘You, uh, can’t produce any witnesses, then.’
He laughed. ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t. Understandably so. You could ask the lady herself to confirm, of course, but if you were to try that you’d be a braver man than I am.’ He stood up and threw away the chewed grass stem. ‘Well, that’s all I wanted to say to you. Enjoy the rest of your day.’
He turned to leave.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘So what about three evenings past. You got a story for that as well?’
He turned back slowly. ‘What?’
‘The guy who’s just been burned was mugged and killed three nights back, at the docks. Robbed, too, but I reckon that was a blind.’
He stared at me. ‘Corvinus, you are out of your fucking skull! Why the hell would I kill someone I’ve never met? I don’t even know the man’s name.’
‘Justus. Titus Appius Justus. He was a slave-trader.’
‘Fine. Whatever. The question still stands.’
‘Because Verania told you to. Why I’m not exactly sure yet, although I have my theories. But I’ll find out in time, and when I do you, sunshine, are in serious schtook. The lady as well.’
He shook his head, smiling. ‘You’re fantasising. I haven’t been near the docks for months. And I haven’t killed anyone recently either. Except in the line of duty, of course. I’ll see you around. Have a nice day.’
He walked off in the direction of town, and I watched him go. Yeah, well, I was glad I’d rattled the bastard’s cage, anyway. And when it got back to Verania, as no doubt it would, pretty damn quickly, it might give his girlfriend something to think about, too.
Spadix turned up ten minutes later on his mule, leading my half of the transport arrangements behind him.
‘Valerius Corvinus, sir,’ he mumbled, not quite meeting my eye. Obviously still nervous about being shopped for liberating the master’s penknife.
‘That’s me, sunshine,’ I said, mounting up. ‘Let’s go. Is it far?’
‘Coupla miles. But the camp’s off the road, down a track, like.’
‘Uh-huh.’ We rode for a while in silence. Then I said: ‘Your kitchen friend. Or rather your mate’s one. What was she called again?’
‘Eulalia.’
Chatty in Greek; or close enough, anyway. I hoped she lived up to her name. ‘You think I could meet her?’
He shot me a sideways glance, and I grinned to myself. Meet. Right; unfortunate timing. ‘Just to talk. I need a bit of information pretty badly.’
‘What sort of information?’
‘Sorry, pal, that’s classified.’ His brow creased. ‘Means I can’t tell you.’
‘Fair enough.’ Thank the gods for someone with total curiosity burn-out. ‘Sure, no problem. Arranging it might be tricky, though.’
‘I’m in your hands, Spadix.’ Another frown; keep off the metaphorical language, Corvinus! ‘Ah...you tell me the where and when and I’ll be there.’
Another conversationless stretch of riding, lasting a good five minutes; I could almost hear his brain grinding away at the problem. Finally he said:
‘Early afternoon’d be best. The cook, he gets his head down then for a coupla hours before he starts on dinner, an’ there isn’t much doing. You know the setup, sir? Of the house, I mean.’
‘Uh-uh. Not in detail. I’ve only been there once, and it’s a big place.’
‘Okay. Kitchen garden’s behind the wall at the corner. First corner you come to along the road from town. There’s a gate in it. You with me?’
‘More or less. I will be, when I see it.’
‘That’ll be open. That stretch of garden’s my patch, me an’ Simo’s plus another coupla mates. No one else around, ever, an’ I can square them, no problem. There’s a shed there that Simo an’ Eulalia use for...well...’ He stopped and shot me another sideways glance.
‘Where they meet. Right. Got you.’
‘She’ll see you there. I need time to arrange it, mind. Day after tomorrow suit?’
‘Yeah. The day after tomorrow’s fine. Early afternoon, yes?’
‘Seventh hour’s best.’
‘Two days’ time, seventh hour, in the shed. We have a deal.’
‘She won’t get into no trouble over this, will she?’
‘No, I guarantee it. And she’ll come out well ahead of the bargain, that’s a promise.’
‘Okay.’
Let’s see if we couldn’t get a bit of corroborative evidence here. If only for my own satisfaction.
Medar’s camp was a ramshackle collection of sailcloth tents, washing hanging from lines stretched between the poles, and a few smouldering cook-fires. There were a fair number of people around, women and kids, mostly, the women sitting in small groups chatting to friends while they got on with the day’s chores. Conversation gradually died away as eyes and faces were turned in our direction.
Not that I could see much of the latter, mind; we might only be a couple of miles from town, but we’d shifted cultures with a vengeance. Greek women in general, and some of ours, especially upper-class ladies, wear veils when they’re out in the streets, sure, but the things are pretty much light-weight and semi-transparent. Those veils were neither; they were designed to cover and hide. The chunky gold bangles and earrings that most of the women were wearing had an exotic look to them, too, and the eyes that watched us with more suspicion than interest were heavily outlined in black.
There was a knot of men lounging by the tent to my right. As I dismounted, one of them got up and ambled over.
Forget the interest; the look he gave us was pure suspicion.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Is Medar around, by any chance?’
‘Wait here.’
That was all; not exactly a cheerful welcome full of good fellowship and bonhomie, but then under the circumstances I hadn’t been expecting one. I waited, while he ambled off again and disappeared into another of the tents. It was a good couple of minutes before he reappeared with a much older man.
Medar must’ve been a big, powerful man in his day, and even in late middle age he looked as though he could lift me off my feet with one hand and crack walnuts with the other. He’d clearly been pickled in Egyptian natron then left out in the sun for a lifetime to dry out, and his belter of a nose could’ve been modelled on the business end of a trireme.
The pattern of old scars on his cheeks – regular and identical on both sides, so probably made deliberately – and the hard, piercing black eyes that had been fixed on me all the way over from the tent didn’t qualify him for Least Villainous-Looking Suspect in the Case prize, either.
‘Yes?’ he said.
Obviously no great wordsmiths, these itinerant harvesters. ‘The name’s Valerius Corvinus,’ I said. ‘I’m looking into the murder of Decimus Cestius.’
He grunted. ‘Are you, indeed?’
‘I’m told you had a’ – I hesitated – ‘a cause for disliking him. I thought I’d better hear your side of the story.’
‘“Disliking”? The man killed my son. Let’s be clear from the start, I hated his guts. But I assume, since you’re here, that you’ve been told that already.’
‘Yeah, I have,’ I said. ‘Still, like I say, I haven’t heard your version of things yet. You want to give me it, or should I just fuck off?’
That got me a straight, searching look. Then he grunted again, clapped me twice on the shoulder and turned.
‘We’ll go somewhere more private,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’
We were walking towards the tent he’d come out of. When he passed a small group of women he said something to one in a language I didn’t recognise. She stood up and moved off.
‘I told her to bring us wine,’ he said. ‘You won’t mind that?’
‘Uh-uh,’ I said. ‘Not at all.’ What with the walk to the cemetery and the two-mile horse ride I could’ve murdered half a jug.
‘Good.’ He held open the tent flap. ‘Go in. Make yourself comfortable. It means sitting on the floor, I’m afraid, but there are plenty of cushions.’
Interesting. Forget the monosyllabic knucklehead, this guy sounded educated. Certainly more at home with words than I’d’ve expected an itinerant harvester from out in the sticks to be. I ducked my head and went inside. It was pretty spartan, no furniture, none at all, except for a chest that I assumed held clothes and personal possessions. Cushions, like he’d said, with the covers in bright geometric patterns. The same went for the carpet that covered most of the beaten earth that the tent was pitched on.
I sat, as best I could. Medar settled opposite me.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Maybe it’d be best if you just took me through it. The incident of your son, I mean.’
‘Mm.’ He frowned. ‘Adon, his name was. You know it? Adonis, it comes out in Latin.’ Ah. Right. ‘He was well-named, a lovely boy. Eighteen when he died.’
‘So what happened? What had he done?’
‘Nothing. That’s just it; he had done absolutely nothing. That day – it was two years ago, at the start of the grain harvest – I had a message from this man Cestius, wanting to talk to me about hiring my people to bring in some of his crops. I’d some other business elsewhere at the time he gave me, so I sent Adon instead. When–’
He stopped; the tent-flap had opened and the woman had come in carrying a tray with a jug and two cups. She set them down, Medar gave her a brief nod of acknowledgement, and she went out again. He poured and handed me a cup. I sipped...
Good bloody Jupiter and all the gods in heaven!
Medar was watching me, a half-smile on his lips. I hesitated, then deliberately took a proper mouthful and swallowed.
Date wine; this just had to be date wine. Even the Tubernucan I’d tasted in the harbour wineshop hadn’t been this bad, not even close. And Quirinius had been right: German beer had it beaten hands down.
‘You like it?’ he said.
‘It’s...different.’ Sweet and holy gods!
He laughed and took the cup from me. ‘Fair enough, Corvinus. You’ve shown that you have good manners for a Roman, and I won’t push you too far. Well done. I told Maryam to wait a few minutes and then bring us some proper stuff. Now. Where was I?’
‘You sent your son to a meeting with Cestius.’
‘Yes.’ The laughter disappeared from his face. ‘That, I’ve regretted ever since. If I hadn’t, if I’d gone as Cestius asked, he might still be alive. I might be dead myself, mind, but that’s the natural order of things, that fathers die before their sons. So. When Adon got there, Cestius was in his study. He’d evidently just closed his strongbox, because when the slave showed Adon in he was on the point of removing the key from the lock. There was a small book cubby beside the box. He took out one of the book-rolls, put the key in its far end, and replaced it. Then he turned back to Adon.’ I frowned and opened my mouth to speak, but he held up a hand. ‘Wait, please. I’m telling you what happened, exactly as Adon told it to me later.’
Uh-huh; I knew what was coming, that much was obvious. What wasn’t obvious, a long way from it, in fact, was what in hell Cestius had been playing at, and why.
‘The meeting lasted barely five minutes, just a request to be in such and such a place on such and such a day, at the usual rates. Cestius could just as easily have made that his original message. Adon left. The next day men came from the big house. They searched Adon’s tent, found three gold pieces, and took Adon away.’
‘He was charged with robbing Cestius’s strongbox,’ I said.
Medar nodded. ‘According to Cestius, he’d been seen outside the villa late that evening. The claim was that he’d broken in during the night, used the key to open the box, and taken what money there was inside. Not that there was much, no more than a few hundred sesterces’ worth; Cestius, it seemed, had had a number of expenses in the days previous to the robbery, and hadn’t brought his store of ready money up to its usual level yet. There isn’t much more to tell. Adon was put on trial, with Cestius himself on the bench, found guilty and sentenced to be flogged. He must’ve had some sort of weakness inside, because half way through the punishment he collapsed and died.’ He paused. ‘There. You know now as much as I do about the matter.’
Shit; there were so many holes in that story you could’ve used it as a colander. If Medar was telling the truth – and my gut feeling told me that he was – then what the fuck had been going on? Because it was clear that something had been.
The woman Maryam came back in with another jug and two fresh cups. I caught a brief glimpse of two very speculative black-rimmed eyes as she set them down on the tray, and then she was gone.
‘My daughter,’ Medar said, pouring. ‘Or one of them.’
‘You have other sons?’ I said.
‘Three. All older than Adon. But he was my favourite, the best of them.’ He shrugged. ‘The Lady gives, and the Lady takes away. It’s fate; what can you do?’
He handed me a cup, and I drank. Not the best wine in the world, not even close, but at least it had been made from honest grapes. ‘You’re telling me it was a stitch-up,’ I said. ‘Your son was framed.’
‘I’m telling you nothing, except the facts. Make of them what you like.’
‘So why? Why should Cestius do it? Why would he bother?’
‘That I don’t know. I genuinely have no idea, none at all. But yes, the whole thing was a deliberate invention on Cestius’s part, from start to finish. You understand now why I hated him. Still hate him.’
Not a question; a statement. And yes, I understood perfectly well. Even so, I had my job to do.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Let’s talk about two months ago. The day he was killed. You were in the neighbourhood at the time. Or am I wrong?’
‘We were working about a quarter of a mile from where he was found, yes.’
‘You know he was there, at all?’
‘Of course. He’d ridden over to check up on us that morning, the way he often did.’
‘And that was the last time you saw him?’
‘That’s right. We finished off for the day at sunset and went back to camp.’
‘Which was where?’
‘Practically next door to where we were. You’ve seen how we manage things; it makes sense to set the camp up as close as possible to wherever we’re working. That means we can use the whole day to get whatever it is done without having to travel.’
‘And you were with your harvesting gang the whole time?’
Medar smiled. ‘Corvinus, I could tell you that and they’d back me to the hilt, even if no one had seen me at all from sunrise to sunset. They’re family, all of them. Family sticks together, it’s all we’ve got.’ He paused. ‘Your answer is yes. Of course it is.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Well, if he was lying at least he was being open in acknowledging the possibility. Which, I supposed, was the best way of getting the lie believed. Certainly I hadn’t a hope in hell of proving otherwise. ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose you or any of your people saw anything amiss that day?’
‘You mean, did we see anyone out here who might’ve been the killer?’
‘Yeah, that’s more or less it.’
‘You think I – or any of us – would give him away if we had?’ He smiled again. ‘Or her, of course. I assume you’re keeping an open mind on that score.’
‘You might.’
‘We wouldn’t.’ That came out flat, and he wasn’t smiling now. ‘I told you; family. Adon was one of us, and Cestius murdered him. If they knew the identity of that man’s killer every man, woman and child in this camp would be proud to shake his hand. Swear later by Ta’anit, Ba’al and every god in your pantheon that they’d never laid eyes on him into the bargain. Her. What you like.’
‘You’re not being very helpful,’ I said mildly.
‘I’ve no intention of being helpful. What I am doing is giving you truth. If that’s not enough for you I’m sorry, but it’s the best I can do.’
‘Okay. Leave it there.’ I took another swallow of the wine. ‘Incidentally, I understand you know young Cornelia Alba.’
‘Yes, very well. I’ve known her all her life, in fact. Have you a reason for asking?’
‘No. I’m just curious.’
‘Really? And why should that be?’
‘Well, not to put too fine a point on it, you’re not exactly in the same social bracket, are you? And you’re not part of the Cornelius household, which would be another reasonable explanation. In fact, as far as I can see the only other one. So, yes, I’m curious.’
‘Her father was a close friend of mine. We’d been friends for years, since before she was born.’
‘The same argument holds good. Or does answering the question constitute being helpful?’
He hesitated. ‘You never knew Cornelius Albus, did you?’
‘No. Of course I didn’t.’
‘His family has lived hereabouts for generations. Oh, they were pure Roman, in fact a cadet branch of your top-ranking Cornelii, but they arrived not long after Carthage was destroyed and settled in Utica, which had always taken the Roman side. They’ve had close ties with the province ever since.’
