Going Back, page 19
part #20 of Marcus Corvinus Series
‘No, the tenth hour will be perfect.’
‘We’ll see you later, then.’
I had an even more skimpy breakfast than usual very early next morning before setting out for the stud farm where his sister had said Marcus Virrius – aka Marcus Mandonius – hung out. Good choice of time: away from the coast, the area around Utica was even hotter than inland of Carthage. It was a lot less intensively cultivated, too, and once I’d got past the stretch of tombs beyond the city gate the road was bordered with a succession of farms and vineyards: prosperous enough, from the looks of things, but clearly the property of ordinary farmers rather than big landowners. Plus of course the ubiquitous palm trees.
Euthias had said the place was a mile from town, adjacent to the road, and he was bang on: a pair of fields with half a dozen horses grazing, and a low-slung building with a yard and stables to the side at the end of a short cart-track. I rode up to them and dismounted.
A youngish guy, late twenties early thirties, was standing in the yard talking to an elderly slave. He looked up as I came over. I noticed the resemblance at once: same features as the sister, but in a masculine face. You could see he’d have no problems with women. Not of any type.
‘Marcus Virrius?’ I said.
To give the guy his due, he barely even blinked. He turned to the slave, spoke a few words to him, and then, as the man nodded and walked away, turned back to me.
‘Some mistake here, friend,’ he said. ‘The Marcus is right enough, but the family name’s Mandonius.’
‘Uh-huh.’ I waited until we were properly alone. ‘Your sister told me to give you her love.’
He stood absolutely still for a moment, just watching me. Then he shrugged.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk inside.’
He led the way towards the house, opened the door and then stood aside for me to pass. I’d been expecting a pit, but although the place was pretty basic – a living room with a door at the back leading, presumably, to an inner bedroom – it was clean and tidy. There was even a vase of fresh flowers on the table.
He came in after me and shut the door behind him, just as the room’s other door opened and a girl’s face looked out. Rather more of her than her face, actually, and with just as much, or as little, covering. Virrius jerked a thumb at her and she ducked back inside, closing the door behind her.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Sit down and tell me who you are and why the hell you’re here.’
I pulled up a stool while he perched on the edge of the table.
‘The name’s Valerius Corvinus,’ I said. ‘The emperor sent me from Rome to look into a murder a couple of months ago in Carthage. Of an ex-praetor by the name of Decimus Cestius. You knew him?’
‘Yeah. I did, as it happens.’ Not so much as the bat of an eyelid: I continued to be impressed. ‘Total bastard. But if you think I killed him you’re completely wrong. I haven’t been anywhere near Carthage since I left the place two years ago.’
‘Yeah, I know. That’s not why I’m here.’
‘So?’
‘I wanted to ask you about Cornelia Alba.’
He grinned. ‘Really? And you’ve come all this way to do it?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Then you’ve had a wasted journey, pal. I had the girl, I was found out, and I ran before the trial. That’s why I’m here.’ He stood up. ‘And that is all there is. So off you pop, I’ve got work to do. Give my love to Virria.’
I didn’t move. ‘No. You didn’t,’ I said.
He looked blank. ‘Didn’t what?’
‘Have the girl.’
He was staring at me, hard. ‘What the hell do you mean? Of course I did, I’m sodding telling you! You talked to Virria, and she confirmed it, right?’
‘She said you’d admitted it to her, yes.’
‘And Cornelia Alba herself. She say any different?’
‘No.’
He threw up his arms. ‘Then what the fuck is your problem? You think I’d admit to something I didn’t do?’
‘Yeah. That’s exactly what I think.’
I hadn’t raised my voice, and I hadn’t moved. He gave me another long stare, pulled up a stool and sat on it.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m listening. Let’s have the explanation.’
‘You were a friend of Cestius’s son Publius, yes?’
‘“Friend” is putting it too strong. We knew each other, sure.’
‘Fair enough. Different term. You were gambling mates.’
‘We had the occasional game of dice together over a jug of wine, along with two or three other guys, yes.’ For the first time, he was beginning to look uneasy. ‘So what?’
‘Only Publius wasn’t all that good at it, was he? Gambling. Not as good as you, at least. Maybe it was lack of skill, maybe it was bad luck, maybe it was something else, but–’
‘I never cheated,’ he said sharply. ‘That’s something I don’t do.’
‘Fine. Anyway, the upshot was young Publius ended up owing you a fair amount of money. Much more than he could pay, and he was already on his last warning from his father.’ I waited, but he didn’t speak. ‘So under the threat of turning the whole boiling over to Cestius Senior you persuaded him to get the money another way. He “borrowed” the key to his father’s strongbox, at least long enough to take an impression and have a copy made, took out the cash he needed, and gave it to you. How am I doing so far?’
‘Go on.’ He leaned his back against the edge of the table and folded his arms.
‘The thing was, the guy had just got himself into another spot of trouble, an even worse one. I don’t know the exact circumstances, and they don’t really matter, but he’d just raped, or at least seriously interfered with, young Cornelia Alba. Cornelia had told her father, and Albus had gone hot-foot to Cestius, demanding that he put matters right by arranging a wedding or else. Cestius couldn’t have that: he might not have had the Vettius family in his sights quite yet, but he wanted more for his boy than marriage to the daughter of a no-account provincial. He gets Publius into his study and faces him with the rape claim. Publius admits it, and Cestius Senior hits the roof.
‘Okay. Now we get to the bit I’m not altogether sure of. Obviously, Cestius already knows about the missing money, but Cestius is no fool: he also knows his son, and as a result he’s put two and two together to make the correct four. Or maybe Publius, to save his own skin, comes up with the idea himself and makes a clean breast of things. I don’t know which, if either, is right, but again the details don’t matter. What does matter is that father and son between them cook up a plan whereby you’ll take responsibility for the rape in exchange for being let off the hook where your part in the robbery is concerned. Plus, no doubt, notch up a whacking great extra payment to compensate you for your trouble, because when you do your pre-arranged runner you’re going to need a substantial sum to set yourself up elsewhere.’ I paused. ‘How am I doing now?’
He was still sitting back with his arms folded, but now he was smiling gently. ‘Not bad, I’ll admit that,’ he said. ‘No point in pretending otherwise, seeing you’ve got this far. Not a perfect account of what happened, but you’ve got the gist, at least.’ He shifted slightly. ‘You still haven’t explained the Cornelia side of things, mind. Why should she go along with the scam? Let alone her father?’
‘Because when it comes to the crunch Albus is a spineless weakling. Or maybe that’s not quite a fair assessment, under the circumstances, given Cestius’s character and position, but never mind, we’ll let it stand. Once he and Publius have hatched their plan together Cestius goes round to Albus’s house and threatens him with all sorts of consequences unless he confirms the story. Albus, in his own eyes, at least, has no choice: the guy’s a real power in Carthage, and more important where his interests are concerned he’s completely ruthless. Either he caves in, and takes his daughter with him, or Cestius, one way or another, will squash him like a beetle. Cornelia agrees to co-operate, but that finishes her where her father’s concerned, and the two of them are like strangers for the rest of the guy’s lifetime. What’s the verdict? Still on track?’
‘More or less.’
‘Fine. I’ll settle for that. Anyway, there isn’t much more, not where you’re concerned, at least. You’ve come out of it pretty well; after all, your own father’s already disinherited you and thrown you out of the house, so if you stay in Carthage your future prospects – and your connections with it and with your family, barring your sister – are zilch in any case. What is there for you to lose? You take the money and bugger off here, changing your name in the process. End of story, happy ever after. Of course, there was a kid named Adon, that Cestius set up to take the rap you should’ve been facing and who died as a result, but what the hell? Unavoidable collateral damage. He wasn’t even a citizen.’
He frowned. ‘Yeah. That I did know about, at least well after it happened, and I’m sorry for it. Corvinus, I swear to you I’d absolutely nothing to do with that side of things. The original plan – the one I was told about and agreed to, anyway – was that the whole business of the stolen money would just be forgotten. Going ahead with a fake burglary angle must’ve been Cestius’s own idea. Believe me, he was not a nice man.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said, and I meant it. Framing Medar’s son Adon had been an act of pure, gratuitous brutality, and if it hadn’t been my job to catch Cestius’s killer, like Medar I’d’ve much preferred to shake the guy by the hand. ‘The rest of it’s true, though, isn’t it?’
‘Mostly, yes; like I said, you’ve got the gist, anyway. You were wrong about the key, though; Publius couldn’t’ve got his father’s original, the old man kept it on him all the time. But he knew where he kept the spare. That was the one he used.’
‘Uh-huh. It wasn’t hidden inside one of the book rolls, was it? Just out of interest.’
Virrius shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. It could’ve been, for all I know; that was Publius’s concern, and I never saw it. Does it matter?’
‘No.’ I’d bet that it hadn’t been – that part had been arranged purely for the purpose of incriminating Adon – but like I said the precise details of the scam weren’t important. ‘Was there anything else?’
‘No, not really. You’ve done pretty well, all told, better than I’ve given you credit for.’ His lips twisted. ‘The bulk of the money’s long gone, one way or another; setting things up here was expensive to begin with, and I’m not a very successful gambler myself. Still, I can’t complain; I’ve always liked horses, I get by, more or less, on what I make out of the farm, and Utica’s not a bad place to live. Plus’ – he glanced at the closed bedroom door – ‘there are other compensations. So what happens now?’
‘Meaning, am I going to split on you?’ I stood up. ‘No, you’re safe enough, from me at least. However, there is a very smart cookie back in Carthage by the name of Sextus Quirinius who might work things out off his own bat.’
He looked relieved. ‘I’ll take that risk,’ he said. ‘I’ve too much going for me here just to cut and run again, and I couldn’t afford to do it in any case.’ He held out his hand. ‘Good luck with the investigation.’
I hesitated, then took it. Despite the verdict of the Great and Good in Carthage – specifically, Lautia and his father – Marcus Virrius wasn’t a bad lad at heart, and maybe he’d settled down a bit these last two years.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘You want to buy a horse, by the way? I can cut you a good deal.’
I grinned. ‘Nah, I’ll pass this time round.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Well, that was that, then. Another box ticked. I collected my horse and rode back to Utica.
21.
We got back to Carthage six days later, to find Quirinius on the quayside with the complimentary carriage and mule-cart.
‘Welcome home, Corvinus.’ he said, when we’d disembarked. ‘How was your trip? Successful, I hope.’
‘Yeah, you could say that. Informative, certainly.’
‘That’s good.’ He turned away and made a sign to the lads waiting to unload our luggage from ship to cart. ‘You managed to talk with Marcus Virrius, then?’
‘Who?’
‘Come on! I’m not stupid!’
‘I never thought you were, pal.’ I hesitated. ‘Do me a big favour?’
‘Of course.’
‘The trip never happened. Forget Utica, forget Virrius. He’s past history, and trust me he isn’t as bad as he’s painted.’
That got me a straight look. Then he shrugged. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I told you before you left; where this business is concerned, you’re the boss, you don’t have to explain anything you don’t want to. Duly forgotten. I wouldn’t mind knowing why, though. Just for my own satisfaction.’
‘Maybe later. Before I leave for Rome. In fact, it might not be all that bad an idea for someone here to know the whole story.’
‘Bargain.’ He paused. ‘Incidentally, there’s been a development.’
‘Yeah? And what’s that?’
‘Another death. Cluvius Scarus.’
‘What?’ I stared at him. Perilla, on the point of getting into the carriage, stopped and stared too. ‘When was this?’
‘Four days ago. The skivvy who cleans out the cubbies found him in his bunk. He must’ve died in the course of the night.’
Holy immortal gods! ‘How did it happen?’
‘The school’s doctor in residence says poison. But you can talk to him yourself.’
Too right I would, first thing in the morning! Shit! ‘That all you know?’ I said.
He grinned. ‘That’s all I wanted to know. I’ve got enough to do already, and investigating suspicious deaths isn’t my concern. Not when I’ve got someone else to do it for me. Besides, I thought if the man’s death had any significance for you you’d want a clear field to ask your own questions. And because you’d said you wouldn’t be away for all that long, I thought...well, frankly, I thought, bugger that, it can wait.’
‘Very commendable.’
‘Yes, I thought so.’ He stepped aside to let me board the carriage after Perilla. ‘Anything I can help with, of course, just let me know.’
‘Will do. Thanks, Quirinius.’
We set off for home.
‘You think it was Verania who killed him, Marcus?’ Perilla said.
‘Sure it was. Had to be.’ I sat back against the cushions; I felt drained. ‘Who else would have a motive? Let alone an opportunity. And poison...well, if you’re a middle-aged woman and you want a professional swordfighter dead you’re not going to risk trying to put a knife between his ribs, are you? Poison for Verania would be the sodding perfect weapon. Fuck! Double fuck!’
‘Gently, dear.’
‘The hell with that. This puts the mockers on everything. I might’ve been able to put pressure on Scarus re Appius Justus’s murder in the hope that he’d crack, but I haven’t a hope where Verania’s concerned. Which, naturally, is why the bastard’s dead. Damage limitation, make sure he doesn’t talk by shutting his mouth permanently. With both Justus and Scarus gone, presuming Scarus was the perp there, which I am, there’s absolutely no way of proving that Publius isn’t Cestius’s son. Which means he’ll get his inheritance, his consular-family wife, the whole boiling, and there isn’t a single thing I can do about it.’
‘It’ll all work out in the end. Just be patient.’
‘Come on, lady! If that bitch and her elder son did plan Cestius’s murder, which is looking likelier by the minute, then we’ve just lost our only real chance of nailing them. And there’s no cosmic reason why things should work out. We can theorise from now until the Winter Festival, but the long and short of it is that we’re screwed.’
‘You’re just tired after the journey. You’ll feel better in the morning.’
‘Yeah. Right.’
Maybe I would, but I had the sickening feeling, now, that for the rest of our time in Carthage we’d simply be going through the motions.
. . .
Mark you, whether it was the decent night’s sleep that was responsible or sheer inherent bloody-mindedness on my part I woke up the next morning feeling a lot more cheerful. Oh, sure, I’d still no illusions about our chances of nailing Verania if she did happen to be our principal perp – I hadn’t been kidding when I’d told Perilla that, under the present circumstances, we’d as much hope of that as a snowflake making it intact through hell – but I wasn’t prepared to throw in the sponge yet awhile. There was just the possibility that, when I talked to the lads at the gladiatorial school, one of them had seen the lady sneaking out of the main gate at dead of night clutching a bottle labelled ‘Poison’. Or, better still, she might have a sudden crisis of conscience and confess to everything in a fit of remorse.
Yeah, well, you can dream, can’t you?
What was going to happen was that I was going to fill myself in on the details of Scarus’s death and then have a very pointed heart-to-heart talk with young Quintus on the subject of telling porkies: dispiriting though Scarus’s murder was – and for that Verania just had to be responsible, nem. con. – where Cestius’s death was concerned she wasn’t the only game in town. And when you got right down to it, officially his was the only case that I had a brief for.
So onwards and upwards, in this instance over to the gladiators’ school.
This time, the trainer was in the exercise yard watching a matched pair – Thracian and net-man – going through their paces. I went on over, and he turned.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘The governor’s aide told me you were away in Utica.’
‘Yeah, I was,’ I said. ‘I just got back. Ah...Pettius, right?’
‘That’s me. Gaius Pettius.’
‘Got a moment?’
He hesitated, his attention obviously divided between me and his two lads. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘If you must. I’m assuming it’s about Scarus, yes?’
‘Uh-huh. So what can you tell me?’
‘Not a lot. It happened five days ago. He hadn’t turned up for breakfast in the canteen that morning, but that was nothing unusual. And I wasn’t too surprised when I didn’t see him later at the training session, either. When he’d been out tomcatting the night before, which I assumed he had, he didn’t generally roll in until about noon.’
