Going Back, page 23
part #20 of Marcus Corvinus Series
‘Sure. If it’s going.’
‘It’ll be nothing special, and nowhere near what you’re used to, I don’t doubt, but it’s drinkable, at least. Still interested?’
‘Sure.’ To tell the truth, after a good mile-and-a-half’s walk, even although with the sea breeze to help it hadn’t got out all that hot, at that point I’d almost have settled for a mug of beer. Not quite, mark you, and definitely not, in the case of wine, the local date-sourced aberration. Which reminded me. ‘Ah...just to check. When you say “wine” we are talking about the stuff made from grapes, right?’
He chuckled. ‘You think I’d ruin my gut with that date-brewed horse-piss? No, you’re safe enough there, sir. It may not be Falernian, but at least it’s honest. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll get my flask.’
I went over to one of the rocks at the sand’s edge and sat down while he fetched the stoppered flask and a single earthenware cup, which he filled and handed to me. I took a cautious sip. Not bad at all; rough as hell, yes, but I’d been duly warned. Besides, I was prepared to make allowances. I drained the cup.
‘You’re an army man?’ I said as I passed it back.
He refilled it, took a long drink, and wiped his mouth. ‘Slinger unit, attached to the Seventh Lusitanians, twenty-five years’ service. Got to be a decurion before I was demobbed and settled down here with my severance money.’
‘You have a connection with the place?’
‘Nah. My best mate was from Carthage – he died – and from what he’d told me about it over the years I just took a fancy to living there. Only not being much of a city man I wasn’t too keen on being stuck in the town itself. Out here does me just fine.’ He gave me a sharp, assessing look. ‘So. That’s my excuse. What’s a toff like you doing out in the sticks, perched on a rock and swigging third-rate wine?’
I told him, plus what Quintus and Cornelia had told me about their whereabouts the day of the murder. ‘So can you confirm that the two of them were here that morning?’ I said. ‘It’s pretty important.’
‘Yeah, I can see that.’ He hesitated. ‘Look, I can’t swear to the exact day, mind; I’ve no use for a calendar, me. But the last time the young lass was out this way, far as I know, must’ve been about then, and she did have a lad by the name of Quintus with her. So if that much will satisfy you then fine, I’ll back them. Fair enough?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Well, we’d got that box ticked, at least. For, as I’d told Perilla, what it was worth. I stood up. ‘Thanks, pal. And for the wine,’ I said. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I’d best be getting back before the heat sets in.’
‘No problem. Pleasure to meet you. Give the youngsters my regards.’
‘I’ll do that,’ I said, and set off up the path.
The guy must’ve been waiting for me at the top, screened by the bushes. He came straight at me, and I just had time to see the knife in his hand before he lunged at my chest. I drove down hard on his wrist with my left arm and felt the point of the blade nick my thigh. We grappled, me with one hand at his throat and the other clamped round his right wrist, him desperately trying to pull both of them free and have a proper go at me. I turned him so that his back was to the beach, meaning to use my weight to overbalance him and send us both rolling down the path...
Which was when there was a sharp crack and he froze, then went completely limp. I let go, and he collapsed like a rag doll.
What the hell? Not that I wasn’t grateful, mind. I took a minute just to stand and breathe.
‘You okay?’
I looked down the path towards the beach. The old guy was more than half way up, and coming towards me. ‘Never better,’ I said. Not wholly true; the cut on my thigh – luckily, from what I could see of it beneath my tunic it was hardly more than a scratch – stung like hell, but still. I waited until we were level. ‘Thanks, pal. That was a pretty good shot.’
‘Fair to middling,’ he said smugly. ‘So. What’s the damage?’
I glanced at the man sprawled face down to my left. He lay absolutely still, and the back of his head was a pulpy mass of blood and bone fragments. What we had here was definitely an ex-mugger.
‘Pretty much terminal, I’m afraid,’ I said.
He grunted and shrugged. ‘Bastard must’ve had a thin skull.’ Not much concern there, but with twenty five years as an auxiliary behind you you can develop a fairly thick skin where sudden death is concerned. ‘What happened, exactly?’
‘He was waiting for me with a knife. Almost got me, too.’
Another grunt. ‘Odd. You get the occasional robber out here in the sticks, sure, but not in broad daylight. Not one as determined as chummie here, either.’ He reached down and turned the corpse over so that the face was showing. ‘You don’t happen to know him at all, do you?’
‘No.’ The guy was a total stranger. Except –
I frowned; there was something familiar about him, at that. Nothing I could put my finger on, just a niggle at the back of my mind.
‘Fair enough. That makes it easy, then.’ He bent down again and half-lifted the corpse by the shoulders. ‘Give me a hand. We should be able to roll him down the slope onto the beach.’
‘What?’
He let go and straightened. ‘Don’t want him cluttering up the road, do we? People would only ask questions, and I can do without that at my time of life. Don’t you worry, sir, he’ll tuck away nicely among the rocks out by the headland, and the crabs’ll thank us for him.’
Jupiter! Callous wasn’t the half of it! Besides, although I wasn’t particularly superstitious I knew you could get into serious supernatural trouble feeding unburied bodies to the crabs.
‘No, that’s okay,’ I said quickly. ‘We’ll just park him out of sight behind those bushes and when I get back to town I’ll have the authorities send someone out to collect him.’
He looked dubious. ‘You’re sure?’
‘No problem. And no hassle where you’re concerned, I guarantee it.’ There wouldn’t be, I was certain, once I’d explained the situation to Quirinius. And at least, violent end or not, the murdering bastard couldn’t complain that he’d been denied a funeral.
‘Well, if you’re certain...’
‘Oh, I am. Absolutely.’ Between us, we lugged the corpse out of sight of the road and stashed it in a handy patch of scrub. ‘Thanks again. Not least for saving my life.’
‘A pleasure. Don’t mention it.’
He might be a callous killer, but at least he was a polite callous killer. I set off back towards town.
I was about half way there when I remembered where I’d seen the dead guy before. He’d been the blunt half of the wineshop scuffle I’d witnessed the day after we’d arrived.
What the hell was going on?
I called in at Quirinius’s office to report the little contretemps and arrange for a no-questions-asked collection of the remains, then carried on to Cladus’s wineshop in the Aesculapius district. I’d heard both sets of names at the time, the stroppy injured party’s and the one belonging to my ex-mugger who’d been on the receiving edge of the complaint, but much as I cudgelled my brains I couldn’t recall either one of them. With luck, though, the barman would know. Barmen, like major-domos, have an omniscient streak where their customers are concerned, and I’d bet that the guy who’d ended up with his head stove in, at least, was one of the regulars.
Fortunately I seemed to have hit a quiet patch, and the place was practically empty, with only a few punters sitting at the tables and the usual two or three dedicated bar-flies propping up the counter. I went across.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’ The barman put down the cup he was drying. ‘Nice to see you again. What’ll it be?’
‘Same as last time, pal,’ I said. ‘The Carpian, was it?’
‘Carpian it was and is.’ He reached down a flask. ‘Just the one cup?’
‘For the present, yes.’ I took the coins out of my belt-pouch and leaned on the counter while he poured. ‘Plus a smidgeon of information, if you can give me it.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘The last time I was in here there was a bit of trouble between two of your customers. Over the sale of some property. You remember that?’
‘Of course.’
‘You happen to know their names?’
‘Not the name of the man who started it, no. I hadn’t seen him before, and he hasn’t been in since, not that he’d be welcome. The other gent, sure. Aponius Syrus.’
Syrus. Right; that I did remember now. ‘You know where I can find him?’ Currently under a bush a mile from town with no back to his head, true, but there was no point in complicating things.
‘Sure. He’s one of our biggest property dealers. He has an office just round the corner, in fact, in the courtyard with the public water fountain.’
Fair enough; an office meant that there was probably a clerk I could interview, at least. Mind you, it was the other man I really wanted to talk to. And I suspected that, under the circumstances, starting my enquiries from the other side of things mightn’t be too hot an idea. I shelved the information for future reference. ‘The first guy. The one who came in and caused the trouble. He gave Syrus his name at the time, that much I do remember. Still no bells?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t listening all that closely. And as I said, I’d never laid eyes on him before.’
Bugger. Well, it couldn’t be helped; it would have to be the clerk after all, and at least that was a lot better than nothing. ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘No harm done. Thanks anyway.’
‘You’re welcome.’
I took a swallow of the wine. Okay, next stop chummie’s office. At least it was just round the corner...
‘Maenius. Titus Maenius.’
I turned sideways to find the nearest bar-fly looking at me.
‘What?’ I said.
‘At least, that was the father’s name. Used to have a bakery on the other side of the Byrsa that did a nice poppy-seed loaf. That’s a good while ago now, mind.’
Hey! ‘You know him, friend?’ I said.
‘Nah. Just the name, and where the shop was. The wife used to go over special, when she was alive.’
‘So where was the shop? Exactly?’ It might be closed down, sure, and the guy might’ve moved as a result – in fact, from what I knew of the circumstances from listening in to the frank exchange of views he almost certainly had – but at least it’d give me somewhere to start from. No doubt there’d still be neighbours in place.
‘Other side of the Byrsa, like I said.’ The bar-fly took a swallow of his wine. ‘Close in, on the edge of Astarte near Potters’ Market. It’s gone now, these five years, at least, but that’s where it was, right enough.’
‘Great!’ I drained my cup. ‘What are you drinking, pal? On me.’
‘That’s good of you. Another cup of the Carpian would suit me fine.’
‘Carpian it is.’ I nodded to the barman, who unhitched the flask.
‘Another for yourself, sir?’ the barman said.
‘No, that’ll do me for the present.’ I took the coins out of my belt-pouch and laid them on the counter. ‘Near Potters’ Market, right?’ I said to the punter.
‘As ever was. South side, the alleyway directly opposite the statue.’
‘Got it. Thanks again, friend.’
Things were moving. Mark you, in what precise direction they were moving I hadn’t the faintest idea.
25.
I found the alleyway – more or less at the foot of the Byrsa itself and directly opposite the statue of what was obviously one of the local worthies – and went down it.
The bakery, or what had been the bakery, was half way along, a two-storeyed property with a small yard to one side of the main building, between a cutler’s shop and a shoemaker’s. It was pretty much derelict; the brickwork was in poor repair, with serious gaps in the cement between courses, while judging by the rusted condition of their chain and padlock the shutters closing off the outside counter hadn’t been opened for years. I glanced up at the first-floor windows. They were shuttered, too, and like the sales counter beneath they had that sad, closed-for-the-duration look that suggested the live-over flat hadn’t been occupied for years, either.
Yeah, well. I hadn’t really been expecting anything different, had I? On the other hand, the shop’s main door had been replaced pretty recently by something that looked a lot stronger than its predecessor had probably been, and the gate to the yard was blocked by a mason’s cart three quarters full of rubble and general detritus. Evidently, derelict as the place might be at present, Work was in Progress.
‘Can I help you?’
I turned. A guy in a leather apron had come out of the shoemaker’s shop next door and was watching me suspiciously.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Actually you can. I was looking for a Titus Maenius. Or maybe for his son, I don’t know his given name. You happen to know where I can find either of them?’
He jerked his head back the way I’d come. ‘Turn left at the end,’ he said. ‘Third street along to your right, about half way down. Flat above the haberdasher’s.’
‘Great. Thanks, pal.’
But he’d already gone back inside, and I was talking to myself. Obviously one of Carthage’s friendlier locals. Never mind, onwards and upwards it was.
The property, when I found it, had an outside stair ending in a small landing with a door. I went up and knocked. Long pause, followed by shuffling internal footsteps.
‘Yes?’ An old man’s voice from behind the panelling. ‘Who is it?’
‘My name’s Valerius Corvinus,’ I said. ‘You’re Titus Maenius?’
‘I am. What do you want?’
‘Just a word, if you can manage it.’
The door stayed closed. ‘What about?’
The hard ones first. ‘Uh...maybe we can just start from there and take things as they go?’ I said. ‘It’s nothing bad, I promise you.’
There was the sound of a bolt being drawn back. The door opened.
‘Fair enough. You’d best come in, then.’
Old was right; he must’ve been eighty, if he was a day. He waited until I’d gone past him then closed the door behind me.
‘Now. Sit yourself down, sir,’ he said. ‘There’s a stool over by the wall, if you can see it.’
That was tricky in itself, particularly since I was coming in from bright afternoon sunlight. There were windows, sure, but the flat was north facing and the light they let in was pretty sparse. As were the furnishings. I waited until my eyes had adjusted to the dimness, then found the stool and sat on it while he shuffled his way to a high-backed chair by one of the windows and eased himself into it. Which was when I noticed he was one hand short of the usual set.
‘So,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’
I hesitated. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not quite sure. I understand you know a guy by the name of Aponius Syrus.’
‘Yes, I do. He bought my bakery two or three months ago. Or what used to be my bakery.’
‘You were, uh, happy with the deal?’
He was frowning now. ‘Of course I was,’ he said. ‘How not?’
‘It’s just that, from what I saw of your son’s encounter with Syrus in a wineshop half a month or so back, I had the impression that maybe you weren’t. You know about that?’
‘Yes. Titus told me. Now you can tell me, sir, why it should be any business of yours.’
That was reasonable. Not that I could give him a straight answer, mind, because I didn’t have one.
When in doubt, tell the truth. Yeah, well, maybe not on every occasion, but my options were seriously limited here. ‘Like I said, my name’s Marcus Valerius Corvinus. The emperor sent me out from Rome to look into the death of an ex-praetor. A man called Decimus Cestius.’
‘And? I’m sorry, but I still don’t see what this has to do with my sale of the bakery.’
‘Believe me, neither do I. Thing is, for no apparent reason earlier today your Aponius Syrus followed me out the Tunes road and tried to put a knife through my guts.’
‘He did what?’ The old guy was staring at me in horror.
‘Strange, right? And the only handle I have on him – the only handle – is that I saw him having a stand-up fight with your son in Cladus’s wineshop. Hence my visit. So trust me, any light you can cast would be welcome.’
He shook his head numbly. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said. ‘None at all. It was a straightforward sale agreed by the both of us, all the paperwork duly witnessed and the price paid in full, cash on the nail.’
‘Your son seemed to think you’d been swindled somehow.’
‘Then he was wrong. Is wrong. I’d been trying to unload the place for years, ever since this happened.’ He held up the stump of his right wrist. ‘I’d’ve let it go for half what Syrus paid me and still reckon I’d come out ahead. But Titus is Titus; he doesn’t listen, he never has.’
‘Didn’t he object at the time? Why wait until now?’
‘He was in Tripolis, with his legion. He only got his discharge a month back.’
‘Syrus approached you, right? About the sale?’
‘He did. He was completely up-front about it, said he’d be demolishing the property, developing the site, then selling the result on at a whacking profit. That’s the business he’s in, how he generally works. I knew that from the start.’
‘Was there anything unusual about the place at all? That you know of?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Search me. Suspicious mind. But it’s an obvious question. No walls where there shouldn’t be? Signs of a hidden cellar beneath the floor?’
Maenius chuckled. ‘Look, sir. My grandfather built it himself, about a hundred years back, mostly with his own hands, from the ground up. It’s been in the family ever since, and we’re just bakers. We always have been. So no secret rooms stuffed with treasure, I guarantee that. What you see is what you get.’
