Going Back, page 25
part #20 of Marcus Corvinus Series
Put that way, the answer was obvious, if not, on the surface, instantly credible, because there was only one name on the list...
Shit, no; there had to be something wrong with the logic. As a candidate for our X the guy was even less likely, if that were possible, than Quintus. And in any case, the day Albus had died he hadn’t been near the place...
Or so he’d said. But then now we knew about this other way in the basic mechanics would’ve been easy-peasie; the rest was just minor detail and fudging. And where going back to Italy was concerned, with all of the Barca gold to draw on he could easily jump ship, disappear into the bushes, buy himself a new name and identity, and live very comfortably, not to say in filthy luxury, for the rest of what remained of his days.
‘Sextus Gratius,’ I said.
Perilla looked at me wide-eyed. ‘What?’
‘Our perp. X. It’s the factor, Sextus Gratius.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Certain of it. Unless it’s Quintus, who’d be far the better bet.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘There you are, then. The trouble is, we’re stuck with the usual problem. No proof. Zero. Zilch. If his sidekick Syrus had still been a viable commodity we’d at least have had him to lean on, maybe cut a deal with, but as it is he can afford just to look hurt and shocked by the accusation and swear complete innocence. Being the mild, inoffensive citizen in good standing that he is he’d probably get away with it, too. At least, as long as he needs to before he does his disappearing act. Fuck!’
‘Marcus, dear...’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I know. Just bad luck. Or rather, good planning on his part. If only he hadn’t been so careful about covering his tracks when he–’ I stopped. ‘Holy fuck!’
‘Marcus!’
Got the bastard! I waved her to silence. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Forget Quintus altogether. X is definitely Gratius, and we can prove it.’
‘How?’
I told her. ‘All I need is another word with Albus’s ex-major-domo.’
That was, of course, assuming that the old guy’s memory was up to scratch. But I’d worry about that side of things if and when I had to.
27.
There was no need to worry: Cornelius Chilo’s memory, when I went over to his wife’s pastry shop by the racetrack the following morning and talked to him, didn’t let either him or me down. Proof positive.
So that was that. I called in at Quirinius’s to bring him fully up to date and borrow a couple of Galba’s lictors. I doubted if Gratius would be capable of any serious resistance, let alone anything to justify muscle on that scale, but we had to conform to the formalities; although I had my imperial procurator status once I’d fingered Gratius my job was over, and the ball was completely in the local authorities’ court.
Not that I was looking forward to doing it, mind. Oh, sure, the guy was a killer, no question, although I’d risk a heavy bet that it had been his pal Syrus who had knifed Cestius. Even so, he was definitely not my idea of an out-and-out villain. If I’d had my way out of the suspects who were still around our end-user perp would’ve been Publius, or better still his mother: Verania I hadn’t forgotten about – I was hundred-per-cent certain she’d been directly responsible for Scarus’s death, to begin with, and the motive force behind Appius Justus’s – but if I was going to nail her in some way it would require careful thought.
So down I went to Gratius’s office near the port, with my two hefty insurance policies padding along behind.
He was in, and sitting behind his desk discussing something with his copy-slave. When he saw the two axemen squeezing their respective bulks through the doorway his expression froze.
‘Valerius Corvinus,’ he said. ‘And how can I help you this morning, sir?’
I ignored him and turned to the other man. ‘Uh...Quadrus, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘Yes, sir. That’s right.’ The guy was looking puzzled.
‘I’m sorry to keep throwing you out, pal, but do you think you could leave us alone? This is rather delicate.’
The copy-slave glanced at the axemen, then at Gratius, who nodded. He swallowed and made for the door with as little speed as he could manage, closing it behind him.
There was no point in drawing things out. We might as well get this over and done with as fast as possible.
‘You killed Cornelius Albus,’ I said to Gratius. ‘And either you or your friend Aponius Syrus murdered Decimus Cestius.’
Gratius didn’t move. Then he said, very quietly: ‘I’m sorry, sir. That is complete nonsense.’
‘I’m afraid it isn’t. Unfortunately. But there we are.’
‘But this is–’ He shook his head. ‘Look, sir. Forgive me for saying this, but do show a bit of common sense. Please. Cestius was my ex-master, and Lucius was my closest friend. Why on earth would I want to hurt either of them? Even if I were capable of it, which believe me I am not.’
‘Because of the Barca treasure buried under the old Maenius bakery near Potters’ Market. Bought through Syrus shortly before the two of them died, and which you hold the deeds for.’
‘I do no such thing. They’re in–’ He stopped, then carried on slowly and deliberately. ‘They are in the master’s name, not mine. Decimus Cestius’s. I told you when we first talked: the master was in the habit of buying up land as and when it became available, and only informing me later. Which was the case here. Naturally I was aware – am aware – of the purchase, since I am the family factor. The treasure part of things, well, I’m afraid I know absolutely nothing about that. If it even exists, which I very much doubt.’
‘Oh, it exists all right. According to the notes my wife Perilla found in Albus’s study, at least. And there’s a difference between buying up stretches of agricultural land outside the city boundaries – which was what we were talking about – and property within the city itself.’
‘Forgive me again, sir, but you’re splitting hairs. I made no mention of the master’s property dealings in town because they weren’t relevant. As you well know. In actual fact, he acquired a considerable number of urban properties over the years. If you’d care to look through my records I can provide you with a full list.’
‘Uh-uh. That won’t be necessary.’
‘Then that is something, at any rate.’ He was getting angry, and holding it in well: we’d got to the icily-polite stage. Behind me, I could hear the two lictors shift their positions. ‘As for my killing Lucius, that is total rubbish, even assuming his death was not an accident, which of course it was. I was a frequent visitor to the house, yes, but not on the morning in question. I hadn’t been there for days. And if you don’t believe me his major-domo Chilo will confirm it.’
‘He’ll confirm you didn’t visit through the front door as normal, sure. But you didn’t come that way, did you? You came through the yard at the back and up the servant’s stair. And after you’d decoyed the old man to the top of the main staircase and pushed him down it you left the same way.’
‘This is simply insane!’
I shook my head. ‘Uh-uh. It’s the plain truth. Unfortunately, like I say, because I don’t think you’re a killer by nature–’
‘Thank you!’
‘– but you were there that morning right enough, and I can prove it.’
‘How?’
‘Because you left your freedman’s cap behind. Or rather, Cornelia’s pet monkey snatched it off you while you were in the study talking to Albus. She told me she’d given one back to you at the funeral. And I’ve just checked with Chilo. When you left after your visit two days previously, the only time, according to both of you, that you’d been there before the accident, you were properly kitted out. No missing cap. So if you hadn’t been back to the house between times then when exactly did you lose it?’
Complete silence. Eventually:
‘Very well,’ he said quietly. ‘What happens now?’
All the anger, fabricated or not, had gone; the guy just looked old, and tired, and grey. Gods! I hated this part, particularly since, like I say, I could’ve wished for a better end to the case, and a different perp.
I made my decision.
‘That might be up to you, friend,’ I said carefully, very conscious of the governorial task force at my back. ‘You mind setting me straight as to a few details in the meantime?’
‘Not at all, sir.’ He gave me a weak smile. ‘I’ll be glad to help in any way I can.’
‘Fair enough.’ There was a stool to one side. I pulled it over so that we were sitting facing each other either side of the desk. It made things less confrontational that way, and we’d moved far beyond the confrontational stage now. ‘The gold. How did you know it existed in the first place? Did Albus mention it to you?’
He shook his head. ‘No. You know how he was, through hearsay if not personal knowledge. Something like that – well, he’d treat it as an academic curiosity, a piece of historical fact like any other, of neither greater nor lesser importance than the rest. And he liked to have all his facts neatly bundled together into a complete package before he shared them with anyone. That was his way. So no, sir, he didn’t tell me about it; he never would have.’
‘How, then?’
‘I told you when we talked that first time. I wasn’t born here, and I wasn’t born a slave, either. My father had a small farm in Italy, just outside Crustumerium. We’d lived there – the family, I mean – for generations. At the time of the third war with Carthage one of us, a youngest son, was pressed into the army.’ He shrugged. ‘It happened, and it was no bad thing, particularly when there were too many sons for the land to support, and for all I know he might have been a willing recruit to begin with. Anyway, he was sent over here with the rest of his legion. I don’t know any of the details – this was two centuries ago, you understand, and parts of the story have got lost over time – but he got into trouble, bad trouble, so bad that he decided to desert. He went over to the Carthaginians and signed up with them.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Perilla had mentioned a group of deserters from the Roman army involved in the final stand on the Byrsa. Things were becoming clearer. ‘He survived, right?’
‘How, again, I don’t know, but yes. It took him a long time, years, but finally he made it back home. And he brought the story of the gold. It’s been part of our family’s lore ever since, one of the only stories I can remember my father telling me. So when my first master died and Master Cestius brought me over here as his factor’ – he shrugged again – ‘well, you can understand. It was like going back, in time as well as space. For the first time in almost two hundred years one of us had a chance to follow the story up. To see if there had been any truth in it.’
‘And you got Albus to do a bit of digging.’
Another weak smile. ‘Metaphorically speaking, sir, yes. Lucius was a good historian, one of the best. And of course despite being Roman he had local connections of his own, brought up in a different tradition.’
‘His wife’s family. Medar.’
‘Exactly. He learned a lot from them that isn’t in any of the official histories, that’s been passed down the generations by word of mouth. The result was that, eventually, he was able to confirm that the story was true and to take it further. He worked out where the treasure must have been hidden – buried beneath the floor of a cellar in the lower town, in a house belonging to an old servant of Hasdrubal’s wife, where no one would have thought of looking – and where that was in terms of the present city. That last really took time, but he was certain by the end that he’d got it right. He was very excited when he told me, of course – we’d worked together on the problem from the start, naturally, so he’d no qualms about sharing the information with me – but as I said for him it had simply been an academic puzzle to be solved. He would have been – he was – quite content to leave things there. Lucius had no interest whatsoever in anything as common as treasure.’
‘And you did?’ But I said it gently.
He gave me a sharp look. ‘Of course I did! You’ve never been poor, sir, and you haven’t lived most of your life as someone else’s property. Besides, although I knew then, as I know now, that I had no right to it if it was recovered, after all this time no one else had either. And the family connection at least gave me a claim. Of a sort.’
‘Big enough a claim to kill a friend for?’
I could’ve bitten my tongue off as soon as I’d said it, because he winced. ‘Perhaps not,’ he said. ‘Believe me, I’m not proud of that, quite the reverse. But Lucius would never have understood. And he would have made the secret public, eventually, in which case, realities being what they are, I’d never have seen a copper coin of the money. I told you, sir; you’ve never been poor, or a slave. You don’t understand either, and I wouldn’t expect you to, any more than I would’ve expected understanding from him.’
‘Fair enough. So what about your ex-master? Did he have to die too?’
‘He was going to take me back to Italy before the end of this year’s sailing season. This was only two months ago, remember. I would’ve had four months at the very most, probably much less, with no chance of coming back. I needed more time than that.’
‘You couldn’t just have stayed behind?’
He just looked at me. Right. Someone like Quintus could have done that – was doing that – but Quintus wasn’t an ex-slave with an ex-slave’s ties, and even without his father’s blessing and financial support he was one of the local Great and Good. He wouldn’t’ve starved, by any means. That was something his kind – my kind – never has to worry about. For people like Gratius things are different. Besides, from what I’d heard of Cestius and the dangers of crossing him telling him to find another factor would not have been a safe option.
Finally, Gratius shook his head. ‘Killing the master was Syrus’s idea,’ he said. ‘Although I couldn’t fault his logic. And before you ask, no, I don’t feel much remorse in that direction. I’ve hated that man all my life for what he was; a complete monster.’
‘How did the pair of you manage that, by the way?’ I said. ‘Killing Cestius?’
‘It was easy enough. I simply told the master that I had my doubts about whether Medar’s folk were doing a good job with the harvesting, and advised him to ride over and check. When he stopped on the way back for lunch at the grove, as I knew he would, Syrus was there waiting for him.’
‘Uh-huh.’ So. That was that one solved. ‘Syrus. How did you fall in with him?’
‘I’d used him before as an agent when the master expressed an interest in adding to his city property portfolio. He was honest enough, by his lights, but his honesty didn’t go all that far. Especially considering what I offered him.’
‘Which was?’
‘Equal shares in the treasure. And I meant it. There’s no point in being greedy when each of you is likely to net over fifty million in gold.’
I blinked. ‘It was that much?’
‘It was – is – that much. You’re not tempted yourself, by the way?’
‘No. I’ll pass.’
Another weak smile. ‘I didn’t expect so. Never mind. It was just a thought.’
‘So how did you plan to take things from here? If you’d got away with it, I mean.’
‘You’ve seen the site? The bakery?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll have noticed the mason’s cart, then. The building itself is only a shell, left intact to hide what we’re doing. Syrus has men working at the excavation, removing the old rubble, taking it away and dumping it, shoring up the sides of the pit as they go. It’s taken time, obviously, particularly since we can’t be too blatant, and it’ll take a lot more, but they’re down now as far as the first floor of the original house. And as I said, the gold is buried beneath the original cellar. The plan, once we’d uncovered it, was to transport it in stages somewhere safe outside the city. Legally, the property belongs to young Master Publius now, and with the gold gone he would have been welcome to it. When the family go back to Rome next year at the start of the sailing season I would simply have surrendered the deeds, along with all the other property documents, and told them that I’d decided to stay on here after all.’ His lips twisted. ‘Young Master Publius isn’t like his father, sir. Considering my age, he’d give me up without a murmur and congratulate himself on not having to support me when I was no longer able to perform my duties. And I doubt that his mother would raise any objections either. Once they’d gone’ – he shrugged – ‘well, I said: I’m not greedy, and I’m far from stupid. There would be far too much gold for my needs. I would probably have left most of it where it was, safely hidden, and bought a small estate a long way from Carthage where I could have spent my remaining years in comfort. That was the plan, at least. All changed now, of course.’
There wasn’t anything I could say to that; we knew, both of us, that he’d no years left to spend. And after I handed him over to the authorities what little time he did have wouldn’t be spent in anything like comfort. Still...
‘One last question,’ I said. ‘Before we finish. How did Syrus know where to find me?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ He looked blank. ‘When exactly are we talking about?’
Oh, bugger! He didn’t know anything about my trip to the beach! Or, by extension, that Syrus was dead. I wondered whether, if he had done and realised that with his partner gone he was the only game in town where extracting a confession was concerned, he might’ve tried brazening things out a bit longer. He might have succeeded, too: Gratius, if nothing else, was a sharp cookie.
‘Yesterday morning,’ I said. ‘He followed me out the Tunes road and tried to kill me.’
‘He’s dead himself now?’
‘Obviously, if I’m still walking.’
He was quiet for a long time. Then he said: ‘I’m sorry, sir. Truly sorry. If killing you was his intention then it had nothing to do with me, and I knew nothing of it beforehand. As you said, I’m not a killer by nature. Syrus, rest him, was. I’m glad he didn’t succeed.’
