Going Back, page 3
part #20 of Marcus Corvinus Series
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘So it would seem.’
‘Fine. In that case I’ll shove off and leave you to it.’ He shambled past us to the door. ‘Oh...you want to look after that for me?’ He nodded back at the food basket. ‘And my knives. I don’t trust them light-fingered naval bastards further than I could effing throw them.’
‘Right. Right. No problem.’ Mind you, I reckoned any of the crew who tried to liberate so much as a stuffed date would find themselves swimming home. ‘Ah...by the way, sunshine. Just a small word of advice.’
He stopped and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘What’s that, now?’
‘You know what port and starboard are?’
‘Sod that. I’m an effing chef, not an effing–’
‘Got you. Even so. Port’s on the left side of the boat facing front, starboard’s on the right. With me so far?’ He just scowled, which for Meton indicated a yes. ‘Great. Okay. So here’s the idea. The port side’s your territory, the starboard’s Bathyllus’s. You both keep to that rule for as long as it takes us to get to Carthage. Understand? I’ll clear it with Bathyllus myself.’
He shrugged. ‘Fine by me. So what’s the actual advice, like? I mean–’
‘The advice, pal, is that both you and Bathyllus stick to the arrangement like glue, because otherwise when we do get to Carthage I’ll trade you both in the first chance I get. Clear?’
A snuffle; possibly the nearest the bugger came to laughing, or maybe it was just excess mucus. ‘Been there, done that already,’ he said. ‘Alexis’s suggestion, and it’s okay by me and the bald-head. No problem. Was there anything else?’
‘Uh, no. No, I think that about wraps it up.’
‘Good. Let me know when you want to eat an’ I’ll come back in and see to it. That little bald-headed bastard won’t know what’s served with what and when, and I’m not having him messing up my effing menus.’
He left. Oh, the joys of communing with staff.
There was a flask of wine and a couple of cups on the small table between the bunks. I picked the flask up, uncorked it, and sniffed. Imperial Caecuban, no less: Claudius had come up trumps again.
‘You want to change for dinner, lady, or shall we slum it?’ I said.
‘I think the latter, Marcus. Just this once.’ There was a lurch, and the cabin developed a definite tilt; I grabbed the wine flask just in time. ‘Ah, good. We seem to be off.’
. . .
The crossing was uneventful. Me, I settled down on deck with the Caecuban and watched the dolphins; Perilla read through all eight rolls of Claudius’s History; Bathyllus, predictably, had made a dash for the rail as soon as we were clear of the harbour and spent the entire time thereafter alternately throwing up over the side and groaning on his straw pallet in the thwarts. Meton was Meton, throughout. Phryne was trying to persuade the captain every chance she got of a long-standing and deep-seated interest in all things nautical.
Time passed; more slowly than usual, which is par for a sea journey unless things suddenly get more exciting than you’d like.
We made Carthage just shy of noon on the third day.
Oh, sure, I know that the place hasn’t been the arch-enemy for almost two hundred years, that its territory has been our property ever since, that there is absolutely zilch left, top to bottom, of the original city, and that what we’d got was going to prove a duplicate for any of a dozen other provincial towns in the empire, but I’m willing to bet that no Roman can cross the harbour bar at Carthage without at least the vestige of a shiver. Because of Hannibal and his army things came within a whisker of being the other way about, with Rome stamped flat, Italy a Carthaginian fief, and all of us speaking Punic. Even today, the guy’s name is used by nursemaids to frighten naughty children: be good, or Hannibal will come and gobble you up. I remember having nightmares about him myself.
Some memories take more than just time to kill.
Not that Perilla seemed all that overawed, mind, and she’d obviously slipped into excited-sightseer mode already.
‘Oh, look! That must be the Byrsa over there.’ She pointed to a hill straight ahead of us, more or less in the centre of the town. ‘The original citadel. According to the legend when Queen Elissa asked the local ruler for land to found a city he granted her as much as an ox-hide would cover. So she cut it into strips and surrounded the whole area from the far side of the hill down to the sea.’
I grinned. ‘Did she indeed? It must’ve been one hell of a big ox, then. Besides, if she spoke Punic then why use the Greek word for it?’
‘Marcus, I’m sorry, but you really do not have the slightest shred of poetry in your soul, do you? Personally, true or not, as a story I think it’s lovely.’
‘Suit yourself, lady.’ We’d slowed to a crawl now and were nosing our way under oars up the length of the inner harbour. Judging by the number of merchant ships moored to the quays either side, including two or three of the big grain barges, the place was fairly prosperous. At least, pace Lepida, we weren’t out in the sticks altogether. Which reminded me. ‘You think we’ll be staying at the residence with Galba?’
‘Almost certainly. He is the governor, after all, and you are the emperor’s personal representative.’
‘Bugger.’
‘Yes, well, we’ll just have to take things as they come, won’t we? In any case, he’s probably forgotten all about you. After all, it was quite a while ago, and you only met the man once.’
‘Once was enough.’
‘Don’t grouse, dear. I’m sure he’ll be perfectly charming, if only diplomatically so. And he’ll have his own duties to attend to, so we probably won’t see much of him.’
‘Even so.’
We passed through the entrance to the inner harbour, heading towards the prime mooring site at its far end, and got our first sight of the city proper. Like I say, from the buildings – warehouses and storage yards, mostly, much as you’d expect near the port – we could’ve been anywhere in the empire, if it hadn’t been for the palm trees. And the heat. Rome gets pretty hot in late summer, sure, but we were a lot further south now, the sun was higher in the sky, and despite the cooling sea breeze it seemed to be burning a lot hotter than it did at home. Me, I’m fine with that, but Perilla had taken to wearing a sun bonnet while she was on deck.
‘Well, from the looks of things we’re expected, anyway,’ she said.
Sure enough, on the quay beside the empty berth we were aiming for were a couple of litters, a mule-cart, and what was obviously a small official reception party. Par, again, for the course, given the five-star accreditation tucked in my belt-pouch. Hell; maybe I should’ve changed out of the lounging-tunic I’d been wearing for the past three days into a proper mantle. Or at least had a shave. But there again no doubt the local Powers that Be would prefer to have the visiting imperial rep turn up without his throat accidentally slit or part of an ear missing, and formal mantles are stifling at any time of year. Perilla, now, would look cool and groomed despite the heat whatever she was wearing, and in any case the lady is definitely the mantle type.
We docked, the gangplank was set in place, and we stepped ashore to where a young guy in military undress uniform was waiting for us.
‘Valerius Corvinus. And Lady Rufia. I’m delighted to meet you both.’ He held out a hand. ‘Sextus Quirinius, Governor Galba’s factotum and general dogsbody. I’ll be looking after you while you’re here. You had a pleasant trip?’
‘Not bad,’ I said. We shook, and he smiled; nice lad, fresh-faced, early twenties, broad-striper-family accent and diplomatic-corps manner, again all par for the course where a provincial governor’s aide was concerned. ‘Pretty good, really.’
‘That’s excellent. The governor sends his regards.’
‘Good of him. He’ll, uh, be putting us up, will he?’
Quirinius hesitated. ‘Actually, sir, the residence is a bit too small for entertaining, and Governor Galba thought you might be more comfortable in a place of your own. If you’ve no objections, of course. I’m to take you there now.’
Glory and trumpets! Well, that was a load off my mind, anyway, and clearly, wrap it up in what diplomatic-speak you will, the bastard was just as loth to rub shoulders with me for the duration of our stay as I was with him.
‘Absolutely no problem,’ I said. ‘In fact, we’d prefer it. Wouldn’t we, Perilla?’
‘Of course we would.’ She gave me a bright smile.
‘Marvellous! I’m relieved.’ He looked it, too; I reckoned, whatever Galba’s comments to his aide had been regarding our previous acquaintance when he’d got the glad news who Claudius was sending, they hadn’t been complimentary. Forgotten me, my foot. Still, it was an ill wind. ‘It’s really a very nice house, in a quiet residential area, with a full complement of staff. Much better than staying in the centre of town, believe me. And naturally the governor would be delighted to have you over for dinner tonight, if you’re not too tired. I’m sure you have a lot to talk about.’
‘Yeah. I’m sure of that, too.’ Was I hell; bugger! Still, there were the diplomatic niceties to be observed. And it would give Bathyllus and Meton a chance to settle in. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
‘Then we’ll be on our way. If you’d like to take the litters and go on ahead I’ll arrange for your slaves and the luggage to follow and meet you there.’
‘Actually, pal,’ I said, ‘I’d prefer to walk, if it’s all the same to you. After three days on a ship I need the exercise.’
He blinked. ‘Really? That’s very–’
‘Really. Trust me on this. In any case, I’ve never been one for litters. The lady will take one, though.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ He looked at me doubtfully. ‘In that case, sir, I’ll accompany you myself.’
‘Perfect.’ If nothing else, it’d give me a chance to get my bearings. ‘Whenever you’re ready, then. I’ll see you there, Perilla.’
I waved her off, and while Quirinius went to liaise with Bathyllus about the baggage I nipped back aboard to say goodbye and thank you to the captain. Dislike of litters aside, mind, I hadn’t been kidding about needing the exercise; three days at sea had left my land-legs feeling pretty wonky, and besides I could get the low-down from Quirinius on the background to the case, as far as he knew it. Plus, and more important, his recommendations for the best local wineshops. Where foreign travel’s concerned you need to get your priorities straight right from day one.
4.
The house, it transpired, was in what Quirinius called the Astarte District, west of the centre and about half a mile from where we were. Finding my way around would be easy-peasie: like most provincial towns and cities built from scratch – and Carthage had been effectively that, because the original city had been literally flattened and the debris used for the foundations of the new roads and buildings – the military engineers had laid it out in the standard provincial grid plan, with the two main streets, Boundary Marker and the Hinge, running due east-west and north-south respectively and crossing at Market Square. Or rather, in Carthage’s case, just south of it, because the new market square was on Perilla’s Byrsa Hill. It was a nice place, all told, when we’d got beyond the harbour area, much quieter, cleaner and more open than Rome, none of which would be all that difficult, with a definite feel of newness to it; fair enough, because as a colony – according to Quirinius – it had only been around for about sixty-odd years, and there was still a lot of new building going on. Then there were the palm trees, which of course you don’t see in Rome barring the occasional exception in one of the public or private gardens. The locals obviously went in for palm trees in a big way, and it gave the place a gloss of foreign-ness that otherwise it wouldn’t’ve had.
As far as wineshops were concerned...
‘You can try Cladus’s to start with, Corvinus,’ Quirinius said as we walked down a side street past the blank walls of the upper-class local residences; fortunately, at my insistence, we’d got beyond the ‘sir’ stage pretty early on in the proceedings. ‘In Aesculapius, just east of the Byrsa. It’s a nice place with a small garden, and although the wine’s local it’s not all that bad, as long as you don’t expect Falernian.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘A word of warning, though. Steer clear of the date variety. Regional speciality or not, it’s absolutely foul. Even compared with German beer.’
‘Is that so, now?’ I said. Mind you, it didn’t sound the sort of stuff I’d be exactly desperate to try in any case. Where food and drink is concerned – at least the non-alcoholic version of the latter – Perilla’s the adventurous one of the partnership. ‘Have you ever actually tasted German beer, pal?’
‘Indeed I have. My father commanded one of the Rhine legions for a while. He brought back a keg of it when he came home, just for a joke, and trust me, date wine is a dozen times worse. If you don’t believe me then please do go ahead and try it for yourself. Ah.’ He stopped outside the property at the street’s corner. ‘Here we are.’ The door-slave, who’d been sitting on the step, stood up. ‘Has the Lady Rufia arrived yet, Flavillus?’
‘Yes, sir, just a few minutes ago.’ The slave opened the door and stepped back, as did Quirinius.
‘You go first, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘It’s your house, after all, at least for the time being.’
I went inside and through the entrance lobby to the atrium, where Perilla was ensconced on one of the couches by the ornamental pool with a drink in her hand. She’d taken off her sun-hat, but it was lying on the table beside her.
‘Oh, good, Marcus. You’ve arrived,’ she said. ‘Nice, isn’t it?’
I looked around. Nice the place certainly was, at least on first showing. The atrium was as big as our one at home, easy, with a good mosaic on the floor (Dionysus in a vine arbour, with the ubiquitous date palms behind it) and some first-rate murals on the walls. There were even a couple of very passable bronzes. I had to admit that Sulpicius Galba, beefcake gladiator fancier and women’s shoes fetishist though he might be, had done us more than proud.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It’s great.’
‘I’m glad you both like it.’ Quirinius had come in behind me. ‘As I said, it is fully staffed, but since you’ve brought your own major-domo and chef with you I’m sure Cornelia Alba won’t mind if the present incumbents go elsewhere for the time being. In any case, it might be for the best if you want to avoid, ah, friction.’
I grinned. ‘You’re telling me something I don’t know, pal?’ I said. ‘That’s fine with me, absolutely fine. Who’s Cornelia Alba?’
‘Oh, of course. I didn’t tell you.’ He pulled up a stool, while I sat on the second couch. ‘She’s your...I suppose you could call her your hostess, although she doesn’t live here now herself.’
‘No? Why’s that?’
‘It was her father’s house. The old fellow had an accident a month or so ago, a fatal one, and him being a widower and her an only child she’s gone to stay with her aunt and uncle in their house near the centre. The place will probably be sold eventually, but for the moment the uncle’s happy to keep it on as is.’ He smiled. ‘Fortunately, under the circumstances, for us.’
‘What kind of accident?’
‘He took a tumble down the stairs and broke his neck. No surprises there, he was getting on a bit and he’d been shaky on his feet for some time, but we were all very upset when it happened all the same. Albus was a pillar of the scholarly community here; in fact, he’d written several–’ He stopped and stood up as a girl – young woman, rather – with a small monkey on her shoulder came through from the lobby.
Now there was something you didn’t see every day, not in Rome at least. Pet sparrows, cats and small lapdogs, sure, but not shoulder-balancing monkeys. Still, for all I knew maybe it was normal for Carthage. At any rate, Quirinius didn’t seem too surprised.
‘Elissa, we were just talking about you,’ he said. ‘This is Valerius Corvinus and his wife Rufia Perilla.’
I’d stood up as well. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Cornelia Alba,’ I said. Then, to Quirinius: ‘Uh...“Elissa”?’
‘That was my girl-name,’ she said before he could answer. She was a looker, certainly, late teens or early twenties, but there was something odd about her eyes, and the set of her mouth: most people would’ve added a smile to the words; this girl didn’t, not a trace of one. I got the distinct impression that smiling was something she didn’t do very often, if at all. ‘It was my father’s choice, originally, and people still call me that, but I think I prefer Cornelia now. If that’s agreeable to you, Quirinius.’
Ouch: cold as a Riphaean winter, and barbed as a fish-hook.
‘But he’s lovely!’ Perilla said. ‘Your pet monkey, I mean. What’s his name?’
Interesting; the lady’s tone was one she’d’ve normally used with a much younger girl. So she’d noticed something odd about her as well.
‘Ptolemy.’ Perilla reached out a hand towards him. He screeched at her, and she drew the hand back quickly. ‘I wouldn’t touch him, if I were you. He isn’t good with strangers, and he bites.’
‘I was just telling Valerius Corvinus that you’re quite happy to have him provide his own major-domo and chef,’ Quirinius said. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
She shrugged. ‘Of course. You can do as you please, Valerius Corvinus. And you’re very welcome here, both of you. I only came to say that. I’ll leave you to settle in now.’
As she turned to go, the monkey jumped from her shoulder onto the table, grabbed Perilla’s sun-hat, and made for the door. The girl turned, her face expressionless as ever. No reaction. None.
‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry,’ she said. ‘He really is quite the little thief, Ptolemy, especially with hats. He won’t damage it, though, I promise you, and I’ll give you it back later.’
Perilla smiled. ‘That’s perfectly all right, my dear,’ she said. ‘No harm done. And don’t worry, I can easily find a replacement.’
‘I’ll give you it back later.’ The same words as before, repeated, in exactly the same tone. The effect was quite eerie. ‘I have to go now. It was a pleasure meeting you both. Enjoy your stay.’
