Going Back, page 6
part #20 of Marcus Corvinus Series
‘Fair enough.’ I frowned. ‘Moving on. Cestius was stabbed, yes?’
‘He was. Twice, in the chest and throat.’ Verania had only mentioned the first, but I couldn’t in all honesty blame her, in this instance, for not being more exact. ‘He must have died at once.’
‘And no one saw the murder? That seems a bit odd, doesn’t it, when there must’ve been a harvesting crew at work.’
‘Not odd at all. That particular stretch is quite extensive, as I said, and that section of it had already been done. The harvesters were a good quarter of a mile away.’
‘So what was Cestius doing there in the first place?’
‘It’s practically the only bit of shade for miles, a grove of trees with a pool. I’d imagine the master went there to eat his lunch, as he usually did when he was out in that part of the estate.’
‘There was no sign of a struggle?’
‘That I can’t tell you, sir.’
‘Would there be anyone who could?’
‘I very much doubt it. When his slaves found the body next day they brought it straight back. And I don’t think anyone has been out that way since.’
‘What about motive? The Lady Verania mentioned bandits.’
‘That’s always possible – the mistress is right, there’s no denying we do have them in the outlying districts – but I wouldn’t say it was likely, myself. Not on an open stretch of grain land, and especially not at harvest time when there are plenty of people around. Besides, they’d have been after money. The master might well have had some with him, of course, but no more than you’d expect under the circumstances. It wouldn’t’ve been worth the risk of killing him for, particularly considering his rank. And he was still wearing his belt-pouch when he was found.’
Uh-huh; something, when the lady had promulgated her theory, that she’d omitted to mention. Yeah, well, a pack of marauding brigands hadn’t exactly been top of my suspect list to begin with, so I wasn’t crying.
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘So scratch the bandits. If not them then who? You have any ideas?’ He was hesitating again, but this time I was having none of it. ‘Look, this bit’s important, right? I’m not asking for an accusation, but if I don’t know I can’t check. So give.’
‘The man’s name is Medar.’
‘He’s a foreigner?’
‘Far from it; the name’s local. Old Carthaginian. But he isn’t a citizen in any sense of the word. In fact I don’t think he belongs anywhere as such.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mentioned the contracted labour force, the work gangs we bring in to help with the harvest. Not just us, of course, all the big local landowners. They’re nomads, extended family groups who live together and move from place to place, depending where the work is. Medar heads one of them.’
‘And he and his group were involved in harvesting the stretch where Cestius was found, yes?’
‘Yes. Yes, they were.’
‘Uh-huh. So apart from the opportunity side of things what makes you think this Medar might’ve done it? He have some sort of grudge against the man?’
‘Oh, yes. The master was responsible for the death of his son. At least, in Medar’s view.’
I sat back. ‘Is that so, now? You care to explain?’
‘Cestius wasn’t to blame, not at root. It happened about two years ago. Medar’s son – Adon, his name was – was convicted of theft. The master was the local city judge that year, and he sentenced him to a flogging. Nothing too drastic, but half way through the boy collapsed and died. Medar’s neither forgotten nor forgiven.’
Well, that would do it, right enough; we had one prime suspect, at any rate. ‘You know where I’d find this Medar?’
‘Not exactly. As I said, the gangs move around, and they tend to set up camp close to wherever they’re working. But there’s still a lot of harvesting going on, of one kind or another, and the chances are they’re somewhere in the area. Leave it with me, sir. I’ll make enquiries, and if I find him I’ll let you know.’
‘That’d be great. We’re staying at Cornelia Alba’s house in the Astarte district, by the way. You know it?’
‘I do indeed. Very well, and at first hand. Cornelius Albus was a particular friend of mine, a sound scholar and one of the most knowledgeable men in the city. You’ll be very comfortable there, I’m sure.’
‘You, ah, know his daughter, then?’
Another hesitation, but having met the girl myself and knowing something of her history from queen-bitch-slagmistress Lautia I’d been half-expecting it. ‘Elissa? Yes, of course. Charming girl.’
‘They got on well, did they? She and her father?’
He looked puzzled. ‘Of course they did. And that, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir, is a very odd question.’
‘Fair enough. Forget I asked it. So.’ I had to go careful with the next bit, but it might be the best chance I’d get and the opportunity was too good to let slip. ‘You been with the Cestius family for long?’
‘Practically all my life. I was a slave in the master’s uncle’s household in Rome until he died some eighteen years ago, latterly in charge of the old man’s accounts. Then, when he freed me in his will, Master Cestius took me on and brought me out here with him as his factor. I’ve managed the family estates ever since.’
‘You know them all well, then? The family as a whole, I mean.’
‘Naturally.’ He was frowning slightly now. ‘How not?’
‘Indeed. Look, Gratius, I’m levelling with you here. I’ve just arrived, my knowledge of the background to this business and the people involved in it is practically zero, and the only way I’m going to improve on that this side of ten years from now is to ask questions. Sometimes embarrassing, interfering questions that under normal circumstances would quite rightly have me sent packing with a flea in my ear. Yes?’
‘I suppose so.’ He was guarded.
‘Fine. So tell me, if you will, about your late master’s surviving kin. Anything you like, that you think might be relevant and that I should know, with the assurance that it won’t go any further. I don’t sit in judgment, either. Can you do that?’
The frown deepened. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘You’ll forgive me, I hope. I appreciate your reasons for asking, and your right to do so under the circumstances, but I’m afraid I can’t comply. Not if, as I assume, you expect me to betray confidences or tell you things that may be to their disadvantage.’
Bugger; I’d hit the Old Retainer problem head on. And judging by the tone of finality in his voice he wasn’t going to shift all that easily. Still, from the defensive attitude he’d taken straight off I could make certain assumptions of my own, and after my interview with Widow Verania, not to mention what Domitia Lepida had told me before I’d come out, I was pretty sure that all hadn’t exactly been sweetness and light where the domestic side of Cestius’s life was concerned. Besides, like I said, the guy was probably the best source I was likely to get for the back-stairs stuff. I couldn’t just let the opportunity slip only for the asking.
‘I appreciate that,’ I said carefully. ‘Even so, I’d be grateful for anything you can give me in the way of background. Anything at all.’ Start on safe ground. Or what I hoped was safe ground. ‘Cestius had two grown-up sons, right?’
I felt him relax; good choice. ‘Yes. Publius and Quintus, Publius being the elder. Master Publius is twenty-five, his brother is three years younger.’
‘They live at home?’
He smiled. ‘Valerius Corvinus, if you’ve talked to the mistress you’ll have seen the Cestius villa. It’s extremely large, the biggest property for miles around, easily big enough for each member of the family to have their own very private suite and live their own lives, completely separate from the rest.’ Including the married pair, naturally, but I wasn’t going to risk touching on that side of things yet awhile. ‘So yes, they do. Of course, Publius is engaged to be married shortly, in Rome, so whatever happens that arrangement will change.’
‘Right. Verania mentioned that. In fact, she said the whole family were planning to move back to Italy permanently.’
‘Yes, indeed. The master had already bought a house in the city and was negotiating for a country estate near Veii. That, I think, is practically settled now. The master’s death will delay things, of course, but we should be home by next summer at the latest.’
‘“We”? You’re going as well?’
‘Naturally I am, unless Publius as the master’s heir decides otherwise. The intention at present is to sell up almost completely here and use the money to buy land in Italy adjoining the Veian estate, which I will manage. Quite sensible, in my view. The master was very much a hands-on owner. He always took a great personal interest in the business side of things, and he would not have been at all happy to return home leaving the estates in their present form under the absolute control of a factor, even a long-standing one such as myself.’
‘And what about Publius? You think he’ll want to do things any differently?’
‘He might, but I very much doubt it. There’s nothing to keep him here, and if he’s aiming at a career in politics – as I think he is – then he will want a firm Italian base.’
‘You happy about this yourself? Going back to Italy, I mean, after being here for so long?’
‘It’s only been fifteen years, sir, and at my age in retrospect that doesn’t seem such a terribly long time. Yes, I’ll have some regrets, but Carthage has never really been my home as such. And I was born near Veii. My father had a small farm outside Crustumerium, so I’ll be on home ground, as it were.’
‘You weren’t born a slave?’ I said.
‘Oh, no. I told you, I’ve been with the master’s family almost all my life, but I was born free. My father got into debt, I was the youngest of five sons, and so he had to sell me. I must have been, let me see, five or six at the time.’
Shit. With his age, his shortness and above all his lack of hair the guy was almost a Bathyllus lookalike. And now it turned out that their histories meshed to a degree as well. ‘So what’s he like, Publius? As a person in his own right, I mean?’
Gratius hesitated. Bugger, we were back to the pussyfooting around. Which, I suppose, was informative in itself, but still. ‘Much like any other rich young man of his age,’ he said. ‘Here or elsewhere.’
‘Girls, booze, gambling and hunting, right?’ I said. ‘Not necessarily in that order. No problem, pal. Been there, done that myself.’ Well, I had to admit that, as far as my personal past went, the last one hadn’t really figured apart from its tie-up with the first, but that more or less covered the predictable spectrum for the lad-about-town of whatever generation.
Gratius smiled. ‘Yes, sir. Marriage and a career to work at will settle him, I’m sure – at least that’s what his father hoped – but that’s young Master Publius to a T. He has no real bad in him, though, of that I can assure you.’
No doubt time and further enquiry would show. But reading between the lines – and particularly in the light of that unsolicited assurance – Cestius’s son and heir was no moral paragon. Interesting. ‘What about his brother?’ I said. ‘Quintus, was it?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ The smile was definitely there now, in fact the old man was almost beaming; we’d obviously moved on to his favourite family member. ‘A completely different kettle of fish, young Master Quintus. He was always a very quiet, serious boy. Sensitive. Oh, don’t get me wrong, sir, I mean that in a very positive way. There’s nothing soft or effeminate about Quintus, he’s simply his own man, as strong-minded in his way as his father was, and always has been from a child. He’s a great one for books, especially history, and as that happens to be my own particular field of interest I tend to empathise with him. He’s quite a scholar in that area, too, not just a dilettante. In fact, he was the closest thing my friend Albus had to a protégé.’
‘Cornelius Albus was a historian?’
‘Didn’t I tell you that? No, possibly I didn’t, as such. But yes, that was the main reason for our own friendship. He was particularly interested in local history – the clash with Rome, in its latter stages – from the Carthaginian point of view. Fascinating, and I’m afraid not altogether showing our political ancestors to their best advantage, morally speaking.’
Yeah, I’d believe that, although about all I knew on the subject was that our poker-rectum’ed arch-statesman par excellence at the time, Marcus Porcius Cato, had finished all his speeches in the Senate, on whatever subject, with the words: ‘And my further opinion, gentlemen, is that we ought to destroy Carthage’. Ah, well, you don’t get to be masters of the world by being nice.
‘Fair enough,’ I said. Then, keeping my voice carefully neutral: ‘So. Moving on to the Lady Verania. What can you tell me about her?’
His face shut. ‘You’ve met the mistress yourself, sir,’ he said. ‘Surely you can make your own assessment, if you think it’s necessary.’
‘For about fifteen minutes in total.’ I was equable. ‘No time at all, compared with your own fifteen years. And yes, I do think I need to know something of her as a person. She was Cestius’s wife, after all.’
‘Eighteen years, sir. I spent three years as the master’s business manager in Italy before he moved here.’
‘Eighteen, then.’ I waited. Nothing. ‘Come on, pal, I’m no prude. I told you, I have a job to do here, an official job, so help me do it, okay? All I’m interested in is building up a background to the case; I don’t judge, and I don’t tattle.’ Still nothing; he might just as well have frozen. ‘Fine. I’ll start with what I do know, then, or think I know, and we’ll take it from there. According to her friend Domitia Lepida in Rome, and from what I gleaned when I talked to the lady herself, she and her husband were estranged long term. Amicably so, but still. That right?’ He didn’t answer, but his lips tightened. ‘I also know, from Lepida, that she...well, let’s say she’s in the habit of making her own amusements with certain gentlemen below her status. Or have I got that wrong?’
He was quiet for a long time. Then he said softly: ‘Valerius Corvinus, if it’s dunghill gossip you want then I really am not willing to provide it. No doubt you can find the answers to all your questions on that subject elsewhere. Now I’m sorry, but I’ve told you all I know for the present. As I said, I’ll do my best to locate the man Medar for you and send word if and when I’m successful, but I think otherwise we should end this interview here.’
Hell. I stood up. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Believe me, I’m grateful for your help. If there’s anything else you can think of, anything at all, then–’
‘Then I’ll be in touch. Of course I will.’
As dismissals went, they didn’t get any more definite.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Thanks again.’
I left.
8.
There wasn’t really anything I could do further at present, or at least nothing I could think of, so I set off home, taking it slow to get more of an idea of the place.
Like I say, it was much more open and a hell of a lot tidier than Rome, which made sense considering it’d been laid out mathematically as opposed to thrown together any old how over the centuries by guys who thought formal town planning was for Greeks and cissies, and wouldn’t’ve recognised a groma if they’d found one in their breakfast porridge. You could actually walk in a straight line, more or less, from one side of it to the other without the topography throwing you a googly every five minutes and see the sky above you as more than a narrow slit between the buildings.
It didn’t smell, either, which – particularly in summer when the Tiber’s low – is one of Rome’s most striking and less amiable features.
All the same, give me Rome any day. Carthage felt just too new, a nice, squeaky-clean, modern city with all the mod cons present and correct, and no sense of history. Even the people looked nice, which is something you could never say about your average Suburan: he might not be capable of hurting a fly, and be a doting father to his curly-headed, apple-cheeked kids, but he still looks as if he’d happily murder his grandmother and sell her on for cats’- meat.
Not that I was complaining, mind. Nice I can take, in small doses, and as far as places go I’ve been in far worse.
When I got to the house Perilla was in the study, examining the book-cubbies, of which there were more than you could comfortably shake a stick at.
‘Oh, hello, Marcus, you’re back,’ she said. ‘Did you have a successful day?’
‘Yeah, well, yes and no.’ I set the cup of wine that Bathyllus had had waiting for me when I came in on the side-table and lay down on the reading couch. ‘A bit of a mixture, really.’ I told her about the interviews with Verania and Gratius. ‘I suspect getting information out of the locals is going to be about as easy as pulling teeth.’
‘Is that so? Personally I haven’t had any difficulties so far.’
I frowned. Shit; she was looking smug as the cat that not only got the cream but legal rights of ownership to the dairy into the bargain. Always a bad sign. ‘How do you mean?’ I said.
‘Only that I spent a large part of the morning with Lautia.’
‘You did what?’
‘Oh, yes. We’ve become quite chums, actually. Her word, not mine.’
‘Perilla, you can’t stand the woman, and judging by events yesterday evening it’s absolutely mutual. Why the hell should you–?’
‘You’re always telling me the best place to pick up local gossip is the local wineshop, dear. That may be true if you’re a man, but trust me an all-girls-together chat over a cup of honey wine has the average wineshop beaten hands down. Particularly if your confidante is a five-star cat like Lautia. I had to grovel, of course, initially at any rate, and paint you in very unflattering colours, but it was well worth it in the end.’
‘Why should she even let you past the door, lady?’
‘Oh, there’s no mystery there, not where the Lautias of this world are concerned. You are an imperial procurator, after all, sent here at the personal request of the emperor. That makes you – or me, rather, as your wife – the social catch of the season. She was hardly likely to tell her door-slave to spit in my eye, now, was she?’
