Going Back, page 8
part #20 of Marcus Corvinus Series
Yeah, well, that made sense: the thing wasn’t a weapon, just the sort of small knife anyone might carry around with them for cutting up dried sausage or similar, the only remarkable thing about it – which was what I’d noticed – being that it had a pricey mother-of-pearl handle. In any case, if he’d been set on murder from the first our chummie would’ve brought a knife of his own, one a lot bigger, and he wouldn’t’ve been stupid enough to leave it sticking in his victim’s body.
Spadix was looking grey, as well he might: theft, for a slave, was a flogging offence at best, and if his owner took special exception to the circumstances – which I’d bet Verania would, if she knew – the poor bugger was for the chop.
I passed it back. ‘That’s okay, friend,’ I said. ‘No hassle. But if I were you I wouldn’t flash it around. In fact, I’d get rid of it altogether.’
He nodded and swallowed again. I noticed, though, that he put the knife back in his belt-pouch: it was probably the most valuable thing he’d ever owned, or ever would own. He wasn’t going to throw it away in a hurry.
‘Was there any blood on it, that you saw?’ I said. ‘When you picked it up?’
‘Could of been, sir,’ he muttered. ‘I din’t look.’
Fair enough. Even so, the fact that Cestius had been holding it when he was attacked suggested that he had at least tried to fight back. It was something to bear in mind.
We ate the rest of the meal in silence
10.
It was well into the afternoon when I got home, tired, hot, sticky and soaked with sweat. I stripped off my sodden tunic in the lobby, went straight into the bathroom and had one of the slaves pour cold water over me for five minutes. Then I got dried and changed and went back into the atrium, where Bathyllus was waiting with the wine tray.
‘The mistress out, sunshine?’ I said, stretching my length on the couch and taking a first restorative swallow.
‘Yes, sir. The Lady Cornelia came round this morning to return her hat, and they went out together.’
‘Her hat?’ Oh, yeah, right; the sun-hat that Cornelia’s pet monkey had stolen when she’d called in two days previously. That would’ve pleased Perilla; she’d been hunting for an excuse to make contact with the girl on her own account. ‘As you were, Bathyllus. Got it, link made. She say when she’d be back at all?’
‘No.’ Bathyllus set the wine jug down beside my cup. ‘But I think she and the young lady were planning to visit the local sights.’
Uh-huh; that made sense, although since nothing here was any more than a few decades old, and pretty well run-of-the-mill provincial standard at that, I suspected that her ulterior motive of getting to know Cornelia better had taken priority. Unless the heat got to her – which was a definite possibility – she probably wouldn’t be back until close on dinnertime.
‘What’s this wine, by the way?’ I’d been meaning to ask, but I’d forgotten every time.
‘It’s Utican, sir. From a small vineyard that supplies the residence. The governor’s aide had a few jars sent over the day we arrived.’
‘Is that so, now?’ Interesting; it was far better stuff than we’d had at Galba’s dinner party. I suspected that had been deliberate as well, and typical of the cheese-paring bastard: don’t waste your best wine on tradespeople or inconvenient visitors foisted on you from Rome. I might’ve been doing him an injustice, but I didn’t think so.
‘Was there anything else you wanted, sir? Something to eat, perhaps?’
‘No, I’ll last until dinner now, Bathyllus.’
He left. It’d been a more successful day than I’d expected, thanks to Spadix’s little revelation – although whether that was relevant or not only time and further furkling would tell – but a twelve-mile-plus horse ride in the heat of an African summer meant I was completely knackered. I closed my eyes just for a moment and relaxed...
‘Hello, Marcus. Been back long?’
‘Mmm?’ I opened my eyes again. Perilla was taking off her cloak and handing it to Bathyllus. ‘Oh. I’m sorry, lady, I must’ve dozed off. How was your sightseeing?’
‘Not terribly interesting, I’m afraid.’ She lay down on the other couch. ‘However, I did have a very pleasant chat with Cornelia. She really is a very nice girl, and quite talkative when you get to know her.’
‘Uh-huh. She confide in you about Quintus Cestius?’
‘What?’ She gave me a sharp look. ‘No! What was there to confide?’
‘Only that the pair of them are a secret item. According to one of the Cestius kitchen skivvies, that is.’
I explained.
Perilla smiled. ‘Oh, I am glad,’ she said. ‘We don’t really know very much about him yet, of course, but judging from what you’ve been told so far he seems a nice enough young man. And Cornelia needs a bit of romance in her life.’
Gods! She’d only known the girl five minutes and she was already into full mother-hen mode! I stifled a grin.
‘One thing, though, Marcus.’ A sideways glance, and a hesitancy. ‘She is very like Marilla was, when she first came to us, I mean. The way she acts and how she speaks. It’s quite frightening. And she won’t talk about her father; I tried to get her to several times, but she shied away and changed the subject.’
‘She may just not be over his death, like Quirinius suggested.’
‘No, that’s not it. Absolutely not. You weren’t there to see; it wasn’t grief, I’m positive of that.’ She was frowning now. ‘The impression I got wasn’t loathing, exactly, but it was something very close.’
Hell; we had to address this problem now. ‘Perilla, listen to me,’ I said carefully. ‘There’s an important difference, right? Between this girl and Marilla. Whatever’s behind this – and I grant you something is – it’s water under the bridge, over and done with. When we sprang Marilla loose from the house on the Janiculan her bastard of a father was still very much alive; Cornelius Albus isn’t. Poking around won’t do the girl any good, quite the reverse, and it’s none of our business. Let her cope with things in her own way. She seems to be doing none too badly.’
Perilla sighed. ‘Yes, dear, you’re right. Of course you are. Even so–’
Bathyllus buttled in. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but you have a visitor. Sextus Quirinius.’
‘That’s fine, sunshine,’ I said. ‘Show him through. And bring another cup.’
Quirinius appeared a moment or two later, followed by Bathyllus with the extra wine cup.
‘Good afternoon, Corvinus. Lady Rufia,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you so close to dinner time, but I thought I’d call in. See how things are going and if there was anything at all you needed.’
‘Actually, there is, now you’re here, pal,’ I said. ‘Pull up a stool and have some wine. Which, incidentally, I was meaning to thank you for. It’s lovely stuff.’
‘The Utican?’ He sat, and Bathyllus handed him the filled cup. ‘Yes, it is good, isn’t it? Very. I’m glad you like it; it’s from a small vineyard that’s supplied the residence exclusively for over a century. I, ah, don’t think the governor will miss one or two jars, but if it’s all the same to you we won’t mention it to him. Agreed?’
I grinned; he was a nice lad, Quirinius, and totally wasted on a prick like Galba. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I think I can manage that. Agreed.’
‘Good. Now. What can I do for you?’
‘This might be tricky. I need an excuse to talk to Cestius’s two sons. Publius and Quintus.’
Quirinius frowned. ‘You don’t think they had anything to do with his death, surely?’ he said.
‘No. I’ve no reason to, absolutely none. But at the moment they’re just names, and that doesn’t sit easy. Problem is, I’ve already had my head bitten off by the widow for asking if I could have a word with them, so I suspect that any sort of official approach would go down like a slug in a salad.’
‘Corvinus, you’re the emperor’s personal representative, investigating Cestius’s death on his specific orders. If you say you need to talk to them – or to anyone, for that matter – then refusal isn’t an option.’
‘Yeah, I know. But pulling rank isn’t going to put them into a very co-operative state of mind, is it? Oh, sure, the chances are that neither they or their mother played any part in their father’s death’ – I had my fingers firmly crossed at this point; me, I wouldn’t be making any predictions – ‘but talking to them’s something that has to be done. There may be information they can give me that they think is innocent but turns out to be important. Understand?’
‘Of course.’ He was still frowning. ‘Well, then. Meeting Publius is simple. He spends most of his evenings at the Honeycomb.’
‘That’s some kind of club, presumably?’
‘Yes. Frequented by the local fast set.’ His lips twitched. ‘Of whom I’m not one, by the way. Drinking and gambling, mostly. You might add “brothel” to the bag, but the lady who runs the place would take exception to the word. Let’s just say there are a few girls on the staff who provide private specialist services to the clientele.’
‘And this place is where?’
‘In the Aesculapius district, not all that far from Cladus’s, as it happens. The name’s written up beside the door.’
‘I can just walk in?’
‘Yes. The club opens after sunset. You’ll find there’s a one-off membership fee, though. A gold piece, I think.’
‘Keep the riff-raff out, yeah?’
‘That’s the idea. And yes, it is quite exclusive.’
‘Fair enough. What about Quintus?’
‘Ah. He’s more difficult. He doesn’t go out much, or at least not in the evenings, and as far as I know he has no set routine. I’m afraid I can’t really help you there.’
‘No problem.’ I might be able to get to him through Cornelia via Perilla, but that connection was clearly not one to spread around. Also, of course, one to be negotiated carefully. ‘No doubt I’ll manage, and Publius’ll be enough to be going on with for the present. Now. Cluvius Scarus.’
That got me a very circumspect look, and Quirinius cleared his throat.
‘You’ve heard about Scarus, then?’ he said neutrally.
‘Verania’s current bit of rough. Yeah, I know who he is. I need to talk to him too at some stage.’
‘He’s based at the gladiator school near the amphitheatre; that’s not far from here, actually, on the edge of town. But you may see him at the Honeycomb as well.’
My eyebrows rose. ‘He’s a member?’
‘Oh, yes. Quite a long-established one, in fact. You know he’s freeborn originally, and that he sold himself to the school for five years to clear his debts?’
‘Yeah. Yes, I knew that. More or less, anyway.’
‘He’d been a member of the Honeycomb for several years before that. And being a successful gladiator brings its own cachet; you’ll find that where the set he mixes with there is concerned Scarus is very much persona grata.’
Uh-huh. Well, that made sense: top-notch race-drivers and sword-fighters are celebrities in their own right, and even if the guy hadn’t come from a good family in the first place they’d still have welcomed him with open arms.
‘Thanks, Quirinius,’ I said. ‘Oh, one more name, one that Sextus Gratius mentioned, a guy called Medar.’
‘Ah. Yes. The harvester.’
‘What puzzles me is that he wasn’t pulled in for the killing originally. On suspicion, at least. I mean, he’s a prime suspect.’
‘Oh, he was. But he claimed to have been working at the time, and his crew backed him up. There being no evidence to the contrary’ – Quirinius shrugged – ‘well, he was let go. And then the whole thing fell into abeyance, and that was that.’
Yeah, we’d been there already. With no one pushing for a solution to the murder – including Governor Galba – there was no point in testing the truth of his alibi, one way or the other. ‘Gratius said he held Cestius responsible for the death of his son.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard that story. But it happened before I came out here, so I’ve no personal knowledge of the affair.’
‘Could you look into it for me? Find me someone to talk to who would know the details?’
‘Of course. I’ll let you know. What about Medar himself? You’ll want to talk to him personally, won’t you?’
‘Yeah. But he moves around, seemingly. Gratius is tracking him down for me.’
‘That’s all right, then.’ Quirinius stood up, drained his wine cup and set it on the table. ‘Well, if there’s nothing else you can think of at present I’ll leave you to your dinner.’
‘Thanks, pal.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ He turned to go, then turned back. ‘Oh, incidentally, I meant to give you one more bit of news, purely out of interest.’
‘Yeah? What’s that?’
‘We had another killing yesterday.’
‘You had what?’ I sat up.
‘Nothing mysterious. Simply a robbery that went wrong. Only I thought seeing as you’re–’
‘So who was it?’
‘A slave-trader by the name of Justus. Appius Justus.’
‘Local?’
‘No, he’d only been here for a couple of days. His body was found early this morning in an alleyway near the harbour. His partner says he had a bit of cash on him when he left their lodgings yesterday evening, and his money-belt was missing.’
‘Uh-huh. Partner?’
‘A freedman. Laenius Cycnus.’ Quirinius was frowning again. ‘Corvinus, what is this? It was a straightforward mugging. They happen here, not very often and not usually resulting in a death, I grant you, but they’re not all that uncommon.’
‘Maybe not. All the same, I might chase it up, if that’s okay.’
‘If you insist, then of course it is. But I can’t see why you should bother.’
‘Neither do I, really. Even so. Where would I find this Cycnus?’
‘He and Justus took a room above one of the harbour wineshops. The one opposite the quay where you landed, in fact.’
‘Fine. Enjoy your own dinner, pal. And thanks again.’
Quirinius left, the frown still in place.
‘Marcus, what on earth are you playing at?’ Perilla said when he’d gone. ‘The man is absolutely right; another murder it may have been, but it has nothing to do with Cestius’s, and so it’s no concern of yours.’
‘Is that so, now? Well, lady, I bow to your superior knowledge. Me, I don’t know at present one way or the other, whether it’s connected or not.’
‘For heaven’s sake! Cestius died two months ago, and this what’s-his-name–’
‘Appius Justus.’
‘Thank you. This Justus has only been in Carthage for five minutes.’
‘Three days.’
‘Three days, then. Don’t fudge. Besides, the motive was obviously robbery. He was probably simply targeted in the wineshop, followed when he left, murdered and robbed. These things happen. As Quirinius said, there’s no mystery involved.’
‘So where was he going?’
‘What?’
‘He was a stranger in Carthage, but he went out on his own yesterday evening and got himself killed. It’s a fair question: where was he going?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Exactly. That’s the point; me, I don’t know either. It’s an oddity, and at this stage of the game I can’t afford to ignore oddities of any sort.’
Perilla sighed. ‘Please yourself, dear. If you want to waste your time chasing wild geese then go ahead.’
‘I will. I also intend after dinner going to this club Quirinius mentioned, see if I can find young Publius.’
‘Oh, Marcus!’
‘I may as well do it now. Anyway, I’ve had my head down for a couple of hours, so I’m pretty much fresh again.’
‘All right. Just don’t enjoy yourself too much, will you?’
I grinned. ‘I’ll try not to, lady.’
That might be difficult, mind. The Honeycomb sounded quite an interesting place.
11.
I broke my usual habit and took a chair to the Honeycomb. Sensible: it was a moonless night, very few of the houses had torches burning outside them, and not knowing exactly where I was going I’d almost certainly have got lost. Besides, just in case I needed it I had the equivalent of several gold pieces in my belt-pouch, and I’d no intention of doing a Justus.
The chair lads decanted me outside the club; a largeish corner property in a street just off one of the main drags, with – as Quirinius had said – the place’s name written on the wall beside the door and a mosaic of the eponymous lump of filled wax beneath it to help the less literate of Carthaginian society. Not, given the pricey membership fee, there’d be very many of those among the Honeycomb’s clientele.
There was a door-slave standing outside who looked like he could break my spine with one hand and was just itching for the chance to prove it. He eyeballed me, then nodded, gave a sketchy salute, and stepped back. I went in.
A decent mosaic in the lobby, with, if I remembered my mythology, Aristaeus the bee-keeper chasing a scantily-clad Eurydice. All done very tastefully. The girl who took my cloak wasn’t wearing much more. She gave me a smile and a wooden ticket.
‘You haven’t been here before, sir?’ she said.
‘No. This is my first time.’
‘Then welcome to the Honeycomb. Just go straight through. Venusta will look after you.’
The place was quietly busy, which was what you’d expect of an exclusive club, although the women there – the male-female ratio was more or less evenly split – were obviously employees entertaining the paying punters. I looked around. Not bad, although definitely a provincial wannabe; the top places in Rome would have it beat six ways from nothing. Single large room, marble-tiled floor with another couple of mosaics, naturalistic this time, walls painted with architectural features and a pair of lively frescos that would’ve had the strait-laced faction reaching for the whitewash. Lighting by strategically-placed candelabra creating small brightly-lit islands of tables and couches while hiding the nooks and crannies at the edges in shadow; presumably the warm-up areas for the club’s third function, with the main event happening up the staircase beside the bar counter at the far end of the room.
