Going back, p.2
Going Back, page 2
part #20 of Marcus Corvinus Series
‘Perilla. She’s fine.’
‘Of course. Perilla.’ Not a beautiful mascara’d eyelash did she bat. ‘Now, pull up a stool. Make yourself comfortable.’ I did. ‘I suppose my son-in-law sent you, about this Carthage business.’
My son-in-law. Not Claudius Caesar. Lepida was always careful to stress her status, particularly since she’d know how shaky it actually was these days. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘He said you’d be able to fill me in a bit on the background before I left.’
‘Not to any great degree; about the actual circumstances, that is. I only know what Verania told me in her letter.’
‘Fine. Anything you can give me would help. Anything at all.’
‘Well, then.’ She settled back. ‘The man’s name was Cestius. Decimus Cestius. But you probably know that much at least already. Not one of Rome’s high flyers, I’m afraid; he only managed as far as a praetorship before he took poor Verania off to the back of beyond about fifteen years ago, and frankly, Corvinus, she was completely wasted on him. I told her so in my letters, many times, to absolutely no avail. Why she hadn’t got shot of the man ages since was a mystery to me.’
‘You don’t think they might just have been fond of each other?’
That got me a pitying look. ‘Don’t be silly. They were married. Oh, to give Verania her due it was an open marriage, she made sure of that. But for some arcane reason she didn’t seem to want a divorce.’ She sniffed. ‘Or perhaps the reason wasn’t too arcane, come to think of it. Believe me – and I speak from experience, both personal and at extensive second hand – to a married woman a truly complaisant husband is more precious than rubies, and so not to be given up lightly. Besides, Verania has always had, shall we say, a penchant for men below her station, and without the husband’s compliance, or indeed ignorance, that can cause no end of problems.’ She smiled. ‘But I’m embarrassing you.’
‘Uh...no. No, not at all.’
‘Nonsense, darling. Your ears have gone red. Anyway, that was the situation, as far as I know. Of course, Cestius was extremely wealthy, which was bound to have some bearing on the matter.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Absolutely dripping with the stuff. Well, he’d been out there for fifteen years, hadn’t he? What else is there to do in the provinces other than make money? Compared with Italy land is dirt cheap, if you’ll forgive the pun, as is the bought labour, and if you can stand being away from Rome for that length of time, the gods help us, you can do extremely well financially. I don’t know exactly how many square miles of the African hinterland the man owned, but it was a considerable number.’ She sniffed again. ‘Not that there would be much that was worth Verania’s spending the money on out there, mark you.’
Yeah, well, I certainly took the point about the land side of things. Together with Egypt and to a lesser extent Sicily the African coast is the bread-basket of the empire, and in a good year you’re looking at three harvests, easy. Bumper ones, at that, and with demand being what it was no problems about selling the crop. If Cestius was the kind of major landowner that Lepida said he was he’d be loaded and no mistake. Would’ve been loaded. Whatever. Which reminded me...
‘What about his heirs?’ I said. ‘He have any sons?’
‘Oh, yes. Two boys, Publius and Quintus. Although when I say boys they’re no such thing; Publius must be in his mid-twenties now, and Quintus is only three years younger. I did intend to ask Claudius if he’d put the elder’s name down for quaestor next year, but of course with the man’s death everything’s up in the air at present.’
Right; I supposed that made sense, particularly if – as Claudius had told me – the lad was scheduled to marry into a consular family. The post of city finance officer is the first real step in a political career, and in his parents’ absence as young Publius’s de facto patroness in Rome getting him it would’ve been Lepida’s job.
‘He’ll be coming back to Rome, then?’ I said. ‘The son, I mean.’
‘Yes, indeed. In fact, the whole family are, or at least they were before this happened. Not before time, as I say, as far as Verania is concerned, but better late than never.’
‘So it was a sudden decision?’
‘Oh, no, not at all. Cestius had been planning the move for years, ever since...well, to tell you the truth ever since he got the news that Gaius was dead and my son-in-law was emperor. They never really hit it off, you know, he and Gaius, and he didn’t think a move back to Rome – or even to Italy – would be practicable. Let alone safe. But everything was quite settled; he bought a rather nice property a year ago on the Quirinal, and he was negotiating for an estate near Veii. I’m not sure what stage that’s at, of course. Presumably with his death there’ll be some hiatus over probating the will, or whatever the expression is, so everything, as I mentioned, is probably in abeyance for the present.’
‘Okay. So what can you tell me about that, exactly? The death, I mean.’
‘I said: nothing much, only what Verania told me in her letter, which was not a lot. It happened about a month ago. Seemingly Cestius had ridden over in the morning to part of his estate to check on how the grain harvest was going. He failed to return by nightfall, and the next day the slaves sent out as a search party found first of all his horse and then his body. He’d been stabbed through the heart.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s all, really.’
Short and concise, and delivered with about as much feeling as if she’d been reciting a laundry list. Well, to be fair she’d no close links with the man, or at least I assumed she hadn’t, and from what she’d already told me not much sympathy with or liking for him to begin with. What interested me, though, was if that was really all she’d got from Verania’s letter – and I’d bet it had been a fair and honest summary – then it didn’t show much feeling on the part of the poor bugger’s widow, either. Still, to give her her due, Lepida had signalled that one as well: just because the pair had been married it didn’t presuppose that they’d liked, let alone loved, each other. We’d just have to shelve looking into that aspect of things, along with everything else, until we got to Carthage.
‘Uh...just one more question before I go,’ I said.
‘Of course. Anything you like.’
‘Nothing to do with the actual murder. Or not really. But I was just wondering. Why should you bother, yourself?’
‘Why should I bother to do what?’
‘To take the trouble to go to Claudius and ask him to look into this guy’s death. I mean, by your own showing you’d no time for him and you’d been trying to split him and his wife up for years. Me, I’d imagine that you’d be happy just to let things slide, especially if your friend Verania didn’t seem to be all that upset on her own account. I mean, if she’d asked you to take things to the emperor that’d be different, but I don’t imagine she did. Or am I wrong?’
‘No, Corvinus, you’re not wrong. In fact, you’re absolutely correct. Verania would never have wished her husband dead, of course she wouldn’t; as I say, they’d been together for, what, thirty-odd years. All the same–’ She stopped and frowned. ‘How can I put this? Pets. Did you ever have a pet, when you were younger? One that died, and that you’d been fond of? If it’s any help, think of Decimus Cestius as a favourite pet.’
Jupiter Best and Greatest! I just didn’t believe this, not even from Lepida! A pet, right? The guy had been this Verania’s husband for half a lifetime and she still thought of him as a fucking pet?
I just stared at her, which only got me another shrug. ‘I knew you wouldn’t understand,’ she said. ‘But believe me it’s a perfectly fair analogy. Quite an apt one, too, so whatever your personal feelings on the matter are I’d ask you to bear it in mind.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Still, that doesn’t answer the original question.’
‘Why I should use up a valuable favour by going to Claudius? But Corvinus, I’d no choice. Not only was Cestius the husband of one of my oldest and closest friends, he was also an ex-praetor. And you do not allow some provincial hobbledehoy to murder an ex-praetor without doing something about it. Of course I had to go to the emperor! What on earth else would you expect me to do?’
It was a genuine question, I could see that, and backed by genuine puzzlement. And put by the woman who’d just compared a husband of thirty years’ standing to a domestic pet.
Gods! I’ll never understand how people like Domitia Lepida’s minds work! Scratch even the most louche, world-weary upper-class Roman and the likelihood is you’ll find that whether they normally practise them or not they believe absolutely in the old code of values. They can’t help it; it’s bred in the bone.
I stood up. ‘Fair enough. Thanks for your help, Domitia Lepida.’
‘Don’t mention it, darling. Have a safe journey. And do give my very best regards to Verania when you see her.’
‘I will. Thanks again.’
I left.
When I got home Perilla was stretched out on her usual couch in the atrium with an open book roll in her hands.
‘Ah, Marcus, so you’re back. And in one piece, too,’ she said. ‘Congratulations. How was Lepida?’
‘Amazingly enough, she was fine. Quite affable, really.’ I kissed her cheek and lifted the title tag on the roll. ‘Claudius’s Carthaginian History, eh? You smarmer.’
‘Nothing of the kind. He sent it over himself as a gift, all eight volumes. Some light reading for the journey.’
‘Is that so, now?’ Me, I can never be sure, when the lady comes out with a statement like that, whether she’s being sarcastic or straight. Probably the latter; compared to some of the stuff Perilla classifies as ‘light reading’ Aeschylus’s Oresteia is a bodice-ripper. I settled down on the other couch, just as Bathyllus came in with the wine. ‘Packing going okay, little guy?’
He handed me the cup. ‘Of course, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘By the way, you, ah, are really intending to take Meton with us this time, are you?’
‘You have a problem with that?’
‘Not if you’re absolutely certain that it’s a good idea.’ If Bathyllus’s teeth had been gritted any further you’d’ve had to prise them apart with a crowbar. ‘I was just wondering, that’s all.’
I grinned to myself. Oh, sure, I knew where our control-freak major-domo was coming from: potentially Meton was the human (if you stretch the term) equivalent of a kef-stoned, migraine-suffering rhino let loose in a glassworks. Still, he’d lost out on the jaunt when we’d gone on our trip to Gaul two years before, and the resulting sulk when we got back had affected our dinner menu for a month. This time the situation was different. Oh, sure, travelling again as I would be as an accredited imperial rep I’d no doubt that any accommodation arranged for us would be five-star, which meant it’d come fully equipped staff-wise, chef included; but the package would also include a resident major-domo, and we were definitely taking Bathyllus with us. So leaving Meton behind for a second time just wouldn’t be fair. Besides, with only a three-day cheek-by-jowl journey involved rather than the month-long trek we’d had to get to where we were going last time around we wouldn’t be stuck with the bugger’s direct company for all that long.
‘Bathyllus, read my lips,’ I said. ‘Meton is coming with us, and there’s an end of it. You’ll just have to rub along together as best you can.’
‘Very well, sir.’ A sniff. ‘On your own head be it. I only hope you won’t live to regret it, that’s all.’
‘Bugger off, sunshine.’
‘As you wish.’ Bathyllus buggered off, his whole body language radiating terminal disapproval and pure concentrated miffedness.
‘So, dear.’ Perilla set the book roll aside. ‘What did Lepida have to say?’
I gave her the gist, including the bit about the domestic pet.
‘Hmm.’ She frowned. ‘It doesn’t sound too happy a household, does it?’
‘Lepida could be wrong in her assessment. We only have her word for things.’
‘I doubt it, Marcus. Or not far wrong, anyway. After all, by her own showing she’s known this Verania for years. And they are close friends; that argues a certain similarity of nature.’
‘Yeah, I suppose it does.’ I took a swallow of the wine. ‘All the same, it’s far too early to make value judgments. Me, I’ll wait until I’ve actually met the woman. What’s our timetable, by the way? Any updates?’
‘Not really.’ We were the only passengers this time around, and Claudius’s message had said that the ship would be waiting for us at Ostia whenever we were ready to sail. ‘The packing’s practically all done, barring a few bits and pieces, and I’ve sent word to Marilla and Clarus that we’ll be away for the foreseeable future in case they were thinking of coming through.’ Marilla and Clarus were our adopted daughter and her husband down in Castrimoenium. ‘So we can more or less start whenever you like.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Call it three days’ time.’ Ah, the carefree joys of travelling as an imperial rep! I could get used to this. And, pace Domitia Lepida, at least this time we weren’t heading off into the sticks altogether. It might be quite fun.
There was still the little matter of solving the murder, of course.
3.
We left with Lysias the coach driver for Ostia an hour before dawn three days before the Kalends, the ‘we’ being Perilla, me, and Perilla’s maid Phryne: I’d sent Bathyllus and Meton on ahead with the slow-as-paint-drying luggage cart the day before, with Alexis the gardener driving it and under strict instructions to keep the two stroppy buggers in order.
The ship, it transpired when we got to the quay and de-carriaged, was the ‘Leucothea’, the same as had taken us to Massilia and back two years before. Sure enough, Bathyllus and Alexis were waiting for us on deck, together with the captain, but there was no sign of Meton. Ominous. I just hoped Bathyllus hadn’t taken the opportunity to sandbag the bugger during the hours of darkness and pitched him over the side; another murder this early in the game I could do without.
‘Have a good trip, sunshine?’ I said to Bathyllus. ‘Everything safely loaded?’
‘Yes, sir.’ We might still be tied securely to the quay, but Bathyllus was looking pale already; he’s no sailor, Bathyllus, even worse a one than I am, which is saying something. ‘There’s only what you’ve brought with you, and Alexis will help Lysias to bring that aboard now.’
‘That’s great. Thanks, Alexis.’ Alexis gave me a nod and went back over the gangplank, with a shy glance at Phryne in passing: our gardener might not exactly be a callow youngster any longer, but he was still more comfortable with plants than women, particularly if they were little stunners like Phryne. ‘Uh...where’s Meton, by the way?’
‘I really couldn’t say, sir.’ Bathyllus sniffed. And frankly, his tone suggested, I couldn’t give a monkey’s.
I grinned; yeah, par for the course on both sides, although on a ship the size of the ‘Leucothea’ anyone’s exact whereabouts couldn’t be all that much of a mystery for long. Still, if the pair of them had reached a modus vivendi that would last for the duration of the voyage involving mutual ignorance, selective blindness, and scrupulous avoidance then that was absolutely fine by me.
‘He’s aft, sir, in your cabin, looking after the food basket.’ The captain glanced sideways at Bathyllus. ‘Your other slave suggested it. He, ah, thought it wise, under the circumstances.’ Uh-huh. Alexis, of course, had always had his head screwed on tight, and the captain was evidently no fool either; no doubt, being the sea-faring man that he was, he could spot a potential squall developing and take action before it scuppered us. ‘A pleasure to see you again, Valerius Corvinus. And the Lady Rufia, of course.’
‘Likewise,’ I said. ‘All ready to roll, are we? To coin a phrase.’
He stifled a wince, which was reasonable under the circumstances: ship’s captains aren’t particularly known for their humour, especially where allusions to their ships are concerned. ‘Whenever you like,’ he said. ‘We’ve a good wind. And the going should be quite smooth at this time of year.’
Thank Neptune for that, at least; like I say, I’m not at my best away from land – no true Roman is – and although judging by past experience the Leucothea was about as stable a ship as anyone could expect I’d no desire to spend the next few days crouched over a bowl throwing my guts up. ‘Fair enough, captain,’ I said. ‘In your own time, then.’
We left him hoisting the marline-spike and clewing the hawsers, or whatever nautical men do to get things moving, and went aft to settle in. That’s another good thing about travelling imperial class. Book yourself as supercargo on a merchantman and you’re lucky not to have to bed down in the open under a canopy, but those little beauties are built for comfort as well as speed, and we had that anomalous luxury, a cabin to ourselves. Not exactly all the comforts of home, but the next thing to it.
Meton, sure enough, was in temporary residence, sitting on one of the two couch-beds clutching his best set of knives and watching over his food basket like a particularly evil goblin with his chest of gold. Which, in Meton’s terms, at least where the last phrase was concerned, summed things up pretty nicely: they may have most of the comforts of home, sure, but even imperial yachts don’t run to fully-equipped kitchens, and like usually happens on sea trips we’d brought our food with us. Good stuff, too, albeit of necessity to be served cold: thrawn, evil-minded sod our chef might be in other ways, but when it came to the comestibles he was a true professional.
When we came in, he grunted and stood up, although in the confines of the tiny cabin and Meton being Meton, ‘loomed’ would be a better term.
‘So you got here, then,’ he said.
