No Cause for Concern Read online

  NO CAUSE FOR CONCERN

  by David Wishart

  Copyright 2012 David Wishart

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No Cause for Concern is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual present-day events, or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  (Only main characters are given)

  Corvinus’s family, household and friends

  Agron: Corvinus’s Illyrian friend, living in Ostia. His wife is Cass

  Bathyllus: the major-domo

  Lippillus, Decimus Flavonius: Commander of the Public Ponds Watch. His wife is Marcina Paullina

  Meton: the chef

  Perilla, Rufia: Corvinus’s wife

  Others

  Alexander: Cleia’s brother

  Astrapton, Gaius: Eutacticus’s accountant

  Bellarius, Quintus: a friend of Titus Luscius’s

  Cleia: Sempronia’s maid

  Critias: Eutacticus’s major-domo

  Daistratus: an artist

  Eutacticus, Publius Sempronius: an organized-crime boss

  Liber, Lucius Statius: Sempronia’s fiancé, in Beneventum

  Luscius, Titus: Occusia’s missing son

  Lynchus: Titus Luscius’s slave

  Occusia: Eutacticus’s wife

  Paetinius, Publius: Father and son. The elder Paetinius is Eutacticus’s former partner

  Satrius, aka Laughing George: Eutacticus’s chief heavy

  Sempronia: Eutacticus’s daughter

  Sestia Galla: Eutacticus’s ex-wife, now the wife of Paetinius Senior

  The story takes place in October AD38.

  CHAPTER ONE

  So that was that. We’d got Clarus and Marilla firmly hitched with only a few minor glitches, such as the senile octogenarian priest who’d overseen the ceremony deciding half way through the wedding supper that the assembled guests would really, really appreciate a song about an Ostian bargee, and now it was back to Rome and the same heady round of fun and excitement. I’d just spent a very pleasant couple of hours propping up the bar of Renatius’s wineshop shooting the breeze with the punters over a jug of Spoletan and was heading along Iugarius towards a shave-and-haircut in Market Square when the heavies came up on me from behind.

  You know that feeling when you seem to be in two times and two places at once. Add to it a moment of extreme agony as you find yourself suddenly sandwiched between a pair of overmuscled gorillas with biceps straight off a marble statue and you more or less have the picture. It was like being hugged by an alleyway.

  I glanced left and right. And up.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ I said. ‘You’re Eutacticus’s boys, right?’

  The gorilla squeezing me on the left gave me a grin; I’d only ever known him as Laughing George, but no doubt his white-haired old mother had another name for him, probably ‘You Bastard!’.

  ‘Well remembered, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Got it in one. The boss wants to see you.’

  Again? Oh, joy in the morning; don’t four years just flash past when you’re having fun. And another chat with Sempronius Eutacticus, organised crime’s equivalent of a crocodile with attitude, wouldn’t even figure in a masochist’s definition of the phrase.

  ‘Care to tell me what about?’ My shoulders felt like they had parted company with my arms and moved up to the level of my ears. My rib-cage wasn’t too happy about things, either.

  ‘No.’

  Ah, well, short and concise. Par for the course, where Laughing George was concerned, and I wasn’t going to argue. I wasn’t going to try running or screaming kidnap, either, because if I’d learned anything from my previous encounter with Eutacticus it was to go with the flow, because if you didn’t the flow was liable to wash you down a very deep hole and put the lid on.

  ‘So we’re going to the Pincian,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No transport this time?’

  ‘It’s a nice afternoon. We thought we’d walk.’ The grin broadened, showing teeth like the cheapest bricks in a third-rate tenement. ‘Besides, the boss told us you don’t like litters.’

  ‘Right. Right.’

  Well, he was thorough, Eutacticus, I’d give him that. Still, I’d’ve liked to’ve been asked.

  * * *

  It wasn’t a chatty journey: Laughing George wasn’t to be drawn, and his pal had all the conversational pazazz of a brick. We headed in close-knit silence up Broad Street past the Saepta and Agrippa Field into the rarefied atmosphere of the Pincian Hill, where money - mostly new money - doesn’t just talk, it struts its stuff with a megaphone. I remembered Eutacticus’s place as soon as I saw it: tritons on the gateposts, score high for flash and zilch for taste, the worst the Pincian could throw at you and then some more on top. The statues flanking the driveway that led up to the house alone would’ve kept the quarry-owners in Luna in sturgeon and bears’ paws for a year, and the greenery providing the backdrop had been topiaried to within an inch of its life.

  Laughing George nodded to the guy on the gate, and we were in. Then it was past another half dozen of scowling prime-rate bought help, up the cedar staircase and the deferential tap on the ivory-inlaid study door.

  ‘Come in.’

  We did. The lad himself was on the reading couch, doing his crocodile-in-the-swamp-waiting-for-lunch impression. That wasn’t the surprise. The surprise was the woman sitting on a chair next to him: a little, mousey, middle-aged Roman matron like a straight-backed dumpling wearing a hairdo and jewellery and just radiating Respectability and Traditional Family Values. If old Marcus Cato, bless his puritanical socks, had had a mum, then this lady was a dead ringer for her.

  ‘Valerius Corvinus. Good of you to come.’ The crocodile jaws spread in a smile as genuine as a tin denarius. ‘How nice to see you again.’

  ‘Yeah, well -’

  ‘Thank you, Satrius. That’s all.’ Laughing George exited. ‘Corvinus, this is my wife Occusia. She’ll be the one talking to you.’ He got up. ‘I thought, though, that I should be here when you arrived. Just so we’re absolutely clear where we stand.’

  ‘Namely?’ I massaged my shoulders.

  ‘I need a favour, and in the light of our last encounter I believe you’re the right man to ask. Do what Occusia asks, and I’ll be very grateful. Very grateful indeed. Turn her down, or fudge things, and – watch my lips here, please – you’ll wish that you’d never been born.’ The smile broadened. ‘Your choice, absolutely no pressure. You understand?’

  ‘Ah –’

  ‘Good. I’m glad. Now if you’ll excuse me I have work to do.’

  Scams to run, magistrates to square, bodies to hide. Busy, busy, busy. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Sure. Have a nice day.’

  He left, closing the door behind him.

  * * *

  Shit.

  We stared at each other, the Respectable Dumpling and me, for a good half minute. Then she cleared her throat.

  ‘He’s a lovely man, really,’ she said. ‘When you get to know him. Pour yourself a cup of wine, Valerius Corvinus, and sit down.’

  There was a tray with a silver wine jug and cups on the table in the corner. I went over and poure
d myself a badly-needed whopper.

  ‘You mean he didn’t mean it?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yes. Publius always says what he means. But there’s no real malice in him, that’s just his way.’

  Oh, whoopee. I took a major swig of the wine – first-grade Falernian, as if I’d expected anything less –, gave myself a top-up and took the cup over to the reading couch. Well, if my balls were properly in the mangle here – which they undoubtedly were – I might as well grin and accept the situation. For the time being, anyway.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘So what’s this favour?’

  ‘I want you to find my son. Titus.’

  Oh, really? ‘Gods, lady, if Eutacticus wanted me to find his son for him then why not just –?’

  ‘No. Titus isn’t Publius’s, he’s mine. From a previous marriage. Publius is his stepfather.’

  ‘Same difference. Why couldn’t he have told me himself?’

  ‘It’s complicated. He can’t be involved.’ She fixed me with anxious, mousey eyes.

  ‘Okay.’ I set the cup down on the small table next to the couch. ‘So maybe it’ll save us a bit of time if you just start at the beginning and talk me through it.’

  The mousey eyes blinked. ‘Publius and I were married two years ago. He’d been divorced for twenty years, I’d been widowed for ten. He had a daughter - that’s Sempronia - and I had a son, Titus. He’s just turned twenty-two. Such a lovely boy, and we were so grateful to Publius for taking us in. However, to tell you the truth, they’ve never really got on. And recently it’s got worse. Much worse.’

  Uh-huh. I was beginning to see the light here, and it wasn’t too difficult to guess what was coming next. ‘Your son’s done a runner?’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘He left a note for Publius saying he was leaving, and if he found out that Publius was using his contacts to track him down he’d never see him again. He meant it, too. Titus can be quite stubborn, and he’s just as strong-willed in his own way as Publius is. Publius was very upset. He was planning to adopt him formally in spite of’ – she hesitated – ‘well, Titus wasn’t very keen to take his name, what with one thing and another. He never has been.’

  Right. So what we’d got here was the old story of the domineering father – stepfather, in this case – straight-arming his son to do something he didn’t want to do, and the son taking the simplest way out. I could understand that: I’d been through it myself when I was a lot younger than this Titus. And I’d bet that when it came to straight-arming, Eutacticus wouldn’t exactly be subtlety personified. Still, the young guy sounded like he was no soft touch, either, and reading between the lines I’d guess that ‘they’ve never really got on’ was a whopping understatement. Life in the Eutacticus household over the past couple of years must’ve been fun, fun, fun.

  ‘You have any idea where he might’ve gone?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m fairly certain about that. His...my late husband was an actor.’ She blushed: in the social scheme of things, actors rank about as high as fluteplayers and jugglers, which means barely into the sentient bracket. ‘An actor-manager, actually. He had a company that worked the north as far as Perusia, playing the local theatres. He took Titus with him as soon as he was old enough, and Titus loved it. Then when Marcus - that was my husband, Marcus Luscius - died his brother Sextus took over the troupe, and Titus went along with him every year, acting the female leads. Only when we married, Publius thought it wasn’t very...you know, not the proper thing, and he stopped him doing it. Titus wasn’t happy about that at all.’

  ‘So you think he’s gone off to join his uncle?’

  ‘I’m almost sure of it. I don’t know exactly where they’ll be at present – it’s quite late in the season now, so they’ll probably be working their way back – but you could ask Sextus’s wife Tullia. She should know.’

  ‘She’s here in Rome?’

  ‘Yes, on the Aventine. I’ve written down directions so you can find her.’ She took a rolled-up piece of paper from her mantle and handed it to me. ‘Valerius Corvinus, I know this is... Publius goes at things like a bull at a gate, it’s a great deal to ask, particularly as it’s really so trivial, but I honestly am grateful.’

  Yeah, right. Mind you, I knew how young Titus Luscius – presumably that was still the kid’s name, if he hadn’t been formally adopted yet – felt; it would’ve taken real guts to go against a stepfather like Eutacticus. And the chances were several thousand to one that there was no real cause for concern: he had simply – sensibly – taken off for the tall timber and was doing something he enjoyed for a change. On the other hand, Eutacticus had made it very clear that a refusal on my part to look for him wasn’t an option, and messing with that bastard wasn’t a hassle I needed. Trivial or not, no cause for concern or not, I was stuck with the job.

  ‘That’s okay, lady,’ I said. ‘It’s not your fault. I’ll do what I can.’ I swallowed the last of my wine and stood up. ‘Was there anything else? I mean, did he take anything with him? Money, for example?’

  ‘I don’t know, but probably. Money wouldn’t’ve been a problem. Publius lets him have as much as he likes, when he likes. He’s very generous, to both of us.’ Occusia stood up too. ‘Oh, he did take his personal slave with him. Lynchus. That was no surprise. They’ve been together since they were children, and they’re more friends than slave and master.’

  ‘Right. Well, it’s a start, anyway. Fair enough, I’ll let you know how I get on.’ I was on my way to the door, but then I stopped. ‘One thing. If I do find him, what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Persuade him to come back. If you can.’

  ‘And if he won’t come?’

  The mousey eyes blinked at me again. ‘I don’t know.’

  Great. There’s nothing like firm instructions from a client. But we’d cross that bridge when we came to it.

  * * *

  Laughing George – I supposed I’d better call him Satrius, now we’d been formally introduced – wasn’t in evidence: probably he’d had a hard day’s mugging and needed to curl up with a good book and a cup of warm milk. I was heading for the stairs, but I’d only got half way when a door further along the gallery opened and a girl came towards me. Forget mousey dumpling, this one was a stunner: early twenties, smallish but compact, midnight-dark hair and the poise of an Imperial. Sempronia, presumably, but if so then she didn’t take after her father.

  I stopped.

  ‘Valerius Corvinus?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m Sempronia. I was wondering if I could have a word with you before you go.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Not here, please. In private. Come into my room.’

  ‘Ah –’

  ‘Oh, it’s all right. My maid’s there already.’

  ‘Fine, then.’ I followed her into the room she’d come out of. Not a bedroom, a day-room with couches. The maid, a wispy little thing about the same age, was sitting on a stool in the far corner, hands clasped in her lap and eyes lowered. Puffy face: she looked like she’d been crying a lot recently. She didn’t look up as we came in, and the girl ignored her.

  ‘Have a seat, please.’

  I sat down on one of the couches and she lay down opposite me.

  ‘You’ve talked to my stepmother. And my father.’

  ‘Yeah, well, not so much to the latter,’ I said. ‘It was mostly one way. Let’s just say we communicated.’

  ‘Yes.’ Voice as expressionless as her face. ‘He can be a bit like that. Or a lot like that, really. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s okay. I wasn’t expecting anything different.’

  ‘I thought someone had better tell you a bit more about Titus. And the situation here. More than my stepmother probably did, at any rate. If you’re going to look for him then you need to know the whole picture.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said cautiously. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Occusia told you about the quarrel?’

  ‘Not as such, no. But there’d ha
ve to have been one, so I sort of took it as read.’

  ‘Mm.’ She rested her chin on her hand. ‘It happened the evening before he left, but it’d been building for months. Years, really, ever since Father married again. He wanted Titus to be part of the firm. That’s what he calls it, by the way.’ Her voice was still neutral. ‘I did have a brother once, a real one, but he died of a fever a year before the wedding. Titus was the replacement.’

  ‘Only he doesn’t want to be?’

  ‘No. Titus hates everything about my father. He would’ve stopped Occusia marrying him at all if he could, but she talked him round. It was that or starve, or go crawling to Tullia and her husband. Did Occusia mention Tullia?’

  ‘Her sister-in-law. Yeah.’

  ‘Well, they’ve never got on, and she and Sextus Luscius are living on the breadline in any case. So Father it was. Not that it was much of a hardship. As long as he gets his way, Father’s a pussycat.’

  Oh, really? ‘And if he doesn’t?’

  Her eyes rested on me for a moment, then shifted aside: okay, it had been a pretty stupid question at that. ‘Titus fought a running battle with my father for two years,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t be adopted, he wouldn’t get involved with the firm. Oh, he never got into an argument. At a certain point he just said “No”, very politely, and Father didn’t press him any further. That was the situation until three days ago.’

  ‘The day of the quarrel?’

  She nodded. ‘Father took him into the study and told him he’d had enough. He was going to make a formal application for adoption, and unless Titus gave him his full co-operation he was out completely. He also hinted that he’d start divorce proceedings against my stepmother.’

  Shit! ‘He’d do that?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Couldn’t he just have adopted someone else? I mean, brought them into the family as an heir? It’s done all the time, and with his money he could pick and choose.’