Bodies Politic Read online

  Where the supernumeraries were concerned we were travelling light. Bathyllus was staying behind to look after the house: the little guy was an even worse sailor than I was, and I doubted if when we got to Alexandria our fingers-crossed-host Stratocles’s major-domo, whoever he was, would welcome the little guy butting in with helpful suggestions on running the household. Which, as inevitably as night follows day, he would. That hassle I could do without. The same went for Meton the chef. In spades. He’d packed us a huge hamper of the sort of goodies that would keep best on the trip, and that plus what the young sous-chef we were taking along could rustle up would have to do us. If the choice was living on salami and cheese for the duration and being the cause of a full-scale turf war in Stratocles’s kitchen I’d take the sausage any day. So we were down to Alexis, three more assorted skivvies, including the sous-chef, and Perilla’s maid Procne, who’d do for Marilla as well. Lysias and his co-drivers would come as far as Brindisi and then take the vehicles back.

  Me, I hate travelling, although if you’ve got to do it and have the time to spare a sleeping carriage is the best way because at least the thing’s comfortable. We were both well-equipped. Perilla had brought along a couple of large book-boxes filled with what looked like half the Pollio, and I’d laid in a decent supply of Setinian plus a Robbers board and pieces: I’m no games player, normally, but Clarus was, and you have to do something to pass the time besides watching the scenery. Scenery you can keep.

  We made the pickup no bother. Clarus and Marilla were waiting outside the roadside wineshop at the crossroads.

  ‘Everything okay, Princess?’ I hugged her.

  ‘Oh, yes. No problems.’ She was looking as bright as a button as usual, and excited as hell. ‘Corvinus, this is great! Thanks for asking us.’

  ‘Pleasure. Hi, Clarus.’ We shook. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Fine.’ He’d filled out in the few months since I’d seen him. Grown, too: he’d be as big as I was, easy. A lot more serious, though, but then that was no bad thing.

  ‘What’s that?’ I pointed at the case he was carrying. It had thin wooden sides covered with leather, like a book-box, but it was rectangular rather than round and there was a clasp under the handle.

  ‘Basic medical kit.’ He grinned. ‘Dad put it together for me. We thought it might come in useful.’

  ‘You got anything for sea-sickness? Because, pal, I’ll tell you now that I’m going to need it, for one.’

  ‘Oh, yes. There isn’t much call for sea-sickness pills up here, but Dad made them specially and he says they should work. Not that I’ve ever tried them out on anyone personally.’

  ‘Always a first, boy, always a first.’ The slaves were transferring luggage from Marilla and Clarus’s carriage to our cart, and changing the horses for the fresh ones they’d brought from Bovillae: we’d be travelling through the night to pick up a bit of distance, with Alexis and the two skivvies spelling Lysias and the cart-drivers. ‘Quick cup of wine while we’re waiting?’

  ‘Sure, if you like.’ He’s no wine-drinker, Clarus - that’s another difference between us - but he’s quite happy to sit and sip. Besides, Perilla and the Princess were talking wedding business, which I’d had up to the ears.

  We went inside. Inns out in the sticks are pretty hit-and-miss - you wouldn’t want to spend the night in one, for a start - but the Bovillae crossroads is fairly major, and of course there’s a lot of passing traffic. The place wasn’t crowded, by any means, but there were a few punters at the bar counter and sitting around the tables, which is always a good sign. It was clean, too, and that’s not something you take for granted. I had a look at the board: not a bad list, but then this close to the Alban Hills it shouldn’t be.

  All in all, a pretty good place.

  ‘Half a jug of the Fundanan, pal,’ I said to the innkeeper. ‘You serve meals, by the way? Not to eat in; to take out.’ We didn’t have time to stop for dinner, but some hot food would be welcome

  ‘Sure.’ The guy reached for an empty half jug and filled it from the jar. ‘Hare stew. Lentils with leeks. Or I can grill you some sausages.’

  I poured the Fundanan into the cups he set in front of us and sipped. Not bad. Not bad at all. Always judge a place by its wine. ‘Make it all three, I said. ‘Enough for twelve. No, that’s thirteen with the carriage-driver. Can you manage that?’

  ‘No bother, sir. Ready in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Fine.’ That’s another thing about inns next to major roads, they’re geared up to takeaways and really fast food. I turned back to Clarus. ‘Incidentally, the sketches for those busts. Did Paullus manage to get them done in time?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He came through four or five days ago and was finished in an hour. Perfect likenesses. He’s good, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah. Quite a find, young Paullus.’

  ‘He said he’d have the busts themselves done by mid-September.’

  ‘Great.’ Well, that was a relief. If there’d been a hitch with her wedding present Mother would’ve killed me. ‘Everything okay otherwise?’

  ‘No problems.’ He hesitated. ‘Paullus said you’d got him to do some sketches yourself. Or one, anyway. Of someone you were trying to find.’

  I took a swig of the wine. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You find him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Corvinus, are you on a case here? I mean, this sudden trip to Alexandria. It’s not just for pleasure, is it?’

  Bugger: he’s sharp, is Clarus. Still, he’d’ve got to know sooner or later anyway. ‘No, it isn’t. And yeah, I suppose you could call it a case if you wanted to.’

  ‘Fantastic!’ He beamed. ‘Marilla was wondering. She’ll be delighted.’

  Oh, hell. Time for some ground rules. ‘Look, pal,’ I said, ‘we’ve been through this before. Whatever I’m doing, as far as you and the Princess are concerned you’re on holiday. Especially the Princess. See the sights, shop, have a good time, let me faff around how I like. That is final, okay?’

  ‘You want to tell me what it’s about?’

  ‘No.’

  He shrugged. ‘Please yourself. But unless you can arrange to go deaf for the duration you’re going to have a hard time of it between now and Alexandria. The girl is no pushover, believe me, and she is very, very persistent.’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know, pal. Even so, it’s no business of yours.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Clarus said.

  ‘That we will. Just don’t mention it to her, right?’

  ‘I won’t have to. She’ll find out anyway.’

  ***

  ‘Alexis, stop the carriage! Stop the bloody carriage!’

  ‘Oh, Marcus, not again! That’s the fifth time tonight!’

  ‘Bloody, bloody hare stew!’

  ‘No one else has had any problems with it, dear. Drink some more of Clarus’s stomach mixture.’

  ‘Fuck the stomach mixture! Just move over so I can get out of the fucking door!’

  ‘Marcus!’

  Ah, the joys of travelling.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  We reached Brindisi on the afternoon of the eleventh day. The boat would be loading the next morning and sailing at noon, so I booked us into a suite at one of the big guest houses along the coast from the harbour itself: being the main port for Greece and the east, with a fair-sized slice of its population from March to November in transit to elsewhere, Brindisi has these rarities, and they’re not bad, catering as they do for the middle class bracket of the market who don’t have friends to stay with locally but wouldn’t go near the fleapits which are the traveller’s only usual alternative. Certainly it’d do for one night, and after the carriage, comfortable as it was, I was looking forward to a real bed for a change. Especially since it’d be the last real bed I’d get until we landed.

  Perilla was opening the doors of the three rooms that led off a common sitting area with couches and a table.

  ‘But it’s lovely, Marcus!’ she said.
‘So compact! There’re even window-boxes with flowers. Which one do you want, Marilla?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind.’

  ‘Then Marcus and I will take the one on the end. They’ve all got the same view, so you’re right, it doesn’t really matter. Just put our trunk in there,’ she said to the slaves with the luggage. ‘Marcus, did you ask about dinner?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘There’s a big communal dining room downstairs. Or we can have it up here.’

  ‘Oh, I think the dining room would be quite fun. We can have a look at it anyway, and decide later.’

  ‘There’s a bath suite as well.’

  ‘Fantastic! I would kill for a bath.’ She grinned. ‘This place really is marvellous, isn’t it, dear? Much more the east than Italy. Why don’t they have them more often?’

  Good question. Well, like I said, being the major port for Greece Brindisi works to different standards from the usual Italian towns. We could be back in Antioch.

  ‘So what do you want to do?’ I said. ‘Dinner’s towards sunset and we’ve got practically the whole afternoon to play with.’

  ‘Marilla?’ she said.

  ‘A bath sounds great. After ten days in the carriage I stink.’

  ‘Fine, dear. Then we can go out and have a look at the town. There must be something to see, and it’s not too hot. Marcus?’

  ‘I’d rather stretch my legs first. I thought I might go along to the harbour, check where the Erytheis is berthed.’ The Erytheis was the ship we’d be travelling on. ‘Clarus?’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Clarus said. ‘Have the bath later.’

  ‘Okay. Rendezvous back here in time for dinner. Where have they put you, pal?’ I said to Alexis, who was supervising the luggage-slaves.

  ‘In the attics, sir. Very comfortable. And there’s even a servants’ dining hall, too.’

  All mod cons. I was impressed with this place, they thought of everything: put up in your usual Italian flop-house and the bought help slept and ate where they could. Bathyllus would still’ve been miffed, mind. The little guy’s wants were few and simple, but a bed under the tiles just didn’t square with them.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘We’ll get off. See you later.’

  ***

  It was good to have real pavement under my sandals again. And like Perilla had said it wasn’t too hot: the north-easterly breeze that’d take us direct to Alexandria kept the air moving. We walked along the corniche past the other guest houses and upmarket private properties towards the harbour complex proper.

  ‘It’s huge,’ Clarus said. ‘Much bigger than I’d expected.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I’d just been thinking that myself. Brindisi’s harbour - harbours, rather - fills both sides of the long branching inlet that stretches in from the coast proper towards the heart of the town. It isn’t just a mercantile port - that would make it big enough - but a naval one as well, and there’re broad no-go areas where the warships are berthed, filled with government offices, warehouses and shipyards, plus barracks for the crews. I knew the Erytheis sailed from pier forty-seven, but it’d be like finding a needle in a haystack. ‘Still, we can ask someone.’

  No problems on that score, mind. Once we were into the port complex the place was heaving with people and carts, making it difficult to move at all. I stopped a slave carrying a bale of cloth bigger than he was on his shoulder. ‘Excuse me, pal,’ I said. ‘We’re looking for pier forty-seven.’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. Try the harbour-master’s office. Straight ahead, small square on your right with the fountain outside.’

  ‘Thanks.’ We went on, pushing our way through the crowds. Jupiter, it was a good job I’d thought to check in advance. How the hell we’d manage to get the luggage cart through this lot the next day I didn’t know. As for the sleeping carriage, forget it. We could hire litters, of course, but it’d probably be easier to walk.

  We found the office, though, no bother, and got directions: Pier forty-seven was in the inner harbour, half way along the northerly inlet, which was good news because it meant we could take the cart further round the edge towards the town centre and come in that way. Still, when we found it I’d walk the route just to make sure.

  The piers themselves, when we reached them, weren’t nearly so crowded: plenty of boats, sure, but only a few were actually being loaded. Even so, if they were you had to watch out for cranes: the bigger, heavier stuff has to be swung aboard mechanically rather than carried, and a pillar-drum or a twenty-gallon wine jar can make a real mess of your head if you don’t see it coming. And with their sailing schedules to think of the guys doing the loading don’t have much regard for unauthorised pedestrians.

  I asked another slave for directions and he pointed me another fifty yards or so along.

  ‘There she is,’ I said.

  The Erytheis was a lot bigger than your usual merchantman, which would be because of the extra cabin space: cargo ships per se carry passengers, sure, but they’re not equipped for them, and unless you have the clout to rate a share of the deckhouse it means bunking down in the hold along with the cargo and probably some of the crew as well, or in the open under an awning. I reckoned Alexis had done us proud. If I was going to spend the next ten days throwing my guts up - which I was - then I’d rather do it in private. She looked fairly new, too, and sleeker than the normal round-bellied washtub. Again, good news: we might be sailing at the best time of year, but on anything other than a flat sea with a stiff wind behind to keep them going these bastards wallow like a pig in muck.

  I called, but there was no one aboard, which since the gangplank was missing added up.

  ‘Okay, Clarus,’ I said. ‘She’s there and we’ve seen her. Onwards and upwards, pal. Carry on into town, maybe find a wineshop for a quick half jug on the way back home. Then a slow bath. Suit you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  We walked along the pier in the direction we’d been going, past the cargo stacks and the warehouses behind them, me in front, Clarus behind. I turned round. ‘It should be easy enough to -’

  ‘Down!’ Clarus yelled.

  Something moved in the corner of my eye, coming at me fast from the side, head height. I threw myself flat. The crane hook hissed past above me like a sigh, stopped, then swung back, its heavy iron block shattering one of the big terracotta pots in the cargo stack to my right. Pottery fragments tinkled on the concrete.

  ‘Shit!’ I got up and looked round. The guy was off and running, back the way between the cargo and the warehouses. ‘After him!’

  We piled in, neck and neck. Gods, I wasn’t up to this any more! Two lung-bursting sprints inside of a month was too many; my calf muscles hadn’t recovered from the last one yet, and I’d just spent eleven days sitting on my backside in a carriage. Even so, I was damned if the bastard was going to get away. Not this time.

  And it was the same man who’d almost killed me with the cart, I could see that even from the back when he veered onto the pier access road proper about fifty yards ahead of us. Or at least it was the same man as the one who’d threatened me in the Augustus Market wineshop, which I’d bet was the same thing. Fuck! He’d followed us all the way to Brindisi!

  We were gaining; or Clarus was, because he was pulling ahead, dodging round the punters going about their lawful business or more likely stopped and staring at whatever the hell could be going on here. I gritted my teeth and put my hand to my aching side.

  And then the guy made his mistake. It was easy enough: the access road forked at a big warehouse, with the left fork taking you round the back but meeting up again with the line of the inlet and leading, eventually, to the main drag we’d come in by. The right-hand fork simply led onto one of the projecting piers. And it was a dead end.

  Chummie went the wrong way.

  I didn’t realise it myself at first; there was nothing to show, and because the fork followed the water’s edge it was the more likely of the two. But then I saw the clear water at the end of the road and on either side,
and I knew we’d got the bastard after all.

  He realised it too. He stopped, turned, drew a knife from his belt and waited. Yeah, it was the guy from the wineshop, right enough.

  ‘Clarus, be careful!’ I shouted. Bugger; this I didn’t need.

  Clarus slowed to a walk. He was about twenty yards ahead of me, ten from the guy with the knife. The pier was empty, and there was only one boat moored there, right where they were standing, lines holding it fore and aft.

  Clarus stooped, and his hand came up holding an iron bar; maybe the axle of a winch or a marline-spike or whatever you call these bits of recherché nautical equipment. He moved forward slowly.

  ‘Don’t be a fool! Leave him!’ I was almost up to them now.

  The guy grinned, spread his arms wide, the knife held low, and took a step backwards...

  And then his heel must’ve caught against the moored ship’s bow-rope, because he went arse over tip over the side of the pier. There was a splash.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ I covered the last few feet between me and Clarus, and we looked down.

  There was at least eight feet between us and the surface of the water. He was floundering, scrabbling desperately at the pier wall and the bows of the boat, but there were no handholds there. And he couldn’t swim. That was obvious, from his gaping mouth and the terror in his eyes as he stared up at us.

  ‘Oh, fuck!’ I said. ‘Find something that’ll float! Anything!’

  But there wasn’t anything. There were no ropes, either, apart from the hawsers holding the ship, and to my landlubber’s eye they looked pretty solidly tied.

  Clarus was tugging at the end of the bow-rope. The knot unravelled, but the ship pulled away as the rope slackened off, tightening the coils wrapped around the stone bollard so quickly that it stopped them from slipping free. I grabbed the taut ship-side length and heaved, trying to bring the bows around again and give Clarus some slack. It was like shifting a rhino, but finally the ship moved, its wooden side thumping against the pier. Clarus freed the rope from the bollard and turned towards the edge, ready to throw...