Last Rites (Marcus Corvinus Book 6) Page 16

  I said nothing.

  ‘The third, pertaining to the matter of the clandestine delivery of the note, was the result, I confess, of a mistake. Or rather of a misinterpretation. I asked Venustus to carry it round to the House of the Vestals and hand it in with as little fuss as possible, again for reasons of preserving secrecy; or at least of preserving anonymity. Venustus, as you may have gathered, is one of my oldest and most trustworthy slaves, but he is somewhat’ – the half-smile again – ‘literal-minded. Instead of knocking on the front door and handing the letter in as I expected him to do he chose the method which you already know. Not that that mattered, or at least I did not think it did at the time. It was only subsequent events which rendered it… unfortunate.’ He stopped. ‘There. That is all I have to say. Have I answered your questions now to your satisfaction?’

  I stood up. ‘Yeah. Yeah, thanks.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ He stood up as well. He was a big man, or had been in his time, and we were almost on a level. ‘My apologies again for my earlier rudeness. If you’ve quite finished your business here’ – this time he did look at his daughter; a considering stare, none too friendly. I glanced at her myself and saw her eyes drop – ‘then I’ll have Venustus show you out.’

  The air of the Quirinal felt sweet, even with the rain. Alexis had left earlier, and he was shooting the breeze with the now-recovered litter-louts. I climbed aboard and we set off at a lumbering trot for the Caelian, via Market Square: I wasn’t too worried that Perilla would sniff my tunic for perfume or check my shoulder for stray strands of women’s hair, but I might as well keep my street cred with Bathyllus by having that second shave after all. If nothing else, a duly scraped and powdered chin would put the little bastard’s scandal-sensitive nose out of joint and earn me a point or two in the ongoing battle. Besides, I’d got Alexis to debrief, and we might as well do it with a jug of wine and a plate of bread and sausage in front of us. Added to which, I reckoned I needed a drink to get the taste of the Lepidus place out of my mouth. Sure, everything had worked out in the end, but I couldn’t say I’d enjoyed myself. Even if the lady had been a stunner she had the feel of a hungry arena cat about her, and old Marcus Lepidus, nice as pie as he’d been latterly, made my fists bunch with every plummy vowel. If I never saw either of them again it’d be too soon.

  Still, they’d given me a lot to think about.

  20.

  The rain had slackened off to an icy drizzle. I left Alexis and the lads kicking their heels in a cookshop I knew near the meat market and walked the last few hundred yards to Market Square itself, where Philemon the Syrian barber I sometimes used had his booth. I had my eyes closed and was halfway through the pumice stage and drifting nicely when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I came awake and turned.

  ‘How are things going, Valerius Corvinus?’

  I didn’t place the guy at first; then I did: Sextius Nomentanus, the city judge who was footing the bill for the rites of the Good Goddess. Footing it again, rather, thanks to me. Shit, this could be embarrassing.

  ‘Uh, okay, thanks,’ I said. ‘We’re getting there.’

  ‘That’s good.’ He sat down in the chair next to mine and Philemon’s second-stringer put the napkin round his neck. ‘I don’t envy you your job. It’s a messy business, but the bastard has to be caught. The gods know where it would leave the state if the killer of a Vestal went unpunished.’

  I glanced sideways at him while Philemon tutted and fished his slip of pumice off my lap where the movement had sent it. Nomentanus hadn’t struck me as a particularly religious guy, which was what the comment implied, but then the Vestals are something special: feelings about them go deep, and even your hardened modern religious sceptic is leery of the consequences if things involving them get out of kilter. ‘Yeah,’ I said; then, because I knew the thought was bound to be in his mind: ‘Hey, I’m sorry about the rites.’

  He shrugged. ‘It can’t be helped. Best to be safe than sorry. The Senate’s making an extra allowance under the circumstances, and the emperor might chip in with an ex-gratia. I won’t lose all that much.’ Well, I was glad he didn’t seem too cut up: the next step on the ladder from city judge is the consulship itself, and running for that is pricey, even in these supposedly egalitarian days. Nomentanus obviously wasn’t too badly strapped for cash. ‘You have any leads on the man who did it? The bogus flutegirl?’

  ‘Some.’ I was cautious: you don’t mention outright to one of Rome’s serving elite that you’re delving through a current consul’s dirty laundry. The beautiful and good are a tight-knit club, and one indication that you’re sniffing for scandal makes them close ranks faster than a virgin crossing her legs at an out-of-hand party. ‘Uh, incidentally, how’s Sulpicius Galba taking it?’

  ‘Galba?’ He faced front as the guy with the razor got to work. ‘I don’t think he’s too concerned. Apart from being disgruntled at the upheaval, of course. That and the extra expense.’ His voice was dry. ‘The house had to be purified, naturally, and although technically a re-celebration of the rites is the state’s concern – and mine – it means his wife will have to play the hostess again. Coming on top of this latest business with the loans that doesn’t altogether make him a very happy man. If you knew our present consul you’d understand what I mean.’

  Yeah, well; I knew enough about close-as-a-clam Galba to grasp the basic concept, anyway. I’d reckon getting so much as a bent copper coin out of that guy voluntarily would need a surgical operation. ‘The loans?’ I said.

  I had to wait while Nomentanus raised his chin for the barber to scrape its underside. When he’d finished the guy chuckled. ‘You really don’t keep abreast of Market Square matters, do you, Corvinus? You haven’t heard of the emperor’s latest directive? It’s setting half the Senate by the ears.’

  He definitely sounded smug. I’d met this attitude before in smart-as-a-whip go-getters like Nomentanus, and it always rubbed me up the wrong way. It was the tone that meant ‘I’m okay personally but the other bastards are being screwed.’

  ‘Is that right, now?’ I said.

  ‘Tiberius has been getting complaints for some time about loan-shark profiteering.’ Another chuckle, while the lad with the razor shortened a sideburn. ‘He’s finally clamping down and my colleagues are sweating blood.’

  Uh-huh. I was beginning to get his drift. Broad-stripers are forbidden by law to go in for trade, but the money for the daily crust has to come from somewhere, and over the years Rome’s conscript fathers have found that loan-farming is a natty little earner; or rather, not just the loan-farming itself but its spin-off as well. Under the old Julian law, interest rates are fixed at five per cent max, with compound loans forbidden. What the beautiful and good – who had their hands on a large slice of the circulating currency – had been doing was to ignore this. They’d been advancing loans at ten, fifteen per cent compound, sometimes even higher, on security of the debtor’s property; then when the guy defaulted, as he naturally did, foreclosing at their own valuation and padding their estate books with the result. Sneaky and totally illegal, sure, but when it’s your spoon in the gravy and you enforce the laws then the system ain’t going to change in a hurry. Only evidently from what Nomentanus was saying the Wart had decided to step in and pull the plug personally. No wonder the fat-cat bastards were losing sweat.

  ‘The emperor’s given them eighteen months to regularise matters and pay any surplus profits they may already have made into the Treasury.’ Nomentanus grunted as the bronze razor slid down his cheek. ‘After that the prosecutions start. Meanwhile the interest rates – and consequently the incomes – have been cut at a stroke and my less well-heeled colleagues – plus the rich but parsimonious souls like Galba – are frantically trying to liquidise their investments by calling in the debts themselves. Oh, it’s all fun in the Senate House at the moment, Corvinus, believe me.’

  I did. I whistled. Jupiter on a seesaw, the shit had hit the fan with a vengeance! Not before time, though.
And the Wart was a braver man than I was: it takes guts to mix with Rome’s finest, especially when you aim for their pockets. ‘You’re all right yourself, then?’ I said sourly.

  ‘Oh, I’m fine.’ The smugness went up a notch. ‘And if I may give you a tip’ – he leaned over – ‘ready money’s going to be in short supply soon. You could pick up a few good bargains on the property market if you keep your eyes open. You understand?’

  But Philemon had got to the talc stage and now wasn’t exactly the time to take the guy’s advice; not literally, anyway. Five minutes later, smooth and sweet-smelling again, I nodded to my new whizz-kid financial adviser and headed off for the wine and sausage.

  So Galba had his balls in the mangle, did he? And things were going to get a hell of a lot worse. I didn’t know if what Nomentanus had told me was relevant, but it was certainly something to bear in mind.

  Alexis was ensconced in the cookshop’s warmest corner, right by the oven: he must’ve fought off half the eighth district to keep the table for us, because the place was full and it was beginning to sleet outside. I noticed that a few tables off my four litter lardballs were happily blowing the pocket money I’d given them on pigs’ trotters in gravy, and I tried not to think about cannibalism. Alexis stood up, but I waved him down and put my order in at the counter. I took the jug and a couple of cups with me while the cookshop owner put the food together and went to join him.

  The first cup went down without a whimper – it was Massic, not all that bad – and I poured a refill. Then the waiter brought the sliced sausage, cheese, olives and bread. Me, I was happy with the wine, plus maybe a nibble or two, but Alexis dug in like he hadn’t seen food for a month. Unaccustomed sleuthing obviously did wonders for the appetite. I caught the waiter’s eye and got him to add a wedge of onion tart to the bill.

  Finally, when the pace began to slow, I sat back.

  ‘Okay, so how did it go?’ I said.

  ‘Not bad at all, sir.’ Alexis was wiping his fingers on a napkin: the guy may be a slave, but he’s more fastidious than a lot of broad-stripers I’ve met. Smarter, too, although that wouldn’t be so difficult. ‘I talked to Lady Lepida’s maid.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I poured myself some more wine and held up the jug. Alexis shook his head, which was par for the course: my smart-as-paint garden slave’s a clean-living boy, and no proper drinker. ‘Nice work.’

  ‘Her name’s Melissa.’ Jupiter! Was that a blush? ‘She’s a very nice girl. Spanish.’

  I took a swallow of Massic to cover a grin. I’d a lot of time for young Alexis. For a start, he was the most un-slavelike slave I’d ever come across. A thinker, too serious for his own good, but with a fair saving slice of the poet grafted on, plus a sense of humour. Articulate, too. From front-of-house slaves like Bathyllus you expect that sort of thing, but not from gardeners: manuring doesn’t demand all that much in the way of conversational skills, and most of these guys are hard put to it even to grunt. Mind you, taking on the garden had been Alexis’s own choice, right from the start: he got on better with plants than people. Which made this turn of events even more surprising.

  ‘Uh… she good-looking?’ I said.

  His Adam’s apple bobbed painfully. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I suppose you could call her that.’

  Oh, Cupid in rompers! What had I unleashed? The kid was definitely smitten. This Melissa must be quite something; although there again she could just as well have a wall-eye, chronic halitosis and a limp. Where women were concerned Alexis’s opinion was about as valuable as a beetle’s on metaphysics.

  ‘Is that so?’ I said. ‘You, uh, think you could prise your lecherous thoughts away from her body long enough to tell me what you found out, sunshine?’ I said mildly.

  Now that was definitely a blush. I could see it spreading up from his neck to the roots of his hair, taking in the ears on the way and making them stand out like crimson pot-lids. ‘I wasn’t…’ he began. ‘I didn’t… that is, I wouldn’t…’

  ‘Alexis. Read my lips. Joke, pal. Okay?’

  The blush slowly subsided. ‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘Go ahead, then.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘The lady certainly wasn’t at the rites, sir. She spent the night with a friend.’ The blush made a brief reappearance. Obviously sex was a sensitive topic with Alexis at present. ‘And before you ask, sir, no, I don’t know his name. Melissa wouldn’t be drawn on the details of the lady’s love life, not as far as names were concerned at any rate.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I sipped my wine. ‘She give you anything on that angle, then? Anything at all?’

  ‘Not much, sir. I doubt if she would’ve in any case, even if – as she did – her mistress hadn’t expressly warned her against it. As I told you, Melissa is a—’

  ‘Nice girl,’ I finished drily. ‘Right. Got you.’

  ‘She did let out, however, that the lady… spreads her favours rather indiscriminately.’

  Surprise, surprise. ‘She happen to mention anyone current?’

  ‘Again no names. She does have a steady, which was where she spent the night of the rites, but he isn’t exclusive. Although I understand that he’d like to be.’

  Bigger the fool him, I thought. Long term, that lady would be poison. ‘Any other details?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m afraid not.’

  Well, I couldn’t expect much more given the time I’d allowed him anyway, and considering his mind couldn’t’ve been more than half on the job the kid had done marvels. ‘Fine. Now what about the Aemilia angle?’

  ‘I was a bit more successful there.’ Alexis topped up my cup. ‘The lady Lepida called on the lady Aemilia at the end of last month. Precisely three days before the kalends, in fact. Melissa remembered the date exactly because on the day previous when she was sent to ask whether the lady was receiving visitors she used the excuse to visit a friend in the Subura. It was the other girl’s birthday and—’

  I’d sat up sharply. ‘Hang on, sunshine. Run that past me again. And leave out the ladies to save time. Also the birthday girl, okay?’

  Alexis half smiled. ‘Certainly, sir. The l… Lepida first visited the consul’s wife some eleven days ago. She was invited again two days later but had other commitments, since when—’

  ‘What was that about Melissa going round on her own?’

  ‘Her mistress sent her to check whether Aemilia would be at home the next day, sir. It’s standard practice.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that.’ My neck was prickling. ‘That’s not the point. Alexis, you’re saying Lepida made the running? She asked for the visit, not Aemilia?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Alexis’s brow furrowed. ‘I suppose so, anyway. Although Melissa didn’t actually say—’

  I waved him to silence. Shit! For Lepida to make the first move rather than Aemilia didn’t add up; not given her claim that Aemilia had initiated the acquaintance for reasons of social cachet. Of course, if Lepida was casing the joint to plan the murder…

  This needed thinking about. If Lepida had lied to me about Aemilia being the driving force behind the acquaintanceship, then the chances of her being involved in Cornelia’s death had just taken a considerable hike. Especially given the time factor: three days before the kalends was only five before the murder. And if Lepida couldn’t stand Aemilia, as she obviously couldn’t, and as weaselling out of a second invite indicated, then why the hell, if she didn’t have an ulterior motive, had she made overtures of friendship in the first place?

  Alexis was staring at me. ‘Sorry, sunshine,’ I said. ‘Carry on. What about the visit itself? Did Melissa give you any details?’

  ‘There wasn’t much to tell. It was just the usual society chit-chat. Oh, except that Aemilia had another visitor, but Melissa had known he’d be there already. In fact, her mistress had asked her specifically to check that he’d be present before confirming the arrangements.’

  ‘Yeah? And who was that, now?’

  ‘One of the consul’s finance office
rs. Licinius Murena.’

  Aemilia’s boyfriend. I almost laughed. Hell; there went that theory in spades. If Lepida knew Murena would be filling the third couch that day I didn’t need to look any further for a motive: the lady was poaching. And although she hadn’t given me an exact date when she’d told me she’d had the guy on her own couch I could make a pretty good guess: given the speed she operated, some time in the three days between Aemilia’s cake-and-honey-wine klatch and the kalends. Certainly no later. Sure, he could be the steady Alexis had mentioned, in which case the liaison still had its potentially sinister side, but I doubted it. Despite what Lepida had said, Galba was no has-been; that was just the cat talking. The guy was a firm favourite of our next emperor, and from what I’d seen of Murena himself he wasn’t the sort of man who’d give up the security of being the one and only of a complaisant aristo’s sex-starved wife for a more precarious existence as the far from exclusive lover of that hell-cat. And as far as Lepida herself was concerned, I doubted if the lady looked very far beyond her next lay. She certainly wouldn’t bother exerting herself to perpetrate anything as far removed from that as murder. Mind you, I could be wrong, of course.