Bodies Politic Read online

  The slave who’d brought the cup filled it from the jug. I sipped...

  Beautiful.

  Lentulus was watching me. ‘Good, yes?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah.’ I took a proper swallow. Not Italian. Easily top-range-Alban standard. If I were pushed I’d say east of Sicily, but it wasn’t Greek, or at least not one of the Greek wines I recognised. On the other hand, as an offside chance, it could be small-vineyard Gallic; they were producing some nice individual stuff these days in Gaul, if you were careful about your shipper. The fact was, though, I hadn’t a clue, and that doesn’t often happen.‘What is it?’

  ‘Mareotic. Egyptian. Alexandrian, rather. They use a different process from us, but by hell it works. I had two dozen gallons delivered yesterday of different vintages and I’m working my way through them. Take a flask home with you if you like. I’ll tell one of my lads to carry it down the hill for you.’

  ‘Thanks, that’d be -’ I stopped. ‘Ah...maybe not. Thanks all the same.’

  ‘No?’ Lentulus’s piggy eyes widened. Then he shrugged. ‘Suit yourself, boy. Never known you turn down good wine, though. Not sickening, are you? There’s a lot of it about just now.’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’ With Perilla on her Alexandrian jag maybe a reminder like a freebie flask of the local wine was a bad idea. Pity. It was lovely stuff.

  ‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’ He took a swig from his own cup and shifted his huge bulk. The reinforced chair creaked. ‘Now, young Marcus Valerius Corvinus, you can just cut to the chase, please.’

  Yeah, well. No flies on Lentulus; there never had been. ‘Tell you the truth,’ I said, ‘I was wondering about Sertorius Macro’s suicide.’

  ‘Were you, indeed? Wondering what?’

  ‘Why he did it.’

  ‘Because the emperor told him to.’

  I grinned; I’d always had a soft spot for Lentulus. ‘You know what I mean, you old bugger,’ I said. ‘What had he done?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Call it curiosity.’

  ‘I’ll call it no such thing.’ Lentulus emptied his cup and without looking at the man held it out for the slave to refill. ‘I don’t play ingénus, Corvinus, and I’m not senile. You’re digging the dirt, same as before. Only this time - trust me - there’s nothing to dig for.’

  He had suddenly gone serious. I remembered the first time, and I warned myself to be careful. He was an okay guy, Lentulus, but like I say he was no fool.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Fair enough.’ I took out Macro’s letter and handed it over.

  He read it carefully, then handed it back. ‘Load of rubbish,’ he said. ‘Macro was guilty of conspiracy and treason.’

  ‘But he wasn’t charged with treason.’ Even I knew that. With the wedding arrangements taking up all my time I hadn’t been following events all that closely, but I couldn’t’ve missed the Commander of Praetorians and the emperor’s closest friend being arrested on a conspiracy charge.

  ‘Of course he wasn’t. Nor were the other two, Silanus and that poor specimen Gemellus. How could they be? The treason charge doesn’t exist any more.’

  I sat back. Oh, Jupiter, neither it did: when Gaius had come to power he’d abolished it, and burned all the incriminating documents gathered under the Wart’s regime publicly in the Market Square. Uness they were copies, of course: as a PR exercise for the new management it was effective enough, but clean government has its limits. ‘So what reason did Gaius give?’ I said.

  ‘A word of warning; don’t call him Gaius, boy, not to his face, not now he’s emperor. He doesn’t like it. Stick to Caesar.’

  ‘Fine. But you haven’t answered the question.’

  ‘Neither I have. Not intentionally, I’ll do it now. Macro was accused of pandering his wife to gain influence. Silanus - well, the emperor just claimed that he was becoming too pushy. Gemellus had, and I’m quoting the bloody bulletin verbatim, “anticipated the emperor’s death and waited for the chance to profit from his illness”. There you are. That do you?’

  Gaius’s illness. That’d been almost a year ago, when he’d come down with a month-long fever that had nearly killed him. Gemellus had represented him at the Games, major religious ceremonies and so on; on any occasion, in other words, where politics or political decisions weren’t involved...

  Bugger that for a valid reason to chop the kid. Bugger it twice, and five times on the Kalends.

  ‘No, it won’t do me,’ I said. ‘As an excuse it’s thin as hell.’

  Lentulus chuckled, his jowls heaving. ‘Right. Agreed. But I told you: a straight charge of treason wasn’t an option. Gaius had to do the best he could with a bad job, leaving the juicy bits out. And, like I say, the whole shower were guilty as sin, barring Gemellus who wouldn’t recognise a conspiracy if it bit him in the bum.’

  ‘He wouldn’t? And why would that be, now?’

  ‘Because the boy was an idiot. Literally an idiot, even more lame in the head than Claudius, which believe you me is saying something. Half the time he didn’t know what day it was.’

  ‘So why did he have to die?’

  ‘Don’t be simple yourself, Corvinus! Tiberius had named him in his will as co-heir. Even though Macro had the senate set the will aside that still meant something. Oh, not for Gemellus personally; he wouldn’t’ve made a decent shopkeeper, let alone an emperor, and the senate wouldn’t’ve touched him with a ten-foot pole. But if Gaius were dead he’d make someone a damn good puppet. Besides’ - he held out his cup for another refill - ‘you can’t have two king bees in a hive. Gaius was quite right to be rid of him. Not before time. I didn’t blame him myself, and I don’t know of anyone who did.’

  ‘For the gods’ sakes, Lentulus!’

  ‘Practical politics, lad. Welcome to the world.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘So what was the real story?’

  Lentulus shrugged. ‘No secrets there. At least for all but public consumption, and you remember that qualification when you leave here, boy, or you’ll be in real trouble. You and me both, and I’m too old to take the hassle. All this is just between ourselves, right?’ I nodded. ‘When Gaius fell ill and looked like dying Macro and Silanus got together with the plan of using Gemellus as a figurehead emperor. Maybe going so far, if they could arrange it, of giving the emperor a push into the urn. Only Gaius recovered, found out, and that was that.’ He drew his finger across his throat. ‘Tsikkk! Served the pushy bastards right. Gaius has his faults, but he’s a smart young bugger with his head screwed on, and he doesn’t stand for any nonsense. That’s what we need in an emperor. Silanus was a pompous fool with more breeding than sense. Macro was the other way about, and the last thing we - I mean the senate - wanted was another Sejanus. Which is what we would damn well have got if the conspiracy had succeeded.’

  ‘And Ennia?’

  ‘The bitch was getting to be a bore, and she was in the plot up to her neck. Gaius was well rid of her, too.’ Lentulus drained his cup. ‘You’re not drinking, boy.’

  Obediently, I took a swig and held the cup out for Desmus to refill. Well, food for thought right enough, although it was all pretty predictable. Still -

  ‘To change the subject, I hear your adopted daughter’s getting married.’ Lentulus tapped the rim of his cup and Desmus refilled it. Jupiter! The old guy could sink them! And he’d probably been doing it since breakfast. If Lentulus bothered with breakfast. ‘Valeria Marilla, isn’t it? Lives with old Paullus Maximus’s widow up in the Alban Hills?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, that’s right. Only she died last December.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it. She was a fine-looking woman in her day, Marcia. Completely wasted on a dry stick like Paullus. Getting an invitation, am I?’

  I grinned. ‘If you like. But they want a quiet wedding, in Aunt Marcia’s villa.’

  ‘Bugger that, then. I haven’t been out of Rome in years, and I’m not built to climb hills. Or be carried up them. Who’s the groom?’

&
nbsp; ‘His name’s Clarus. Publius Cornelius Clarus.’

  ‘One of our lot?’ Lentulus’s eyebrows rose. ‘Well, well. Don’t know of any relations by that name.’

  ‘Maybe because he isn’t one. One of the Cornelii, I mean. His family’s from Boeotia, originally. They had the citizenship from Africanus.’

  Lentulus blinked. ‘Good gods! You’re telling me that he’s a bloody Greek?’

  ‘Not for ten generations, no. His father’s the local doctor.’

  ‘A doctor?’ Lentulus laughed. ‘Corvinus, boy, your father’ll be spinning in his urn!’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Actually, though, I doubted it: when it came to the crunch, Dad was okay. Still - remember that Lentulus, for all his upper-class background, was pretty tolerant as far as the Roman social milieu went - it was a foretaste of what Clarus would have to face in the way of prejudice, if he ever decided to move to Rome. Not that he ever would, I was pretty sure of that. He and Marilla were happy in Castrimoenium.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Lentulus must’ve read the expression on my face, because he was suddenly serious again. ‘That was in bad taste. I didn’t mean it.’

  I shrugged. ‘No problem.’ I held out my cup for more of the Mareotic. ‘So tell me about these Palmyran belly-dancers.’

  He did, and we got quietly smashed. I managed to ask one more question, though, before I left a couple of hours later.

  ‘Dion?’ Lentulus frowned. ‘Can’t remember Macro having a secretary by that name, let alone tell you where to find him. But then I didn’t really know the man socially. I kept my distance. His major-domo was a man called Antiphon. He might be able to help. Old Caecilius Cornutus took him on when Macro went. You’ll find him on Broad Street, near the junction with Pallacinae.’

  Fine. Well, I reckoned it had been a fair morning’s work, albeit pretty disquieting.

  I didn’t believe that stuff about Macro and Silanus, for a start.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Macro wouldn’t’ve done it, lady. No way. And I’ve got my doubts about Silanus as well.’

  Perilla dunked her chickpea rissole viciously in the fish-pickle-and-mustard dip. Half of it broke off, and she scooped it out with her spoon. ‘Marcus, I am not getting involved,’ she said tightly. ‘You know what I think. When - not if, when - the emperor gets to hear that you’re shoving your nose into matters of high politics you’ll be out of Rome before you can say “exile”. And that’s if you’re lucky and don’t have to slit your wrists.’ She glared at me. ‘And it’s not as though you’re at a loose end at present. We’ve got a wedding in four months’ time to organise, and it’s not going to be much fun for Clarus and Marilla if you’re dead or stuck on some island or other. Nor for me either, for that matter. Leave it alone!’

  I shifted uncomfortably on the couch. She was right; sure she was. I didn’t owe Macro anything, quite the reverse, and messing around with the system, especially when the system was Gaius, was tantamount to putting your head in a crocodile’s mouth in the hopes that it had gone vegetarian. Even so, I had my self-respect to consider. And that last exchange with Dion had hurt.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ I said. ‘I’ll be careful. I promise.’

  Perilla reached for the bean casserole and said nothing.

  ‘Look, how would conspiring against Gaius help Macro?’ I de-shelled a snail. ‘He was sitting pretty as it was, and he couldn’t go any further. He’s a no-account Italian provincial from the sticks, his family are nobodies, the great and good in Rome hate him worse than poison and think he’s another Sejanus in the making. Gaius is the only future he’s got. And he’s not a fool, he knows it.’

  No reaction. The lady wasn’t even looking at me.

  ‘Silanus, now, at least he has form, sure. He’s got family connections with the imperials that go back to Augustus and the Wart married his daughter to Gaius when he was on Capri. Plus he’s a political animal. If Macro was one of the guy’s chief advisors when he took over then Silanus was the other. Silanus I can believe as a conspirator, just, although he’d be a bloody fool to try anything unless he was hundred percent sure of his ground. But not Macro.’

  Perilla laid her spoon down. ‘Have you considered that he might not have had any choice?’ she said.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Gaius was ill. Possibly - probably, from all indications - terminally so. Macro was about to lose him anyway. There needn’t have been any conspiracy at all. If the only heir was Gemellus, who you say Lentulus told you wasn’t up to the job, then it makes perfect sense for the emperor’s advisors to make contingency plans. After all, someone would have to run the empire if Gaius died.’

  I grinned to myself. Well, at least the lady was talking. And dangle the bait of an intellectual puzzle in front of Perilla’s nose for long enough and she’ll go for it every time. She’s like me that way; the difference is she doesn’t admit it, not even to herself. Still, I had to play this careful. I helped myself to some of the beans and took a spoonful.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘So why not just present it like that to Gaius when he recovered? I mean, he’s a long way from stupid. And he’s an imperial born and bred, he knows how important making sure of the succession is, that’s built in with the brickwork. What else could he expect? Why chop the poor bastards just for doing their job while he was out of things?’

  Perilla sighed. ‘I don’t know, Marcus,’ she said. ‘And unlike you I don’t think it’s any of my business to guess. Now eat your dinner before it gets cold.’

  We ate in silence for a while.

  ‘So,’ Perilla said finally, her eyes on her plate. ‘What are you going to do now? I mean, you are going to do something, I assume, whatever I say.’

  I grinned to myself again. Got you! It was just a matter of waiting.

  ‘Find Dion,’ I said. ‘He may not know much, but he was Macro’s secretary after all. And he was pretty insistent that the guy had been set up. He must have a reason for thinking that, other than simple loyalty. Besides,’ I took another spoonful of beans, ‘he’s the best I’ve got at present.’

  ‘He didn’t give you a contact address?’

  I shook my head. ‘I didn’t ask. And I’d just turned him down flat. But Lentulus said Macro’s major-domo might be able to put me on to him. Guy called Antiphon, sold on to a household on Broad Street.’

  She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, softly, ‘Marcus, you will be careful, won’t you? That’s a promise?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And if - well, if things do begin to turn nasty, you will give this up straight away?’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die, lady.’

  She set her spoon down. ‘Don’t say that!’ she snapped. ‘Ever!’

  ***

  I went to call on Antiphon next morning.

  Drusilla, the second of Gaius’s three younger sisters, had died from a sudden fever at the beginning of the month and although the regulations governing the public mourning were still technically in force not even Gaius could keep the ordinary Roman punter po-faced for long, and things were slowly but surely getting back to their noisy, chaotic normal. Still, the city centre was quieter than usual, and I made good time through the thin crowds. It wasn’t all that far, either: Broad Street runs north of the centre parallel with the Saepta as far as the Pincian, but the corner with Pallacinae is right at the market-place end.

  The Cornutus place was one of the old upper-class houses you get in that part of town, that rub shoulders with more run-down properties like a dowager out of her place and forced to mix with the riff-raff. The slave parked on a stool in front of the door stood up when I went to knock.

  ‘The master’s in Capua, sir,’ he said. ‘And the rest of the family. They won’t be back for another month.’

  ‘That’s all right, pal,’ I said. ‘I wanted to talk to Antiphon, if he’s around.’

  The guy blinked, which was fair enough: you don’t often get purple-stripers turning up on the doorstep and ask
ing to speak to the bought help. However:

  ‘Yes, sir, he’s here. If you’d like to come in and wait I’ll bring him to you. Who shall I say?’

  ‘Valerius Corvinus. He doesn’t know me.’

  ‘Very well.’ He took me inside and through to the atrium. ‘Make yourself comfortable, sir. I won’t be a moment. What was it about?’

  ‘It’s in connection with his last master, Sertorius Macro. I’m trying to trace one of his freedmen.’

  The guy blinked again when I mentioned Macro, but he simply nodded and left.

  I sat on one of the couches. I didn’t know Cornutus, but the guy was clearly old money with a penchant for art: there were some nice paintings on the walls, seascapes, mostly, but a few architectural ones too. Good solid traditional stuff, with none of the risqué nymphs-and-satyrs jobs you find in the more adventurous houses. The statues matched, too, all decently draped, but if they were copies they were top of the range.

  ‘Valerius Corvinus, sir?’

  I turned. Antiphon was younger than I’d expected, but he fitted the decor: solid, respectable, no flash.

  ‘You’re looking for one of my ex-master’s freedmen, I understand,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. His secretary Dion. He brought me a letter a couple of days back and I need to check up on a few things. I didn’t get his address and I was wondering if -’ I tailed off. The guy was looking puzzled.

  ‘What was the name again, sir?’ he said.

  ‘Dion. Like I say, he used to be Macro’s secretary, and -’

  ‘But the master didn’t have a secretary, sir. Not a personal one. He used the Praetorian clerks.’

  ‘Okay. So maybe I misheard him.’ I hadn’t; there was something screwy here. ‘Anyway, the guy’s name was definitely Dion, so -’