Bodies Politic Read online

  I breathed out. ‘Thank you, Caesar.’

  ‘Oh, tush, petal! Enjoy yourself. You’ve got carte blanche. You can’t do me any harm, and who knows? You might do me some actual good. I told you: the gods are protecting me. Now push off, there’s a lamb. Give my regards to that wife of yours.’

  ‘Yes, Caesar.’ I got up and moved towards the door.

  ‘Oh, and Marcus?’

  I turned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look into this Praetorian business. You think the man was a Praetorian?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir, but yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll put the word out. You won’t have any more trouble in that direction, I promise you. And if I find the bastard he’ll be on the menu at the next Games. I’ll send you a special ticket.’

  That was a relief, too. It’s nice to know you have an emperor on your side, even if he is Gaius. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  I left.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘It wasn’t the emperor.’

  I’d changed out of my mantle and joined Perilla for a pre-dinner drink in the garden. Bathyllus had brought a half-jug of Setinian for me and a fruit juice for Perilla. Wine had never tasted so good.

  ‘You’re absolutely certain?’ Perilla said.

  ‘Yeah. He even gave me carte blanche for carrying on the investigation.’ I stretched out my feet and rested them on the footstool. ‘Maybe Gaius isn’t so bad after all.’

  ‘But that’s absolutely marvellous!’ Perilla was beaming.

  ‘Isn’t it? So we’re off the hook and running, lady. All we’re left with now is the problem.’

  ‘Oh, good. And that is, precisely?’

  Yeah. Right. Good question. This thing wasn’t like a straightforward murder, with a definite victim and a definite perp. Oh, sure, there were bodies enough, but they were bodies politic and they’d killed themselves on Gaius’s orders; no difficulty there. It wasn’t a matter so much of whodunit at this point as why was it done.

  And then there was the whole business of Dion. Or whatever the bastard’s real name was.

  ‘Let’s start with the conspiracy,’ I said.

  ‘There was a conspiracy after all?’

  ‘So Gaius assured me, and he was telling the truth as far as he knew it, I’m convinced of that. More or less along the obvious lines: Junius Silanus was intriguing with Macro to get rid of Gaius and use Gemellus as a puppet emperor. Although that doesn’t work, does it, for the reasons I gave you, not where Macro was concerned, anyway, and he’s crucial. So, me, I don’t think there was a conspiracy at all, whatever Gaius says, because it doesn’t make sense. I think the three of them - Macro, Silanus and Gemellus - were set up.’

  ‘As it says in the letter. Implies, at least.’ Perilla was twisting a strand of her hair. ‘Very well, Marcus, I’ll accept that, as a hypothesis anyway. Why?’

  ‘That’s nursery-slopes stuff. Macro and Silanus were Gaius’s top advisors, had been ever since he became emperor, and Macro since well before that. You could even say his only advisors, because they were responsible for most of the policy decisions. Gemellus, fine, he was a poor stick who hadn’t a hope in hell of being approved as emperor by the senate if they’d any choice in the matter. Only with Gaius dead they wouldn’t have: at least Gemellus was an imperial, Tiberius had named him as co-heir, and he was Gaius’s legally-adopted son. Who else was left with a legitimate claim? Claudius? The day that guy gets the purple there’ll be a blue moon. And Gaius’s only child died with his mother at birth, so there was no direct heir at all.’

  ‘So what you’re saying,’ Perilla said, ‘is that the conspiracy, once it was detected, cleared the field completely. Of both potential heirs and advisers. And the conspiracy was a fake. Someone put the idea of it in Gaius’s mind just for that reason.’

  ‘Right. Macro’s - or Dion’s - “misinformation and calumnies”. The question is, who did it clear the field for? Cui bono, in other words?’

  ‘You said. There was no one left.’

  ‘What about the sisters?’

  ‘Oh, Marcus! They’re women!’

  ‘Yeah, but they’ve got husbands, haven’t they? And Livia was a woman too. You telling me that bitch wasn’t political?’

  Perilla went very quiet and reached for her fruit juice.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘So let’s take them one by one. Agrippina. Drusilla. Livilla.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Youngest and most unlikely first. Livilla. Her husband’s Marcus Vinicius. He’s got about as much drive and ambition as a hamster, his idea of the perfect evening is to curl up with a good book, and he wouldn’t say boo to a gosling. And she’s a bubble-headed moron.’

  Perilla smiled. ‘Actually I know Vinicius quite well; we see each other at poetry readings and he’s a very nice man indeed. I quite agree, he’s not conspirator material. Neither, for the reason you gave, is his wife.’

  ‘Scrap them, then. Next, Drusilla. Gaius’s favourite sister. Recently and suddenly dead at, what, twenty-two? Twenty-three? If Gaius hadn’t been obviously so cut up and if he hadn’t been so unconcerned about me poking around then I’d be wondering about that, personally. A fifth death in the imperial circle hard on the heels of four compulsory suicides is stretching coincidence too far.’

  ‘Your paranoia’s showing, dear. It was scarcely hard on the heels; Macro and Ennia have been dead for over two months, the others for much longer. And summer in Rome’s a bad time for fevers. These things happen. There’s no reason to suspect that Drusilla’s death wasn’t natural.’

  ‘No. Right. Or at least that the emperor was responsible. Even so, I’d take an outside bet there’s something fishy there. Mark it for later. Anyway, her husband’s Aemilius Lepidus. Same age as Gaius, from a good family with strong imperial connections: his father was tipped as a possible successor to Augustus and his sister was married to Gaius’s brother Drusus. Plus, he’s in thick with the emperor. Gossip says they’re even lovers.’

  ‘Gossip will say anything.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he’s pretty eclectic in his tastes, our Gaius. And at least he’d be keeping it in the family. Anyway, Lepidus is a better bet than Vinicius, if only just because from all reports the guy’s a mental and political lightweight, and his late wife wasn’t a particularly pushy type either, despite her closeness to her brother.’ I paused. ‘He’s making her a goddess, by the way. Gaius is, I mean.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘True. He told me himself. She’s to be called Panthea and she’s sharing a temple with Venus the Mother, presumably until he can build her one of her own.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous!’

  ‘You heard it here first, lady. Watch and marvel.’ I took a swig of wine. ‘Okay. So we’re left with the eldest sister. Agrippina.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Ah is right. Agrippina’s married to Domitius Ahenobarbus, and from past acquaintance we know all about him, don’t we? They’re the dream team. He’s ambitious, ruthless, political to his back teeth, a total bastard, and with form to boot, and she’s a pushy little bitch, smart and devious as hell and hard-nosed as they come, just like her mother and Livia. Plus they’ve got a son now, young Nero. He’s only six months old, sure, but he’s a five-star imperial on his mother’s side, the sainted Germanicus’s only grandson, and with Gaius dead that’d weigh with the senate.’

  ‘Wait a moment, dear. I thought the plan was to make Gemellus into a puppet emperor.’

  ‘Yeah, and how long do you think he would’ve survived with Agrippina and Ahenobarbus pulling the strings? If we’re looking for a cui bono, or rather a quibus bono, I reckon that pair of beauties are top of the list.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Perilla was still twisting at her hair. ‘Yes. Mind you, I’m not sure where all this is getting you, Marcus. Even if Agrippina and Ahenobarbus were responsible for this pseudo-conspiracy then what can you do about it? They’re imperials, Macro and the rest of them are dead and buried,
and equable as Gaius seems to be he’s not going to take kindly to you accusing his sister and brother-in-law of treason, not if you haven’t a shred of actual proof. I’m sorry, but whether you’re right or not the whole thing’s impractical.’

  Yeah; it was. I frowned and reached for my winecup. Bugger. So how did we get the proof? Finding Dion and talking to him might be a start, sure, but I hadn’t the least idea how to go about that. And if he didn’t want to be found then I was on a hiding to nothing.

  Bathyllus shimmered through the portico. ‘Excuse me, sir. Madam.’

  ‘Yeah, little guy?’ I said. ‘What is it now? A delay with the dinner? Don’t worry, we’re fine out here for the present. Just tell Meton -’

  ‘Your mother and Helvius Priscus have arrived, sir. Should I bring them through or would you rather come inside?’

  I groaned. Oh, hell. ‘Bring them out, Bathyllus. And tell the skivvies to fetch a couple more chairs.’

  But Mother had already appeared, with Priscus in tow. Despite the heat she looked her usual carefully-groomed and mantled self, and a good ten years younger than her real age, which was sixty that year. Priscus, on the other hand, was doing his usual impersonation of a sartorially-challenged tortoise.

  I got up.

  ‘Hello, dear, how are you both?’ Mother swooped over and air-kissed me on both cheeks, then did the same for Perilla. ‘I’m sorry to come unannounced, but I knew you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘I thought you were on your way to Baiae,’ I said.

  ‘We’re leaving tomorrow morning. You should join us, you know. Summer in Rome is absolutely dreadful.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Given the choice between frying in Rome and being bored out of my skull in Baiae surrounded by the top five hundred’s glittering best I’d take the big city every time.

  Bathyllus had reappeared with the chair-toting skivvies. He hovered while Mother and Priscus settled themselves.

  ‘I’ll have a vervain mint, Bathyllus,’ Mother said, arranging the folds of her mantle. I winced. ‘Chilled, if you can manage it. Helvius Priscus will have the same.’

  I glanced at Priscus, who was doing his sad tortoise act in the other chair, and he gave me the faintest of shrugs. Well, the guy was happy enough, and for an octogenarian with all the salient features of a reanimated Egyptian mummy he seemed to be thriving.

  ‘Top that up for me while you’re about it, little guy.’ I passed him the jug. ‘And another fruit juice for the mistress.’

  ‘You drink too much, Marcus,’ Mother said.

  ‘First today.’

  She looked at me - Mother’s no fool, far from it - then turned to Perilla. ‘How are the wedding preparations going?’

  ‘Oh, we’re getting there, Vipsania,’ Perilla said. ‘It’s a bit awkward, with the ceremony being in Castrimoenium, but Marilla was insistent.’

  ‘I think she’s very sensible, myself.’ Mother sniffed. ‘The Alban Hills are much more picturesque than Rome. Besides, Clarus’s family are all locals, aren’t they?’

  I stiffened slightly, but she didn’t mean anything by it: Mother may be related to old Agrippa, who was Augustus’s right-hand man, but she’s no snob. And Marcus Agrippa had been provincial Italian himself. As, for that matter, had Augustus.

  ‘Mmmaa!’ Priscus said. Bleated. We all turned towards him. ‘Before I forget, Marcus, and speaking of Clarus, I wanted to consult the lad’s father about a skull I came across recently. Pre-Etruscan, almost certainly Iapygian. Personally I think it shows Illyrian features, which of course would be most significant in determining the provenance of the Messapians. Although there again the features may be native Cretan, which in its turn would link them with Caria.’

  There was a silence. Finally, Mother turned back to me. ‘Yes. Well anyway, dear, the reason we dropped by was to ask you a favour.’

  Oh, bugger. Mother’s favours had a nasty habit of blowing up in your face, like one of these super-smart Greek experiments with steam hydraulics. ‘Ah...what would that be, now?’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘It’s to do with our wedding present. You know, the busts?’

  Right: Mother and Priscus had wanted to commission a pair of portrait busts of Marilla and Clarus from a Greek sculptor rejoicing in the name of Archimenides. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Not a problem, is there?’

  ‘Very much so, I’m afraid. We’re back to square one now because yesterday the silly idiot got himself squashed by a marble block falling from a crane. And as I said Titus and I are off to Baiae tomorrow.’

  ‘So you want me to find another sculptor.’ Bugger. Double bugger.

  ‘Oh, no. At least, we’ve got a name.’

  ‘I did that,’ Priscus said.

  ‘In fact, you know him. Or at least you know someone who knows him.’

  ‘Mother -’ I said.

  ‘Larcius Paullus.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone called Larcius Paullus.’

  Mother sighed. ‘Paullus is the sculptor, dear. You know, the trouble with you is that you never listen.’

  ‘Young chap, totally brilliant.’ That was Priscus. ‘An Ostian native, if you’ll believe it, but the family’s Greek on the mother’s side. He did a bust three months ago of my friend Septimius Gallus. Spitting image, peas in a pod. And he wasn’t even dead at the time.’

  Oh, gods. ‘Look, Mother, can we start again? Please?’

  ‘Certainly. You really shouldn’t drink so much, dear, it rots the brain. Paullus is Agron’s wife’s nephew. We thought the Graeco-Roman connection on the sculptor’s side would be quite a nice touch. Very appropriate.’

  Things were finally beginning to make sense. I’d known Agron almost as long as I’d known Perilla; in fact, he’d been mixed up in the Ovid business. He wasn’t Greek himself - he was Illyrian, originally, an ex-legionary - but his wife Cass was. And, come to think of it, I knew Paullus as well, although I’d never met the kid: he was the young wizard with the charcoal-stick that I’d got to do me lightning sketches of the visitors to Publius Vitellius’s house. Yeah, that’d be seven years back, so he’d be in his late teens now. Evidently the artistic kid had made good.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Bathyllus.’ The little guy had smarmed over with the loaded tray, and Mother took her chilled vervain mint. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘A pleasure, Madam.’ Crawl, crawl. Sickening.

  ‘So, Marcus, I can safely leave it in your hands, can I? We’re not giving him much time, of course, especially since he’d have to go through to Castrimoenium to take their likenesses, but I’m sure he can manage and that we’ll be delighted with the result. He seems a very capable boy, and as Titus said he really is quite brilliant.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, reaching for the fresh jug that Bathyllus had brought. ‘Yeah, he is. No problem, Mother. I’ll fix it.’

  Damn right I would; in fact, the sooner I got over to Ostia the better, because I’d just realised how I could track down Dion.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I rode to Ostia the next morning, setting off at dawn before the heat started to bite: it’s only fourteen miles, sure, down a good road, but with my expertise on a horse, or lack of it, it would take me three hours, easy.

  Agron was doing well for himself these days. With Ostia’s harbour silting up worse by the year and the local boat-building industry in consequent decline, he’d turned the boatyard he’d inherited through Cass over to making carts and furniture, which financially had been a very smart move. I saw him in Rome quite often - he came through on business once a month and stayed with us, or if it was a quick visit he and I would split a jug and a plate of cheese in Renatius’s - but it was a good four years since I’d been to his place, a tenement building on the edge of town near the old Sullan Wall. He and Cass - Cassiopeia, she was Alexandrian Greek originally - owned the whole thing, from doorstep to slates, which I reckoned was a sensible investment: his family was up to six now, and counting. By the time the kids reached the marrying stage he’d be able to fill the place, easy.

/>   I parked the mare at a handy trough and went inside. Forget your picture of a tenement on the Aventine or in the Subura; Cass made sure this one was kept in good repair, and clean. The same went for the tenants. Me, I wouldn’t be surprised if she held defaulters down in the horse trough and scrubbed them herself.

  Agron’s flat took up the whole first floor and I could hear the sound of kids running around screaming from the ground-floor lobby. I gritted my teeth, climbed the holystoned stairs, raised my fist and knocked; although with that racket going on whether anyone would hear anything hitting the door short of a sledgehammer was a moot point. Amazingly, it opened.

  ‘Marcus?’

  ‘Hey, Cass,’ I said.

  ‘What are you doing in Ostia?’ Her broad face split into a grin as she hefted the grumpy-looking bobble-hatted gnome she was carrying further up against her hip. A big woman, Cass, almost as big as Agron, which was really saying something. Mind you, to control the bacchic rout of kids that she’d got she’d have to be.

  ‘I’m -’ I began, but I was drowned out by a prolonged scream from inside that froze my spine and turned my guts to jelly.

  Cass turned round. ‘Tertia! Stop that! And if you make Quintus sick again, my girl, you’ll be in real trouble!’

  The screaming went down a notch. There wasn’t all that much difference to the sound level, cosmically speaking, but it seemed to satisfy Cass because she was facing me again.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘They’ve been on a high all morning.’

  ‘Uh...that Septimus?’ I said, meaning the grumpy gnome. Obviously a new addition to the scrum. At least he hadn’t got the use of his legs yet.

  ‘Septima.’ The grin widened. ‘Look, come on in. Agron won’t be back for a while yet, but if you’ve ridden all the way from Rome you’ll be -’