Finished Business (20 page)

‘Yeah, well, I do, if I can. Murder’s murder, whatever the excuse. But the point is that this time at least there
is
an excuse, and a valid one. Oh, sure, Vinicius may not be in on the conspiracy himself, but six gets you ten his nephew is. Maybe for the best of reasons, but nonetheless. And if it succeeds –
when
it succeeds – my guess is that he’ll fling his uncle’s cap into the ring.’

‘Vinicius would never be a party to that sort of arrangement! How many times do I have to tell you, dear?
The man is not political!
’

‘He wouldn’t have to be. And he needn’t even know about the existence of the conspiracy in advance; in fact it might be safer if he didn’t. By the time the knowledge became relevant, Gaius would be dead, Rome would be short one emperor, and there’d be no one else on offer to take on the job. Plus the invitation would be official; as a senator, Vinicianus could put his uncle’s name forward to the senate himself, and I’ll bet he’s already sounded out some of his colleagues on the benches. Which probably explains why Lentulus knows.’ I topped my cup up from the jug. ‘The broad-striper brigade would fall over themselves to vote Vinicius in.’

Perilla sighed. ‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said. ‘Yes, I do hear what you’re saying, and yes, it does make sense, but I still can’t see Marcus Vinicius agreeing, not even out of altruism. He’s very old-fashioned in many ways, very much the traditionalist. A bit like you, really.’

‘Hah!’

‘I mean it. And it’s a compliment. Vinicius has principles, and he keeps to them. Gaius would be dead as a result of treason, and whether he’d known beforehand that he was a factor in the plot or not, that would matter to him. He’d never agree to become emperor under those circumstances. Not even for the genuine good of Rome.’

‘You’re very sure about that, lady?’

‘Yes, I am, as it happens.’

Bugger. I frowned, and let it go. Me, well, I had my serious doubts about her reading of Vinicius. Oh, sure, I was ready to grant from my own knowledge of the guy that he wasn’t the conspiring type and didn’t seem to have an ambitious bone in his body, but timing and circumstances were all-important here; like I said, he’d be the perfect man for the job, and modesty aside he’d recognize that. A strong sense of duty, plus the pressure that would no doubt be put on him by his broad-striper colleagues, would do the rest.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘That still doesn’t solve the problem of Gaius’s replacement. If not Vinicius then who?’

‘What about Claudius?’

I stared at her. ‘
What?
’

‘Why not? He’s Gaius’s uncle, and the only remaining male of the direct-line imperial family.’

‘Why
not
?
Jupiter, Perilla, where do you start? He’s Gemellus over again, or as good as. The guy’s a mental defective, he’s never held political office barring a grace-and-favour suffect consulship when Gaius came to power, never served in the military, never even been given the smallest bit of real responsibility. You can practically count the times he’s even appeared in public on the fingers of one hand. And this at, what, age fifty or thereabouts? The senate would never ratify him as emperor, not in a million years. And that’s what the conspirators would need, because with Gaius dead and no one being groomed for crown prince, it’d be the senate choosing the emperor.’

‘Claudius is
not
a mental defective. He limps and stammers badly; he twitches, yes, of course he does, but those are physical disabilities, not mental ones. There’s nothing wrong with his brain, quite the contrary.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes. I’ve met him, at Vinicius’s, several times, and if you have the patience to wait until he gets the words out and ignore the twitching, you realize that he is a very intelligent man indeed. If he’s been kept under wraps all his life then it’s not through any fault of his own but because he offends the imperial family’s sensibilities.’

Well, I wasn’t going to argue. Still, if Claudius was our conspirators’ emperor of choice – and remember we were talking altruism and the good of Rome here – then I’d eat my sandals.

Bathyllus buttled in. ‘Excuse me, sir. Madam,’ he said. ‘I’ve given instructions for the furnace to be stoked. I thought that having been out in today’s inclement weather you might like a hot bath before dinner. Meton says that will be a little earlier than usual.’

‘Good idea, little guy,’ I said. ‘Very thoughtful of you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

He left, and I cocked an eye at Perilla. ‘You noticed our new hyper-conscientious major-domo, lady?’ I said.

She was grinning. ‘Don’t complain, dear,’ she said. ‘Make the most of it while it lasts. It has something to do with the emperor’s dinner invitation, I think.’

Yeah. Which was for the next day as ever was. Whoopee, I could barely contain my excitement. Still, it mightn’t be too deadly; we’d probably just be two out of at least fifty or so, and we could leave as soon as it was polite.

I took a last swallow of wine and got up to change for our pre-dinner steam.

N
ext day, we turned up prompt at the palace in our best bib and tucker – by litter, of course, despite the fact that it was a dry evening, since if I’d even hinted about thinking of walking and meeting her there, Perilla would’ve handed me my head. As it was, she’d made sure our litter slobs were given a decent scrub-up and polish before they started, and they pulled up at the gate gleaming like thoroughbreds. I nodded to the two very large Praetorians on guard, gave my name and the invitation to the door slave on duty, and we were escorted through.

I’d been inside the palace before, naturally, more often than I’d’ve liked, but this bit was new to me, obviously one of the function suites and decorated to impress. Which it did, in spades: top-grade mosaic flooring with tesserae so small you could practically have used them for signet-ring inlays, cedar wall panelling, bronzes that could’ve belonged to Postuma’s pal Alexander – and probably had. And above was a ceiling featuring every god and goddess in the pantheon, scattering their benevolence down on the favoured mortals beneath. All lit by more gilt candelabra than you could shake a considerable stick at. Gaius’s oil bill alone must’ve been eye-watering.

How the other half live, right enough.

‘Close your mouth, lady,’ I murmured as we cleared the threshold and went into the room itself. ‘You’re gaping.’

‘Nonsense, dear.’

I’d been right about the numbers; the place was crowded. So; not a cosy, intimate, snuggle-up-to-your-couch-partner dinner party, then. Even though I’d neither expected nor wanted that, my heart sank: me, I hate these stand-up affairs, where you have to make polite conversation stuck with a plate in one hand and a wine cup in the other. Although to be fair this’d be just the drinks-and-nibbles stage, and we’d be eating elsewhere, probably in the room beyond the set of folding doors in the far wall.

‘Drink, sir?’ said a slave with a wine tray. I took a cup of wine.

‘You got anything soft for the lady, pal?’ I said.

‘Of course, sir. Barley water and honey?’

I shuddered. ‘Yeah, that’ll do fine.’

‘I’ll have one of the other boys bring it over.’

‘Great.’ I took a sip of the wine. Not Caecuban, which was fair enough. It was a reasonable Falernian, though; not as good as Lentulus’s, but getting there. I couldn’t complain that Gaius was saving a few of his precious pennies by serving his guests mass-produced Spanish plonk.

Perilla had drifted over to a sort of lectern.

‘There’s a seating plan here with names,’ she said. ‘How very well organized.’

‘Yeah, well, it was hardly likely to be a free-for-all scrimmage, was it?’ I said, joining her. ‘So where are we?’

She pointed. ‘On the right at the back. Not with anyone I know, unfortunately, but—’

‘Rufia Perilla! Now this is a pleasant surprise!’

A dapper, middle-aged guy in the group to our immediate left had turned round, smiling, and I recognized Marcus Vinicius.

Perilla smiled back. ‘Good evening, Vinicius,’ she said. ‘I was just wondering if there was anyone we knew here. Lovely to see you.’

‘Completely mutual, my dear, I assure you. You’re a life-saver. Join us, please.’ He stepped aside, opening a space in the group. ‘Oh, and, ah, Corvinus, isn’t it? Valerius Corvinus?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ I said.

‘Oh, tush, tush! No
sirs
, if you don’t mind, I doubt if I could give you ten years. You’re in a better state than you were the last time we met, aren’t you?’ He chuckled and turned to the other two men in the group; one of them I didn’t recognize, but the second, I realized with a shock, was Gaius’s Uncle Claudius. ‘The last time I saw Corvinus he’d just had an argument with a runaway cart and turned up at my door looking like an arena cat’s leavings. Not completely an accident, Perilla told me later. Quite the sleuth, our Valerius Corvinus. Mind you, thinking back on that evening, I might’ve gone for the cart myself in preference to … who was it doing the reading again, Perilla?’

‘Annaeus Seneca.’

‘Ah, yes, rot his guts. The would-be poet. Livilla’s protégé. Frightful tick, currently, I think, living on beets in Lusitania or wherever the hell Caesar exiled him to, and serve him right. Oh, but I’m sorry, Corvinus, I should make the introductions. Tiberius Claudius you probably know already, him being a relative of yours now.’

I nodded at the guy. Despite the fact that I’d been at his wedding, it’d been along with a couple of hundred other people, so this was the first time I’d really seen him close up. He didn’t look all that bad, certainly not the disaster I’d been half-expecting: well turned out, neatly shaved and barbered, longish, thinish face with regular features that reminded me of old Tiberius’s. Which, I suppose, was fair enough, since his father Drusus had been the Wart’s brother.

‘C-C-Corvinus,’ he said. ‘P-pleased to meet you.’

Pleasant-enough voice, too, if you ignored the stutter.

‘Likewise,’ I said.

‘And my nephew, Annius Vinicianus.’

Hey! I turned to face the other man. Not all that younger than Vinicius himself, for all he was a nephew; I’d put him at about my age. Clean-cut, impeccably dressed in a snow-white broad-striper mantle, fit looking, radiating confidence. And with cold grey eyes that were looking at me in not exactly a hostile way but the next thing to it. Speculative, certainly.

‘Corvinus.’ He put out his hand, and we shook.

A slave came up with a tray. ‘The barley water, sir,’ he said.

‘Oh, that’ll be for me,’ Perilla said. She took the cup. ‘Thank you. The emperor hasn’t arrived yet?’

‘No. He likes to make an entrance,’ Vinicius said. ‘Imperial prerogative. So, Rufia Perilla, what are you doing slumming it here with us poor devils?’

‘Hardly slumming it.’ A waiter with a tray of candied nuts came up. I noticed that Claudius took a handful. Liked his food, obviously, did Gaius’s uncle. ‘Why should you say that?’

‘My dear lady, when you’ve been to as many bashes like this as I have, you’ll use the term too. Where’ve they put you, by the way?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Which table?’

‘Oh. One of the ones at the back.’

‘Dear me, we can do better than that! We’re two short where we are, as it happens. No Shadow, either; Caesar doesn’t approve of them.’ Shadows are the odds and sods drafted in at the last minute to fill up any unoccupied places in the dinner party’s basic unit of nine. Me, I tended to agree with Gaius: you choose the people you want to eat with for themselves, not just to make up the numbers. And the professional Shadows – they do exist, for a wonder – try so hard to be the life and soul that they’re a pain in the arse. ‘Old Latiaris’s gout is playing up again, so he and his wife have had to call off. You’re more than welcome to move over to us, my dear. Unless you know the people on the other couches where you are, of course, in which case you’ll probably want to stay.’

‘No, actually, we don’t,’ Perilla said. ‘And yes, thank you, we’d be delighted.’

‘Then that’s settled. Claudius? Lucius? You’ve no objections, do you?’

‘None at all.’ Vinicianus was looking at me as he said it, the grey eyes still cold and level. ‘I’d be delighted to get to know Valerius Corvinus better.’

‘Fine. Perilla, you’re on the other side of me from Claudius, on the bottom couch. Three writers together, if I can include myself in that category. It should make for quite an interesting evening, for a change.’

‘Tiberius Claudius writes?’ I said, startled.

Perilla nudged me hard in the ribs just as Claudius said blandly: ‘He d-does indeed, C-Corvinus. S-Surprising as it may seem. He also r-reads quite well. S-Speaking, I’ll grant you, does p-pose a p-problem, although he can m-manage it quite s-successfully on his own behalf. G-Given sufficient time.’

Ouch. I felt myself redden.

Vinicius chuckled. ‘A bit of advice, Corvinus, if you’ll forgive me,’ he said. ‘Don’t judge a book by its wrappings. And Claudius, go easy on the poor man. He doesn’t know you as well as we do.’

‘Uh … yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I’m sorry. My apologies.’

‘N-None n-necessary. F-forget it, p-please.’

‘Tiberius Claudius is a very distinguished linguist and histor-ian, Marcus.’ Perilla gave me a tight smile, and her tone of voice was straight off a glacier. Shit; we were in real trouble here, or would be later, I could tell. ‘His work on the Etruscans is groundbreaking.’

‘W-Well, I w-wouldn’t go so far as—’

‘Nonsense, my dear chap!’ Vinicius clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Groundbreaking is exactly right. You and Perilla can both tell me what you’re working on at present and I’ll bore you by reciprocating.’ There was a stir by the door behind us. ‘Ah. That’s Caesar and Caesonia arriving now. About time, I’m starving.’

I looked round. Gods. Yeah, well, I supposed that being emperor and the fact that he was footing the no doubt whopping bill for the evening excused the guy from conforming to the usual dress code; mind you, a get-up that would’ve been seriously OTT at the Great King’s court in Parthia was taking things a bit too far, I thought. Caesonia, dolled up to the nines as she was and hung with enough jewellery to fit out a couple of shops in the Saepta, was drab in comparison.

His make-up was a bit overstated, too.
Trowels
came to mind. Not exactly one of your shy, self-effacing characters, our Gaius.

‘Marcus,’ Perilla murmured. ‘You’re staring. No one else is. Stop it.’

‘Uh … right. Right.’ I shifted my eyes to where slaves were folding back the doors at the end of the room.

‘Well, I think we can go in now,’ Vinicius said. ‘Over to the left near the front, Corvinus. The ladies will be there ahead of us, I expect.’

Near the front
was understating things; we turned out to be almost slap bang next to the top table itself, where Gaius and Caesonia were lying. I didn’t recognize any of the other seven at it, but the impeccably mantled ramrod-stiff guy and matching frozen-faced matron on the lowest couch must’ve been the new year’s suffect consul and spouse. Frozen-faced, because from the looks of things their table-mates for the evening were Gaius’s flavour-of-the-month pals and gals, one of whom had the muscle-bound look of a professional gladiator. She wasn’t one of the pals, either.

Well, it was all part of life’s rich tapestry.

Vinicius had lain down in the host’s place at the top end of our bottom couch. The three wives were already there, together on the couch opposite; at least, I recognized Livilla and Messalina, and the third, on Livilla’s far side at the couch’s end, had to be Vinicianus’s.

‘You’re next to me, Perilla.’ Vinicius patted the place to his left, where the principal guest usually lay. ‘No, I insist. I told you.’ Livilla shot him a look that was pure venom, but he either missed it or chose to ignore it. Not the happiest or best-matched of couples, Vinicius and Gaius’s sister. I noticed she’d put on even more weight than she’d been carrying the last time I’d seen her; Messalina and Vinicianus’s wife were going to be pretty pushed for space here. ‘Claudius on my other side, Vinicianus beyond Perilla, if you will, Lucius, my boy, and then Corvinus. Can’t have husband and wife together, can we?’ Hell; that put me next to Messalina reclining at the near end of the top couch. Relative or not, I’d’ve preferred to steer well clear of that lady. ‘Oh, and I’m sorry. Corvinus and Perilla, I should’ve introduced you to Vinicianus’s wife, Fulvia Procula.’ We nodded to each other. ‘Now. I think that should do us. Let’s get on with it, shall we?’

We reclined. Messalina gave me a sunny smile and what was almost a wink. She was a looker, sure, always had been, and even now in her mid-twenties and two husbands down the road with her slim figure, soft features and clear skin, she could’ve passed for ten years younger, easy; minimum of make-up and jewellery, although I noticed that she was wearing a ring with a ruby in it the size of a quail’s egg that must’ve cost Claudius an arm and a leg.

‘Why, Cousin Corvinus,’ she said. ‘What a surprise.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, it is.’ I kept my voice neutral.

‘A pleasant one, of course.’ She laughed and held her hands out to the slave coming round with the perfumed water. ‘And Perilla’s looking extremely well. For her age.’

Uh-huh. I glanced sideways, but fortunately the lady was already in deep conversation with Vinicius, as was Livilla with Procula. It looked like Messalina, Vinicianus and me were going to form a threesome. At least for the moment. I held my own hands over the basin while the jug slave poured.

‘So, Corvinus,’ Vinicianus said. ‘What’s this sleuthing business my uncle mentioned? It sounds fascinating.’

The slave behind the one with the water jug dried my hands with a napkin. Including the guy holding the basin, that made three of them. Obviously hand-washing duty was pretty labour-intensive: there was certainly no shortage of bought help around.

‘Oh, it’s nothing much,’ I said.

‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’ Messalina held up her cup without looking at the wine slave who was following behind the hand-rinse guys. He poured. ‘Quite the little busy bee, so I’m told.’

I held up my own cup. The slave filled it.

‘Thanks, pal,’ I said. ‘Yeah, well, it keeps me off the streets and reasonably sober.’ It didn’t do either of those things, mind, but at a dinner party you’re not under oath.

‘Are you working on anything at the moment?’ Vinicianus said, lifting his cup for the slave.

His tone was polite interest, no more. Uh-huh. Well, if that was how he wanted to play it, it was absolutely fine with me.

‘Actually, I am,’ I said. I sipped the wine and blinked as the taste registered. Shit, that was Caecuban! Real imperial Caecuban, from Gaius’s own cellar. By tagging along with Vinicius we’d obviously moved up a considerable notch on the drinks scale. ‘A guy by the name of Naevius Surdinus, murdered on his estate a couple of months back. You know him?’

‘I’d have recognized the face, yes, and I’ve certainly heard his name. But no, I didn’t know him, not personally.’ On the open side of the table, the slaves were laying out the starters. ‘How dreadful. Do you have any idea who killed him?’

‘I’m getting there,’ I said easily. ‘The actual perp, yes, because he was seen. A freedman with a distinctive scar or a birthmark on his left cheek.’ I took another swallow of wine. Beautiful! ‘You don’t happen to know who or whose that might be, do you?’