Illegally Dead (23 page)

30

When I got home after my long talk with Libanius Perilla and the youngsters were already in the dining room and the skivvies were serving the starters.

‘Marcus, why on earth didn’t you send word if you were intending to -?’ Perilla began. Then she must’ve noticed the look on my face, because her voice changed and she said simply: ‘What’s happened?’

I set the welcome-home cupful of wine down on the table and stretched out on my usual couch.‘Quintus Acceius is the murderer. By now he’ll be dead. Him and his wife both.’

All three of them stared at me, Marilla with a stuffed olive half way to her lips.

‘What?’ Perilla said.

I told them the whole boiling. I didn’t feel much better by the end of it, either. He’d thanked me; the poor bugger had actually thanked me, like I’d done him a favour.

‘It’s not your fault, Corvinus,’ Clarus said.

‘No.’ I sighed and took a swallow of the wine. ‘He’d’ve killed himself anyway, eventually, even if Hostilius’s murder had never come to light.’

‘It would’ve done, or it might’ve, even if you hadn’t got involved. Veturina knew who was responsible, right from the start. And Castor. Didn’t they?’

I shot him a quick look. I hadn’t been going to let that aspect of things out, not even to Perilla: it was too dirty. He was no fool, young Clarus: Marilla was lucky. If you could call it luck. ‘Uh-huh,’ I said. ‘At least, I think so. For Veturina not to know, she’d’ve had to’ve stopped listening, that day of the conversation between Acceius and her husband. And she would’ve told Castor. I don’t think she could’ve kept any secrets from him.’

‘So why didn’t she say?’ Perilla was frowning. ‘After all, he was her husband.’

‘Clarus?’ I took another slug of wine and topped up the cup from the jug. This was an evening I didn’t intend to stay sober.

‘She’d been planning to kill him herself,’ Clarus said. ‘A mercy killing. Acceius beat her to it, and whatever his motives were she couldn’t bring herself to betray him. It could’ve been her; thanks to him, it wasn’t.’

I nodded. ‘Yeah. That about sums it up. Also...well, I’d guess she thought it could’ve been Castor, too. Although personally I think he preferred things the way they were. The chances are, a month down the line Acceius would’ve found himself being blackmailed; that is, if Castor hadn’t already begun putting the bite on, which he may well have done because Acceius wouldn’t’ve told me. And I doubt that Acceius would’ve stiffed him for it as he deserved, even if he’d lived, because the guy had had enough of killing. Bugger!’ I slammed the cup down and the wine spilled. ‘Why is it always the wrong person who dies?’

‘Gently, Marcus,’ Perilla said. ‘Besides, it isn’t.’

‘I could’ve done without Castor,’ I said. ‘If there’s anyone who deserves a place in a fucking urn just by existing it’s that bastard.’

‘It’s over. Leave it. Change the subject.’

Yeah, well; she was right as usual. Not that that was any comfort. I refilled the cup and sank another quarter pint as the skivvies came in with the main courses. Meton had done us proud again. Which reminded me. ‘So how did your meeting with Renia go, lady?’ I said. ‘You manage to see her?’

‘Mmm. Chicken with chives and hazelnuts,’ Marilla said brightly. ‘Corvinus, you must have some of this. Clarus, pass Corvinus the –’

‘Yes, I did, Marcus. As a matter of fact.’

Uh-oh. There weren’t any spiders to rush for cover, but I’d bet if there had been the little buggers would’ve been swinging on their webs as fast as their eight legs could carry them, because the atmosphere had just turned glacial. ‘Ah...good,’ I said. ‘Good.’

‘“Good” is not a term I’d use.’ Perilla picked up her spoon. ‘Not even close. I have never, ever been so embarrassed in the entire course of my life.’

‘I forgot to check on Corydon,’ Marilla said, sliding off the couch like it was greased. ‘Come on, Clarus.’

They disappeared. Shit; for the Princess to leave the table half way through a meal this had to be bad. ‘She, uh, denied it?’ I said. ‘Having an affair with Meton?’

‘Renia, Marcus, is a perfectly respectable married woman who enjoys the complete and fully-justified confidence of her doting husband and would not countenance having an affair with anyone, let alone a paunchy, middle-aged slave with all the allure and sexual charms of a warthog.’ Perilla dumped a serving of carrots in cumin savagely onto her plate. ‘Her words, not mine, in case you’re wondering. Personally, I think the warthog comparison is overgenerous.’

‘But –’

‘This when she saw that I was making a serious accusation, mind. Her first reaction to the idea, after I’d introduced myself and told her why I was there, was uncontrollable laughter involving a certain amount of rib-hugging. The stage that followed it consisted of a threat to call her husband’s slaves and have me thrown out on my ear.’

‘But –’

‘Fortunately, she was and is by nature a very nice girl indeed, with a lively sense of humour and of the ridiculous. After I had grovellingly apologised’ - I winced; oh, hell! - ‘we got quite chatty and discussed the misunderstanding over a cake or two and a cup of honey wine. So’ - she laid down her spoon with a snap - ‘that is that little mystery cleared up. And, Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus, if you ever, ever again put me into a situation like that I will kill you in the slowest, most painful way I can possibly devise. And I have an extremely good imagination.’

‘But I saw them! Marilla and Clarus saw them! Meton was all over the woman! And what about the way he was fucking dressed? Meton never wears -’

‘Marcus!’

Oh, bugger. A chip of plaster from the ceiling fell onto the table. I clammed up, fast.

‘Do you want me to explain or don’t you?’

The hard ones first. Ah, well; best get it over with. I took another belt of the Alban as an anaesthetiser. ‘Yeah, okay, lady,’ I said. ‘You’ve got the floor. Go ahead, tell me.’

She did.

Oh, bugger!

31

We took the carriage into town the next day, Perilla and I, about two hours shy of lunchtime. I got Lysias to park it just short of the market square - no point in giving the duplicitous bastard advance warning - and we walked the rest of the way to Pontius’s. We’d timed it well: they’d all be inside already.

I led the way up the outside stair to the first floor and opened the door at the top. Perilla and I slipped inside.

The place was packed full of women. At least, there was one man there, apart from the major attraction at the front of the room, and he was standing two or three yards away. I edged over, grabbed his arm and twisted it up his back. He squealed, and a plump woman sitting on the bench immediately in front of him turned round and said: ‘Ssssh!’

‘Sorry, lady,’ I whispered. ‘Private business.’ Then, in his ear: ‘Gabba, you bastard! You set this up, didn’t you?’

‘Corvinus? What the hell are -?’ Then he saw Perilla, and swallowed. Yeah, well, I knew the feeling.

‘How much are you getting?’ I said.

‘Just the usual agent’s fee, consul. Ten per cent of the gate. But it’s a public service. You heard old Titus Luscius downstairs the other day, his wife feeds him on beans four days out of five, and the fifth it’s chitterlings. I just thought –’

The plump woman turned round again. ‘If you two don’t shut up,’ she said, ‘I’ll give you bloody chitterlings myself.’

‘Right. Right.’ I let go of Gabba’s arm. ‘Sorry, lady.’

‘Sauce!’

‘Sauce,’ Meton said. ‘Well, ladies, if you want to raise everyday braised meats like these’ - he indicated the cutlets on the skillet sitting on top of the charcoal stove in front of him - ‘right into the dinner-party bracket you can’t do better than a fish pickle sauce. Here it is, very simple, I made it earlier. Grind the herbs and spice very finely, that’s thyme, caraway, lovage and pepper, a good three-fingersful pinch of each. Me, I’d go for black peppercorns every time, but use white if you prefer a milder taste. Oh, and one small tip here: if you’re on a very tight budget, or you want something more traditional, try using dried myrtle berries. They’re not the same, but they’re a lot cheaper, and a few juniper berries mixed in work wonders where flavour’s concerned, especially with stronger meats such as goat, wild boar or venison, when I’d add them anyway. Lovage - well, I’d use the seeds here myself for preference, but I’ve nothing against the leaves, fresh or dried, or even the root, if you must. And if you can’t get lovage for any reason, or again if you prefer something a little more subtle, then use celery, the seeds or the leaves, not the stems. Once you’ve done the business with the mortar and pestle, add the result to a mixture of finely-chopped shallots and dates - again for you budget-watchers figs are a good alternative, but the taste’ll be quite different - then stir in the fish pickle, Spanish if you can find it and afford it, naturally, but the factories in Pompeii are producing some pretty good stuff these days, so I’d give that a try if you see it in your local market. If you’re in doubt I’d go for the mackerel-based version, the average quality tends to be higher, although anchovy pickle has a lot to be said for it if you know your source. Blend with some honey, a little of the meat stock and some olive oil, pour over the cutlets half way through the cooking time - here we go - and –’

– at which point, across the crowded room, our eyes met and held.

‘Ah,’ Meton said.

And dried.

Silence. Then three dozen other pairs of hostile eyes swivelled in my direction...

‘But, Marcus, he was talking! Really talking, not his usual monosyllabic grunt-and-mumble.’ Perilla steadied herself against the carriage’s windowsill as Lysias hit yet another pothole. ‘And holding the entire audience spellbound. Meton was! Don’t you find that interesting?’

‘Personally, lady, I found it frightening. They’d’ve lynched us if we hadn’t got out in time.’ I wasn’t exaggerating, either: when Meton had corpsed, and it became obvious why, the audience had turned distinctly nasty. Forget your stories of German Frauen wading into battle tooth and nail beside their husbands, a crowd of Latin matrons with their blood up’ll have them beat six ways from nothing every time, and that plump woman had had fists the size of hams. ‘It just shows you, where food’s concerned you don’t argue. Especially with a roomful of housewives caught in compositio interrupta.’

‘Well, I think Gabba was right. Meton’s performing a public service and we should encourage him. Not just live demonstrations, either: there must be a huge market out there for cookery books. If we could get him to write some of his recipes down and hire a few copyists –’

Gods! ‘Read my lips, lady,’ I said. ‘We’d be unleashing a monster. The world is not yet ready for a celebrity chef.’

She smiled and ducked her head. ‘Perhaps just Castrimoenium, then.’

‘Yeah.’ I settled back into the cushions. ‘I’ll compromise on that.’

We drove home.

_______________

Author’s Note

A brief word, for those who might be interested, on Roman cookery.

The foremost extant cookery book is the De Re Coquinaria - which just means ‘On Cookery’ - by Apicius. There are three historical candidates for authorship spanning just over a hundred and fifty years, between the times of Julius Caesar and the Emperor Trajan, although it’s more than likely that no single one of them, if any at all, was actually responsible for the complete work as we have it (the source manuscript is late fourth/early fifth century AD, when ‘Apicius’ was long established as the gastronome par excellence). What is clear, though, is that all three took their food very seriously indeed, especially the second, Marcus Gavius Apicius: Seneca and the scholiast on Juvenal mention the fact that he set down in writing a collection of his favourite recipes, Athenaeus tells the story of how he made a special voyage to Libya to compare the vaunted Libyan prawns in size to those of Campanian Minturnae (they came nowhere near, so he sailed back without landing) and both Martial and Juvenal use him as the subject of satirical epigrams (he is supposed to have spent sixty million sesterces on his stomach, then committed suicide because he reckoned the ten million he had left was insufficient to keep body and soul decently together). Interestingly enough, Tacitus also links his name - as a notorious debauchee - with the young Sejanus. Quite a character, obviously.

There are translations available. The one on my reference shelf (which may well be out of print, but is excellent if you can find a copy) is ‘The Roman Cookery of Apicius, Translated and Adapted for the Modern Kitchen’, by John Edwards (Century, 1984), and is where Meton’s recipe for fish pickle sauce is taken from (try it! For the fish pickle itself, Indonesian nam pla or anchovy sauce are good modern equivalents). Also, English Heritage do a very nice little book called ‘Roman Cookery: Recipes and History’ by Jane Renfrew, which may be more accessible (the foreword is by Lloyd Grossman). You might even like to stage a proper Roman dinner party, using mattresses for the three couches and a tablecloth spread on the floor, although if so it will hopefully not involve an incident such as occurred at one of ours when the Roman mantle made by a female guest from some old curtains embarrassingly and progressively disintegrated over the course of the evening...

My thanks, especially, to Harry Hine of the School of Classics at St Andrews University, and to his colleague Jill Harries, for their help with the Julian law. Any mistakes I’ve made over the interpretation of its terms and application are, of course, due entirely to my own ineptitude.