[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent="no" hundred_percent_height="no" hundred_percent_height_scroll="no" hundred_percent_height_center_content="yes" equal_height_columns="no" menu_anchor="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" status="published" publish_date="" class="" id="" link_color="" link_hover_color="" border_size="" border_color="" border_style="solid" margin_top="" margin_bottom="" padding_top="" padding_right="" padding_bottom="" padding_left="" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_position="center center" background_repeat="no-repeat" fade="no" background_parallax="none" enable_mobile="no" parallax_speed="0.3" background_blend_mode="none" video_mp4="" video_webm="" video_ogv="" video_url="" video_aspect_ratio="16:9" video_loop="yes" video_mute="yes" video_preview_image="" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0"][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type="1_1" type="1_1" layout="1_1" spacing="" center_content="no" link="" target="_self" min_height="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" hover_type="none" border_size="0" border_color="" border_style="solid" border_position="all" border_radius="" box_shadow="no" dimension_box_shadow="" box_shadow_blur="0" box_shadow_spread="0" box_shadow_color="" box_shadow_style="" padding_top="" padding_right="" padding_bottom="" padding_left="" margin_top="" margin_bottom="" background_type="single" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_image_id="" background_position="left top" background_repeat="no-repeat" background_blend_mode="none" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset="" filter_type="regular" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0" last="true" first="true"][fusion_text columns="" column_min_width="" column_spacing="" rule_style="default" rule_size="" rule_color="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset=""] May, AD41. ‘You know Tullia Gemella, Marcus?’ Perilla said. She was looking a bit chewed. ‘Ah… yeah.’ I gave the lady sitting across from her a nod. An overstatement there: I knew the name, sure – one of the recent and extremely keen recruits, with a thing, according to Perilla, for lyric pieces involving shepherdesses, rustic swains and a general atmosphere of bosk – but I’d never actually seen her in person. The adjectives ‘large’ and ‘imposing’ sprang to mind. Also the phrase ‘a strong personality’: even although the lady hadn’t opened her mouth yet, she just radiated self-possession, confidence, and a knowledge of her own considerable worth. So must Hannibal have looked when he was faced with the Alps and muttered: ‘I’ll bloody have you lot for a start!’ Well, it explained Perilla’s chewed look, anyway; in the time between the end of the poetry-klatsch meeting and my arrival, Things must’ve been Fraught. ‘Pleased to meet you, Tullia Gemella,’ I said. ‘I’ll just –’ I turned to go. ‘No, don’t leave, dear,’ Perilla said quickly. ‘We’ve been waiting for you to get back. Gemella wanted a word.’ ‘Yeah? What about?’ ‘Her brother’s been murdered.’ ________ Gaius Tullius is not a popular bunny, not even with his wife or sister; but why should anyone go to the lengths of actually killing him? Then there’s the matter of the body which Corvinus’s adopted daughter and stepson happen on in the gardens of the Pollio library. Two deaths, completely unconnected. Or are they? The seventeenth book in the Marcus Corvinus series. [/fusion_text][/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]

[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent="no" hundred_percent_height="no" hundred_percent_height_scroll="no" hundred_percent_height_center_content="yes" equal_height_columns="no" menu_anchor="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" status="published" publish_date="" class="" id="" link_color="" link_hover_color="" border_size="" border_color="" border_style="solid" margin_top="0px" margin_bottom="0px" padding_top="0px" padding_right="0px" padding_bottom="0px" padding_left="0px" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_position="center center" background_repeat="no-repeat" fade="no" background_parallax="none" enable_mobile="no" parallax_speed="0.3" background_blend_mode="none" video_mp4="" video_webm="" video_ogv="" video_url="" video_aspect_ratio="16:9" video_loop="yes" video_mute="yes" video_preview_image="" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0"][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type="1_1" layout="1_1" spacing="" center_content="no" link="" target="_self" min_height="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" hover_type="none" border_size="0" border_color="" border_style="solid" border_position="all" border_radius="" box_shadow="no" dimension_box_shadow="" box_shadow_blur="0" box_shadow_spread="0" box_shadow_color="" box_shadow_style="" padding_top="" padding_right="" padding_bottom="" padding_left="" margin_top="" margin_bottom="" background_type="single" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_image_id="" background_position="left top" background_repeat="no-repeat" background_blend_mode="none" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset="" filter_type="regular" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0" last="no"][fusion_text columns="" column_min_width="" column_spacing="" rule_style="default" rule_size="" rule_color="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset=""] November, AD40. When a wealthy consul’s wife asks Corvinus to investigate the death of her uncle, killed by a block of falling masonry at his estate on Vatican Hill, a sceptical Corvinus is inclined to agree with the general verdict of accidental death. But his investigations reveal clear evidence of foul play, as well as unearthing several skeletons among the closets of this well-to-do but highly dysfunctional family. Who could have wanted Lucius Surdinus dead? His vengeful ex-wife? His ambitious mistress? His disillusioned elder, or his estranged younger, son? Or does the key to the mystery lie in the dead man’s political past? But when Corvinus’s probing draws him to the attention of the emperor, a dangerously unpredictable Caligula, his prospects of surviving long enough to solve the mystery look slim to say the least. [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="Finished Business - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] November in Rome sucks. Oh, sure, the temperature’s still okay, and in any case me, I’d far rather have to put on an extra tunic than be broiled alive like happens in the summer months when all the Great and Good that can head for the Alban Hills or further afield. But November is wet, wet, wet, things can get pretty miserable after the fifth consecutive morning of trudging through the rain-soaked streets for your Market Square shave-and-gossip, and until you get to the end of the month the Winter Festival seems a lifetime away. So barring the days when the sun does consent to shine – and they can be glorious – I generally stick pretty close to home. Which was what I was doing, with the usual half-jug to keep me company, when our major-domo Bathyllus buttled in to say I had a visitor. ‘The Lady Naevia Postuma, sir,’ he said. Smarmed. Yeah, well, I knew the reason for that as soon as he mentioned the name: Bathyllus is the snob’s snob, and it wasn’t often we got a visit from the wife of the senior serving consul. Particularly when she was a total stranger. I sat up straight on the couch just as the lady herself sailed in. Sailed being the operative word, or maybe barged would be more apt. Something suitably nautical, anyway, not to say aggressive, because Naevia Postuma had a nose like a trireme’s beak and the armoured superstructure to match. Plus an overall weigh-in tonnage that would’ve been enough and to spare for two consuls’ wives. Luckily for him, our little bald-head had stepped aside pretty smartly to let her past, or he would’ve been scuttled. ‘Valerius Corvinus! It is so nice to meet you!’ She hove to and glanced behind her. Bathyllus quickly pulled up a chair and she docked, smoothing her voluminous but impeccable mantle around thighs thick as tree-trunks. ‘I was, though, also hoping to see your wife?’ There was the faintest tinge of a question at the end. Mid-morning’s not exactly the time a visitor from the top social bracket expects to see the visitee sinking the booze. As surreptitiously as I could, I replaced the wine cup on the table beside me and tried to look as if I’d only been taking the occasional sip, possibly for medicinal reasons. Not that it worked, mind: the cup got a look that had ice forming on the inlay. ‘Ah…Perilla’s out, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘So it would appear.’ The Look turned to me, just long enough to register but stay within the boundaries of politeness. ‘A pity, but no great matter. I did have my reasons, which I will come to in due course, but fortunately my principal business is with you.’ Fortunately. Yeah, right. Still, I was the host here, and the duties of a host are sacrosanct. ‘Could I offer you some refreshment, Naevia Postuma?’ I said. ‘Very kind.If your kitchen staff could provide a cup of warmed milk? With a spoonful of honey, and just a touch of nutmeg.’ ‘Sure,’ I said. Warm milk? ‘No problem. Bathyllus, would you –?’ ‘Buffalo’s, or goat’s at a pinch. Certainly not sheep’s, please, and warm cow’s milk is an abomination of nature.’ Well, I’d agree with her there. ‘I drink nothing else at this time of day, in this weather.’ The wine cup got another pointed glance. ‘Nor should you.’ ‘Right.Right. Bathyllus, ah, see what you can do, pal, okay?’ Like find a passing goat to mug. Outside bet though that was, you saw even fewer buffaloes than goats on the Caelian, and I doubted if their milk featured to any great extent in our chef Meton’s store cupboard. ‘Now, Naevia Postuma.About this business of yours.’ She sniffed. ‘I would have thought that was obvious. If not its precise nature then at least in general terms.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Certainly, with the exercise of some basic nouson your part.’ Ouch. ‘According to various friends of mine with whom I discussed the matter you have considerable past experience in handling, ah, problems of this sort, which although personally I find a little eccentric in someone of your social class is rather convenient, under the circumstances. It concerns a murder.’ ‘Uh…is that so, now?’ ‘Of my uncle, Naevius Surdinus. You knew him, of course.’ ‘No, I can’t say that I did.’ She frowned. ‘That is extremely odd. He certainly knew you, or at least he knew your family. And he most definitely knew your wife, Rufia Perilla, that I’m positive of, for reasons which as I said I will come to.’ Then, when I still looked blank: ‘Lucius Naevius Surdinus? Suffect consul with Cassius Longinus ten years ago?’ ‘I’m sorry. No bells. I can’t answer for Perilla, mind. She gets about socially more than I do.’ ‘Well, again it’s no matter. Although it is strange.’ I prompted. ‘A murder, you said.’ ‘Yes. On his estate in the Vatican district. His head was crushed by a lump of masonry.’ Delivered straight out and dead-pan, without a smidgeon of expression. ‘He was hit from behind?’ ‘Oh, no.From above.A considerable way above. The block came from the top of a tower at the edge of the property, some distance from the villa itself. Uncle Lucius was having it renovated and he liked to see how the work was progressing.’ ‘“Renovated”? Then it was in poor condition?’ ‘Dreadful. Ruinous, in fact. It was centuries old, originally some sort of watch-tower, I think, and it had been abandoned for years. He’d taken a fancy to turn it into a philosopher’s sanctum. Philosophy was his hobby, you know, or rather more than a hobby, particularly astronomy and astrology. Also, he wanted somewhere quiet to take himself off to of an evening. Away from the villa itself.’ ‘Oh? Why would he do that, especially?’ ‘For the usual reason. Uncle Lucius was married, to Cornelia Sullana, and the marriage was not a particularly happy one. These things happen, of course, and when they do it’s good for both parties concerned to have some private space. Or don’t you agree?’ ‘Yeah. Yeah, I suppose so.’ ‘Mind you, I should say that when he died – that was three days ago, by the way – he and Sullana had been divorced for almost a month, so that aspect of things was academic.’ ‘You, uh, know the reason? For the divorce, I mean?’ ‘No. He gave none, to me or to anyone else, Sullana, presumably, excepted. And I didn’t ask, because it was no business of mine. Besides, as I said, he and Sullana had not been a couple, properly speaking, for many years. That might well be reason enough. Although –’ She stopped. ‘“Although”?’ ‘Nothing.Or nothing that I wish to expand on. As I say, it wasn’t my business.’ I shelved that for the time being. ‘Did they have any family?’ ‘Two sons living. Lucius Junior, the elder, intends to run for praetor this coming year. The younger, Hellenus – Marcus, really, but he prefers the nickname, and the family indulge him – is, well, rather a disappointment.’ ‘In what way?’ ‘He’s an artist.’ I stared at her. ‘He is what?’ ‘Yes, I know, Valerius Corvinus. Totally dreadful, and a serious embarrassment to his poor father, but there it is, what can you do? Young people today, I don’t know what the world is coming to. He absolutely refused to enter on a proper political career, I mean, refused point blank, if you can imagine that. He and his parents are estranged, and although Uncle Lucius never went as far as to disinherit him there’s been, to my knowledge, no contact with either his father or his mother for at least the past two years. He has, I understand’ – she sniffed – ‘a workshop or a studio or whatever you’d call it somewhere near the Circus, and there he stays.’ Yeah, well, not that I was going to let on to the lady but I could sympathise with that because I’d done more or less the same myself, barring the art bit. And knowing how my own father had reacted when I told him where he could put his plans for my future I could appreciate how Hellenus’s had felt. Not to mention the guy’s mother: anyone with the name Cornelia Sullana belonged to one of the top families in Rome, and those lads and lasses are sticklers for tradition. An artist as a descendant would have the old Dictator himself spinning in his urn. ‘Getting back to the business of the tower,’ I said. ‘You say it was in a very bad condition.’ ‘Oh, yes. Completely ramshackle, particularly the upper storeys. The builders Uncle Lucius hired to do the renovations are charging him a fortune because they say they’re taking their lives in their hands working on it.’ ‘Then your uncle’s death could’ve been an accident? I mean, the weather now being what it is if he’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time –’ ‘It was quite definitely murder, Valerius Corvinus,’ she said firmly. ‘The family and everyone else will tell you differently, of course they will, but I know that for a fact. Alexander told me.’ ‘Who’s Alexander?’ ‘The Alexander.’ Then, when I looked blank: ‘Oh, really, young man! Get a grip, please! King of Macedon?Philip’s son?’ I was boggling slightly. ‘Ah…right,’ I said. ‘Right.’ ‘I presume you had some education.’ ‘Yeah, well, it’s just that –’ …which, luckily, was when Bathyllus smarmed back in with one of our best silver cups balanced on its matching tray. ‘The chef apologises, madam.’ He set the tray on the table beside her. ‘We seem unaccountably to be out of buffalo milk, but he hopes goat’s will suffice.’ Uh-huh. I smothered a grin; knowing our Meton, whatever he’d said when Bathyllus had relayed the order it hadn’t been that. What’s more, I’d bet he’d qualified the nouns with a few choice adjectives and participles of his own, too. ‘I’m sure that will be perfectly adequate.’ She sipped, and I winced. ‘Yes, indeed. Delicious.’ Bathyllus bowed and buttled out. ‘Ah…you were talking about Alexander, Naevia Postuma,’ I said, and added carefully, just in case I’d got it wrong after all: ‘Alexander the Great, that would be, yes?’ That got me a look that should’ve curdled her milk. ‘Naturally it would,’ she said. ‘I must say, Valerius Corvinus, from what I’ve heard about you I’d’ve expected you to be much quicker on the uptake than that. Alexander is my control.’ ‘Control”?’ ‘In the spirit world. Regarding my uncle’s murder, he was quite definite. As he was, in fact, that I should follow my friends’ suggestion and consult you on the matter. I’ve never known him so insistent.’ She sipped again. ‘This really is quite delicious. Hymettus honey, I do believe, and from flowers grown on the southern slopes.’ ‘Yeah.Yeah, very possibly. So, ah, let’s just be absolutely clear about this, shall we? You’re saying that your only reason for believing that your uncle was murdered is that Alexander the Great told you so, right?’ ‘Indeed. But there is no only about it. Alexander is never wrong. Never. And he says that it is absolutely vital that you find the murderer.’ ‘He vouchsafe why?’ Or best of all just give the stupid woman the name of the fucking perp straight out and save us all a lot of time and grief faffing around. But then for some arcane celestial reason that never happens with chatty spirits, does it? ‘I’m afraid not, no. Only that it was of the utmost importance.’ Well, bully for Alexander. This thing needed nipping in the bud before it went any further. ‘Now look, lady –’ I began, just as Perilla breezed in from her honey-wine-and-poetry klatsch. ‘Hello, Marcus,’ she said. ‘Bathyllus said you had a visitor. How lovely to see you again, Naevia Postuma. And how is your husband the consul?’ ‘Gaius is very well, thank you, my dear. He would send you his regards.’ ‘What a beautiful mantle. Is it new?’ ‘Actually, yes, as it happens. From a little shop that’s just opened in the Saepta. Next to Argyrio’s. You know it?’ ‘Fabatus’s? Oh, yes, although I haven’t been there yet myself. Calventia Quietina told me about that when I talked to her a few days ago. She said –’ Jupiter on wheels! ‘Ah…Perilla,’ I said. ‘Naevia Postuma here thinks her uncle has been murdered. She wants me to –’ ‘I don’t think it,’ Postuma snapped, turning back to me. ‘I know. And I have explained why, fully and concisely.’ ‘Because Alexander the Great told you so,’ I said neutrally, with one eye on Perilla. The lady had parked herself on her usual couch. She looked remarkably unfazed at the news, which I thought under the circumstances was pretty odd. ‘Quite.’ Postuma reached into the fold of her mantle and took out a small book-roll. ‘However, I’m glad you’re here in person, Rufia Perilla. It makes things much simpler. As I told your husband, my visit had two purposes. This is the second.’ She handed the roll to Perilla. ‘As you can see, there’s a letter attached.’ Perilla took the roll and read the tag. ‘Hipparchus’s commentary on the Phaenomena of Eudoxus,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’ Postuma sniffed. ‘To tell the truth, my dear, I haven’t the faintest idea of the whys and wherefores myself. My uncle left it to you in a codicil to his will which he added only a few days ago, and in this instance I am simply the messenger. Perhaps the letter will explain.’ She got to her feet. ‘Now. I’m afraid I have a very tiresome committee meeting to attend at Queen Juno’s temple this morning, and I must be running along.’ The mind boggled: Queen Juno’s temple was half way across town, on the Tiber side of the Aventine, and running was something the lady just wasn’t built for. ‘So nice to see you both. You will, of course, accept the commission, Valerius Corvinus. I will see to it personally that my uncle’s family give you every co-operation.’ And she was gone. [/fusion_modal][/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]

[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent="no" hundred_percent_height="no" hundred_percent_height_scroll="no" hundred_percent_height_center_content="yes" equal_height_columns="no" menu_anchor="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" status="published" publish_date="" class="" id="" link_color="" link_hover_color="" border_size="" border_color="" border_style="solid" margin_top="0px" margin_bottom="0px" padding_top="0px" padding_right="0px" padding_bottom="0px" padding_left="0px" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_position="center center" background_repeat="no-repeat" fade="no" background_parallax="none" enable_mobile="no" parallax_speed="0.3" background_blend_mode="none" video_mp4="" video_webm="" video_ogv="" video_url="" video_aspect_ratio="16:9" video_loop="yes" video_mute="yes" video_preview_image="" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0"][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type="1_1" layout="1_1" spacing="" center_content="no" link="" target="_self" min_height="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" hover_type="none" border_size="0" border_color="" border_style="solid" border_position="all" border_radius="" box_shadow="no" dimension_box_shadow="" box_shadow_blur="0" box_shadow_spread="0" box_shadow_color="" box_shadow_style="" padding_top="" padding_right="" padding_bottom="" padding_left="" margin_top="" margin_bottom="" background_type="single" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_image_id="" background_position="left top" background_repeat="no-repeat" background_blend_mode="none" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset="" filter_type="regular" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0" last="no"][fusion_text columns="" column_min_width="" column_spacing="" rule_style="default" rule_size="" rule_color="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset=""] December, AD39. While enjoying the Winter Festival holiday at his adopted daughter’s home in the Alban Hills, Marcus Corvinus is approached by a local senator who requests his help in investigating the murder of a prominent citizen of the town. An outwardly respectable pillar of the community, local politician Quintus Caesius has been discovered beaten to death at the rear entrance of the town brothel. Questioning those who knew the victim, Corvinus is dismayed to find Bovillae a place of small-town secrets, bitter feuds, malicious gossip and deadly rivalry; a world away from the sophistication of Rome. As he is to discover, there are several suspects with reason to bear Caesius a grudge. But who would hate him enough to kill him? And what would a supposedly solid citizen be doing visiting the local brothel? [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="Solid Citizens - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] I like the Winter Festival. Oh, yeah, sure, it can be a complete pain in the rectum, and it’s really a time for the bought help. Still, there isn’t much to beat the simple pleasure of coming downstairs on that first Winter Festival morning, particularly if it’s cold and crisp and early, and seeing them all lined up waiting for their candles and dolls and little packets of holiday money, their innocent faces brightwith the prospect of a whole five days’ skiving off work, rubbishing the master, stuffing themselves until they’re sick with rich food in the best dining-room and generally behaving like a pig’s backside with total impunity. Technically, at least, that last bit: any slave stupid enough to go over the top by, say, pissing in the ornamental pool or trying it on with the mistress in the linen cupboard deserves all he gets, even if he can’t be given it untilafter the party’s over for another year. Rome might let her hair down on occasion, but you don’t mess with her. So there we were, in the lead-up to the Winter Festival, tucked away in the Alban Hills, visiting our adopted daughter Marilla and her new husband Clarus at what had been, the year before, Perilla’s Aunt Marcia’s villa outside Castrimoenium. Me, I’m a city boy, myself, but Castrimoenium – or the villa, rather – is special. Courtesy aunt or not – she and Perilla weren’t directly related – Marcia and her husband Fabius Maximus had been practically the only family she’d had, and when Maximus died just before the Ovid business that first brought me and the lady together Marcia had sold up and moved out of Rome, to what up until now had been a holiday property. Since we’d been married Perilla and I hadbeen coming through to stay pretty regularly, at least once or twice a year;for all she was a damn-your-eyes straight-down-the-line old-style blue-blooded aristocrat I’d had a lot of respect for old Marcia. Then Marilla had appeared and almost immediately moved in for keeps. It’d suited them both: Marcia had no family herself, at least none living, while Marilla with her penchant for collecting lame-duck animals – particularly the bloody-minded, eccentric or just plain weird ones – had never been happy in Rome. Besides, the city had painful memories. Then there was Clarus, the local doctor’s son, and that was that. When Marcia had died she’d left them the villa, lock, stock and menagerie. Mind you, it wasn’t all sweetness and light. We were expecting Mother and her older-than-Time-itself husband Priscus, the antiquarian’s antiquarian, in a few days. Fortunately, she’d be leaving her serial-poisoner chef Phormio behind in Rome, as we’d left Meton. Not Bathyllus, though: he’d always had a soft spot for Marilla, and I couldn’t do that to the little guy, not at Winter Festival time. Meton, now, well, Meton was different; being in Castrimoenium did something to his already-warped brain. After the business with Dassa the Oenophilic Sheep and his more recent celebrity chef scam, I wasn’t risking letting that scheming bastard anywhere near the place. It’d been a quiet morning, for me, at least, which suited me fine. Perilla and Marilla were out with the hellhound Placida, terrorising the local wild boar population plus any stray wolf silly enough to get in the way – at least, Placida was – while Clarus had had his round to make: his father’s eyesight had deteriorated badly these past few months, and Clarus was gradually taking over the practice. I was stretched out on one of the atrium couches, with a half jug of more-than-decent Alban on the side table, and was just giving myself a top-up when Lupercus came in. Lupercus was Clarus and Marilla’s major-domo, the replacement for old Laertes who’d been given his freedom in Marcia’s will and had gone off to the fleshpots of Baiae to live with his sister. Not a bad lad, Lupercus, albeit – in the arch-conservative Bathyllus’s view, anyway – on the far-too-young and over-sassy side for the job. Still, he and the little guy seemed to be getting along okay. Just. If you could call pointedly ignoring each other’s existence getting along. Still, there’d been no blood spilled so far, which by my reckoning was a definite plus. Taking Bathyllus aside just before we’d left home and warning him that I’d shove his feather duster where the sun didn’t shine if there were might have helped, mind. Never discount the power of intimidation. ‘Publius Silius Nerva to see you, sir,’ Lupercus said. I sat up. ‘Who?’ ‘The senator, sir. From Bovillae. He said to mention a connection with Quintus Libanius?’ Oh. Right. Fuzz-face Libanius I knew, the only non-Greek I’d ever met with a beard you could hide a badger in, and First Speaker of the Castrimoenian senate. The last time I’d seen him he’d been trying not to throw up over a corpse. ‘So what’s it about, pal?’ I said. He shrugged; something that, if Bathyllus had seen it, would’ve had the little guy tearing his hair. If he had any, that is, which he doesn’t. ‘I don’t know, sir. But he says it’s important.’ I sighed; there went the quiet morning. And I didn’t like the mention of Libanius more than half, either. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Wheel him in.’ Lupercus did. Nerva was a little tubby guy impeccably dressed in a broad-striper mantle that looked like it’d come from one of the best shops in Rome. Which made sense, because the Silii are one of the top Roman families. Bovillan senator he might be, but I’d guess he was one of the honorary appointees, a local only by residence who’d been drafted in because he’d held office in Rome itself. ‘Ah, Corvinus, glad you could see me,’ he said. ‘Enjoying your holiday?’ ‘Yeah.’ Up to now I had been, anyway. ‘Take a couch. You like a cup of wine?’ ‘It’s a little early for me, thank you.’ He lay down. ‘Do carry on yourself, though. Quintus Libanius sends his regards.’ I took a sip of the Alban. I was sorely puzzled: something was definitely not right here. Oh, sure, Bovillae’s only four or five miles away, the other side of the Appian Road, but you didn’t get one of their senators dropping in on an out-of-the-way villa just to pass the time with a visiting stranger, particularly a top-notcher from the very crest of the social tree like Silius Nerva. ‘So,’ I said. ‘What can I do for you?’ He cleared his throat. ‘It’s, ah, a little embarrassing.’ ‘Yeah? In what way?’ ‘There is…’ He hesitated and began again. ‘Not to beat about the bush, my dear fellow, we in the Bovillan senate are faced with what amounts to a rather unfortunate and sensitive problem at present. I happened to be, ah, discussing this over dinner with Libanius yesterday evening and he mentioned your name, plus the fact that you were currently visiting. He suggested that since you have a certain amount of experience in these matters it might be worth the senate’s while to contact you.’ Uh-oh; I was getting a very bad feeling about this. Men like Silius Nerva are used to fixing you with their eye, taking a deep breath and telling you in no uncertain terms just exactly what they want you to do for them. They don’t expect any arguments, either. What they don’t do – and what Nerva was doing here – is hum and haw and go round as many houses in the process as would make up a pretty substantial city block. Evidently a small nudge was called for or we wouldn’t cut to the chase this side of the Festival. ‘Uh…I don’t want to hurry you, pal,’ I said. ‘But do you think you could be, you know, just a touch more explicit?’ Before we all died of old age and boredom, that was. He fizzed for a bit and finally cleared his throat again. ‘I’m sorry, Corvinus. Quite right, quite right. To be brief, Libanius told me about that dreadful business involving Lucius Hostilius last year here in Castrimoenium and how good you’d been in, ah, bringing things on behalf of the Castrimoenian senate to a satisfactory conclusion. He thought you might be able to help us in a similar way.’ Gods! Well, one of us had to spell it out, and from the looks of things it wasn’t going to be mealy-mouthed Nerva here. ‘You mean there’s been another murder.’ He winced like a dowager confronted by a dirty picture. ‘Ah…not to put too fine a point on it,yes, there has. That is indeed the case.’ Hell. Oh, it’d had to be something like that, sure – Libanius wouldn’t’ve sent the guy to me if he’d only wanted a recommendation for a good wine to serve with duck –but just before the Winter Festival, for the gods’ sake! Like he’d said, I was on holiday here! Perilla would definitely be unchuffed, for a start. The lady gets really, really serious about murders at holiday times. Still – ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Who was it?’ ‘Our censor-elect. Quintus Caesius.’ Yeah, well, that explained the high-powered emissary, anyway, if not the embarrassment. A single provincial censor’s appointed every five years in place of the town’s normal two chief magistrates, taking up office on the first of January. Like his Roman equivalent, his prime job is to revise the list of senators and citizens, cutting out the dead wood; but it doesn’t stop there: he’s also responsible for the settlement of the community’s finances for the next five-year period, which means he has the power to choose new contractors to handle the sources of that finance such as publicly-owned land, commercial businesses and the like, and to terminate any existing contracts, as he sees fit. The operative phrase being that last one. Oh, sure, technically any decisions he makes are only recommendations and so subject to full senatorial approval, but human nature being what it isthey usually go through on the nod. Plus, because for that particular year he’s on his own at the top, with no equally-empowered colleague to queer his pitch if he has a mind to, given that said senate has a hundred members who are generally more interested in getting through the day’s agenda and home for a cup of wine and an early dinner than actually thinking of the implications of what they’re voting for, so long as he’s careful and a good talker he can do whatever he likes. All of which means that a censor is a pretty big cheese.Ipso facto, he also has to be a pillar of honesty, morality, sobriety and rectitude, the best exponent the community can show of traditional family values. At least, that’s the theory. Don’t laugh; it could, technically, happen, although the chances of these qualities coinciding with an interest in politics is well within the flying pigs category. ‘So how did he die?’ I said. Nerva swallowed. ‘He was, ah, found with his head beaten in at the back entrance to the local brothel.’ I stared at him. The silence lengthened. Finally, I said: ‘Ah.’ I could see now why he’d had difficulty getting down to the nitty-gritty: the guy was literally glowing with embarrassment, so brightly you could’ve used his face to roast Winter Festival chestnuts. ‘“Ah” is right!’ he said.‘It’s appalling!’ It had its funny side, too, mind, but Nerva wouldn’t’ve seen that, so I kept my face straight. ‘So was he, uh, actually on his way in or out when it happened?’ I said. He pursed his lips, primly. ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Oh, come on, pal! You must know that, at least!’ He gave me a look that would’ve curdled milk. ‘I don’t know, Corvinus,’ he said slowly,‘because I haven’t asked. Nor do I intend to. My task – with the full approval of the Bovillan senate, naturally – is simply to put the matter completely into your capable hands, if you’ll accept the charge. As an outsider –’ He stopped. Yeah, well, I could see where he was heading. If there was dirt to be dug – and there undoubtedly was, here – then the solid citizens of Bovillae would rather not know the details; while if a visitor from Rome were to do the digging none of them need be personally, embarrassingly involved in the investigation. Still, the guy wasn’t getting off that easily. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Let’s get some facts at least, things that you do know. First of all: when did this happen?’ ‘Two nights ago. At least, the body was found yesterday morning, as I said in the alleyway behind the brothel.’ ‘He couldn’t’ve just been passing the door?’ ‘No. The alley is a dead end. And all the other buildings are shops and storehouses. They would have been – in fact, were – locked and shuttered for the night.’ ‘The brothel owner tell you anything useful? About exact timing, for example?’ He just looked at me. Yeah. Right. Got it. ‘Okay, forget that. I can find it out for myself. Next. Who do you think might’ve done it?’ ‘How should I know?’ he snapped.‘That’s your job to find out, surely.’ I sighed. ‘Come on, pal! I’m not asking you to make an accusation, but I need somewhere to start. What about a straightforward mugging? That’s the most likely solution.’ Nerva shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, it isn’t, in fact it’s most improbable. A mugging might well happen in Rome, yes, but not in Bovillae. We have our share of crime, certainly, but not that sort. Besides, his purse was still on his belt.’ ‘So it was deliberate. He was targeted.’ No answer, but the guy was looking more and more uncomfortable. ‘Fine. So what about enemies? Who did he knowlocally who might want him dead?’ Nerva bridled. ‘Really, Corvinus! I said: Bovillae isn’t Rome.Quintus Caesius was a highly-respected and respectable member of the community, and a major public figure. He didn’t mix with people of that stamp. And our prominent citizens do not go around committing murder!’ Jupiter. Not a flicker to show he was aware of acontradiction here. Still, that was par for the course where good old-fashioned Romans like Silius Nerva were concerned. I closed my eyes briefly. ‘Okay,’ I said carefully. ‘No problem. I’ll put it another way. Had he had any recent quarrels that you know about? Any violent disagreements?’ He hesitated. ‘Come on, Nerva! You’re not helping here!’ ‘There was the incident with Quintus Roscius, naturally. It was a disagreement, yes, if you care to use that word. But it wasn’t violent.’ ‘Suppose you tell me about it.’ ‘Very well. It happened two days before the murder, in the main street. Roscius came up to Caesius and…had words.’ ‘About what? And who’s Roscius?’ ‘One of the local small-farmers.’ Nerva was looking embarrassed again. ‘Caesius is – was – in property. Buying and selling. As I understand it he and Caesius had a business arrangement and there had been some disagreement lately over the terms.’ ‘Namely?’ ‘I’m sorry, Corvinus, I can’t help you there. You’d have to ask the fellow yourself. He’s quite easy to find, in fact you’d pass his farm on the way into Bovillae from here, just outside the town limits.’ Can’t help or won’t help? Me, I was inclined to the latter. I’d the distinct feeling that this case was showing all the preliminary signs of closing ranks and dragging feet: Caesius had been very much one of the local Great and Good, and these guys don’t peach on their own, particularly where a bit of sharp practice or a slightly-dubious business deal is concerned. You never knew when it might get reciprocated. I gave a mental sigh. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘So tell me more about Caesius himself. Married? Family man?’ ‘He was married, until a few months ago when his wife died. There were no children.’ ‘So who inherits?’ Another hesitation, this time with a pursing of the lips. ‘His younger brother, I suppose. Lucius Caesius. But you’d have to ask Publius Novius about that. Novius is –’ ‘The family lawyer.’ Yeah; small world. I’d run into Novius a year or so back, in connection with the Lucius Hostilius business, and I hadn’t been impressed. ‘You know him?’ ‘We’ve met.’ Novius might not be an actual crook – the jury was still out on that one – but he certainly wasn’t above a bit of legal skulduggery when he thought he could get away with it. ‘Oh, excellent!’ Nerva had brightened; this was the way things should go, with the Old Pals’ network swinging into smooth operation. ‘Then there should be no problem. He’s a splendid fellow, old Publius, one of the best. Marvellous for his age, and very helpful.’ ‘Yeah. So I found.’ I kept the dryness out of my voice.‘Anything else you can tell me?’ In addition to the miserable pittance I’ve finally managed to screw out of you, you close-mouthed bastard. Gods! ‘No. No, I don’t think so. Or not anything of much importance, anyway. You’ll take the case for us?’ ‘Yeah. I’ll come over to Bovillae and ask a few questions, if you like. Starting tomorrow.’ ‘Fine.’ He got to his feet, looking relieved. I half-expected him to wash his hands in the ornamental pool. ‘Anything more I can do to help, just ask. I’m an easy man to find.’ Right. Which reminded me. ‘Incidentally, I’ll need Caesius’s address.’ ‘Why should you want to know that? I told you, he was a widower. He lived alone.’ ‘Yeah, but I thought I might just have a word with his major-domo.’ A good rule, when you’re digging the dirt, is to talk early on to the bought help. Caesius’s major-domo might not be too forthcoming in the event – there was such a thing as loyalty – but he would sure as hell know about his master’s private concerns, if anyone did. Nerva frowned. ‘Very well. It’s in town, the big old house near the Arician Gate. Easy to find. The major-domo’s name is Anthus. Not that he’ll be able to tell you much.’ Par for the course, so far. Ah, well. ‘Thanks, pal,’ I said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ We shook, and he left quickly, oozing relief from every pore in his not-inconsiderable body. Now I had to break the news to Perilla. The hard ones first. * * * She breezed in about an hour later, with Marilla and – unfortunately – Placida. The hellhound did her usual haven’t-seen-you-for-years dash at me and I fended her off. ‘Don’t encourage her, Corvinus,’ Marilla said. ‘She’s not really supposed to be in here before she’s had a bath. She found something dead up by the Maecilius place and rolled in it before we could stop her.’ Yeah, I’d sort of realised that already. Plus from the smell of her breath in my face she’d gone on to eat most of it after she’d finished. Ah, the joys of pets. If, indeed, Placida qualified as such. Me, I’d put her in a category along with the Lernaean Hydra and the Calydonian Boar, myself. Perilla grabbed the brute’s collar and pulled her off me before she stank me to death, then handed her over to Lupercus, who’d edged in behind them. Placida was removed and fresh air returned slowly to the world. ‘So how was your morning, dear?’ Perilla said. ‘Did you have a nice time?’ ‘Uh, it was okay. Quiet.’ ‘But Lupercus said that you had a visitor.’ Bugger! How had the blabbermouth managed to squeeze that one in between opening the door and hauling off our ballistic boarhound? ‘Ah… Yeah. Yeah, come to mention it, I did at that.’ ‘A senator from Bovillae, no less. What did he want?’ There was no escape. I took a deep breath and a large swallow of wine, not in that order, then told her the basics. She sat down on the other couch. Hard. ‘Oh, Marcus!’ she said. ‘Not just before the Winter Festival! We’re on holiday! And you said you’d do it, I suppose? Look into things for them.’ ‘More or less. It was sort of difficult to refuse.’ ‘Why would you want to do that?’ Marilla was grinning. ‘I think it’s fantastic, Corvinus. Clarus will, too. And of course if you need any help –’ ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I will not need any help. Besides, it happened over in Bovillae.’ ‘That’s only four miles away. And Clarus knows people there. We could –’ ‘No. That’s final.’ Jupiter! Marriage hadn’t cured the ghoulish streak in her, anyway. ‘I can handle this perfectly well on my own, Princess. Just forget it, right?’ ‘We’ve got your mother and Priscus coming down in seven days’ time, too,’ Perilla said. ‘Marcus, I do wish you’d think before you agree to things and upset all the arrangements. I mean, it’s only a murder after all.’ Said without a blink. Sometimes I wonder about the lady’s sense of priorities. ‘Look, Perilla –’ Bathyllus shimmered in. This business of having two major-domos in the house simultaneously was going to be confusing, particularly since each of them ignored the other’s existence. Still, I supposed Lupercus had his hands full at present with fumigating the hellhound, and we’d brought it on ourselves. ‘Lunch is served,’ he said. ‘Good. I’m starving,’ Marilla said. ‘Any sign of Clarus, Bathyllus? He said he might be back.’ ‘No, madam. He sent word to say he’d be delayed and you were to start without him.’ Madam. We were getting the perfect butler act here. I suspected the little guy was making a point: some major-domos had what it tookin spades where savoir-faire and a general awareness of what was Done and Not Done went,while others were only fit to sluice down the dog. I grinned at him and got a poached-egg-eyed stare back. ‘Yes, sir?’ he said. ‘Did you wish to comment?’ ‘No, Bathyllus, that’s okay. Forget it, pal.’ When push came to shove, I wasn’t particularly worried. The lady would come round, Festival or no: Perilla couldn’t resist a murder, any more than I could. The difference was that she would never admit it. It was only a matter of time, really. [/fusion_modal][/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]

[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent="no" hundred_percent_height="no" hundred_percent_height_scroll="no" hundred_percent_height_center_content="yes" equal_height_columns="no" menu_anchor="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" status="published" publish_date="" class="" id="" link_color="" link_hover_color="" border_size="" border_color="" border_style="solid" margin_top="0px" margin_bottom="0px" padding_top="0px" padding_right="0px" padding_bottom="0px" padding_left="0px" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_position="center center" background_repeat="no-repeat" fade="no" background_parallax="none" enable_mobile="no" parallax_speed="0.3" background_blend_mode="none" video_mp4="" video_webm="" video_ogv="" video_url="" video_aspect_ratio="16:9" video_loop="yes" video_mute="yes" video_preview_image="" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0"][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type="1_1" layout="1_1" spacing="" center_content="no" link="" target="_self" min_height="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" hover_type="none" border_size="0" border_color="" border_style="solid" border_position="all" border_radius="" box_shadow="no" dimension_box_shadow="" box_shadow_blur="0" box_shadow_spread="0" box_shadow_color="" box_shadow_style="" padding_top="" padding_right="" padding_bottom="" padding_left="" margin_top="" margin_bottom="" background_type="single" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_image_id="" background_position="left top" background_repeat="no-repeat" background_blend_mode="none" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset="" filter_type="regular" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0" last="no"][fusion_text columns="" column_min_width="" column_spacing="" rule_style="default" rule_size="" rule_color="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset=""] NB this book is only available – in physical or electronic form – through Amazon. It’s also much shorter than the other Corvinus books. ‘I need a favour from you, Corvinus. Do what Occusia asks, and I’ll be very grateful. Very grateful indeed. Turn her down, or fudge things, and – watch my lips here, please – you’ll wish that you’d never been born. Your choice, absolutely, no pressure. You understand?’ Four years down the line, and Sempronius Eutacticus is still the charming, good-natured organised-crime boss that he was when they last met. Now his stepson has gone missing, and he wants Corvinus to trace him. Not that it should be too difficult: young Titus has simply run off to join an acting troupe, and there really is no cause for concern. Until his body turns up… The thirteenth in the Marcus Corvinus series. [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="No Cause for Concern - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] So that was that. We’d got Clarus and Marilla firmly hitched with only a few minor glitches, such as the senile octogenarian priest who’d overseen the ceremony deciding half way through the wedding supper that the assembled guests would really, really appreciate a song about an Ostian bargee, and now it was back to Rome and the same heady round of fun and excitement. I’d just spent a very pleasant couple of hours propping up the bar of Renatius’s wineshop shooting the breeze with the punters over a jug of Spoletan and was heading along Iugarius towards a shave-and-haircut in Market Square when the heavies came up on me from behind. You know that feeling when you seem to be in two times and two places at once. Add to it a moment of extreme agony as you find yourself suddenly sandwiched between a pair of overmuscled gorillas with biceps straight off a marble statue and you more or less have the picture. It was like being hugged by an alleyway. I glanced left and right. And up. ‘Oh, shit,’ I said. ‘You’re Eutacticus’s boys, right?’ ‘The gorilla squeezing me on the left - I’d only ever known him as Laughing George, but no doubt his white-haired old mother had another name for him, probably ‘You Bastard!’ - grinned at me. ‘ ‘Well remembered, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Got it in one. The boss wants to see you.’ ‘Again? Oh, joy in the morning; don’t four years just flash past when you’re having fun. And another chat with Sempronius Eutacticus, organised crime’s equivalent of a crocodile with attitude, wouldn’t even figure in a masochist’s definition of the phrase. ‘Care to tell me what about?’ My shoulders felt like they had parted company with my arms and moved up to the level of my ears. My rib-cage wasn’t too happy about things, either. ‘No.’ ‘Ah, well, short and concise. Par for the course, where Laughing George was concerned, and I wasn’t going to argue. I wasn’t going to try running or screaming kidnap, either, because if I’d learned anything from my previous encounter with Eutacticus it was to go with the flow, because if you didn’t the flow was liable to wash you down a very deep hole and put the lid on. ‘ ‘So we’re going to the Pincian,’ I said. ‘ ‘Yeah.’ ‘ ‘No transport this time?’ ‘ ‘It’s a nice afternoon. We thought we’d walk.’ The grin broadened, showing teeth like the cheapest bricks in a third-rate tenement. ‘Besides, the boss told us you don’t like litters.’ ‘ ‘Right. Right.’ ‘Well, he was thorough, Eutacticus, I’d give him that. Still, I’d’ve liked to’ve been asked. ‘It wasn’t a chatty journey: Laughing George wasn’t to be drawn, and his pal had all the conversational pazzazz of a brick. We headed in close-knit silence up Broad Street past the Saepta and Agrippa Field into the rarefied atmosphere of the Pincian Hill, where money - mostly new money - doesn’t just talk, it struts its stuff with a megaphone. I remembered Eutacticus’s place as soon as I saw it: tritons on the gateposts, score high for flash and zilch for taste, the worst the Pincian could throw at you and then some more on top. The statues flanking the driveway that led up to the house alone would’ve kept the quarry-owners in Luna in sturgeon and bears’ paws for a year, and the greenery providing the backdrop had been topiaried to within an inch of its life. ‘Laughing George nodded to the guy on the gate, and we were in. Then it was past another half dozen of scowling prime-rate bought help, up the cedar staircase and the deferential tap on the ivory-inlaid study door. ‘ ‘Come in.’ ‘We did. The lad himself was on the reading couch, doing his crocodile-in-the-swamp impression. That wasn’t the surprise. The surprise was sitting demurely on a chair next to him: a little mousey middle-aged woman like a dumpling wearing a hairdo and jewellery. ‘ ‘Valerius Corvinus. Good of you to come.’ The crocodile jaws spread in a smile as genuine as a tin denarius. ‘How nice to see you again.’ ‘ ‘Yeah, well -’ ‘ ‘Thank you, Satrius. That’s all.’ Laughing George exited. ‘Corvinus, this is my wife Occusia. She’ll be the one talking to you.’ He got up. ‘I thought, though, that I should be here when you arrived. Just so we’re absolutely clear where we stand.’ ‘ ‘Namely?’ I massaged my shoulders. ‘ ‘I need a favour, and in the light of our last encounter I believe you’re the right man to ask. Do what Occusia asks, and I’ll be very grateful. Very grateful indeed. Turn her down, or fudge things, and - watch my lips here, please - you’ll wish you’d never been born. Your choice, absolutely no pressure. You understand?’ ‘ ‘Ah -’ ‘ ‘Good. I’m glad. Now if you’ll excuse me I have work to do.’ ‘Scams to run, magistrates to square, bodies to hide. Busy, busy, busy. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Sure. Have a nice day.’ ‘He left, closing the door behind him. ‘. ‘We stared at each other, the mousey woman and me, for a good half minute. Then she said: ‘He’s a lovely man, really, when you get to know him. Pour yourself a cup of wine, Valerius Corvinus, and sit down. Please.’ ‘There was a tray with a silver wine jug and cups on the table in the corner. I went over and poured myself a badly-needed whopper. My hand hardly shook at all. ‘ ‘You mean he didn’t mean it?’ I said. ‘ ‘Oh, yes. Publius always says what he means. But there’s no real malice in him, that’s just his way.’ ‘Oh, whoopee. I took a major swig of the wine - first-grade Falernian, as if I’d expected anything less -, gave myself a top-up and took the cup over to the reading couch. Well, if my balls were properly in the mangle here - which they undoubtedly were - I might as well grin and accept the situation. For the time being, anyway. ‘ ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘So what’s this favour?’ ‘ ‘I want you to find my son. Titus.’ ‘Oh, really? ‘Gods, lady, if Eutacticus wanted me to find his son for him then why not just -?’ ‘ ‘No. Titus isn’t Publius’s, he’s mine. From a previous marriage. Publius is his stepfather.’ ‘ ‘Same difference. Why couldn’t he have told me himself?’ ‘ ‘It’s complicated. He can’t be involved.’ She fixed me with anxious, mousey eyes. ‘ ‘Okay.’ I set the cup down on the small table next to the couch. ‘So maybe it’ll save us a bit of time if you just start at the beginning and talk me through it.’ ‘The mousey eyes blinked. ‘Publius and I were married two years ago. He’d been divorced for sixteen years, I’d been widowed for ten. He had a daughter - that’s Helena - and I had a son, Titus. He’s just turned twenty-two. Such a lovely boy, and we were so grateful to Publius for taking us in, but to tell you the truth, they’ve never got on. And recently it’s got worse. Much worse.’ ‘Uh-huh. I was beginning to see the light here, and it wasn’t too difficult to guess what was coming next. ‘Your son’s done a runner?’ I said. ‘ ‘Yes. He left a note for Publius saying he was leaving, and if he found out that Publius was using his contacts to track him down he’d never see him again. He meant it, too. Titus can be quite stubborn, and he’s just as strong-willed in his own way as Publius is. Publius was very upset. He was planning to adopt him formally in spite of’ - she hesitated - ‘well, Titus wasn’t very keen to take his name, what with one thing and another. He never has been.’ ‘Right. So what we’d got here was the old story of the domineering father - stepfather, in this case - straight-arming his son to do something he didn’t want to do, and the son taking the simplest way out. I could understand that: I’d been through it myself when I was a lot younger than this Titus. And I’d bet that when it came to straight-arming, Eutacticus wouldn’t exactly be subtlety personified. Still, the young guy sounded like he was no soft touch, either. The last couple of years must’ve been fun for all concerned. ‘ ‘You have any idea where he might’ve gone?’ I said. ‘ ‘Oh, yes. I’m fairly certain about that. His...my late husband was an actor.’ She blushed: in the social scheme of things, actors rank about as high as fluteplayers and jugglers, which means barely into the sentient bracket. ‘An actor-manager, actually. He had a company that worked the north as far as Perusia, playing the local theatres. Titus went with him, the last two years, and he loved it. He’s always wanted to be an actor too. Then when Marcus - that was my husband, Marcus Luscius - died his brother Sextus took over the troupe, and Titus went with him. Only when we married, Publius thought it wasn’t very...you know, not the proper thing, and he stopped him doing it.’ ‘ ‘So you think Titus has gone off to join his uncle?’ ‘ ‘I’m almost sure of it. I don’t know exactly where they’ll be at present - it’s quite late in the season now, so they’ll probably be working their way back - but you could ask Sextus’s wife. She should know.’ ‘ ‘She’s here in Rome?’ ‘ ‘Yes, on the Aventine. Her name’s Tullia. I’ve written down directions so you can find her.’ She took a rolled-up piece of paper from her mantle and handed it to me. ‘Valerius Corvinus, I know this is... Publius goes at things like a bull at a gate, it’s a great deal to ask, particularly as it’s really so trivial, but I honestly am grateful.’ ‘Yeah, right. Mind you, I knew how young Titus Luscius - presumably that was still the kid’s name, if he hadn’t been adopted yet - felt; it would’ve taken real guts to go against a stepfather like Eutacticus. And the chances were several thousand to one that there was no real cause for concern: he had simply - sensibly - taken off for the tall timber and was doing something he enjoyed for a change. On the other hand, Eutacticus had made it very clear that a refusal on my part to look for him wasn’t an option, and messing with that bastard wasn’t a hassle I needed. Trivial or not, no cause for concern or not, I was stuck with the job. ‘ ‘That’s okay, lady,’ I said. ‘It’s not your fault. I’ll do what I can.’ I swallowed the last of my wine and stood up. ‘Was there anything else? I mean, did he take anything with him? Money, for example?’ ‘ ‘I don’t know, but probably. Money wouldn’t’ve been a problem. Publius lets him have as much as he likes, when he likes. He’s very generous, to both of us.’ Occusia stood up too. ‘Oh, he did take his personal slave with him. Lynchus. That was no surprise. They’ve been together since they were children, and they’re more friends than slave and master.’ ‘ ‘Right. Well, it’s a start, anyway. I’ll let you know how I get on. Goodbye, Occusia.’ I was on my way to the door, but then I stopped. ‘One thing. If I do find him, what do you want me to do?’ ‘ ‘Persuade him to come back. If you can.’ ‘ ‘And if he won’t come?’ ‘The mousey eyes blinked at me again. ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Great. There’s nothing like firm instructions from a client. But we’d cross that bridge when we came to it. ‘I left. ‘Laughing George - I supposed I’d better call him Satrius, now we’d been formally introduced - wasn’t in evidence: probably he’d had a hard day’s mugging and needed to curl up with a good book and a cup of warm milk. I was heading for the stairs, but I’d only got half way when a door further along the gallery opened and a girl came towards me. I stopped. ‘ ‘Valerius Corvinus?’ ‘ ‘Yeah.’ ‘ ‘I’m Sempronia Helena. I was wondering if I could have a word with you before you go.’ ‘ ‘Sure.’ ‘ ‘Come into my room, then.’ ‘Helena. The real daughter. Forget mousey dumpling, this one was a stunner: mid to late teens, smallish but compact, midnight-dark hair and the poise of an Imperial. She couldn’t take after her father, then, and her mother must’ve been something. ‘Ah -’ ‘ ‘Oh, it’s all right. My maid’s there already.’ ‘ ‘Fine, then.’ I followed her into the room she’d come out of. Not a bedroom, a day-room with couches. The maid, a wispy little thing about the same age, was sitting on a stool in the far corner, hands clasped in her lap and eyes lowered. Puffy face: she looked like she’d been crying a lot recently. She didn’t look up as we came in, and Helena ignored her. ‘ ‘Have a seat, please.’ ‘I sat down on one of the couches and she lay down opposite me. ‘ ‘You’ve talked to my stepmother. And my father.’ ‘ ‘Yeah, well, not so much to the latter,’ I said. ‘It was mostly one way. Let’s just say we communicated.’ ‘ ‘Yes.’ Voice as expressionless as her face. ‘He can be a bit like that. Or a lot like that, really. I’m sorry.’ ‘ ‘That’s okay. I wasn’t expecting anything different.’ ‘ ‘I thought someone had better tell you a bit more about Titus. And the situation here. More than my stepmother probably did, at any rate. If you’re going to look for him then you need to know the whole picture.’ ‘ ‘Fair enough. Go ahead.’ ‘ ‘Occusia told you about the quarrel?’ ‘ ‘Not as such, no. But there’d have to have been one, so I sort of took it as read.’ ‘ ‘Mm.’ She rested her chin on her hand. ‘It happened the evening before he left, but it’d been building for months. Years, really, ever since Father married again. He wanted Titus to be part of the firm. That’s what he calls it, by the way.’ Her voice was still neutral. ‘I did have a brother once, a real one, but he died of a fever a year before the wedding. Titus was the replacement.’ ‘ ‘Only he doesn’t want to be?’ ‘ ‘Titus hates everything about my father. He would’ve stopped Occusia marrying him at all if he could, but she talked him round. It was that or starve, or go crawling to Tullia and her husband. Did Occusia mention Tullia?’ ‘ ‘Her sister-in-law. Yeah.’ ‘ ‘Well, they’ve never got on, and she and Sextus Luscius are living on the breadline in any case. So Father it was. Not that it was much of a hardship. As long as he gets his way, Father’s a pussycat.’ ‘ ‘And if he doesn’t?’ ‘Her eyes rested on me for a moment, then shifted aside: okay, it had been a pretty stupid question at that. ‘Titus fought a running battle with my father for two years,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t be adopted, he wouldn’t get involved with the firm. Oh, he never got into an argument. At a certain point he just said “No”, very politely, and Father didn’t press him any further. That was the situation until three days ago.’ ‘ ‘The day of the quarrel?’ ‘She nodded. ‘Father took him into the study and told him he’d had enough. He was going to make a formal application for adoption, and unless Titus gave him his full co-operation he was out completely. He also hinted that he’d start divorce proceedings against my stepmother.’ ‘Shit! ‘He’d do that?’ ‘ ‘Oh, yes.’ ‘ ‘Couldn’t he just have adopted someone else? I mean, brought them into the family as an heir? It’s done all the time, and with his money he could pick and choose.’ ‘ ‘You obviously don’t know my father as well as I thought you did, Valerius Corvinus. He’d decided on Titus, so Titus it would be. If anything, the fact that Titus was fighting him every step of the way only made him more determined.’ ‘Well, I’d believe that. Eutacticus wasn’t the kind of bastard who’d take ‘no’ for an answer. ‘Did Occusia know? About the terms, I mean?’ ‘She was quiet for a long time. Then she said: ‘Father told Titus in private, so it would depend if he’d passed it on. I don’t think he did, but I’m not absolutely sure. And of course Father could’ve told her himself. A bit of moral blackmail. He’s not above using any lever he can lay his hands on.’ ‘Said without the barest smidgeon of expression. There ain’t nothing like being popular with your family, and I reckoned that, daughter or not, young Helena’s opinion of Eutacticus wasn’t a lot higher than her stepbrother’s. She was smart, too. ‘So if it was private between Titus and your father then how do you come to know?’ ‘ ‘Ah.’ She ducked her head. ‘That’s another piece of the picture you have to have. Another reason why Titus doesn’t want Father to adopt him is that it’d make us legally brother and sister.’ ‘ ‘Yeah, well, naturally, but -’ ‘ ‘That would mean we couldn’t marry.’ ‘I stared at her. Oh, bugger; this thing was getting more complicated by the minute. ‘You likely to?’ ‘ ‘Of course. We liked each other from the start, and it’s sort of developed from there. It wouldn’t’ve been easy swinging it even so, but as long as Titus was legally another man’s son there was a reasonable chance. If the adoption had gone through there would’ve been no chance at all.’ ‘ ‘Did your father know about this?’ ‘ ‘What do you think? No-one knew, apart from us, because we couldn’t trust anyone.’ ‘ ‘Then why tell me?’ ‘ ‘Because when you find him you can tell him that I’m ready to go ahead with a marriage now, as soon as he can arrange it. I’ll meet him anywhere he likes.’ ‘ ‘Isn’t that, uh, a bit drastic?’ ‘ ‘Yes. But you see I’ve no choice either. Titus wasn’t the only one being pressured. Father’s engaged me to a certain Lucius Statius Liber. Not a great catch in society terms, but his family’s big in Beneventum and it’s as high up the social ladder as someone with our side’s background and commercial interests can expect to get. The wedding’s in six months’ time, after the Spring Festival.’ ‘Right. Right. Mind you, for all the young lady’s manner of cool determination - and Sempronia Helena was no fluffy kitten, I could see that - I reckoned there was more than a bit of astigmatism here. The boyfriend’s choice of lifestyle might suit him and not be all that different from what he’d been used to before his mother married Eutacticus, but if she couldn’t somehow bring her father round to the idea then unless she had a private income of her own sweet Helena would have to make some pretty radical changes to her expectations. Still, that was no affair of mine, and to tell the truth my sympathies were with the kids. ‘ ‘So why didn’t he tell you where he was going before he went?’ I said. ‘Or even that he was going at all? Or did he?’ ‘She frowned. ‘No, he didn’t. Not a word, not even a hint. That’s been worrying me. It isn’t like him just to take off, however angry he was with Father.’ ‘Ah, well, there was probably a simple-enough explanation, and I didn’t know the exact circumstances. Maybe the guy had had to take his chance of escape when it was offered and hadn’t had the opportunity, or maybe he was waiting until he’d made definite arrangements and would get a message to her. Everything seemed pretty cut and dried, anyway. I stood up. ‘ ‘Right, then,’ I said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ ‘ ‘You’ll give him my message? When you see him?’ ‘ ‘Yeah. But that’s it, lady. No arm-twisting, not on my part. I don’t play Cupid, and I don’t play piggy-in-the-middle, either. Certainly not where your father’s concerned. That suit you?’ ‘ ‘Yes. You won’t have to. I promise.’ ‘ ‘Fine.’ I glanced over at the maid in the corner. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t even, from the look of her, so much as raised her eyes from the floor right through the conversation. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ ‘ ‘Thank you, Valerius Corvinus. And I’m sorry about my father forcing you into this. It’s just the way he does things.’ ‘ ‘Yeah. So I’ve noticed.’ ‘I left. [/fusion_modal][/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]

[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent="no" hundred_percent_height="no" hundred_percent_height_scroll="no" hundred_percent_height_center_content="yes" equal_height_columns="no" menu_anchor="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" status="published" publish_date="" class="" id="" link_color="" link_hover_color="" border_size="" border_color="" border_style="solid" margin_top="0px" margin_bottom="0px" padding_top="0px" padding_right="0px" padding_bottom="0px" padding_left="0px" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_position="center center" background_repeat="no-repeat" fade="no" background_parallax="none" enable_mobile="no" parallax_speed="0.3" background_blend_mode="none" video_mp4="" video_webm="" video_ogv="" video_url="" video_aspect_ratio="16:9" video_loop="yes" video_mute="yes" video_preview_image="" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0"][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type="1_1" layout="1_1" spacing="" center_content="no" link="" target="_self" min_height="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" hover_type="none" border_size="0" border_color="" border_style="solid" border_position="all" border_radius="" box_shadow="no" dimension_box_shadow="" box_shadow_blur="0" box_shadow_spread="0" box_shadow_color="" box_shadow_style="" padding_top="" padding_right="" padding_bottom="" padding_left="" margin_top="" margin_bottom="" background_type="single" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_image_id="" background_position="left top" background_repeat="no-repeat" background_blend_mode="none" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset="" filter_type="regular" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0" last="no"][fusion_text columns="" column_min_width="" column_spacing="" rule_style="default" rule_size="" rule_color="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset=""] ‘Oh, and by the way, please could you come down here as soon as possible? Clarus thinks there’s been a murder.’em> When Corvinus receives the letter, with its tantalising PS, from his adopted daughter, Marilla, he hot-foots it to Castrimoenium at once. Not that everyone agrees that Lucius Hostilius was murdered. Poison was apparently the means of death, but after all, Hostilius was terminally ill: it was only a matter of time. As we follow Corvinus, clue by clue, on his tenth case, we allow ourselves to be pleasurably diverted by rumours of Meton’s love life – and by an authentic recipe for fish-pickle sauce… [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="Illegally Dead - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] Valeria Marilla gives greetings to her adoptive parents Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus and Rufia Perilla. Hi, how are you? Thanks for the books you sent, especially (Clarus says to be sure to tell you) the replacement for his father’s Rhizotomica that Corydon ate. Everything here is much as usual. Aunt Marcia has had a bit of trouble with her knee again but she says the liniment Clarus brought round is working really well; also Laertes’s piles are improving, although I’m not supposed to mention them. Dassa caught another cold at the end of last month (!), but Clarus and I have been feeding her hot grain mash and giving her regular chest rubs and an evening cup of mulled Caecuban so barring the usual croaking and sneezing she’s not too bad. Placida’s settling down nicely after that unfortunate business with Cloelia Secunda and the topiary hedge, although you’ve still got to watch her with next door’s mastiff and both households now keep a bucket of water handy for what Aunt Marcia calls their Mutual Bouts of Unacceptable Behaviour. Clarus is still working on her flatulence problem (Placida’s, not Aunt Marcia’s)ssince the charcoal pills I mentioned in my last letter don’t seem to be having the effect he hoped for, quite the reverse - Clarus says this is a pharmaceutical anomaly, but there you are. On the positive side, now we’ve fenced off the pig run the rolling problem seems to be under control. More or less. Oh, and by the way, please could you come down here as soon as possible? Clarus thinks there’s been a murder. [/fusion_modal][/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]

[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent="no" hundred_percent_height="no" hundred_percent_height_scroll="no" hundred_percent_height_center_content="yes" equal_height_columns="no" menu_anchor="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" status="published" publish_date="" class="" id="" link_color="" link_hover_color="" border_size="" border_color="" border_style="solid" margin_top="0px" margin_bottom="0px" padding_top="0px" padding_right="0px" padding_bottom="0px" padding_left="0px" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_position="center center" background_repeat="no-repeat" fade="no" background_parallax="none" enable_mobile="no" parallax_speed="0.3" background_blend_mode="none" video_mp4="" video_webm="" video_ogv="" video_url="" video_aspect_ratio="16:9" video_loop="yes" video_mute="yes" video_preview_image="" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0"][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type="1_1" layout="1_1" spacing="" center_content="no" link="" target="_self" min_height="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" hover_type="none" border_size="0" border_color="" border_style="solid" border_position="all" border_radius="" box_shadow="no" dimension_box_shadow="" box_shadow_blur="0" box_shadow_spread="0" box_shadow_color="" box_shadow_style="" padding_top="" padding_right="" padding_bottom="" padding_left="" margin_top="" margin_bottom="" background_type="single" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_image_id="" background_position="left top" background_repeat="no-repeat" background_blend_mode="none" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset="" filter_type="regular" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0" last="no"][fusion_text columns="" column_min_width="" column_spacing="" rule_style="default" rule_size="" rule_color="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset=""] ‘ When Marcus Corvinus is given a letter from Sertorius Macro - the Emperor Caligula's erstwhile adviser forced into suicide for plotting against him - claiming that he was innocent and asking Corvinus to clear his name, he isn't keen on the job at all: sticking your nose into the political dirty laundry basket is currently just too damned dangerous. However, when the inconsistencies begin to mount up, Corvinus is firmly hooked. It'll take him two near-death experiences, a lot of fancy footwork in avoiding the attentions of Rome's great and not so good, and some serious riot-dodging in Alexandria before he works it all out, mind... [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="Bodies Politic - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] Trust me. Organising a wedding is a pain in the rectum. Not that there was any great hurry now. Perilla's Aunt Marcia had passed away just after the Winter Festival, bolt upright in her chair where she'd nodded off after dinner. Hyperion the doctor had been there at the time, as well as Clarus and Marilla, and he'd said in his letter that it had been the best way for her to go. Still, it was the end of an era: Marcia and the villa in the Alban Hills had been a fixture for more years than I liked to count. The villa itself wouldn't be gone, mind, Aunt Marcia had made sure of that. Once Clarus and Marilla were hitched in four months' time the couple would take it over lock stock and menagerie as the old girl's posthumous wedding present. So there I was, holed up in my study with an abacus while Perilla was scouring Rome for dress material to kit out the bridesmaids. I'd just added up the column of figures for the sixth time and got my sixth different answer when Bathyllus scratched at the door and sidled in. He had his propitiatory face on, which was fair enough because in the Corvinus household interrupting heavy arithmetic is the domestic equivalent of invading Parthia. 'Yeah, Bathyllus,' I said. 'What is it? Plague of rats in the kitchen? Housemaid gone berserk with a cleaver?' 'No, sir.' Not a flicker. 'A visitor.' I laid the tablet down and brushed the torn-out hair off the desk. 'What kind of visitor?' 'A freedman by the name of Dion.' 'Who the hell's Dion?' 'I don't know, sir, and he wouldn't elaborate. I did ask him to call back tomorrow but he says it's important.' 'Is that so, now?' Odd, but then I could do with a break. Whoever the guy was, and whatever he wanted, it couldn't be any worse than another bout of wrestling with prenuptial arithmetic. Mind you, I'd take that to cruising the shops with Perilla any day. 'Okay, then. Wheel him in.' I poured myself another cup of well-watered Setinian - abacus-wrestling needs a clear head, but you can take abstinence too far - and sat back in my chair just as the door opened again and the distraction came in. He was a middle-aged guy, Asian-Greek by the look of him, very prim and proper, on the plump side and with a definite lack of hair under the freedman's cap. 'Marcus Valerius Corvinus?' he said. Educated voice, with a slight Greek accent. 'It's kind of you to see me. I'm Naevius Sertorius Dion.' If the last name meant nothing to me, the first two certainly did. I set the cup down. 'Naevius Sertorius? As in Naevius Sertorius Macro?' 'Yes, sir. I was the commander's secretary. He freed me in his will.' I knew Macro, sure: ex-commander of Praetorians, Gaius's right-hand man until our fledgeling emperor told him and his wife to kill themselves, and one of the most dangerous bastards I'd ever met. 'So?' I said. 'He left a letter for you, sir.' He drew it out from his belt and laid it carefully on the desk. I looked but didn't touch. Odd was right. 'Why should Macro write to me? And the guy's been dead for almost three months.' 'He thought it better that there should be a delay, sir. I'm sure the letter will explain, if you'd be good enough to open it.' Polite but firm; very firm. And from his tone of voice and the expression on his face I knew that freedman or not the guy wouldn't be fobbed off by a promise to read the thing later. If I wanted him out of my study, letter unread, it'd mean calling in the bought help to drag him through the door by the heels. I was beginning to get a bad feeling about this. Bugger. I reached for the roll of paper and broke the seal: 'Naevius Sertorius Macro to Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus. Greetings. When you read this, Corvinus, both I and Ennia will be dead, on the emperor's orders. What excuse he'll offer publicly or in private I don't know, but whatever it is it will be the product of misinformation and calumny. I fully realise the extent of the favour I am asking you to perform for me. We were never friends, you and I, but even when circumstances inevitably placed us on opposite sides I have always had the greatest admiration for your integrity, your persistence, and your skill in sifting truth from fiction. As indeed has the emperor. That last is important, and the prime reason for this letter, since if anyone can clear my name with Gaius then it is you. Accordingly, I beg you (and you know that I am not a man who begs easily) to try to do so if you can, to the best of your abilities. I can give you no prior help; or rather - since of course I have my own suspicions on the matter - I will offer you none, because these suspicions are subjective and may be unfounded. Better that you are left to yourself; that approach has served admirably hitherto, and I therefore see no reason to depart from it. I have asked Dion to keep this letter back - he is aware of its general tenor - until such time as my death is no longer recent, and so as an issue of general concern and interest: I think that, given Gaius's present state of mind, this would be the wisest - and the safest - course of action. Our new emperor is very young and has his foibles but at root he is a decent and fair-minded man, and once time has distanced him a little from events I am sure that, if supplied with the appropriate evidence, he will be amenable to their reassessment. If nothing else, my rehabilitation will remove the stain from our children, and knowing that you will be working towards it when we are gone will ease both my and Ennia's minds greatly. Believe me, Corvinus, that whatever the outcome you have my grateful thanks and my very best wishes. Macro.' I let the page fall. Shit. Dion was watching me closely. 'Well, sir?' he said. 'Well what?' 'Will you do it? Look into the circumstances of the master's death?' I sighed. 'Listen, pal. Contrary to what your ex-master seemed to assume I'm not a complete idiot.' Decent and fair-minded, right? From what I'd seen of the bugger - and I'd seen a fair amount of him over the years - the adjectives fitted Our Gaius like bedsocks did a snake. 'Macro was chopped by the emperor's order. End, finish, close the book. Even if there is any dirt to be dug I put one spade in the ground and I'll find myself told to slit my own wrists. Quite rightly so.' 'But he's innocent! He didn't do anything!' 'Calling someone like Macro innocent is like saying Brutus and Cassius were old Julius's bosom chums. Now come off it, Dion, you know I can't help, even if I wanted to. Which I don't. I'm sorry, but if the guy didn't deserve chopping this time he'd already deserved it a dozen times over.' 'If he had,' - Dion was angry, but he was holding it in - 'If he had, then he was acting for the good of Rome. Sir.' Yeah, well, I'd heard that one before, too. It was funny how often the good of Rome coincided with the good of whoever claimed it as an excuse, and Macro had been as altruistic as a fox in a hen-run. 'Fine' I said. 'I won't argue. But the answer's still no. And that comes with bells on. Now just go, okay? Thanks for coming, but I'm busy.' Dion drew himself up. 'Valerius Corvinus,' he said, 'I am gravely disappointed in you. And so would the master be.' 'Yeah. Yeah, right.' I reached for the abacus. 'The door-handle's behind you. Just turn it and push.' 'Whoever poisoned the emperor's mind against the commander had reasons of his own for doing it. Thanks to you it would appear that he will get clean away, and that, sir, might not in the end be to the good of Rome at all. Forgive me, but from what Macro said about you I'd expected far, far more. Evidently I was wrong and so was he. You couldn't care a fig for the truth.' He turned and left, slamming the door behind him, and the slap of his sandals echoed along the corridor. The echoes faded. I stared at the door's panelwork for a good half minute. Then I picked the letter up and read it through again, twice. Hell. Watery Setinian's no food for the brain. I got up, opened the door and yelled for Bathyllus to bring me half a jug of the proper sort. Then I lay down on the reading couch to think. I was a good half way down the jug when Perilla got back hot, tired and material-less an hour later. 'That was a complete waste of time,' she said as she collapsed onto the other couch. 'I have been in every material shop in the city including that big new one by the Livian Porch that everyone's talking about and there's simply nothing suitable. You'd think you could find something the right weight and colour for bridesmaids' dresses in Rome.' I grunted. Me, when I want a new cloak or a pair of boots I just go out and buy them, and so long as they fit and do the job they're supposed to do I couldn't care less about finicky details like colour and style. Hell is a woman shopping. And a woman shopping for wedding supplies is hell with frills on. Still, a sympathetic grunt is all they want, usually. 'So,' she went on, 'It's a nuisance but I'm afraid we'll just have to try elsewhere.' Well, so long as the 'we' wasn't used inclusively she could try where she liked. 'Fine by me,' I said. 'You have anywhere particular in mind?' 'I thought Alexandria.' I almost swallowed my winecup. 'What?' 'Alexandria, dear. The big city on the coast of Egypt?' Oh, gods! She wasn't joking, either. Bring weddings and women together and you kiss sanity goodbye. The Macro problem could wait. 'Perilla...' 'We can take Marilla and Clarus. They'd love it. They've never been abroad.' This was getting surreal. 'Lady, just listen to yourself! Capua or Naples, fine, although why the shops there should be any better than the Roman ones beats me. Alexandria's the other side of the fucking Mediterranean!' 'I'm quite well aware of that, thank you, Marcus. But the sea connections are excellent. And we could stay with Stratocles. He wouldn't mind if we turned up on spec, I'm sure.' 'Who the hell's Stratocles?' I was seriously worried now. Once the lady gets an idea into her head she's like a terrier with a rat. And, like I say, where wedding shopping's concerned women aren't rational. 'You remember. Uncle Fabius's old freedman.' Fabius had been Aunt Marcia's husband, dead over twenty years before. 'He owns a paper factory that supplies half the copyists in Rome. And he's got a huge house near the city centre. There would be plenty of room.' Forget the rat and terrier; we were operating on a whole new level here. If she'd got down to the fine details of accommodation then we were in real trouble. This thing had to be knocked on the head right now before she started asking what socks I wanted packed. 'Perilla, watch my lips. We are not chasing off to Alexandria just so you and Marilla can go on a shopping binge. It's ridiculous!' 'No it isn't. I told you. There are plenty of boats, and it wouldn't take long at this time of year. Twelve or fifteen days at most.' 'Plus the ten it'd take to get down to Brindisi. Plus the shopping binge. Plus the journey home. We'd be lucky if we got back in enough time to chill the wine for the sodding reception. Jupiter, lady, have some sense!' 'Well.' She sniffed. 'We can think about it, at least.' Right. Keeping an eye out for flying pigs all the way. 'So how was your day?' Ah. I told her, as gently as possible. Not that that helped much. 'Marcus, you can't!' She was staring at me in horror. 'Whatever the reasons, Macro died by direct order of the emperor. If you start poking around Gaius will be livid, and if there is anything to find it'll be even worse. You did say no, didn't you?' 'Yeah, but -' 'Listen. Macro's death is nothing to do with you. You didn't even like the man. And Ennia was Gaius's mistress, everyone knows that. Their suicides were the emperor's business, no one else's, and they're finished and done with. Now don't be stupid.' 'I've been thinking it through. Macro's wasn't the only enforced suicide round about that time. There were Gemellus and Silanus just before the new year. If all the deaths were connected then -' 'Juno! Will you listen! Macro was Praetorian Prefect and the emperor's chief advisor. Gemellus was Gaius's co-heir, at least Tiberius named him as such in his will. And Junius Silanus was Gaius's father-in-law and the most powerful man in the senate.' 'Right. Full marks. So what if -' 'Stop it! Just...bloody...stop it!' I blinked: the lady never, ever swears, not even mildly. 'I'm not dense, and it doesn't need half a brain to see the what if here. You're going to say that they were involved together in some sort of plot against Gaius, yes? That they were, in effect, executed for treason but it wasn't made public.' 'Ah...yeah. Yeah, that would just about cover it. Or at least -' 'Fine. So what?' 'How do you mean, so what?' 'Marcus, what on earth business is it of yours? This is political! Gaius may be a lot of things but he isn't a fool. If he does something he does it for a reason, and even if it's the wrong reason he's still the emperor. Start grubbing around in the whys and wherefores of politics just for the fun of it and you'll find yourself ordered into suicide as well. What's more, you'll deserve to be.' Yeah. True. All of it. Even so - Silently, I passed her the letter. She read it through. Twice. Then she said, very quietly: 'Oh.' 'Doesn't sound like an admission of guilt, does it?' 'No, but all the same.' She handed the roll back. 'All the same, Marcus. Don't do it. Don't get involved. I mean it; please, not this time. It's far too dangerous, and it isn't worth it.' 'No arguments,' I said. 'None at all.' She smiled. 'Good. That's a huge relief. The best thing you can do with that letter is burn it.' I reached over for the wine jug and topped up my cup. Bugger; this was going to be tricky. 'None the less,' I said. 'I, ah, was thinking I might go round for a word with old Cornelius Lentulus tomorrow. Just to set my mind at rest, clear the air a bit. That wouldn't hurt, would it?' Perilla's smile faded and she turned away. 'Yes,' she said. 'Yes, I think it would. Very much so. And, Marcus Valerius Corvinus, I think you are a complete fool.' Ah, well, I couldn't disagree there, either; but then I always had been, and it was too late to change. [/fusion_modal][/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]

[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent="no" hundred_percent_height="no" hundred_percent_height_scroll="no" hundred_percent_height_center_content="yes" equal_height_columns="no" menu_anchor="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" status="published" publish_date="" class="" id="" link_color="" link_hover_color="" border_size="" border_color="" border_style="solid" margin_top="0px" margin_bottom="0px" padding_top="0px" padding_right="0px" padding_bottom="0px" padding_left="0px" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_position="center center" background_repeat="no-repeat" fade="no" background_parallax="none" enable_mobile="no" parallax_speed="0.3" background_blend_mode="none" video_mp4="" video_webm="" video_ogv="" video_url="" video_aspect_ratio="16:9" video_loop="yes" video_mute="yes" video_preview_image="" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0"][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type="1_1" layout="1_1" spacing="" center_content="no" link="" target="_self" min_height="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" hover_type="none" border_size="0" border_color="" border_style="solid" border_position="all" border_radius="" box_shadow="no" dimension_box_shadow="" box_shadow_blur="0" box_shadow_spread="0" box_shadow_color="" box_shadow_style="" padding_top="" padding_right="" padding_bottom="" padding_left="" margin_top="" margin_bottom="" background_type="single" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_image_id="" background_position="left top" background_repeat="no-repeat" background_blend_mode="none" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset="" filter_type="regular" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0" last="no"][fusion_text columns="" column_min_width="" column_spacing="" rule_style="default" rule_size="" rule_color="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset=""] ‘Titus Minicius Natalis was a fat, balding, pint-size runt with a stubbly chin and “ex-slave” written all over him in block capitals. He wasn’t thick, mark you. Not without a streak of ruthlessness a yard wide, either. I don’t know if Natalis actually had a white-haired old grandmother squirreled away somewhere, but if he did I’d bet the old biddy had to check herself regularly for price tags.’ There’s no love lost between Marcus Corvinus and Natalis, and Corvinus is surprised to be asked to investigate a suicide. He’s even more surprised at the fee – a hefty fifty thousand sesterces. The young man in question had no apparent reason to end his own life, and as Corvinus does the rounds of friends and family he becomes increasingly convinced that the death is a suspicious one. As usual, he needs Perilla’s agile brain to untangle the complexities of the case and the pair come to realise that the suicide scenario has a political, as well as a personal, dimension… As if that’s not enough, Corvinus finds his investigations hampered by his new role as reluctant dog-sitter to the seriously misnamed Placida, a Gallic boarhound with a gargantuan appetite and minimal personal hygiene… [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="In at the Death - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] It’d been three years since I’d last visited the Greens’ stables. Nothing had changed. The place still looked like a fortress: high, smooth-faced wall topped with pottery shards set in cement, a gate that would’ve stopped a charging elephant, and just in case visiting punters still hadn’t got the message a door-slave outside with biceps and pectorals that your common-or-garden gorilla would die for. The scowl wasn’t exactly welcoming, either. I should’ve brought a bunch of bananas with me as a peace-offering, but it was too late now. I stepped up to the guy and gave him my best smile. ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Remember me, pal?’ The slave stood up, his little piggy eyes under their mat of tangled hair narrowing as he gave me the once-over. It was like watching a titan off a pediment getting ready for round two of a theomachy. He nodded slowly and spat to one side. I swear the gobbet of phlegm sizzled on the cobbles, and in October that has nothing to do with temperature. ‘I don’t forget faces, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘What the fuck do you want?’ Yeah, well. It’s nice to be popular. I reached into my tunic and brought out Minicius Natalis’s letter. ‘I’m here to see the boss,’ I said, handing it over. ‘Personal invite.’ ‘That so, now?’ He squinted at the seal: pictures he could cope with. Just. ‘What about?’ Yeah, I’d been wondering that myself, because the letter didn’t say; just that it was important and that Natalis would appreciate a visit as soon as I could manage. ‘You have me there, friend. Uh...maybe you could sort of take me to him and I could ask? Would that be possible, do you think, or should we give ourselves three guesses?’ That got me a long hard stare. Par for the course: sarcasm’s wasted on a racing-faction door-guard. You may as well shoot dried peas at a rhino. Finally, he spat again, reached up and unbarred the gate. ‘Wait here,’ he growled. The bar on the other side clunked into place behind him, leaving me to kick my heels while he consulted higher authority. Not that I was surprised. If Jupiter himself were to come down in all his glory with his eagle on his wrist he still wouldn’t get past the front gate unless he was spoken for, and they’d probably frisk the eagle, too. The racing game’s a serious business, and faction bosses don’t take chances. Ten minutes later, the troll reappeared. ‘Okay, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘You’re cleared. Follow me.’ Inside was a different world. The Greens are Rome’s top team, patronised by Gaius Caesar himself - crown prince, soon-to-be emperor (if the news from Capri was anything to go by) and all-round dangerous nut – and so equipped with the best of everything money can buy, plus a few things it can’t. There was no sign of the horses, of course – paranoia dictates that these beauties are kept well away from the curious eyes of even legit visitors – but everything else screamed cash and quality, right down to the natty tunics worn by the stable skivvies. Not that it was all surface show, mind: you can’t be inside a faction stable for long before you catch the sense of obsession. For these guys, anyone from the top man right the way down, the faction comes first, middle and last. And as far as esprit de corps goes, if you’re looking for the top variety you can forget the legions; they don’t even come close. The admin building was out on its own, set in a snazzy formal garden. It could’ve doubled for a private house on the Esquiline or the Caelian, even – at a pinch, and barring size – for one on the Palatine itself: PR again, because the faction-master of the Greens is a man with serious clout, and if you have clout in Rome then you’re expected to flaunt it. My guide-troll nodded to the door-slave sweeping the porch, crossed the marble-pillared and mosaic-floored entrance hall and knocked on a cedar-panelled door at the opposite end. ‘Come in.’ We did. I’d been inside the inner sanctum before, so I wasn’t surprised. Forget the snazzy town-house, at least where the interior fittings were concerned: this was a working office, with the back wall lined with cubby-holes for documents, chairs instead of couches and a big desk rear of centre. The furniture was top quality, and the mosaics and murals must’ve cost an arm and a leg. ‘Quality’, though, wasn’t a word you could apply to the guy sitting behind the desk. Titus Minicius Natalis, the faction-master of the Greens, was a fat, balding, pint-sized runt with a stubbly chin and ‘ex-slave’ written all over him in block capitals. He wasn’t thick, mark you, far from it: you didn’t get all the way up from nothing to being the head of Rome’s top Colour without brains. Not without a streak of ruthlessness a yard wide, either. I didn’t know if Natalis actually had a white-haired old grandmother squirrelled away somewhere, but if he did I’d bet the old biddy had to check herself regularly for price tags. ‘Nice to see you again, Corvinus,’ he said. Yeah, well, I couldn’t exactly say it was reciprocal, but there you go, you can’t have everything. And he was only being polite. ‘Sit down, please. That’s all, Socrates.’ The troll grunted and exited, closing the door behind him. I pulled up a chair and sat. We stared at each other for a long moment. Then he leaned back, almost disappearing behind the model chariot and horses on his desk. ‘So,’ he said. ‘You got my letter.’ ‘Sure.’ I folded my arms. ‘For what it was worth.’ We’d never liked one another from the first, and I didn’t see any reason not to carry on playing it that way. Still, the bare request to talk to me about something important had had me hooked, and knowing the bastard knew it would do just that irked me. ‘What’s this about, Natalis? Some more grubby faction business?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, it’s nothing to do with the faction. Or even with racing.’ ‘All right.’ I leaned back myself, unfolded my arms and crossed my legs while he fiddled with a pen and set it down. The guy was nervous. Odd. ‘So what, then?’ ‘A favour.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s a jug of wine on that table over there. Massic, and good stuff. Pour us both a cup, okay?’ Well, he had his priorities right, anyway, and it’d been a long dry hike from the Caelian. I got up, walked over to the tray and poured. The jug and cups were solid silver, chased with – surprise! – a frieze of running horses. I set a full cup on the desk beside him, sipped at my own, and sat down again. ‘I don’t think, pal,’ I said carefully, ‘that I owe you any favours at all. The reverse if anything. Correct me if I’m wrong.’ ‘You impressed me, Corvinus.’ He took a long swallow from his cup and set it down. ‘I don’t impress easy, and when it happens I don’t forget. Oh, sure, I admit it: if there is a debt then it goes the other way, and you got up my nose then just as much as I got up yours, so I can’t even claim the benefit of past acquaintance. Truth to tell, you still do.’ Well, that was frank, at least. He’d never been one to mince his words, Titus Natalis. ‘Even so, you’re a digger with a brain in your head, which is what I need at present, and that’s not common.’ ‘Never mind the smarm, friend,’ I said. ‘Just tell me what you want, okay? Then I can turn you down flat and we can both get on with our lives.’ Instead of answering, he opened a drawer in the desk, took out a sheet of paper and slid it towards me. I reached over, picked it up and glanced at it. It was a money order made out in my name. For five thousand sesterces. I stared at it, then at him. ‘That’s just for listening,’ he said. He picked up his cup and took another mouthful of the wine. He was looking less nervous now. Maybe it was the wine, but it was probably the money. Guys like Natalis really believe in the power of the check. ‘Fifteen minutes of your time. You want to tell me to get lost at the end of it, that’s your privilege. Completely. No reasons from you, no argument from me. Give that to my banker and he’ll cash it anyway without a murmur. But if we do end up with a deal, and you deliver the goods – as I’m pretty sure you will – I’ll make it up to the round fifty.’ Sweet gods! Fifty thousand sesterces was a small fortune. Me, I don’t do gobsmacked, not all that often, anyway, but I must’ve gaped. Natalis was watching me closely, half-smiling. If you could call an expression that made the guy look like he’d just bitten on a lemon a half-smile. ‘Well, Corvinus?’ he said. ‘What about it? Do I have that fifteen minutes or not?’ I remembered to close my mouth before I answered: we had a certain degree of good old purple-striper gravitas to maintain here, and I was buggered if I was going to let him see he’d rocked me. ‘You’ve got the ball, friend,’ I said. ‘Go ahead.’ ‘Fine.’ He set the cup down. All business now, and not a trace of nervousness. ‘I want you to look into a suicide. A young lad by the name of Sextus Papinius.’ Well, that name rang a bell, at least. And I’d got my mental faculties, such as they were, back into gear. ‘Any relation to Papinius Allenius the consular?’ I said. There was the barest hesitation. ‘His son. But it’s the mother’s side of the family I have connections with. If you’re wondering, which I suspect you are.’ Yeah. I was, at that. Natalis had started off by saying this had nothing to do with faction business, which meant it had to be private. No one shells out fifty thousand silver pieces unless they have a serious – and personal - vested interest in the matter somewhere along the line. If the lad had been a relative of his I could’ve understood, but the son of an ex-consul put that right out of court: consular families and those of ex-slaves, even stinking-rich ones like Natalis, don’t mix socially, let alone intermarry; not nohow, not never, even in this lax day and age. The obvious alternative explanation I didn’t even consider: unless my judgment was way off beam Natalis just wasn’t the type to have boyfriends. And that didn’t leave much for guesswork. ‘The mother’s side?’ I said. ‘Her name’s Rupilia. She’s from Leontini.’ Natalis took another sip of his wine. ‘Same as me. Her father was Rupilius Hasta, and old Hasta was my first real patron. You getting there?’ Yeah, I was, and it fitted, at least the Sicilian bit did. Something I did know about Natalis from former acquaintance was that he’d started out as a humble driver in Sicily before coming to Rome as third-stringer for the Greens. After which he’d worked - or clawed - his way up the ladder, all the way to the top. And if this Rupilia was the daughter of his first patron then - ‘The family was the oldest in the region. Big in horse breeding and racing, always had been. Hasta took an interest in me – I was never his slave, but he liked to help promising drivers – and when I had the chance to move to Rome he lent me the cash.’ Natalis got up and moved over to the wine jug. ‘Without that money I’d still be in Sicily, probably on the scrapheap by now. And like I told you, Corvinus, I don’t forget easy.’ Uh-huh. Check. That’s the way Sicilian minds work: you have a debt, either way, then you pay it, QED, end of story. Things were beginning to clear. ‘So,’ I said, ‘when the daughter came to Rome and married Allenius you renewed the link?’ ‘I’d never broken it. And I kept it up with young Sextus, gladly. The boy was the spit of his grandfather and he’d racing in his bones.’ Natalis held up the jug. ‘You want a refill?’ ‘Sure.’ I took a long swig and held the cup out for more. ‘I don’t mean he was a gambler, mind.’ He poured carefully. ‘Oh, the lad liked to gamble, like any youngster, but he never went overboard, he’d more sense. What he was really interested in was the other side, my side, the cars and the driving. Although interested’s not strong enough, not by half: he loved the whole business, loved it as much as I do. He’d’ve made a driver himself, if things’d been just a bit different. He had the guts for it, certainly, and the heart, easy; he’d guts and heart in spades, Sextus Papinius. But he never had the skill, and knew he never would. Even so, he spent a lot of his free time here, right from when he was knee-high, especially after I became faction-master.’ ‘So,’ I said. ‘What happened, exactly?’ ‘I told you. Two days back he killed himself.’ Natalis sank a neat quarter pint of the Massic at a gulp. ‘Killed himself how? Slit wrists? Poison?’ ‘Neither. He jumped from the top floor of an Aventine tenement.’ I must’ve looked as surprised as I felt, because he shrugged. ‘Yeah. The flat was empty at the time, and the tenement was on his visiting list. So that’s what he used.’ ‘“Visiting list”?’ ‘He was a junior investigation officer. With the claims department of the emperor’s new fire commission. ’ Right; that made sense. Of a kind, anyway. A couple of months back there had been a major fire in the Aventine and Racetrack districts. The Wart had appointed a commission headed by his four sons-in-law to assess the damage and arrange compensation and rebuilding. I didn’t know yet how old exactly this Sextus Papinius had been, but for a kid from a consular family, age say eighteen or nineteen, which would fit the spirit of things, junior investigation officer would be a logical first rung on the political ladder. ‘Why did he do it?’ I said. Natalis gave me a long look. ‘That’s the point,’ he said finally. ‘I’ve no idea. None at all. That’s what I’d be paying you to find out.’ ‘Is the reason so important?’ He shrugged again. ‘It is to me. I thought a lot of the kid. And I don’t like not knowing. If you can understand that.’ ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I can understand that.’ I could even sympathise: in his place I’d’ve wanted to know too, just for my own peace of mind. And I had to admit that he had me hooked. ‘Okay. You have your fifteen minutes.’ ‘Fine.’ He leaned back. ‘The floor’s yours. You got any questions, you ask them and I’ll answer if I can.’ ‘Let’s start with the boy himself. He the suicidal type at all? Moody? Get depressed? That sort of thing?’ Natalis shook his head. ‘Not so’s you’d notice, or not all that often. Certainly no more than any other kid his age.’ ‘Which was what?’ ‘Nineteen. He’d just had his nineteenth birthday.’ ‘What about his character? A loner? Run about with any of the fast crowds?’ ‘He had his fun. Girls and wine, a bit of wildness here and there, but nothing serious. You know the sort of thing.’ I nodded; yeah, I knew, I’d’ve been surprised if it’d been otherwise, given the family background. Par for the course. So: your typical rich young lad-about-town, feeling his oats and kicking up his heels before life grabbed him by the balls and turned him into a pillar of society. Only in Sextus Papinius’s case it never would, now. ‘He get on well with his parents?’ ‘Parent, singular. Rupilia and Allenius are divorced, have been for years, and Sextus lived with his mother. There’s no contact, none, at least as far as I’m aware. I doubt if I’ve heard the boy mention his father more than two or three times in all the time I’ve known him. You’ll want to talk to Rupilia, no doubt; the house is near the Octavian Porch, one of the old properties on the Marcellus Theatre side. They got along okay in general, as far as I know, although Rupilia’ – he hesitated – ‘well, bringing up a teenager without a man in the house isn’t easy, and Rupilia’s not the strong-willed disciplinarian type. You understand me?’ Sure I did. Reading between the lines, I’d guess the kid had been spoiled rotten and grown up a handful. Still, that was nothing unusual in the top bracket, especially these days when single-parent families or parents with their own social lives to think of were the rule rather than the exception. ‘So where does the money come from?’ I said. Money there would have to be: spoilt brat, lad-about-town pursuits didn’t come cheap. ‘Hasta was well off. He settled part of the estate in Leontini on her before he died, plus the income from some property in Capua. Also, of course, when the divorce went through she got part of her dowry back. She’s not rich, but she’s comfortable enough.’ ‘And she never thought of remarrying?’ No.’ Just the bare negative, and Natalis had closed up tighter than a constipated clam. Uh-huh. Well, there could be lots of reasons behind that, and probably none of them were relevant, or my business. I took a swig of the Massic. ‘Okay. This tenement. Where was it, exactly?’ ‘On the river-side slope of the Aventine, near the start of Old Ostia Road. One of the newer blocks. The manager lives on site, which was why Sextus was there that day. Or presumably it was. That’s something else I don’t know for sure.’ ‘Name? The manager’s, I mean?’ ‘Caepio. Lucceius Caepio. He’s - he was - responsible for two or three other properties that got burned down in the fire.’ ‘Fine. Last question, pal, for the present at least. Given the kid did actually kill himself, why do you think he did it?’ He opened his mouth to answer and I held up a hand. ‘Yeah, sure, I know, but you must be able to hazard some sort of a guess. Gut feeling, no comeback.’ ‘I knew Sextus all his life, Corvinus. And I’ve already told you. He wasn’t the brooding type.’ ‘But?’ There was a but: I could see it in his eyes. I waited. ‘Natalis. Come on. I’d have to start somewhere, okay?’ He frowned. ‘Like I say, he had racing in his bones, maybe one day if things’d turned out different he might’ve sat in this chair. But this last month – he was round here a lot in that time, more than usual, if anything – I’d the feeling he had something other than the cars and horses on his mind.’ ‘You’re saying he was worried?’ ‘No. Worried’s too strong. Preoccupied, maybe. That the word?’ He shook his head. ‘Hell, I don’t know, not to be sure about, let alone swear to. I could’ve been imagining things, and if I wasn’t it could’ve been for any of a dozen reasons. You know kids. Certainly he didn’t say nothing, which he usually would rather than to his mother if something was biting him. Maybe it was just me; the Plebeian Games’re next month, the Blues’ve been winning lately and the whole place is on edge.’ He cleared his throat and suddenly the hard-nosed businessman was back. ‘So I can’t afford the time to think about it, okay? That’s your job, Corvinus. If you want it.’ Despite everything, I was more than half-ready to say No: after all, Natalis was no friend of mine, I didn’t owe him, and raking through the whys and wherefores of a suicide never does anyone any good. Then I saw the look on his face that maybe he hadn’t wanted me to see, and I knew I couldn’t. Besides, I’d got that prickly feeling at the back of my neck. And fifty thousand sesterces is serious gravy by anyone’s reckoning. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I want it.’ ‘Fine. Then we have a deal?’ He stood up and held out a hand. ‘Sure,’ I said. We shook. [/fusion_modal][/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]

[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent="no" hundred_percent_height="no" hundred_percent_height_scroll="no" hundred_percent_height_center_content="yes" equal_height_columns="no" menu_anchor="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" status="published" publish_date="" class="" id="" link_color="" link_hover_color="" border_size="" border_color="" border_style="solid" margin_top="0px" margin_bottom="0px" padding_top="0px" padding_right="0px" padding_bottom="0px" padding_left="0px" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_position="center center" background_repeat="no-repeat" fade="no" background_parallax="none" enable_mobile="no" parallax_speed="0.3" background_blend_mode="none" video_mp4="" video_webm="" video_ogv="" video_url="" video_aspect_ratio="16:9" video_loop="yes" video_mute="yes" video_preview_image="" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0"][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type="1_1" layout="1_1" spacing="" center_content="no" link="" target="_self" min_height="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" hover_type="none" border_size="0" border_color="" border_style="solid" border_position="all" border_radius="" box_shadow="no" dimension_box_shadow="" box_shadow_blur="0" box_shadow_spread="0" box_shadow_color="" box_shadow_style="" padding_top="" padding_right="" padding_bottom="" padding_left="" margin_top="" margin_bottom="" background_type="single" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_image_id="" background_position="left top" background_repeat="no-repeat" background_blend_mode="none" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset="" filter_type="regular" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0" last="no"][fusion_text columns="" column_min_width="" column_spacing="" rule_style="default" rule_size="" rule_color="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset=""] ‘Him and his fancy fish farm, raking it in hand over fist. He’s a bastard. A greedy bastard. Some people, they’d be better off dead, know what I mean?’ Trebbio was in his cups when he bad-mouthed Licinius Murena, but in vino veritas, as the saying goes. So when Murena was found the next morning, drowned in one of his own eel tanks, not many tears were shed. Certainly not by Trebbio, who had just been booted out of his cottage by the landowner. Nor by the widow, a little stunner half Murena’s age who allegedly spent an inordinate amount of time under the doctor. Nor by his daughter or his farm manager. With friends like these, who needs enemies? Marcus Corvinus is the man to find out. With the help, of course, of his clever wife Perilla – if she can spare the time from her newly acquired passion for gambling… [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="Foods for the Fishes - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] Baiae may be the jewel of the Campanian coast and the playground of the beautiful rich, but like any other place it’s got its good points too. You have to look hard to find them, mind, and Zethus’s wineshop had taken me three days. Zethus’s was just a glorified shack, tucked away just above the beach on the Misenum side of town, right on the edge and well off the main drag, but the wine was good and although some of the clientele could seriously get up your nose at times they were okay company on the whole: all locals, and definitely not members of the gilded-eyelashes-and-pet- peacock-on-a-lead set who come down from Rome for the summer. Which suited me just fine. Three days’worth of town-centre wineshops patronised by bleating chinless wonders in holiday mood had had me practically climbing walls. Mind you, since the alternative was spending quality time in the company of Mother and Priscus I couldn’t be too fussy. Currently, the said punters were whiling away the evening by indulging in the quaint old wineshop custom of winding up the drunk. Me, I wasn’t getting involved. No way. Drunk-baiting in general’s a purely local sport, restricted to regulars, and any outsider stupid enough to shove his nose in is likely to get it punched; also, although Baiae may be the playground of bright young things with full purses and fluff where their brains should be, outside the luxury coastal villas belt a Roman purple-striper’s there on sufferance. If he wants to stay welcome he learns fast to sit and drink his wine without giving no offence to no one. Besides, baiting drunks just isn’t my bag. This one was a beaut, mind; the drunk’s drunk, a real dedicatee: small, seedy, puffy-faced and with a nose on him you could’ve used to guide ships through fog. He’d been propping up the bar for two solid hours to my certain knowledge, getting silently smashed on Zethus’s cheapest house wine which he’d been pouring down his throat like his legs were hollow. By this time it was the bar that was doing the propping, he’d gone through the muttering-to-himself stage and out the other end, and the punters were feeding him free cups just to see how long it’d be before he ended up a sodden lump on the sawdust. Call it a spirit of scientific enquiry if you like, or just morbid fascination. Me, I’d say it was pure simple bloody-mindedness, which was par for the course: wineshop punters, especially places like Zethus’s, have a pretty basic sense of humour, and they tend to make their own amusements. The guy lifted his cup for the umpteenth time, found his mouth at the third try, took another swallow and glared at them. ‘Fifteen years,’ he said. ‘Fifteen years I been in that place, right? Am I right?’ The punter next to him at the bar - the elected straight-man - was nodding like a sympathetic owl while his mates behind chuckled into their drinks. ‘Yeah. Yeah, right,’ he said. ‘It’s a crying shame, no mistake.’ ‘Old Juventius, he’d never’ve done it, never. Juventius was a proper gentleman. Not like that bastard. We had a deal, the old man and me.’ He belched. ‘“Trebbio, boy,”’ he says, ‘“I’m not greedy. You drop me a lobster or two when you can spare them and we’ll call the rent quits.” Bastard!’ ‘He is that.’ The punter took a pull at his own wine, reached for the jug and topped up the drunk’s. ‘No question.’ ‘Him and his fancy fish farm, raking it in hand-over-fist. Fifteen years. Fifteen bloody years.’ He belched again and wiped a trickle of wine off his chin. ‘Hotel. Man like him, money to burn, what does he want to build a bloody hotel for anyway? Go on, you tell me. You tell me that, right? ’S not his business, hotels.’ ‘Some people’s never satisfied with what they got, sure enough.’ ‘You’re right there. He’s a bastard. A greedy bastard.’ He took another swig. ‘We’ve enough of the sods already.’ ‘Bastards?’ one of the other punters at the back asked innocently. The rest sniggered. The drunk turned, one elbow on the bar for support, and fixed him with a poached-egg stare. ‘Tourists. Tourists, boy, that’s what I mean. Come down from Rome, swan about like they own the place...’ ‘Yeah, that’s ‘cos they bleeding do, most of it,’ the punter said. His pals sniggered again, and he shot me a wink. ‘Isn’t that so, Corvinus?’ But I wasn’t going to be dragged in; no way was I going to be dragged in, not even by invitation. I sipped my wine: Zethus’s does a fair Campanian that his partner gets from a friend in Neapolis. His male partner: both of them are Greek, like most of the natives around Baiae, and the Greeks tend to be pretty open-minded about that sort of thing. ‘Don’t look at me, pal,’ I said easily. ‘I’m just staying with family, and they borrowed the villa, they don’t own it.’ The drunk took a firm grip of the bar and turned to give me a slow pop-eyed stare, taking in my mantle and purple stripe. ‘Got nothing against Romans, me,’ he said finally. ‘Notassuch. Notassuch.’ He picked up his cup and raised it to me. Wine slopped. ‘Didn’t mean to cause off-...off-...’ He drained the cup and belched. ‘Offence.’ ‘None taken.’ I raised my own cup. ‘Cheers, friend.’ ‘Only some of them. Like that bastard. Some people, though, they’d be better off dead, know what I mean?’ ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I know.’ ‘Just happens he’s a Roman too, right? Pure coinc-’ He hiccuped. ‘Coincidence. Could be anyone, but he’s a Roman. No offence, though.’ He blinked, staggered, grabbed the bar again and stood swaying. ‘Fuck! I’m plastered!’ Zethus was washing cups. He glanced up. ‘Maybe you’d best be getting home, Trebbio,’ he said quietly. ‘Nah, there’s still plenty of wine in the jug.’ The straight-man punter - his name was Alcis - slapped him on the shoulder and steadied him with his other hand. ‘Come on, Trebbio, I’m buying. Okay, lads?’ The other punters grinned. One of them said: ‘Sure.’ ‘No, Zethus is right. I’ve had enough.’ The drunk straightened. ‘Anyway, ’s a full moon tonight. Best be going. Got to check my lines.’ He rocked back and forward on his feet and made a lurch for the door. ‘’Night, all.’ The door closed behind him. Yeah, well; maybe he was smarter than he seemed, even if he was pissed as a newt. He’d come out a winner, anyway, at least a jug of free booze ahead and still mobile. If you could call it mobile. Certainly the punters were looking disappointed as hell, like cats left watching an empty mousehole. Not that I’d much sympathy there. I tapped my own empty half jug and Zethus came round the bar. ‘He be all right?’ I said quietly. ‘Oh, yeah. He’s only going half a mile or so along the beach.’ Zethus took the jug. ‘Mind you, he’s had a bigger skinful than usual.’ He turned round to the punters. ‘That wasn’t nice of you lads. Not nice at all.’ Alcis gave him a cheerful finger and turned back to chat with his mates. ‘Who was this bastard he was on about?’ I said. ‘That’s Murena. Licinius Murena. He owns the big fish farm and villa just down the coast from here.’ I chuckled. ‘Murena, right? Good name for a fish farmer.’ A murena’s a moray eel. Sure, it’s a regular surname in the pukkah branch of the Licinius family, too, so the coincidence isn’t as remarkable as it looks, but then Cicero didn’t raise chickpeas for a living, did he? Not that one of the Licinii would be exactly strapped for a copper piece or two. ‘His grandfather started it a century or so back. It’s the oldest and biggest on the bay.’ Zethus nodded at the jug. ‘Same again?’ ‘Uh-uh. Make it a cup. I’ll have to be getting back soon.’ If I came rolling in at one in the morning tripping over the furniture there’d be Looks from Mother at breakfast. Perilla wouldn’t be too happy, either. ‘What’s this business about a hotel?’ ‘Murena’s bought the old Juventius estate between here and town. That’s where Trebbio has his cottage. Guy’s planning to build a hotel, a big one, for the top end of the market, and Trebbio got the boot this morning. He isn’t too pleased about it.’ Yeah, that was putting it mildly; I’d go for homicidal myself. While Zethus went to fetch my wine I sat back and finished what was left in the cup. A hotel, eh? Unusual.You got the things, sure: there was a big one in Ostia, not that long built, and as a location Baiae made even more sense in a way, but something targeting the luxury end of the temporary accommodation market wasn’t all that common. Or a very safe bet, either. Boarding houses and inns, right, there’ve always been boarding houses and inns, especially in places that have a big shifting population or a regular through trade. Rome and Ostia are full of them, and so is every other city in the empire. Flats and houses for short-term let aren’t rare, either: there’re plenty of entrepreneurs around who’ll buy property they don’t intend to use themselves and offer it for rent by the month or even less. Really top-notch, purpose-built temporary accommodation, though, is another matter. The people it’s aimed at and could afford the prices just don’t need it, on the whole, because when they travel, for business or pleasure, they make an arrangement with friends, or more usually friends-of-friends. Like we’d done: Mother’s society pal Lucia Domitilla and her husband were currently in Pergamum, and their Baian villa had been standing empty. You need a house, we’ve got a house; no problem, deal made. The next time it’s the other way round, and if the second party can’t help direct they probably know someone who can. On the other hand, given the choice between sweating it out in Rome for the summer and staying in rented rooms, in Baiae or anywhere else, Mother would’ve taken the heat every time. And the same would go for most of the other people of her class. Actually renting a room - or even a house - is something that anyone with any social pretentions just doesn’t do, unless for some reason they’re really desperate. Especially in Baiae, where the villa prices and the lifted noses keep the riff-raff out. Still, this Murena wasn’t totally out of his tree. The scheme would need serious investment, sure, and it might be risky as hell, but if it worked he’d be sitting on a gold-mine. Mother’s class wasn’t the only money around these days. There were a lot of very rich plain-mantles - and some even richer freedmen - in Rome who’d give their eye-teeth to be able to tell their friends they were off down to Baiae for the summer. Zethus came back with a jug and filled the empty cup. ‘So how long has this Murena been here, then?’ I said. ‘If his grandfather laid down the original ponds the family must be almost local.’ ‘Search me. Longer than I have, though, and I’ve been here eighteen years.’ ‘He come back and forward from Rome, or is he here full-time?’ ‘Oh, he’s a permanent fixture. Goes up to Rome on business now and again as far as I know, but that’s all. You don’t know him?’ ‘Uh-uh. Not at all. He a bastard, like Trebbio said?’ Zethus grinned. ‘Close enough, by repute. Tight-fisted, mind of his own and a nasty temper if he’s crossed, so they say. All the same, I’ve never met him myself, and Trebbio has his own axe to grind.’ He raised a delicately-shaved eyebrow. ‘You have a reason for asking?’ ‘Uh-uh. Just curiosity.’ ‘So ask about his wife, Corvinus.’ Alcis had been listening in. Now he half turned in our direction. A few of the other punters sniggered and one gave a soft wolf-whistle into his winecup. ‘There’s a lady to be very curious about.’ ‘That so, friend?’ I said easily. Alcis was one of the drawbacks to Zethus’s. The guy put my back up in spades. ‘Murena’s pushing seventy, his wife’s a little stunner half his age. Knows what she’s about, too.’ Alcis took a swallow of his wine and smacked his lips. ‘I reckon you could be in there if you played your cards right, a rich young purple-striper like you.’ ‘Cut it out, Alcis,’ Zethus murmured. The guy smiled at him, showing far too many teeth. ‘Yeah, well, it’s a subject that wouldn’t interest you, isn’t it, Zethus?’ he said. ‘Not quite up your street, as it were.’ He turned back to me. ‘Mind you, you’d have to watch for that tame doctor of hers. Doctors can be nasty, and by all accounts this one’s definitely got his feet under the table.’ ‘She’s ill?’ ‘Oh, no.’ He chuckled. ‘She isn’t, although she might be sickening for something. The doctor’s for hubby. Practically full-time, they say. Back and forward to the villa like nobody’s business, although the old man looks healthy enough. Nice work if you can get it, eh?’ ‘Yeah.’ Well, I’d had about enough of Toothy Alcis for one evening, and a cup of wine lost was a small price to pay for dispensing with the bugger’s company. I stood up, took a single swallow, set the cup down and pulled a reasonable amount of coins out of my belt-purse to cover things. ‘Okay, gentlemen, that’s about me for the night. Enjoy yourselves.’ ‘You just remember who it was put you on to her,’ Alcis shouted at my back. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll do that.’ I went down onto the beach. The villa we we were staying at was about a mile away on the other side of town, and walking there directly, cutting up to the main road before the first of the townside villas then through the town itself, was the quickest route. Also the pleasantest. It was a beautiful evening for walking. The moon was up and shining over the sea, round and bright as a gold piece, and the water was lapping gently against the pebbles at the edge... Only there was something else on the beach besides pebbles, something that hadn’t been there earlier. An irregularly-shaped dark hump, about the size of a body. The hairs rose on my neck. I went closer. Body was right: I could see the head and limbs clear now in the moonlight. It wasn’t moving, either. Oh, shit! I’d got within five yards when the corpse suddenly turned over on its back and gave an almighty snore. Trebbio, flat out and pissed to the gills. I relaxed. ‘Uh...you okay, pal?’ I said. No answer, just another snore and a belch. Out for chips. Well, lines or not, full moon or not, I couldn’t see Endymion here shifting himself this side of sunrise. I looked back at the wineshop, no more than a hundred yards away. Yeah, I could let Zethus know, which might be a good idea, but that would mean letting Alcis and the rest know as well, and with those buggers’ robust sense of humour that was not something I wanted to do, because six got you ten it’d only lead to trouble. It was a warm night, the guy seemed happy enough where he was, so far as drunk and incapable can be counted happy, and if he wanted to sleep on the beach and wake up in the morning with multiple pebble bruises added to his hangover then it was no business of mine. Forget it, Corvinus. I left him to his dreams and set off home. Mistake. [/fusion_modal][/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]

[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent="no" hundred_percent_height="no" hundred_percent_height_scroll="no" hundred_percent_height_center_content="yes" equal_height_columns="no" menu_anchor="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" status="published" publish_date="" class="" id="" link_color="" link_hover_color="" border_size="" border_color="" border_style="solid" margin_top="0px" margin_bottom="0px" padding_top="0px" padding_right="0px" padding_bottom="0px" padding_left="0px" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_position="center center" background_repeat="no-repeat" fade="no" background_parallax="none" enable_mobile="no" parallax_speed="0.3" background_blend_mode="none" video_mp4="" video_webm="" video_ogv="" video_url="" video_aspect_ratio="16:9" video_loop="yes" video_mute="yes" video_preview_image="" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0"][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type="1_1" layout="1_1" spacing="" center_content="no" link="" target="_self" min_height="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" hover_type="none" border_size="0" border_color="" border_style="solid" border_position="all" border_radius="" box_shadow="no" dimension_box_shadow="" box_shadow_blur="0" box_shadow_spread="0" box_shadow_color="" box_shadow_style="" padding_top="" padding_right="" padding_bottom="" padding_left="" margin_top="" margin_bottom="" background_type="single" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_image_id="" background_position="left top" background_repeat="no-repeat" background_blend_mode="none" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset="" filter_type="regular" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0" last="no"][fusion_text columns="" column_min_width="" column_spacing="" rule_style="default" rule_size="" rule_color="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset=""] .It’s a funny thing about holidays in the country, but after only a few days away you feel as if you’ve been out of circulation for a month... Marcus Corvinus is already restless after a couple of days in the Alban Hills, visiting his stepdaughter, Marilla; a regular seat in Pontius’s wineshop is all very well but bucolic leisure has its limits. So when he is asked to investigate the brutal slaying of Vettius Bolanus, one of the two candidates for the forthcoming censor’s elections, he jumps at the chance. Corvinus feels sure there is a political motive for the murder, and the obvious suspect is Concordius, the rival candidate. But as he pursues his investigations, the obvious solution becomes less and less likely. Can Corvinus find his murderer before the Latin Festival raises the stakes? How do the Latin Nationalists fit into the picture? And what exactly is Meton the chef up to with Dassa the sheep? Marcus Corvinus doesn’t know the answers, either. [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="Parthian Shot - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] Accounts days only come two or three times a year in the Corvinus household; they rank with blots on the religious calendar like the anniversaries of Cannae and the Allia, and they involve a lot of creative swearing. Me and numbers just don’t get on, and never have. Pythagoras, unless I’m mixing up my philosophers, believed the universe was made up of the little buggers, which says a lot about Pythagoras. Anyone silly enough to spread dangerous ideas like that around deserves to come back as a clam. I’d just totted up the column on the latest tablet for the third time and got my third different answer when there was a knock on the study door and Bathyllus put his head round. Cautiously, which is par for the course on accounts days: our superefficient major-domo knows perfectly well that interrupting the master when he’s wrestling with household income and expenditure can lose you teeth. Especially since when I’m balancing the books I have to keep off the fermented grape juice. Wine and arithmetic don’t mix. ‘Ah...I’m sorry to disturb you, sir -’ ‘Then don’t, pal.’ I reversed the pen and drew the blunt end savagely through the wax at the foot of the column. ‘Jupiter sodding bloody God Almighty!’ ‘ - but you have a visitor.’ Hell; that was all I needed. Visitors when I’m slaving over a red-hot abacus I can do without, and Bathyllus knows it. ‘Pass them on to Perilla.’ ‘The mistress has gone out, sir. To the Pollio library. And the gentleman wants to speak to you personally.’ Bugger. Double bugger. I sat back in my chair. ‘This “gentleman” have a name, by any chance?’ That got me a sniff; not much of one, mind, because like I say even our sarky, full-of-himself major-domo doesn’t take unnecessary risks on accounts days. ‘Yes, sir. Lucius Vitellius.’ My eyebrows hit the ceiling. We don’t get many visitors, or I don’t, rather, because Perilla’s got her own network of intellectual geeks and literary weirdos who pop in and out to exchange anapaests, but even among the ones we do get ex-consuls don’t figure all that prominently. And Lucius Vitellius didn’t figure at all. The likelihood that one of Rome’s top senatorial heavies - in both senses of the word - had just dropped in in passing to swap the latest barber-shop jokes over a mouthful of wine and a few nuts was on a par with flying pigs above the Capitol. ‘He tell you what he wanted?’ I said. ‘No, sir. Only that it was important and if you were at home it was essential that he see you.’ Essential, right? Shit; I didn’t like the sound of this, not above half. When movers-and-shakers like Vitellius used the word essential it means trouble. ‘Okay,’ I said, laying the pen down. ‘Wheel him in. And bring the wine tray. If I’m going to be interrupted I might as well get something out of it.’ ‘Yes, sir.’ Bathyllus prepared to exit. ‘Uh, Bathyllus?’ He turned. ‘Yes, sir?’ ‘Before you go, pal.’ I passed him the accounts tablet. ‘Just cast your eyes over this, will you? What do you make the total?’ He took it and glanced at the figures. His lips moved. ‘Eight thousand three hundred and forty-six,’ he said finally. ‘You’re sure?’ He gave me a look like I was a mentally-disadvantaged prawn. ‘Quite sure.’ Oh, hell. That made total number four. Maybe I did need a break after all. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Off you go.’ He left. Vitellius came in like a homing hippo. ‘Large’ didn’t do the guy justice; he barely scraped between the edges of the study door either side without taking the frame with him, and I reckoned nine-tenths of what lay under the sharp broad-striper mantle was pure solid blubber. Most fat men are just fat; Vitellius was a positive triumph of adiposity. ‘Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Good of you to see me. Not interrupting you at all, am I?’ Yeah, well, maybe he had missed the abacus, the pile of wax tablets on the desk, the chewed pen and the clumps of torn-out hair littering the floor, but I wouldn’t be placing any bets. Litter-carrier’s nightmare or not, not even one of the senate’s leading lights could be that unobservant. ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘You, uh, want to sit down?’ The study only has one couch, but there is a chair for visitors. Quite a substantial one, luckily, and armless or it would’ve been a non-starter. He pulled it up and sat. The legs creaked and I heard a faint groaning as the leather straps underneath took the consular strain. ‘You’re doing the accounts?’ Vitellius nodded towards the mess on the desk. So he had noticed after all. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Or I was, anyway.’ ‘Try to avoid it myself. Get my secretary to do it. Sharp young Greek lad with a proper head for figures. You have to watch the bugger, though. Some of these accountants are too damn constructive for their own good.’ ‘Right. Right.’ Bathyllus knocked and came in with the wine tray, deferential as hell. ‘Fine, little guy,’ I said. ‘Just pour for us and then go and buff up the cutlery, okay?’ That got me another sniff; if there was a prize for Rome’s top snob Bathyllus would win it at a slow canter, on his scale consulars rate pretty high, and left to himself he tends to make the most of them. I waited until the door closed behind him with a frustrated click. ‘So. What can I do for you?’ Vitellius took a swallow of the wine. The huge jowls wobbled as he smacked his lips. ‘Not bad stuff, this. Who do you deal with?’ Bugger; I hate this pussy-footing around. I could cheerfully do without Vitellius, too, even if the alternative was cerebral torture. ‘A guy in the Argiletum. It’s all right. Now I’m sorry to be pushy, but -’ ‘Got a little job for you. At least, not me personally.’ He paused. ‘In fact, Corvinus, this isn’t my idea at all and we may as well get that straight from the start, all right? No offence meant, but there we are.’ Jupiter! Yeah, well, on the few occasions our paths had crossed we hadn’t exactly hit it off, but there was a sourness to his tone that didn’t suggest the relationship was set to improve. Still, he was the one sitting in the visitor’s chair drinking my wine, not the other way about. I leaned back against the couch-end. ‘Yeah?’ I said. ‘What kind of job would that be, now?’ That got me a long, slow, jowly stare: evidently in Vitellius’s book answering questions was something other people did, preferably when he was doing the asking. He took another gulp of wine and set the cup down, like he was drawing some kind of line. ‘I’m just the messenger-boy,’ he grunted. ‘Isidorus’ll explain things to you personally.’ Yeah? Well, that was a delight to know, anyway. ‘Who’s Isidorus?’ ‘The man who wants you to do the little job.’ ‘Really? All of that?’ I said brightly. Shit; break over. Two minutes into the conversation or not, I’d had enough of this lark. Throwing the bugger out on his very substantial beam-end would take a lot of muscle, sure, but I could always call in some of the bought help to give me a hand. And finding out whether he bounced or just came down with a nice hefty thud would set me up very nicely for the rest of a very boring morning. ‘Now listen, pal. You may not be aware of this, and it’s not your fault if you aren’t, but you chose a really terrible day for giving me the run-around. Bearing that in mind, and considering the possible resultant consequences of an unconsidered reply, suppose we try that last one again. You ready? Good. Now. Who the fuck is Isidorus? And why should he think I need any sort of a job?’ The jowls purpled and quivered. I could see the guy was within a hair’s-breadth of coming back at me in spades - not that I’d’ve minded - but he just reached for his cup and took another gulp before he answered. Interesting; ex-consuls aren’t exactly easy-going at the best of times, and that little bit of lèse-majesté ought to have got me blistered. Vitellius was holding himself in so tight I wondered he didn’t rupture. The question was, why? ‘Isidorus of Charax,’ he said shortly. I nodded. ‘Right. Right. That is really informative, pal. So far we’ve got the length of a name and a place of birth. Now maybe you’d like to go a little bit further and tell me what the guy actually does.’ The purpling went up a notch. ‘Jupiter bloody Best and Greatest, Corvinus! If this were up to me..!’ ‘You’d spit in my eye. Yeah. I’d sort of worked that one out for myself, and to tell you the truth I’m wondering why you don’t. Seriously wondering, because Isidorus has to be Greek, Greeks in Rome don’t rate consular messenger-boys, and if they ever did the bugger in question sure as hell wouldn’t roll over and take it like you seem to be doing. So I’ll ask you again: who’s Isidorus?’ Pause; long pause, while we glared at each other. Then, suddenly, Vitellius grinned; not a pleasant grin, either, even allowing for the three or four blackened teeth that showed when he smiled. ‘Oh, dear,’ he said. ‘I am really going to enjoy this.’ He reached into his mantle-fold, pulled out a sealed letter and handed it over. Then he reached for his wine-cup, took a hefty swig and sat back, his eyes on my face. I broke the seal, and my eye went straight to the authorising signature... Tiberius Julius Caesar Augustus. Aka the Wart. Oh, shit. I read the thing through from the start. Not that there was much of it; just the bald request that I be good enough to put myself at the disposal of Isidorus of Charax and the Roman senate, on a matter which would be explained to me. I raised my eyes to Vitellius’s face. He was smiling so hard there could’ve been a hinge in his neck. ‘The litter’s waiting,’ he said. I took a long slug of my untouched wine before I stood up. Something told me I was going to need it. The Wart, eh? Fuck. [/fusion_modal][/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]

[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent="no" hundred_percent_height="no" hundred_percent_height_scroll="no" hundred_percent_height_center_content="yes" equal_height_columns="no" menu_anchor="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" status="published" publish_date="" class="" id="" link_color="" link_hover_color="" border_size="" border_color="" border_style="solid" margin_top="0px" margin_bottom="0px" padding_top="0px" padding_right="0px" padding_bottom="0px" padding_left="0px" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_position="center center" background_repeat="no-repeat" fade="no" background_parallax="none" enable_mobile="no" parallax_speed="0.3" background_blend_mode="none" video_mp4="" video_webm="" video_ogv="" video_url="" video_aspect_ratio="16:9" video_loop="yes" video_mute="yes" video_preview_image="" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0"][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type="1_1" layout="1_1" spacing="" center_content="no" link="" target="_self" min_height="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" hover_type="none" border_size="0" border_color="" border_style="solid" border_position="all" border_radius="" box_shadow="no" dimension_box_shadow="" box_shadow_blur="0" box_shadow_spread="0" box_shadow_color="" box_shadow_style="" padding_top="" padding_right="" padding_bottom="" padding_left="" margin_top="" margin_bottom="" background_type="single" gradient_start_color="" gradient_end_color="" gradient_start_position="0" gradient_end_position="100" gradient_type="linear" radial_direction="center center" linear_angle="180" background_color="" background_image="" background_image_id="" background_position="left top" background_repeat="no-repeat" background_blend_mode="none" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset="" filter_type="regular" filter_hue="0" filter_saturation="100" filter_brightness="100" filter_contrast="100" filter_invert="0" filter_sepia="0" filter_opacity="100" filter_blur="0" filter_hue_hover="0" filter_saturation_hover="100" filter_brightness_hover="100" filter_contrast_hover="100" filter_invert_hover="0" filter_sepia_hover="0" filter_opacity_hover="100" filter_blur_hover="0" last="no"][fusion_text columns="" column_min_width="" column_spacing="" rule_style="default" rule_size="" rule_color="" hide_on_mobile="small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility" class="" id="" animation_type="" animation_direction="left" animation_speed="0.3" animation_offset=""] .It’s a funny thing about holidays in the country, but after only a few days away you feel as if you’ve been out of circulation for a month... Marcus Corvinus is already restless after a couple of days in the Alban Hills, visiting his stepdaughter, Marilla; a regular seat in Pontius’s wineshop is all very well but bucolic leisure has its limits. So when he is asked to investigate the brutal slaying of Vettius Bolanus, one of the two candidates for the forthcoming censor’s elections, he jumps at the chance. Corvinus feels sure there is a political motive for the murder, and the obvious suspect is Concordius, the rival candidate. But as he pursues his investigations, the obvious solution becomes less and less likely. Can Corvinus find his murderer before the Latin Festival raises the stakes? How do the Latin Nationalists fit into the picture? And what exactly is Meton the chef up to with Dassa the sheep? Marcus Corvinus doesn’t know the answers, either. [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="White Murder - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] There’re worse places to hole up in when the poetry klatsch takes over the living-room and your wife throws you out for the duration than Renatius’s wineshop on Iugarius. The wine’s good for a start, a cheap, no-nonsense, swigging Umbrian that he brings in direct from the family farm near Spoletium but which could’ve walked all the way to Rome by itself. Then there’s the seedy, spit-and-sawdust ambience and matching clientele, which is a definite plus for the area. With Market Square and the Senate House just up the road, Iugarius wineshops - and there’re several, all with classy modern-style frescos and Gallic beechwood furniture - are packed in the late afternoon with jolly, back-slapping broad-stripers and pushy young business execs. If you haven’t experienced the joy of these guys yourself, then believe me: the last thing you want when you’re relaxing over a jug is a loud-voiced pack of the world’s élite at the next table swigging overpriced Falernian, calling the consuls by their first names and swapping hilarious anecotes about leaky aqueducts and building tenders. Renatius’s punters are tunics, which means most of the buggers have chins, speak through their mouths and would stand comparison with an intellectually-challenged parrot. So. There I was, killing time in Renatius’s wineshop until Perilla’s poetry pals had finished juggling their anapaests or whatever the hell they do at their literary meetings and it was safe to go home. I was halfway down the jug with a plate of sheep’s cheese on the side and getting pleasantly stewed when the mystery man turned up. You don’t see royalty much in Rome, not in Renatius’s, anyway, but if he’d been a prince of the blood from one of the eastern client-kingdoms slumming it incognito he couldn’t’ve created a bigger stir; which was interesting because like I say Renatius’s is definitely tunic country and these guys don’t impress easy. Yet the moment he walked in the door you could’ve heard an olive bounce, and Renatius himself moved so fast to show him to a table that he blurred. That was weird, too: you’d expect it in an upmarket cookshop, but any wineshop I’ve ever been in you find your own table, and if there isn’t one free then tough. Added to which the last time I’d seen Renatius move that fast was when a stray dog wandered in and cocked its leg against the counter, and as far as I could see there was no difference between this guy and the other half-dozen punters currently soaking up the booze. I poured myself another slug of Spoletian and inspected him over the top of my cup. It was none of my business, sure, but I couldn’t help wondering what kind of semi-divine being we’d got here. Scratch the prince of the blood theory. Whoever he was, the guy was no easterner, let alone royal (I’d’ve guessed southern Italian, and if he rated more than a plain mantle I’d eat my boots); Renatius wouldn’t stir himself for any common-or-garden noble, home-grown or imported; and I’d bet a gold piece to a meatball that none of his clientele would recognise a visiting scion of the Commagene royal house if it leaned over and bit them. So where did that leave us? Early thirties, lad-about-town type: sharp haircut, good quality tunic and enough flashy personal jewellery to fit out an Aventine cat-house. He was no Market Square patsy, though, that was sure; there were muscles under that tunic, the arm that lifted the wine jug had tendons you could use for catapult cable, and I’d hate to face those hard, cold eyes across the table in a needle dice game. All that plus the fact that the whole room bar me obviously knew him and was treating him like one of the Sacred Shields of Mars while he acted like he expected nothing less could only mean one thing. Or one of two things, rather. Our mystery pal was either a top swordsman or a ditto driver; either of which qualifications, as far as the punters in Renatius’s were concerned, put him less than one step down from Jupiter himself. Personally, I’d go for the second option. Gladiators tend to be tall, even the lighter netmen: netman or not, quick on your feet or not, you don’t last long on the sand if you’re a short-arse with stubby legs and no reach; not when you’re matched against two hundred pounds of mean beefsteak armed to the teeth and anxious to check out the colour of your liver. This guy was a runt. A steel-and-whiplash runt, sure, but if he clocked in at any more than five-two and ninety-eight pounds then I was a blue-rinsed Briton. Which, of course, was perfect for the cars because the less there is of the driver the more chance the team has of romping home clear of the competition. Me, I don’t follow the Colours. Yeah, I can keep my end up in a barbershop conversation, and Perilla and I go to the races now and again at the bigger festivals, but I’m no fan. Fans’re something else, and every tunic is a fan born. Renatius’s clientele mightn’t be in the league of the weirdos who paint every room in their house green or blue and sniff the favourite’s droppings before the race to check that it’s in prime running condition, but the tunic who doesn’t know his way around the teams well enough to play spot the hero when he walks into the local wineshop just don’t exist. So I sat back and watched developments. Not that there were any at first. Renatius’s kid son Lucius brought the man his jug and a plate of olives, setting them down like they were honey-cakes on a shrine, and Mystery Boy was left to his own majestic thoughts while everyone else went into huddles and muttered away quietly. Every so often the guy glanced towards the door like he was expecting someone, but if so his pal wasn’t showing. Ten, fifteen minutes in, he stood up suddenly and beckoned to Lucius. Conversation in the room switched off like it would in the local temple if the cult statue decided to stretch its legs in the middle of the ceremony, but Mystery Boy didn’t seem to notice. Probably he was used to it and it didn’t bother him any more, one way or the other. The kid went over like he was walking on eggs. He had to swallow twice before he got his voice to work. ‘Yes, sir?’ he said. ‘Where’s the privy?’ I could see the blush spread over the kid’s face from freckle to freckle: obviously in Lucius’s personal world demigods didn’t ask questions to do with normal human functions. Besides, Renatius’s is pretty basic; the guy might just as well have asked for directions to the bath suite. I grinned and sipped my wine. ‘Uh...I’m sorry, sir.’ Swallow. ‘We, uh, we haven’t got one.’ ‘You haven’t got one.’ Mystery Boy didn’t smile, but one of the regulars, a little wizened monkey of a guy called Sestus with plaster stains down his tunic, sniggered into his winecup. ‘So where do your customers piss?’ ‘Uh...’ Lucius was beginning to look desperate. ‘In the alley, sir. Round the side. There’s a wall at the end. You can’t miss it.’ Sestus choked on his wine. Mystery Boy ignored him. He nodded to Lucius and went out, closing the wineshop door behind him. The place erupted like a schoolroom when the master pops out for a breath of sanity. ‘You can’t miss it, right, Lucius?’ Sestus said when he’d finished coughing his lungs out. ‘Not on less than two jugs, anyway.’ ‘Nice one, lad.’ That was Renatius. If the kid had been blushing before, now you could’ve used his ears to signal ships. Understandable: he’d just had his chance to impress the great man with his witty repartee and he’d blown it all over the shop. Being ten is tough. ‘Hey, Lucius,’ I said. ‘Who is the celebrity, by the way?’ Lucius’s jaw dropped. There were a couple more laughs, at me this time. ‘But that’s Pegasus, sir!’ he said. Tone like he was speaking to an idiot, which in the race-mad kid’s eyes I suppose I was. Yeah, well, I’d got that one right, at any rate. The guy was a driver; or not just a driver but one of the drivers, currently. Even I knew Pegasus: half the plaster statuettes on sale outside the Circus had his name on them. Not that that would’ve been any help with the face, mind, because they all came out of the same mould, whoever they were supposed to be, and the names were written on later; but the name itself, that was a different thing altogether. ‘The Greens’ lead?’ ‘Not any more, sir. He’s driving for the Whites now. Or at least he will be when the new season starts.’ ‘Is that right?’ I sat back while the kid mopped the table. Now that was something you didn’t hear of every day, a Green high-flyer transferring to the Whites. Blues I could’ve understood, because as far as professional street cred’s concerned the Blues and the Greens are pretty well on a par. Whites and Reds are definitely the poor relations. Sure, transfers among the factions go on all the time, and it’s common enough for a second-rater on the Blue or Green team to make the switch to White or Red just so’s his name comes higher on the programme, but for one of their top-notch drivers to do the same is like a Praetorian moving to the Watch. Worse, the guy hadn’t just moved down a peg, he’d changed camps as well: on the track the Whites run point for the Blues just as the Reds do for the Greens. Still, I was no racing buff. No doubt it made sense somewhere along the line. I went back to my wine and cheese. I wasn’t the only silent drinker now. For the next ten minutes the whole room held its communal breath and kept one eye on the door, waiting for the guy to reappear. He didn’t. Finally Sestus cleared his throat. ‘Maybe he’s missed the wall at that,’ he said. His mates chuckled. Renatius was rinsing cups at the sink. He didn’t turn round. ‘Come off it, Sestus,’ he grunted. ‘Joke’s over.’ ‘You want me to check on him, Dad?’ Lucius was hopping with excitement. ‘Just to see if he’s all right?’ Renatius shrugged and reached for a towel. Lucius dashed off. We waited. The kid hadn’t been gone two minutes when he was back. He didn’t come in, though. ‘Uh...dad?’ He was chalk-white. The hairs rose at the nape of my neck. ‘Yeah?’ Renatius said over his shoulder. ‘Close that door, boy, there’s a draught.’ ‘Dad, I, uh, think he’s dead.’ It took a moment to register. Then Renatius dropped the towel and was through the door in five seconds flat; and the rest of the wineshop, including me, were about two seconds behind him. Dead was right. The guy was slumped face-forward against the end wall of the alleyway. On the back of his tunic, just level with the heart, was a broad red stain. There was one of these horrible pauses while we all tried to persuade ourselves that we weren’t seeing what we were seeing. Renatius shook his head. ‘Oh, shit,’ he murmured. ‘Oh, holy Jupiter.’ The other punters crowding the narrow alley said nothing. Even Sestus had shut up. Bugger. Well, someone had to make a move. ‘Renatius, get everyone back inside, okay?’ I said. ‘Then you stand guard at the mouth of the alley to make sure no one comes barging in. Oh, and send Lucius to the local Watch station.’ ‘Waste of time, consul,’ Sestus murmured without taking his eyes off the body. ‘The commander’s Titus Valgius. The guy’s a total prat.’ I ignored him. ‘Just do it, Renatius.’ The big man nodded. He was looking grey. ‘Come on, lads,’ he said. ‘Show’s over.’ No one moved; ogle, ogle, ogle. I sighed. Hell: I’d seen this before, and I hated it. Give the great Roman public a corpse or an accident to stare at and they’ll stand there all day. There was only one answer: expensive, sure, but it’d save a lot of hassle in the long run. And where Renatius’s regulars were concerned it’d work every time. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Drinks are on me. At the counter, for the next five minutes only.’ ‘You’re a gent, Corvinus.’ Sestus beamed. ‘Possessed of true leadership qualities.’ Oh, Jupiter! ‘Just fuck off, Sestus, okay?’ ‘Certainly, sir. Fucking off at once, sir.’ He did, and the other ghouls followed him. Which just left me and the corpse. [/fusion_modal][/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]