[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=""] ‘Uh…Dad?’ Young Lucius’s face was chalk white. ‘Dad, I 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. When Pegasus, racing mega-star and lead driver of the Whites faction, is found stabbed to death in the alleyway beside Renatius’s wineshop, Marcus Corvinus is already on site. The local District Watch – crooked to a man – claim that the killer’s motive was simple theft, but Corvinus knows it wasn’t. Tracking the murderer down, with the often-unwilling help of his wife Perilla, takes him deep into the murky world of Roman chariot-racing with all its secrets, skulduggeries and scams; and his task is not made any easier by the fact that in the process he has a lovesick major-domo, an invisible dagger and Mount Etna to contend with. [/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]

[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=""] ‘Right,’ I said. ‘So what can I do for the chief Vestal, pal?’ The Axeman was flexing his hands like he was squeezing a couple of those wooden balls wrestlers use to strengthen their grip. ‘I’m to take you to the Galba place,’ he said. ‘Is that so, now? And why would you do that?’ ‘Because there’s been a death.’ I stared at him. Jupiter, not again! Five minutes back in residence at the Hub of the World and we were already hitting corpses. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘You care to tell me whose?’ ‘One of the Ladies.’ Shit. I sat back and heard Perilla draw in her breath. One of the Ladies, eh? For Torquata’s Axeman that could mean only one thing. The dead woman was a Vestal. It is the morning after the nocturnal rite of the Good Goddess, an all-female ceremony strictly out of bounds to the male of the species, and the body of a young woman has been found, her throat cut. Suicide or murder? Hoping to avoid scandal, Senator Lucius Arruntius calls in Marcus Corvinus to do some discreet sleuthing. Marcus is helped in his investigations by a feisty flutegirl and by his clever, loyal wife Perilla (even though her attention is somewhat distracted by the acquisition of a revolutionary new clock). But – inevitably – to solve the mystery, Marcus must look beyond the obvious and first untangle a complex web of treachery and deceit. [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="Last Rites - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] Even without the bundle of rods that he carried when he was on active duty, the guy interrupting our breakfast was something: six foot six high by four wide, muscles like boulders and all the facial delicacy of an Alp. Jupiter knows where they find these buggers. They must breed them special and feed them on gravel. Marcus Valerius Caecinus?’ he growled. Bathyllus was doing his scandalised Greek chorus act in the doorway, and I could feel the waves of disapproval all the way across the room. Bathyllus’s waves would’ve reduced any ordinary mortal to a cringing, apologetic wreck, but then Axemen aren’t your ordinary mortals. These bastards have skins like rhinos. Tempers, too. ‘I told him he had the name wrong, sir,’ he said, ‘but he wouldn’t listen.’ ‘That’s okay, Bathyllus.’ I’d set down my roll and honey. ‘No harm done. Go and count the statues, sunshine.’ He left, fizzing. I looked back at the Axeman. Shit, this didn’t look good. Axemen worked as gophers for the top brass, and they were bad news; especially these days with Macro running things as Praetorian commander. Less than a month in Rome and I was in trouble already. Worse, I’d no idea why. ‘You made two out of three, friend. The name’s Corvinus.’ That got me a scowl and ten flexed fingers. ‘The mistress told me Caecinus.’ Yeah, well, I’d give him full marks for persistence. Speed of uptake was something else, but then smart isn’t an adjective that figures very highly in the job description. With these muscle-bound hulks the thought process is so straight and narrow you could use it for an aqueduct. You don’t contradict them, either. I shrugged. ‘Fine. We won’t argue. Uh… “mistress”?’ ‘The Lady Junia Torquata. She said find Marcus Valerius Caecinus, Rufia Perilla’s husband, just moved in to the old Apronius place on the Caelian. This is the place so you must be him, right?’ There ain’t no arguing with logic like that. I glanced at Perilla, lying on the other couch. Her eyes were wide and there was a crust of bread she seemed to have forgotten about poised halfway to her mouth. Well, that explained the confusion, anyway. I’d met Junia Torquata a couple of years back, when we’d had her round to dinner and she’d put a hole in my wine cellar you could drive a marble-cart through and still managed to walk out the door straight as a legion’s First Spear. She hadn’t been able to hold my name in her head then, either. I grinned and relaxed; if the guy was Torquata’s then unsociable hour or not maybe I wasn’t going to be hauled off to the Mamertine after all. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘So what can I do for the chief Vestal, pal?’ The Axeman was flexing his hands like he was squeezing a couple of those wooden balls wrestlers use to strengthen their grip. ‘I’m to take you to the Galba place,’ he said. ‘Is that so, now? And why would you do that?’ ‘Because there’s been a death.’ I stared at him. Jupiter, not again! Five minutes back in residence at the Hub of the World and we were already hitting corpses. At breakfast-time, too. Maybe I was the thanaturgic equivalent of one of these screwy stones from Magnesia that snatch iron pins from your hands. ‘Yeah?’ I said. ‘What kind of death?’ The guy hesitated and the squeezing went up a notch. Axemen aren’t particularly known for showing their feelings, but if he’d been human I’d’ve said he was nervous. And where an Axeman’s concerned that takes a hell of a lot of doing. ‘Just a death,’ he said. This was getting silly. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘You care to tell me whose, at least? Or is that a secret too?’ His eyes rolled: personal initiative is another quality that isn’t a prime requirement for Axemen, and we were obviously working right on the edge here. ‘One of the Ladies.’ Shit. I sat back and heard Perilla draw in her breath. One of the Ladies, eh? For Torquata’s Axeman that could mean only one thing. The dead woman was a Vestal. He’d brought a litter. Usually I’ve no time for litters, but an hour after dawn on a raw December morning with the rain gusting in from the north it beat walking hands down, especially where a trip across town to the Sacred Way was involved. Besides, I needed space to think Bubbling George hadn’t been exactly forthcoming: ask as I might while Bathyllus had helped me into my formal mantle and thick cloak, the guy had zipped up tighter than a constipated clam. Still, certain things were clear enough. First off, we were moving in exalted circles here. Sulpicius Galba was the current senior consul, at the tail end of his year of office. I’d never met him, and from what I’d heard that was no loss because he was a first-rate, twenty-four-carat bastard; an arch-snob, tight-fisted as an Aventine landlord and with a sadistic streak you’d need a yardstick to measure. He was also (which went a long way to explaining how the guy had made consul) a close crony of Prince Gaius, currently strutting his stuff with the Wart on Capri, and – if you believed wineshop rumour, which I always do – queer as a five-legged cat. His wife, on the other hand, I didn’t know at all, not even her name; and if I didn’t miss my guess it was his wife who’d be relevant here because that was where the Vestals came in. Early December is when the nocturnal rite of the Good Goddess is held at the senior consul’s house, with the guy’s wife playing hostess, and last night had been the night. The ceremony involves only women, and only those at the top of the social tree. Galba, along with every other male and male animal in the house, would’ve been thrown out on his ear while his wife, the Vestals and a pretty large slice of Rome’s female beautiful and good did whatever the hell they do that evening after dark and then partied until dawn with not a man in the place. Only this year, obviously, they hadn’t. Something had gone wrong, and in the morning when the barriers came up Junia Torquata had sent Bubbling George to look for me. That last bit was what really bugged. ‘A death’, Bubbling George had said, and he’d said it very carefully, which implied that it was the word Torquata had told him to use. A death, not a murder. Murder I could’ve understood as the reason for hauling me away from my porridge, but there again Vestals don’t get murdered: they’re about as sacred as you can get in Rome, and you don’t mess with them, nohow, no way, never. Oh, sure, when they go out – and Vestals are as free to come and go as anyone – they have complimentary Axemen bodyguards, but that’s only because of who they are, not for protection. A Vestal could walk through the Subura end to end alone with a purse stuffed with gold pieces any time of the day or night, and not a mugger would touch a single hair of her six-tressed head. He wouldn’t dare. Just the thought of murdering a Vestal made my scalp crawl. Also, Torquata wasn’t the sort of person to call a spade a digging implement. If she said a death, then that was what she’d meant. It just didn’t make sense. The other question, of course, was why me? I settled back against the cushions. I had the feeling I wasn’t going to enjoy this at all. 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[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=""] (Old Bones is the 5th of the Marcus Corvinus series) I sat down on one of the couches. 'So, Stepfather,' I said. 'Who did you kill?' 'He didn't kill anyone!' Mother snapped. ''Don't be silly! I sighed. 'Okay. So who didn't you kill?' Marcus Corvinus doesn't seriously think that his stepfather is a murderer: Priscus wouldn't hurt a fly. But he did discover the corpse, and he was found standing over it with the knife in his hand, so proving the old man's innocence presents quite a challenge. Corvinus is back in Italy, suckered into a spell of tomb-bashing with his antiquities-mad stepfather. Not at all his idea of a holiday. However, a murder does spice things up, and the victim had enemies enough. Including a cuckolded husband... [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="Old Bones - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] The big black bugger at the head of the line was smart, which was probably why he'd landed the job in the first place. He didn't give up, either, even with a breadcrumb three times his size and twice the size of the hole he was trying to push it down. As I watched he pulled it clear and chewed at it one more time. Then, lifting it off the ground, he set his back legs against a loose stone chipping, twisted his body and shoved. The breadcrumb shot through, smooth as cream, to be grabbed by his pals down below and hustled off to wherever the hell they were stashing the stuff. You could almost hear the cheers. I tore up a bit more of the bread and watched the little guys behind him pounce on the falling crumbs. Scale's an amazing thing. To an ant, one lunchtime roll's as much bread as you could make from the contents of an Ostian grain barge. Squirrelled away at the rate these bastards had been going it'd last them to the Winter Festival, easy. 'Hey, Perilla,' I said. The lady looked up from her book. The early afternoon sun, shining through a gap in the trellised vine, caught on her hair. She'd had Phryne fix it up in a simpler style than she usually wore it back home in Athens: when you're on holiday out in the sticks with no one to dress up for sartorial elegance tends to go by the board. Comatic elegance. Whatever. If you could call this a holiday. Personally I thought we'd been suckered into two months' worth of thumb-twiddling, but then that's Mother for you. 'Yes, Marcus?' Tetchy; tetchy as hell: she must've hit one of the juicy bits. 'You think ants throw parties?' I could hear her teeth grate. Well, maybe it did need a context to make it halfway sensible. 'I mean, breadcrumbs only keep underground for so long. It'd save a lot of waste, especially if the different nests worked out a rota.' 'Marcus, why don't you go out for a walk if you're bored?' 'Who said I was bored?' 'It's a logical assumption. People who live full and active lives don't spend their afternoons throwing bread to the ants.' 'Is that so, now?' I brushed a few more days supply of formic corn dole from my tunic and reached for the wine jug. 'That is so.' She set the book down altogether. 'Nor do they spend them getting stewed on the terrace.' Uh-oh. 'Don't knock it, lady. It has its points.' I poured. Yeah, well, the quality of the wine was one plus at least to set against Mother's dragging us all the way from Greece: Caeretan might not have the name of its big brothers to the south, but drunk on its home ground it was still pretty good stuff. 'And personally I can think of worse things to do.' 'Indeed?' She picked up the book again and unrolled it. I sneaked a look at the title. Scratch the juicy bits: it was Aulus Caecina's Etruscan History , solid stuff, and par for the course. Perilla's your original conscientious tourist: if it moves she'll read it into submission. Jupiter knew where she'd got Caecina from, mind, because Gnaeus Lentulus whose villa we were currently borrowing was no highbrow; when we'd been at school together the kids had nicknamed him Flatworm, and the name still fitted. A library the guy had - no self-respecting country villa is completely bookless - but Perilla had taken one look at it and quietly closed the cabinet. I had a glance myself, later, and I wasn't surprised: most of the books were the sort of illustrated instruction manuals that eat through their rollers and leave scorch marks on the shelves. I took an appreciative mouthful of the wine. I hadn't been kidding: there were far worse ways to spend an afternoon when you're stuck out in the country than sitting in the shade of a trellised vine feeding the ants and making a hole in Flatworm's twenty-year-old Caeretan. I could've been out tomb-bashing with Priscus for a start... 'If I'd known you'd be at a loose end this early in the holiday we could have gone into Caere with your stepfather to look at the tombs,' Perilla said. 'It's what we're here for, after all.' I winced and set the cup down. It wouldn't do a blind bit of good, I knew, but it had to be done. For the umpteenth time. A lovely lady, Perilla, a peerless wife and clever as they come, but sometimes her grasp of the eternal verities would disgrace a clam. These born educators are all the same: they just cannot believe however often you tell them that a diet of temples, statues and the like brings normal people out in hives. 'Lady, would you watch my lips for a moment, please?' I said. Caecina dipped; not seriously, but it'd have to do. 'Short of slugging me with a particularly hefty club and tying me behind a brace of bullocks there is absolutely no way that you are going to get me within spitting distance of any tombs. Mother may've used Priscus's annual tomb-bash as a come-on with you but she sure as hell didn't try it with me because she's a smart enough cookie to know her limitations. Now is that clear or should I draw you a picture?' Perilla sniffed and turned back to her book. At which point the mule joined us. He came strolling up the terrace steps like he owned the place, chewing on what looked like half the ornamental shrub that Lentulus had planted in an old wine jar by the gate. When he saw us he stopped, grinned and carefully lifted his tail... 'Corydon! No! ' I caught one glimpse of our adopted daughter Marilla's horrified face as she rounded the trellis corner, just as the bugger deposited his load on the gleaming flagstones. 'I'm sorry.' Marilla had grabbed the brute's bridle and was hanging on with all the proprietorial tenacity of the fourteen-year-old animal lover. 'He got away from me as we were coming up the drive.' 'Uh...yeah.' Jupiter! Our major-domo Bathyllus would have a fit! In the two days we'd been here even the sparrows had learned that crapping on the little guy's preserve was a short cut to suicide. 'Where did you pick that thing up from, Princess? If it's not a stupid question?' 'He was wandering about at the foot of our road.' Marilla was stroking the mule's nose while the brute went on grinning like a drain. Accident, nothing: from the satisfied look in the moth-eaten bastard's eye I'd bet he'd been holding himself in for days, just waiting his chance. 'I think he must've slipped his tether.' I glanced at Perilla. The lady was stiff as hell, but the tips of her ears were pink. A good sign. Maybe the mule would live after all. Certainly having the Princess on his side didn't do any harm. '"Corydon"?' I said. Marilla blushed. 'Well, I had to call him something.' 'Marilla, you are not keeping him.' Perilla rolled Aulus Caecina up with a snap and laid him on the table beside her. 'Not even temporarily. He was probably on his way home. Take him straight to Alexis. He can find the owner for you.' Yeah. I'd go for that. Alexis was the smartest of our skivvies, and unlike Bathyllus he didn't regard animals as some sort of divine scourge sent to mess up his nice clean universe. The Princess was right about the tether, too. Although it was the proper length the end looked ragged. Either it had slipped or - more likely - the evil bastard had pulled the knot out specially just so he could come up and shit all over our terrace. Marilla was looking at me with those big brown eyes of hers. I sighed. Well, it had to be done. And mules, even this fugitive from a glue factory, were expensive animals. 'Perilla's right, Princess,' I said. 'Take him round to Alexis.' 'But -' 'Go ahead. And the next time you find a stray elephant drinking from the birdbath I swear I'll let you keep it.' She turned and went moping off round the edge of the villa towards the kitchen garden where Alexis would be potting up sprouts or whatever the hell keen gardeners like him did in their spare time. The mule followed her, stopping to tear down a large chunk of trellising on the way. Probably storing up fresh ammunition. I let her get out of earshot before I turned back to Perilla. 'Okay, lady,' I said. 'You can let your hair down now.' Perilla smiled. 'Was it that obvious?' 'Only to me.' 'It really wasn't funny.' She glanced at the pile of dung steaming away next to the pristine whitewashed wall and started to giggle. 'Bathyllus will be furious.' 'We can tell him Mother's tame doctor recommended it as a cure for baldness.' The giggle changed to a laugh, and I got up and kissed her; which was exactly when Bathyllus himself softshoed out looking serious as hell. 'Excuse me for interrupting, sir,' he said quietly. He hadn't even glanced at Corydon's offering, and that was odd, too, if you like: selective astigmatism may be one of the little guy's cultivated virtues, but selectively purblind he isn't, and he'd practically stepped in the stuff. We hadn't got the disapproving stare we're usually treated to when he catches us breaching his personal code of ethics, either. Weird. Definitely weird. Oh, hi, Bathyllus.' I straightened while Perilla adjusted her mantle and put on her stiff Roman matron pose. 'Just the man. We, ah, seem to have had a bit of an accident here.' I didn't look at Perilla, but I heard the lady grunt. 'You want to bring a brush and dustpan, maybe?' He fizzed for a while like Bathyllus never does. 'Yes, sir,' he said. 'Certainly. In a moment.' Still the perfect butler. Jupiter! There was something badly wrong here. I'd expected the biggest blow-out since Etna last erupted and I hadn't got even a sniff. So far as Bathyllus could ever look six yards out of the game the little guy was doing just that. I stopped grinning. Whatever this was, it was no joke. 'Hey, sunshine,' I said. 'You okay?' 'Yes, sir.' He cleared his throat. 'We've had a message from Licinius Nepos. Your stepfather has just committed a murder. I stared at him, my lower jaw scraping the terrace. 'He has what ?' Shit. [/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=""] (SEJANUS is the 3rd of the Marcus Corvinus series) 'Well, young man, I'm dead and burned at last, or you wouldn't be reading this. Let me say first that I have no regrets, either about being dead or for having removed so many of my collateral relatives before their proper hours. I acted for the good of Rome. Which brings me to the point of this letter. Aelius Sejanus. We talked a little about him the last time we met. Again the fact that you are reading this shows that the time for talk is past. The man is a malignant growth, a danger to Rome, and he must be removed. No; I dislike euphemisms: Sejanus must be killed. Empress Livia's extraordinary instruction from beyond the grave comes as something of a relief to Marcus Corvinus: life as a voluntary exile is too dull for the amiable Roman, and the chance to engage in more amateur sleuthing is irresistible - despite the obvious dangers [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="The Lydian Baker - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] Purple laver... I blinked and set the letter down on the table beside my wine cup. Some things - what Perilla's philosopher pals would call the eternal verities - never changed. They included death, pestilence and Mother's whacky recipes. In the four months we'd been back we'd piled up enough ways of cooking lentils to open an Egyptian cookshop, and some of the other stuff she recommended for a full and healthy life you couldn't put a name to even in hieroglyphs. 'Hey, Perilla,' I said. 'You any idea what purple laver is?' The lady looked up from the book she was reading. Chrysippus's Studies in Grammar. That's one advantage of living in Athens, if you can call it an advantage: there're more libraries than even Perilla can shake a stick at. Serious ones, with not an Alexandrian bodice-ripper in sight. Listen hard and you can hear manuscripts crumbling all over town. Readers, too. 'It's a kind of edible seaweed, Marcus,' she said. 'Imported from Gaul, I believe.' 'Is that right, now?' Jupiter! In that case this was one recipe our chef Meton was definitely not getting his hands on. I'd enough problems with the local cuisine without letting the weird dietary habits of blue-rinsed Gauls into the act, and that bastard would slip me a batch of Mother's laver cakes just for the fun of telling me what I'd eaten and watching me go green. 'How is Vipsania?' Perilla had laid the book aside. Maybe she couldn't take the excitement. 'Thriving. She's off tomb-bashing with Priscus in Caere.' Priscus was my stepfather. The guy was well into his seventies, a good two decades older than Mother, but fit as a flea despite looking like a prune buried in sand for six months. Rooting around old tombs and collecting antiquities was his life, and although they were different as chalk and cheese she wasn't complaining. Maybe it did have something to do with what she fed the old bugger on, but even so I didn't want to know. If the gods had meant us to eat seaweed they wouldn't have invented the Baian oyster. 'Marilla's fine as well, she says. And Marcia sends her regards.' Perilla's face softened. Our prospective daughter was still where we'd left her, on Marcia Fulvina's farm in the Alban Hills. The adoption hadn't got all the way through the courts yet but it was practically settled, and the kid's father had taken his one-way trip down the Rock before the year was out. No tears there. I was only sorry I hadn't been in Rome to give him the final shove myself. 'It'll be lovely to have Marilla here,' perilla said. 'To be a family at last.' 'Yeah. Yeah, it will.' I'd caught the tone, and it still wrenched at my gut, even after years of marriage: Perilla needed Marilla as much as she needed Perilla. It isn't easy, knowing you can't have kids of your own, and the princess was all right. I took a swallow of wine, braced myself, and picked up the letter again. Incidentally, Marcus [Mother wrote], I have a favour to ask. Rather an unusual one. Before we left, Titus learned of a certain statue which has come up for sale and which the poor lamb is simply desperate to add to his collection. He's written his own letter which I've enclosed, so I won't go into details here, and he's also provided a note for delivery to Simon. [Simon was our local banker. Priscus dealt with his brother in Rome.] I know very little about the piece myself, but from what Titus says it really is rather special, and he'll be terribly disappointed if he doesn't get it; so do try your very best for us, my dear, because I was hoping to lure the old buffer down to the fleshpots after he's done his wretched tombs, and the last thing I want is for him to be sulking all through the holiday. Goodness knows fleshpots are no fun at all when Titus is in one of his moods, and after Caere I often find I need a break. Oh, and speaking of fleshpots I don't know if you ever met Catullina Gemella... There followed a good half-page of prime Roman gossip. Jupiter! Eat your heart out, Tullius Cicero! Maybe I should keep Mother's correspondence to hand down to posterity as an epistolary antidote. As well as a culinary curiosity. I sighed and reached for the wine. 'Meton says dinner is ready, sir.' Our major-domo Bathyllus had oiled in on my blind side, bald scalp gleaming like Hector's helmet. 'Namely?' 'Apple and calf's brain casserole, tripe in a honey-ginger sauce and a fennel pottage.' 'Great.' Thank the gods for good, plain seaweed-free cooking. 'We'll be through in a minute, little guy. Once I've finished my pre-dinner drink.' Bathyllus looked pointedly at the level in the jug, gave a sniff and padded out. Bastard. 'Did Vipsania have any other news, Marcus?' perilla said. 'Priscus wants me to agent for him. There's a statue he's got his eye on.' 'Really?' 'Yeah.' I sank a quarter-pint of Setinian. 'You'd think the guy would have enough junk already to last him without sending to Athens for more.' 'Everyone needs a hobby. And at least his is harmless.' I grinned. 'Unlike Catullina Gemella's.' 'Whose?' 'Never mind.' I reached for the second roll: Priscus's letter. Something fell out. I picked it up and glanced at it. 'Gods!' 'What's wrong?' Perilla got up quickly and came over to stand behind me. I was staring at the banker's draft. Harmless the old bugger's hobby might be, but it wasn't cheap, that was for sure. There were numbers there I didn't know existed outside a population census. ' You think the city council's hocking Phidias's Athene ?' I said. 'Don't be silly, Marcus.' Perilla bent down for a closer look. Her breath caught. 'Oh. Oh, I see what you mean.' I swallowed. Priscus might have a fair bit stashed away - apart from his tomb-bashing forays he lived pretty simply, and Mother had her own money - but he'd given Simon the authority to release the price of a villa on the Janiculan, with maybe a racing yacht thrown in. No ordinary statue would cost that much. No ordinary statue even came close. So what the hell was Priscus playing at? I opened the letter itself. Where Mother's writing sprawled across the page like the tracks of a drunken spider, Priscus's was tiny enough to give a literate ant migraine. The guy might be willing to spend several millions on a bronze wrestler or a hunk of Parian that some big-name Greek had restructured with a chisel four hundred years back, but he could squeeze more words into a square foot of paper than anyone else I knew. Titus Helvius Priscus gives greetings to his stepson Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus. Vipsania will have mentioned the Baker statue to you, Marcus. Tremendously exciting, and certainly, assuming it's genuine, the antiquarian find of the century. If I can acquire it I shall die a happy man. Naturally the price, great as it is, represents only a fraction of the piece's true worth, and as you'll readily appreciate I pay it gladly. I took another mouthful of wine. 'Readily appreciate', hell! Jupiter, I'd never understand antiquarians, not if I lived to be ninety. Personally if I ever lost what few marbles I'd got and splashed out the price of a villa on a statue I'd be happy if my nearest and dearest didn't poison my gruel. 'Corvinus, hold still, please,' Perilla murmured. 'How do you expect me to read if you keep jiggling about like that?' 'Sorry, lady.' I straightened the letter and read on: I will not insult you by describing the Baker to you, since you will of course know of it already. Yeah, sure I did; I carried a run-down of every work of art from Achilles' shield to the Wart's latest portrait in my head. Describing them in painstaking detail was my favourite trick at parties. The obvious stumbling blocks are authenticity and provenance. My historian friends are divided over when the statue actually disappeared from the Delphian treasury, but the terminus ante quem can be no later than one hundred and thirty years ago while the terminus post quem is the period of the Phocian depredations of the Third Sacred War, dating back some two hundred and fifty years before that; consequently... Shit. Priscus wrote even worse than he talked, and rereading didn't help much either. My head was spinning. I'd swear that half of this stuff wasn't even Latin. 'Hey, Perilla,' I said over my shoulder, 'just skim through this and explain it to me in words of one syllable, would you?' But she wasn't behind me any longer. I looked round just in time to see her disappearing through the door in the direction of the dining-room. Yeah, well, Priscus off and running with the antiquarian bit between his teeth versus apple and calf's brain casserole on an empty stomach is no contest. I tossed the letter on to the side table, poured the last of the Setinian into my cup and followed her in the direction of the feed bag. She wasn't in the dining-room either. Odd. Bathyllus was doing complex things with tableware. 'Uh...you seen the mistress?' I asked him. 'I understand she's gone to her study for a book, sir.' The little guy had on his prim put-upon look. Or maybe it was just his hernia playing up again. 'Should I serve dinner now or would you like another pre-dinner jug while we're waiting?' That's what I like about Bathyllus: when he wants to be sarcastic his touch is feather light. Still, he had a point. I was mildly peeved with Perilla myself. My one inflexible rule is no reading at the table; literature plays hell with good conversation, not to mention giving me heartburn. 'No, go ahead.' I stretched out on the couch and held out my hands for the slave to pour water over them. 'She'll be down again in a minute.' A sniff. 'Very well, sir.' She wasn't; in fact, the starters were already off and running when she came back. Sure enough, she was carrying a book-roll. 'Marcus, I've found it,' she said. 'Oh, whoopee.' I patted the couch beside me. 'But just leave it alone until we've eaten, Archimedes. Okay?' Perilla ignored me. She lay down and held her hands out for the water, then patted them dry with a napkin and unrolled the book. 'The Baker statue was gifted to the Delphic oracle by Croesus of Lydia, six hundred years ago. Herodotus saw it at Delphi himself.' 'You don't say?' I tried to look unimpressed. Policy; give the lady an inch and she'll take a yard. 'Herodotus himself, eh? With his own little piggy eyes?' I passed her a fish pickle canapé. 'But you don't understand! Priscus is right. If the Baker's turned up it's incredible!' I sighed. 'Perilla, it's dinner-time, I'm hungry, and frankly I couldn't care less if Priscus's hunk of marble turns out to have the nosey old globetrotting bugger's name carved across its backside in cuneiform. Now shut up and let's eat.' 'Very well.' Perilla nibbled the canapé. 'I thought you'd be interested, though. The Baker wasn't marble. Nor was it bronze. It was solid gold, four and a half feet high.' The olive I was chewing went down the wrong way and I choked. Perilla reached over and pounded me on the back. 'You are interested, then?' she said. Jupiter in a bucket! 'Uh, Bathyllus?' I said when I could breathe again. 'Yes, sir?' 'There's a letter on the side table next door. Just bring it through, would you?' He left, and I turned back to Perilla. ' Solid gold?' She nodded. 'Solid as in "solid"?' Another nod. 'And four and a half feet ?' 'So Herodotus said, yes.' I sat back. Yeah. Well, maybe it was incredible after all. Not that Priscus would care a toss for the monetary value; it took a philistine like me to think of that aspect. And it explained the price. Even melted down four and a half feet of solid gold is a lot of gravy. 'Okay,' I said. 'You have my undivided attention. You happen to know why this thing went missing?' 'No. But if it's reappeared, then as Priscus says it's a major find. If Melanthus confirms its authenticity, naturally.' 'And who the hell is Melanthus?' 'Marcus, didn't you read what Priscus wrote?' 'Not from beginning to end, no. I gave up when my brain started to hurt.' 'What brain?' 'Now listen, lady..!' Someone coughed: our bald-headed major-domo, mission fulfilled, complete with Priscus's letter. I grabbed it and unrolled. This time I skipped the lumpy stuff. I have asked a correspondent of mine at the Academy, one Melanthus of Abdera, if he would be kind enough to cast a professional eye over the statue before, Marcus, you conclude the financial formalities on my behalf. Shit. That was all I needed. You can't move in Athens without tripping over some parboiled egghead philosopher, and the ones at the Academy are the pick of the clutch. I was getting bad feelings about this business already, find of the century or not. I carried on reading. Melanthus is an expert on Eastern art, and you may trust to his judgment implicitly; also, naturally, Argaius understands that any sale will depend on his approval. He'd lost me again. I checked above for Argaius and found him three paragraphs back. He was the seller, and according to Priscus he had an import-export business near the Serangeion. I frowned. I knew the Serangeion, in the run-down Piraeus docklands area between Zea and Mounychia harbours, and it wasn't a good address for a reputable art dealer. Certainly not one who dealt in solid gold statues with star billing in Herodotus. Something stank worse than the Tiber in midsummer, and it wasn't Meton's fish pickle canapés, either. I looked up. Perilla was helping herself to the fennel pottage. 'It all sounds absolutely fascinating, doesn't it, Marcus?' she said. Perilla never ceases to amaze me. She was serious. She was actually serious. I hated to burst the bubble, but it had to be done. 'It all sounds absolutely suspect, lady,' I said. 'Either we're talking black market here or Priscus is being sold a pup. I don't know about you, but personally I'd go for the second option.' The spoon paused in mid-dollop. 'You think so?' I sighed. 'Perilla, anyone with a business near the Serangeion knows more about faking ancient statues than a dog knows how to scratch. It's a con, believe me.' 'But that's terrible!' She looked stricken. 'It's the way the world works. The best favour I can do Priscus is to write back telling him to forget the whole thing, buy a hack team at the Racetrack and lose his money sensibly.' 'He'd never believe you.' Well, she had a point there. I held out my plate for the tripe. I knew Priscus, and from the tone of his letter the guy had stars in his eyes. If I wrote back to say he'd be better throwing his cash down the nearest manhole or blowing it on wild women and fancy booze he'd ignore me and get himself another agent by return. At least I was family. And there was just an outside chance that this was on the level. The odds in favour were about the same as I'd put on a herd of flying pigs being spotted over the Acropolis, mind, but still... 'Marcus?' I blinked. 'Yeah. That's me.' 'You really think this is a swindle?' 'If it isn't, lady, then I'm a eunuch priest of Attis.' 'But Melanthus -' 'Perilla, I wouldn't trust one of these Academy bubbleheads to authenticate his own grandmother. They're a con artist's dream. Most of them don't have the sense to come in out of the rain, let alone spot a competent fake.' She was silent a moment. Then she sighed. 'Well, I suppose it does sound rather too good to be true,' she said. 'So. What can we do?' 'Go through the motions. At least until the dickering stage. After all, it can't hurt to give it a try, can it?' Like hell it couldn't. But then, I didn't know that yet. [/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=""] (SEJANUS is the 3rd of the Marcus Corvinus series) 'Well, young man, I'm dead and burned at last, or you wouldn't be reading this. Let me say first that I have no regrets, either about being dead or for having removed so many of my collateral relatives before their proper hours. I acted for the good of Rome. Which brings me to the point of this letter. Aelius Sejanus. We talked a little about him the last time we met. Again the fact that you are reading this shows that the time for talk is past. The man is a malignant growth, a danger to Rome, and he must be removed. No; I dislike euphemisms: Sejanus must be killed. Empress Livia's extraordinary instruction from beyond the grave comes as something of a relief to Marcus Corvinus: life as a voluntary exile is too dull for the amiable Roman, and the chance to engage in more amateur sleuthing is irresistible - despite the obvious dangers [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="Sejanus - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] The smoke from Dad's pyre gusted among the tombs, plain, ordinary woodsmoke, with no spices or perfume to mask the more unpleasant smells. His idea, not mine, and specified in his will: Tiberius disapproved of extravagant funerals, and the old trimmer Messalinus had toed a politically correct line to the last. Specks of soot blew into my eyes, and I wiped them away. After so long in Athens I'd forgotten how windy Rome could be. Beside me, Perilla touched my hand. 'Marcus?' She said. 'Are you all right?' 'Sure.' I watched as the logs shifted. The fire was at its hottest, and I couldn't see the bier any more; he wouldn't last long at this rate. 'Why shouldn't I be?' 'No reason.' Her fingers wrapped round mine as we watched the flames together. 'I was just checking.' It had been a good funeral; the old guy would've been pleased that even for a consular he'd rated such a healthy turnout, and I was glad his senatorial cronies had done him proud at the finish. Both consuls had come, Memmius Regulus and Fulcinius Trio. Trio was ignoring me. That came as no surprise. The last time we'd seen each other I'd accused him to his face of treason, and he'd never forgiven me because it'd been the truth, Also conspicuous by his presence was Trio's boss, the imperial rep Aelius Sejanus. An honour, maybe, but one I could do without, and one that Dad, to give him his due, wouldn't've wanted either. When we'd shaken hands and he'd offered his condolences the cold sweat had broken out all down my spine. The last and only time I'd seen Sejanus had been ten years before in Phlebas's curio shop, where I'd been buying an incense burner for Mother's husband Priscus. Ten years may be a long time, but Sejanus was the reason I'd spent them in Greece, and I hadn't forgotten why even if he had. At least I hoped he had. A handshake at a funeral was as much contact with him as I wanted, deal with Livia or no deal with Livia. He was standing now a dozen yards off, his back to the flames, chatting to Trio and my Uncle Cotta. I was surprised he'd stayed so long now he was the Wart's de facto deputy and he had an empire to run, but maybe it was business. I didn't want to know about that, either. 'Marcus, dear, I don't think you've met Cosconia.' I turned. Mother had come up on my blind side. Even in her mourning and without jewellery she still looked good, and twenty years short of her real age. I felt Perilla's fingers tighten on mine as Dad's widow gave me a thin smile. We might not've met formally, but I'd seen Cosconia around. Like Mother, she was a looker; if nothing else Dad had had a good eye for women. Cosconia wouldn't stay single for long, that was sure. Female relatives of Sejanus - even distant ones like she was - tended to get snapped up as soon as they hit the market. 'Pleased to meet you, Cosconia.' Perilla's fingers left mine and she held out her hand. Cosconia took it smiling. 'I'm so sorry about Messalinus.' 'He didn't suffer much.' The widow's voice was brisk, and I found myself wondering if she'd started looking round for a replacement already. 'He wasn't conscious towards the end.' 'I wish Marcus and I had got back in time.' Perilla was smiling too. 'But there wasn't a ship.' 'It doesn't matter.' Cosconia gave me a quick glance. 'And I'm glad to have met you both finally after all this time. These family quarrels are such silly things, aren't they, Marcus?' 'Yeah,' I said. 'Yeah, I suppose they are.' I looked away, at the flames. Dad was gone by now, the fire was beginning to die down and the pyre was collapsing in on itself. People would be getting ready to call it a day and head for home and a cup of warm spiced wine. Some of the older ones, like Appianus who'd read the funeral speech, had left already, but there were still a few who looked like hanging on to the very end when the embers were doused and the bones cooled with wine and put in the urn. Sejanus for one, which was bad news. I wanted nothing from that bastard, least of all false sympathy. Over to my left - and well away from Sejanus - a white-haired old man was deep in conversation with a senator. He saw me looking and raised his hand. I frowned, trying to fit the name to the face. I knew him, sure, but not from Rome. Athens? Alexandria? Pergamum, maybe, or any of a dozen other places; Perilla and I had moved around a lot these past few years. Whoever he was I had the feeling the acquaintance hadn't been all that pleasant. 'Marcus!' Perilla's elbow dug me in the ribs. I turned back. She was looking frosty as hell. Mother, too. 'Cosconia's lips had tightened into a line. 'No, don't bother, Perilla,' she said. 'I only wanted to introduce myself properly and welcome you home. Another time, perhaps, if and when Marcus has more liberty for conversation.' She walked off unsmiling before I had a chance to apologise and explain. 'Oh, shit,' I murmured. 'Marcus, I am ashamed of you!' I'd never seen Mother so angry. 'Your behaviour was abominable! And that is no sort of language for a funeral!' She was right, of course. I knew that without being told, even though I hadn't meant to offend anyone. Still, Mother ought to have known better than spring Dad's second wife on me without warning and expect light social chit-chat. 'Uh, yeah,' I said. The white-haired guy was looking at me again. I still couldn't place him, and it worried me. 'Yeah, I'm sorry. Excuse me, will you?' ' Marcus! ' Perilla snapped. I ignored her and moved towards him. Sejanus peeled himself away from Trio and Cotta like bark from an elm branch and stepped into my path. 'Bought any good bronze ducks recently, Corvinus?' he said. So he did remember. 'It was a goose,' I said. 'Etruscan.' 'Really?' His eyes measured me. 'I thought it was a duck. That's right, Trio, isn't it?' The consul had joined us, smiling the doughy smile I remembered from other days. Cotta had made himself scarce. That shifty old chancer can scent trouble a mile off. 'A duck it was.' Trio was fingering the broad purple stripe on his expensive mantle. That had come since my day; when I'd seen him last he'd been a lightweight narrow-striper on the make. He'd risen high since then, if you can call it rising. 'A dead one.' He gave me a sour nod. 'How are you these days, Corvinus? Doing well, are we?' I didn't answer. Sejanus laughed. His eyes hadn't left my face. 'A pity you never took me up on my offer,' he said. 'You'd've done much better working for me than...' He paused. 'Just what are you doing at present, exactly?' 'Oh, this and that.' I remembered Dad asking me the same question at Priscus's birthday party. The one I'd brought the Etruscan goose to. I'd given him the same answer, and for the same reasons. 'I'm not a politician, Sejanus. As you know.' 'Who could be, in Athens? It's the world's backside.' He was studying me carefully. 'I'm speaking politically, of course.' 'Yeah. Sure.' I was shaking, and trying hard to hide it. He was being friendly enough once you'd made allowance, but he still made my skin crawl and I had to admit that he terrified me. It wasn't the power, although Sejanus had more of that than anyone in Rome, probably more than the Wart himself these days, in real terms; it was just who he was. 'We're happy enough there, Perilla and me.' 'Oh, yes. Your wife. You must introduce us.' He looked across at Perilla, but she was still talking to Mother and Cosconia, who'd rejoined them now the grouchy stepson had made himself scarce. The three of them were probably raking over my roasted giblets. If that isn't an unfortunate phrase at a funeral. 'Yes, I must do that,' I said. 'At some stage.' Whether he had the high on me or not, I wasn't letting the bastard within a mile of Perilla if I could help it, no way. 'Perilla likes the academic atmosphere there. Me, well, the wine's not bad. And as you say it's peaceful.' 'But hardly the place for a Roman.' Sejanus's smile hadn't shifted. 'Or have you decided that being a Roman is outwith your capacities?' Trio sniggered. I shrugged and turned away. The guy meant to needle me, obviously, but if he thought he could make me lose my temper in public that was one satisfaction I didn't intend giving him. He laid a hand on my arm and gently pulled me back. 'You're staying here long?' he said. 'No.' I looked past him. The old man with the white hair was still talking to his friend, who I did recognise: Lucius Arruntius, one of the Senate's leading lights. A straight guy, as that mealy-mouthed crew went, but getting on now as were most of the people at Dad's funeral. 'No, not very long. A month or two at most.' He nodded. 'Good. Rome's no place for slackers.' Another measuring pause. 'Or for fools. Not now.' 'It takes all kinds.' My fist itched to smash itself into his gut. I buried it in the fold of my mantle. Another nod, a satisfied one this time; whatever I'd said Sejanus seemed to have got what he wanted. I remembered the old empress's words, the last time I'd seen her: You're beneath his notice, Corvinus. Killing you wouldn't be worth either the trouble or the risk. Not very flattering, but true enough. I meant to keep it that way. Sejanus let go of my arm. 'Well, pleasant as this is,' he said, 'I must be off. Affairs of state call, even though I am simply a private citizen nowadays.' He smiled at Trio, who smiled back. Until the beginning of the month Sejanus had been co-consul with the Wart. When Tiberius had given up his cosulship he had done the same; a prelude, so rumour went, to even greater honours. 'It's a little late to change your mind, but there might still be something for you. If you ask nicely.' My fist was clenched so hard now the nails were cutting into my palm. I didn't trust myself enough to say anything, but it seemed an answer wasn't required. Sejanus gave me a bright smile and a wave, then walked with Trio towards the consul's waiting guard of axemen. I was still glaring after them when someone spoke. 'You don't recognise me, Corvinus.' It was the white-haired guy. He put out a trembling hand. 'Aelius Lamia.' I hesitated, then took the hand and shook it. I remembered him now, sure I did, but remembering I wasn't surprised I hadn't known him. The last time I'd seen Lamia was when he'd thrown me out of Syria for asking too many questions about the Wart's adopted son Germanicus Caesar. Then, he'd been a middle-aged man in his prime. Now something had eaten him up from the inside, and all that was left was the shell. 'How are you. Governor?' I said. 'Well enough.' The skull grinned. 'My condolences. Your father was a splendid man. Splendid.' No reference to Syria, but then I wouldn't've expected it. Even when he was chewing my balls off Lamia had been the perfect diplomat. 'You know Lucius Arruntius?' 'No. At least, we've never met formally.' We shook hands. Arruntius would be about Lamia's age, I'd guess, but he looked a dozen years younger and good for a dozen or two more. I'd give Lamia twelve months at the outside. 'You're here for long?' Arruntius asked. The same question as Sejanus's, and with the same edge. Maybe coincidence, but the hair on my neck still bristled. 'Just a visit,' I said. 'Rome doesn't suit me any more.' 'The place or the climate?' I was cautious. 'I miss the Subura, sure. And the smell of the Tiber. Other things.' 'But not the politics?' Sejanus's question again. I was beginning to get bad feelings about this, especially the way they were looking at me. Like lepidopterists deciding where to shove the pin. 'Politics doesn't interest me,' I said. I glanced over to where Dad's pyre was sinking into a pile of glowing ashes. 'I haven't even notched up a junior magistracy.' 'So I hear.' Arruntius dropped his voice. 'Yet you were exiled.' 'I was never exiled. Formally or informally.' This was familiar ground. I'd been over it a dozen times in the last ten years until I had the answer off pat; so pat that I'd begun to believe it myself. 'Choose to live outside Italy if you come from one of the top families and you're automatically in exile, voluntarily or otherwise. Finish, end of story. That's the way the Roman mind works; only crooks and disgraced politicians live abroad from choice. I'm no crook, sir, and my reasons had nothing to do with politics.' Arruntius smiled. Then he said quietly: 'Come now, young man, of course they did. That's why we need to talk.' Uh-huh. Coincidence nothing; this was a proposition if I'd ever heard one. The old guys were still looking at me like I was some sort of pickled specimen, and I knew I should just walk away from them, collect Perilla and make a run for Puteoli and the first ship out. Wherever it was headed. Lamia's hand was on my arm, and he moved me further out of earshot. Not that there were many people left to overhear. The crowd was thinning fast. 'Corvinus,' he said, 'matters have reached a crisis. You may or may not know that Tiberius is on the point of naming Aelius Sejanus formally as his successor.' 'Is that right, now?' I tried to keep my voice level. Confidences like this I could do without. 'That is right.' Evidently my tone hadn't fazed him. 'Since you claim to have no interest in politics it may not concern you overmuch. On the other hand, knowing the man as you do you may share our opinion that his nomination would be a disaster for Rome.' Yeah. No prizes for what was coming next. I could've scripted it myself. And I'd bet good money the 'our' didn't mean just him and Arruntius; it smelled of broad purple stripes. 'Governor,' I said wearily, 'I've met the guy exactly twice, once ten years ago and once today. Neither meeting lasted above five minutes. That's hardly time for a valid assessment. And as far as his being bad for Rome is concerned the emperor obviously thinks otherwise. Or are you calling Tiberius a fool?' 'Personal acquaintance isn't the issue. And as you know, Tiberius is not in full possession of the facts.' 'Oh, really?' 'Corvinus, don't play games!' Lamia snapped. Either he had a lot less patience than when he'd been running one of the empire's top provinces or he was more keyed up than he appeared. 'You're too old for that now, an I certainly am. Ten years ago you were involved in an investigation which it was my duty as the emperor's representative to impede. I wasn't in full possession of the facts then myself, I don't claim to be now and I have no wish to be; however, I suspect they proved that while Sejanus was acting with the emperor's mandate he was also engaged in secret activities of which Tiberius was unaware, and which he would certainly have viewed as dubious.' 'Dubious', hell: the bastard had been committing treason, only not the kind he could be easily nailed for. Even so, I didn't see why I should make Lamia's job any easier. Let alone agree to what he obviously wanted from me. 'Like you said, Governor, that was ten years ago.' I turned away briefly. Perilla was still talking to Mother and Cosconia, but she shot a glance in my direction. She looked anxious. You and me both, lady, I thought. I turned back to Lamia. 'Maybe you're right. Maybe I am too old now to play games. Especially dangerous ones involving Aelius Sejanus.' Arruntius had been hanging back like a Greek chorus, letting the governor take centre stage. Now he moved closer and took hold of my wrist. He had strong, blunt fingers like a wrestler's. 'We were hoping that you might agree to resume that investigation now, Corvinus,' he said softly, 'so that Tiberius can be apprised of the true situation and change his mind. Before it's too late.' There it was. Masks down. We stared at one another, and it may've been my imagination but Lamia didn't look any happier than I felt. Well, at least he'd put out the right signals in advance, and Livia had warned me this would happen one day. I'd always wondered, if and when the time came, which way I'd jump. The snag was that I still didn't know. 'So you want someone to dig the dirt on Aelius Sejanus and hand it over in a nice neat package to the Wart?' I said. Neither of them answered. 'Why me?' 'We've been over that,' Lamia grunted. 'You have a head start, Corvinus. And you have the temperament for it. Uniquely so.' Well, flattery would get him nowhere. If it was flattery. 'I'm still surprised you need me, Lamia,' I said. 'You're the bastard's cousin, after all.' I regretted the words even before his bony face turned red with anger: I'd never believed even at the time that Lamia was in Sejanus's pay, and I didn't believe it now. But it was a fair point, and it needed making. 'We didn't expect immediate agreement,' Arruntius said quickly. 'Let alone trust. Think it over first before you give us your answer. But remember that in asking for your help we don't ask lightly.' Yeah, that I'd believe. I knew that 'we', I'd heard it all my life from Dad: the patriotic plural comes second nature to broad-stripers, despite the fact that they're the most disunited bunch of self-servers you'd never hope to meet. So. Rome's Senate wanted the upstart Sejanus pegged out for the crows.No surprises there, but I was surprised that Arruntius had agreed to do their asking for them. If he had clout - and he had it in spades - it was because he wasn't one of the gang. Of the three men Augustus once said could run the empire Arruntius was the only one the cunning old bugger had no reservations about. That sort of recommendation doesn't come cheap. I turned away again; not towards Perilla this time but in the direction of Dad's pyre. It was mostly ash now, with a few glowing embers and a scattering of charred logs at the edges. Time, soon, for the wine and the picking over of the bones. When we burned him, I'd once said, we'd find a poker with the words Property of the Senate and People of Rome written on it. I was sorry for that now; he hadn't deserved it, or not the way I'd meant it at the time. No, there'd be no poker. But a good part of the old guy had been Rome's after all. 'Oh, one more thing, Corvinus.' Arruntius was reaching into the fold of his mantle. He brought out a sealed letter. 'I was instructed to give you this. I don't know the contents, but I suspect they may be relevant, and they may help you decide.' I took the letter and turned it over in my hands to read the spidery superscription: 'For Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus. Personal, to be delivered at the proper time.' No signature, but I recognised the handwriting. Sure I did. I could even smell the camphor. Livia never let go, did she? Not even when she was two years dead. [/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=""] (Germanicus is the 2nd of the Marcus Corvinus series) 'I swear,' Livia said slowly, 'by all the gods above and below, by my hope of escaping torment in the next world for the murders I have committed in this and by my hope for my own eventual deification, that I was neither directly nor indirectly responsible for the death of my grandson Germanicus Caesar. There. Close your mouth now, please, Corvinus, you look ridiculous.' My head was spinning. 'You mind explaining why, now?' I said. Why the oath? Or why I brought you here in the first place?' 'Both, Excellency.' 'Oh, Corvinus! You disappoint me! Of course, now you know that I wasn't responsible for Germanicus's death I want you to find out who was.' The last thing Corvinus wants is to be involved once more with the diabolical machinations of the Empress Livia: she's as trustworthy as a snake with a migraine. But Livia has a way of asking favours that is impossible to refuse, and besides, Corvinus has been missing the little tingle at the nape of his neck that accompanies his amateur detective work... [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="Germanicus - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] So there I was, joy of joys unlooked for, back at the palace for another private talk with the empress. Hermes, the messenger-ape who led me through the maze of corridors to her office, hadn't changed in the eighteen months since I'd seen him last; not even his underwear, judging by the mouldy cheese smell that drifted back and up my nostrils. I didn't make any smartass comments, mind; there're some things even I won't risk, and sassing palace slaves is one of them. Besides, you don't cross gorillas. Not when they can lead you up dark dead-ends where they can work their evil will in peace and shove your head where you won't find it until the next census. The secretary in the lemon tunic behind the desk hadn't changed either. He gave me a look like I'd stepped in dog puke somewhere along the way and the fact was still painfully obvious, then carried on tidying his already immaculate nails with a slip of pumice, waiting for an introduction. The gorilla spoke. 'Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus, to see Her Excellency the Empress.' Amazing what you can teach these things, with patience and a bit of fruit. The secretary never batted an elegant eyelash. He consulted his appointments list and made a firm tick. 'You're late, Corvinus,' he said. 'Yeah, well, I...' 'Never mind. We're here now, and that's all that matters, isn't it?' He stood up with a flash of insincere teeth and a whiff of hair oil. 'Her Excellency will see you immediately. That's all, Hermes.' The ape nodded and loped off without a backward glance. Feeding time at the canteen, no doubt. 'This way, sir.' The secretary knocked gently on the double doors, pushed them open and stepped aside. I recognised the smell at once. Camphor. It brought me out in a sweat. After the last time I'd been in this room I'd sworn never to let Bathyllus buy another mothball again. Old age, old crimes. Livia. She was sitting behind her desk, as if she'd never moved. The same lifeless cosmetic mask, the same dead eyes. I wiped my sweaty hands on my mantle. 'Come in, Corvinus,' she said. 'How nice to see you again. Do have a seat.' I pulled up the ancient Egyptian chair. That was familiar, too. 'Your Excellency.' Her dead eyes focused behind my left shoulder. 'Make absolutely sure that we're not disturbed,' she said. 'Yes, Excellency,' the secretary murmured. I heard the doors close with a solid thunk and tried not to think of tombs. Shit. She might at least have told the guy to bring us some wine. I could've murdered a cup of Setinian. The eyes swung back to me. 'And how is the lovely Rufia Perilla?' The mask cracked and I realised that Livia was smiling. Or trying to. 'Well, I hope?' 'Uh, she's okay, Excellency.' 'No problems with the divorce or the wedding?' 'No.' My palms were sweating again. I wiped them surreptitiously. 'That's good. I'm glad I was able to help there. Her ex-husband Suillius Rufus really was quite unsuitable. He's still serving in Syria, as I understand?' 'Yeah. He commands the Third Gallic.' I crossed my legs, leaned back and tried to look calm. The chair creaked dangerously... [/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=""] (OVID is the 1st of the Marcus Corvinus series) 'So tell me.' I was getting pretty angry myself now. I'd had a long hard day and I wasn't taking this crap from anyone. 'You just tell me, Dad. Tell me why the emperor hates a dead poet so much he won't allow his ashes back to Rome. Tell me why when I ask questions about a scandal so old that you can't even smell it any more everyone keeps his mouth shut closer than a Vestal's kneecaps. Tell me why I nearly end up in the Tiber with my throat cut...' Such are the frustrated words of Marcus Corvinus, a young man who likes to have a good time and enjoys wine, women and laughter far more than a hard day's work. He also happens to be the grandson of the Roman poet Ovid's former patron. So when Ovid's stepdaughter, the luscious Rufia Perilla, begs him to recover the poet's ashes and bring them back to Rome, how can Marcus refuse? Not that the task turns out to be easy: official permission is abruptly denied. And as Marcus starts asking questions in the higher echelons of Roman society he finds himself drawn deeper and deeper into a web of secrecy, treachery and deceit. [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="Ovid - Background to the Book" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] Ovid was the first Corvinus book. After I Virgil (which isn’t historical crime but should’ve been) what I wanted to do was ‘solve’ a historical mystery, plausibly and keeping firmly within the framework of the historical facts, neither altering nor inventing. I wanted, too, to use real people as far as possible. Corvinus and Perilla are (were) both real. Ovid’s chief patron was Marcus Valerius Corvinus, ‘my’ Corvinus’s grandfather; Perilla was Ovid’s stepdaughter, mentioned in the poems. By Roman convention, a request to the emperor – in this case for the return of the poet’s bones for burial – would go through the patron, so this gave me both the start of the story and my two main characters. Great. Perfect… Only it wasn’t, because Corvinus as a stodgy Roman patron wouldn’t come alive for me, and as any writer will tell you if your characters are to work they have to have a voice of their own, independent of yours. It took me three days not to write the first chapter. On the fourth day I was sitting in front of my computer with a glass of red wine. I took a mouthful of it and slumped … And Corvinus started talking. I don’t know if, when he writes, a writer puts the character on like a glove or vice versa – perhaps a bit of both – but that’s what happened, and it’s essential that it does. Corvinus, it turned out, didn’t fit my picture of him at all. He was very young (he’s 19 in Ovid , much younger than the ‘real’ Marcus Corvinus, who was consul in the following year, AD20), immature, cocky, self-centred and opinionated; a laid-back, spoilt, over privileged Roman lad-about-town who didn’t think much beyond that night’s partying. On the plus side, he was good-hearted, generous, well-meaning, more sensitive than he gave himself credit for or was willing to admit to himself, and – most important of all – he had a very strong sense of justice and a streak of hard determination a yard wide… He carried on talking, and the book virtually wrote itself. Fortunately – touch wood! – he still does. I can’t, at book launches etc, read Corvinus aloud: he’s not me, and although I can hear him I can’t speak him. Perilla, incidentally, isn’t my wife Rona, either: I don’t know who she is, except for herself, and in that sense she’s just as real as Corvinus. I’d find it very difficult to put ‘real’ people into my books, simply because they are real, and so have an existence outside my head. I hope you enjoy Ovid . It has its faults and shortcomings, certainly – I’ve never yet written a book which, later, after publication, I haven’t wanted desperately to go back and edit – but it was fun to write, and, I hope, will be fun to read. David Wishart [/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 the ex-praetor husband of a friend of Claudius’s mother-in-law is found murdered on his estate near Carthage the emperor sends Corvinus out; only to discover, when he arrives, that none of the dead man’s family seem to care swhether he solves the crime or not [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="Going Back - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] It’s not often that you get an invitation to dinner at the palace; me, I’d only ever had the one, and the result had been a tad too memorable for comfort. That, of course, had been when Gaius had had the top job, and although on the whole I’d got on pretty well with our ex-lord and master there’s no denying that the bastard was mad, bad and dangerous to know, and that he deserved everything he got. Claudius was a different kettle of fish altogether; at least you could be certain that when you turned up in your glad-rags with your party slippers under your arm he wouldn’t be got up like a brothel tart or Jupiter God Almighty complete with gold-wire beard and matching toy thunderbolt; our Gaius had had style, sure, no argument, but you can take that sort of thing too far. With Claudius, the worst you could expect was a lecture on Etruscan marriage customs and a detailed explanation of why the alphabet could really, really do with a few extra letters. Bad enough in its own way, admitted, but nothing compared with what I’d had to put up with over the years at dinners with my mother and stepfather. Besides, palace invites being what they are the chances of us being within even shouting range of the top table were well inside of the flying pigs category. So anyway there we were, Perilla and me, dolled up to the nines and being ushered into one of the smaller dining rooms by an impeccably-dressed flunkey. Which was the first big surprise of the evening. These affairs are usually choreographed to a nicety, and the preliminary stage involves being shown into a reception room to fraternise with your few dozen or so fellow-guests, get as much wine down you as you can for the purpose of anaesthesia, and check the seating plan to see who you’ll be stuck with – and who’ll be stuck with you – for the next two or three hours... Only this time it wasn’t like that at all. Forget the ‘few dozen’; we didn’t even make up the obligatory quorum of nine. There were just us two and the lad himself plus his wife Valeria Messalina, who was lying next to him and grinning at me like the cat that got the tame sparrow. Bugger. I stopped. ‘Ah, C-Corvinus, you’ve arrived!’ Claudius beamed at me. ‘And Perilla, my dear! Don’t stand on ceremony, please! Come in, lie down, make yourself at home.’ He turned to the hovering major-domo. ‘Trupho, a cup of wine for Valerius Corvinus. Juice for you, Perilla? It’s pomegranate, Messalina’s favourite, but we can change that if you like.’ ‘Pomegranate is fine, Caesar.’ Perilla smiled at him and stretched out on the couch next to me. ‘How are you?’ ‘Fair to middling. Busy as always, you know how it is. No time for writing, I’m afraid.’ He held out his own cup for a refill. ‘I’m delighted you could come, and Messalina has really been looking forward to it. Haven’t you, love?’ That got me the cat’s grin again. A shiver went down my spine. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Corvinus and I are old friends. Aren’t we, Marcus?’ Not exactly how I would’ve put it, but she knew that damn well already. Still, the niceties had to be observed. ‘Yeah,’ I said. I took the cup that the slave handed me and sipped. Imperial Caecuban, no less. At least the evening would have some high spots. ‘Yeah, we are.’ ‘You look surprised, my dear fellow.’ Claudius took a hefty swallow from his refilled cup: from the looks of him, I’d reckon he was at least half a jug ahead of the game already, but then our latest emperor always had been the drinker’s drinker. ‘Don’t be. I t-told you the last time we met that I’d have the two of you round for dinner en famille when you got back from Gaul; I’m just sorry it’s t-taken so long. And Messalina insisted that we make it a surprise. Didn’t you, darling?’ He kissed her unresponsive cheek. ‘The little schemer.’ Well, where that bitch was concerned I couldn’t quarrel with the nomenclature. Although I wouldn’t’ve added the ‘little’, myself. ‘Mind you, I’m afraid I have to confess that I do have an ulterior motive.’ Hell’s teeth. This didn’t sound good; not good at all. ‘And what would that be, sir?’ I said cautiously. ‘Oh, tush, tush! Don’t be so formal. There are just the f-four of us here. “Caesar” will be quite sufficient. And there’s no hurry, the thing can wait its turn. We’ll discuss it over the dessert.’ He turned back to the major-domo. ‘Tell the chef we’re ready to eat now, will you? There’s a good lad.’ Uh-huh; me, given the track record of our relationship up to now, I could make a fairly good guess as to what the ‘thing’ involved, at least in general terms. All the same, you didn’t twist the arm of the most powerful man in the world west of the Parthian border. I just hoped that this time round whatever he had in mind would involve somewhere closer to home than bloody Transalpine Gaul. However, we’d just have to possess ourselves with patience, and keep our fingers crossed. He did us proud as far as the meal was concerned, at any rate. Oh, sure, having Meton for our chef makes us pretty choosy eaters, but the standard of the dinner would’ve drawn a grunt of approval from even that surly, egotistical bugger, and that doesn’t happen all that often. The wine was top notch as well, naturally: imperial Caecuban is the best of the best, there was plenty on offer, and if I was going to be stuck with doing another little investigative favour for the bastard then I didn’t feel too guilty about making a sizeable hole in his current stock. Which I duly did. By the time the table was cleared and re-laid with the fruit and nuts, plus a good dozen more recherché dessert items, I was well on the way to being pleasantly stewed. ‘Now, Corvinus.’ Claudius reached over for a stuffed date. ‘This little private favour I wanted to ask of you. Ever hear of a chap by the name of Decimus Cestius?’ Here it came. I braced myself. ‘He’s been murdered, right?’ I said. ‘Or at least died in suspicious circumstances.’ Claudius blinked. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact he has,’ he said. ‘How on earth did you know that?’ ‘An educated guess, Caesar.’ Oh, bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger! Still, I couldn’t say it came as much of a surprise. I caught a faint snigger from Messalina. ‘So who was he?’ ‘One of the city judges fifteen or so years back, in my Uncle Tiberius’s time.’ A praetor, eh? Not quite the top of the political tree, then: his next step would’ve been the consulship, and if he hadn’t made it that far, or at least bagged a suffect consulship, in the last fifteen years then he must’ve been pretty much a political lightweight. Odd. ‘He was a personal friend of yours?’ I said. ‘No, I can’t say I ever met the man. But then fifteen years ago I wasn’t much involved with politics myself.’ True; until his sudden elevation after Gaius got his in the underpass Claudius had been pretty much kept under wraps by the imperial family. Still, it made his interest in the guy’s death that much the odder. ‘Then I don’t see why–’ ‘His wife is a close friend of my mother-in-law’s. She happened to mention it in her last letter, and Lepida asked me as a favour if I could look into things.’ Beside him Messalina shifted irritably and he turned to her. ‘Yes, dear, I know that for some reason the two of you don’t get on so well these days, but your mother is family after all. She has the right to ask, and I have a duty to do what I can for her.’ Uh-huh. ‘Don’t get on’ was putting it mildly; the two ladies hated each other’s guts. Oh, sure, the reason was more or less an open secret, known to everyone but Claudius, but I wasn’t going to take the top off of that particular can of worms, no way. Or even allude to it. Besides, it was none of my business. ‘Also, Cestius’s elder son is recently betrothed to one of Vettius Rufus’s girls. You know Rufus, Corvinus? The consular?’ ‘Uh-uh. Pass.’ ‘No, I don’t suppose you would, come to think of it. It doesn’t matter. But Rufus will want the business investigated too, and he’s quite a f-force in the senate.’ He smiled. ‘Politics again, I’m afraid. Still, that’s the job I’m in nowadays.’ ‘So when did this happen? The murder, I mean.’ ‘About a month ago.’ ‘A month? ’ ‘About that, yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So Lepida tells me, at any rate.’ I was beginning to get a nasty feeling about this. ‘Uh...and this happened in Rome, did it? Or at least close by?’ ‘Not exactly.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘My dear fellow, your wine cup’s empty.’ He signalled to the major-domo. ‘Trupho? More wine for Valerius Corvinus, please.’ ‘No, that’s okay, I’m fine for the present.’ I held my hand over the cup, and Trupho backed off. Oh, shit, here we went again! The nasty feeling was there in spades. ‘You care to tell me where, then?’ ‘Carthage.’ ‘ What? ’ ‘Cestius decided to retire there. Directly after his praetorship. I’m afraid he and my uncle – or at least my uncle’s representative in Rome at the time – didn’t see eye to eye about things.’ Well, fair enough; that’d been Aelius Sejanus, of course. We hadn’t been exactly bosom buddies ourselves, Sejanus and me, so I sympathised: Rome fifteen years before hadn’t been a very healthy place for senators. ‘Then, naturally, there was my predecessor with all his little idiosyncrasies, and–’ he shrugged. ‘Well, Cestius hasn’t been back since.’ Gods almighty! ‘You want me to go to Carthage? ’ I remembered myself and who I was talking to just in time. ‘Uh...that is–’ ‘If it isn’t too much t-trouble, yes. As my personal representative, of course, as you were on the last occasion. An imperial procurator.’ He held out his hand. Trupho took a folded document from his belt and gave it to him. ‘Fully accredited. I’ve, ah, taken the liberty of preparing your authorisation in advance.’ He passed it over. So. That was that, then, all done and dusted. Hell’s teeth. I didn’t even dare look at Perilla. Mind you, she’d seen the whole thing for herself so she couldn’t blame me for getting involved this time around. ‘It’s an interesting place, or so I’m told at least.’ Claudius lifted his own cup for the refill; now the terrible truth was out, he was obviously beginning to relax. Well, at least he’d had the decency to feel embarrassed; emperor or not, Claudius was a decent old stick at base. ‘Not that there’s anything left of the original city, of course – Scipio Aemilianus made damn sure of that – but it’s made great strides since the Divine Augustus’s day, and it’s quite prosperous. You’ll like it.’ ‘I’m sure I will, Caesar,’ I said, through only slightly-gritted teeth. I’d have to, wouldn’t I, because it seemed that I didn’t have much fucking choice in the matter. ‘Excellent. Good egg. That’s the spirit.’ He turned to Perilla, ‘You’ll want to tag along as well, my dear, like last time, yes? At least, I assumed you would. Unless you have other plans, of course.’ ‘No, Caesar, no other plans.’ She smiled and helped herself to one of the cinnamon and honey pastries. ‘Actually, I’d love to go.’ I breathed again. Yeah, well, she sounded sincere, at least, which was a good sign. You never knew with that lady, particularly where shoving your nose into inconvenient murders was concerned. Perilla could get quite intense on that score. ‘Jolly good, that’s settled, then. Don’t worry, I’ll make all the arrangements, let the governor know you’re coming and all that. Galba will see you’re properly taken care of when you get there, I’m sure.’ Oh, shit. ‘Uh...Galba?’ I said. ‘ Sulpicius Galba?’ ‘That’s the man. You know him?’ ‘We’ve met, yes. Quite a while ago, now.’ Eleven years, to be exact. Galba had been consul when one of the Vestals had been found dead at his house the morning after the rites of the Good Goddess and the chief Vestal had given me the job of finding out why. To say we hadn’t exactly hit it off was putting it mildly. I doubted if he would’ve forgotten me, either. Bugger. ‘Marvellous. You’ll have a lot of catching up to do, then. Meanwhile, I’m afraid as far as poor Cestius’s death goes I’ve told you all I know myself, but if you talk to Lepida I’m sure she’ll be able to fill in a bit more of the background. Now’ – he smiled – ‘you’ll be glad to know that that’s the business part of the evening concluded, and I must say I’m considerably relieved to get it over with. Between ourselves, my dear fellow, Domitia Lepida is not someone I’d care to disappoint. I’ll be glad to get the bloody woman off my back.’ Yeah, right. Mind you, I’d’ve been happier if the selfish bastard had managed it without involving me. But then that’s imperials for you. We were just lucky that this time around we had one in charge that could feel a smidgeon of guilt in the process. [/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=""] Bathyllus was standing with his back to me, and sitting on the bed was a seriously-unshaven late-middle-aged man in a grubby threadbare tunic. Bathyllus turned round, the guy got up, and they both stared at me, jaws dropping, like actors at the end of a play where the god is lowered from a crane to sort out a too-convoluted plot. ‘Hi, sunshine,’ I said to Bathyllus. ‘So who’s your friend?’ I’d never, ever seen Bathyllus lost for words before, but I saw it now. He swallowed a couple of times, coughed, and then said: ‘This is Damon, sir. He’s my brother.’ When Corvinus’s major-domo Bathyllus’s long-lost brother turns up in a Suburan tenement he is totally gobsmacked. And things don’t improve when he discovers that Brother Damon is a serial crook on the run whose owner and partner-in-crime has just died under very suspicious circumstances. Digging into the whys and wherefores brings its own dangers. Especially when the case turns political... The fact that his mother suspects her octogenarian husband Priscus of having an affair and wants him to look into the matter doesn’t help much, either. The nineteenth book in the Marcus Corvinus series. [/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][/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=""]June, AD42. The emperor Claudius himself has requested Corvinus’s help in investigating the murder of a Gallic wine merchant, stabbed to death as he was taking an afternoon nap in his summer-house at Lugdunum. Not especially happy at being despatched to Gaul, and even less enamoured of his enforced travelling companion, the insufferable Domitius Crinas, Corvinus is increasingly frustrated as it becomes clear that the dead man’s extended family and friends are hiding something from him. Unused to strange Gallic customs and facing an uphill struggle getting anyone to talk freely to a Roman, Corvinus is convinced that there’s more to this murder than meets the eye – but, a stranger in a strange land, how is he going to prove it...?[/fusion_text][fusion_modal_text_link name="chapter" class="" id=""]read the 1st chapter[/fusion_modal_text_link][fusion_modal name="chapter" title="Foreign Bodies - Chapter 1" size="large" background="" border_color="" show_footer="no" class="" id=""] The end of June can be pretty hot in Rome; plus, of course, at that time of year when old Father Tiber is stripped down to his metaphorical vest and underpants and there’s more mud to him at the edges than water the low-lying bits of the city are fairly unpleasant, odour-wise; which is why most people who can manage it up sticks and head for cooler and more salubrious parts. Me, I’m OK with the heat, and so long as you remember to breathe through your mouth when circumstances demand walking around is just this side of bearable. Perilla, now…well, on top of the temperature and olfactory aspects of big city life the lady’s always been the more outgoing member of the partnership, and between July and September when things begin to settle down again society’s thin on the ground. A good time, then, for touching base with the family – adopted daughter Marilla, her husband Clarus and the grand-sprog, young Marcus – at Castrimoenium in the Alban Hills. So that’s where we were off to bright and early the next morning, with all the arrangements made barring the finer details of the packing. That’s definitely Perilla’s department; me, while it’s happening I tend to lounge around on the atrium couch with half a jug of wine and let the lady and Bathyllus, our major-domo, get on with things between them. Which is what I was doing when Bathyllus himself oozed in to say that a slave had arrived with a message. ‘Is that so, now?’ I said. ‘Who from?’ ‘The emperor, sir.’ Wine splashed, and I sat up straight. ‘You what?’ ‘A personal request.’ Bathyllus’s nose had a distinctly elevated tilt to it, and it had nothing to do with the drains: our major-domo is the snob’s snob. ‘He would be grateful if you could drop by some time today, at your earliest opportunity.’ Uh-oh; this did not sound good. Oh, sure, Claudius was a different kettle of fish altogether to his predecessor – at least, unlike Loopy Gaius of not-so-fond memory, he had a full set of tiles on his roof (so far, anyway; give it time) and he was likeable enough in his own right – but impromptu invitations for a cosy imperial tète-á-tète weren’t exactly a regular occurrence in the Corvinus household. Not that I was complaining, mind; where mixing with the buggers at the top is concerned, I’ve always found that keeping your head well and truly below the parapet is the best way to make sure it stays attached to your neck. I set the now-empty wine cup down, reached for a napkin, and mopped my wrist. ‘He mention what it was about, at all?’ I said. ‘No, sir. But I imagine, from the wording of the message, that it is a matter of some urgency. I’ll fetch your best mantle, shall I?’ ‘Yeah. Yeah, you do that.’ I hate those things, particularly in the summer months when wearing one is like walking through a steam bath wrapped in a sixteen-foot barber’s towel, but turning up at the palace in a lounging-tunic wasn’t an option. Bathyllus exited, leaving me frowning: ‘a personal request’ and ‘at your earliest opportunity’ definitely boded. In spades. Still, I couldn’t very well tell the most powerful guy in the world to take a hike, now, could I? Damn. I stood up, just as Perilla came through from the direction of the stairs. ‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said, ‘but if you were planning to take that old tunic you laid out on the bed with us you can think again. I’ve already thrown it out twice, and –’ She paused. ‘What’s the matter?’ I told her. To give her her due, under the circumstances, the lady was distinctly unfazed; but then like I say Perilla’s the social animal in the household, and if she and Tiberius Claudius Caesar weren’t exactly long-standing bosom chums they’d at least had a nodding literary acquaintance before his elevation, and a summons to the palace didn’t have the effect on her that it would’ve had when Gaius was running things. Nowhere near. Puzzlement, at best. Plus, given that we were practically en route to the Alban Hills, the barest smidgeon of annoyance. ‘But what can he possibly want?’ she said. Bathyllus was back with the mantle. ‘Search me,’ I said, as he helped me on with it. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see. How do I look?’ I gathered up the last yard or so over my left arm in the obligatory fold. ‘Presentable?’ She regarded me critically. ‘More or less.’ Grudging as hell. ‘Come on!’ I said. ‘It’s the best I’ve got. You gave me it yourself at the Winter Festival, and it’s never been worn.’ ‘True, Marcus. But then it never ceases to amaze me how even in a new mantle you still manage to appear slightly disreputable.’ I grinned. ‘Call it a knack.’ ‘Then it’s one that you should not be particularly proud of. All right; make that “louche”, if you prefer. You’ll need the litter as well, of course.’ Bugger: swanning around in litters is another activity I can gladly do without. Still, she was absolutely right: turning up at the palace soaked with sweat and the accumulated mud and grime of a walk half way across Rome wasn’t an option. And at least the wine stain on the tunic was now decently hidden. I was just lucky she hadn’t spotted that and had me change completely. ‘Fair enough,’ I said. She came over and kissed me. ‘Have a nice time,’ she said. ‘And give my regards to Tiberius Claudius.’ I sent Bathyllus to roust out the litter guys. At least I couldn’t complain about being kept waiting. Under the new regime – well, Claudius had been emperor for a year and a half now, so maybe ‘new’ was pushing it a bit – the imperial admin system had gained an extra layer of unsightly fat, and arranging an appointment involved filling out forms in triplicate and smarming your way past an endless succession of snooty freedman clerks. Okay if you’ve got a few days to spare for twiddling your thumbs in antechambers, but frustrating as hell otherwise. However, right from the point that I gave my name to the hefty Praetorian on the door it was obvious that I was being given the full five-star VIP fast-lane treatment. The clerk detailed to look after me led me straight through the public offices, up the staircase to the private living quarters above and to the same richly-panelled door I’d been through eighteen months before, when I’d had my little chat with that bitch Messalina. I just hoped that she wasn’t in evidence this time around: cousin or not, emperor’s wife or not, that was a lady I wanted nothing whatsoever to do with that didn’t involve a ten-foot barge pole and an insulated pair of gloves. The clerk knocked, opened the door, and stepped aside. I went in. The room had been refurnished since Gaius’s day. Cosy enough, sure, if your idea of cosiness is a functioning office with a no-nonsense desk and wall-to-wall book cubbies. Nice collection of bronzes, mind, and considering where I was they’d all be originals. The man himself was sitting behind the desk, writing. The desk was piled with book-rolls, plus a wine jug and cups that looked like they were permanent fixtures. He looked up. ‘Ah, C-Corvinus! Delighted you could come so promptly,’ he said. ‘Have a seat, my dear fellow. I’ll be with you in just a moment. ’ Uh-huh; well, at least he sounded fairly affable, which was a good sign. Not that I felt particularly reassured, mind. The clerk who’d brought me bowed and went out, closing the door behind him. I pulled up a chair that was as old as the bronzes and probably just as expensive and sat down while he finished what he was doing and laid the pen aside. ‘You and your wife Rufia Perilla are well?’ ‘Yes, Caesar,’ I said cautiously. ‘We’re both fine. Perilla sends her regards.’ ‘That’s excellent. A cup of wine? It’s not too early for you?’ ‘No. Not at all. That’d be great, thank you. ’ Damn right it would; I wasn’t going to pass up what would no doubt be the best imperial Caecuban. One of Claudius’s good points – or good in my view anyway – was that he liked a cup or three of wine as much as I did. Besides, I suspected that I was going to need it. ‘Thank you.’ He poured and filled his own cup to the brim. I took a sip. Nectar, pure nectar! ‘Now. To business. You’re w-wondering, no doubt, why I asked you to come and see me.’ ‘Uh…yeah. Yes, sir, I am.’ ‘Perfectly natural. I want you to look into a murder for me.’ Oh, bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger! ‘Really?’ I said faintly. ‘You do still handle them, don’t you? As a hobby, I mean. Only I recall our mutual friend Marcus Vinicius mentioning it. The evening of my late nephew’s dinner party when you and Perilla shared our table, if you remember.’ Uh-huh; the one just before Gaius got himself chopped. I wasn’t likely to forget that little bean-feast in a hurry, was I? ‘Ah...yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I do. Handle them, I mean.’ If that was the proper word for it. ‘On and off, as it were.’ ‘That’s m-marvellous. Vinicius told me you did when I asked him, but it’s just as well to check up on these things.’ I took another mouthful of the Caecuban, said nothing, and tried to look eager. ‘It happened just under a month ago, in Lugdunum. The victim was a Gallic chappie by the name of Cabirus. Tiberius Claudius Cabirus.’ He took another large swallow of wine and topped up the cup. ‘His father had the citizenship from mine when he was governor there shortly before the D-Divine Augustus passed over.’ Maybe I’d misheard. At least, I hoped I had. ‘I’m sorry, Caesar,’ I said carefully. ‘You said “Lugdunum”, right?’ ‘You know it? Charming place, quite delightful. Of course, I was born there, so I’m b-bound to be a little biased.’ ‘That’d be, ah, Lugdunum in Gaul, yes?’ ‘Naturally; where else would it be? Cabirus was one of the town’s leading citizens.’ Oh, hell. ‘So this would, like, involve me in actually going there?’ I said carefully. ‘To Lugdunum. Over in, ah, Gaul.’ ‘Well, Corvinus, it might be a little difficult m-managing things otherwise, mightn’t it?’ He must’ve noticed the look on my face. ‘Oh, my dear fellow, do forgive me! I’m not a tyrant! If you’re b-busy at present with other things then you only have to say. I’ll understand completely.’ Yeah. Right. And I was Cleopatra’s grandmother. Fuck. ‘Only it would be a great pity. A very great pity. Vinicius said you’d had p-plenty of experience in this sort of thing, and that you’d be absolutely perfect for the job.’ Did he, indeed? Fuck again. Double fuck; I was screwed. Thank you, Marcus bloody Vinicius. With knobs on. ‘Ah…no, Caesar,’ I said. ‘I’m not busy as such. We had been planning to go through to the Alban Hills tomorrow, but under the circumstances I expect that can wait.’ It would sodding well have to, wouldn’t it? Perilla would be absolutely thrilled when I told her. Even so, it served her right: Vinicius was her literary pal, not mine, and if he’d put Claudius on to me then it was only because Big Mouth had given him the information in the first place. Claudius beamed. ‘Excellent! I’m m-most relieved that I can leave things in your capable hands. And if you’re already p-packed for travelling then it’s even more fortuitous. You can leave right away. Don’t worry about travel arrangements; they’re already taken care of.’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘My dear chap, do credit me with a little consideration! I am the emperor, after all, and I do have some clout. There’s a g-government yacht berthed at Ostia, ready to leave whenever suits you. This time of year, you can be in Massilia inside of three days. And I’m giving you – wait a m-moment, it’s here somewhere.’ He rummaged about among the papers on his desk and came up with a small, tightly-fastened scroll. ‘Ah. Here we are. I’m giving you imperial procurator status for the duration, as my p-personal representative.’ He handed me the scroll. ‘All properly sealed and signed. I’ve already written to Gabinius, so he’ll be expecting you and he’ll p-probably already have done the needful at his end, but it’s as well to be sure. In any case, show that to any official in the three provinces, Roman or local, of any rank, and he’ll fall over himself to be helpful.’ ‘Gabinius?’ ‘Quintus Gabinius. The Lugdunensis governor. Solid chap, first-rate at his job. You’ll like him.’ Gods, we were moving in high society here, right enough: personal use of a government yacht and imperial procurator status, no less. Pressured into it or not, I couldn’t complain that I was being short-changed. Which raised an interesting question. I tucked the scroll into my mantle-fold. ‘Ah…if you don’t mind me asking, Caesar,’ I said, ‘why should you involve yourself here?’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘Well, okay, presumably, given his name, this Claudius Cabirus was a client of your family, yes? A current one, I mean?’ ‘Naturally.’ ‘Still, for you to go to all this trouble just for a client he must’ve been special in some other kind of way, right?’ ‘No.’ Claudius picked up a book-roll that had fallen off the desk. ‘No, not at all. As I said he was an important man locally – in fact, I understand he was to be officiating priest at the opening ceremony for this year’s Gallic Assembly – but he was of no great importance in the grand scheme of things. Certainly not political importance, if that’s what you mean. In fact he was a p-perfectly ordinary middle-class merchant. A wine shipper. Quite prosperous in Gallic terms, but not what we’d call particularly rich.’ ‘Then I’m sorry, but I don’t understand your interest.’ ‘Oh, the answer’s simple enough, my dear fellow. Call it a personal debt, if you like. A very long-standing one, in fact.’ ‘“Debt”?’ ‘Two years before I was born, his father saved mine from a very unpleasant death in what is now Treveran Augusta; which, incidentally, is where the family is from, originally. P-pulled him in the nick of time from in front of the horns of a dozen bulls that had escaped from the local slaughterhouse. Hence the personal debt aspect of things.’ He smiled. ‘If it hadn’t been for the Cabiri Rome would not now be experiencing the inestimable p-pleasure of having me for emperor. We – my mother, while she was alive, and myself – have kept a grateful eye on the family ever since.’ ‘Fair enough.’ Well, it made a change to have an emperor who took his debts seriously. Inherited ones, what was more. ‘So. What can you tell me, sir? About the murder itself, I mean.’ ‘Very little, I’m afraid. Only what Gabinius put in his report, which wasn’t much. He was killed at his home, as I said just short of a month ago. Stabbed through the heart while he was taking his after-lunch nap.’ ‘He have a family?’ ‘A wife – Diligenta, her name is – , two grown-up sons and a daughter.’ ‘Any particular enemies?’ ‘Not that I know of. Certainly Gabinius didn’t say, but then I w-wouldn’t have expected him to, not in an everyday official report. Nor indeed to go into things to that length, particularly just now with all the preparations for the British campaign. His mention of the death was more in the nature of a postscript than anything else.’ Yeah, fair enough. Provincial governors were busy men at the best of times, and although the guy probably wouldn’t be directly involved militarily with Claudius’s upcoming plans to expand the empire he’d have his share of the bread-and-butter side of things to see to. Major military campaigns involve a lot in the way of extra-to-the-norm supplies and equipment; it all has to come from somewhere, and finding that ‘somewhere’ is a governor’s job. Gabinius just wouldn’t have the time to spend on a simple murder, of an imperial protégé or not, nor would he have the staff to delegate, and Claudius would know it. Hence, presumably, me. Ah, well. It made a change, anyway, and I’d never been west of Ostia. Plus if I was travelling as an emperor’s personal rep at least we’d be doing things in style; Perilla would enjoy the novelty. Which reminded me... ‘I can take my wife along, yes?’ I said. ‘Oh, my dear fellow, but of course you can! Take whoever you like, within reason. In fact, I was going to suggest it myself. Rufia Perilla will enjoy the trip immensely. Not a p-particularly interesting place, Gaul, outside the old Province, a bit rough-and-ready, but as I said Lugdunum is charming. Make sure you sample the local wine, too. Very respectable indeed, on its home ground, and I speak from experience.’ ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’ll definitely do that.’ ‘Jolly good.’ Claudius beamed and picked up his pen. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Nothing to do with your mission, but you’ll have a travelling companion. I thought that since everything will be laid on transport-wise as far as Lugdunum I might as well kill two birds with one stone.’ ‘Oh?’ I said. ‘And who’s that?’ ‘One of my own people, a doctor by the name of Lucius Domitius Crinas. I’m sending him to make a survey of the medicinal hot springs near the German border, with a view to developing them for the use of the legions stationed there. After you reach Lugdunum he’ll be carrying on to Moguntiacum where the Fourteenth Gemina and Fourteenth Gallica are based.’ Bugger! My son-in-law Clarus aside, doctors I can do without, particularly on long journeys like this would be. Still, the person making the arrangements being a ruling emperor, there wasn’t a lot I could do about it. And you never knew; like Clarus, the guy might buck the trend and turn out to be okay company. We’d have to wait and see. It’d only be as far as Lugdunum, anyway. Claudius reached for his writing tablet. ‘Well, that’s about it,’ he said. ‘There’s n-nothing more to be said, really. Certainly no more information I can give you. So unless you have any questions yourself – ’ I could recognise a polite dismissal when I heard one. I stood up. ‘Not at the moment,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Caesar.’ ‘Oh, tush, tush! What for? You’re the one doing the favour, my dear chap. Thank you, and good luck to you. And of course you’ll tell me how things went when you get back. We’ll have you round to dinner, you and Perilla. A quiet family dinner, not one of those silly big affairs like the last time. Messalina will be delighted.’ Yeah, I’d just bet she would; skeleton at the feast wouldn’t be the half of it. And it wasn’t something I was particularly looking forward to, either. I said nothing. He stretched out his hand, and I shook it. ‘Thank you again, Valerius Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Do give Perilla my very best regards. And have a p-pleasant and successful journey.’ I left. So much for that. Now all I had to do was break the glad news to the lady that her holiday arrangements were shot to hell. [/fusion_modal][/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]