Finished Business (22 page)

‘It might well be blown in its turn.’ Panic attack forgotten; the lady was looking quite excited. Thrill of the chase; it happened every time. ‘Cerialis couldn’t take that risk. Marcus, that is
brilliant
!’

‘Yeah, well …’

‘So who have we got on the revised real-conspirator list?’

I ticked them off. ‘Definites – at least, definite as far as I’m concerned: Cerialis himself; Valerius Asiaticus; Annius Vinicianus; Arrecinus Clemens. Plus Lucius Papinius, because the bets are that when the time comes, as one of the emperor’s guard, he’d be the actual assassin – him and enough of his like-minded and seriously armed mates to do the job properly. As Praetorian commander, Clemens could arrange that because he’d be able to fix the duty rosters. Distinct possibles: Cassius Chaerea – another candidate for the sharp end – and the freedman-secretary guy, Julius Callistus. Oh, sure, there’ll be others, there must be, but they’ll do for a start.’

‘What about the emperor’s replacement? You still believe it would be Marcus Vinicius?’

Yeah, I’d been thinking a lot about that. I rubbed my chin.

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Vinicius is still the best bet. Not that I think he’s directly involved, mind; I’m with you on that. But his nephew definitely is, and like I say, with Gaius safely dead and Vinicius himself with his arm halfway up his back, he could get the appointment through the senate easy. Even so, after last night I’d take out a small side bet on Tiberius Claudius.’

‘
What?
’

I grinned. ‘Yeah, I know. But like you said, he’s no fool in himself. Far from it. And he’s the last surviving male Julio-Claudian. If Vinicius were to refuse, which he might well do because he obviously has a lot of time for him personally, Claudius would be in with at least a chance. Besides, he’d have Asiaticus fighting his corner.’

‘Messalina would be pleased.’

‘Over the moon, lady. She’d give her eye-teeth to play Livia to Claudius’s Augustus. Even so, I reckon she’d have her work cut out. I take it back; that guy is no puppet material, he has a mind of his own. It’s just that so far he hasn’t been given the chance to use it.’

‘Marcus, you don’t think …’ She stopped again, and shook her head. ‘No, of course not. It’s silly. He wouldn’t.’

‘Wouldn’t what?’

‘Get himself involved with the conspiracy. Consciously and actively, I mean.’

‘It’s possible. I can’t say. How well do you know him yourself?’

‘Hardly at all, really. Certainly nowhere near as well as I know Vinicius.’

‘There you are, then. We’ll just have to mark it down as …’ I looked round. ‘Yeah, Bathyllus, what is it?’

The little guy had tooled in on my blind side.

‘A visitor, sir,’ he said. ‘A freedman by the name of Leonidas. He says that you know him.’

I frowned; who the hell was Leonidas? Then I remembered, and sat up sharply.

Naevius Surdinus’s estate manager.

Oh, gods. Please, please; just this once!

‘Wheel him in, Bathyllus,’ I said. ‘Spit-spot.’

‘Yes, sir.’ He went out, leaving Perilla and me looking at each other in what your Alexandrian bodice-ripper would term ‘wild surmise’. It might be; we’d just have to keep our fingers crossed …

Bathyllus came in with the little Sicilian in tow. Leonidas was beaming from ear to ear.

‘I thought that you’d like to know, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve managed to trace our freedman friend. The one with the birthmark?’

Joy in the morning! ‘Yeah, yeah, right,’ I said.

‘I put it out that I was looking for him as soon as you left, but to tell you the truth I’d given up hope. The news only came this morning. His name’s Valerius Sosibius and he has a—’

‘
Valerius
Sosibius? You’re sure?’

‘Yes, sir. Quite a coincidence, isn’t it? I knew he couldn’t be one of yours because … well, still, there you are.’

Shit! If this Sosibius was a freedman of Asiaticus’s – and he’d have to be, with that name – then we’d got the bastard cold. And if we’d got Asiaticus then we’d got the lot of them, because if I could lay physical hands on Surdinus’s actual killer then I’d have something concrete to take to Gaius after all. Once he was in the bag and talking – which he would do, trust Felix for that – the rest would follow …

Score one for the freedman-cum-slave grapevine. Thank you, Jupiter! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

I punched the air. ‘
Yesss!
’

Leonidas was looking a bit bemused. So, for that matter, was Perilla.

‘Marcus, dear,’ she murmured.

Oh, yeah, right;
pas devant les domestiques
, or whatever the hell the correct Greek was. Let’s have a little Roman
gravitas
here. I lowered my arm quickly and cleared my throat. ‘I’m sorry, pal,’ I said. ‘Forgot myself for a moment. Carry on. You were saying?’

‘He has a shop in the Subura, sir. On Safety Incline. He’s a bookseller and copyist.’

‘He is a
what
?’

‘A bookseller and copyist, sir. He copies and sells books.’

‘Yeah, I got that bit.’ Gods! A homicidal bookseller! Now
there
was a first for you! At least he hadn’t beaten Surdinus to death with a first edition of Cato’s
Farming is Fun
. ‘Now you’re absolutely one hundred per cent cast-iron sure about all this, are you?’

‘Oh, yes, sir. My informant was a slave in Rubellius Rufus’s household. The old gentleman often uses Sosibius’s services, and Caeso – that’s the slave, sir – is in and out of the shop regularly. There’s no mistake, certainly about the birthmark. At least I hope there isn’t.’

‘Fantastic.’ I took out my purse and emptied out the contents – five gold pieces and a dozen bits of silver – into his waiting palms. ‘Pass half that on to Caeso, will you?’

‘Of course, sir. I don’t know him personally – the news came to me at third or fourth hand – but I’ll see he gets it.’ He was beaming again. ‘Even so, like I told you: myself, I’d’ve done it for nothing. Naevius Surdinus was a good master.’

‘You’re welcome, pal,’ I said. ‘You deserve it, both of you. Oh, one more thing. The big guy who saw the freedman originally. What was his name again?’

‘Cilix, sir.’

‘Right. Cilix. I’ll need him with me to make a formal identifi-cation. You think you can get him to come over here tomorrow morning? Say the third hour?’

‘Of course. I’m sure that won’t be a problem.’

‘Fine. And thanks again, Leonidas.’

He left.

‘Well, lady,’ I said when he’d gone, ‘it looks like we’re home and dry after all. I’ll go over to the Subura tomorrow with Cilix, check this guy out. If he’s the one we want, I reckon I can go straight to Gaius. That sound fair?’

‘I suppose so, dear. But I’d rather you left things alone.’

‘Yeah, well, we can’t always have our druthers, can we?

‘As long as you’re careful.’

‘I’ll be walking on eggs, I promise you.’ I would, too.

We might be inside Alexander’s deadline after all.

C
ilix turned up the next morning bang on time. Not that I would’ve recognized the guy, because they’d hosed him down, given him a new tunic, a shave and haircut, and a final wax and polish before sending him over, with the result that he was a gleaming picture of pristine cleanliness and sartorial elegance.

Raring to go, too. He stood there – loomed, rather – at the foot of our steps, grinning like a six-foot-six yard-across-the-shoulders schoolboy being taken out for a birthday treat. Which I supposed wasn’t all that far from the reality: as far as domestics go, which isn’t all that far to begin with, garden slaves are at the bottom of the pecking order and their social life is zilch. The fact that they spend a large slice of their time interacting with manure in one way or another doesn’t help matters, either.

‘You ready for this, Cilix?’ I said.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘OK.
Modus operandi
.’ He blinked. ‘Uh … the way we’re going to do things, right?’

‘Oh. Yeah. Got you, sir.’

‘The guy – Sosibius – doesn’t know me. Or at least I’m hoping he doesn’t. And he didn’t see you either, right?’

‘Yeah. ’Cos I was crouched down in the bushes taking a—’

‘Fine. Fine. So we go in as ordinary customers; at least I do. You tag along behind, and – this is really,
really
important, right? – with your mouth tightly zipped. Eyes only, OK? Get a good look at the bastard while I’m talking to him, but say nothing until we’re back outside. Got it?’

‘Yeah. Got it.’

‘Great. Well done. So off we go.’

Off we went.

The Subura’s like a rabbit warren, one of the oldest and poorest parts of the city with streets even narrower and messier than they usually are in Rome, zig-zagging between tenements that’re in such bad nick that you have to keep one eye on the road and the other leery for falling tiles. Other things, too, deliberately thrown, or poured, rather: no sanitation in a tenement, the top floor’s a long way from even the most basic comfort area, and the locals don’t bother too much about the courtesy warning. Not the ones doing the pouring, anyway, although the poor buggers on the receiving end of things can get pretty vocal.

Safety Incline, Leonidas had said – a misnomer, if ever there was one, because this time of year it was slippery as hell with a mixture of the previous night’s rain and the variously compounded organic element that covered the one-in-four pavement and made walking a tricky business. If you were lucky enough to get to use the pavement for walking on, that was. Half the Subura seemed to have decided to go either up or down Safety Incline that morning, and Suburan bag-ladies don’t take prisoners: we spent most of the time with one foot in the central gutter while a large sample of the local matriarchy barged past us on both sides loaded down with bagfuls of assorted root vegetables and dried pulses for the family’s dinner. If it hadn’t been for Cilix’s bulk diverting the stream, as it were, they wouldn’t’ve bothered about the
both sides
aspect of things much, either.

We found the bookshop about three-quarters of the way down the Incline, sandwiched between a cobbler’s and a second-hand clothes merchant’s.

‘OK, Cilix,’ I said. ‘Remember, I talk, you just look, OK? Whether it’s him or not, you wait until we’re outside again. Clear?’

‘Yeah. No problem.’

I crossed my fingers and went in, with Cilix following.

It was like any copyist’s shop you’d find anywhere in Rome. Most of them, of course, are in the more salubrious districts, especially near the Palatine with its Pollio Library, but there are a few properties in both the Subura and on the Sacred Way that’ve kept to their original purpose through a dozen generations of owners while the buildings around them have slid steadily downmarket. This one looked like it’d been built in with the Suburan bricks; no doubt when the Gauls had occupied the city four hundred years back, Brennus or one of his more bibliophilic mates had dropped by to pick up Plato’s latest before getting down to a hard day’s pillage, arson and rape.

The two copyists sitting at the tables under the window, making use of what daylight had made it between the tenements, ignored us completely, without even a cursory glance. In the body of the shop behind a counter laden with book-rolls was a guy in a freedman’s cap. Definitely not Sosibius, I could see that for myself, even though his left cheek wasn’t in full sight: he was eighty if he was a day, and he looked like he’d have serious problems crossing the room, let alone climbing up several builder’s ladders and along a dodgy parapet.

Fuck; things did
not
look good!

‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’

He sounded nervous as hell; strange. Unless of course the quaver in his voice and the slight twitch were just age and infirmity. Which, given that he looked less than a fingernail’s breadth from an urn, was pretty possible.

‘Uh … I’m sorry, pal,’ I said. ‘Maybe I’ve come to the wrong place. I was looking for a Valerius Sosibius.’

‘Oh, no. He’s here, sir. If you’ll wait I’ll get him for you.’

He shuffled off through a curtain at the far end of the shop, and I could hear a murmur of voices. I turned round and rested my backside against the counter. The copyists were still bent over their work, and did not give so much as a sideways glance. That was strange, too: me, if I’d been stuck in a place like this, scribbling away in semi-darkness day in day out, I’d’ve been grateful for any break in the routine …

Something smelled, and it wasn’t Cilix. Things were definitely wrong here. Very, very wrong.

‘I think we’ll leave,’ I said to the big guy. ‘Quickly and quietly.’

Which was when the curtain parted again and the three Praetorians emerged. I made a move towards the door, but one of the buggers was there first. He was about the size of the blunt side of the Capitol, and he had a drawn sword in his hand. Not much mileage there, then. And his mates who’d taken up position either side of me were even bigger.

Shit.

The curtain moved and Lucius Papinius came out. He was holding a sword as well. I swallowed. Shit, shit, shit! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

‘You.’ With his free hand he pointed at Cilix, then jerked the thumb sideways. ‘Out.’

The Praetorian by the door stepped aside. Cilix gave me a single apologetic look, ducked under the lintel, and disappeared into the street. The copyists hunched down even lower and scribbled away like their lives depended on it. Which maybe they did.

Speaking of which …

‘You were warned, Corvinus,’ Papinius said. ‘I am
really
going to enjoy this. Hold him, lads.’

Fuck.

The two Praetorians either side of me grabbed my arms, pinning them to my sides and lifting me slightly off the ground. Papinius moved towards me and I lashed out with my right foot, but he stepped back and the kick never landed.

Bugger, bugger,
bugger
!

He drew back the sword for a thrust, hesitated, then turned it sideways. The pommel and guard, together with his fist holding it, slammed into my face and the world exploded in a burst of pain as I heard and felt my nose break. Then I was down on the ground, hugging myself for protection as three pairs of hobnailed military boots began kicking the hell out of me. I felt one of my ribs go, then one of the boots connected with the side of my head and everything went mercifully black.

I woke up in bed at home, with Perilla looking down at me. At first I was just relieved not to be dead after all. Then the pain started, and I changed my mind: the first and second joints of the little finger on my left hand felt OK, but everything else was bloody agony.

‘Marcus? You’re awake?’ Perilla asked anxiously. She’d been crying, I could see that.

‘Yeah. More or less.’ I must’ve whispered it, because she bent down and put her ear a couple of inches from my mouth. Speaking wasn’t easy; my mouth felt like it was full of rocks, and my nose kept getting in the way. If that makes sense. ‘Unfortunately.’

‘Thank Juno! Don’t try to move.’

I grinned, or tried to; my facial muscles weren’t up to grinning at present. ‘You kidding, lady?’

She stood up and glanced behind her. ‘Sarpedon?’ she said. ‘He’s woken up at last.’

Turning my head wasn’t an option at present, particularly turning it to the right, because that side of it felt like one of those big medicine balls the more sedate punters chuck around when they’re exercising after a bath. Sarpedon. Right. My father’s old freedman, the family doctor, and had been ever since I’d come down with my first dose of nappy-rash.

His face replaced Perilla’s. Not an improvement, because the guy had the features of a well-bred octogenarian camel.

‘How are you feeling, Valerius Corvinus?’ he said.

Bloody stupid question; and with the amount the bastard charged for home visits, even to family, I’d’ve expected something just a little more searching and clinical.

‘I’ve been better,’ I said, then repeated it when he put his ear where Perilla’s had been. He grunted, took my pulse and pushed up one of my eyelids.

‘Any double vision?’ he said.

‘You mean there aren’t two of you?’

‘Very droll, sir.’ Not a smile, but then Valerius Sarpedon never had been much of a lad for jokes. ‘The good news is that you’ll almost certainly live.’

‘Ah … only
almost
certainly?’

‘I would say so, yes. I can’t be absolutely sure at this point, of course, but it seems very likely.’

Joy in the morning. Nothing like a bit of positive encouragement from your doctor, is there? I did a bit of subjective body analysis on my own account: head and face, as I’ve said, pretty much a disaster area, ditto for the chest and ribs – from the tight feel of things there, I was bandaged neck to waist – various assorted aches, pains and bruises on my arms and legs. Short of killing me, Papinius and his heavy-footed pals had done a pretty thorough job. Apart from my nose and ribs, nothing broken, though. At least, that was what it felt like.

So why
hadn’t
they killed me? I wasn’t complaining, mind – or I wouldn’t be, when everything settled down to a dull ache – but still; it was a puzzle.

Apropos of which …

‘How did I get here?’ I said; at least my mouth was working a bit better now, and I could manage a bit more than a geriatric mumble. Plus I seemed, miraculously, to have kept all my teeth intact, although my lips were split to hell.

‘The slave – Cilix, wasn’t it? – brought you back in a hired litter. Once the, ah, perpetrators had safely gone.’ Sarpedon frowned. ‘It’s none of my business, of course, but … Praetorians?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘And you’re right, pal. It is none of your business. Believe me, it’s better that way.’ I frowned; my brain had just caught up with something. ‘“At last”?’

‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘Perilla said that I’d woken up “at last”. How long have I been out?’

‘Ah. This is the fifth day. Late evening.’

I stared at him. ‘I’ve been unconscious for
five days
?’

‘Not as such. However, you were running a high fever for most of the time. I wouldn’t imagine that you’d have any memory of the period between the attack and now. Or am I wrong?’

‘No, you’re absolutely …’ I stopped as the implications kicked in. Five days. Shit! ‘Hang on. So this is nine days before the kalends, right? The twenty-fourth; the first day of the Palatine Games?’ I tried to struggle to my feet, and my head and most of the rest of me exploded with agony. ‘
Fuck!
’

Sarpedon’s hands were pressing against my shoulders, forcing me back down on to the bed.

‘Sir! Please!’ he said. ‘You
must
lie absolutely still! You are in no condition to—’

‘Fuck that!’ I snapped. ‘I have to warn the emperor! He’s—’

‘Gaius was killed this afternoon, Marcus.’ Perilla’s voice came from behind Sarpedon’s back.

I stopped struggling.

‘What?’

‘A few hours ago, in the temporary theatre on the Palatine. I don’t know the details, of course, but it’s quite definite.’

Oh, shit. Oh, gods. I felt sick; in fact, I found myself heaving. Sarpedon was just in time with the bowl beside the bed. Not that the result was too impressive.

He held out a napkin and wiped my lips.

‘The emperor’s dead?’ I said.

‘Yes.’ Perilla’s voice was toneless.

‘So who’s in charge now?’

‘I don’t know. Or at least I’m not sure; no one is. The rumour is that the Praetorians – the ones involved in the plot – have taken Claudius off to the camp outside the city, but that’s all it is, a rumour. They may have killed him, or perhaps he’s being held as some kind of hostage. I don’t think anyone really knows what’s happening.’

Jupiter Best and Greatest! I felt empty, gutted. Gaius might’ve been a total head case, latterly anyway, but he had been the legitimate emperor. When the Wart had died, at least we’d all known where we were, whether we liked it or not – presumably, too, when old Augustus went, although at fourteen I’d been too young and too interested in chasing girls to pay much attention to politics. There’d been nothing like this since old Julius got himself chopped, and that was eighty-odd years back.

If I’d only got to the guy in time! Oh, sure, the business with Sosibius had been a set-up, I knew that now: the bastard probably didn’t exist, at least under that name. But still, there’d been those five days …

‘Hey, Perilla,’ I said.

‘Yes, Marcus?’ She was still out of vision. I turned my head, ignoring the pain. The lady was standing by the bedroom door.

‘Why didn’t you send a message to the emperor?’ I said quietly. ‘You could’ve done; you’d plenty of time. I was out of it, sure, but he might’ve listened. Especially under the circumstances.’

She didn’t answer for a good half-minute. Then she said: ‘Because I decided not to.’

‘You
what
? Why?’

‘For four reasons. First, because those men didn’t kill you; they could have done, and it would have been by far the most sensible thing to do, but nevertheless they didn’t. I’m very grateful not to be left a widow. Second, because Gaius was a psychopathic monster, and liable to get worse. The world is far better off without him.’