David Wishart - Sejanus

'Not in my case.'

'Ah.' Jupiter with little bells on! And Lippillus had said his brother Drusus was the crazy of the family! 'Fine, fine.'

'Besides,' Gaius went on, 'Thrasyllus said so. About the emperor part, anyway. And Thrasyllus isn't wrong, ever.'

Oh, yeah. The Wart's tame astrologer, the one Livia had been so impressed with. I edged my chair back a little. If the guy started talking about little green worms coming up through the floor I wanted room to move.

'Did Thrasyllus give you a date for this?' I said carefully.

'No, the old meanie. And he wouldn't say how long I'd last or who'd come after me, either. I told him I'd hand him over to the torturers and have them crack his crystal balls for him unless he made that my accession present, but he just said he'd be dead himself by then so I could do what I liked and sucks to me.' Gaius laughed. 'It's all silly. Don't let's talk about it. Now. How are we going to get you into Capri?'

My brain had gone numb. 'Capri?'

He sighed and held out his cup. Felix rushed over with the wine. 'Corvinus, now don't you go stupid on me, dear! You were the one who mentioned the place, after all. You'll need a passport, of course, and you can't go as yourself, not with this treason thing. And an ordinary slave or freedman is really out, because you're so obviously Roman-stroke-Italian the guards wouldn't be fooled for a moment. Felix?'

The little guy was topping up my cup on the rebound.

'A consultant of some kind, sire?' he said. 'One of your personal retinue?'

'Mmm. That's a possibility.' Gaius took a reflective sip of his wine. 'A hairdresser, say. My professional hair stylist. Sejanus would love that, he's always getting nasty digs in with Grampa about me being too soft.'

'That would be admirable, sire,' Felix said.

They were both looking at me like I was the ape in Lucullus Gardens. I cleared my throat.

'Yeah,' I said. 'Okay. Whatever. So long as you don't expect me to do any barbering.'

'My dear man, I wouldn't let you anywhere near my hair!' Gaius chuckled. 'Very well. That's settled. I'll make the arrangements when necessary, and Felix will be in touch.' He stood up. 'Now we'd better be getting back, I suppose. Grandma Antonia will be worrying.'

'I'm sorry, sire,' Felix murmured. 'One more thing. You were going to tell Valerius Corvinus about…' He paused.

'What? Oh. Oh, yes. Silly of me. Our most recent acquisition.' Gaius set his cup down on the table. 'You said you had everything you were going to get for Grampa, Corvinus. Not so, my dear, not so at all, not by a long chalk. I really think you should talk to the cook at…' He turned to Felix. 'Where is the place?'

Felix smiled at me. 'The Plum Tree, sir. It's a wineshop off Cattlemarket Square, near the Temple of Fortune.'

'Yeah. I know the district,' I said. 'A talk about what?'

'The man's name is Lygdus,' Gaius said. 'And you'll come as a surprise to him, by the way, because he doesn't know we've dug him up, so do tread very carefully, won't you, love?'

'Sure.' The name didn't ring any bells at all, not even faint ones. 'You want to tell me who he is?'

'No.' Gaius smiled slightly. 'We'll leave that part as a surprise. A sort of thank-you present for services rendered. Don't mention my name, or Felix's, just get him somewhere he can't run and whisper one word to him. I think you'll enjoy the result.'

'Yeah? And the word?'

The prince's smile broadened.

'Stibium,' he said.

I got him to repeat it, but I'd heard it clear enough the first time.

'And what the hell is stibium when it's at home?'

'You don't know, Corvinus? Then think of it as another surprise. Lygdus certainly will.'

I felt a bit chary about walking the streets during daylight hours, especially since to get to Cattlemarket Square I'd have to go past the centre of town, but I kept to the alleyways on the river side of Tuscan Street where you're about as likely to see a pig playing a tambourine as a striped mantle. The Plum Tree wasn't easy to spot, but I finally tracked it down: a scabby-looking cookshop squeezed between a pork-butcher's that seemed to deal mostly in fly-covered tripe and a tenement I didn't dare lean against in case I knocked it over. There were no customers outside, which didn't say much for the culinary standards or the quality of the wine. I couldn't see any sign of the eponymous tree either, but there was a stump of wood sticking out of the pavement by the door so maybe they'd just kept the name for luck. It sounded better than the Wall-Eyed Sicilian, anyway, which from the look of the owner was another possibility.

The guy with the strabismus was shifting the grease on an outside table with a rag that might've started life as a breech-clout. When he saw me hovering he came over so fast that he blurred. Business must be bad right enough.

'You want to sit inside, sir?' he said. 'Pork liver rissoles, fresh today. Best Himeran wine, five years old.'

I took out my purse. 'Maybe later, friend,' I said. 'After I've seen your kitchen.'

He stared at the coin I held up — it would've paid for a meal three times over, easy — and his jaw dropped.

'You what?' he said.

I gave him my best smile. 'Call it a hobby. Some people look at statues, some people collect paintings. Me, I like looking round kitchens.'

The Sicilian gave me a hard stare, then shrugged, put the cloth down and held out his hand.

'Suit yourself,' he said. 'Follow me.'

'There's more.' I didn't move. 'I like to look at them alone, in private, and for an indefinite amount of time. Without interruptions.'

The wall-eye shifted. 'You serious?'

'Sure. I find it's much more satisfying that way. It conserves the ambience.'

His good eye was still on the coin. 'Shit!' he murmured. 'Capuans!'; then: 'Go ahead, pal, straight through the back. Don't mind me, I just own the place. Take as long as you like and enjoy.'

'Thanks.' I flipped him the silver piece and went inside.

There weren't any customers there, either, and from the looks of the room I wasn't surprised. Even the punters who hang around Cattlemarket Square have some standards, and they'd have to be drunk or desperate to patronise the Plum Tree. Cockroaches scuttled off the tables in dozens as I came in, but maybe they weren't so choosy. I followed my nose. Kitchen this way.

A tall thin guy was frying rissoles on a skillet. He turned round.

'Lygdus?' I said.

The skillet rang on the floor. He stared at me, his eyes wide.

'The name's Myron,' he said at last.

Too late, too nervous. 'Sure,' I said, 'and I'm Cleopatra's grandmother.' I'd already checked the place out. I was standing right across the only exit, and there was no one else here but us, the rissoles and the cockroaches. 'You and me are going to have a little talk, friend. About something called stibium.'

It must've meant more to him than it did to me, because his eyes went up under the lids and he crumpled. I stayed put in case it was a trick, but he was out for the count. I moved over to him, lugged him onto a stool, and slapped his cheek.

'Come on, pal,' I said. 'Wake up.' I noticed an old slave mark on his forearm: the initials DC.

His eyelids flickered open and he wet his lips with his tongue.

'How did you find me?' he whispered.

'Call it divine intervention. You okay now?'

'Yes.' He was shaking so hard his teeth were rattling. 'How did you know? It's been…' He swallowed, and the whites of his eyes showed again.

I had to go easy here. Damn Gaius, he could at least have given me some sort of a hint, but the name Lygdus and this whacky stibium stuff was it. If the word was Latin I'd never heard it, but probably it was one of the considerable number of Greek words that I still didn't know even after ten years of being bored to death by Perilla's philosopher pals. Sure, the guy was terrified and he had beans to spill. Trouble was, I hadn't the slightest idea what jar they came from.